UC-NRLF 
 
 B 3 325 bb7 
 
 ^^ 
 
THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 Professor 
 Penjamin H, Lehman 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 % ^abzl. 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES READE 
 
 HOUSEHOLD EDITION", 
 
 BOSTON: 
 FIELDS, OSGOOD, & CO., 
 
 SUCCESSORS TO TICKNOR AND FIELDS. 
 1869. 
 
AUTHORS EDITION 
 
 3^ 
 
 .1, 
 
 .^' 
 
 .A 
 
 GIFT 
 
 University Press : Welch, Bigelow, & Co., 
 Cambkiuge. 
 
7S^ 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 TOWARDS the close of the last 
 century, the Baron de Beaure- 
 paire lived in the chateau of that 
 name in Brittany. His family was 
 of prodigious antiquity. Seven suc- 
 cessive barons had ah-eady flourished 
 on this spot of France when a young- 
 er son of the hou^e accompanied his 
 neighbor the Duke of Normandy in 
 his descent on England, and was re- 
 warded by a grant of land, on which 
 he dug a moat and built a chateau, 
 and called it Beaurepaire ; the worthy 
 natives turned this into Borreper 
 without an instant's delay. Since 
 that day more than twenty gentle- 
 men of the same lineage had held in 
 turn the original chateau and lands, 
 and handed them down to their pres- 
 ent lord. 
 
 Thus rooted in his native Brittany 
 Henri Lionel Marie St. Quentin de 
 Beaurepaire was as fortunate as any 
 man can be pronounced before he 
 dies. He had health, rank, a good 
 income, a fair domain, a goodly hou':e, 
 a loving wife, and two lovely young 
 daughters all veneration and affection. 
 Two months every year he visited 
 the Faubourg St. Germain and the 
 Court. At both every gentleman and 
 every lackey knew his name and his 
 face ; his return to Brittany after this 
 short absence was celebrated by a rus- 
 tic ^efe. 
 
 Above all, Monsieur de Beaure- 
 paire possessed that treasure of treas- 
 ures, content. He hunted no heart- 
 burns. Ambition did not tempt him. 
 
 "Why should he listen to long speech- 
 es, and court the unworthy, and de- 
 scend to intrigue, for so precarious 
 and equivocal a prize as a place in 
 the government, when he could be 
 de Beaurepaire without trouble or 
 loss of self respect % Social ambition 
 could get little hold of him. Let par- 
 venus give balls half in doors lialf 
 out, and light two thousand lamps, 
 and waste their substance battling 
 and manoeuvring for fashionable dis- 
 tinction ; he had nothing to gain by 
 such foolery, nothing to lose by mod- 
 est living ; he was the twenty-ninth 
 Baron of Beaurepaire. So wise, so 
 proud, so little vain, so strong in 
 health and wealth and honor, one 
 would have said nothing less than an 
 earthquake could shake this gentle- 
 man and his house. Yet both were 
 shaken, though rooted by centuries 
 to the soil. 
 
 But it was by no vulgar earth- 
 quake. 
 
 For years France had bowed in si- 
 lence beneath two galling burdens : 
 a selfish and corrupt monarchy, and 
 a multitudinous, privileged, lazy, and 
 oppressive aristocracy, by whom the 
 peasant, though in France he is the 
 principal proprietor of the soil, was 
 handled like a Russian serf. 
 
 Now when a high-spirited nation 
 has been long silent under oppression 
 — tremble oppressors ! The shallow 
 misunderstand nations as they do 
 men. They fear where no fear is, 
 and play cribbage over a volcano. 
 Such are they who expect a revolt in 
 England whenever England grumbles 
 
 765 
 
^vlI^rE liks. 
 
 Iialf a note higher tlian usual. Tlicy 
 .(!o not SCO that she is venting her ill- 
 Imnu)!- instead of bottling it, and get- 
 ting hor grievance redressed gradu- 
 ally and safely. Sueli is the old lady 
 who pinches us when the engine Uts 
 otf its steam with a mighty pother. 
 Then it is she fears an explosion. 
 8uch are they who read the frothy 
 homhast of Italian Kei^ublicans, and 
 fancy that nation of song, supersti- 
 tion, and slavery is going to be free, — 
 is worthy to be free, — has the heart 
 or the brains or the soul to be free. 
 
 Such were the British placemen, 
 and the pig-headed King, who read 
 the calm, business-like, respectful, 
 yet dignilied and determined address 
 of the American colonists, and ar- 
 gued thus : — 
 
 " What, they don't bluster ; these 
 then arc men we can Imlly." * 
 
 Such were the French placemen, 
 Avho did not sec liow tremendous the 
 danger to that corrupt government 
 and lawless aristocracy, when an ar- 
 dent ])eople raised their heads, after 
 centuries of brooding, to avenge cen- 
 turies of wrong. 
 
 We all know this wonderful pas- 
 sage of history. How the feeble king 
 Avas neither woman, nor man — could 
 neither concede with grace nor resist 
 with cannon. How his head fell at a 
 moment when it was monstrous to 
 jiretend the liberties of the nation i-an 
 any risk from the poor old cipher. 
 How the dregs of the nation came 
 uppermost and passed for " the 
 ]>eoplc." How law, religion, com- 
 mon sense, and humanity hid their 
 faces, the scaffold streamed with in- 
 nocent l)lood, and terror reigned. 
 
 France was preved on by unclean 
 beasts, half ass, half tiger. They 
 made her a bankrupt, and they were 
 
 * Compare the manif(;stoe3 of Italian Re- 
 publicans with the proclamations and ad- 
 (Insses of the American colonists, — i.e. 
 coiniian; the words of the men of words with 
 tin- words of the men of deeds, — the men who 
 fail witli th',' men who succned ; it is a lesson 
 ill humnn nature. Tliey differ as a bladder 
 from a l)lud>teon, or harleguin's sword from 
 Noll Cromweira. 
 
 busy cutting her throat, as well as 
 rifling her j)ockets, when Heaven sent 
 her a Man. 
 
 He drove the unclean beasts ofThcr 
 sullering body, and took her in his 
 hand, and set her on high among the 
 nations. 
 
 But ere the Hero came, — among 
 Avhose many glories let this be written, 
 that he was a fighting man, yet ended 
 civil slaughter, — what w onder that 
 many an honest man and good 
 Frenchman despaired of France. 
 Among these was M. de Beaurepaire. 
 
 These Republicans — murderers of 
 kings, murderers of women, and perse- 
 cutors of children — were, in his eyes, 
 the most horrible monsters Humanity 
 ever groaned under. 
 
 He put on black for the King, and 
 received no visits. He brooded in the 
 chateau, and wrote and received let- 
 ters ; and these letters all came and 
 went by private hands. He felled 
 timber. He raised large sums of 
 money upon his estate. He then 
 watclied his opportunity, and on pre- 
 tence of a journey disapjjeared from 
 the chateau. 
 
 Three months after, a cavalier, 
 dusty and ])alc, rode into the court- 
 yard of Beaurepaire, and asked to see 
 Ihe baroness ; he hung his head, and 
 held out a letter. It contained a few 
 sad words from M. deLarociiejaquelin. 
 The baron had just fallen in La 
 Vendee, fighting, like his ancestors, 
 on the side of the Crown. 
 
 From that hour till her death the 
 baroness wore black. 
 
 The mourner would have been 
 arrested, and perhaps beheaded, but 
 for a friend, the last in the world on 
 whom the family reckoned for any 
 solid aid. Doctor St. Aubin had 
 lived in the chateau twenty years. 
 He was a man of science, and did not 
 care a button for money ; so he had 
 retired from the practice of medicine, 
 and pursued his researches with case 
 under the baron's roof. They all 
 loved him, and laughed at his occa- 
 sional reveries, in the days of ])ros- 
 perity ; and now, in one great crisis, 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 tlie protege became the protector, to 
 their astonishment and his own. But 
 it was an age of ups and downs. 
 This amiable theorist Avas one of the 
 oldest verbal Republicans in Europe. 
 This is the less to be wondered at 
 that in theory a Republic is the per- 
 fect form of government. It is merely 
 in practice that it is impossible ; it is 
 only upon going oiT paper into reality, 
 and trying actually to self-govern old 
 nations, with limited teiTitory and 
 time to heat themselves white hot 
 with the fire of politics and the bellows 
 of bombast, that the thing resolves 
 itself into moonshine and bloodshed, 
 — each in indefinite proportions. 
 
 Doctor St. Aubin had for years 
 talked and written speculative Re- 
 publicanism. So, not knowing the 
 man, they assumed him to be a Re- 
 publican. They applied to him to 
 know whether the baroness shared 
 her husband's opinions, and he boldly 
 assured them she did not ; he added, 
 " She is a pupil of mine." On this 
 audacious statement they contented 
 themselves with laying a heavy fine 
 on the lands of Beaurepaire. 
 
 Assignats were abundant at this 
 time, but good mercantile paper — a 
 notorious coward — had made itself 
 wings and fled, and specie was creep- 
 ing into strong-boxes, like a startled 
 rabbit into its hole. 
 
 The fine was paid, but Beaurepaire 
 had to be heavily mortgaged, and the 
 loan bore a high rate of interest. 
 
 This was no sooner arranged than 
 it transpired that the baron just before 
 his death had contracted large debts, 
 for which his estate was answerable. 
 
 Tlie baroness sold her carriage and 
 horses, and both she and her daugh- 
 ters prepared to deny themselves all 
 but the bare necessaries of life, and 
 pay ofFtheir debts if possible. On this 
 their dependants fell away from them ; 
 their fair - weather friends came no 
 longer near them ; and many a flush 
 of indignation crossed their brows, 
 . and many an aching pang their hearts, 
 as adversity revealed to them the 
 baseness and inconstancy of common 
 
 people high or low. "When the other 
 servants had retired with their wages, 
 one Jacintha remained behind, and 
 begged permission to speak to the bar- 
 oness. 
 
 " What would you with me, my 
 child ? " asked that high-bred lady, 
 with an accent in which a shade of 
 surpi'ise mingled with great polite- 
 ness. 
 
 " Forgive me, madame the baron- 
 ess," began Jacintha, with a formal 
 courtesy ; " but how can I leave you 
 and ]\Iademoiselle Josephine, and 
 Mademoiselle Laure ? Reflect, ma- 
 dame ; I was born at Beaurepaire ; my 
 mother died in the chateau ; my ft\- 
 ther died in the village ; but he had 
 meat every day from tlie baron's own 
 table, and fuel from the baron's wood, 
 and died blessing the house of Beau- 
 j repaire — Mademoiselle Laure, speak 
 for me ! Ah, you weep ! it is then 
 ' that you see it is impossible I can go. 
 1 Ah no! madame, I will not go ; for- 
 ! give me ; I cannot go. The others 
 j are gone because prosperity is here 
 no longer. Let it be so ; I will stay 
 till the sun shines again upon the 
 chateau, and then you shall send me 
 away if it seems good to you ; but not 
 now my ladies ! 0, not now ! Oh ! 
 oh ! oh ! " 
 
 The warm-hearted girl burst out 
 sobbing u.ngracefully. 
 
 " My child," said the baroness, 
 " these sentiments touch me, and 
 honor you. But retire if you please, 
 while 1 consult my daughters." 
 
 Jacintha cut her sobs dead short, 
 and retreated with a most cold and 
 formal reverence. 
 
 The consultation consisted of the 
 
 baroness opening her arms, and both 
 
 her daughters embracing her at once. 
 
 " My children ! there are then some 
 
 who love you." 
 
 " Xo ! you, mamma ! It is you we 
 all love." 
 
 Three women were now the only 
 
 pillars, a man of science and a servant 
 
 I of all work the only outside props, 
 
 I the buttresses, of the great old house 
 
 1 of Beaurepaire. 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 As months rolled on, Lauro Acflac 
 Rose (Ic Bc;\uropairc recovered her 
 natural ^ayety in spite of l)ereavcment 
 finil ])overty, — so strong are youth 
 and iiealth and temperament. But 
 her elder sister liad a grief all her 
 own. Captain Dujardin, a gallant 
 young oflieer, well horn, and his own 
 master, had courted her with her par- 
 ents' consent; and c\-en when the 
 baron began to look coldly on the 
 soldier of the Kc})ublic, young Dujar- 
 din, though too proud to encounter 
 the baron's irony and looks of scorn, 
 would not yield love to pique. He came 
 no more to the chateau ; but he would 
 wait hours and hours on the path to 
 the little oratory in the park, on the 
 baje chance of a passing word or even 
 a kind look from Josepiiine. So much 
 devotion gradually won a heart which 
 in happier times she had been half 
 encouraged to give him ; and when he 
 left her on a military service of un- 
 common danger, the woman's reserve 
 melted, and, in answer to his prayers 
 and tears, she owned for the first time 
 that she loved him better than a-ny- 
 thiug in the world, — except duty and 
 honor. 
 
 They parted in deep sorrow, but 
 full of hope. 
 
 Woman-like she comforted him 
 through her tears. 
 
 " Be prudent for my sake, if not 
 for your own. May God watch over 
 you ! Your danger is our only fear ; 
 for we are a united family. My 
 father will never force my inclina- 
 tions ; these unhappy dissensions will 
 soon cease, and he will love you 
 again. I do not say, ' Be constant.' 
 1 will not wrong cither myself or 
 you .by a doubt ; but promise me to 
 come back in life, O Camillc, Ca- 
 millc ! " 
 
 Then it was his turn to comfort 
 and console her. He promised to 
 come back alive, and with fresh hon- 
 ors, and so more worthy the Demoi- 
 selle de Bcaurepaire. 
 
 They pledged their faith to one 
 another. 
 
 Letters from the camp breathing a 
 
 devotion little short of worship fed 
 Jose])hine's attachment ; and more 
 than one public mention of his name 
 and services made her proud as well 
 as fond of the liery young soldier. 
 
 The time was not yet come that 
 she could o])cn her whole heart to her 
 parents. The baron Avas now too 
 occu])ied Avith the state to trouble his 
 head about love fancies. The baron- 
 ess, like many parents, looked on her 
 daughter as a girl, though she was 
 twenty years old. She belonged, too, 
 to the old school. A passionate love 
 in a lady's heart before marriage was 
 with her contrary to etiquette, and 
 therefore im])roper; and, to her, the 
 great word " improper " included the 
 little word " impossible " in one of its 
 many folds. Josephine loved her 
 sister very tenderly ; but Laure was 
 three years her junior, and she shrank 
 with modest delicacy from making 
 her a confidante of feelings the bare 
 relation of which leaves the female 
 hearer a child no longer. 
 
 Thus Josephine hid her heart, and 
 delicious first love nestled deep in her 
 nature, and thrilled in every secret 
 vein and fibre. Alas ! the time came 
 that this loving but proud spirit 
 thanked Heaven she had never pro- 
 claimed the depth of her attachment 
 for Camillc Dujardin. 
 
 They had parted two years, and he 
 had joined the army of the Pyrenees 
 about one month, when suddenly all 
 correspondence ceased on his part. 
 
 Eestless anxiety rose into terror as 
 this silence continued ; and starting 
 and trembling at every sound, and 
 edging to the window at every foot- 
 step, Josephine expected hourly the 
 tidings of her lover's death. 
 
 Months rolled on in silence. 
 
 Then a new torture came. Since 
 he was not dead, he must be unfaitli- 
 ful. 
 
 At this all the pride of her race 
 was fired in her. 
 
 The struggle between loA^e and ire 
 was almost too much for nature. 
 
 Violently gay and moody by turns, 
 she alarmed both her motlier and the 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 good Doctor St. Aubin. The latter 
 ■was not, I think, quite without sus- 
 picion of the truth ; however, he 
 simply prescribed change of air and 
 place. She must go to Frejus, a 
 watering-place distant about iive 
 leagues. Mademoiselle de Beaure- 
 paire yielded a languid assent. To 
 her all places were alike. 
 
 That same night, after all had re- 
 tired to rest, came a low, gentle tap at 
 her door ; the next moment Laure 
 came into the room, and, without say- 
 ing a word, put down her candle and 
 glided up to Josephine, looked her in 
 the face a moment, then wreathed her 
 arms round her neck. 
 
 Josephine panted a little : she saw 
 something was coming ; the gestures 
 and looks of sisters are volumes to 
 them. 
 
 Laure clung to her neck. 
 
 " What is the matter, my child ? " 
 
 " I am not a child ! there is your 
 mistake. My sister, why is it you 
 love me no longer ? " 
 
 " I love you no longer ? " 
 
 " No ! We do not hide our heart 
 from her we love ; we do not try to 
 hide it from her who loves us. We 
 know the attempt would be in vain." 
 
 Josephine panted heavily ; but she 
 answered doggedly : — 
 
 " Our house is burdened with real 
 griefs ; is it for me to intrude vain 
 and unworthy sentiments upon our 
 sacred and honorable sorrows ? 
 my sister, if you have really detected 
 my folly, do not expose me ! but 
 rather help me to conceal and to con- 
 quer that for which your elder now 
 blushes before you ! " 
 
 And the proud beauty bowed her 
 white forehead on the mantSl-piece, 
 and turned gently away from her sis- 
 ter. 
 
 " Josephine," said Laure, " I am 
 young, but already I feel that all 
 troubles are light compared with 
 those of the heart. Besides, ice share 
 our misfortunes and our bereavement, 
 and comfort one another. It is only 
 you who are a miser, and grudge me 
 my right, — a share of all your joys 
 
 and all your griefs ; but do you know 
 that you are the only one in this cha- 
 teau who does not love me ? " 
 
 " Ah, Laure, what words are these 1 
 my love is older than yours." 
 
 " No ! no ! " 
 
 " Yes, my little fawn, your Jose- 
 phine loved you the hour you were 
 born, and has loved you ever since, 
 without a moment's coldness." 
 
 " Ah ! my sister ! — my sister ! As 
 if I did not know it. Then you will 
 turn your face to me 1 " 
 
 " See ! " 
 
 " And embrace me ? " 
 
 " There ! " 
 
 "And, now, bosom to bosom, and 
 heart to heart ; tell me all ? " 
 
 " I will — to-morrow." 
 
 " At least give me your tears ; you 
 see / am not niggardly in that re- 
 spect." 
 
 " Tears, love, — ah ! would I 
 could! " 
 
 " By and by • then ; meantime do 
 not palpitate so. See, I unclasp my 
 arms. You will find me a reasonable 
 person, indulgent even ; compose 
 yourself; or, rather, watch my pro- 
 ceedings ; you are interested in them." 
 
 " It appears to me that you propose 
 to sleep here! " 
 
 " Does that vex you 1 " 
 
 " On the contrary." 
 
 " There I am ! " cried Laure, 
 alighting among the sheets like a 
 snow-flake on water. " I await you, 
 mademoiselle." 
 
 Josephine found this lovely face 
 wet, yet smiling saucily, upon her pil- 
 low. She drew the fair owner softly 
 to her tender bosom and aching heart, 
 and watched the bright eyes close, and 
 the coral lips part and show their 
 pearls in childlike sleep. 
 
 In the morning Laure, half awake, 
 felt something sweep her cheek. She 
 kept her eyes closed, and Josephine, 
 believing her still asleep, fell to kiss- 
 ing her, but only as the south wind 
 kisses the violets, and embraced her 
 tenderly but furtively like a feather 
 curling round a lovely head, caressing 
 yet scarce touching, and murmuring, 
 
8 
 
 WHTTi: LIES. 
 
 "Littlo anir^'l ! " sij^hed "rratitudo and 
 attl'i'tidu over hor ; but took {;reat 
 c-aiv not to wake licr with all this. 
 The little anjiel, who Avas also a lit- 
 tle fox, lay still and feiy^ncd slecj), 
 for she felt she was crecpin<;^ into her 
 sister's heart of hearts. From that 
 day they were confidantes and friends, 
 as Avell as sisters, and never had a 
 thouiiht or foeliii.u- nnshared. 
 
 Josei)hine soon found she had very 
 few facts to reveal. 
 
 Laure had watched her closely and 
 keenly for months. It was her feel- 
 in<^s, her confidence, the little love 
 wanted; not her secret, — that lay 
 bare already to the shrewd young 
 minx, — I beg her pardon, — lynx. 
 
 Give sorrow words. The grief that does not 
 
 si)eak 
 Whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it 
 break. 
 • 
 
 A deep observer proclaimed this 
 three hundred years ago, and every 
 journal that is printed now-a-duys 
 furnishes the exam])les. 
 
 From this silent, moody, gnawing, 
 maddening sorrow, Laure saved her 
 elder sister. She coaxed her to vent 
 each feeling as it rose ; her grief, her 
 doubt, her mortification, her indigna- 
 tion, her pride, and the terrible love 
 that at times overpowered all. 
 
 Thus much was gained. These 
 powerful antagonists were no longer 
 cooped up in her bosom battling to- 
 gether and tearing her. 
 
 They returned from Frejus : Jose- 
 ])hine with a delicate rose-tint instead 
 of the pallor that had alarmed St. Au- 
 bin. IJer mood fluctuated no more. 
 A gentle pensiveness settled upon her. 
 bhe looked the goddess Patience. 
 
 She was inconceivably lovely. 
 
 Laure said to her one day, after a 
 long gaze at her : — 
 
 " I fear I shall never hate that mad- 
 man as I ought. Certainly when I 
 think of his conduct, I could strike 
 him in the face." Here she cii'iiched 
 her teeth, and made her hand into a 
 sort of irregular little snowball. 
 " But when I look at you I cannot 
 
 liate, I can but ])ity that imbecile — 
 that — " 
 
 " O my sister," said Josephine, 
 imploringly, " let us not degrade one 
 we have honored with our esteem, — 
 for our own sakes, not his," added she, 
 hastily, not looking Laure in the face. 
 
 " No ! forgive my vivacity. I was 
 going to tell you I feel more pity 
 than anger for him. Docs he mean 
 to turn monk, and forswear the sex ? 
 if not, what does he intend to do 1 
 Where can he hope to find any one 
 he can love after you ? Josephine, the 
 more I see of our sex, the more I see 
 that you are tlie most beautiful w^oman 
 in France, and by consequence in Eu- 
 rope." 
 
 The smile this drew was a very 
 faint one. 
 
 " Were this so, surely I could have 
 retained a single heart." 
 
 " You have then forgotten your La 
 Fontaine ? " 
 
 " Explain." 
 
 " Does he not sing how a dunghill 
 cock found a pearl necklace, and dis- 
 dained it. And why ? Not that 
 pearls are worth less than barley- 
 corns ; but because he was a sordid 
 bird, and your predecessors wei'C 
 wasted on him, my Josephine." So 
 I pity tliat dragoon who might have 
 revelled in the love of an angel, and 
 has rejected it, and lost it forever. 
 There, I have made her sigh." 
 
 " Forgive me." 
 
 " Forgive her 1 for sighing 1 I am, 
 then, very tyrannical." 
 
 One day Laure came into the room 
 where the baroness. Doctor St. Au- 
 bin, and Josephine were sitting. 
 
 She sat down unobserved. 
 
 But Josephine, looking up a minute 
 after, saw at a glance that something- 
 had happened. Laure, she saw, under 
 a forced calmness, was in great emo- 
 tion and anxiety. Their eyes met. 
 Laure made her a scarce perceptible 
 signal, and immediately after got up 
 and left the room. 
 
 Josephine waited a few seconds ; 
 then she rose and went out, and iound 
 Laure in the passage, as she expected. 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 ^ 
 
 " ]Vry poor sister, have you cour- 
 age ? " 
 
 " He is dead ! " gasped Josephine. 
 
 "Xo ! he lives. But he is dead to 
 us and France. O Josephine, have 
 you courage 1 " 
 
 " I have," faltered Josephine, quiv- 
 ering fi-om head to foot. 
 
 " You know Dard, who works 
 about here for love of Jacintha ? For 
 months past I have set him to speak 
 to every soldier who passes through 
 the village." 
 
 " Ah ! you never told me." 
 
 " Had you known my plan, you 
 would have been forever on the qui 
 vire ; and your tranquillity was dear 
 to me. It was the first step to hap- 
 piness. Hundreds of soldiers have 
 passed, and none of them knew him 
 even by name. To-day, Josephine, 
 two have come that know all ! " 
 
 " All ! O Laure, Laure ! " 
 
 " He is disloyal to his country. 
 What wonder he is a traitor to you ! " 
 
 '^ It is false ! " 
 
 " The men are here. Come, will 
 you speak to them ? " 
 
 " I cannot. But I Avill come ; you 
 speak : I shall hear." 
 
 They found in the kitchen two dis- 
 mounted dragoons before whom Jacin- 
 tha had set a bottle of wine. 
 
 They arose and saluted the la- 
 dies. 
 
 "Be seated, my brave men," said 
 Laure, " and tell me what you told 
 L>iird about Captain Dujardin." 
 
 " Don't stain your moutli with the 
 captain, my little lady. He is a trai- 
 tor ! " 
 
 " How do you know ? " 
 
 " Marcellus ! Mademoiselle asks 
 us how we know Captain Dujardin to 
 be a traitor. Speak ! " 
 
 Marcellus, thus appealed to, told 
 Laure, after his own fashion, that he 
 knew the captain well ; that one day 
 the captain rode out of the camp, and 
 never returned ; that at first great 
 anxiety was felt on his behalf, for the 
 captain was a great favorite, and 
 passed for the smartest soldier in the 
 division ; that after a while anxiety 
 1* 
 
 gave place to some very awkward sus- 
 jncions, and these suspicions it was !iis 
 lot and his comrade's hereto confirm. 
 About a month later he and the said 
 comrade and two more had been sent, 
 well mounted, to reconnoitre a Span- 
 ish village. At the door of a little inn 
 they had caught sight of a French 
 uniform. This so excited their curi- 
 osity that he went forward nearer 
 than prudent, and distinctly recog- 
 nized Captain Dujardin seated at a ta- 
 ble drinking, between two guerillas ; 
 that he rode back and told the others, 
 who then rode up and satisfied them- 
 selves it was so ; that if any of the 
 party had entertained a doubt, it was 
 removed in an unpleasant way. He, 
 Marcellus, disgusted at the sight of a 
 French uniform drinking among 
 Spaniards, took down his carabine 
 and fired at the group as carefully as 
 a somewhat restive horse permitted, 
 at which, as if by magic, a score or so 
 of guerillas poured out from Heaven 
 knows where, musket in hand, and 
 delivered a volley : the ofiicer in com- 
 mand of the ])arty fell dead, Jean 
 Jacques got a broken arm, and his 
 own horse was wounded in two places, 
 and fell from loss of blood a few fur- 
 longs from the French camp, to the 
 neighborhood of which the vagabonds 
 pursued them hallooing and shouting 
 and firing like barbarous banditti as 
 they were. 
 
 " However, here I am," conchided 
 ^Marcellus, who was naturally more 
 interested in himself than in Captain 
 Dujardin, " invalided for a while, my 
 little ladies, but not expended yet : we 
 will soon dash in among them again 
 for death or glory ! Meantime," con- 
 cluded he, filling both glasses, " let us 
 drink to the eyes of beauty (military 
 salute), and to the renown of France, 
 
 — and double damnation to all her 
 traitors, like that Captain Dujardin, 
 
 — whose neck may the Devil twist." 
 In the middle ofdiis toast Josephine, 
 
 who had stood rooted to one place 
 with eyes glaring upon each speaker 
 in turn, uttered a feeble cry like a dy- 
 ing hare, and crept slowly out of the 
 
10 
 
 WHITE L 
 
 room with the carriage and manner of 
 a woman of fifty. 
 
 Laurc's first impulse was to follow 
 Josephine, hut this would have at- 
 tracted attention to her despair. She 
 had the tai't and resolution to remain 
 and say a few kind words to the sol- 
 diers, and then she retired and darted 
 up hy instinct to Josephine's bedroom. 
 The door was locked. 
 
 " Josephine ! Josephine ! " 
 
 No answer. 
 
 " I want to speak to you. I am 
 frightened, — oh ! do not be alone ! " 
 
 A choking voice answered : — 
 
 " I am not alone, — I am witli God 
 and the saints. Give me a little while 
 to draw my breath." 
 
 Laure sank down at the door, and 
 sat close to it, with her head against 
 it, sobbing bitterly. The sensitive 
 little love was hurt at not being let in, 
 such a-friend as she had ])roved her- 
 self. But this personal feeling was 
 but a small fraction of her grief and 
 anxiety. 
 
 A good half-hour had elapsed when 
 Josephine, pale and stern as no one 
 liad ever seen her till that hour, sud- 
 denly opened the door. She started 
 at sight of Laure couched sorrowful 
 on the threshold ; her stern look re- 
 laxed into tender love and pity ; she 
 sank on her knees and took her sis- 
 ter's head quickly to her bosom. 
 
 " O my little heart ! " cried she, 
 "have you been here all this time ? " 
 
 " Oh ! oh ! oh ! " was all the little 
 heart could reply. 
 
 Then Josephine sat down, and 
 took Laure in her lap, and caressed 
 and comforted her, and poured words 
 of giatitudc and affection over her 
 like a warm shower. 
 
 The sisters rose hand in hand. 
 
 Then Laure suddenly seized Jo- 
 sephine, and looked long and anx- 
 iously down into her eyes. They 
 flashed fire under the scrutiny. 
 
 " Yes," she replied, " it is ended. 
 I could not despise and love. I 
 am dead to him, as he is dead to 
 France." 
 
 " Ah ! I hoped so, — I thought so ; 
 but you frightened me. My noble 
 sister, were I ever to lose your es- 
 teem I should die. O, how awful yet 
 how beautiful is your scorn ! For 
 worlds I would not be that Cam — " 
 
 Josephine laid her hand imperious- 
 ly on Laure's mouth. 
 
 " To mention that man's name to 
 me will be to insult me ! De Beau- 
 repaire I am, and a Frenchwoman ! 
 Come, love, let us go down and com- 
 fort our mother." 
 
 They went down : and this patient 
 suf^^erer and high-minded conqueror 
 of her own accord took up a com- 
 monplace work, and read aloud for 
 two mortal hours to her mother and 
 St. Aubin. Her voice never wa- 
 vered. 
 
 To feel that life is ended, — to wish 
 existence, too, had ceased ; and so 
 to sit down, an aching hollow, and 
 take a part and sham an interest in 
 twaddle to please others, — such are 
 woman's feats. How like nothing 
 at all they look ! 
 
 A man would rather sit on the buf- 
 fer of a steam-engine and ride at the 
 great Redan. 
 
 Laure sat at her elbow, a little be- 
 hind her, and turned the leaves, and 
 on one pretence or other held Jo- 
 sephine's hand nearly all the rest of 
 the day. Its delicate fibres remained 
 tense like a greyhound's sinews after 
 a race, and the blue veins rose to 
 sight in it, though her voice and eyes 
 were mastered. 
 
 So keen was the strife, so matched 
 the antagonists, so hard the vic- 
 tory ! 
 
 For ire and scorn are mighty. 
 
 And noble blood in a noble heart 
 is a hero. 
 
 And Love is a Giant. 
 
 CHAPTER IL 
 
 About this time, the French prov- 
 inces were organized upon a half-mili- 
 tary plan, by wliich all the local 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 11 
 
 authorities radiated towards a centre 
 of government. This feature has sui'- 
 vived subsequent revolutions and po- 
 litical changes. 
 
 In days of change, youth is always 
 at a premium ; because, though experi- 
 ence is valuable, the experience of one 
 order of things unfits oi'dinary men 
 for another order of things. A good 
 many old fogies in office were shown 
 to the door, and a good deal of youth 
 and energy infused into the veins of 
 provincial government. 
 
 For instance, Citizen Edouard Riv- 
 iere, who had just completed his edu- 
 cation with singular eclat at a military 
 school, was one fine day ordered into 
 Brittany to fill a responsible post un- 
 der the Commandant Raynal. 
 
 Nervousness in a new situation gen- 
 erally accompanies talent. The young 
 citizen, as he rode to present his cre- 
 dentials at head-quarters, had his 
 tremors as Avell as his pride ; the more 
 so as his newciiief was a blunt, rough 
 soldier, that had risen from the ranks, 
 and bore a much higher character for 
 zeal and moral integrity than for affa- 
 bility. 
 
 While the young citizen rides in his 
 breeches and English top-boots, his 
 white waistcoat and cravat, his abun- 
 dant shirt-frill, his short-waisted blue 
 coat with flat gilt buttons, his pig-tail, 
 his handsome though beardless fiice 
 and eager eyes, to this important 
 interview, settling beforehand what he 
 shall say, what shall be said to him, 
 and what he shall repl}-, let us briefly 
 dispose of the commandant's previous 
 history. 
 
 He was the son of a widow that 
 kept a grocer's shop in Paris. She 
 intended him for spice, but he thirsted 
 for glory, — kept running after the 
 soldiers, and vexed her. " Soldiering 
 in time of peace," said she ; " such 
 nonsense, — it is like swimming on a 
 carpet." War came and robbed her 
 satire of its point. The boy Avas reso- 
 lute. The mother yielded now ; she 
 was a Frenchwoman to the back- 
 bone. 
 
 In the armies of the Republic, a 
 
 good soldier rose with unparalleled 
 certainty, and rapidity too ; for when 
 soldiers are being mowed dowu like 
 oats, it is a glorious time for such of 
 them as keep their feet. 
 
 Raynal rose through all the inter- 
 vening grades to be a commandant 
 and one of the general's aides-da-camp, 
 and a colonel's epaulets glittered in 
 sight. All this time, Raynal used to 
 write to his mother, and joke her 
 about the army being such a bad pro- 
 fession, and as he was all for glory^ 
 not money, he lived with Spartan 
 frugality, and saved half his pay and! 
 all his prize-money for the old lady in 
 Paris. 
 
 And here, this prosperous man had 
 to endure a great disappointment ; on 
 the same day that he was made com- 
 mandant, came a letter into the camp. 
 His mother was dead after a short ill- 
 ness. This was a terril)le blow to the 
 simple, rugged soldier, who had never 
 had much time nor inclination to flirt 
 with a lot of girls, and toughen his 
 heart. 
 
 He came back to Paris honored and 
 rich, but downcast. 
 
 On his arrival at the old place, it 
 seemed to him not to have the old 
 look. It made him sadder. To cheer 
 him up, they brought liim a lot of 
 money. The widow's tirade had taken 
 a wonderful start the last few years, 
 and she had been playing the same 
 game as he had, living on tenpence a 
 day and saving all for him. This 
 made him sadder. 
 
 " What have we both been scraping 
 all this dross together for ? I would 
 give it all to sit one hour by the fire, 
 with her hand in mine, and hear her 
 say, ' Scamp, you made me unhappy 
 when you were young, but I have 
 lived to be proud of you.' " 
 
 He found out the Avoman who had 
 nursed her, flung more five-franc 
 pieces into her lap than she had ever 
 seen in one place before,*applied for 
 active seiwice, no matter Avhat, ob- 
 tained at once this post in Brittany, 
 and Avent gloomily from Paris, leav- 
 ing behind him the reputation of an 
 
12 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 uiifrracious bnitc, dcvoitl of sontiiiiont. 
 In fact, flic one bit of sentiment in 
 this Sj)artan was anything hut a ro- 
 mantic one ; at least, I am not aware 
 of any successful romance that turns 
 on filial affection ; bnt it was an ahid- 
 inc^ one. Here is a proof. It was 
 some months after he had left Paris, 
 and, indeed, as nearly as I can rcmem- 
 her, a couple of months after yonng' 
 Kivierc's first interview with him, 
 that, !)ein<; in conversation with his 
 friend ^Monsieur Pcrrin tlie notary, he 
 told him he thouglit he never should 
 pease to feel this rc;5ret. 
 
 The notary smiled incredulous, but 
 said nothini;. 
 
 " We were fools to scrape all this 
 money together; it is no use to 
 lier, and, I am sure, it is none to 
 me ! " 
 
 " Is it permitted to advise you ? " 
 asked his friend, persuasively. 
 
 " Speak ! " 
 
 " This very money which your ele- 
 vated nature condemns may be made 
 the means of healing your wound. 
 There are ladies, fair and prudent, who 
 would at once capitulate — he! he! 
 — to you, backed, as you are, by two 
 or three hundred thousand francs. 
 One of these, by her youth and affec- 
 tion, would in time supply the place 
 of her your devotion to whose memory 
 docs you so much credit. That sum 
 ■would also enable you to become the 
 possessor of an estate, — a most advis- 
 able investment, since estates arc just 
 now unreasonably depressed in value. 
 Its wood and water would soothe your 
 eye, and relieve your sorrow by the 
 sight of your wealth in an enjoyable 
 form ! " 
 
 " Halt ! say that again in half the 
 words ! " roared the commandant, 
 roughly. 
 
 'i'he notary said it short. 
 
 " You can buy a fine estate and 
 a chaste Avifc with the money," 
 snapped this smooth personage, sub- 
 stituting curt brutality for honeyed 
 prolixity. (Aside) " Marriage con- 
 tract so much, — commission so 
 much." 
 
 The soldier was struck by the 
 pro])Ositi()ns the moment tiiey hit him 
 in a condensed form, like liis much- 
 loved bullets. He 
 
 Granted half his prayer, 
 Scornful the rest dispersed iu empty air. 
 
 " Have I time to be running after 
 women ? " said he. " But the estate 
 I '11 have, because you can get that 
 for me without my troubling my 
 head." 
 
 " Is it a commission, then ? " asked 
 the other, sharply. 
 
 " Parhleu ! Do you think I speak 
 for the sake of talking ? " 
 
 No man had ever a larger assort- 
 ment of tools than Bonaparte, or knew 
 better what each could do and could 
 not do. Raynal was a perfect soldier 
 as far as he went, and therefore was 
 valued highly. Bonaparte had formed 
 him, too ; and we are not averse to 
 our ow^n work. 
 
 Raynal, though not fit to command 
 a division, had the c/dc Bonaparte 
 visibly stamped on him by that mas- 
 ter-hand. 
 
 For a man of genius spits men of 
 talent by the score. Each of these 
 adopts one or other of his many great 
 equalities, and builds himself on it. I 
 see the marechak of the empire are 
 beginning to brag, now everybody 
 else is dead. AVell, dissect all those 
 mai-echd/s, men of talent, every one of 
 them, and combine their leading ex- 
 cellences in one figure, and add them 
 up : Total, — a Napoleonefto* 
 
 " Who is that 1 I am busy writ- 
 ing." 
 
 " Monsieur the Commandant, I am 
 the citizen Riviere, I am come to pre- 
 sent myself to you, and to — " 
 
 "1 know — come for orders." 
 
 * I mean, of course, as f;ir as soldiering 
 goes ; but soldiering was only a part of the 
 man, a brilliant i)art which lias blinded some 
 people as to the proportions of this colossal 
 figure. He was a profound, thoujih, from ne- 
 cessity, not a liberal statesman, a great civil 
 engineer, a marvellous orator in the boudoir 
 and the field, a sound and original critic in all 
 the arts, and the greatest legislator of modem 
 history. 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 13 
 
 "Exactly, commandant." 
 
 "Humph! Here is a report just 
 sent in by young Nicole, who fills the 
 same sort of post as you, only to the 
 northward. Take this pen and an- 
 alyze his report, while I write these 
 letters." 
 
 " Yes, commandant." 
 
 *' Write out the heads of your 
 
 analysis Good : it is well 
 
 done. Now take your heads home 
 and act under them; and frame your 
 report by tliem, and bring it me in 
 person next Saturday." 
 
 " It shall be done, commandant. 
 Where are my quarters to be ? " 
 
 The commandant handed him a 
 pair of compasses, and pointed to a 
 map on which Riviere's district was 
 marked in blue ink. 
 
 " Find the centre of your district." 
 
 " This point is the centre, com- 
 mandant." 
 
 " Then cjuarter yourself on that 
 point. Good day, citizen." 
 
 This was the young official's first 
 introduction to die chic Bonaparte. 
 He rather admired it. 
 
 " This is a character," said he ; 
 " but by vSt. Denis, I should not like 
 to commit a blunder under his eye." 
 
 Edouard Riviere had zeal, and he 
 soon found that his superior, with all 
 his hrusquerie, was a great appreciator 
 of that quality. His instructions, too, 
 were clear and precise. Riviere lost 
 his misgivings in a very few days, and 
 became inflated with the sense of his 
 authority and merit, and the flattery 
 and obsequiousness that soon wait on 
 the former. 
 
 The commandant's compasses had 
 pointed to the village near Beaure- 
 paire, as his future abode. 
 
 The chateau was in siglit from his 
 apartments, and, on inquiry, he was 
 told it belonged to a Royalist family, 
 — a widow and two daughters, Avho 
 licld tliemselves quite aloof from the 
 rest of the world. 
 
 " Ah ! " said the young citizen, who 
 had all the new ideas, and had been 
 sneering four years at the old regime. 
 " I see. If these rococo citizens play 
 
 that game with me, I shall have to 
 take them down." 
 
 Thus, a fresh peril hung over this 
 family, on whose hearts and fortunes 
 such heavy blows had fallen. 
 
 One evening, our young Republi- 
 can ofiicer, after a day spent in the 
 service of the country, deigned to take 
 a little stroll to relieve the cares of 
 administration. He accordingly im- 
 printed on his beardless face the ex- 
 pression of a wearied statesman, and 
 in that guise strolled through an ad- 
 miring village. 
 
 The men pretended veneration from 
 policy. 
 
 The women, whose views of this 
 great man were shallower but n'iore 
 sincere, smiled approval. 
 
 The young puppy affected to take 
 no notice of either sex. 
 
 Outside the village, Publicola sud- 
 denly encountered two young ladies, 
 who resembled nothing he had hither- 
 to met with in his district. They were ' 
 dressed in black, and with extreme 
 simplicity; but their easy grace and 
 composure, and the refined sentiment 
 of their gentle f;\ces, told at a glance 
 they belonged to the high nobility. 
 Publicola, though he had never seen 
 them, divined them at once by their 
 dress and mien, and, as he drew near, 
 he involuntarily raised his hat to so 
 much beauty and dignity, instead of 
 just poking it with a finger a la Re- 
 publique. On this, the ladies instant- 
 ly courtesied, to him after the manner 
 of their party, Avith a sweep and a 
 majesty, and a precision of politeness, 
 that the pup would have laughed at if 
 he had heard of it ; but seeing it done, 
 and well done, and by lovely women 
 of high rank, he was taken aback by 
 it, and lifted his hat again, and bowed 
 again after he had gone by, which 
 was absurd, — and was generally flus- 
 tei-ed. In short, instead of a member 
 of the Republican Government salut- 
 ing private individuals of a decayed 
 party, that existed only by sufi^erance, 
 a handsome, vain, good-natured boy 
 had met two self-possessed young 
 ladies of high rank and breeding, and 
 
u 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 liad cut the figure usual upon such 
 occasions. 
 
 For the next luiu'lred yards, liis 
 cheeks burned, and his vanity was 
 cooled. 
 
 But bumptiousness is elastic in 
 France as in England and among the 
 Esquimaux. 
 
 " Well, tliey are pretty girls," says 
 he to himsell". " I never saw two such 
 ]M-ctty girls together, — they will do 
 for me to flirt with while I am ban- 
 ished to this Arcadia." (Banished 
 from school !) 
 
 And " awful beauty " being no 
 longer in sight, ]\Ir. Edouard resolved 
 he would flirt with them to their 
 hearts' content. 
 
 But there arc ladies with whom a 
 certain preliminary is required before 
 you can flirt with them. You must 
 be on speaking terms with them first. 
 How was this to be managed ? 
 
 '' 0, it would come somehow or 
 other if he was always meeting them ; 
 and really a man that is harassed, 
 and worked as I am, requires some 
 agreeable reci-eation of this sort." 
 
 " Etc." 
 
 He used to watch at his window 
 Avith a telescope, and whenever 
 the sisters came out of their own 
 grounds, which unfortunately was not 
 above three times a week, he would 
 throw himself in their way by the 
 merest accident, and pay them a dig- 
 nilied and courteous salute, Avhich he 
 had carefully got up before a mir- 
 lor in the privacy of his own cham- 
 ber. 
 
 In return he received two rever- 
 ences that were to say the leastas digni- 
 fied and courteous as his own, though 
 they had not had the advantage of a 
 special rehearsal. 
 
 So far so good. But a little cir- 
 cumstance cooled our Adonis's hopes 
 of turning a Vjowing accpiaintance into 
 a s])eaking one, and a speaking into a 
 flirting. 
 
 There was a flaw at the founda- 
 tion of this pyramid of agreeable se- 
 quences. 
 
 Studying the faces of these cour- 
 
 teous beauties, he became certain that 
 no recognition of his charming person 
 mingled with their repeated acts of 
 ])oliteness. 
 
 Some one of their humbler neigh- 
 bors had the grace to salute them 
 with the respect due to them : this 
 was no uncommon occurrence to them 
 even now. When it did happen, they 
 made the proper return. They were 
 of too high raidc and breeding to be 
 outdone in politeness. 
 
 But that the same person met them 
 whenever they came out, and that he 
 Avas handsome and interesting, — no 
 consciousness of this phenomenon 
 beamed in those charming coun- 
 tenances. 
 
 Citizen Riviere Avas first piqued and 
 then began to laugh at his Avant of 
 courage, and on a certain day Avhen 
 his importance Avas vividly present to 
 him he took a new step towards mak- 
 ing this agreeable acquaintance : he 
 marched up to the Chateau de Beau- 
 repairc and called on the baroness of 
 that ilk. 
 
 He sent up his name and office Avith 
 due pomp. Jacintha returned Avith a 
 note black-edged : — 
 
 " Higlili] flattered by Monsieur de 
 Riviere's visit, the baroness informed 
 him that she received none but old ac- 
 quaintances in the present grief of the 
 famih) and of the kingdom." 
 
 Young Kivicre Avas cruelly morti- 
 fied by this rebuff. He Avent off hur- 
 riedly, grinding his teeth Avith rage. 
 
 " Cursed aristocrats ! Ah ! aa'C 
 have done aa'cU to pull you doAvn, and 
 wc Avill have you lower still. How I 
 despise myself for giving any one the 
 chance to affront me thus ! The 
 haughty old fool ! if she had knoAvn 
 her interest, she Avould have been 
 too glad to make a poAverful friend. 
 These Royalists are in a ticklish ])Osi- 
 tion : I can fell her that. But stay, — 
 she calls me De Riviere. She does not 
 knoAv Avho I am then ! Takes me 
 for some young aristocrat ! Well 
 then after all, — but no ! that makes 
 it worse. She implies that nobody 
 without a ' De ' to their name would 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 15 
 
 have the presumption to visit her old 
 tumble-down house. Well, it is a 
 lesson ! I am a Republieau and the 
 Commonwealth trusts and honors me ; 
 yet I am so ungrateful as to go out of 
 the way to be civil to her enemies, — 
 to Eoyalists ; as if those worn-out 
 creatures had hearts, — as if they 
 could comprehend the struggle that 
 took place in my mind between duty 
 and generosity to the fallen, before I 
 could make the first overture to their 
 acquaintance, — as if they could un- 
 derstand the politeness of the lieart, 
 or anything nobler than curving and 
 ducking, and heai'tless etiquette. 
 This is the last notice I will ever take 
 of that family, that you may take 
 your oath of ! ! ! ! " 
 
 He walked honle to the town very 
 fast, his heart boiling and his lips 
 compressed, and his brow knitted. 
 
 Just outside the town he met Jose- 
 phine and Laure de Beaurepaii-e. 
 
 At the sight of their sweet faces 
 his moody brow cleared a little, and 
 he was surprised into saluting them 
 as usual, only more stiffly, when lo ! 
 from one of the ladies there broke a 
 smile so sudden, so sweet, and so 
 vivid, that he felt it hit him on the 
 eyes and on the heart. 
 
 His teeth unclenched themselves, 
 his resolve dissolved, and another came 
 in its place. Nothing should prevent 
 him from penetrating into that forti- 
 fied castle, which contained at least 
 one sweet creature who had recog- 
 nized him, and given him a smile 
 brimful of sunshine. 
 
 That night he hardly slept at all, 
 and woke very nearly if not quite in 
 love. 
 
 Such was the power of a smile. 
 
 Yet this young gentleman had seen 
 many smilers, but to be sure most of 
 them smiled without effect, because 
 they smiled eternally; they seemed 
 cast with their mouths open, and their 
 pretty teeth forever in sight, which 
 has a saddening influence on a man 
 of sense, — when it has any. 
 
 But here a pensive face had bright- 
 ened at sight of him ; a lovely coun- 
 
 tenance on which circumstances, not 
 Nature, had impressed gravity, had 
 sprung back to its natural gayety for a 
 moment, and for him. 
 
 Ditficulties spur us Avhenever they 
 do not check i;s. 
 
 My lord sat at his window with his 
 book and telescope for hours every 
 day. 
 
 Alas ! mesdemoiselles did not leave 
 the premises for three days. 
 
 But on the fourth industry was re- 
 wai'ded : he met them, and, smiling 
 himself by anticipation, it was his 
 fate to draw from the lady a more ex- 
 quisite smile than the last. 
 
 Smile the second made his heart 
 beat so he could feel it against his 
 waistcoat. 
 
 Beauty is powder: a smile is its sword. 
 These two charming thrusts subdued 
 if they did not destroy Publicola's 
 wrath against the baroness, and his 
 heart was now all on a glow. A 
 passing glimpse two or three times a 
 week no longer satisfied its yearning. 
 There was a little fellow called Dard 
 who went out shooting with him in 
 the capacity of a beater, — this young 
 man seemed to know a great deal 
 about the family. He told him that 
 the ladies of Beaurepaire went to 
 Mass every Sunday at a little church 
 two miles off. The baroness used to 
 go too, but now they have no carriage 
 she stays at home. She won't go to 
 church or anywhere else now she can't 
 drive up and have a blazing lackey- 
 to hand her out, — " Aristo ra." * 
 
 Riviere smiled at this demons ti'a- 
 tion of plebeian bile. 
 
 Next Sunday saAv him a political 
 renegade. He failed in a prime arti- 
 cle of Republican faith. He went to 
 church. 
 
 The Republic had given up going 
 to church : the male part of it in j^ar- 
 ticular. 
 
 Citizen Riviere attended church 
 and there worshipped — Cupid. He 
 smarted for this. Tlie young ladies 
 ■svent with higher motives, and took 
 no notice of him. They lowered their 
 * Aristocrat go to ! 
 
16 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 lonir silkon laslics over one breviary, 
 ami scareely observed tlic handsome 
 citizen. 
 
 Meantime lie, rontemplating their 
 pious heauty with earthly eyes, was 
 (binkiiiir lonj^ di'aughts of intoxicat- 
 ing |)as.sion. 
 
 And when after the service they 
 each took an arm of St. Aubin, and he, 
 ■with the air of an admiral convoying 
 two ships choke-full of specie, conduct- 
 ed his jirecious charge away home, 
 our young citizen felt Jealous, and all 
 but hated the worthy doctor. 
 
 One day Riviere was out shooting, 
 accompanied by Dard. 
 
 A covey of partridges got up wild, 
 and went out of bounds into a tield of 
 late clover. 
 
 " It is well done, citizen," shouted 
 little Dard, "at present we arc going 
 to massacre them." 
 
 " But that is not my ground." 
 
 " Xo matter : it belongs to Beaure- 
 paire." 
 
 " The last people I should like to 
 take a lil)erty with." 
 
 "You must not be so nice; they 
 have no gamekeeper now to interfere 
 with us : they can't afford one. Aha! 
 aristocrats ! The times are changed 
 since your pigeons used to devastate 
 ns, and we dur-;t not shoot one of the 
 marauders, — the very pheasants are 
 at our mercy now." 
 
 " The more ungenerous would it be 
 of us to take advantage." 
 
 " Citizen, I tell you everybody 
 shoots over Beaurepaire." 
 
 " (), if everyl)ody does it — " 
 
 In short Dard prevailed. A small 
 amount of logic suffices to prove to a 
 man of one-and-twcnty that it is mor- 
 al to follow his birds. 
 
 Our hero had his misgivings ; but 
 the game was abundant, and tamer 
 than elsewhere. 
 
 In for a penny in for a poimd. The 
 next time they went out together, 1 
 blush to say he began with this very 
 field of clover, and killed two brace 
 in it. It was about four o'clock of 
 this day when the s]>ortsman and his 
 assistant emerged from the fields upon 
 
 the high road between Beaurepaire 
 and the village, and made towards 
 the latter. 
 
 They had to pass Bigot's aiibenje, 
 a long low house all across whicli 
 from end to end was printed in gigan- 
 tic letters : — 
 
 " ICf ON LOGE A PIED ET A CHEVAL." * 
 
 "Here one lodges on fout and horsebiick." 
 
 Opposite this Dard halted and 
 looked wistfully in his superior's face, 
 and laid his hand pathetically on his 
 centre. 
 
 "What is the matter? Are you 
 ill ? " 
 
 " Very ill, citizen." 
 
 " What is it ? " 
 
 " The soldier's gripes," replied this 
 vulgar little party ; V and, citizen, only 
 smell ; the soup is just coming off the 
 fire." 
 
 This little Dard resembled (in one 
 particular) Cardinal Wolsey, as 
 handed down to us by the immortal 
 bard, and by the painters of his 
 day : — 
 " He was a man of an unbounded stomach." 
 
 lie had gone two hours past his 
 usual feeding time, and was in pain 
 and affliction. 
 
 Riviere laughed and consented. 
 
 " We will have it in the porch," 
 said he. 
 
 The consent was no sooner out of 
 his mouth than Dard dashed wildly 
 into the kitchen. 
 
 Riviere himself was not sorry of an 
 excuse to linger an hour in a place 
 where the ladies of Beaurepaire might 
 perhaps pass and sec him in a new 
 costume, — his shooting cap and jack- 
 et, adorned with all the paraphernalia 
 of the 8])ort, which in France are got 
 up with an eye to ornament as well 
 as use. 
 
 The soup was brought out, and for 
 several minutes Dard's feelings were 
 too great for utterance. 
 
 But Riviere did not take after the 
 great cardinal, especially since he had 
 fallen in love. He soon despatched a 
 
 * What a row the latter customers must 
 make going up to bed I 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 17 
 
 frugal meal ; then went in and got 
 some scraps for the dog, and then be- 
 gan to lay the game out and count it. 
 He emptied his own pocket and 
 Dard's game-bag, and altogether it 
 made a good show. 
 
 The small citizen was now in a fit 
 state to articulate. 
 
 " A good da3^'s work, citizen," said 
 he, stretching himself luxuriously, till 
 he turned from a rotundity to an 
 oval ; " and most of it killed on the 
 lands of Beaurepaire, — all the bet- 
 ter." 
 
 " You appear not to love that fam- 
 ily, Dard." 
 
 " Your penetration is not at fault, 
 citizen. I do not love that family," 
 was the stern reply. 
 
 Edouai'd, for a reason before hinted 
 at, was in no hurry to leave the place, 
 and the present seemed a good oppor- 
 tunity for pumping Dard. He sent 
 therefore for two pipes : one he pre- 
 tended to smoke, the other he gave 
 Dard : for this shrewd young person- 
 age had observed that these rustics, 
 nnder the benign influence of tobacco, 
 were placidly reckless in their reve- 
 lations. 
 
 ''By the by, Dard (puff), wliy 
 did you say you dislike that family ? " 
 
 " Because — because I can't help it ; 
 it is stronger than 1 am. I hate them, 
 aristo — va 1 " (puff.) 
 
 "But why ? — why ? — why ? " 
 
 " Ah ! good, you demand why 1 — 
 (puff). Well, then, because they im- 
 pose upon Jacintha." 
 
 " Oh ! " 
 
 " And then she imposes upon me." 
 
 " Even now I do not quite under- 
 stand. Explain, Dard, and assure 
 yourself of my sympathy" (puff). 
 
 Thus encouraged, Dard became lo- 
 quacious. 
 
 " Those Beaurepaire aristocrats," 
 said he, with his hard peasant good 
 sense, " are neither one thing nor the 
 other. They cannot keep up nobility, 
 they have not the means, — they will 
 not come down off their perch, they 
 have not the sense. No, for as small 
 as they are, they must look and talk 
 
 as big as ever. They can only afford 
 one servant, and I don't believe they 
 pay her, but they must be attended on 
 just as obsequious as when tliey had 
 a dozen. And this is . fatal to all us 
 little people that have the misfortune 
 to be connected with them." 
 
 " Why, how are you connected with 
 them ? " 
 
 " By the tie of affection." 
 
 " I thought you hated them." 
 
 " Clearly : but I have the ill luck 
 to love Jacintha, and she loves these 
 aristocrats, and makes me do little odd 
 jobs for them " ; and here Dard's eye 
 sudde.nlv glared with horror. 
 
 " Well ! what of it ? " 
 
 " What of it, citizen, what ? you do 
 not know the fatal meaning of those 
 accursed words ? " 
 
 " Why, it is not an obscure phrase. 
 I never heard of a man's back being 
 broken by little odd jobs." 
 
 " Perhaps not his back, citizen, but 
 his heart 1 if little odd jobs will not 
 break that, why, nothing will. Torn 
 from place to place, and from trouble 
 to trouble : as soon as one tiresome 
 thing begins to go a bit smooth, off to 
 a fresh plague, — a new handicraft to 
 torment your head and your fingers 
 over every day : in-doors work when 
 it is dry, out a doors when it snows, — 
 and then all bustle, — no taking one's 
 work quietly, the only way it agrees 
 with a fellow : no repose. ' Milk the 
 cow, Dard, but look sharp ; for the 
 baroness's chair wants mending, — 
 take these slops to the pig, but you 
 must not wait to see him enjoy them ; 
 you are wanted to chop billets forme.' 
 Beat the mats, — take down the cur- 
 tains, — walk to church (best part of 
 a league) and heat the pew cushions, 
 — come back and cut the cabbages, 
 paint the door, and wheel the old lady 
 about the terrace, rub quicksilver on 
 the little dog's back : mind he don't 
 bite you to make himself sick ! repair 
 the ottoman, roll the gravel, clean 
 the kettles, carry half a ton of water 
 up three pair of stairs, trim tlic turf, 
 prune the vine, drag the fish-pond, 
 and when you are there, go in and 
 
18 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 gather water-lilies for Mademoiselle 
 Josi"])liino while you arc diowuin;:: llie 
 puppies ; that is little oilil jobs. May 
 Satan twist her neck who invented 
 them ! " 
 
 " Very sad all this," said young 
 Kiviere, as gravely as he eould ; " but 
 about the family." 
 
 " I am citizen. When I go into 
 their kitchen to court Jacintha a bit, 
 instead of finding a good supper 
 there, which a man has a right to, 
 courting a cook, if I don't take one in 
 my pocket, tlierc is no supper, not to 
 say supper, for cither her or me. I 
 don't call a salad and a bit of cheese 
 rind — supper ! Beggars in silk and 
 satin I call them. Every sou they 
 have goes on to their backs, instead of 
 into their bellies." 
 
 •'Nonsense, Dard. I know your 
 capacity, but you could not eat a hole 
 in their income, that ancient fam- 
 
 " I could eat it all, and sit here. 
 Income ! I would not change incomes 
 with them if they 'd throw me in a 
 pancake a day. I tell you, citizen, 
 they are the poorest family for leagues 
 round ; not that they need be quite so 
 poor, if they could swallow a little of 
 their pride. But no, they must have 
 china, and plate, and line linen, at 
 dinner ; so their fine plates are always 
 bare, and their silver trays empty. 
 Ask the butcher, if you don't believe 
 me! 
 
 " You ask him whether he does not 
 go three times to the smallest shop- 
 keeper, for once he goes to Beaurc- 
 paire. Their tenants send them a 
 little meal and eggs, and now and 
 then a hen, because they must ; their 
 great garden is chock-full of fruit and 
 vegetables, and Jacintha makes mc 
 dig in it gratis, — and so they muddle 
 on. And then the baroness rnust have 
 her coflec as in the days of old, and 
 they can't afford to buy it, — so they 
 roast, — haw ! haw ! — they roast a 
 lot of horse beans that cost nothinfr, 
 and grind them, and serve up the 
 liquor in a silver cafetiere, on a silver 
 salver. Aristo va." 
 
 " Is it possible ? — reduced to this ! 
 — oh 1 " 
 
 " I'erdition seize them ! why don't 
 they melt their silver into soup, — 
 why don't they sell the superfluous 
 and buy the grub ? and I can't see 
 why they don't let their house and 
 that accursed garden, in which I sweat 
 gratis, and live in a small liousc, and 
 be content with as many servants as 
 they can pay wages to." 
 
 " Dard," said Riviere, thoughtfully, 
 interrupting him, " is it really true 
 about tlie beans ? " 
 
 " I tell you I have seen Mademoi- 
 selle Laure doing it for the old wo- 
 man's breakfast ; it was Laure invented 
 the move. A girl of nineteen begin- 
 ning already to deceive the world. But 
 they are all -tarred with the same 
 stick. A7-is(o va." 
 
 " Dard, you are a brute! " 
 
 " Me, citizen ? " 
 
 " You ! there is noble poverty, as 
 w^ell as noble wealth. I might have 
 disdained these people in their pros- 
 perity, but I revere thera in their af- 
 fliction." 
 
 " I consent," replied Dard, very 
 coolly. " That is your affair ; but 
 permit me," and here he clenched his 
 teeth at remembrance of his wrongs, 
 " on my OAvn part to say that I will 
 no more be a scullcry-man without 
 wages to these high-minded starve- 
 lings, these illustrious beggars." 
 Then he heated himself red hot. " I 
 will not even be their galley-slave. 
 Next, I have done my last little odd 
 job in this world," 3-eilcd the now in- 
 furiated /(/cto^/?/i. " All is ended. Of 
 two things one, — cither Jacintha 
 (juits those aristos, or I leave Jacin — 
 Eh ■? — ah ! — oh ! — ahem ! How 
 — 'ow d'ye do, Jacintha?" and his 
 roar ended in a whine, as when a dog 
 runs barking out and receives in full 
 career a cut from his master's whi]i, 
 and his generous rage turns to whim- 
 per then and there. " I was just talk- 
 ing of you, Jacintha," faltered Dard, 
 in conclusion. 
 
 " I heard yon, Dard," replied Jacin- 
 tha, slowly, quietly, grimly. 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 19 
 
 Darcl from oval shrank back to 
 round. 
 
 The person whose sudden appear- 
 ance at the door of the porch reduced 
 the swelling Dard to his natural lim- 
 its, moral and corporeal, was a strap- 
 ping young woman, with a comely, 
 peasant face, somewhat freckled, and 
 a pair of large black eyes, surmounted 
 by coal-black brows that inclined to 
 meet upon the bridge of the nose. 
 She stood in a bold attitude, her mas- 
 sive but well-formed arms folded so 
 that the pressure of each against the 
 other made them seem gigantic, and 
 her cheek pale with wrath, and her 
 eyes glitterjng like basilisks' upon citi- 
 zen Dard. Had petulance mingled 
 with her wrath, Kiviere would have 
 howled with laughter at Dard's dis- 
 comfiture, and its cause ; but a hand- 
 some woman, boiling with suppressed 
 ire, has a touch of the terrible, and 
 Jacintha's black eyes and lowering 
 black brows gave her, in this moment 
 of lofty indignation, a grander look 
 than belonged to her. So even Riv- 
 iere put down his pipe, and gazed up 
 in her face with a shade of misgiving. 
 
 She now slowly unclasped her arms, 
 and, with her great eye immovably 
 fixed on Dard, she pointed with a 
 commanding gesture towards Beaure- 
 paire. Citizen Dard was no longer 
 master of his own limbs ; he was even 
 as a bird fascinated oy a rattlesnake ; 
 he rose slowly, with his eyes fastened 
 to hers, and was moving off like an 
 ill-oiled automaton in the direction in- 
 dicated ; but at this a suppressed snig- 
 ger began to shake Riviere's whole 
 body till it bobbed up and down on 
 the seat. That weakened the spell: 
 Dard turned to him ruefully. 
 
 " There, citizen," he cried, " do you 
 see that imperious gesture ? Now I '11 
 tell you Avhat that means, — that means 
 yo-u promised to dig in the aristocrat's 
 garden this afternoon, — so march ! 
 Here, then, is one that has gained 
 nothing by kines being put down, for 
 I am ruled with a rod of iron. Thank 
 your stars, citizen, that you are not 
 in my place." 
 
 " Dard," retorted Jacintha, " if you 
 
 don't like your place, you can quit it. 
 
 I know two or three that will be glad to 
 
 take it. There, say no more ; now I am 
 
 here I will go back to the village, and 
 
 we shall see whether all the lads recoil 
 
 from a few little jobs to be done by 
 
 my side, and paid by my friendship." 
 
 " Xo ! no ! Jacintha ; don't be a 
 
 fool ! I am going ; there, I am at your 
 
 service, my dear friend. Come ! " 
 
 '■' Go then ; you know what to do." 
 
 " And leave you here ? " 
 
 j " Yes," said Jacintha. " I must 
 
 ! speak a word to monsieur, — you have 
 
 I rendered it necessary." 
 
 I The subjugated one crept to Beau- 
 
 '• repaire, but often looked behind him. 
 
 ' He did not relish leaving Jacintha 
 
 I with the handsome young citizen, es- 
 
 I pecially after her hint that there were 
 
 better men in the district than himself. 
 
 Jacintha turned to young Riviere, 
 
 and spoke to him in a very different 
 
 tone, — coldly, but politely. 
 
 *•' Monsieur will think me very hardy 
 thus to address a stranger, but I ought 
 j not to allow monsieur to be deceived, 
 and those I serve belied." 
 
 " There needs no excuse, female citi- 
 zen. I am at your service ; be seated." 
 " Many thanks, monsieur ; but I 
 will not sit down, for I am going im- 
 mediately." 
 
 " All the worse, female citizen . But 
 I say, it seems to me then you heard 
 what Dard was saying to me. What, 
 did you listen ? O fie ! " 
 
 " No, monsieur, I did not listen," 
 replied Jacintha, haughtily. "I am 
 incapable of it ; there was no necessity. 
 Dard bawled so loud the whole village 
 might hear. I was passinjr, and heard 
 a voice I knew raised so high, I feared 
 he was drunk ; I came therefore to the 
 side of the porch — with the best in- 
 tentions. Arrived there, words struck 
 my ear that made me pause. I was 
 so transfixed I could not move. Thus, 
 quite in spite of myself, I suffered the 
 pain of hearing his calumnies : you 
 see, monsieur, that I did not play the 
 spy on you ; moreover, that character 
 would nowise suit Avith my natural 
 
20 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 disposition. I hoard too your answer, 
 which does yon so much credit, and I 
 instantly resolved that you should not 
 be imposed upon." 
 
 " Thank you, female citizen." 
 
 " Neither the family I serve, nor 
 myself, are reduced to what that little 
 fool described. I ought not to laugh, 
 I ought to be angry ; but after all it 
 was only ]3ard, and Dard is a noto- 
 rious fool. There, monsieur," con- 
 tinued she, graciously, " I will bo can- 
 did, I will tell you all. It is perfectly 
 true that the baron contracted debts, 
 and that the baroness, out of love for 
 her children, is paying them off as 
 fast as possible, that the estate may 
 be clear before she dies. It is also 
 true that these heavy debts cannot be 
 paid off without great economy. But 
 let us distinguish. Prudence is not 
 poverty ; rather, my young monsieur, 
 it is the thorny road to wealth." 
 
 " That is neatly expressed, female 
 citizen ! " 
 
 " Would monsieur object to call 
 me by my name, since that of citizen 
 is odious to me and to most women ? " 
 
 " Certainly not. Mademoiselle Ja- 
 cintha, I shall even take a pleasure in 
 it, since it will seem to imply that we 
 are making a nearer acquaintance, 
 mademoiselle." 
 
 "Not mademoiselle, any more than 
 citizen. I am neither demoiselle, nor 
 dame, but plain Jacintha." 
 
 " No ! no ! no ! not plain Jacintha ! 
 Do you think I have no eyes then, 
 pretty Jacintha? " 
 
 " Monsieur, a truce to compli- 
 ments ! Let us resume ! " 
 
 " Be seated, then, pretty Jacintha ! " 
 
 " It is useless, monsieur, since I am 
 going immediately. I will be very 
 candid with you. It is about Dard 
 having no supper up at Beaurepaire. 
 This is true. You see I am candid, 
 and conceal nothing. I will even 
 own to you that the baroness, my 
 mistress, would be very angry if she 
 knew supper was not provided for 
 Dard ; in a word, I am the culprit. 
 And I am in the right. Listen. 
 Dard is egoist. You may even, per- 
 
 ha])s, have yourself observed this 
 trait." 
 
 " Glimpses of it — ha I ha ! ha ! — 
 he ! ho ! " 
 
 " Monsieur, he is egoist to that de- 
 gree that he has not a friend in the 
 world, but me. 1 forgive him, be- 
 cause I know the reason ; he has 
 never had a headache or a heartache 
 in his life." 
 
 " I don't understand you, Jacintha.'* 
 
 " Monsieur, at your age there arc 
 matiy things a young man does not 
 understand. But, tliough I make al- 
 lowances for Dard, I know what is 
 due to myself. Yes, he is so egoist, 
 tliat, were I to fill that paunch of his, 
 I should no longer know whether he 
 came to Beaurepaire for me or for 
 himself. Now Dard is no beauty, 
 monsieur ; figure to yourself that he 
 is two inches shorter than I am." 
 
 " O Heaven ! he looks a foot." 
 
 " lie is no scholar neither, and I 
 have had to wipe up many a sneer 
 and many a sarcasm on his account ; 
 but up to now I have always been 
 able to reply that this five feet two 
 inches of egoism loA^es me disinterest- 
 edly ; and the moment I doubt this 
 point I give him his conge, — poor 
 little fellow ! Now you comprehend 
 all, do you not? Confess that I am 
 reasonable. 
 
 " Parbleu ! I say, I did not think 
 your sex had been so sagacious." 
 
 " You saw me on the brink of giving 
 the poor little being his dismissal ? " 
 
 " I saw and admired. Well, then, 
 female cit— ah ! pardon — Jacintha: 
 so then the family at Beaurepaire are 
 not in such straits as Dard pretends ? " 
 
 " Monsieur, do I look like one 
 starved ? " 
 
 " By Jove, no ! — by Ceres, I 
 mean ! " 
 
 " Are my young mistresses wan — 
 and thin — and hollow-eyed ? " 
 
 " Treason ! — l)his])hemy ! — -ah! 
 no. By Venus and Hebe no ! " 
 
 Jacintha smiled at this enthusiastic 
 denial, and also because her sex smile 
 when words are used they do not 
 understand, — guess why ! 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 21 
 
 She resumed : — 
 
 " Wheu a cup overflows it cannot 
 be empty ; those have enough who 
 have to spare ; now how many times 
 has Dard himself sent or brought a 
 Aveary soldier to our kitchen by Made- 
 moiselle Laure's own orders ? " 
 
 " Ah ! I can believe it." 
 
 " And how many times have I 
 brought a bottle of good Medoc for 
 them from the baroness's cellar ! " 
 
 " You did well. I see ; Dard's 
 egoism blinded him : they are prudent, 
 but neither stingy nor poor. All the 
 better. But stay ! — the coffee — the 
 beans." ^ 
 
 Jacintha colored, and seemed put 
 out, but it was only for a moment ; 
 she smiled good-humo redly enottgh, 
 and put her hand in her pocket and 
 drew out a packet. 
 
 " What is that ? " 
 
 " Permit me ; it is coffee, and 
 excellent if I may judge by the per- 
 fume ; you have just bought it in the 
 village ? " 
 
 Jacintha nodded. 
 
 " But the beans ! " 
 
 " The beans ! — the beans ! Well 
 — he ! he ! — Monsieur, we have a 
 little merry angel in the house called 
 IMademoiselle Laure. She set me one 
 day to roast some beans, — the old 
 doctor wanted them for some absurd 
 experiment. Dard came in, and see- 
 ing something cooking, ' What are 
 they for ? ' said be, * Avhat in Heaven's 
 name are they for ? ' His curiosity 
 knew no bounds. I was going to tell 
 him, but Mademoiselle Laure gave 
 me a look. ' To make the family 
 coffee to be sure,' says she ; and the 
 fool believed it." 
 
 Riviere and Jacintha had a laugh 
 over Dard's credulity. 
 
 " Well, Jacintha, thank Heaven ! 
 Dard is mistaken ; and yet I am 
 going to say a foolish thing ; do you 
 know I half regret they are not as 
 poor, no not quite, but nearly as poor, 
 as he described them ; for then — " 
 
 " What then ? " 
 
 "You need not be angry now." 
 
 " Me, monsieur ? One is in no 
 
 haste to be angry with such a face as 
 yours, my young monsieur." 
 
 " Well", then, I should have liked 
 them to be a little poor, that I miyht 
 have had the pleasure and the honor 
 of being useful to them." 
 
 "How could you be of use to 
 them ? " 
 
 " 0, I don't know, — in many 
 ways, — especially now I have made 
 your acquaintance, — you would have 
 told me what to do. I would not 
 have disobeyed you, for you are a 
 treasure, and I see you love them sin- 
 cerely ; it is a holy cause ; it would 
 have been, I mean ; and we should 
 have been united in it, Jacintha." 
 
 " Ah yes ! as to that, yes." 
 
 " We would have concerted means 
 to do them kindness secretly, — with- 
 out hurting their pride. And then I 
 am in authority, Jacintha." 
 
 " I know it, monsieur. Dard has 
 told me." 
 
 " In great authority for one so 
 young. They are Royalists, — my se- 
 cret protection might have been of 
 wonderful service to them, and I could 
 have given it them without disloyalty 
 to the state ; for, after all, what has 
 the Republic to dread from women ? " 
 
 Through all this, Avhich the young 
 fellow delivered not flowingly, but in 
 a series of little pants, each from his 
 heart, Jacintha's great black eye dwelt 
 on him calm but secretly inquisitive, 
 and on her cheek a faint color came 
 and went two or three times. 
 
 " These sentiments do you honor, 
 my pretty monsieur " (dwelling ten- 
 derly on the pretty). 
 
 " And so do yours do you," cried 
 the young man, warmly. " Let us be 
 friends, us two, who, though of differ- 
 ent parties, understand one another. 
 And let me tell you Mademoiselle, 
 the Aristocrat, that we Republicans 
 have our virtues too." 
 
 " Hencefoi-th I will believe this for 
 your sake, my child." 
 
 " I am going to tell you one of 
 them." 
 
 " Tell me." 
 
 " It is tliis, — we can recognize and 
 
22 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 bow to virtue in wliutever class we find 
 it. I revere you, eit — ahem ! — lienee- 
 fortli Jacintha is to me a word that 
 stands for loyalty, fidelity, and unself- 
 ish aileetion. These are the soul of 
 nobility, — titles are its varnish. Such 
 spirits as you, I say, arc the ornaments 
 of both our sexes, of every rank, and 
 of human nature. Therefore give me 
 your ])retty brown hand a moment, 
 that I may pay you a homage I would 
 nut ofi'er to a selfish, and by conse- 
 quence a vulgar duchess." 
 
 Jacintha colored a little ; but put 
 out her hand with a smile, and with 
 the grace that seems born with French- 
 women of all clas-^es. 
 
 Riviere held the smiling peasant's 
 hand, and bowed his head and kissed it. 
 
 A little to his surprise, the moment 
 he relaxed his hold of it, it begun to 
 close gently on his hand and hold it, 
 and even press it a very little. He 
 looked u]), and saw a female phenom- 
 enon. The smile still lingered on 
 her lip, but the large black eyes Avcre 
 troubled, and soon an enormous tear 
 quietly rolled out of them and ran 
 down her tanned cheek. 
 
 The boy looked wistfully in her 
 face for an explanation. 
 
 She replied to his mute inquiry by 
 smiling, and pressing his hand gently, 
 in which act another tear welled quiet- 
 ly up, and rippled over, and ran with 
 a slant into the channel of the first. 
 
 The inexperienced boy looked so 
 sad at this, that she ])ressed his hand 
 still more, and smiled still more kind- 
 ly. Then Edouard sat, and began to 
 watch with innocent curiosity the 
 tears arrive thus, two a minute, with- 
 out any trouble while the mouth 
 smiled and the hand pressed his. 
 
 At last he said, in a sort of petting 
 tone, — " Crying, Jacintha 1 " 
 
 "No, my friend, — not that I am 
 aware of." 
 
 " Yes, you are, — good ! here comes 
 another." 
 
 " Am I, dear 1 — it is possible." 
 
 " I like it, — it is so pretty. I am 
 afraid it is my fault. By the by, 
 what is it for ? " 
 
 " ]\ry friend, perhaps it is that you 
 praised me too warmly, monsieur ; 
 these are the first words of sympathy 
 that have ever been sjwken to me in 
 this village, above all, the first words 
 of good-will to the fanuly I love so." 
 
 " Yes ! you do love them, and so 
 do I." 
 
 " Thank you ! thank you ! " 
 
 " What witchcraft do they possess 1 
 They make me, you, and, I think, 
 every honest heart, their friend." 
 
 " Ah, monsieur, do not be offend- 
 ed, but believe me it is no small 
 thing to be tun old family. There, 
 you sec^. I do not weep ; on the con- 
 trary, I discourse. My grandfather 
 served a baron of Beaurepairc. My 
 father was their gamekeeper, and fed 
 to his last hour from the baron's 
 plate ; he was disal)led by ague for 
 many years before he died, was my 
 poor father ; my mother died in the 
 house, and was buried in the sacred 
 ground near the family chapel. Yes, 
 her body is aside theirs in death, and 
 so was her heart while she lived. 
 They put an inscription on her tomb 
 praising her fidelity and probity. Do 
 you think these things do not sink in- 
 to the heart of the poor 1 — praise on 
 her tomb, and not a word on their 
 own, but just the name, and Avhcn 
 each was born and died, you know. 
 Ah ! the pride of the mean is dirt, 
 but the pride of the noble is gold ! 
 
 * " For, look you, among parvenus 
 I should be a servant, and nothing 
 more ; in this proud family I am a 
 humble friend ; of course they aro 
 not always gossiping with me like 
 vulgar masters and mistresses, — if 
 they did, 1 should neither respect nor 
 love them ; but they all smile on mo 
 whenever I come into the room, even 
 the baroness herself. I belong to 
 them, and they belong to me, by ties 
 
 * The French peasant often thinks half a 
 sentence, and utters tlie other half aloud, and 
 so hn-aics air in the middle of a thou.r]ht. 
 Probably Jacintha's whole thought, if wo 
 had the means of knowing it, would have 
 run like thi;* : " Besides I have another 
 reason. I could not be Sv) conifortablo my- 
 aelf elsewhere, — for, look you — 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 23 
 
 without number, by the years them- 
 selves, — reflect, monsieur, a century, 
 — by the many kind words in many 
 troubles, by the one roof that sheltered 
 us a hundred years, and the grave 
 where our bones lie together till the 
 day of God." 
 
 Jacintha clasped her hands, and 
 the black eyes shone out warm 
 through their dew. 
 
 Eivicre's glistened too. 
 
 " It is well said," he cried ; " it is 
 nobly said ! But, permit me, these 
 are ties that owe their force to the 
 souls they bind. How often have 
 sucli bonds round human hearts 
 proved ropes of sand. They grapple 
 you like hooks of steel, — because 
 you are steel yourself to the back- 
 bone. I admh-e you, cit — Jacintha 
 dear. Such women as you have a 
 great mission in France just now." 
 
 "Is that true? What can women 
 do?" 
 
 " Bri>'G forth heroes ! Be the 
 mothers of great men, — the Catos 
 and the Gracc!ii of the future." 
 
 Jacintha smiled. She did not know 
 the Gracchi and tlieir political senti- 
 ments ; and they sounded well. 
 " Gracchi ! " a name with a ring to 
 it. People of distinction no doubt. 
 
 " That would be too much honor," 
 replied she, modestly. " At present I 
 must say adieu ! " and she moved off 
 an inch at a time, and with an uncer- 
 tain hesitating manner, looking this 
 way and that " out of the tail of her 
 eye," as the Italians and Scotch 
 phrase it. 
 
 Riviere put no interpretation on 
 this. 
 
 " Adieu then, if it must be so," 
 said he. 
 
 She caught sight of the game laid 
 out : on this excuse she stopped dead 
 short. 
 
 She eyed it wistfully. 
 
 Eiviere caught this glance. "Have 
 some of it," cried he, '' do have some 
 of it." 
 
 " What should I do Math game? " 
 
 " I mean for the chateau." 
 
 " They have such quantities of it." 
 
 " Ah ! no doubt. All the tenants 
 send it, I suppose." 
 
 " Of course they do." 
 
 " What a pity ! It is then fated 
 that I am not to be able to show my 
 good-will to that family, not even in 
 such a trifle as this." 
 
 Jacintha wheeled suddenly round 
 on him, and so by an instinct of fe- 
 male art caught oft" its guard that 
 face which she had already openly pe- 
 rused. 
 
 This done, she paused a moment, 
 and then came walking an inch at a 
 time back to him ; entered the porch 
 thoughtfully, and coolly sat down. 
 At first she sat just opposite Riviere, 
 but the next moment, reflecting that 
 she was in sight from the road, she 
 slipped into a corner, and there an- 
 chored. Riviere opened his eyes, and 
 while she was settling her skirts he 
 was puzzling his little head. 
 
 " How odd," thought he. " So 
 long as I asked her to sit down, it 
 was always, ' Xo, I am going.' " 
 
 " Yes, my friend, you have divined 
 it!" 
 
 " O, have I ? — ah, yes — divined 
 what ? " 
 
 " That I am going to tell you the 
 truth. Your face as well as your 
 words is the cause ; yes, I will tell 
 you all ! " 
 
 " Is it about Beaurepaire ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "But you did ^ell me aU; those 
 were your very words." 
 
 " It is possible ; but all I told you 
 was — inexact." 
 
 " no, Jacintha, that cannot be. I 
 felt truth in every tone of your voice." 
 
 " That was because you are true, 
 and innocent, and pure. Forgive me 
 for not reading you at a glance. Now 
 I will tell you all." 
 
 " O do ! pray do ! " 
 
 " Listen then ! ah, my friend, swear 
 to me by that sainted woman, your 
 mother, that you will never reveal 
 what I trust you with at this mo- 
 ment! " 
 
 " Jacintha, I swear by my mother 
 to keep your secret." 
 
24 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 " Then, niv poor friend, what Dard 
 told yuii was not altogether false." 
 
 " Good Heavens ! Jaeintha." 
 
 " Though it was but a guess on his 
 part; for I never trusted my owu 
 sweetheart as now I trust a stranger. 
 
 " You that have shown such good 
 sentiments towards us, O, hear and 
 then tell me, can nothing be done ? 
 
 "No, don't speak to nie, — let me 
 go on before my courage dies ; yes, 
 share this secret with me, for it gnaws 
 mc, it chokes me. 
 
 " To sec what I sec every day, and 
 do what I do, and have no one I dure 
 breathe a word to ; O, it is very hard. 
 
 " Nevertheless, see on what a thread 
 things turn : if one had told nic an 
 hour ago it was you I should open 
 my heart to ! 
 
 " My child, my dear old mistress, 
 and my sweet young ladies are — 
 ah-! no I can't! I can't! 
 
 " What a poltroon I am. Yes ! 
 thank you, your hand in mine gives 
 me courage : I hope I am not doing 
 ill. They are not economical. They 
 are not stingy. They arc not paying 
 off their debts. My friend, the l)ar- 
 oness and the demoiselles de Beaure- 
 paire — are paupers." 
 
 CHAPTER. III. 
 
 " Paupers 'i " 
 
 "Alas!" 
 
 "INIembers of the nobility pau- 
 pers ? " 
 
 " Yes ; for their debts are greater 
 than their means ; they live by suffer- 
 ance, — they lie at the mercy of the 
 law, and of their creditors ; and every 
 now and then these monsters threaten 
 us, though they know we struggle to 
 give them their due." 
 
 " What do they threaten 1 " 
 
 " To petition "government to sell 
 the chateau and lands, and pay them, 
 — the wretches ! " 
 
 " The hogs ! " 
 
 " And then, the worst of it is, the 
 family can't do anything the least 
 
 little bit mean. I was in the room 
 when M. Pcrrin, the notary, gave tlio 
 baroness a hint to cut down every 
 tree on the estate, and sell the timl)er, 
 and lay by the money for her own 
 use. She heard him out, and tlien, 
 O, the look she gave him, — it with- 
 ered him up on his chair. 
 
 " ' I rob my husband's and my Jo- 
 sephine's estate of its beauty ! cut 
 down the old trees that show the 
 chateau is not a thing of yesterday, 
 like your Directory, your "^Republic, 
 and your guillotine ! ' 
 
 " So then. Monsieur Perrin, to 
 soften lier, said : ' No, madame, spare 
 the ancient oak of course, and in- 
 deed all the very old trees ; but sell 
 the others.' 
 
 " ' The others ? what, the trees 
 that my own husband planted ? and 
 why not knock down my little oratory 
 in the park, — he built it. The 
 stones would sell for something, — so 
 would Josephine's hair and Laure's. 
 Yon do not know, pcrliaps, each 
 of those young ladies there can sit 
 down upon her back hair. JMon- 
 sieur, I will neither strip the glory 
 from my daughters' heads, nor "from 
 the ancient lands of Beaurepaire, — 
 nor hallow some Republican's barn, 
 pigsty, or dwelling-house, Avith the 
 stones of the sacred pltice where I 
 pray for my husband's soul.' 
 
 " Those were her words. She had 
 been sitting quite quiet like a cat, 
 watching for him. She rose up to 
 speak, and those Avords came from her 
 like puffs of flame from a furnace. 
 You could not forget one of them if 
 you lived ever so long. He has n't 
 come to see us since then, and it 's six 
 months ago." 
 
 " I call it false pride, Jaeintha." 
 
 " Do you ? then I don't," said Ja- 
 eintha, tiring up. 
 
 " Well, no matter ; tell me more." 
 
 " I will tell you all. I have prom- 
 ised." 
 
 "Is it true about the beans ? " 
 
 "It is too true." 
 
 " But this coffee that yon have just 
 boutrht 1 " 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 25 
 
 " I have not bought it ; I have em- 
 bezzled it. Every now and then I 
 take a bunch of grapes from the con- 
 servatory. I give it to the grocer's 
 wife. Then she gives me a little cof- 
 fee, and says to herself, * That girl is 
 a thief.' " 
 
 " More fool she. She says nothing 
 of the sort, yon spiteful girl." 
 
 " Then I secretly flavor ray poor 
 mistress's breakfast with it." 
 
 " Secretly ? But you tell Made- 
 moiselle Laure." 
 
 " How innocent you are ! — Don't 
 you see that she roasts beans that her 
 mother may still think she drinks cof- 
 fee ; and that I flavor her rubbish on 
 the sly, that Mademoiselle Laure may 
 fancy her beans have really a twang 
 of coffee ; and, for aught I know, the 
 baroness sees through us both, and 
 smacks her lips over the draught to 
 make us all happy ; for women are 
 very deep, my young monsieur, — you 
 have no idea how deep they are. Yes, 
 at Beaurepaire we all love and deceive 
 one another." 
 
 " You make my heart sick. Then 
 it was untrue about the wine ? " 
 
 " No, it was not ; we have plenty 
 of that. The baron left the cellar 
 brimful of wine. There is enough 
 to last us all our lives ; and, while we 
 ha\e it, we will give it to the brave 
 and the poor." 
 
 " And pinch yourselves 1 " 
 
 " And pinch ourselves." 
 
 " Why don't they swap the wine 
 for necessaries 1 " 
 
 " Because they could not do a mean 
 thing." 
 
 " Where is the meanness ? Am I 
 the man to advise a mean thing "? " 
 
 " All, no, monsieur. Well, then, 
 they won't do a thing other barons of 
 Beaurepaire never did ; and that is 
 why they sit down to a good bottle of 
 wine from their own cellar, and to 
 grapes and peaches from their own 
 garden, and even truffles from their 
 own beech coppice, and good cream 
 from their own cow, and scarce two 
 sous' worth of bread, and butcher's 
 meat not once a fortnight." 
 
 " In short, they eat fifteen francs' 
 worth of luxuries, and so have not tea 
 sous for wholesome food." 
 
 " Yes, monsieur." 
 
 " Yes, monsieur ? " cried Riviere, 
 spitefully mocking her; "and don't 
 you see this is not economy, but ex- 
 travagance 1 Don't you see it is their 
 duty as well as their interest to sell 
 their wine, or some of it, and their 
 fruit, and buy eatables, and even put 
 by money to pay their debts 1 " 
 
 " It would be if they were vulgar 
 people ; but these are not grocers nor 
 cheap Johns ; these are the high noblesse 
 of France." 
 
 " These are a pack of fools," roared 
 the irritated Republican, " and you 
 are as bad as they." 
 
 " I do not assert the contrary," re- 
 plied Jacintha, humbly and lovingh', 
 disarming his wrath with a turn of 
 the tongue. " My friend," she con- 
 tinued in the same tone, " at present 
 our cow is in full milk ; so that is a 
 great help ; but when she goes dry, 
 God knows what we shall do, for I 
 don't." And Jacintha turned a face 
 so full of sorrow on him, that he was 
 ashamed of having been in a rage 
 with her absurdity. 
 
 " And then to come by and hear 
 my own sweetheart, that ought to be 
 on my side, running down those saints 
 and martyrs to a stran — , to our best 
 friend." 
 
 " Poor Jacintha ! " 
 
 " O no ; don't, don't ! already it costs 
 me a great struggle not to give way." 
 
 " Indeed ! you tremble." 
 
 "Like euQugh, — it is the nerves. 
 Take no notice, or I could not answer 
 for myself. My heart is like a lump 
 of lead in my bosom at this hour. 
 No ! it is not so much for what goes 
 on up at the chateau. That will not 
 kill them. Love nourishes as well as 
 food ; and we all love one another at 
 Beaurepaire. It is for the whisper 
 I have just heard in the village." 
 
 "What? — what?" 
 
 " That one of these cruel creditors 
 is o:oing to have the estate and chateau 
 sold." 
 
26 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 " Curse liim ! " 
 
 " Ho niiirht as well send for the 
 jjuillotine and take tlieir lives at once. 
 You look at me. You don't know 
 my mistress as I do. Ah ! butchers, 
 if it is so, you will take nothin<^ out 
 of that house but her cori)sc. And is 
 it come to this ? The <j:reat old fami- 
 ly to be turned adrift like begg^ars to 
 wander over the world ? O, my poor 
 mistress ! O, my pretty demoiselles ! 
 that I played with and nursed ever 
 since I was a child ! — I was just six 
 when Josephine was born, — and that 
 I shall love till my last breath." 
 
 The young woman, torn by the 
 violence of a feeling so long pent up 
 in her own bosom, fell to panting, and 
 laughing, and sobbing, and trembling 
 violently. 
 
 The statesman, who had passed all 
 his short life at school and college, was 
 Irightencd out of his wits, and ran to 
 her side, and took hold of her and 
 ]nillcd her, and cried, " O, don't, 
 Jacintha ; you will kill yourself, you 
 will die! — this is frightful, — help 
 here ! help ! " 
 
 Jacintha put her hand to his mouth, 
 and, without leaving off her hyster- 
 ics, gasped out, "Ah! don't expose 
 me." 
 
 So then he didn't know what to 
 do ; but he seized a tumbler, and with 
 trembling hand filled it with wine, 
 and tlu-ew himself on his knees, and 
 forced it between her lips. All she 
 did was to bite a piece out of the 
 glass as clean as if a diamond had cut 
 it. This did her good, — destruction 
 of sacred househokl property gave her 
 another turn. " There, I 've broke 
 your glass now," she cried with a 
 marvellous change of tone ; and she 
 came to, and sobbed and cried 
 rcasonaljly. 
 
 The other young thing of the ten- 
 der, though impetuous heart, set to 
 comfort her. 
 
 " Toor Jacintha ! dear Jacintha ! 
 I will l)c a friend both to them and 
 you. There is a kiss not to cry so." 
 Oil, oh, oh ! And lo, and behold ! he 
 burst out crying himself. 
 
 This gave Jacintha another turn. 
 
 " () my son ! don't you cry ! I 
 will never s-s-sufter that." 
 
 " How can I help it ? Oh ! It is 
 you make me, — sobbing and weep- 
 ing like that." 
 
 "Forgive me, little heart. I will 
 be m-more reasonable, not to aiiliit 
 you. O, see, I leave off! Oh! I 
 will take the wine." 
 
 Edouard put the other side of the 
 glass to her lips, and she sujjped a 
 teaspoonful of the wine. This was 
 her native politeness, not to slight a 
 remedy he had offered. Then he put 
 down the glass, and she drew his head 
 lightly to her bosom, and he felt her 
 quietly crying. She was touched to 
 the core by his sympathy. As for 
 him, he was already ashamed of the 
 weakness he could not cpiite master, 
 and was not sorry to hide liis face so 
 agreeably. 
 
 "O dear! Now — oh! — you are 
 not to fancy (I can hear your heart 
 beat Avhere I am, Jacintha) / ever 
 cry. I have not done such a con- 
 temptible thing since I Avas a boy." 
 
 " I believe it. Forgive me. It was 
 all my fault. It is no discredit. 
 Ah ! no, my son ; those tears do you 
 honor, and make the poor Jacintha 
 your friend." 
 
 These foolish drops did not long 
 quench our statesman's and puppy's 
 manly ardor. 
 
 " Come, come ! " he cried, " let us 
 do something, not sit blubbering." 
 
 "Ah! if we could do anything," 
 cried Jacintha, catcliing fire at him. 
 
 " Why, of course we can. People 
 never know what they can do till 
 they try. /shall think of something, 
 you may depend." ( Vanity revived. ) 
 
 "And I must run to Beaurei)aire ; 
 they will think I am lost." 
 
 " O Jacintha ! " 
 
 " What ? " 
 
 " You will take some of the game 
 now." 
 
 " That I will — from you." 
 
 " Thank you. Quick — (juick — 
 for goodness' sake. Here, take these 
 four birds. That is right; pin up 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 27 
 
 your apron, — that makes a capital 
 pocket." 
 
 " The hare would be more nourish- 
 ing than the birds/' said Jacintha, . 
 timidly. 
 
 " You are to have the hare as well, 
 of course ; send me down Dard ; he 
 shall take her up." 
 
 "Xo! no! Dard and I are bad 
 friends. I will ask no favor of him. 
 He shall be my suppliant all this day, 
 not I his. Look at my arm, do you 
 think that is afraid of a hare 1 " 
 
 " Why, it is half as big again as 
 mine, Jacintha ; for all tliat, I shall 
 carry the hare up in my pocket. 
 France is still France, whatever you 
 may think ; a pretty woman must not 
 be let drag a hare about the nation ; 
 come — " 
 
 " Surely, monsieur does not think 
 of accompanying me ! " 
 
 " Why not ? " 
 
 " 0, as for that, I am no prude, 
 
 — it is a road, too, on which one 
 meets no one, — ah bah ! if you are 
 not ashamed of me, I am not of you, 
 
 — aUons." 
 
 They walked up the road in silence. 
 Riviere had something on his mind, 
 and Jacintlia was demurely watching 
 for it out of the tail of her eye. At 
 last, ashamed of going along and not 
 saying a word to rustic Hebe, he 
 dropped out this in an absent sort of 
 way : " I shall never know by your 
 manner whether you are telling the 
 truth or — the reverse." No answer. 
 
 " You do it beautifully." No an- 
 swer. 
 
 *' So smooth and convincing." No 
 answer. 
 
 " Seriously, then, I used to think 
 it a crime, a sordid vice, — but now I 
 see that even a falsehood, coming 
 from a pure heart, is purified, and be- 
 comes virtuous, pious." 
 
 " Never ! " 
 
 " And useful." 
 
 " What use were mine'? I had to 
 unpick them the next minute, — and 
 do you think I did not blush like fire 
 while I was eating my own words one 
 after another '? " 
 
 " I did not see you." 
 
 " A sign I blushed inside, and that 
 is worse. My young monsieur," con- 
 tinued Jacintha, gravely, "listen to 
 me. A lie is always two things, — a 
 lump of sin, and a piece of folly. 
 Yes ! women are readier and smooth- 
 er at that sort of work than men, — 
 all the worse for them. Men lie at 
 times to gain some end they are hard 
 bent on ; but their instinct is to tell 
 the truth, those that are men at all. 
 But women, especially uneducated 
 ones like me, run to a lie the first 
 thing, like rats to a hole. Now, mark 
 the consequence : women suffer many 
 troubles, great and small ; half of 
 these come to them by the will of 
 God ; but the other half they make 
 for themselves by their silly want of 
 truth and candor — there ! " 
 
 " Bless my soul ! here is a sermon. 
 Why, how earnest you are ! " 
 
 "Yes, I am in earnest, and you 
 should not mock me. Consider, I am 
 many years older than you, — you arc 
 not twenty, I think, and I am close 
 upon five-and-twcnty, — and I have 
 seen ten times as much life as you, 
 though I have lived in a village." 
 
 " Don't be angry, Jacintha ; I listen 
 to every word." 
 
 "I am in earnest, my friend, be- 
 cause you terrified me when you 
 smirked like that and talked of beauti- 
 ful lies, pious lies, (why not clean 
 filth 1 ) and then quoted me to prove 
 it. Innocence is so easily corrupted. 
 And I could not sleep at night if my 
 tongue had corrupted one so innocent 
 and good and young as you, my 
 dear." 
 
 " Now, don't you be alarmed," 
 cried the statesboy, haughtily, " you 
 need not fear that I shall ever take 
 after women in that or anything 
 else." 
 
 " Mind they will be the first to de- 
 spise you if you do, — that is their way, 
 — it is one of them that tells you so." 
 
 " Set your mind at ease, fair moral- 
 ist ; I shall think of your precepts. 
 I will even note down one of the bril- 
 liant things you said " ; and he took 
 
28 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 out his tn1)lots. " ' A lie is a — luinp 
 of sin, and a bit — no — a piece of 
 folly oh ' ' " 
 
 " That is it ! " cried Jacintha, gayly, 
 her anxiety removed. 
 
 " I did not think you were five-and- 
 twonty, thon<2;li." 
 
 " I ' am tlien, — don't you believe 
 me ? " 
 
 " Why not ? Indeed how could I 
 disbelieve you after your lecture ? " 
 
 " It is well," said Jacintha, with 
 dij:nity. 
 
 !Shc was twenty-seven by the parish 
 books. 
 
 Riviere relapsed into his revery. 
 
 This time it was Jacintha who 
 spoke first. 
 
 " You forgive me for breaking the 
 glass, monsieur, and making you 
 cry ? " 
 
 " Bother the glass, — what little 
 things to think of; while I — and as 
 for the other business — you did it 
 fairly ; you made a fool of me, but 
 you bcijan with yourself, — please to 
 remember that." 
 
 " O, a woman cries as she spits, 
 — that goes for nothing, — but it is 
 not fair of her to make a man cry just 
 because he has a feeling heart." 
 
 " vStop ! — * A woman — cries — as 
 she spits ! ' AVhy, Jacintha, that is 
 rather a coarse sentiment to come 
 from you, who say such beautiful 
 things, and such wise things — now 
 and then." 
 
 " Wliat would you have ? " re- 
 plied Jacintha, with sudden humility. 
 " When all is done I am but a domes- 
 tic ; I am not an instructed person." 
 
 " On reflection, if coarse, it is suc- 
 cinct. I had better note it down with 
 the other — no — I shall remember 
 this one without." 
 
 " You may take your oath of that. 
 Good things have to be engraved on 
 the memory, — l)ad ones stick there of 
 themselves. Monsieur, we are now 
 near Beaurepaire." 
 
 " So I see. Well? " 
 
 " I don't come out every day, — if 
 monsieur has anything important to 
 say to me, now is surely the time." 
 
 " Ah ! What do you mean ? " 
 
 " I mean that all this chat is not 
 what you want to say to me. There 
 is something you have half a mind to 
 tell Jacintha, and half a mind not. 
 Do you think I can't read your face 
 by this time ? There, I stop to hear 
 it before it is too late. Come, out 
 with it." 
 
 " It is all very well to say out with 
 it, but I have not the courage." 
 
 " It is then that you do not feel I 
 am your friend." 
 
 " Don't speak so, and don't look 
 so kindly, or 1 shall tell you. Jacin- 
 tha— " 
 
 " My child." 
 
 " It is going to be secret for se- 
 cret between us two, — is not that 
 nice ? " 
 
 " Delicious ! " 
 
 " Ay ; but you must swear as I did, 
 for my secret is as important as yours, 
 
 — every bit." 
 " I swear ! " 
 
 " Then, Jacintha, I am in love ! " 
 
 And, having made the confession 
 blushing, he smiled a little pompous- 
 ly, for he felt it was a step that 
 stamped him a man. 
 
 Jacintha's face expanded with sa- 
 cred joy at the prospect of a love af- 
 fair ; then she laughed at his conceit 
 in fancying a boy's love could be as 
 grave a secret as hers ; finally she 
 lowered her voice to a whisper, though 
 no creature was in sight. 
 
 " Who is it, dear ? " and her eye 
 twinkled, and her car cocked, and all 
 the woman bristled. 
 
 " Jacintha, can't you guess ? " and 
 he looked down. 
 
 " Me ? How should I know which 
 way your fancy lies ? " 
 
 But even as she said these words 
 her eye seemed to give a flash in- 
 wards, and her vivid intelligence 
 seized the clew in a moment. 
 
 " I was blind ! " she screamed, " I 
 was blind ! It 's my young lady. I 
 thought it was very odd you should 
 cry for me, and take such an interest, 
 
 — ah ! rogue with the face of inno- 
 cence. But how and where was it 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 29 
 
 done ? They never dine from home. 
 You have not been two months here, 
 
 — that is what put me otf the very 
 idea of such a thing. Tiie saints 
 forgive us, he has fallen in love with 
 her in church ! " 
 
 " Xo, no. Why, I have met her 
 eleven times out walking with her 
 sister, stupid, and twice she smiled 
 on me, O Jacintha ! a smile such as 
 angels smile, — a smile to warm the 
 heart and purify the soul and last 
 forever in the mind." 
 
 " Well, I have heard say that 
 * man is fire and woman tow/ but 
 this beats all. Ha ! ha ! " 
 
 " O, do not jest ! I did not laugh 
 at you." 
 
 " I will not be so cruel, so ungrate- 
 ful, as to jest. Still, — he ! he ! " 
 
 " No, Jacintha, it is no laughing 
 matter; I revere her as mortals revere 
 the saints, I love her so, that, were I 
 ever to lose all hope of her, I would 
 not live a day. And now that you 
 have told me she is poor and in sor- 
 roAV, and I think of her walking so 
 calm and gentle, — always in black, 
 Jacintha, — and her low courtesy to 
 me whenever we met, and her sweet 
 smile to me though her heart must 
 be sad, oh ! my heart yearns for her. 
 What can I do for her ? How shall 
 I surround her with myself unseen, 
 
 — make her feel that a man's love 
 waits upon her feet every step she 
 takes, — that a man's love floats in 
 the air round that lovely head. And 
 O Jacintha ! if some day she should 
 deign to ask, ' Who is this, whom as 
 yet I know only by his devotion ? ' " 
 
 " She will ask that question much 
 earlier than you seem to think, Inno- 
 cence." 
 
 " Will she ? bless you, Jacintha ; 
 but it is ungenerous to think of the 
 reward for loving, O no, I will en- 
 tertain no selfish motives, I will love 
 and prove my love whether there is 
 any hope for me or not ; dear Ja- 
 cintha, is there any hope for me, do 
 you think ? " 
 
 Now Jacintha could not help fear- 
 ing there was very little, but her 
 
 I heart and his earnest face looking 
 I into hers would not let her say so. 
 
 " There is hope for all men," said 
 she. " I will do all I can for you, 
 and tell you all I see ; but after all 
 it must depend on yourself; only I 
 may hinder you from going at it in 
 a hurry and spilling the milk for- 
 ever. After all," she continued, 
 looking at the case more hopefully, 
 " the way to win such ladies as mine 
 is to deserve them, — not one in fifty 
 men deserves such as they are, but 
 you do. There is not a woman in 
 the world that is too good for you." 
 
 " Ah, Jacintha, that is nonsense. I 
 deeply feel my inferiority." 
 
 " And if you were, you would n't," 
 cried the sententious maid, one of 
 whose secret maxims appears to have 
 been " point before grammar," 
 
 "Jacintha, before I go, remember, 
 if anything happens you have a 
 friend out of the house," 
 
 " And you a stanch friend in it," 
 
 " Jacintha, I am too happy; I feel 
 to want to be alone with' all the 
 thouglits that throng on me. Good 
 by, Jacintha " ; and he was off" like a 
 rocket. 
 
 " ]My hare ! my hare ! my hare ! " 
 screeched Jacintha, on the ascending 
 scale. 
 
 " O you dear girl ! you remember 
 all the little things ; my head is in a 
 whii-1, — come out, hare." 
 
 "No!" said Jacintha. "You 
 take her round by the back wall and 
 fling her over." 
 
 Jacintha gave this order in a new 
 tone, — it was pleasant ; but there was 
 a little air of authority now that 
 seemed to say : "I have got your 
 secret; you are in my power, you 
 must obey me now, my son ; or — " 
 
 Riviere did as ordered, and when 
 he came l»ack Jacintha was already 
 within the grounds of Beaurepaire. 
 She turned and piit a finger to her 
 lips, to imply dead secrecy on both 
 sides ; he did the same, and so the vile 
 conspirators parted. 
 
 Puppies, like prisoners and a dozen 
 other classes, are of many classes 
 
30 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 stupidly confonmlcd under one name 
 by tlio'so cuckoos that chatter and 
 8cril)l)le us dead, but never think. 
 There is the commoni)lacc youn;^ 
 pu]>py, wlio is only a pup])y because 
 he is'younj::. The' fate of this is to 
 outixrow liis jmppydom, and I)can av- 
 erage man, — sometimes wise, some- 
 times silly, and on the whole neither 
 good nor bad. Sir John Guise was 
 a ]>ui)py of this sort in his youth- 
 ful day. I am sure of it. Pic end- 
 ed a harmless biped : witness his epi- 
 taph : — 
 
 HERE LIE3 
 
 Sir John Guise. 
 No one laughs ; 
 No one cries. 
 ■\Vhere ho is gone, 
 And how he fares, 
 No one knows, 
 And uo one cares. 
 
 There is the vacant puppy, empty of 
 everything but egoism, and its skin 
 full 'to bursting of that. Eye, the 
 color of whicii looks washed out; 
 much nose, — little forehead, — long 
 ears. 
 
 Young lady, has this sort of thing 
 been asking 'you to shai-e its home 
 and gizzard? On receipt of these 
 presents say " No," and ten years 
 after go on your bended knees and 
 bless me ! Men laugh at and kick 
 this animal by turns ; but it is wo- 
 man's executioner. Old age will do 
 nothing for this but turn it from a self- 
 ish whelp to a surly old dog. Unless 
 lieligion steps in, whose daily work is 
 miracles. 
 
 There is the good-hearted, intel- 
 ligent pup])y. Ah! poor soul, he 
 runs tremendous risks. 
 
 Any day he is liable to turn a hero, 
 a wit,' a saint, an useful man. 
 
 Half the heroes that have fallen 
 nol)ly fighting for their country in 
 tliis war and the last, or have come 
 l)ack scarred, maimed, and gloi'ious, 
 were puppies ; smoking, drawling, 
 dancing from town to town, and spur- 
 ring the ladies' dresses. 
 
 They changed with circumstances, 
 and without difiiculty. 
 
 Our good-hcartcd, intelligent pu])py 
 
 went from this interview W'ith a ser- 
 vant-girl — a man. 
 
 He took to his bosom a great and 
 tender feeling that never yet failed to 
 ennoble and enlarge the heart and 
 double the understanding. 
 
 She he loved was sad, was poor, 
 was menaced by many ills ; then she 
 needed a champion. He would be 
 her unseen friend, h>er guardian angel. 
 A hundred wild schemes whirled in 
 his beating heart and brain, as he 
 went home on wings. He could not 
 go in-doors. He made for a green 
 lane he knew at the back of the vil- 
 lage, and there he walked up and 
 down for hours. The sun set, and 
 the night came, and the stars glit- 
 tered; but still he walked alone, in- 
 spired, exalted, full of generous and 
 loving schemes, and sweet and tender 
 fancies : a heart on fire ; and youth 
 the fuel, and the flame vestal. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 This day, so eventful to our cx- 
 puppy's heart, was a sad one up at 
 Beaurepaire. 
 
 It was the anniversary of the baron's 
 death. 
 
 The baroness kept her room all the 
 morning, and took no nourishment 
 but one cup of spurious coft'ee Laurc 
 brought her. At one o'clock she 
 came down stairs. She did not enter 
 the sitting-room. In the hall she 
 found two chaplets of flowers ; they 
 were always placed there for her on 
 this sad day. She took them in her 
 hand, and went into the park. Her 
 daughters watched her from the win- 
 dow. She went to the little oratory 
 that Avas in the park ; there she found 
 two wax candles burning, and two 
 fresh chaplets hung up. Her daugh- 
 ters had been there before her. 
 
 She knelt and prayed many hours 
 for her husband's soul ; then she rose 
 and hung up one cliaplet and came 
 slowly away with the other in her 
 hand. 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 31 
 
 At the gate of the park filial love 
 met her as Josepliine, and filial love 
 as Laure watched the meeting from 
 the window. 
 
 Josephine came towards her with 
 tender anxiety in her sapphire eyes, 
 and wreathed her arms round her, 
 and whispered half inquiringly, half 
 reproachfully : — 
 
 " You have your children still." 
 
 The baroness kissed her and re- 
 plied with a half-guilty manner : ^- 
 
 " No, Josephine, I did not pray to 
 leave you, — till you are happy." 
 
 " We are not unhappy while we 
 have our mother," replied Josephine, 
 all love and no logic. 
 
 Tliey came towards the house to- 
 gether, the baroness leaning gently on 
 her daughter's elbow. 
 
 Between the park and the angle of 
 the chateau was a small plot of turf 
 called at Beaurepaire the Pleasance, 
 a name that had descended along 
 with other traditions ; and in the 
 centre of this Pleasance or Pleasaunce 
 stood a wonderful oak-tree. Its cir- 
 cumference was thirty-four feet. 
 
 The baroness came to this ancient 
 tree, her chaplet in her hand. 
 
 The tree had a mutilated limb that 
 pointed towards the house. The 
 baroness hung her chaplet on this 
 stump. 
 
 The sun was setting tranquil and 
 red ; a broad ruby streak lingered on 
 the deep green leaves of the prodi- 
 gious oak. 
 
 The baroness looked at it awhile 
 in silence. 
 
 Then she spoke slowly to the oak, 
 and said, — 
 
 "You were here before us, — you 
 will be here when Ave are gone." 
 
 A spasm crossed Josephine's face, 
 but she said nothing. 
 
 They went in together. 
 
 "We will follow them. But first, 
 ere the sun is set, stay a few minutes 
 and look at the Beaurepaire oak, 
 while I tell you the little men knew 
 about it, not the thousandth part of 
 what it could have told if trees could 
 speak as well as breathe. 
 
 The baroness did not exaggerate. 
 The tree was somewhat older than 
 even this ancient family. There was 
 a chain of family documents, several 
 of which related incidents in which 
 this tree played a part. 
 
 The oldest of these manuscripts was 
 written by a monk, a younger son of 
 the house, about five hundred years 
 before our story. This would not 
 have helped us much, but luckily the 
 good monk was at the pains to collect 
 all the oral traditions about it that 
 had come down from a far more re- 
 mote antiquity, and, like a sensible 
 man, arrested and solidified them by 
 the pen. He had a superstitious 
 reverence for the tree ; and probably 
 this too came down to him from his 
 ancestors, as it was certainly trans- 
 mitted by him to the chroniclers that 
 succeeded him. 
 
 The sum of all is this. 
 
 The first Baron of Beaurepaire had 
 pitched his tent under a fair oak-tree 
 that stood prope rivuni, — near a brook. 
 He afterwards built a square tower 
 hard by, and dug a moat that en- 
 closed both tree and tower and re- 
 ceived the waters of the brook afore- 
 said. These particulars corresponded 
 too exactly with the present face of 
 things and the intermediate accounts, 
 to leave a doubt that this was the 
 same tree. 
 
 In these early days its size seems to 
 have been nothing remarkable, and 
 this proves it was still growing tim- 
 ber. But a centuiy and a half before 
 the monk wrote it had become famous 
 in all the district for its girth, and in 
 the monk's own day had ceased to 
 grow, but showed no sign of decay. 
 The mutilated arm I have mentioned 
 was once a long sturdy bough worn 
 smooth as velvet in one part from a 
 curious cause : it ran about as high 
 i above the ground as a full-sized horse, 
 I and the knights and squires used to 
 1 be forever vaulting upon it, the for- 
 mer in armor ; the monk when a boy 
 had seen them do it a thousand 
 times. 
 ! The heart of the tree began to go, 
 
32 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 and then this heavy houfjh creaked 
 suspiciously. In those days they did 
 not proj) a sacred bou2:li with a line 
 of iron posts as now. They solved 
 the dithculty by cutting: this one oiY 
 within six feet of the trunk ; two cen- 
 turies later, the tree beini^ now nearly 
 hollow, a rude iron bracket was 
 roug:hly nailed into the stem, and 
 running: out three feet supported the 
 kniij;lits' bouf,di ; for so the mutilated 
 limb was still called. 
 
 What had not this tree seen since 
 first it came green and tender as a 
 cabbage above the soil, and stood at 
 the mercy of the first hare or rabbit 
 that should choose to cut short forever 
 its frail existence ! 
 
 Since then eagles had perched on 
 its crown and wild boars fed without 
 fear of man upon its acorns. Trou- 
 badours had sung beneath it to lords 
 and ladies seated around or walking- 
 on the grass and commenting the 
 minstrels' tales of love by exchange 
 of amorous glances. 
 
 It had seen a Norman duke conquer 
 England, and English kings invade 
 France and be crowned at Paris. It 
 had seen a woman put knights to the 
 rout, and seen God insulted and the 
 warrior virgin burned by envious 
 priests, with the consent of the curs 
 she had defended and the curs she 
 had defeated. 
 
 JNIediseval sculptors had taken its 
 leaves, and wisely trusting to Nature 
 had adorned many a church with 
 those leaves cut in stone. 
 
 Why, in its old age it had seen the 
 rise of printing, and tlie first dawn of 
 national civilization in Europe. It 
 flourished and decayed in France ; 
 but it grew in Gaul. And more re- 
 markable still, though by all accounts 
 it is like to see the world to an end, 
 it was a tree in ancient history : its 
 old age awaits the millennium : its first 
 youth belonged to that great tract of 
 time which includes the birtli of Christ, 
 the building of Kome, and the siege 
 of Troy. 
 
 The tree had mingled in the for- 
 unes of the family. 
 
 It had ."^aved their lives and taken 
 tlieir lives. One Lord of Beaurepaire, 
 hotly pursued by his feudal enemies, 
 made for the tree, and hid himself 
 ])artly by a great bough, partly by the 
 thick screen of leaves. The toe dart- 
 ed in, made sure he had taken to the 
 house, ransacked it, and got into the 
 cellar where by good luck was store 
 of Malvoisie ; and so the oak and the 
 vine saved the quaking baron. 
 
 Another Lord of Beaurepaire, be- 
 sieged in his castle, was shot dead on 
 the ramparts by a cross-bowman who 
 had secreted himself unobserved in 
 this tree a little before the dawn. 
 
 A young heir of Beaurepaire, climb- 
 ing for a raven's nest to the top of 
 this tree, whose crown was much 
 loftier then than now, lost his footing 
 and fell, and died at the foot of the 
 tree ; and his mother in her anguish 
 bade them cut down the tree that had 
 killed her boy. But the baron, her 
 husband, refused, and said what in the 
 English of the day would run thus : 
 " yttc ys eneugh that I lose mine 
 Sonne, I will nat alsoe lose mine Tre." 
 In the male the solid sentiment of the 
 projjrietor outweighed the temporary 
 irritation of the parent. Then the 
 mother, we are told, bought fifteen 
 ells of black velvet, and stretclied a 
 pall from the knights' bough across 
 the west side to another branch, and 
 cursed the hand that should remove 
 it, and she herself " wolde never passe 
 the Tre neither going nor coming, but 
 went still about." 
 
 And when she died and should have 
 been carried past the tree to the park, 
 her dochter did cry from a window to 
 the bearers, " Goe about ! goe aVjout ! " 
 and they went about : and all the 
 company. And in time the velvet 
 pall rotted, and Avas torn and driven 
 iwvny rapiflis ImJlbria untis: and when 
 the hand of Nature, and no human 
 hand, had thus flouted and dispersed 
 the tra])pings of the mother's grief, 
 two ])ieces were picked up and pre- 
 served among the family relics ; and 
 the black velvet had turned a rusty red. 
 
 iSo the baroness did nothing new in 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 33 
 
 this family wlien she hung her chaplct 
 on the knights' bough ; and, in fact, on 
 the west side, about eighteen feet from 
 the ground, there still mouldered one 
 corner of an atchievement an heir of 
 Bcaurepaire had nailed tliere two cen- 
 turies before, when his predecessor 
 died : " for," said he, " the chateau is 
 of yesterday, but the tree has seen us 
 all come and go." The inside of the 
 tree was clean gone : it was hollow as 
 a drum, — not eight inches thick in 
 any part; and on its east side yawned 
 a fissure as high as a man and as 
 broad as a street door. Dard used to 
 wheel his wheelbarrow into the tree 
 at a trot, and there leave it. 
 
 In spite of excavation and mutila- 
 tion, not life only but vigor dwelt 
 in this wooden shell, — the extreme 
 ends of the longer boughs were fire- 
 wood, touchwood, and the crown was 
 gone time out of mind : but narrow 
 the circle a very little to where the 
 indomitable trunk could still shoot 
 sap from its cruise deep in earth, in 
 there on every side burst the green 
 leaves in summer countless as the 
 sand. The leaves carved centuries 
 ago from these very models, though 
 cut in stone, were most of them mould- 
 ered, blunted, notched, deformed, — 
 but the delicate types came back with 
 every summer perfect and lovely as 
 when the tree was but their elder 
 brother, — and greener than ever : for 
 from what cause Nature only knows, 
 the leaves were many shades deeper 
 and richer than any other tree could 
 show for a hundred miles round, — a 
 deep green, fiery, yet soft ; and then 
 their multitude, — the staircases of 
 foliage as you looked up the tree, and 
 could scarce catch a glimpse of the 
 sky, — an inverted abyss of color, a 
 mound, a dome, of flake emeralds that 
 quivered in the golden air. 
 
 And now the sun sets — the green 
 leaves are black — the moon rises — 
 her cold light shoots across one half 
 that giant stem. 
 
 How solemn and calm stands the 
 great round tower of living wood, half 
 2* 
 
 ebony, half silver, with its mighty 
 cloud above of flake jet leaves tinged 
 with frosty fire at one edge ! 
 
 Now is the still hour to repeat in a 
 whisper the words of the dame of 
 Bcaurepaire : " You Avere here before 
 us : you will be here when we are 
 gone." 
 
 Let us leave the hoary king of trees 
 standing in the moonlight, calmly de- 
 fying time, and let us follow the crea- 
 tures of a day ; since what they were 
 
 A spacious saloon panelled : dead 
 but snowy white picked out sparingly 
 with gold. Festoons of fruit and 
 flowers finely carved in wood on some 
 of the panels. These also not smoth- 
 ered with gilding, but, as it were, gold- 
 speckled here and there, like tongues 
 of flame winding among insoluble 
 snow. 
 
 Kanged against the walls were sof^is 
 and chairs covered with rich stuffs 
 well worn. And in one little distant 
 corner of the long room a gray-haired 
 gentleman and two young ladies sit- 
 ting on cane chairs round a small plain 
 table, on which burned a solitary 
 candle ; and a little way apart in this 
 candle's twilight an old lady sat in an 
 easy-chair, in a deep revery, thinking 
 of the past, scarce daring to inquire 
 the future. 
 
 Josephine and Laure were work- 
 ing, not fancy work but needle-work ; 
 Doctor St. Aubin, writing. 
 
 Every now and then he put the one 
 candle nearer the girls. They raised 
 no objection, only a few minutes after 
 a white hand would glide from one or 
 other of them like a serpent, and 
 smoothly convey the light nearer to 
 the doctor's manuscript. 
 
 "Is it not supper-time 1 " inquired 
 the doctor, at last. 
 
 " One Avould think not Jacintha 
 is very punctual." 
 
 " So she may be, but I have an 
 inward monitor, mesdemoiselles ; and, 
 by the way, our dinner was, I think, 
 more ethereal than usual." 
 
 " Hush ! " said Josephine, and 
 c 
 
34 
 
 WIIITK LIES. 
 
 looked uneasily towards her mother. 
 Slie added in a whisper : " Wax is 
 so dear." 
 
 " Wax ? — ah ! — pardon me," and 
 the doctor returned hastily to his 
 work. 
 
 Then Laurc looked up and said : 
 " I wonder Jacintha does not come, 
 — it is certainly past the hour " ; and 
 she pried into the room as if she ex- 
 ])ected to see Jacintha on the road. 
 But she saw in fact very little of any- 
 thiiiir, for the spacious room was im- 
 ]icnetral)le to her eye. Midway from 
 tlie candle to the distant door its twi- 
 liirht deepened, and all became shape- 
 less and somhrc. 
 
 The prospect ended half-way sharp 
 and black, as in those out-o'-door 
 closets imaf^ined and painted by Mr. 
 Turner, whose Nature (Mr. Turner's) 
 comes to a full stop as soon as Mr. 
 Turner sees no further occasion for 
 her, instead of melting by fine expanse 
 and exquisite jiradation into g;enuine 
 distance as Nature does in Claude and 
 and in Nature. To reverse the pic- 
 ture, standing at the door you looked 
 across forty feet of black, and the little 
 corner seemed on fire, and the fair 
 heads about the candle shone like the 
 heads of St. Cecilias and Madonnas 
 in an anti([ue stained-glass Avindow. 
 
 At last Laurc observed the door 
 open, and another candle glowed upon 
 Jacintha's comely peasant face in the 
 doorway. She put down her candle 
 outside the door, and started as the 
 crow flics for the other light. 
 
 After glowing a moment in the 
 doorway slic dived into the shadow 
 and emerged into light again close to 
 the table, with napkins on lier arm. 
 She removed the work-box reveren- 
 tially, the doctor's manuscript uncere- 
 moniously, and jjrocceded to lay a 
 cloth, ill which ojieration she looked at 
 Josei)hine a ])oint-blank glance of 
 admiration ; then she placed the nap- 
 kins ; and in this process she again 
 ca^^t a strange look of interest upon 
 Josephine. 
 
 'i'lie young lady noticed it this 
 time, and looked iiujuiringiy at her in 
 
 return, half expecting some communi- 
 cation ; but Jacintha lowered her eyes 
 and bustled about the table. Then 
 Jose])hine sj)oke to her with a sort of 
 instinct of curiosity, — that this look 
 might find words. 
 
 " Supper is a little late to-night ; is 
 it not, Jacintha ? " 
 
 " Yes, mademoiselle, I have had 
 more to do than usual " ; and with this 
 she delivered another point-blank look 
 as before, and dived into the j)alpal)le 
 obscure and came to light in the door- 
 way. 
 
 Josephine. " Did vou see that ? " 
 
 Lanre. "What?'' 
 
 Josephine. " The look she gave 
 me?" * 
 
 Laure.^ "No. What look ? " 
 
 Josephine. " A singular look, a 
 look of curi — osity, — one would 
 almost say of admi — but no ; that is 
 impossible — " 
 
 St. Aubin (dryly). " Clearly." He 
 added after a pause : " yet after all it 
 is the prettiest face in the room — " 
 
 " Doctor," cried Laure, with fury, 
 
 " My child, I did not see you." 
 
 " And how dare you call my Jose- 
 phine pretty ? the Madonna pretty? 
 does that describe her ? I am indig- 
 nant." 
 
 St. Aubin. "Mademoiselle Laure, 
 permit me to observe that, by calling 
 Mademoiselle yoiw Josephine, you 
 claim a mono])oly that — ahem ! — 
 cannot possibly be conceded." 
 
 Laure (haughtil}^). " AVhy, whose 
 Josephine is she but mine ? " 
 
 St. Aubin (after coolly taking a 
 pinch of snuff, and seeming to re- 
 flect). "Mine." 
 
 Here a voice at the fireplace put 
 quietly in : " Twenty years ago 
 ]jaure was not born, and my good 
 friend there had never see Bcaure- 
 pairc. Whose Josephine was she 
 then, good people ? " 
 
 " Alamma ! whose is she now ? " 
 and Josephine was at lier mother's 
 knees in a moment. 
 
 " Good ! " said the doctor to Laure. 
 "See the result of our injudicious 
 com])etition. A third party has carried 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 35 
 
 her oflf. Is supper never coming? 
 Are yovL not hungry, ray child 1 " 
 
 " Yes, my friend — no ! not very." 
 
 Alas ! if the truth must be told, 
 they were all hungry. So rigorous 
 was the economy in this decayed but 
 honorable house, that the wax candles 
 burned to-dav in the oratory had 
 scrimped their dinner, unsubstantial 
 as it was wont to be. Think of that, 
 you in fustian jackets wlio grumble 
 on a full belly. My lads, many a 
 back you envy, with its silk and 
 broadcloth, has"^to rob the stomach. 
 
 " Ah ! here she is." 
 
 The door opened ; Jacintha ap- 
 peared in the light of her candle a 
 moment with a tray in both hands ; 
 and approaching was lost to view. 
 
 Before she emerged to sight again 
 a strange and fragrant smell heralded 
 her. All their eyes turned with curi- 
 osity towards the unwonted odor, 
 till Jacintha dawned with three roast 
 partridges on a dish. 
 
 Tliey were wonder-struck. Ja- 
 cintha's foce was red as tire, partly 
 with cooking, partly with secret pride 
 and happiness : but she concealed it, 
 and indeed all appearance of feeling, 
 under a feigned apathy. She avoidecl 
 their eyes, and resolutely excluded 
 from her face everything that could 
 imply she did not serve up partridges 
 to this family every night of her life. 
 
 The young ladies looked from the 
 birds to her, and from her to the 
 birds, in mute surprise, that was not 
 diminished by the cynical indifference 
 printed on her face. 
 
 " The supjx^r is served, Madame 
 the Baroness," said she, with a re- 
 spectful courtesy and a mechanical 
 tone, and, plunging into the night, 
 SAvam out at her own candle, shut the 
 door, and, unlocking her face that mo- 
 ment, burst out radiant, and went 
 down beaming with exultation ; and 
 had an agreeable cry by the kitchen 
 fire, the result of her factitious and 
 somcAvhat superfluous stoicism up 
 stairs ; and, the tear still in her eye, 
 set to and polished all the copper 
 stew-pans with a vigor and expedi- 
 
 tion unknown to the new-fangled 
 domestic. 
 
 "Partridges, mamma!" cried 
 Laure. " What next ? " 
 
 "Pheasants, I hope," cried the 
 doctor, gayly. " And after them 
 hares ; to conclude with royal venison. 
 Permit me, ladies." And he set him- 
 self to carve with zeal. 
 
 Xow nature is nature, and two 
 pair of violet eyes brightened and 
 dwelt on the fragrant and delicate 
 food with demure desire. 
 
 For all that, when St. Aubin offered 
 Josephine a wing, she declined it. 
 
 " No partridge 1 " cried the savant, 
 in utter amazement. 
 
 "Not to-day, dear friend, — it is 
 not a feast day to-day." 
 
 " Ah ! no ; what was I thinking 
 of? " said the poor doctor. 
 
 " But you are not to be deprived," 
 put in Josephine, anxiously. " We 
 will not deny ourselves the pleasure 
 of seeing you eat some." 
 
 " What ? " remonstrated St. Aubin, 
 " am I not one of you ? " 
 
 The baroness had attended to every 
 word of this. She rose from her 
 chair, and said quietly ; " Both you 
 and he and Laure will be so good as 
 to let me see you eat thcra." 
 
 " But, mamma," remonstrated Jo- 
 sephine and Laure, in one breath. 
 
 " Je le veux,^' * was the cold re- 
 
 piy- 
 
 These were words the baroness ut- 
 tered so seldom that they were little 
 likely to be disputed. 
 
 The doctor carved and helped the 
 young ladies and himself. 
 
 When they had all eaten a little, a 
 discussion was observed to be going 
 on between Laure and her sister. At 
 last St. Aubin caught these words : — 
 
 " It will be in vain, even you have 
 not influence enough for that, Laure." 
 
 " We shall see," Avas the reply, and 
 Laure put the wing of a partridge on 
 a plate, and rose calmly from her 
 chair. She took the plate and put it 
 on the little work-table by her moth- 
 er's side. 
 
 * It is my will. 
 
36 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 The others pretended to be all 
 moutiis, but they were all ears. 
 
 The baroness looked in Laure's face 
 with an air of wonder that was not 
 very encouragin*;. Then, as Laure 
 said nothing:, she raised iicr aristo- 
 cratic hand with a courteous but de- 
 cideil j^csture of refusal. 
 
 Undaunted little Laure laid her 
 palm softly on the baroness's shoul- 
 der, and said to her as firmly as the 
 baroness herself had just s])ok.en : — 
 
 " // le veut, ma mere ! " * 
 
 The baroness was stagjrered. Then 
 she looked steadily in silence at the 
 fair young face, — then she reflect- 
 ed. At last she said with an ex- 
 quisite mixture of politeness and af- 
 fection : — 
 
 " It is his daughter who has told 
 me ' // le veut ! ' I obey." 
 
 Laure, returning like a victorious 
 knight from the lists, saucily exult- 
 ant,' and with only one wet eyelash, 
 was solemnly kissed and petted by 
 the ether two. 
 
 Thus they loved one another in this 
 great old falling house. Their famil- 
 iarity had no coarse side. A form, 
 not of custom but affection, it walked 
 hand in hand with courtesy by day 
 and night ; a?-isto va ! 
 
 The baroness retired early to rest 
 this evening. 
 
 She was no sooner gone than an 
 earnest and anxious conversation 
 took place between the sisters. It 
 was commenced in a low tone, not to 
 interrupt St. Aubin's learned lucu- 
 brations. 
 
 Josephine. " Has she heard any- 
 thing ? " 
 
 Laure. "About our harsh cred- 
 itor, — about the threatened sale of 
 Beaurepaire 1 Not that I know of. 
 Heaven forbid ! " 
 
 Josephine. " Laure, she said some 
 words to me to-day that make me 
 very uneasy, but I did not make her 
 any answer. She said (we were by 
 tlie great oak-tree), ' You were here 
 before us, — you will be here after 
 us.' " 
 
 * It is his will, my mother. 
 
 " heaven, who has told her ? 
 Can Jacintha have been so mad ? " 
 
 " That faithful creature. O no ! 
 When she told me her great anxiety 
 was lest my mother should know." 
 
 " May ileaven bless her for having 
 so much sense as well as fidelity. 
 The baroness must never know this 
 till the danger is past, — poor thing ! 
 the daily fear would shako her terri- 
 bly." 
 
 Josephine. " You have heard what 
 we have been saying ? " 
 
 St. Auhin. " Every word. Let 
 me put away this rubbish, in which 
 my head but not my heart is inter- 
 ested, and let us unite heart and hand 
 against this new calamity. Who 
 has threatened to sell Beaurepaire ? " 
 
 Josepliine. " A single creditor. 
 But Jacintha could not tell me his 
 name." 
 
 St. Auhin. " That will be easily 
 discovered. Now as for those words 
 of the baroness, do not be disquieted. 
 You have put a forced interpretation 
 on them, my deai'." 
 
 Josephine. " Have I, doctor ? " 
 
 St. Auhin. " The baroness is an 
 old lady, conscious of her failing pow- 
 ers." 
 
 Josephine. " O doctor. I hope 
 not." 
 
 St. Auhin. " She stood opposite 
 an ancient tree. Something of this 
 sort passed through her mind : ' You 
 too are old, older than I am, but you 
 will survive me.' " 
 
 f^aure. " But she said * us,' not 
 ' me.' " 
 
 St. Auhin. " 0, ' us ' or * me,' 
 Ladies are not very exact." 
 
 Josephine. " What you say is very 
 intelligent, my friend ; but somehow 
 that was not what she meant." 
 
 " It is the simplest interpretation 
 of her words." 
 
 " I confess it." 
 
 " Can you give me any tangible 
 reason for avoiding the obvious inter- 
 pretation ? " 
 
 " No. Only when you are so well 
 acquainted with the face and voice of 
 any one as I am with dear mamma's. 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 37 
 
 you can seize shades of meaning that 
 are not to be conveyed to another by 
 a bare account of the words spoken." 
 
 " This is fanciful : chimerical." 
 
 "I feel it may appear so." 
 
 Laun. " Not to me, I beg to ob- 
 serve : it is quite simple, perfectly 
 notorious, and as clear as day." 
 
 St. Aubin. " To you, possibly, en- 
 thusiastic maid; but I have an un- 
 fortunate habit of demanding a tangi- 
 ble reason for my assent to any given 
 proposition." 
 
 Laure. " It is an unfortunate habit. 
 Josephine dear, tell me now what 
 was the exact feeling that our mother 
 gave you by the Avay she said those 
 words." 
 
 " Yes, dear. "Well, then," — here 
 Josephine slightly knitted her smooth 
 brow, and said slowly, turning her 
 eyes inwards, — " our mother did not 
 intend to compare the duration of our 
 mortal lives with that of a tree.'' 
 
 " Petitio principii," said the doctor, 
 quietly. 
 
 "Plait il? On the other hand, if 
 she had heard our impending misfor- 
 tune, would she not have been less 
 general 1 would she not have spoken 
 to me, and not to the tree ? I think 
 then that our dear mother had a gen- 
 eral misgiving, a presentiment that 
 we shall be driven from this beloved 
 spot ; and this presentiment found 
 words at the sight of that old compan- 
 ion of our fortunes ; but, even if this 
 be the right interpretation, I cannot 
 see her come so near the actual truth 
 without trembling ; for I know her 
 penetration ; and O, if it were even to 
 reach her ears that — alas ! my dear 
 mother." 
 
 " It never shall, my little angel, it 
 never shall ; to leave Beaurepaire 
 would kill the baroness." 
 
 " No, doctor, do not say so." 
 
 Laure. " Let us fight against our 
 troubles, but not exaggerate them. 
 Mamma would still have her daugh- 
 ters' love." 
 
 " It is idle to deceive ourselves," 
 replied St. Aubin. " The baroness 
 would not live a month away from 
 
 Beaurepaire. At her age men and 
 women hang to life by their habits. 
 Take her away from her chateau, 
 from the little oratory where she pravs 
 every day for the departed, from her 
 place in the sun on the south terrace, 
 and from all the memories that sur- 
 round her here, she would bow her 
 head and die." 
 
 Here the savant, seeing a hobby- 
 horse near, caught him and jumped 
 on. 
 
 He launched into a treatise upon 
 the vitality of human beings, wonder- 
 fully learned, sagacious, and mis- 
 placed. He proved at length that it 
 is the mind which keeps the body of 
 man alive for so great a length of 
 time as fourscore years. He informed 
 them that he had in the earlier part of 
 his studies carefully dissected a multi- 
 tude of animals, — frogs, rabbits, dogs, 
 men, horses, sheep, squirrels, foxes, 
 cats, &c., — and discovered no pecu- 
 liarity in man's organs to account for 
 his singular longevity, except in the 
 brain or organ of mind. Thence he 
 went to the longevity of men with 
 contented minds, and the rapid decay 
 of the careworn. He even explained 
 to these girls why no bachelor had 
 ever attained the full age of man, 
 which he was obliging enough to put 
 at one hundred and ten years. A 
 wife, he explained, is essential to vast 
 longevity ; she is the receptacle of 
 half a man's cares, and of tAvo thirds 
 of his ill-humor. 
 
 After many such singular windings 
 very proper to a lecture-room, he came 
 back to the baroness ; on which his 
 heart regained the lost ascendency 
 over his head, and he ended a tolera- 
 bly frigid discourse in a deep sigh. 
 
 " doctor," cried Laure, " what 
 shall Ave do 1 " 
 
 " I have already made up my mind. 
 I shall have an interview with Perrin, 
 the notary." • 
 
 " But we have offended him." 
 
 " Not mortally. Besides, the baron- 
 ess was in the Avrong." 
 
 " Mamma in the wrong ? " 
 
 "Excusably, but unquestionably. 
 
38 
 
 wnin: lies. 
 
 She was impetuous out of place. 
 Maitro IVrriu gave her the advice, not 
 of a delicate mind, l)ut of a friend 
 wlio had her interest at heart, lie is 
 under i;reat oblii^ations to this family, 
 lie can now rcjKiy them without in- 
 jury to himself; this is a flight of 
 gratitude of which I believe even a 
 notary capable. Arc you not of my 
 opinion, mademoiselle .' " 
 
 Josephine's reply was rather femi- 
 nine than point-blank. 
 
 " I have already been so unfortu- 
 nate as to differ once with my best 
 friend " ; and she lowered her lashes 
 and awaited her doom. 
 
 " This dear poltroon," cried Laurc, 
 — " speak ! " 
 
 " Well, then, my friend, Monsieur 
 Perrin does not inspire me with con- 
 fidence." 
 
 " Humph ! have you heard anything 
 against him ? " 
 
 " No ; it is only what I have ob- 
 served ; let us hope I am wrong. 
 Well, then, Laure, the man's face 
 carries one expression when he is on 
 his guard and another when he is not. 
 His voice too is not frank. It is not 
 a genuine part of himself as yours is, 
 dear doctor, — and then it is not — it 
 is not one." 
 
 " Diahle ! has he two voices 1 " 
 
 " Yes ! and perhaps more. When 
 he is in this room his voice is — is — 
 what shall I sayl Artificial hon- 
 ey 1" 
 
 " Say treacle," put in Laure. 
 
 " You have said it, Laure ; that is 
 the very word I was searching for ; 
 but out of doors I have heard him 
 speak very dificrently, in a voice im- 
 perious, irascible, I had almost said 
 brutal. Ay, and the worst is that bad 
 voice was his own voice." 
 
 " How do you know that ? " 
 
 " I don't know how I know it, dear 
 friend. Something tells me." 
 
 m However, you can give a tangible 
 reason, of course," said the doctor, 
 treacherously. 
 
 " No, my friend ; I am not strong 
 at reasons. Consider, I have not the 
 advantage of being a savant. 1 am 
 
 but a woman. ISIy opinion of this 
 man is an instinct, not a reason." 
 The doctor's face was provoking. 
 Josephine saw it, but she was one 
 not easily provoked. She only smiled 
 a little sadly. Laure fired ny for her. 
 " I would rather trust an instinct of 
 Josephine's than all the reasons of all 
 the savans in France ! " 
 
 " Laure ! " remonstrated Josephine, 
 opening her eyes. 
 
 " Reasons 1 — straws ! " cried Lau- 
 re, disdainfully. 
 
 " Hallo ! " cried St. Aubin, with a 
 comical look. 
 
 " And there are always as many of 
 these straws against the truth as for 
 it. The Jansenists have books brim- 
 ful of reasons. The Jesuits have 
 books full against them. The Cal- 
 vinists and all the heretics have vol- 
 umes of reasons — so thick. Is it 
 reason that teaches me to pray to the 
 Madonna and the saints ! and so — 
 Josephine is right and you are wrong." 
 " Well jumped. Alas ! lam intim- 
 idated, but not convinced." 
 
 " Your mistake is replying to her, 
 doctor," said Josephine ; " that en- 
 courages her, — a little virago that 
 rules us all with iron. Come here, 
 child, and be well kissed for your ef- 
 frontery ; and now hold your tongue. 
 Tell us your plan, doctor, and you 
 may count on Laure's co-oj)eration as 
 well as mine. It is I who tell you so." 
 " She is right again, doctor," said 
 Laure, peeping at him over her sis- 
 ter's shoulder. 
 
 St. Aubin, thus encouraged, ex- 
 plained to them that he would, with- 
 out compromising the baroness, write 
 to Monsieur Terrin, and invite him to 
 an interview. The result is certain. 
 This harsh creditor will be ])aid oiT 
 by a transfer of the loan, and all will 
 be well. Meantime there is nothing 
 to despond about ; it is not as if sev- 
 eral creditors were agreed to force a 
 sale. This is but one, and the most 
 insignificant of them all." 
 
 " Is it ? I hope it may be. What 
 makes you think so ? " 
 " I know it, Josephine." 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 39 
 
 The girls looked at one another. 
 
 " O, you have no rival to fear in me. 
 My instincts are so feeble that I am 
 driven for aid to that contemptible ally, 
 Reason. Thus it is. Our large cred- 
 itors are men of property, and such 
 men let their funds lie unless com- 
 pelled to move them. But the small i 
 mortgagee, the needy man, who has, \ 
 perhaps, no investment to watch but 
 one small loan, about which he is as 
 anxious and as noisy as a hen with 
 one chicken, — he is the clamorous 
 creditor, the harsh little egoist, who 
 at the first possibility of losing a crown 
 piece would bring the Garden of Eden 
 to the hammer. Go then to rest, my 
 children, and sleep calmly. Heaven 
 watches over you, and this gray head 
 leaves its chimeras when your hap- 
 piness is in peril." 
 
 " And there is no better head," said 
 Laure, affectionately, — but she must 
 add saucily, — " when it does come 
 out of the clouds " ; and with this sauce 
 in her very mouth she inclined her 
 white forehead to Monsieur St. Aubin 
 for his parting salute.* 
 
 He wrote an answer immediately. 
 
 * The sparring between St. Aubin and 
 Laure da Beaurepaire was not exactly what 
 it looks on paper at first glance. But we soon 
 come to the limit of the fine arts. The art of 
 writing, to wit, tells you what people said, but 
 not how ; yet " how " makes often all the dif- 
 ference. When these two fenced in talk, the 
 tones and the manner were full of affection 
 and playfulness, and robbed of their barb 
 ■words, which, coarsely or unkindly uttered, 
 might have stung. Look at those two distant 
 cats fighting. They roll over one another in 
 turn -, they bite with visible fury, they scratch 
 alternate. Tigers or theologians could do no 
 more. In about two minutes a black head, a 
 leaf torn out of Dr. Watts, and a tabby tail, will 
 strew the field, sole relics of this desperate en- 
 counter. Now go nearer ; you shall find *hat in 
 these fierce bites the teeth are somehow kept 
 back entirely, and the scratching is tickling 
 done with a velvet paw, not the poisoned iron 
 claw. The fighting resolves itself into two 
 elements, play and affection. These comba- 
 tants are never strange cats, or cats that bear 
 each other a grudge. And this mock fighting 
 is a favorite gambol with many animals ; with 
 none more so than with men and women, es- 
 pecially intelligent and finely tempered ones. 
 Be careful not to do it with a fool. I don't 
 tell you why, because the fool will show 
 you. 
 
 The young ladies retired to rest, 
 greatly reassured and comforted by 
 their friend's confidence, and he with 
 a sudden change of manner paced the 
 apartment nervously till one in the 
 morning. His brow was knitted, and 
 his face sad, and if his confidence had 
 been real, why, then much of it oozed 
 away as soon as he had no one to com- 
 fort or confute. 
 
 At one o'clock in the morning he sat 
 down and wrote to the notary. 
 
 His letter, the result of much reflec- 
 tion, Avas tolerably adroit. 
 
 He deplored the baroness's suscepti- 
 bility, hinted delicately that she had in 
 all probability already regretted it, and 
 more broadly that he had thought her 
 in the wrong from the first. If Mon- 
 sieur Perrin shared in any degree his 
 regret at the estrangement, there was 
 now an opportunity for him to return 
 with credit to his place as friend of 
 the family. And, to conclude, the 
 writer sought a personal interview. 
 
 Let us follow this letter. It was laid 
 on the notary's table the next afternoon. 
 
 As he read it, a single word escaped 
 his lips, " Curious ! " 
 
 He wrote an answer immediately. 
 
 St. Aubin was charmed with his 
 reply, and its promptness. He drew 
 the girls aside, and read them the 
 note. They listened acutely. 
 
 " Monsieur Perrin had never taken 
 serious offence at the baroness's impetu- 
 osity, for ichich so many excuses icere to 
 be made. It was in pressing, indiscreetly, 
 perhaps, her interest, that he had been so 
 unfortunate as to give her pain. He 
 now hoped Monsieur St. Aubin icould 
 show him some way of furthering those 
 interests ivithout annoying her.^ He 
 icould call either on the doctor or on the 
 baroness at any hour that should be 
 named." 
 
 " There," cried St. Aubin, " is not 
 that the letter of a friend, and an hon- 
 est man, or, at all events, an honest 
 notary ? " 
 
 " O yes ! but is it not too pure ? " 
 suggested Josej^hine. " Such an entire 
 abnegation of self, — is that natural, — 
 in a notary, too, as you observe "? " 
 
40 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 " Chililislincss ! this is a polite note, 
 ns well as a friemlly one, — politeness 
 always speaks a langua;:;c the opjiositc 
 of egoism, and eonse(piently of sin- 
 cerity, — it is permitted even to a 
 notary to he polite." 
 
 " That is true : mav I examine 
 it ? " 
 
 Josephine scanned it as if she would 
 cxtraet the hidden soul of each par- 
 ticular syllable. She returned it with 
 a half-sigh. " I wish it had a voice and 
 eyes, then I could perhaps — But 
 let us hope for tlie be>t." 
 
 " I mean to," cried the doctor, 
 cheerfully. " The man will be here 
 himself in forty-eight hours. I shall 
 tell him to be sure and bring his voice 
 and his eyes with him ; to these he will 
 add of his own accord that little pony 
 round as a tub he goes about on, — an- 
 other inseparable feature of the man." 
 
 So the manly doctor kept up their 
 young spirits and beguiled their anx- 
 ious hearts of a smile. 
 
 " Curious ! " said the notary. 
 
 An enigmatical remark ; but I 
 almost think I catch the meaning of 
 it : it must surely have had some 
 reference to the following little scene 
 that passed just five days before the 
 notary received the doctor's letter. 
 
 Outside a small farm-house, two 
 miles from Beaurepaire, stood a squab 
 pony, dun-colored, with a white mane 
 and tail. He was hooked by the 
 bridle to a spiral piece of iron driven 
 into the house to hang visitors' nags 
 from by the bridle. 
 
 The farmer was a man generally 
 disliked and feared, for he was one of 
 those who can fawn or bully as suits 
 their»turn ; just now, however, he was 
 ill competent hands. The owner of 
 the squab dun was talking to him in 
 his own kitchen as superiors are apt 
 to speak to inferiors, and as superior 
 very seldom speaks to anybody. 
 
 The farmer, for his part, was wait- 
 ing his time to fire a volley of oaths 
 at his visitor, and kick him out of the 
 house. Meantime, cunning first, he 
 was watching to find out what could 
 be the notary's game. 
 
 " So you talk of selling up my 
 friend the baroness ? " said Perrin, 
 haughtily, 
 
 " Well, notary," replied the other, 
 coolly, " my half-year's interest has not 
 been paid ; it is due this two months." 
 
 " Have you taken any steps ? " 
 
 " Not yet ; but I am going to the 
 mayor this afternoon, if you have 
 no objection" (this with a marked 
 sneer). 
 
 " You had better break your leg, 
 and stay at home." 
 
 " Why so ? if you please." 
 
 " Because, if you do, you are a 
 ruined man." 
 
 " I '11 risk that. Haw ! haw ! 
 Your friends will have to grin and bear 
 it, as we used them under the kings. 
 They have no one to take their part 
 against me that I know of, without it 
 is you ; and you are not the man 
 to pay other folks' debts, I should 
 say." 
 
 " They have a friend who will 
 destroy you if you are so base as to 
 sell Beaurepaire for your miserable 
 six thousand francs." 
 
 " Who is the man ? if it is not ask- 
 ing too much." 
 
 " You will know all in good time. 
 Let us speak of something else. You 
 owe twelve thousand francs to Fran- 
 9ois, your cousin." 
 
 Bonard changed color. 
 
 " How do you know that ? He 
 promised faithful not to tell a soul." 
 
 " When he promised, he did not 
 know you intended to get drunk and 
 call his wife an unpolite name." 
 
 " I never got drunk, and I never 
 called the jade an ugly name." 
 
 " You lie, my man." 
 
 "^Vell, monsieur, suppose I did ; 
 hard words break no bones ; he need 
 not talk, — he thrashes her, the pig." 
 
 " She says not. But that is not the 
 point ; there are women who like to 
 be thrashed ; but tiiere is not one who 
 likes to be called titles reflecting on 
 her discretion. So Madame Brocard 
 has given you a lesson not to injure 
 the weak, — especially the weak that 
 are strong, — women, to wit. This 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 41 
 
 one was strong enough to make ! 
 Francois sell your debt to an honest 
 man, who is ready to receive payment 
 at this hour." 
 
 " Is it a jest ? How can I pay 
 twelve thousand francs all in a mo- 
 ment ? Let him give me proper time, 
 and it is not twelve thousand, francs 
 that will trouble Jacques Bonard, you 
 know that, monsieur." 
 
 " I know that to pay it you must 
 sell your ricks, your horses, your 
 chair's and tables, and the bed you 
 sleep on." 
 
 " Yes, I can ! yes, I can ! especially 
 if I have your good word, monsieur ; 
 and I know you will — Ten to one 
 if my new creditor (curse him !) is not 
 known to you." 
 
 " He is." 
 
 " There then it is all right. Every 
 man in the department respects you. 
 I '11 be bound you can turn him round 
 your finger, whoever he is." 
 
 "lean." 
 
 " There is a weight off my stom- 
 ach. Well, monsieur, now first of 
 all who is the man, — if it is not ask- 
 ing too much ? " 
 
 "It is I." 
 
 "Youl" 
 
 " I ! " 
 
 " Ugh ! " 
 
 " Well, sir, what is to be done 1 " 
 
 " Can you pay me ? " 
 
 " That I can ; but you must give 
 me time." 
 
 " If you Avill give me securitv, not 
 else." 
 
 " And I will. What sectu-ity will 
 you have 1 " 
 
 The notary answered this question 
 by action. He put his hand in his 
 pocket and drew out a parchment. 
 
 The farm.er's eye dilated. 
 
 " This is a bond by which you give 
 me a hold upon your Beaurepaire 
 loan." 
 
 " Not an assignment 1 " gasped Bo- 
 nard. 
 
 " Not an assignment. On the con- 
 trary, a bond that prevents your either 
 assigning or selling your loan, or 
 forcing Beaurepaure to a sale, — pen- 
 
 alty, twenty thousand francs in either 
 case." 
 
 The farmer groaned. 
 
 " Call a witness, and sign." 
 
 Bonard went to the window, opened 
 it, and called to a man in the farm- 
 yard : " Here, Georges, step this 
 way." 
 
 As he turned round from the win- 
 dow the first thing he saw was the 
 notary pulling another document out 
 of his other pocket. Paper this time 
 instead of parchment. 
 
 The farmer's eye dilated. 
 
 " Not another ! ! saints of Paradise, 
 not another ! ! ! " he yelled. 
 
 " This is to settle the interest, — 
 nothing more." 
 
 " What interest ? Ours 1 Why, 
 the interest is settled, — it is three per 
 cent." 
 
 " Was ! but I am not so soft as to 
 lend my money at three per cent. — 
 Are you ? You bleed the baroness 
 six per cent." 
 
 " What has that to do with it ? I 
 take what I can get. But I can't pay 
 six per cent." 
 
 ** You are not required. I am not 
 an usurer. I lend at five per cent 
 what little I lend at all, and I'll 
 trouble you for your signature." 
 
 " No ! no ! " cried the farmer, 
 standing at bay, " you can't do that. 
 Three per cent is the terms of the 
 loan. Hang it, man, stand to your 
 OAvn bargain ! " 
 
 The notary started up like Jack in 
 the box, with starthng suddenness and 
 energy. 
 
 "Pay me my twelve thousand 
 francs ! " cried he, fiercely, or I empty 
 your barns and gut your house before 
 you can turn round. You can't sell 
 Beaurepaire in less than a month, but 
 I '11 sell you up in forty-eight hours." 
 
 " Sit ye down, sir ! for Heaven's 
 sake sit ye down, my good monsieur, 
 and don't talk like that, — don't quar- 
 rel with an honest man fur a thought- 
 less word. Ah ! here is Georges. 
 Step in, Georges, and see me sign my 
 soul and entrails away at a sitting — ■ 
 ugh!" 
 
42 
 
 wniTi: LIES. 
 
 Five minutes more, the harsh ercd- 
 itor, the ])arish bully, was obsc(iuiously 
 lioUlin-- tlic notiirv's off stirrup, lie 
 mounted the sijuab dun and eantcred 
 olf with the parchment sword and the 
 ]iaper javelin in the same pocket now, 
 — and tacked together by a pin. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 EionT days after the above scene, 
 tliree days after the notary rcceivecl 
 St. Aub'in's letter and said, " Cu- 
 rious," came an autumn day, re- 
 iVeshing to late turnips, but chillinn: 
 and dcju'essing to human hearts, and 
 death to those of artists. A steady, 
 even, down pour of rain, with gusts of 
 wind that sent showers of leaves whirl- 
 ing from the orange-colored trees. 
 
 Black doubled-banked clouds prom- 
 ised twenty-four hours' moist misery ; 
 and as for the sun, hang mc if you 
 could guess on which side of the 
 house he was, except by looking first 
 at a clock, then at an almanac. 
 
 Even the sorrows and cares of the 
 decaying house of Beaurepairc grew 
 darker and heavier tliis day. Even 
 Laurc, the gayest, brightest, and 
 most hopeful of the party, sat at the 
 window, her face against the pane, 
 and felt lead at her young heart. 
 
 While she sat thus, sad and hope- 
 less, instinctively reading the future 
 lot of those she loved in those double- 
 banked clouds, her eye was suddenly 
 attracted by a singular phenomenon. 
 A man of' gigantic height and size 
 glided along the public road, one half 
 his huge form visible above the high 
 palings. 
 
 He turned in at the great gate of 
 Beaurepaire, and lo the giant was but 
 a rider with a veiled steed. Clear of 
 the palings, he ])roved to be an enor- 
 mous horseman's cloak, — a pyramid 
 of brown cloth with a hat on its apex, 
 and a ])ony's nose ])rotruding at one 
 biise, tail at the other. Ixider's face 
 did not show, being at the top of the 
 cone but inside it. 
 
 At the sight of this pageant Laure 
 could hardly suppress a scream of joy. 
 
 Knight returning from Crusades 
 was never more welcome than this 
 triangle of broadcloth Avas to her. 
 
 She beckoned secretly to St. Aubin. 
 He came, and at the sight went has- 
 tily down and ordered a huge wood 
 fire in the dining-room, now little 
 used. He then met the notary at the 
 hall door, and courteously invited him 
 in. 
 
 "But stay! — your pony, — what 
 shall we do Avith him ? " 
 
 " Give yourself no trouble on his 
 account, monsieur; he Mill not stir 
 from the door ; he is Fidelity in per- 
 son." 
 
 St. Aubin apologized for not tak- 
 ing his visitor up to the baroness ; 
 " But the business is one that must be 
 kept from her knowledge." At this 
 moment the door opened, and Jose- 
 phine glided in. St. Aubin had not 
 i expected her, but he used her skilful- 
 ly ; " But here," said he, "is Made- 
 moiselle de Beaurepaire come to bid 
 you welcome to a house from which 
 you haA-e been too long absent. Made- 
 moiselle, now that you have Avel- 
 comcd our truant friend, be so good 
 as to describe to him the report which 
 I only know from you." 
 
 Josephine briefly told what she 
 had heard from Jacintha, that there 
 was one cruel creditor who threat- 
 ened to sell the chateau and lands 
 of Beaurepaire. 
 
 " Mademoiselle," said the notary, 
 gravely, " that report is true. He 
 openly bragged of his intention more 
 than a week ago." 
 
 " Ah ! Ave live so secluded, — you 
 hear everything before us. Well, 
 Monsieur Perrin, time Avas you took 
 an interest in the fortunes of this 
 family—" 
 
 "Never more than at the present 
 moment, monsieur"; in saying this 
 he looked at Josejdiine. 
 
 " The more to your credit, mon- 
 sieur." 
 
 " Do you happen to know Avhat is 
 the sum due to this creditor ? " 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 43 
 
 "I do. Six thousand francs." 
 
 St. Aubiu looked at Josephine tri- 
 umphantly. 
 
 " One of the very smallest credit- 
 ors then." 
 
 " The smallest of them all," replied 
 the notary. 
 
 Another triumphant glance from 
 St. Aubin. 
 
 "Eor all that," said Monsieur 
 Perrin, thoughtfully, " I wish it had 
 been a larger creditor, and a less un- 
 manageable man. The other credit- 
 ors could be influenced by reason, by 
 clemency, by good feeling, but this is 
 a man of iron ; humph, — may I ad- 
 vise ? " 
 
 '' It will be received as a favor." 
 
 " Then, — pay this man off at once, 
 — have nothing more to do with 
 him." 
 
 His hearers opened their eyes. 
 
 " Where are we to find six thou- 
 sand francs ? " 
 
 The notary reflected. " I have not 
 at this moment six thousand francs, 
 but I could contribute two thousand 
 of the six." 
 
 " We thank you sincerely, but — " 
 
 " There then ; I must contrive 
 three thousand." 
 
 St. Aubin shook his head : '* We 
 cannot find three thousand francs." 
 
 " Then we must try and prevail on 
 Bonard to move no further for a time ; 
 and in the interval wc must find an- 
 other lender, and transfer the loan." 
 
 "Ah! my good Monsieur Perrin, 
 can you do this for us ? " 
 
 "I can try ; and you know zeal 
 goes a good way in business. I will 
 be frank with you; the character of 
 this creditor gives me some uneasi- 
 ness ; but courage ! all these fellows 
 have secret histories, secret wishes, 
 secret interests, that we notaries can 
 penetrate, — when we have a sufficient 
 motive to penetrate such rubliish, — 
 but as it is not a matter to be tri- 
 fled M'ith, forgive me if I bid yoti 
 and mademoiselle an unceremonious 
 adieu." 
 
 He rose with zeal depicted on his 
 face. y 
 
 " Such a day for you to be out on 
 our service," cried Josephine, putting 
 up both her hands the palms out- 
 ward, as if disclaiming the weather, 
 
 " If it rained, hailed, and snowed, 
 I should not feel them in your cause, 
 mademoiselle," cried the- chivalrous 
 notary ; and he took by surprise one 
 of Josephine's white hands, and 
 kissed it with the deepest respect; 
 then made off all in a bustle. 
 
 St. Aubin followed him to the door, 
 and lo ! " Fidelity in person " was 
 gone. 
 
 St. Aubin was concerned. 
 
 The notary was a little surprised, 
 but he gave a shrill whistle, and 
 awaited the result ; another, and this 
 time a long tail came slowly out of 
 the Beaurepaire oak ; the pony's 
 quarters followed ; but, when his 
 withers were just clear, the cold rain 
 and wind struck on his loins, and the 
 quadruped's bones went slowly in 
 again. The tail had the grace to 
 stay out ; but hair is a vegetable, and 
 vegetables like rain. The notary 
 strode to the tree, and went in and 
 backed " demifidelity in person " out. 
 The pyramid of cloth remounted 
 him, and away they toddled ; Laura, 
 in spite of her anxiety, giggling 
 against the window ; for why, the 
 foreshortened animal's fore-legs be- 
 ing hidden by the ample folds, the 
 little cream-colored hind legs seemed 
 the notary's own. 
 
 Meantime St. Aubin was in ear- 
 nest talk with Josephine in the hall. 
 
 " Well, that looks like sinceri- 
 ty ! " 
 
 " Yes ! you did not see the signal I 
 made you." 
 
 " No ! what signal 1 why ? " 
 
 " His eye was upon you like a 
 hawk's when he proposed to you to 
 pay three thousand francs out of the 
 six thousand. Ah, doctor, he was fath- 
 oming our resources. I wanted you 
 not to lay bare the extent of our pov- 
 erty and helplessness. O that eye ! 
 He only said it to draw you out." 
 
 " If you thought so, why did you 
 not stop me 1 " 
 
44 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 " I did all I could to. I made you 
 a sign twice." 
 
 "Not tliat I observed." 
 
 " All ! if it had been Laure, she 
 would have understood it directly." 
 
 " But, Josephine, be candid : what 
 sinister motive can this poor man 
 have ? " 
 
 "Indeed I don't know. Forgive 
 me my uncharitable instinct, and let 
 us admire your reasonable sagacity. 
 It was our smallest creditor ! Laure 
 shall ask your pardon on her knees ; 
 dear friend, slie will not leave our 
 mother alone : be so kind as to go 
 into the saloon ; then Laure will come 
 out to me." 
 
 The doctor did as he Avas bid ; and 
 sure enough, her mother having now 
 a companion, Laure whipped out 
 and ran post-haste to her sister for 
 the news. 
 
 Thus a secret entered the house of 
 Beaurepaire ; a secret from which one 
 person, the mistress of the house, 
 was excluded. 
 
 This was no vulgar secrecy, — no 
 disloyal, nor selfish, nor even doubt- 
 ful niotive mingled with it. 
 
 Circumstances appeared to dictate 
 this course to tender and vigilant af- 
 fection. 
 
 They saw and obeyed. They put 
 lip the shutters, not to keep out the 
 light from some action that Avould 
 not bear the light, but to keep the 
 wind of passing trouble from visiting 
 the aged cheek they loved and re- 
 vered and guarded. 
 
 In three days the notaiy called 
 again. The poor soul seemed a lit- 
 tle downcast. He had been to Bo- 
 nard and made no impression on 
 him ; and to tell the truth had been 
 insulted by him, or next door to it. 
 
 On this they were all greatly dis- 
 pirited. 
 
 Maitre Perrin recovered first. He 
 brightened up all in a moment. 
 
 "I have an idea," said he; "we 
 Fhall succeed yet ; ay, and perhaps 
 ]>ut all the liabilities on a more mod- 
 erate scale of interest ; meantime — " 
 and here he hesitated. " I wish you 
 
 would let an old friend be your bank- 
 er and advance you any small sums 
 you may need for present comforts or 
 conveniences." 
 
 Laure's eyes thanked him ; but 
 Josephine, a little to her surprise, put 
 in a hasty and firm, though polite 
 negative. 
 
 The notary apologized for his ofii- 
 ciousness, and said : — 
 
 " I do not press this trifling offer of 
 service ; but pray consider it a per- 
 manent offer which at any time you 
 can honor me by accepting." 
 
 He addressed this to Josephine with 
 the air of a subject offering one little 
 acorn back out of all " the woods and 
 forests " to his sovereign. 
 
 While the open friend of Beaure- 
 paire was thus exhibiting his zeal, its 
 clandestine friend was making a chill- 
 ing discovery youth and romance 
 have to make on their road to old age 
 and caution, namely, how much easier 
 it is to form many plans than to carry 
 out one. 
 
 This boiling young heart had been 
 going to do wonders for her he adored, 
 and for those who were a part of her. 
 He had been going to interest the 
 government in their misfortunes, — 
 but how 1 0, " some way or other." 
 Looked at closer " some way " had 
 proved impracticable, and "the other" 
 unprecedented, i. e. impossible. 
 
 He had not been a mere dreamer in 
 her cause, either. He had examined 
 the Avholc estate of Beaurepaire, and 
 had scientifically surveyed, on one 
 government ])retence or another, two 
 or three of the farms. He had dis- 
 covered to his great joy that all the 
 farms were underlet ; that there were 
 no leases ; so that an able and zealous 
 agent could in a few months increase 
 the baroness's income thirty per cent. 
 But wjien he had got this valua- 
 ble intelligence, what the better were 
 they or he? To show them that they 
 were not so poor as they in tlieir 
 aristocratical incapacity for business 
 thought themselves, he must first win 
 I their ear : and how could he do this ? 
 I If he were to call at Beaurepaire, 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 45 
 
 word woald come down again, "not 
 at home to strangers until the Bour- 
 bons come back." If he wrote, the 
 answer would be : " Monsieur. I un- 
 derstand absolutely nothing of busi- 
 ness. Be kind enough to make your 
 communication to our man of busi- 
 ness," — who must be either incapable 
 or dishonest, argued young Kiviere, 
 or their affairs would not be thus 
 vilely neglected ; ten to one he receives 
 a secret commission from the farmers 
 to keep the rents low : so no good 
 could come of applying to him, — and 
 here stejjped in a little bit of self, — 
 for there are no angels upon earth 
 except in a bad novel, and the poor 
 boy was not writing a bad novel, but 
 acting his little part in the real world. 
 
 "No!" said he, "/ have found 
 this out : perhaps she will never love 
 me, but' at least I will have her 
 thanks, and the pride and glory of 
 having done her and them a great 
 service : no undeserving person shall 
 rob me of this, nor even share it with 
 me." 
 
 And here came the heart-breaking 
 thing. The prospect of a formal 
 acquaintance receded instead of ad- 
 vancing. 
 
 In the first place, his own heart 
 interposed a fresh obstacle : the deeper 
 he fell in love the more his assurance 
 dwindled ; and, since he found out 
 they were so very poor, he was more 
 timid still, and they seemed to him 
 more sacred and inaccessible, for he 
 felt in his own soul how proud and 
 distant he should be if he was a 
 pauper. 
 
 The next calamity was, the young 
 ladies never came out now. Strange 
 to say, he had no sooner confided his 
 love and his hopes to Jacintha, than 
 she he lov^d kept the house with 
 cruel pertinacity. " Had Jacintha 
 been so mad as to go and prattle in 
 spite of her promise? had the young 
 lady's delicacy been alarmed ? was 
 she imprisoning herself to avoid meet- 
 ing one whose admiration annoyed 
 her ? " 
 
 A cold perspiration broke over him, 
 
 whenever his perplexed mind came 
 round to this thought. 
 
 Now the poor cannot afford to lose 
 what the rich can fling away. 
 
 The sight of that sweet face for a 
 moment thrice a week was not much, 
 — ah ! but it was, for it was all, — 
 his one bit of joy and comfort and 
 sunshine and liope, — and it was gone 
 now. The loss of it kept him at 
 fever heat every day of his life for an 
 hour or two before their usual time of 
 coming out and an hour or two after 
 it, and chill at heart the rest of the 
 day : and he lost his color and his 
 appetite, and fretted and pined for this 
 one look three times a week. And 
 she who could have healed this wound 
 with a glance of her violet eye and a 
 smile once or twice a week, she who 
 without committing herself or caring 
 a straw for him could have brought 
 the color back to this young cheek 
 and the warmth to this chilled heart 
 by just shining out of doors now and 
 then instead of in, sat at home with un- 
 paralleled barbarity and perseverance. 
 
 At last one day he lost all patience. 
 I must see Jacintha, said he, and, if she 
 really imprisons herself to avoid me, 
 I will leave the country, — I will go 
 into the army, — it is very hard she 
 should be robbed of her health and 
 her walk because I love her ; and with 
 this generous resolution the poor lit- 
 tle fellow felt something rise in his 
 throat and nearly choke him, till a 
 tear came to his relief. Forgive him, 
 ladies : though a statesman, he was 
 but a boy, — hoys will cry after women 
 as children for toys. You may have 
 observed this ! 
 
 He walked hurriedly up to Beaure- 
 paire, asking himself how he should 
 contrive an interview with Jacintha. 
 
 On his arrival there, casting his 
 eyes over the palings, what did he 
 see but th^ two young ladies M-alking 
 in the park at a considerable distance 
 from the house. 
 
 His heart gave a leap at the sight 
 of them. 
 
 Then he had a sudden inspiration. 
 The park was not strictly private, at 
 
46 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 least since the devolution. 8till it was 
 so far private that respcetahlc ])eoi)lc 
 did not make a practiee of erossin,Lj it. 
 
 I will seem to meet them unexpect- 
 edly, tliouyht youno- Kivicre, and, 
 if 'she smiles, I will apolo.ijize for 
 crossing the park ; then I shall have 
 spoken to her. I shall have broken 
 the ice. 
 
 He met them. They looked so 
 loftily sad he had not the courage to 
 address them. He bowed i-espectfully, 
 they courtesied, and he passed on 
 cursing his cowardice. 
 
 I must see Jacintha. He made a 
 long detour ; his object being to get 
 where he could be seen from tlae 
 kitchen. 
 
 Meantime the following short dia- 
 logue passed between the sisters : — 
 
 Laiire. " Why, he has lost his col- 
 or ! What a pity ! " 
 
 Josephine. " Who, dear ? " 
 
 Laure. " That young gentleman 
 who passed us just now. Did you 
 not observe how pale he has turned. 
 He has been ill. I am so sorry." 
 
 Josephine. " Who is he 1 " 
 
 Laure. " I don't know who he is ; 
 I know what he is, though." 
 
 Josephine. " And what is he ? " 
 
 Laure. " He is very handsome ; 
 and he passes us oftener than seems 
 to me quite natural ; and now I think 
 of it," said Laure, opening her eyes 
 ludicrously, " I have a sister who is 
 a beautiful woman ; and now I think 
 of it again," — opening her eyes still 
 wider, — "if I do not lock her up, I 
 shall perhajjs have a rival in her affec- 
 tions." 
 
 Josephine. " Child ! Moreover he 
 seemed to me a mere l)oy." 
 
 Laure gave a toss of her head, and 
 a suspicious look at Josephine. 
 
 " mademoiselle, there arc for- 
 ward boys as well as backward ones. 
 But I shall have an eye on you both." 
 Jose]>hinc smiled very faintly ; 
 amidst so many cares she was hanlly 
 ecjual to what she took for granted 
 was a pure jest of Laure's, and tlieir 
 conversation returned to its usual 
 channels. 
 
 Edouard got round to the other side 
 of the chateau, and strolled about 
 outside the ])alings some thirty yards 
 from the kitchen door ; and there he 
 walked slowly about, hoping every 
 moment to see the kitchen door open 
 and Jacintha come out. He was dis- 
 appointed ; and, after hanging about 
 nearly an hour, was going away in 
 despair, when a window at the toj) of 
 the house suddenly opened, and Ja- 
 cintha made him a rapid signal with, 
 her hand to go nearer the pul)lic road. 
 He obeyed ; and then she kept him 
 waiting till his second stock of pa- 
 tience was nearly exhausted ; but at 
 last he heard a rustle, and there was 
 her comely face set between two young 
 acacias. He ran to her. She received 
 him with a rebuke. 
 
 "Is that the way to do? — prowl- 
 ing in sight, like a housebreaker." 
 
 " Did any one see me 1 " 
 
 " Yes ! Mademoiselle Laure did ; 
 and, what is more, she spoke to me, 
 and asked me who you were. Of 
 course I said I did n't know." 
 
 "Oh! did you?" 
 
 " Then she asked me if it was not 
 the young monsieur who sent them 
 the game. Oh ! I forgot, I ought to 
 have told you that first. When they 
 asked me about the game, I said, ' It 
 is a young sportsman that takes Dard 
 out; so he shot some on the baroness's 
 land.' I was obliged to say that, you 
 know." 
 
 " Well, but you spoke the truth." 
 
 "You don't mean that! — that is 
 odd ; but accidents will happen. 
 ' And so he gave some of it to Dard 
 for the house,' said I. But the next 
 time you want me, don't stand sen- 
 tinel for all the world to see ; make 
 me a signal and then sHp in here, and 
 I will join vou." ^ 
 
 "A signal?" 
 
 jacintha put her hand under her 
 apron and pulled out a dish-clout. 
 
 " Hang this on that tree out there; 
 then I shall see it from the kitchen 
 window ; so then I shall know some- 
 thing is up. Apropos, what is up 
 now ? " • 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 47 
 
 " I am very nnhappy ! — that is 
 up." 
 
 " Oh ! you must expect the cold fit 
 as well as the hot fit, if you will fall 
 in love," observed Jaeintha, with a 
 cool smile. " Why did n't you come 
 to me before, and be cheered up. 
 What is the matter ? " 
 
 " Dear Jaeintha, she never comes 
 out now. What is to become of me if 
 I am to lose the very sight of her ? 
 Surely, you have not been so indis- 
 creet as to tell them — " 
 
 " There is a question. Do you see 
 green in my eye, young man ? " 
 
 " Then what is the reason ? — there 
 must be some reason. They used to 
 walk out; pray, pray, tell me the 
 reason." 
 
 Jacintha's merry countenance fell. 
 " My poor lad," said she, kindly, 
 "don't torment yourself, or fancy I 
 have been such an ill friend to you, 
 or such a novice, as to put them on 
 their guard against you. No ; it is 
 the old story, — want of money." 
 
 " That keeps them in-doox'S 1 How 
 can that be ? " 
 
 " Well, now," said Jaeintha, "it is 
 just as well you have come to-day, 
 for if you had come this time yester- 
 day I could not have told you, but I 
 overheard them yesternight. My son, 
 it is for want of clothes." 
 
 Riviere groaned, and looked aghast 
 at her. 
 
 " Don't ! " cried the faithful servant, 
 — "don't look at me so, or I shall 
 give way, I know I shall ; nor don't 
 mistake me either, — they have plenty 
 of colored dresses ; old ones, but very 
 good ones ; but it is their black dress- 
 es that are worn shabby ; and they 
 can't afford to buy new ; and all the 
 old dresses are colored, and it goes 
 against their hearts to go flaunting it. 
 They were crying last night to think 
 they could not afford even to mom-n 
 for their father, but must come out in 
 colors, for want of a little money." 
 
 "Jaeintha, they will break my 
 heart." 
 
 " So it seems they have settled not 
 to go out of the grounds at all. Thus 
 
 they meet nobody ; so now they can 
 wear their mourning till it is quite 
 threadbare. Ah, my son, how dif- 
 ferent from most women, that can't 
 forget the dead too quick, and come 
 flaring out again. And to-morrow is 
 her birthday. I mind the time there 
 was one beautiful new gown sure to 
 be laid out on her bed that day, if not 
 two. Times are sadly changed with 
 us, monsietxr." 
 
 " To-morrow is her birthday 1 " 
 " Yes ! " 
 
 "Good by, Jaeintha, — my heai't 
 is full. There ! good by, loyal 
 heart," and he kissed her hastily, 
 with trembling lips. 
 
 " Poor boy ! — don't lose my clout, 
 whatever you do ! " 
 
 She uttered this caution with ex- 
 treme anxiety, and at the top of her 
 voice, as he was running off in a 
 sti'ange flutter. 
 
 The next day the notary bixstled 
 in with a cheerful air. He had not a 
 moment to stay, but just dropped in 
 to say that he thought matters were 
 going well, and that he should he 
 able to muzzle Bonard. 
 
 After this short intersiew, which 
 was with the young ladies only, for 
 the doctor was out, away bustled 
 Perrin. 
 
 It was about an hour after this, — 
 
 Josephine was reading to the baroness, 
 
 and Laura and she were working, — 
 
 i when in came Jaeintha, and made a 
 
 , courtesy. 
 
 j " The tree is come, my ladies." 
 
 " What tree 1 " inquired the bar- 
 j oness. 
 
 j "For mademoiselle to plant, ac- 
 j cording to custom. It is her birth- 
 I day. Dard has brought it; it is an 
 j acacia this time." 
 
 1 " The faithfixl creature," cried the 
 j baroness. " She has thoixght of this, 
 I — and we forgot it. Thex-e, bring 
 i me my shawl and hood. I will not 
 be absent from the ceremony." 
 
 "But, dear mamma," put in Jose- 
 phine, " had not you better look at us 
 from the window, there is such a cold 
 air out to-day ? " 
 
48 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 "It is not cold cnonjih to diill a 
 mother's love. My tir,st-l)orn ! " cried 
 tlie old lady, with a burst of nature ; 
 " I sec her in her cradle now. Sweet 
 little cherub." 
 
 In a few minutes they were all out 
 in the <;arden. 
 
 Josephine was to decide where she 
 would jjlant lier tree. 
 
 " Only remeinhcr, mademoiselle," 
 said Jacintha, " it will not always be 
 little like it is now. You must not 
 put it where it will be choked up 
 when it is a big tree." 
 
 " no, Jacintha," cried Laure, 
 " we will plant it to the best advan- 
 tao;e." 
 
 Then one advised Josephine to 
 plant it on the south terrace ; another 
 preferred the turf oval between the 
 great gate and the north side of the 
 chateau. When they had said their 
 say, to their surprise Josephine said 
 rather timidly, " I should like to 
 plant it in the Pleasance." 
 
 " In the Pleasance ! "Why, Jose- 
 phine ? " 
 
 " It will take some time to plant," 
 explained Josephine. 
 
 " But it will take no more time to 
 plant it where it will show than in the 
 Pleasance," cried Laure, half angri- 
 
 "But, Laure, the Pleasance is 
 sheltered from the wind," said 
 Josephine. 
 
 Dard gave a snort of contempt. 
 
 " It is sheltered to-day because the 
 chateau happens to be between the 
 wind and it. But the wind will not 
 be always in that quarter; and the 
 Pleasance is open to more winds than 
 any other part, if you go to that." 
 
 " Dear mamma, may I not plant it 
 in the Pleasance '? " 
 
 " Of course you may, my child." 
 
 " And who told you to put in your 
 word ! " cried Jacintha to Dard. 
 " You are to take up your spade and 
 dig the hole where mademoiselle bids, 
 — that is what you arc here for, not 
 to argufy." 
 
 " Laure, I admire the energy of 
 that girl's character," remarked Jo- 
 
 sephine, languidly, as they all made 
 for the Pleasance. 
 
 " Where will you have iti " asked 
 Dard, roughly. 
 
 " Here, I think, Dard," said Jose- 
 phine, sweetly. 
 
 Dard grinned malignantly, and 
 drove in his sj)adc. " It will never be 
 much bigger than a stinging-nettle," 
 thought he, " for the roots of the oak 
 have sucked every atom of heart out 
 of this." His black soul exulted 
 secretly. 
 
 They watched his work. 
 
 " You are not cold, mamma 1 " 
 asked Josephine, anxiously. 
 
 "No! no!" said the baroness. 
 " There is no wind on this side of the 
 house. Ah ! now I see, my Jose- 
 phine. I have a very good daughter, — 
 who will never shine in horticulture." 
 
 Jacintha stood by Dard, inspecting 
 his work ; the three ladies stood to- 
 gether watching him at the distance 
 of a few feet; on their right, but a 
 little behind them, was the great oak. 
 Close behind them was a lemon-tree 
 and its mould in an immense tub ; 
 the tub was rotting at the sides. Over 
 the mould was a little moss here and 
 thei-e. 
 
 Now, at the beginning of this busi- 
 ness, the excitement of the discussion, 
 and choosing the spot, and setting 
 Dard to work, had animated the bar- 
 oness as well as her daughter. But 
 now, for some time Dard had all the 
 excitement to himself. They had 
 only to look on and think while he 
 wrought. 
 
 " O dear," cried Laure, suddenly, 
 " mamma is crying. Josephine, our 
 mother is crying ! " 
 
 " Ah ! " cried Josephine, " I feared 
 this. I did not want her to come out. 
 O my mother ! my mother! " 
 
 " My children," sobbed the baron- 
 ess, " it is very natural. I cannot 
 but remember how often we have 
 planted a tree aud kept the poor child's 
 birthday — not as now. Those were 
 on earth then that have left us and 
 gone to God. Many friends stood 
 around us, — how warm their hands. 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 49 
 
 how friendly their voices, how truth- 
 ful their eyes ! Yet they have aban- 
 doned us. Adversity has shaken 
 them off as the frost is even now 
 stripping off' your leaves, old friend. 
 These tears are not for me ! O no ! 
 thanks to God and the Virgin I know 
 whither I am going, and whom I shall 
 meet again, I cai'e not how soon ; but 
 it is to think I must leave my darlings 
 behind me without a friend, my ten- 
 der laml)3 in a world of foxes and 
 wolves without a friend ! " 
 
 " My mother, we have friends ! We 
 have the dear doctor." 
 
 " A savant, Laure, a creature more 
 a woman than a woman ; you will 
 have to take care of him, not he of 
 you." 
 
 " We have our own love ! did ever 
 a sister love another as I love Jose- 
 phine ? " 
 
 " No ! " said Josephine. " Yes ! I 
 love you as much." 
 
 " As to that, yes, you will fall in 
 one another's arms," said the baron- 
 ess. *' Ah ! I do ill to weep this day ; 
 my children, suffer me to compose 
 myself" And the baroness turned 
 round, and applied her handkerchief to 
 her eyes. Her daughters withdrew a 
 step or two in the opposite direction ; 
 for in those days parents, even the 
 most affectionate, maintained a marked 
 superiority, and the above was a hint 
 their mother would be alone a mo- 
 ment. 
 
 They waited respectfully for her 
 orders to rejoin her. The order did 
 come, and in a tone that surprised 
 tliem. 
 
 " My children, come here, — both of 
 you." 
 
 They found the baroness poking 
 among the moss with the point of her 
 ebony crutch. 
 
 " This is a purse, ancT' it is not 
 yours, Laure, nor yours, is it ? " 
 
 The two girls looked, and, sure 
 enough, there lay among the green 
 moss in the tub a green silk purse. 
 They eyed it like startled deer a mo- 
 ment, and then Laure pounced on it 
 and took it up. 
 
 " O how heavy ! " she cried. Ja- 
 cintha and Dard came running up; 
 Laure poured the contents into her 
 hand, ten gold pieces of twenty francs 
 each : new shining gold pieces. Ja- 
 cintha gave a scream of joy, a sort of 
 victorious war-whoop. 
 
 " Luck is turned," cried she, with 
 joyful superstition. Laure stood with 
 the gold pieces glittering in her pink 
 white palm, and her face blushing all 
 over and beaming, and her eyes glit- 
 tering with excitement and pleasure. 
 Their amazement was great. 
 
 " And here is a paper," cried Jose- 
 phine, eagerly, bending over the moss 
 and taking up a small piece of paper 
 folded ; she opened it rapidly, and 
 showed it thetn all ; it contained these 
 words, in a copperplate hand : — 
 
 " From a friend, — in paii. payment 
 of a great debt." 
 
 And now all of a sudden Josephine 
 began to blush ; and gradually not 
 only her face but hGr neck blushed all 
 over, and even her white forehead 
 glowed like a rose. 
 
 " Who could it be ? " that was the 
 question that echoed on all sides. 
 
 The baroness solved it for them : 
 " It,.is St. Aubin." 
 
 " mamma ! he has not ten gold 
 pieces." 
 
 " Who knows ? he has perhaps 
 found some bookseller who has bought 
 his work on insects." 
 
 " No, mamma," said Laure ; " I 
 cannot think this is our dear doctor's 
 doing. It is odd, too, his being out 
 of the way at this hour : I never knew 
 him anywhere but at his books till 
 two. Hush ! hush ! — here he comes ; 
 let us circumvent him on the spot : 
 this is fun." 
 
 " Give me the purse," said the 
 baroness, " and you, Jacintha and 
 Dard, recommence your work." 
 
 When the Doctor came up, he 
 found Dard at work, Jacintha stand- 
 ing by him, and the ladies entirely 
 occupied in looking on. The baron- 
 ess explained to him what was going 
 on. He showed considerable interest 
 in it. 
 
50 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 Presently the baroness put her 
 hand in her pocket, and gave her 
 daughters a look ; four eyes were in- 
 stantly levelled at the doctor's face. 
 Stand' firm, doctor ; if there is a 
 crevice in your coat of mail, those 
 eyes will pierce it. 
 
 " By the by," said the baroness, 
 with perfect nonchalance, " you have 
 dropped your purse here ; we have 
 just picked it up"; and she handed 
 it him. 
 
 " Thank you, madame," said he, 
 and he took it carelessly ; " this is 
 not mine, — it is too heavy, — and, 
 now I think of it," continued the sa- 
 vant, with enviable simplicity, " I 
 have not carried a purse this twenty 
 years. No ! I put my silver in my 
 right waistcoat-pocket, and my gold 
 in my left, that is, I should, but I 
 never have any." 
 
 " Doctor, on your honor, did you 
 not leave this purse and this paper 
 there 1 " 
 
 The doctor examined the paper. 
 Meantime Laure explained to him 
 ■what liad occurred. 
 
 " Madame tlie baroness," said he, 
 " I have been your friend and pen- 
 sioner nearly twenty years ; if- by 
 some strange chance money Avere to 
 come into my hands, I should not 
 play you a childish trick like this of 
 "wdiich you seem to suspect me. I 
 have the right to come to you and 
 say, ' My old friend, here I bring 
 you back a small part of all I owe 
 you.'" 
 
 - " My friend ! my friend ! I was^ 
 stupid ; tell us then who is our secret 
 friend ? may Heaven bless him ! " 
 
 "Let us reflect," said the doctor. 
 " Ah ! to be sure. I would lay my 
 life it is he ! " 
 
 " Who '? " 
 
 " A very honest man, whom you 
 have treated harshly, madame ; it is 
 Perrin, the notary ! " 
 
 It was the baroness's turn to be 
 surprised. 
 
 "I may as well confess to you, 
 madame, that I have lately had more 
 than one interview with Perrin, and 
 
 that, altliough he is naturally Inirt at 
 the severity with which you treated 
 him, his regard for you is undimin- 
 ished." 
 
 " I am as grateful as possible," said 
 the baroness, with a tine and scarcely 
 perceptible sneer. 
 
 " Laure," said Josephine, " it is cu- 
 rious, but Monsieur Perrin was here 
 for a minute or two to-day ; and really 
 he did not seem to have anything 
 particular to say." 
 
 " There ! " shouted the doctor, — 
 " there ! he came to leave the purse. 
 And in doing so he Avas only carrying 
 out an intention he had already de- 
 clared." 
 
 "Indeed ! " said the baroness. 
 
 " lie otfcred to advance money in 
 small sums ; an otfer that of course 
 was declined. So he Avas driven to 
 this manoeuvre. There are honest 
 hearts among the notaries." 
 
 Wiiile the doctor Avas enforcing 
 his vicAVS on the baroness, Josephine 
 and Laure slipped away round the 
 house. 
 
 " Who is it ? " said Laure. 
 
 " It is not the doctor ; and it is not 
 Perrin, — of course not. But who is 
 it?" 
 
 " Laure, don't you think it is some 
 one Avho has at all events delicate 
 sentiments ? " 
 
 " Clearly, and therefore not a no- 
 tary." 
 
 "Laure, dear, might it not be 
 some person Avho has done us some 
 Avrong, and is perhaps penitent ? " 
 
 " Certainly," said Laure. " Such a 
 person might make restitution, — one 
 of our tenants, or creditors, you 
 mean, I suppose; but the paper says 
 'a friend' Stay, it says a debtor! 
 Whv a debtor ? Down Avith enig- 
 mas!" 
 
 " Laure, dear, think of some one 
 that might — " 
 
 " I can't. I am ([uitc at a loss." 
 
 " Since it is not the doctor, nor 
 Monsieur l*errin, might it not be — ■ 
 for, after all, he would naturally be 
 ashamed to appear before me." 
 
 " Before you ? " 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 51 
 
 " Yes, Laiire, is it quite certain that 
 it might not be — " 
 
 " Who ? " asked Laure, nervouslj, 
 catcliing a glimpse now. 
 
 " He who once pretended to love 
 me!" 
 
 " Camille Dujardin ? " 
 
 " It was not I who mentioned his 
 name," cried Josephine, hastily. 
 
 Laure turned pale. 
 
 " 0, mon Dieu ! mon Dieu ! " she 
 cried. " She loves that man still." 
 
 " No ! no ! no ! " 
 
 " You love him just the same as 
 ever. O, it is wonderful — it is terri- 
 ble — the power this man has over 
 you, — over your judgment as well as 
 your heart." 
 
 " No ! for I believe he has forgot- 
 ten my very name ; don't vou think 
 so ? " 
 
 " Dear Josephine, can you doubt 
 it?" 
 
 " Forgive me." 
 
 " Come, you do doubt it." 
 
 " I do." 
 
 " Why ? for what reason ? " 
 
 " Because the words he said to me 
 as we parted at that gate lie still at 
 my heart : and oh, my sister, the 
 voice we love seems the voice of truth 
 itself. He said, ' I am to join the army 
 of the Pyrenees, so fatal to our troops ; 
 but say to me what you never yet 
 have said, "Camille, I love you," — 
 and I swear I will come back alive.' 
 
 " So, then, I said to him, 'I love 
 you,' — and he never came back." 
 
 " How could he come here 1 a de- 
 serter, — a traitor ! " 
 
 " It is not true ! it is not in his na- 
 ture ; inconstancy may be. Tell me 
 that he never really loved me, and I 
 Avill believe you ; but not that he is a 
 coward. Let me weep over my past 
 love, not blush for it." 
 
 " Past ? You love him to-day as 
 you did three years ago ! " 
 
 " No ! I tell you I do not. I love 
 no one. I never shall love any one 
 again." 
 
 " But him. It is that love which 
 turns your heart against others. You 
 love him, dearest, or why should you 
 
 fancv our secret benefactor could be 
 Camille ? " 
 
 " Why ? Because I was mad ! be- 
 cause it is impossible ; but I see my 
 folly. Let us go in, my sister." 
 
 " Go, love, I will follow you ; but 
 don't you care to know who I think 
 left the purse for us ? " 
 
 " No," said Josephine, sadly and 
 doggedly ; she added with cold non- 
 chalance, " I dare say time will 
 show " ; and she went slowly in, her 
 hand to her head. 
 
 " Her birthday ! " 
 
 CHAPTER VL 
 
 "I WILL see her tree planted,'* 
 thought Laure, " for she has forgot- 
 ten it, and everything, and everybody 
 but that — " * 
 
 And she ran off to join the group. 
 Turning the corner rapidly, she found 
 Jacintha suspiciously near : and, above 
 all, walking away towards the tree : 
 away from where ? 
 
 Laure Imrned with anger, and, as 
 she passed Jacintha, she wheeled about, 
 and gave her a look like red lightning. 
 It came like a slap in the face. Ja- 
 cintha, meantime, had got ready an 
 amazing dogged, unconscious face; 
 
 " And o'er the impassive ice the lightnings 
 play." 
 
 This gallant and praiseworthy effort 
 was but partially successful. She 
 could command her features, but not 
 her blood : she felt it burn her clieek 
 under the fire of Laure's eye. And 
 in the evening, when Laure suddenly 
 beckoned to her, and said in a signifi- 
 cant way, " I want to speak to you, 
 Jacintha," the faithful domestic felt 
 like giving way at the knees and sink- 
 ing down flat ; so she stood up like 
 Notre Dame outwardly, and wore an 
 expression of satisfaction and agreea- 
 ble expectation on her impenetrable 
 mug. 
 
 Laure drove in an eye. 
 
 " Who put that purse there ? " she 
 asked in a half-threatening tone. 
 
52 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 " Mademoiselle Laiire, I don't know, 
 but 1 have my suspicions ; and if 
 mademoiselle will give me a few 
 days, I think I can find out for 
 sure." 
 
 " How many days ? because I am 
 impatient.'' 
 
 " Say a fortnight, mademoiselle." 
 
 " That is a long time ; Avell, it is 
 agreed." 
 
 And so these two parted without a 
 woi'd openly uttered on cither side 
 about that which was uppermost in 
 both their minds.' 
 
 " Come," thought Jacintha, " I am 
 well out of it : if I can find that out, 
 she won't give it me for listening ; and 
 it is a fair bargain, especially for me, 
 for I know who left the purse ; but I 
 was n't going to tell her that all in a 
 moment." 
 
 Now Jacintha, begging her pardon, 
 did not know ; but she strongly sus- 
 pected young Riviere of being the 
 culprit who had invented this new 
 sort of burglary, — breaking into 
 honest folk's premises in the dead of 
 night, and rol)bing tliera of their pov- 
 erty, instead of their wealtli, like the 
 good old-fashioned burglars. 
 
 She Avaited quietly, expecting every 
 day to see her dish-clout waving from 
 the tree at the back, and to hear him 
 tell her of his own accord how clever- 
 ly he had done the trick. 
 
 No. 
 
 Day after day passed away, and no 
 clout. The fortnight was melting, 
 and Jacintha's patience. She re- 
 solxed : and one morning she cut two 
 bunches of grapes, and pulled some 
 nectarines, jjut them in a basket, cov- 
 ered them with a na|)kin, and called 
 on M. Edouard llivicrc at his lodging. 
 She was ushered into that awful pres- 
 ence ; and, so long as the servant was 
 in hearing, all her talk was about the 
 fruit she had brought him in return 
 for his game. 'J'hc servant being- 
 gone, she dropped the mask. 
 
 "Well, it is all right!" said, she, 
 smiling and winking. 
 
 " Wliatisall right?" 
 
 " They have got the purse ! " 
 
 " Have they ! What purse ? I 
 don't know what you allude to." 
 
 " No, of course not, Mr. Inno- 
 cence : you did not leave a purse 
 full of gold u]) at Beaurcpaire ! ! ! !" 
 
 " Well, I never said 1 did : purses 
 full of gold are luxuries with which I 
 am little ac(piainted." 
 
 " Very well," said Jacintha, l)iting 
 her lip ; " then you and I are friends 
 no longer, that is all." 
 
 " () yes, we are." 
 
 " No ! if you can't trust me, you 
 are no friend of mine ; ingrate ! to 
 try and deceive me. I know it was 
 you ! " 
 
 " Well, if you know, why ask me ? " 
 retorted Edouard, sharply. 
 
 " Better snap my nose off, had you 
 not ? " said Jacin'tha, reproachfully. 
 " Confess it is odd your not showing 
 more curiosity about it. Looks as if 
 you knew all about it, eh ? " 
 
 " But I am curious, and I wish to 
 Heaven you would tell me what it is 
 all about, instead of taking it into 
 your head that I know already." 
 
 " Well, I will." 
 
 So Jacintha told him all about the 
 baroness finding the purse, and on 
 whom their suspicions had fallen. 
 
 " I wish it had been /," said Ed- 
 ouard ; " but tell me, dear, has it been 
 of service, has it contributed to their 
 comfort ? that is the principal thing, 
 — not who gave it." 
 
 On this Jacintha reflected, and fix- 
 ing her gray eye on him she said : 
 " Unluckily there were just two 
 pieces two few." 
 
 " What a pity." 
 
 " No one of my ladies ever buys a 
 new dress without the others having 
 one too ; now they found it would 
 lake two more gold pieces to give my 
 three ladies a new suit of mourning 
 each. So the money is put by till they 
 can muster tlie other two." 
 
 "What, then," cried Edouard, "I 
 must not hoj)e to see them out again 
 any the more for this money ? " 
 
 " No ! you see it was not quite 
 enough." 
 
 Riviere's countenance fell. 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 53 
 
 " Well," said Jacintha, assuming a 
 candid tone, " I see it was not you, 
 but really at first I suspected you?' 
 
 " It is nothing to be ashamed of, if 
 I had done it." 
 
 " No ! indeed. How foolish to sus- 
 pect you, was it not ? You shall 
 have the grapes all the same." 
 
 " O, thank you : they come from 
 Beaurepaire ? " 
 
 '• Yes. Good by. Don't be sad. 
 They will come out again as soon as 
 they can afford the mourning " ; she 
 added, with sudden warmth, " you 
 have not lost my clout ? " 
 
 " No ! no ! " 
 
 " You had better give it me back : 
 then my mind will be at ease." 
 
 " No, excuse me ; it is ray only way 
 of getting a word with you." 
 
 " Why, you have never used it." 
 
 " But I may want to any day." 
 
 Jacintha, as she Avent home with 
 her empty basket, knitted her black 
 brows, and recalled the scene, and 
 argued the matter pro and con. 
 
 " I don't know Avlay he should face 
 it out like that with 'me if it was he. 
 Ah ! but he would have been jealous, 
 and a deal more inquisitive if it was 
 not he. Well, anyway I have put him 
 off" his guard, and -won't I watch 
 him ! If it is he, I '11 teach him to 
 try and draw the wool over Jacin- 
 tha's eyes, and she his friend, — the 
 mons'ter." 
 
 Fortune co-operated with these 
 malignant views. This very even- 
 ing Dard declared himself, — that 
 is, after proposing by implication and 
 probable inference for the last seven 
 years, he made a direct ofifer of his 
 hand and digestive organs. 
 
 Now this gave Jacintha great pleas- 
 ure. She could have kissed the little 
 fellow on the spot. 
 
 So she said, in an off-hand way : 
 "Well, Dard, if I were to take any 
 one, it should be you : but I have 
 pretty well made up my mind not to 
 marry at all : at all events till my 
 mistress can spare me.'' 
 
 " Gammon ! " shouted Dard, " that 
 is what they all say." 
 
 " Well, vvhat everybody says must 
 be true," said Jacintha, equivocating 
 unworthily. 
 
 " Not unless they stick to it," ob- 
 jected Dard. "And that is a song 
 they all drop at the church door, when 
 they do get a chance." 
 
 " Well, I am not in such a hurry 
 as to snap at such a small chance," re- 
 torted Jacintha, with a toss of her 
 head. 
 
 So then the polite swain had to 
 mollify her. 
 
 " Well, Dard," said she, "one good 
 turn deserves another : if I am to 
 marry you, what Avill you do for me ? " 
 
 Dard gave a glowing description of 
 Avhat he would do for her as soon as 
 she was his wife. 
 
 She let him know that w^as not the 
 point : what would he do for her first. 
 
 He would do anything, — every- 
 thing. 
 
 We do know 
 When the blood burns how prodigal the 
 
 heart 
 Lends the tongue vows. — Hamlet. 
 
 This brought the contracting par- 
 ties to an understanding. 
 
 First, under a vow of secrecy, she 
 told him young Riviere was in love 
 with Josephine, and she was his con- 
 fidante ; then she told him how the 
 youth had insulted her by attempting 
 to deceive her about the purse ; and, 
 finally, Dard must watch his move- 
 ments by night and day, that between 
 them they might catch him out. 
 
 Dard made a wry face, — dolus 
 latet in generalibus [free translation, 
 "anything means nothing"]; when 
 he vowed to do anything, everything, 
 what not, and such small phrases, he 
 never intended to do anything in par- 
 ticular : but he was in for it; and 
 sentinel and spy were added to his 
 little odd jobs. F©r the latter office 
 his apparent stolidity qualified him, 
 and so did his petty but real astute- 
 ness ; moreover, he was daily primed 
 by Jacintha, — a good soul, but no 
 Nicodema. Meantime St. Aubin up- 
 held Perrin as the secret benefactor, 
 and bade them all observe that since 
 
54 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 that day the notary Inul never been 
 to the chateau. 
 
 The donor, whoever he was, little 
 knew the ])ain lie was inflicting on 
 this distressed but ])r<)ud family; or 
 the hard battle that ensued l)ecween 
 their necessities and their delicacy!! 
 The ten gold pieces were a perj^etual 
 temptation, a daily conflict. 
 
 The words that accompanied the 
 donation oflered an excuse, and their 
 poverty enforced it. Their pride and 
 dignity op])Osed it ; but these bright 
 bits of gold cost them many a sharp 
 pang. 
 
 The figures Jacintha laid before 
 Riviere were purely imaginary. A 
 mere portion of the two hundred 
 francs would have enabled the poor 
 girls to keep up appearances with the 
 outside world, and yet to mourn their 
 father openly. And it went through 
 and through those tender, simple 
 hearts, to think that they must be dis- 
 united, — even in so small a thing as 
 dress ; that, while their mother re- 
 mained in her weeds, they must seem 
 no longer to share her woe. 
 
 The baroness knew their feeling, 
 and felt its piety, and yet must not 
 say, Take five of these bits of gold, and 
 let us all look what we are, — one. 
 
 Yet in this, as in everything else, 
 they came to be all of one niir.d. 
 They resisted, they struggled, and with 
 a wrench they conquered day by day. 
 
 At last, by general consent, they 
 locked up the tempter, and looked at 
 it no more. 
 
 But the little bit of paper met a 
 kinder fate. Laure made a little 
 frame fur it, and it was kept in a 
 drawer in the salon, and often looked 
 at and blessed. Their mother had 
 despaired of human friendship, and 
 with despondency on her lips she had 
 found this paper ^ith the sacred Avord 
 " friend " written on it : it fell all in a 
 moment on their aching hearts. 
 
 They could not tell whence it came, 
 ■— this blessed word. 
 
 But who can tell whence comes the 
 dew? 
 
 Science is in two minds about that. 
 
 Then let me go with the Poets, 
 who say it comes from Heaven : we 
 shall not go far wrong assigning any 
 good thing to that source. 
 
 And even so that sweet word 
 " friend " dropped like the dew from 
 Heaven on these afflicted ones. 
 
 So they locked the potent gold 
 away from themselves, and took the 
 kind slip of paper to their hearts. 
 An'sto va. ■ 
 
 The fortnight elapsed, and Ja- 
 cintha was no wiser. She had to beg 
 a respite. Laure conceded it with an 
 austere brow, smiling inwardly. 
 
 Meantime Dard, Jacintha's little 
 odd sentinel, spy, gardener, lover, and 
 all that, wormed himself with rustic 
 cunning into the statesboy's confidence. 
 
 Treachery met its retribution. The 
 statesboy made him his factotum, — 
 i. e. yet another set of little odd jobs 
 fell on him. He had always been 
 struck by their natural variety ; but 
 now what with Jacintha's and what 
 with Riviere's they seemed infinite. 
 
 At one hour he would bo hold- 
 ing a long chain while Riviere meas- 
 ured the lands of Beaurcpaire : at 
 another he would be set to pump a 
 farmer. Then it would be, " Back, 
 Dard ! " this meant he was to stand 
 in a crescent while Edouard wrote a 
 long calculation or made a sketch 
 upon him, compendious writing-desk. 
 
 Then O, luxury of luxuries, he the 
 laziest of the human race, though 
 through the malice of fate the hardest 
 worked, had to call citizen Riviere in 
 the morning ! 
 
 At niglit after all his toil he could 
 count upon the refreshment of being 
 scolded by Jacintha because he 
 brought home the wrong sort of in- 
 formation, and had not the talent to 
 coin the right. He did please her 
 twice though ; the first time was when 
 he told her they were measuring the 
 lands of Beaurepaire ; and again when 
 he found out the young citizen's 
 salary, four hundred francs on the 
 first of every month. 
 
 " That brat to have four hundred 
 francs a month ! " cried Jacintha. 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 00 
 
 " Dard, I will give you a good sapper 
 to-night.'^ 
 
 Dard believed in her affection for a 
 moment, for with one of his kidney 
 the proof of the pndding, &c. 
 
 "And whilst I am cooking it here 
 is a little job for you, — to fill up the 
 time." 
 
 " Ugh ! " 
 
 Jacintha had blacked twenty yards 
 of string, and cut down half a dozen 
 bells that were never used now. 
 
 " You shall put them up again 
 when times mend," said she. 
 
 All Dard had to do now was to 
 draw a wide magic circle all around 
 the lemon-tree, and so fix the bells 
 tliat they should be out of sight, and 
 should ring if a foot came against the 
 invisible string. 
 
 This little odd job was from that 
 night incorporated into Dard's daily 
 existence. He had to set the trap 
 and bells at dusk every evening, and 
 from that moment till bedtime Ja- 
 cintha "svent about her work with half 
 her mind out of doors, half in, and 
 her car on full cock. 
 
 One day St. Aubin met the notary 
 ambling. He stopped him, and hold- 
 ing up his finger said playfully : — 
 
 " We have found you out." 
 
 The notary turned pale. 
 
 " 0," cried the doctor, " this is 
 pushing sensibility too far." 
 
 The notary stammered. 
 
 " A good action done slyly is none 
 the less a good action." 
 
 This explanation completed the 
 notary's mystification. 
 
 " But you are a worthy man," cried 
 St. Aubin, warming. 
 
 The notary bowed. 
 
 " They cannot profit by your liber- 
 ality, but they feel it deeply. And 
 you will be rewarded in a better 
 world. It is I who tell you so." 
 
 Ttie notary muttered indistinctly. 
 He was a man of moderate desires ; 
 would have been quite content if 
 there had been no other world in per- 
 spective. He had studied this, and 
 made it pay, — did not desire abetter, 
 — sometimes feared a worse. 
 
 " Ah ! " said Monsieur St. Aubin, 
 " I see how it is ; we do not like to 
 hear ourselves praised, do we 1 When 
 shall we see you at the chateau ? " 
 
 " As soon as I have good news to 
 bring." And Ferrin, anxious to avoid 
 such a shower of compliments, spurred 
 the dun, and cantered away. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 " Mademoiselle Lacke ! " 
 
 " Who is that ? " 
 
 " Me, mademoiselle ? " 
 
 " And who is me ? " 
 
 " Jacintha. Are you sleepy, ma- 
 demoiselle ? " 
 
 " Ah, yes ! " 
 
 " Then don't ! — you must rise di- 
 rectlv." 
 
 " Must I ? Why ? Ah ! the cha- 
 teau is on fire ! " 
 
 " Xo ! no! — great news. I may 
 be mistaken, but I don't think I am, 
 
 — I am sure not, however." 
 
 " Ah ! the purse ! — the pui'se ! " 
 " No other thing. Listen, madem- 
 oiselle. Dard has watched a cer- 
 tain person this month past, by my 
 orders. Well, mademoiselle, last night 
 he got his pay, — four hundred francs, 
 
 — and what do you think, he told 
 Dard he must be called an hour be- 
 fore daybreak. Something muat he up, 
 
 — something is up ! " 
 
 '• That thing is me ! " cried Laure. 
 " Behold, / am up ! You good girl, 
 when did you know all this ? " 
 
 " Only since last night." 
 
 " Why did n't you tell me last 
 night, then ? " 
 
 " I had more sense. You would 
 not have slept a wink. I have n't. 
 Mademoiselle, there is no time to 
 spare ; why, the sun will be up in a 
 few minutes. How quick could you 
 dress to save your life ? " asked Ja- 
 cintha, a little fretfully ; " in half an 
 hour ? " 
 
 " In half a minute," cried Laure ; 
 "fly and get Josephine up ; there will 
 be the struggle ! " 
 
56 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 Lnurc dressed licrsclf furiously, and 
 plidod to Josephine's room. She 
 found her hiniruidly arranijing herself 
 in the usual style. 
 
 Laure flew at her like a tiger-cat, 
 ])inned her and hooked her, and 
 twisted her about at a rare rate. 
 
 Josephine smiled and yawned. 
 
 Wliile the spri^^htly llehc was thus 
 expediting the languid Venus, a bus- 
 tle of feet was heard overhead, and 
 down came Jacintha red as fire. 
 
 " O mesdemoiselles ! I have been 
 on the leads. There is somebody 
 coming from the village, — I s])icd 
 from behind the chimney. There is 
 not a moment to lose, — the sun is 
 up, too." 
 
 " But I am not dressed, my girl." 
 
 " Tiien you must come undressed," 
 said Jacintha, brusquely. 
 
 *' I feel as if I should come un- 
 dressed," said Josephine, quietly. 
 " You have not half fastened me. 
 There, don't let me detain you, — 
 go without me." 
 
 " Hear to that ! " remonstrated Ja- 
 cintha ; " and it is for her the man 
 does it all." 
 
 " For her ? " 
 
 " For me 1 " 
 
 " Yes ! mademoiselle, for you. Is 
 that wonderful ? You look at your- 
 self in the glass, and that will explain 
 all. No, don't, or we shall be too late. 
 Now, ladies, come to your hiding- 
 place." 
 
 " What ! are we to hide ? " 
 
 " Why, you don't think he will do 
 it, if he sees you, mademoiselle. Be- 
 sides, how are you to catch him unless 
 I put you in ambush ? " 
 
 " O you good girl," cried Laure. 
 " Here, then, is one that originates 
 ideas, — this is fun." 
 
 " I would rather dispense with that 
 part of her idea," said Josephine. 
 " What can I say to one I do not 
 know, even if I catch him, — which I 
 ho'|)e I shall not 7 " 
 
 " O, wc have not caught him yet," 
 said Jacintha ; and, if you do, it 
 won't be ' I,' it will be ' wc.' You 
 will be as bold as lions when you find 
 
 yourselves two to one, and on your 
 own ground. One and one make fif- 
 teen ! " 
 
 " One and one make fifteen ? 
 Laure, you are dressed, demand an 
 explanation, — and lend me a j)in." 
 
 " I mean one young lady alongside 
 another young lady has the courage 
 of fifteen separate." 
 
 Jacintha now took the conduct of 
 the expedition. She led her young 
 mistresses on tiptoe to the great oak- 
 tree. In with you, my ladies, and as 
 still as mice." 
 
 They cast a comic look at one an- 
 other, and obeyed the general. 
 
 " Now," said Jacintha, " if it is all 
 right, I sha' n't stir ; if it is all wrong, 
 I shall come and tell you. Mother of 
 Heaven, there is your blind up, — if 
 he sees that, he will know you are up. 
 I fly to draw it down, — adieu, mes- 
 demoiselles." 
 
 " She is not coming back, Jose- 
 phine 1 " 
 
 " No, my sister." 
 
 " Then my heart beats, that is all. 
 Also, imagine us popping out on a 
 stranger! " 
 
 " Such a phrase ! — my sister ! " 
 
 " It popped out, my sister ! " 
 
 " Before we even think of anything 
 else, be so kind as to fasten one or 
 two of these hooks properly ; should 
 we really decide to charge the foe, it 
 would be well to have as little disorder 
 in our own lines as possible " ; and Jo- 
 sephine's lip made a little curl that 
 was inestimably beautiful. Laure 
 obeyed. During the process, Jose- 
 phine delivered herself, in a faint sort 
 of way, of what follows : — 
 
 " See, nevertheless, how hard it is 
 for our sex to resist energy. Jacin- 
 tha is our servant ; l)ut she has energy 
 and decision ; tiiis young woman, my 
 supposed inferior, willed that I should 
 be in an absurd position ; what is the 
 consequence ? A minute ago I was 
 in bed, — now I am here, — and the 
 intervening events are a blank " (a 
 little yawn). 
 
 " Josephine," said Laure, gravely, 
 " such small talk is too fearful in this 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 57 
 
 moment of horrible agitation. A 
 sudden thought ! How come you to 
 be so frightfully calm and composed, 
 you, the greater poltroon of the two 
 by ever so much ? " 
 
 " By a hair's breadth, for instance/' 
 
 " I see, — you have decided not to 
 move from this ambush, come what 
 may. Double coward and traitress, 
 that is Avhy you are cool. I flutter 
 because at bottom I am brave, because 
 I mean to descend like an eagle on 
 him, — and fall dead with fright at his 
 feet." 
 
 " Be tranquil — nobody is coming 
 — be reasonable. What ground have 
 we for supposing any one will come 
 here this morning 1 " 
 
 " Josephine," cried Laure, eagerly, 
 " that girl knows more than she has 
 told us ; she is in earnest. Depend 
 upon it, as she says, there is sonre- 
 thing up. Kiss me, dear, that will 
 give you courage — oh ! how my 
 heart "beats, and remember * one and 
 one make — how many ? ' " 
 
 " How many figures do one cipher 
 added to anoth— hush ! hush ! " cried 
 Josephine, in a loud, agitated whisper, 
 and held up a quivering hand, and 
 her glorious bosom began to heave ; 
 she pointed several times in rapid suc- 
 cession westward through the tree. 
 In a moment Laure had her eye glued 
 to a little hole in the tree. Josepliine 
 had instinctively drawn back from a 
 much larger aperture, through which 
 she feared she could be seen. 
 
 " Yes," cried Laure, in a trembling 
 whisper. 
 
 A figure stood in the park, looking 
 over the little gate into the Fleasance. 
 
 Josephine kept away from the larger 
 aperture through which she had caught 
 a glimpse of him. Laure kept look- 
 ing through the little hole, and back 
 at Josephine, alternately; the figure 
 never moved. 
 
 The suspense lasted several minutes. 
 
 Presently, Laure made a sudden 
 movement, and withdrew from her 
 peep-hole ; and at the same moment 
 Josephine could just hear the gate 
 open. 
 
 The girls came together by one in- 
 stinct in the centre of the tree, but did 
 not dare to speak, scarce to breathe. 
 After a while, Laure ventured cau- 
 tiously to her peep-hole again ; but 
 she recoiled as if shot ; he was walk- 
 ing straight for the oak-tree. She 
 made a terrified signal to Josephine 
 accordingly. He passed slowly out 
 of sight, and the next time she peeped 
 she could no longer tell where he was. 
 Then the cautious Josephine listened 
 at the side of the east fissure, and 
 Laure squinted through the little hole 
 in case he should come into sight 
 again. AVhile thus employed, she 
 felt a violent pinch, and Josephine had 
 seized her bv the shoulder and wag 
 dragging her into one corner at the 
 side of the east fissure. They were 
 in the very act of crouching and flat- 
 tening each into her own corner, when 
 a man's shadow came slap into the 
 tree between them, and there remained. 
 Each put a hand quick and hard 
 against her mouth, or each would 
 have screamed out when the shadow 
 joined them, forerunner, no doubt, of 
 the man himself. 
 
 They glared down at it, and 
 crouched and trembled, — they had 
 not bargained for this ; they had 
 hidden to catch, not to be caught. 
 At last they recovered sufficient com- 
 posure to observe that this shadow, 
 one half of which lay on the ground, 
 while the head and shoulders went 
 a little way up the wall of the tree, 
 represented a man's profile, not his 
 front face. The figure, in short, was 
 standing between them and the sun, 
 and was contemplating the chateau, 
 not the tree. 
 
 Still, when the shadow took off its 
 hat to Josephine, she would have 
 screamed if she had not bitten her 
 plump hand instead. 
 
 It wiped its brow with a handker- 
 chief; it had walked fast, poor thing ! 
 The next moment it was away. 
 
 Sic transit, gloria muncli. 
 
 They looked at one another and 
 panted. They dared not before. Then 
 Laure, Avith one hand on her heaving 
 
58 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 bosom, shook lior little white fist vi- 
 ciously at where the li^rme must he, 
 and ]>erhaps a comieal desire of ven- 
 ^eaiue stimulated licr euriosity. She 
 now glided throuLrh the fissure like a 
 cautious ])aiit!ier from her den ; and 
 noiseless and supple as a serpent bejjan 
 to wind slowly round the tree. She 
 soon came to a great protuberance. 
 Her briLxht eye peeped round it; her 
 lithe body worked into the hollow, 
 and was invisible to him she was 
 watcliing. Josephine, a yard behind 
 lier, clung also to the oak, and waited 
 with glowing eye and cheek for sig- 
 nals. 
 
 The cautious visitor had surveyed 
 the ground, had strolled with mock 
 carelessness round the oak, and was 
 now safe at his goal. He was seen to 
 put his hand in his pocket, to draw 
 something out and drop it under the 
 lemon-tree ; this done, he was heard 
 to vent a little innocent chuckle of in- 
 tense satisfaction but of brief dura- 
 tion. For, the very moment she saw 
 the purse leave his hand, Laure made 
 a rapid signal to Josephine to wheel 
 round the other side of the tree, and, 
 starting together, with admirable con- 
 cert, both the dauuhters of Beaure- 
 pnire swooped on him from opposite 
 sides. 
 
 His senses were too quick, and too 
 much on the alert, not to hear the 
 rustic the moment they started ; but 
 it was too late then. They did not 
 walk up to him, or even run. They 
 came so fast they must, I think, have 
 fancied they were running away in- 
 stead of charging. 
 
 He knew nothing about their past 
 tremors. All he saw or heard was — 
 a rustle, then a flap on each side, as 
 of great wings, and two lovely women 
 were upon luin with angelic swiftness. 
 
 " Ah ! " he cried out, with a start 
 of terror, and glanced from the first 
 comer, Laure, to the ])ark. His in- 
 stinctive idea was to run that way. 
 But Josephine was on that side, caught 
 the look, and put up her hand, as 
 much as to say, " You can't pass 
 here." 
 
 In such situations, the mind works 
 quicker than lightning. He took off 
 his hat, and stammered an excuse : 
 " Come to look at the oak." But 
 Laure pounced on the purse, and held 
 it up to Josei)hine. 
 
 lie was caught. His only chance 
 now was to bolt for the great gate and 
 run, — but it was not the notary, — it 
 was a poor little fellow who lost his 
 presence of mind, or ]icrhaj)S thought 
 it rude to run when a lady told him to 
 I stand still. All he did was to crush 
 his face into his two hands, round 
 which his cheeks and , neck now 
 blushed red as blood. Blush ? the 
 young women could see the color rush 
 like a wave to the very roots of his 
 hair and the tips of his fingers. 
 
 CHAPTER VIIL 
 
 The moment our heroines, who, in 
 that des])eration which is one of the 
 occasional forms of cowardice, had 
 hurled themselves on the foe, saw they 
 had cauuht a Chinese and not a Tar- 
 tar, flash — the quick - witted pol- 
 troons exchanged a streak of purple 
 lightning over the al)ashed and droop- 
 ing head, and were two "lionesses of 
 valor and dignity in less than half a 
 moment. 
 
 It was with the quiet composure of 
 lofty and powerful natures that Jo- 
 sephine opened on him. 
 
 He gave a little wince when the 
 first rich tone struck his ear, 
 
 " Compose yourself, monsieur ; and 
 be so good as to tell us who you are. " 
 
 Ivlouurd must answer. Now he 
 could not speak through his hands ; 
 and he could not face a brace of lion- 
 esses ; so he took a middle course, 
 removed one hand, and, shading him- 
 self from Josephine witli the other, he 
 gasped out — 
 
 " I am — mv name is Riviere ; and 
 I — I — O ladies!" 
 
 " Don't be frightened," said Laure, 
 with an air of imperial clemency, " we 
 are not very angry." 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 59 
 
 " Ah ! thank you, mademoiselle." 
 
 "So," resuinedJosei)hine, "tell us 
 what interest have you in the fortunes 
 of the Baroness de Beaurepaire ? " 
 
 " I am so confused, or I could per- 
 haps answer. Mademoiselle, forgive 
 me ; I don't know how it is, I seem 
 not to have an idea left. Suffer me 
 then, with the greatest respect, to take 
 my leave." And he was for bolting. 
 
 " Not yet, monsieur," said Jose- 
 phine. " Laure ! " 
 
 Laure went off, looking behind her 
 every now and then. 
 
 After a long silence, Edouard mut- 
 tered : — 
 
 " Do you forgive me, mademoi- 
 selle T' 
 
 " Yes." Josephine colored and was 
 not quite so stately. She added : 
 " We should indeed be harsh judges, 
 monsieur, if we — Ah ! here is Laure 
 with the other. Take tliese twenty 
 louis wliicli you have been so kind as 
 to leave here." And lier creamy hand 
 held him out the two purses. 
 
 The boy started back and put up 
 both his hands in a supplicatory atti- 
 tude. 
 
 " no ! ladies — do not — pi'ay do 
 not ! Let me speak to you. My 
 ideas are coming back. I think I can 
 say a word or two now, though not as 
 I could wish. Do not i-eject my 
 friendship. You are alone in the 
 world ; your father is dead ; your 
 mother has but you to lean on. After 
 all, I am your neighbor, and neighbors 
 should be friends. And I am your 
 debtor ; I owe you more than yoii 
 could ever owe me ; for ever since I 
 came into this neighborhood I have 
 been happy, 0, no man was ever 
 so hap])y as I, ever since one day I 
 met you out walking. A single glance, 
 a single smile from an angel has done 
 this for me. I owe all my good 
 thoughts, if I have any, to her. Be- 
 fore I saw her, I vegetated, — now I 
 live. And you talk of twenty louis, — 
 well then yes! I will obey you, — I 
 will take them back. So then you 
 will perhaps be generous in your turn. 
 Since you mortify me in this, you will 
 
 grant what you can grant without 
 hurting your pride ; you will accept 
 my service, my devotion. You have 
 no brother, — I have no sister. Let 
 me be your brother, and your servant 
 forever." 
 
 " Monsieur Riviere," said Jose- 
 phine, with her delicate curl of her lip, 
 " you offer us too much, and we have 
 too little to give you in return. Ours 
 is a falling house, and — " 
 
 " No ! no ! mademoiselle, you mis- 
 take, — you are imposed upon. You 
 fancy you are poor, — others that do 
 not care for you say so too ; but I, 
 who OAve you so much, I have looked 
 closer into your interests, — your estate 
 is grossly mismanaged ; forgive me 
 for saying so. You are rich at this 
 moment if you had but a friend, — a 
 man of business. You are cheated 
 through thick and thin, — it is abomi- 
 nable, — and no wonder; you are wo- 
 men and don't understand business, 
 — you are aristocrats and scorn it." 
 
 " He is no fool," said Laure, naive- 
 
 " And you banish me who could 
 be of such service to you and to ma- 
 dame the baroness. Yet you say 
 you forgive my officiousness, but I 
 fear you do not. Ah ! no, this vile 
 money has ruined me with you." 
 
 " No ! monsieur, no ! — you have 
 earned and well merited our esteem." 
 
 " But not your acquaintance ? " 
 
 The ladies both looked down a lit- 
 tle ashamed. 
 
 " See now," said the boy, bitterly, 
 "how reasonable etiquette is. If I 
 had happened to dine at some house 
 where you dined, and some person 
 whom neither of us respected had 
 said to you, ' Suffer me to present 
 Monsieur Edouard Riviere to you,' 
 I should have the honor and blessing 
 of your acquaintance, — that would 
 have been an introduction, — but all 
 this is none, and you will never, nev- 
 er speak to me again." 
 
 " He is anything but a fool ! " said 
 Laure. 
 
 A look of ardent gratitude from 
 Edouard. 
 
60 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 " He is very young," said Jose- 
 phine, " and thinks to give society 
 new rules ; society is too strong to 
 be dictated to by \\\m or you ; let us 
 be serious ; api)roaeli, Monsieur Ed- 
 ouard." 
 
 Edouard came a little nearer, and 
 fixed two beseeching eyes on her a 
 moment, then lowered ihem. 
 
 " Ere we part, and part we must, 
 — for your ])ath lies one way, ours 
 another, — hear me, who speak in the 
 name of all this ancient house. Your 
 name is not quite new to me, — I be- 
 lieve you arc a Republican officer, 
 monsieur ; but you have acted en gen- 
 tilhoiiiine." 
 
 " Mademoiselle — " 
 • " May your career be brilliant, 
 Monsieur Edouard ! may those you 
 have been taught to serve, and whom 
 you greatly honor by serving, be more 
 grateful to you than circumstances 
 permit this family to be ; we, M'ho 
 were beginning to despair of human 
 goodness, thank you, monsieur, for 
 showing us the world is still embel- 
 lished with hearts like yours ! " And 
 she suddenly held him out her hand 
 like a pitying goddess, her purple eye 
 dwelling on liim with all the heaven 
 of sentiment in it. 
 
 He bowed his head over her hand, 
 and kissed it again and again. 
 
 " You will make Iiim cry, that will 
 be the next thing," said Laure, Avith a 
 little gulp. 
 
 "No! no!" said Josephine, ''he 
 is too much of a man to cry." 
 
 " no, mademoiselle, I will not 
 expose myself." 
 
 " And see," said Josephine, in a 
 motherly tone, " tliough we return 
 your poor gold, we keep both purses ; 
 Laure takes this one, my mother and 
 I this one ; tlicy will be our souvenirs 
 of one who wished to oblige without 
 humiliating us." 
 
 " And I think," said Laure, " as 
 his gold is so fugitive, I had better 
 imjirison it in this purse, which I have 
 just made, — there, — it would be un- 
 courteous to return him his money 
 loose, you know ! " 
 
 " Ah ! mademoiselle, what good- 
 ness ! O, be assured it shall be put 
 to no such base use as carrying mon- 
 ey." 
 
 " Adieu, then, Monsieur Riviere ! " 
 
 The two sisters were now togeth- 
 er, their arms round one another. 
 
 " Mademoiselle Laure, Mademoi- 
 selle Josephine, conceive if you can 
 my happiness, and my disa|)point- 
 ment, — adieu ! — adieu ! — adieu ! " 
 
 He was gone as slowly and unwill- 
 ingly as it is possible to go. 
 
 "Inaccessible!" said he to him- 
 self, sadly, as he went slowly home ; 
 "quite inaccessible! Yet there was 
 a moment after the first surprise 
 when I thought — but no. All the 
 shame of sucli a surprise, and yet I 
 am no nearer them than before. I 
 am very unhappy ! No ! I am not. 
 1 am the happiest man in Erance." 
 
 Then he acted the scene all over 
 again, only more adroitly, and 
 blushed again at his want of presence 
 of mind, and concocted speeches 
 for past use, and was hot and cold by 
 turns. 
 
 " Poor boy," said Josephine, " he 
 is gone away sad, and that has sad- 
 dened me. But I did my duty, and 
 he will yet live to thank me for freez- 
 ing at once an attachment I could 
 never have requited." 
 
 " Have you finished your observa- 
 tions, love ^ " asked Laure, drylv. 
 
 " Yes, Laure." 
 
 " Then — to business." 
 
 " To business ? " 
 
 " Yes ! — no ! don't go in yet. A 
 little arrangement between us two 
 arises necessarily out of this affair, — 
 that is how the notary talks, — and it 
 is as well to settle it at once, say I ; 
 because, love, in a day or two, you 
 know, it might be too late — ahem ! " 
 
 " But settle what? " 
 
 " Which of us two takes him, dear, 
 — that is all." 
 
 " Takes whom ? " 
 
 " Edouard ! " cx])lained Laure, de- 
 murely, lowering her eyes. 
 
 Josephine glared with wonder and 
 comical horror upon the lovely minx. 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 61 
 
 And after a long look too big for 
 words, she said : — 
 
 " Next did I not understand Ja- 
 cintha to say that it was me the poor 
 child dreams of ? " 
 
 " 0, you shall have him, my sis- 
 ter," put in the sly minx, warmly, 
 " if you insist on it." 
 
 " What words are these ? I shall 
 be angry at the end." 
 
 " Ah, I must not annoy you by 
 too great importunity, neither. You 
 have only to say you decline him." 
 
 " Decline him f poor boy ! He has 
 never asked me." 
 
 " In short, on one pretence or anoth- 
 er, you decline to decline him." 
 
 " How dare you, Laure 1 Of 
 course I decline him." 
 
 " Thank you, my sistei*," cried 
 Laure, hastily, and kissed her; " it is 
 the prettiest present you ever gave 
 me, — except your love. Ah ! what 
 is that on your hand 1 It is wet, — 
 it looks like the dew on a lily. It is 
 a tear from his eye, — you cruel wo- 
 man." '• 
 
 " No ! it was when I spoke kindly 
 to him. I remember now, 1 did feel 
 something ! Poor child ! " 
 
 " Heart of marble ! that affects 
 pity, — an hour after. Stay ! since 
 our agreement, this belongs to me " : 
 and slie drew out a back comb, and 
 down fell a mass of rich brown hair. 
 She swept tlie dew off the lily with it, 
 and did it up again with a turn of 
 the hand. Josephine sighed deeply. 
 
 " My sister, you frighten me. Do 
 not run thus wantonly to the edge 
 of a precipice. Take warning by 
 me. 0, why did we come out 1 Ja- 
 cintha, what have you done ! ! " 
 
 " This dear Josephine, with her 
 misgivings ! confess, you take me for 
 a fool." 
 
 " I take you for a child that will 
 play Avith fire if not prevented." 
 
 " At nineteen and a half one is no 
 longer a child. the blindness of 
 our elders ! I know you by heart, 
 Josephine, but you onlv know a lit- 
 tle bit of me. You fiave only ob- 
 served the side I turn to you, whom 
 
 I love better than I shall love any 
 man. Keep your pity for Monsieur 
 Riviere if ever he does fall into my 
 hands, not for me. In a word, Jo- 
 sephine, the hour is come for making 
 you a revelation. I am not a child. 
 I am a woman ! " 
 
 " Ah ! all the worse." 
 
 "But not the sort of woman you 
 are, — and Heaven be thanked 'for 
 both our sakes I am not ! " 
 
 Josephine opened her eyes. " She 
 never talked like this to nie before, — 
 this is your doing, jNIonsicur Riviere. 
 Unhappy girl, what are you, then 1 — 
 not like me, who love you so ! ! ! ! ! " 
 
 " No, my sister, I have the honor to 
 be your opposite." 
 
 " oNIy opposite ! " cried Josephine, / 
 very ruefully. 
 
 " I am 'a devil ! ! " exclaimed 
 Laure, in a mysterious whisper, but 
 Avith perfect gravity and conviction, 
 aiming at Josephine with her forefin- 
 ger, to point the remark. She allowed 
 just one second for this important 
 statement to sink into her sister's 
 mind, then straightway set to and 
 gambolled in a most elfish way round 
 and round her as Josephine moved 
 stately and thoughtful across the grass 
 to the chateau. 
 
 It may well be supposed what was 
 the subject of conversation at break- 
 f\\st, and indeed all the day. The 
 young ladies, however, drew only the 
 broader outlines of their story ; with 
 a natural reserve, they gave no direct 
 hint that they thought Monsieur Riv- 
 iere was in love Avith one of them. 
 They left their hearers to see that or 
 not, as might be. 
 
 The baroness, on her part, was not 
 disposed to put Ioa'C ideas into her 
 daughters' heads ; she therefore, 
 though too shrcAvd not to suspect 
 Dan Cupid's hand in this, reserved 
 her suspicions, and spoke of Riviere's 
 act as any one might, looking only at 
 its delicate, generous, and disinter- 
 ested side. 
 
 Male sagacity, in the person of St. 
 Aubin, prided itself on its superior 
 shrewdness, held the same language 
 
G2 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 as the otlicrs, Imt smiled secretly all 
 the lime at female eretlulity. 
 
 Searce tliree days had elapsed, three 
 weary days to a friend of ours, when 
 Jaeintha, lookin;^ throuiih tlie kitchen 
 window, saw the signal of distress 
 Hying from a tree in tlie park. She 
 slippetl out, and there was Edouard 
 Kiviere. Her tongue went off with a 
 clash at the moment of contact with 
 him, like a cymbal. First, she ex- 
 nlted over hitn: "How had it an- 
 swered trying to draw the wool over 
 Jaeintha's eyes, eh?" tlien she re- 
 lated her own sagacity, telling him, 
 as such characters are apt to, half the 
 story. She suppressed Danl's share, 
 for she might want a similar service 
 from Dard again, — who knows? 
 But she let him know it was she who 
 had set the ladies in ambush at that 
 time in the morning. 
 
 At this young Riviere raised his 
 hanils, and eyed her as a moral alli- 
 gator. She faced the examination 
 with sold composure, lips parted in a 
 brazen smile, and arms akimbo. 
 
 " O Jaeintha, you can stand there 
 and tell me this; what malice! all 
 because out of delicacy, misplaced 
 perhaps, I did not like to tell you." 
 
 "So then you don't see I have 
 been your best friend, ungratefully as 
 you used me 1 " 
 
 " Xo, Jaeintha, indeed I cannot see 
 that, — you have ruined me. Judge 
 for yourself." 
 
 Then he told her all that had hap- 
 pened in the Pleasance. Very little 
 of it was news to her. Still it inter- 
 ested and excited her to hear it all 
 told in a piece, and from his point of 
 view. 
 
 " So you see, my poor Jaeintha, you 
 have got me dismissed, kindly, but 
 oh ! so coldly and tirmly, — all hope is 
 now dead — alas ! " 
 
 "Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!" 
 
 " Jaeintha, do you laugh at the ex- 
 tinction of iny hopes ? " 
 
 "ila! ha! so she has given you 
 con.yc/ " 
 
 " Yes, and all that remains for 
 me — " 
 
 " Is not to take it," said Jaein- 
 tha. 
 
 " O no ! " said Riviere, sadly, but 
 firmly ; " debarred her love, let mc at 
 least have her respect." 
 
 " Her respect 7 how can she respect 
 a man who turns tail at the first 
 word i " 
 
 " But that word is hers, whose light- 
 est word a true and loyal lover is 
 i)ound to obey to his own cost. 
 Am I not to take a lady at her 
 word ? " 
 
 " Oh ! oh ! little sot, — no. I must 
 run and make the coffee." 
 
 "Malediction on the coffee! how 
 can you have the heart to think of 
 coffee now, dear Jaeintha 1 Do, pray, 
 explain." 
 
 " What is the use, if you will go 
 and dream that a lady is a man ? " 
 
 " No, no ! I won't fancy anything ; 
 tell me about women, then, if you 
 think you can understand them." 
 
 " I will then. Above all mortal 
 things they despise faint-hearted men. 
 They are on the lookout for some- 
 thing stronger than a woman. A wo- 
 man hates to have to make the ad- 
 vances. She likes to be always re- 
 treating, yet never be off. She is not 
 content to take what she wants, and 
 thank God for it, and that is a man. 
 She must play with it like a cat with 
 a mouse. She must make difficulties. 
 The man he is to trample on them. 
 She made them to no other end. If he 
 is such a fool as to let them trample 
 on him. Heaven have mercy on him, 
 for she won't ! Her two delights are, 
 saying ' no ' half a dozen times, and 
 saying ' yes ' at last. If you take her 
 at her word at the first ' no,' you 
 cause her six bitter disappointments; 
 for then she can't get to say the other 
 ' no's,' and, worst of all, she can't get 
 to say the * yes ' that she was looking 
 forward to, and that was in her heart 
 all along. Now, my young mistress 
 is half angel and half woman, so, if 
 you give her up because she bids you, 
 she will oidy despise you ; but if it 
 was my other young lady or me, we 
 should hate you as well." 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 63 
 
 " Hate me ? for self-denial and 
 obedience 1 " 
 
 "No ! Hate you for being a fool ! 
 Hate you with a bitterness — there, 
 hate you as you could not hate any- 
 thing." 
 
 "I can't believe it ! What horrible 
 injustice ! " 
 
 "Justice ! who looks to us for jus- 
 tice ? AYe are good creatures, but we 
 don't trouble our heads with justice; 
 it is a word you shall never hear a 
 woman use, unless she happens to be 
 doing some monstrous injustice at 
 that very moment; that is our rule 
 about justice — so, there." 
 
 " Jacintha, your views of your sex 
 arc hard and cynical. Women are 
 nobler and better than men ! " 
 
 "Ay ! ay ! you see them a mile off. 
 I sec tlieni too near: they can't pass 
 for rainbows here.'' 
 
 " Pass for rainbows — he ! he ! 
 Speak for yourself, Jacintha, and for 
 coquettes, and for vulgar women ; but 
 do not blaspheme those angelic na- 
 tures with which I was for one shorfc 
 moment in contact." 
 
 " Ah bah ! we are all tarred with 
 the same stick, angels and all, — the 
 angels that wear stays." 
 
 " I cannot think so. Besides, you 
 were not there ; you did not hear how 
 kindly yet how firmly she thanked, 
 yet bade me adieu." 
 
 " I tell you, a word in a man's 
 mouth is a thing, but in a woman's it 
 is only a word." At this point, with- 
 out any previous warning, she went 
 into a passion like gunpowder kin- 
 dled. " Take your own way ! " she 
 cried ; " this boy knows more than I 
 do. So be it, — let us speak no more 
 of it." 
 
 " Cruel Jacintha, to quarrel with 
 me, who have no other friend. There 
 — I am your pupil ; for, after all, 
 your sagacity is great. Advise me like 
 a sister — I listen." 
 
 " Like a sister ! Ah, my child, do 
 not say that." 
 
 " Why not ? Yes, do." 
 
 " No ; good advice is never wel- 
 come." 
 
 " It is so seldom given kindly," 
 
 " O, as to that, I could not speak 
 unkindly to you, my little cabbage ; 
 but I shall make you unhappy, and 
 then I shall be unhappy ; for you see, 
 with all our faults, Ave have not bad 
 hearts." 
 
 " Speak, Jacintha." 
 
 " I am going to ; and when I have 
 spoken, I shall never see your pretty 
 face again so near to mine, — so you 
 see I am disinterested ; and — O 
 how I hate telling the truth ! " cried 
 she, with pious fervor ; " it always 
 makes everybody miserable." 
 
 " Jacintha, remember what you said 
 in its favor the first time we met." 
 
 " I cannot remember for my part, 
 and what signifies what I said ? 
 Words — air ! Well, my poor child, 
 I will advise you like a mother, — give 
 her up." 
 
 " Give her up 1 " 
 
 " Think no more of her : for there 
 is a thing in your way that is as hard 
 to get over as all her nonsensical 
 words would be easy." 
 
 " O, what is it"? You make me 
 tremble." 
 
 " It is a man." 
 
 " Ah ! " 
 
 " There is another man in the w^ay." 
 
 " Who ? — that vile old doctor ? " 
 
 " 0, if it was no worse than that ! 
 No ! it is a young one. 0, you 
 don't know him, — he has not been 
 here for years ; but what of that, if 
 his image lies in her heart ? And it 
 does. 1 listened the other day, and 
 I heard something that opened my 
 eyes. I am cruel to you, my son, — 
 forgive me ! " 
 
 jacintha scarcely dared look at 
 her feeble-minded novice. She did 
 not like to see her blow fall and him 
 stagger and turn pale under it. Wlien 
 she did look, lo and behold ! he was 
 red instead of pale. 
 
 " What is he ? " was the question, 
 in a stern voice. 
 
 " He is a soldier." 
 
 " I am glad of that : then he will 
 fight, and I '11 kill him." 
 
 " Hear to that now ! " 
 
64 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 " Ami you think I will pivc in 
 now ! resi^ni her to an unwoitliv ri- 
 val ? " 
 
 " Who said he was unworthy ? " 
 
 " I say so." 
 
 " What makes j^ou fancy that ? " 
 
 " Because he never comes near the 
 place, because he nejjflects what none 
 but a viUaiu could neglect, the great- 
 est treasure in the world. No ! he 
 deserves to lose it, — and he shall 
 lose it. Tiiank you, Jaeintha ! you 
 show me m\' folly. I will not take her 
 comje now, rely on it. No ! no ! if she 
 bade me do anything in the world to 
 please her, and her alone, I would do 
 it, though I had to go through fire 
 and water and blood, and break my 
 heart doing it. But if she asks me 
 to make way for a rival, I answer, — 
 never ! — never ! — never ! " 
 
 " But if she loves him 1 " 
 
 " A passing fancy, and the object 
 of it unworthy : it is my duty to cure 
 her of a misplaced attachment that 
 can never make her happy, sweet 
 angel ! she will live to thank me, — 
 to bless me ! — I say, whose side are 
 you on, — his or mine ? " 
 
 " Wretch, do you ask me ? " 
 
 " Do they walk in the park ? " 
 
 " Half an hour every day." 
 
 " What time ? " 
 
 " Uncertain." 
 
 " And I can't see into the park for 
 that great infernal elin-tree at the cor- 
 ner ; it just blocks up my window, — 
 if I cut it down some night, will you 
 tell ? " 
 
 " Not I. Would you really have 
 the forehead to cut down one of the 
 Beaurepaire elms ? — holy saints ! " 
 
 " Look for it to-morrow," said he, 
 grimly, " and look low enough or 
 you won't sec it. 1 'II cut one of 
 your elms down with as little remorse 
 as I would half a dozen rivals." 
 
 " He is mad, — after all I want fire- 
 wood, and above all I want brush- 
 wood for my oven : for you are to 
 understand, my friend, there is some 
 meal come in from the tenants, and 
 80 — " 
 
 " That 's riLMit 1 think kitchen ! 
 
 talk kitchen ! pray docs your soul live 
 in a kitchen as well as your body ? " 
 
 " Monsieur ! " 
 
 " Forgive me, my blood is on fire, 
 I take your advice ; you shall never 
 have to spur mc again. It is clear 
 you know the sex best : she shall 
 make as many difiiculties as she 
 pleases. She shall say " no " twelve 
 times instead of six if it amuses her : 
 I will court her, I will besiege her, 
 I '11 tight for her against all the sol- 
 diers on earth, and all the fiends in 
 you know where." Whir, — he was 
 away. 
 
 Jaeintha gazed after her pupil and 
 firework with ardent admiration so 
 long as his graceful, active figure was 
 in sight. 
 
 Then she fell into a revery, — an 
 unusual mood with this active per- 
 sonage. 
 
 It is not cnstomary, in polite fic- 
 tion, to go into the reflecting part of 
 a servant-maid : let us therefore make 
 a point of doing it, for to be vulgar 
 ill the eyes of snobs and snobbesses is 
 no mean distinction. 
 
 " Look there now ! — Humph — 
 they say you should give and take. 
 Well, I gave a lesson : and now I 
 have taken one. 
 
 " From fourteen to fourscore a man 
 is a man, and a woman is a woman. 
 Write that in your mass books, for it 
 is as true as gospel. Ah w^ell ! school 
 is never over while Ave are in the 
 ■world. I thought I knew something 
 too : but I Avas all behind. Now to 
 me a woman is the shallowest thing 
 the good God ever made. I can 
 plumb it with my forefinger. But 
 to a man they are as deep as the 
 ocean. And, no doubt, men can read 
 one another : but they beat mc. She 
 put up a straw between him and her, 
 and he fell back as if it was Goliah's 
 spear, that was as thick as — what was 
 it as thick as ? I showed him an iron 
 door between them, and he flies at it 
 as if it was a sheet of brow-n pa])er. 
 MoTiiKR OF Heaven ! my pot ! my 
 
 I'OT ! " 
 
 She fled wildly. 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 65 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 " Oh ! madarae the baroness, there 
 is a tree blown down in the park." 
 
 " Impossible, child ! there was no 
 ■wind at all last night." 
 
 " No, madame, but there was a night 
 or two ago." 
 
 Lanre giggled, 
 
 " Well, mademoiselle, that might 
 loosen it! " 
 
 Laure laughed ; but the baroness 
 was grave. 
 
 " Let us all go and look at it," said 
 she, sadly ; a tree was an old friend to 
 her. 
 
 There lay the monster on the earth 
 that was ploughed and harrowed by 
 its hundred arms and thousand fin- 
 gers ; its giant proportions now first 
 revealed by the space of earth it cov- 
 ered, and the frightful gap its fall left 
 in the air and the prospect. The doc- 
 tor inspected the tree in detail, and 
 especially the stump, and said, 
 " Humph ! " 
 
 The baroness looked only at the 
 mass and the ruin. 
 
 " An ill omen, my children," said 
 she. " It stood out the storm ; and 
 then one calm night it fell. And so 
 it will be with the house of Beaure- 
 paire." 
 
 " Ah, well," said Jacintha, in a com- 
 fortable tone, " now you arc down, we 
 must do the best we can with you. I 
 wanted some firewood, — and I want- 
 ed small wood terribly." 
 
 The baroness shrugged hershoitlders 
 at this kitchen philosophy, and moved 
 away with Josephine. 
 
 Tlie doctor detained Laure. " Now 
 it is no use telling your mother, to 
 annoy her, but this tree has been cut 
 down." 
 
 " Impossible ! " 
 
 " Fact. Come and look at the 
 
 stub. O, I have stood and seen 
 
 thousands of trees felled, — it is an 
 
 interesting operation ; comes next to 
 
 taking off a — hem ! See how clean 
 
 I three fourths of the wood have come 
 
 ! away. They have had the cunning to 
 
 I cut three feet above the ground, too ; 
 
 but this is not Nature's work, — it is 
 man's. Laure, it wanted but this ; 
 you have an enemy, — a secret ene- 
 my." 
 
 " Ah ! " cried Laure, with flashing 
 eyes, and making her hand into an 
 angular snowball ; " oh ! that I had 
 him here ! I 'd — Ah ! ah ! " 
 
 This doughty threat ended in two 
 screams, for a young gentleman 
 sprang from the road over the hedge, 
 and alighted close to them. He took 
 off his hat, and, blushing like a rose, 
 poured out a flood of excuses. 
 
 " Mademoiselle — monsieur, I saw 
 that a large tree had fallen, and my 
 curiosity — forgive my indiscretion," 
 — and he affected to retreat, but cast 
 a lingering look at the fiiUen tree. 
 
 " Remain, monsieur," said St. Au- 
 bin, politely ; " and, as your eyes are 
 younger than mine, I will even ask 
 you to examine the stump and also 
 the tree, and tell me whether my sus- 
 picions ai-e correct. Has this tree 
 fallen b}^ accident, or by the hand of 
 man 1 Pronounce, monsieur." 
 
 Riviere darted on the stump with 
 the fire of curiosity in his face, and 
 examined it keenly. His deportment 
 was not bad comedy. 
 
 He pronounced : " This tree has 
 been cut down. See, mademoiselle," 
 cried the young rogue, determined to 
 bring her into the conversation, " ob- 
 serve this cut here in the wood ; look, 
 here are the marks of the teeth of a 
 saw." 
 
 This brought Laure close to him, 
 and he gave a prolix explanation to 
 keep her there, and asked her whether 
 she saw this, and whether she saw 
 that ; so then she was obliged to speak 
 to him. He proved to their entire 
 satisfaction that somebody had cut 
 down the elm. 
 
 " The rogue ! " cried St. Aubin. 
 
 " The wretch ! " cried Laure. 
 
 Riviere looked down, and resumed 
 his insDCCtion of the stump. 
 
 " O "that I had him ! " cried Laure, 
 still at fever heat. 
 
 " I wish you had, mademoiselle," 
 said Edouard, with a droll ilook. 
 
ee 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 Then, witlian air of imijosingp-avity : 
 " ^Monsiour," says he, " 1 have tlie 
 honor to serve the government in this 
 disirii't, as you may perhaps be 
 aware." 
 
 St. Aubin looked to Laure for ex- 
 planation. 
 
 She would not give any, because by 
 revealing the yonng man's name slie 
 WDuid have enabled St. Aubin to put 
 the purse and this jump over the 
 liedge together. She colored at the 
 bare thought, but said nothing. 
 
 Kivierc went on. 
 
 " If you really suspect this has 
 been done out of malice, I will set an 
 incpiiry on foot." 
 
 " You are very good, monsieur. It 
 certainly is a mysterious aiFair." 
 
 " In short, give yourself no further 
 anxiety about it, sir. I take it into 
 my hands, — in doing so, I merely dis- 
 charge my duty ; need I add, madem- 
 oiselle, that duty is for once a pleasui'C. 
 If any of the neighbors is the culprit, 
 it will transpire ; if not, still the 
 present government is, I assure you, 
 sir, a Briareus, and one of its hands 
 will fall sooner or later on him who 
 has dared to annoy you, mademoi- 
 selle." 
 
 As a comment on these words of 
 weight, he drew out his pocket-book 
 ■with such an air : made a minute or 
 two, and returned it to his pocket. 
 
 " Monsieur, mademoiselle, receive 
 once more my excuses for my indis- 
 creet curiosity, which I shall never 
 cease to regret, unless it should lead 
 to the discovery of what you have at 
 heart." And he bowed himself away. 
 
 " A charming young man, my 
 dear." 
 
 " What, that little buck, — do you 
 see charms in him ? — where 1 " 
 
 " Buck 1 a young Apollo, beaming 
 with goodness as well as intelli- 
 gence." 
 
 " Oh ! oh ! oh ! doctor." 
 
 " I have not seen such a fiicc for 
 ever so long," cried the doctor, get- 
 ting angry. 
 
 " I don't desire to see such another 
 for ever so long." 
 
 " Confess, at least, that his man- 
 ners are singularly graceful." 
 
 " licpublican ease, doctor, — ad- 
 mire it — those who can." 
 
 " It was tiie respectful ease of a 
 young person not desirous to attract 
 atteniiou to his own grace, but simply 
 to be polite." 
 
 " Now I thought his flying over our 
 hedge, and taking our affairs on him 
 and liis little pocket-book, a great 
 piece of eftrontery." 
 
 " If it had not'been done with equal 
 modesty and defereiice," replied St. 
 Aubin ; " but the poor boy is a Re- 
 publican. So you cannot be just. 
 O politics! politics! — you madden 
 the brain, — you bandage the judg- 
 ment, — you corrupt the heart, — let 
 us see whether they have blinded your 
 very eyes. Come, did you notice his 
 color, — roses and lilies side by side 1 
 Come, now." 
 
 " A boy's complexion, staring red 
 and white ! — Yes." 
 
 " And his eyes full of soul." 
 
 " Y''es, he had wildish eyes. If you 
 want to be stared out of countenance, 
 send for INIonsieur Riv — hum — what 
 did he say his name was ? " 
 
 " I forget. A figure like Antinous, 
 w^ith all Diana's bounding grace." 
 
 " 0, ho can jump high enough to 
 frighten one : enchanting quality." 
 
 " Well, mademoiselle, I shall not 
 subject him to further satire by prais- 
 ing him. He serves France and not 
 the Bourbons ; and is therefore a 
 monster, ugly and even old. Let us 
 speak of more important matters." 
 
 " If you please," said Laure, dryly. 
 And they did. 
 
 And the effect of the rise in themes 
 was that Laure became distracted, 
 and listened badly ; and every now 
 and then she slipped back to the aban- 
 doned subject, and made a number of 
 half-concessions, one at a time, in fa- 
 vor of the young Republican's looks, 
 manners, and conduct, — all to please 
 the doctor. So that at last she and 
 St. Aubin were not so very far apart 
 in their estimate of the youth. Ar- 
 rived at the i)ark gate leading into tlio 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 67 
 
 Pleasance, she turned suddenly round, 
 beamed and blushed all over with 
 pleasure, and put her arms round the 
 puzzled doctor's neck and kissed him ; 
 then scudded off like a rabbit after her 
 sister who was on the south terrace. 
 
 " Dard, I 've a little job for you/' 
 cried Jacintha, cheerilv. 
 
 " Ugh ! oh ! have you ? " 
 
 " You must put up the grindstone. 
 Stop! don't gooff, — that is not all. 
 Put a handle in it, and then sharpen 
 the great axe, — the hatchet is not a 
 bit of use." 
 
 " Any more 1 " 
 
 " Yes ; to-morrow you must go into 
 the park with your wheelbarrow, and 
 cut me billet wood for up stairs and 
 small wood for my oven." 
 
 The much-enduring man set about 
 this new job. 
 
 The demoiselles De Beaurepaire, 
 coming out into the paik for their af- 
 ternoon walk, saw a figure hacking 
 away at the fallen tree. They went 
 towards it near enough to recognize 
 Dard : then they turned and took 
 their usual walk. They made sure 
 Jacintlia had ordered him to do it. 
 
 They had not been in the park a 
 minute before a telescope was levelled 
 from a window at them, and the next 
 moment M. Edouard was rumiing up 
 the road to Beaurepaire. 
 
 Now as he came near the fallen tree 
 he heard loud cries for help, followed 
 by groans of pain. He bounded over 
 the hedge, and there was Dard hang- 
 ing over his axe faint and moaning. 
 
 "What is the matter? — what is 
 the matter? " cried Edouard, running 
 to him. 
 
 " Oh ! oh ! — cut my foot." 
 
 Edouard looked, and turned sick, 
 for there was a gash right through 
 Dard's shoe, and the blood welling 
 up through it. But, recovering him- 
 self by an effort of the will, he cried 
 out : — 
 
 " Courage, my lad ! don't give in, 
 — thank Heaven there 's no artery 
 there. O dear, it is a terrible cut ! 
 Let us get you home, that is the first 
 thing ! Can you walk 1 " 
 
 " Lord bless you, no ! nor stand 
 either Avithout help." 
 
 Edouard flew to the wheelban-ow, 
 and reversing it spun a lot of billet 
 out. 
 
 " Ye must not do that," said Dard, 
 with all the energy he was capable of 
 in his present condition, — " why, 
 that is Jacintha's wood." 
 
 " To the Devil with Jacintha and 
 her wood too ! " cried Edouard, " a 
 man is worth more than a fagot. 
 Come, Dard, I shall wheel you home : 
 it is only just across the park." 
 
 "With some difiicuhy he lifted him 
 into the barrow. 
 
 " Ah ! how lucky," he cried, " I 
 have got my shooting-jacket on, so 
 here 's my brandy flask : take a suck 
 at it, old fellow, — and courage ! " 
 
 Dard stretched out his hand with 
 sudden animation for the flask, and it 
 was soon glued to his lips. 
 
 Now the ladies, as they walked, saw 
 a man wheeling a barrow across the 
 park, and took no particular notice ; 
 but, as Riviere was making for the 
 same point, presently the barrow 
 came near enough for them to see a 
 man's head and arms in it. Laure 
 was the first to notice this. 
 
 " Look ! look ! " said she, " if he is 
 not wheeling Dard in the barrow 
 now." 
 
 " Who ? " 
 
 " Do you ask who ? Who provides 
 all our amusement ? " 
 
 " Laure, I do not like this. I am 
 afraid there is something wrong. 
 Consider, Monsieur Riviere would 
 not wheel Dard all across the park 
 for amusement." 
 
 " let us run and see," cried 
 Laure. 
 
 Now Riviere did not intend them 
 to see ; he had calculated on getting 
 to the corner a considerable time be- 
 fore the promenaders. But they 
 hastened their speed, and defeated 
 his intention. He had taken his coat 
 off too, and made a great eftbrt to 
 beat them. 
 
 " Dard," said he, " now here are 
 the young ladies, what a pity, — put 
 
GS 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 iiiv COM over your foot, that is a good 
 foiloxv." 
 
 " What for ? " said Dard, sulki- 
 ly. " Xo ! let them see what they 
 liavc done with their little odd johs : 
 this is my last for one wlule. I 
 sha'n't go on two legs again this 
 year." 
 
 The ladies came up with them. 
 " O monsieur," said Josephine, 
 " what is the matter ? " 
 
 " We have met with a little acci- 
 dent, mademoiselle, that is all. Dard 
 has hurt his foot, — nothing to speak 
 of, but I thought he would be best at 
 home." 
 
 Laure raised the coat which Riv- 
 iere in spite of Dard had flung over 
 his foot, and removed it. 
 
 "O, he is bleeding! Dard is 
 bleeding! my poor Dard. Oh! 
 oh ! oh ! " 
 
 " Hush ! Laure ! Laure ! " 
 
 " No ! don't put him out of heart, 
 mademoiselle. Take another pull at 
 the lla>k, Dard. If you please, ladies, 
 !f must have him home Avithout de- 
 lay." 
 
 " O yes, but I want him to have a 
 surgeon," cried Josephine. " Ah ! 
 why are we so poor, and no horses 
 nor people to send olf as we used to 
 have 1 " 
 
 " Mademoiselle, have no fears. 
 Dard shall have the best surgeon in 
 the district by his side in less than an 
 hour: the town is but two short 
 leagues off." 
 
 " Have you a horse then ? " 
 
 " No ; but I am as good a runner 
 as any for miles round. I'll run it 
 out in half an hour or die at it, and 
 I '11 send the surgeon up full gal- 
 lop." 
 
 " Ah ! Heaven bless you, mon- 
 sieur, you have a good heart," cried 
 Josephine. 
 
 " O yes ! Heaven bless him," cried 
 Laure. 
 
 He was already gone : but these 
 sweet words rang in his ears and ran 
 warm round and round bis heart, as 
 he straightened his arms and his back 
 to the work. When they had gone 
 
 about a hundred yards, a single snivel 
 went oti' in the wheelbarrow.* 
 
 Five minutes after, Dard was at 
 home in charge of his grandmother, 
 his shoe oil", liis foot in a wet linen 
 cloth ; and the statesman, his coat 
 tied round the neck, squared his 
 shoulders and ran tlie two short 
 leagues out. He ran them in thirty- 
 five minutes, found the surgeon at 
 home, told the case, pooh-poohed that 
 worthy's promise to go to the patient 
 presently, darted into his stable, sad- 
 dled the horse, brought him round, 
 saw the surgeon into the saddle, 
 started him, dined at the restaura- 
 teur's, strolled back, and was in time 
 to get a good look at the chateau of 
 Beaurepaire before the sun set on it. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Jacixth.4. came into Dard's cot- 
 tage that evening. 
 
 " So you have been and done it, my 
 man," cried she, cheerfully and rath- 
 er roughly ; then sat down and rocked 
 herself, with her apron over her head. 
 
 She cx])laincd this anomalous pro- 
 ceeding to his grandmother privatel3^ 
 
 " I thought I would keep his heart 
 up anyway ; but you see I was not 
 fit." 
 
 Calmer, she comforted Dard, and 
 ended by cross questioning him. The 
 young ladies had told her what they 
 had seen, and, though Dard was too 
 wrapped up in himself to dwell with 
 any gusto upon Edouard's zeal and 
 humanity, still, as far as facts went, 
 he confirmed the ladies' comments. 
 
 Jacintha's heart yearned towards 
 the young man. She was in the 
 town next day making a purchase or 
 two, so she called on him. 
 
 "1 thought I would just step in to 
 put a question to you. Would you 
 like to get a word with her alone 7 " 
 
 " O jacintha ! " 
 
 * I beg the polite writer's pardon -. first, for 
 wheeliiiR it on to tlie scene at all ; secondly, for 
 not calling it a mouotroch. 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 69 
 
 " Hush ! don't shout like that ; why, 
 Tou may be sure she is alone some- 
 times, though not very often. They 
 love one another so, those two." 
 
 Jacintha then developed her plan. 
 
 As the clout was his signal, so she 
 must have a signal to show when she 
 wanted to speak to him, and that sig- 
 nal should be a sheet, which she 
 would hang over the battlement of 
 Beaurepaire Chateau. 
 
 " So when you see a white sheet, 
 you come to me, — the quicker the 
 better." 
 
 " You dear girl." 
 
 " O, it is the least I can do now. 
 You know what I mean. I won't 
 speak about it. Words in a woman's 
 mouth, — I told you what they are. 
 No, I won't end in steam, like boiling 
 Avater does. I won't say, I '11 show 
 you what you have done, my angel." 
 
 Her eyes told him all the same. 
 
 "Where is my clout ? You never 
 left it out there on the tree, did you ? " 
 and she looked solemn. 
 
 " Jacintha ! on my knees I demand 
 pardon for my fatal heedlessness." 
 
 Jacintha put her hand under her 
 apron and pulled out the clout. 
 
 " There," said she, and threw it 
 him. " Now suppose you had wanted 
 to speak to me, — ah well, we can't 
 have all. You have a good heart, 
 but no head." 
 
 Dard's grandmother had a little 
 house, a little land, a little money, 
 and a little cow. She could just keep 
 Dard and herself, and her resources 
 enabled Dard to do so many little odd 
 jobs for love, yet keep his favorite or- 
 gan tolerably filled. 
 
 " Go to bed, my little son, since 
 you are hashed," said Dard's grand- 
 mother. 
 
 " Bed be hanged," cried he. " What 
 good is bed ? That 's another silly old 
 custom wants doing away with. It 
 weakens you, — it turns 3'ou into 
 train oil, — it is the doctor's friend, 
 and the patient's enemy. Many a one 
 shuts up through taking to bed, that 
 could have got through his trouble, if 
 
 he had kept his feet like a man. If I 
 was dying I would not go to bed till 
 I went to the bed with a spade in it. 
 No ! sit up like Julius Cajsar, and di.e 
 as you lived, in your clothes : don't 
 strip yourself: let the old women 
 stx-ip you, — that is their delight lay- 
 ing out a chap : that is the time they 
 brighten up, the old sorceresses." 
 He concluded this amiable rhapsody, 
 the latter part of which was levelled 
 at a lugubrious weakness of his grand- 
 mother's for the superfluous embel- 
 lishment of the dead, by telling her 
 it was bad enough to be tied by the 
 foot like an ass, without settling down 
 on his back like a cast sheep. " Give 
 me the arm-chair. I '11 sit in it, and 
 if I have any friends they will show it 
 now : they will come and tell me what 
 is going on in the village, for I can't 
 get out to see it and hear it, they must 
 know that." 
 
 Seated in state in his granny's easy- 
 chair, the loss of which after thirty 
 years' use made her miserable, she 
 could n't tell why, le Sieur Dard 
 awaited his friends. 
 
 His friends did not come. 
 
 The rain did. and poured all the 
 afternoon. Night came, and solitude. 
 Dard boiled over with bitterness. 
 
 " They are then a lot of pigs ; all 
 those fellows I haA'e drank with at 
 Bigot's and Simmet's. Down with 
 all fair-weather friends ! ! " 
 
 The next day the sun shone, the air 
 was clear, and the sky blue. 
 
 " Ah ! let us see now," cried Dard. 
 
 Alas ! no fellow-drinkers, no fellow- 
 smokers, came to console their hurt 
 fellow. And Dard, who had boiled 
 with anger yesterday, was now sad 
 and despondent. 
 
 " Down with egoists," he groaned. 
 
 However, about three in the after- 
 noon came a tap at the door. 
 
 " Ah ! at last," cried Dard : " come 
 in ! " 
 
 The door was slowl}- opened, and 
 two lovely faces appeared at tlie thresh- 
 old. The demoiselles De Beaure- 
 paire wore a tender look of interest 
 and pity when they caught sight of 
 
'0 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 Dnrtl, and on the old woman courtcsy- 
 in.LT to tlioni tli(\v cnurtcsiod to her and 
 Dard. lint when Dard jnit his arms 
 on tlie chair to rise and salute them, 
 Laure put up her finfjer and peremp- 
 torily forhade him. The next moment 
 thev were close to him, one a little to 
 his riirht, tiic otiier to his left, and two 
 pair of sapphire eyes with the mild 
 lustre of sympathy playing down in- 
 cessantly upon him. llow was he ? 
 How had he slept ? Was he in pain ? 
 Was he in much pain ? tell the truth 
 now. Was there anything to eat or 
 drink he could fancy? Jacintha 
 should make it and bring it, if it was 
 within their means. 
 
 A prince could not have had more 
 solicitous attendants ; nor a fairy 
 king lovelier and less earthly ones. 
 
 He looked in heavy amazement 
 from one to the other. Laure laughed 
 at him, then Josephine smiled. Laure 
 bent, and was by some supple process 
 on one knee, taking the measure of 
 the wounded foot. When she first 
 approached it he winced ; but the 
 next moment he smiled. He had 
 never been touched like this, — itAvas 
 contact and no contact, — she treated 
 his foot as the zephyr the violets, — 
 she handled it as if it had been some 
 sacred thing. By the help of his eye 
 he could just know she was touching 
 him. 
 
 " There, monsieur, you are meas- 
 ured for a list shoe." 
 
 " And I will make it for you, 
 Dard," said Josephine. 
 
 " Don't you believe her, Dard : I 
 shall make it : she is indolent." 
 
 " We will both make it, then," said 
 Josephine. 
 
 J^ard grinned an uncertain grin. 
 
 At the door they turned and sent 
 back each a smile brimful of comfort, 
 promise, and kindness, to stay with 
 liim till next visit. 
 
 Dard scratched his head. 
 
 Dard pondered half an hour in 
 silence thus, or thereabouts. 
 
 The old woman had been to milk 
 the cow. 
 
 She now came into the kitchen. 
 
 Dard sang out lustily to her : 
 " Granny, I 'm better. Keep your 
 heart up, old lady : we sha' n't die 
 this bout. I am good for a few more 
 little odd jobs," said he, with a sud- 
 den tincture of bitterness. 
 
 Presently in came Jacintha with a 
 basket, crying, "I have not a minute 
 to stay now : Dard, my young ladies 
 have sent you two bottles of Bur- 
 gundy, — you won't like that, — and 
 here is a loaf I have just made. And 
 now I must go " : and she stayed 
 three quarters of an hour with him, 
 and cheered him mightily. 
 
 At dusk lliviere rode by, fastened 
 his horse up, and came bustling in. 
 
 " How do we get on, darnel " 
 
 " Pretty well, monsieur. He was 
 very dull at first, but now he is bright- 
 ened up a bit, poor thing. All the 
 great folks come here to see him, — 
 the demoiselles De Beaurepaire and 
 all." 
 
 "Ah! that is like them." 
 
 " O, as to that, my little son is 
 respected far and wide," said the old 
 lady, inflating herself; and as grati- 
 tude cannot live an instant Avith con- 
 ceit, she went on to say, " and after 
 all it is the least they can do, for he 
 has been a good friend to them, and 
 never seen the color of their money. 
 Also ! behold him hashed in their 
 service, — a wounded foot, — that is 
 all ever he took out of Beaurepaire." 
 
 " Hold your tongue," cried Dard, 
 brutally ; " if I don't complain, what 
 right have yon ? " He added dog- 
 gedly, but rather gently, "the axe 
 Avas in my hand, not in theirs, — let 
 us be just before all things." 
 
 The statesman sat at breakfast, 
 eating roasted kidneys with a little 
 melted butter and parsh'y under 
 them, and drinking a tumbler of old 
 Medoc slightly diluted, — a modest 
 repast becoming his age, and the state 
 of his aflections. On liis writing-table 
 lay waiting for him a battle array of 
 stubborn figures. He looked at them 
 over his tumbler. " Ah ! " thought 
 I he, " to-day I must be all the state's. 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 71 
 
 Even you must not keep me from 
 those dry calculations, O well-beloved 
 chateau of Beau-re-pai — ah ! my 
 telescope — it is! — it is." [Exit 
 statesman. 
 
 The white flag was waving from 
 the battlements. 
 
 When he got half-way to Beaure- 
 paire, he found to his horror he had 
 forgotten that wretched clout. How- 
 ever, he would not go back. He 
 trusted to Jacintha's intelligence. It 
 did not deceive him. He found her 
 waiting for him. 
 
 " She is gone alone to Dard's 
 house. The other will be after her 
 soon, — forward ! ! " 
 
 He flew ; he knocked with beating 
 lieart at Dard's door. At another 
 time he should have knocked and 
 opened witliout further invitation. 
 
 " Come in," cried Dard's stentorian 
 voice. He entered, and there seated 
 on a chair, with a book in her hand, 
 was — Mademoiselle Josephine de 
 Beaurepaire. 
 
 Riviere stared, — stupefied, mysti- 
 fied. 
 
 The young lady rose with a smile, 
 courtesied, and reseated herself She 
 was as self-possessed as he was flurried 
 and puzzled what to say or do. He 
 recovered himself a little, inquired 
 with wonderful solicitude Dard's 
 present symptoms, and, suddenly re- 
 membering the other lady was expect- 
 ed, he said : " I leave you in good 
 hands ; angel visitors are best enjoyed 
 alone," and retired slowly, with a 
 deep obeisance. Once outside the 
 door, dignity vanished in alacrity ; he 
 flew off into the park, and ran as hard 
 as he could towards the chateau. He 
 was within fifty yards of the little 
 gate, when snre enoughLaure emerged. 
 They met ; his heart beating violently. 
 
 " Ah ! mademoiselle ! — " 
 
 " Ah ! it is ^Monsieur Riviere, I de- 
 clare," said Laurc, coolly, all over 
 blushes, though. 
 
 " Yes, mademoiselle, and I am so 
 out of breath. I am sent for you. 
 Mademoiselle Josephine awaits you at 
 Dard's house." 
 
 " She sent you for me ? " inquired 
 Laure, arching her brows. 
 
 " Not positively, Mademoiselle Lau- 
 re." 
 
 " How pat he has our names too ! " 
 
 "But I could see I should please 
 her by coming for you ; there is, I 
 believe, a bull or so about." 
 
 " A bull or two ; don't talk in that 
 reckless way, monsieur. She has 
 done well to send you ; let us make 
 haste." 
 
 " But I am a little out of breath." 
 
 " never mind that ! I abhor 
 bulls." . 
 
 "But, mademoiselle, we are not 
 come to them yet, and the faster we 
 go now the sooner we shall." 
 
 " Yes ; but I always like to get a 
 disagreeable thing over as soon as 
 possible," said Laure, slyly. 
 
 " Ah," replied Edouard, mourn- 
 fully, " in that case let us make 
 haste." 
 
 After a little spurt, mademoiselle 
 relaxed the pace of her own accord, 
 and even went slower than before. 
 There was an awkward silence. 
 Edouard eyed the park boundary, and 
 thought : " Now what I have to say I 
 must say before we get to you " ; and, 
 being thus impressed with the neces- 
 sity of immediate action, he turned to 
 lead. 
 
 Laure eyed him from under her 
 long lashes, and the ground, alternate- 
 
 At last he began to color and flut- 
 ter. She saw something was coming, 
 and all the woman donned defensive 
 armor. 
 
 " ^Ladcmoiselle." 
 
 " .Monsieur." 
 
 " Is it quite decided that your family 
 refuse my acquaintance, my services, 
 which I still — forgive me — press on 
 you 1 Ah ! ^Mademoiselle Laure, am 
 I never to have the happiness of — of 
 — even speaking to you ? " 
 
 " It appears so," said Laure, dryly. 
 
 " Have you then decided against 
 me, too ? That happy day it was 
 only mademoiselle who crushed my 
 hopes." 
 
72 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 " I ? " iiskod Lixurc ; " Avhat have I 
 to do with it ? " 
 
 " Can you ask ? Do you not sec 
 thai it is not MatU'inoisolle Josephine, 
 but you I — What am I sayinir ? 
 but, iihis ! you understanci too well." 
 
 " No, monsieur," said Laurc, with 
 a puzzled air, " I do not understand. 
 Not one word of all you arc sayin.i? 
 do I comprehend. I am sure it is 
 Josephine and not rae ; for I am only 
 a child." 
 
 " You a child ! an angel like you ? " 
 
 "Ask any of them," said she, pout- 
 ing ; " they will tell you I am a 
 child; and it is to that I ow^c this coa- 
 versation, no doubt ; if you did not 
 look on me as a child, you would not 
 dare take this liberty with mc," said 
 the young cat, scratching without a 
 moment's notice. 
 
 "Ah, mademoiselle, do not be an- 
 gry. I was wrong." 
 
 '" 0, never mind. Children are 
 little creatures without reserve, and 
 treated accordingly, and to notice 
 them is to honor them." 
 
 " Adieu then, mademoiselle. Try 
 to believe no oue respects you more 
 than I do." 
 
 " Yes, let us part, for there is 
 Dard's house ; and I begin to suspect 
 that Josephine never sent you." 
 
 " I confess it." 
 
 " There, he confesses it. I thought 
 so all along ! ! What a dupe I have 
 been ! ! " 
 
 " I will offend no more," said Riv- 
 iere, huml)ly. 
 
 " We sliall see." ^ 
 
 " Adieu, mademoiselle. God bless 
 \'0u ! May you find friends as sincere 
 as I am, and more to your taste ! " 
 
 " Heaven hear your prayers I " re- 
 plied the malicious thing, casting up 
 her eyes with a mock-tragic air. 
 
 Edouard sighed ; a chill conviction 
 tliat she was botli heartle><s and empty 
 fell on him. He turned away without 
 anotlier word. Siie called to him with 
 a sudden airy cheerfulness that made 
 liim start. 
 
 " Stay, monsieur, I forgot, — I liave 
 something to tell you." 
 
 He returned, all curiosity. 
 
 " And a favor to ask you." 
 
 "Ah. Speak, mademoiselle \" 
 
 " You have made a conquest." 
 
 " I have a difficulty in believing 
 you, mademoiselle." 
 
 " O, it is not a lady," said little 
 Malice. 
 
 " Ah ! then it is possible," was the 
 bitter reply. 
 
 " Something better, — less terres- 
 trial, you know, it is a savant. You 
 jumped, you spoke, you conquered 
 Doctor St. Au!)in, that day. What 
 do you think he says 1 " 
 
 " I have no idea." 
 
 " He says you are handsome " 
 (opening her eyes to the full height 
 of astonishment). " He says you are 
 graceful ; and, indeed, it was not a 
 bad jump, I have been looking at it 
 since ; and, O Monsieur Riviere, he 
 says you are modest !!!!!!!" 
 
 *" Did he say all this before you ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Heaven reward him ! " 
 
 " You agree with me that it was 
 odd he should have ventured on tliese 
 statements before me ; but tiiese sa- 
 vans can face any amount of contra- 
 diction." 
 
 " You did me the honor to contra- 
 dict all this 1 " 
 
 " I did not fail." 
 
 " Thank you, mademoiselle." 
 
 "That is right, be unjust. No, 
 monsieur ; to detract from undeniable 
 merit was not my real object; but 
 not being quite such a child as some 
 people think, I contradicted him, in 
 order to — to — confirm him in those 
 good sentiments ; and I succeeded ; 
 the proof is that the doctor desires 
 your acquaintance, monsieur; and 
 now I come to the favor I have to ask 
 you." 
 
 " Ah, yes, — the favor." 
 
 " Be so kind as to bestow your ac- 
 quaintance on Monsieur St. Aubin," 
 said Laure, her manner changing from 
 sauciucss to the timidity of a person 
 asking a favor. " He will not dis- 
 credit my recommendation. Above 
 all, he will not make difficulties, as 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 73 
 
 we ladies do, for he is really worth 
 knowing. In short, believe me, it 
 will be an excellent acquaintance for 
 you — and for him," added she, with 
 all the grace of the De Beaurepaires. 
 " What say you, monsieur ? " 
 
 Riviere was mortified to the heart's 
 core. " She refuses to know me her- 
 self," thought he, " but she will use 
 my love to make me amuse that old 
 man." His heart swelled against her 
 injustice and ingratitude, and his 
 crushed vanity turned to strychnine. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," said he, bitterly 
 and doggedly, but sadly, "were I so 
 happy as to have your esteem, my 
 heart would overflow, not only on the 
 doctor, but on every honest person 
 around. But if I must not have the 
 acquaintance I value more than life, 
 suffer me to be alone in the Avorld, 
 and never to say a word either to 
 Doctor St. Aubin or to any human 
 creature, if I can heljj it." 
 
 The imperious young beauty drew 
 herself up. 
 
 " So be it, monsieur ; you teach me 
 how a child should be answered that 
 forgets herself, and asks — Dieu ! — 
 asks a favor of a stranger, — a perfect 
 stranger," added she, with a world of 
 small ill-nature. 
 
 ^ Could one of the dog-days change 
 to midwinter in a second, it would 
 hardly seem so cold and cross as Laure 
 de Beaurepaire turned from the smil- 
 ing, saucy fairy of the moment be- 
 fore. 
 
 Edoliard felt a portcullis of ice come 
 down between her and him. 
 
 She courtesied and glided away. 
 He bowed and stood frozen to the spot. 
 
 He felt so lonely and so bitter, he 
 must go to Jacintha for something to 
 lean on and scold. 
 
 He put his handkerchief up in the 
 tree, and out came Jacintha, curious. 
 
 " You left the clout at home, I bet 
 — what a head I — well, well, tell us." 
 
 " A fine blunder you made, Jacin- 
 tha. It was Mademoiselle Josephine 
 at Dard's." 
 
 " Do you call that a blunder, — 
 ingrate 'i " 
 
 4 
 
 " Yes ! Why, it is not Josephine 
 I love." 
 
 " Yes, it is," replied Jacintha. 
 
 " No ! no ! " 
 
 " Change of wind then since yes- 
 terday ! " 
 
 " No ! no ! How can you be so 
 stupid, — fancy not seeing it is Ma- 
 demoiselle Laure." 
 
 " Laure! that child?" 
 
 " She is not a child ; she is quite 
 the reverse. Don't call her a child, — 
 she objects to it, — it puts her in a 
 passion." 
 
 " You have deceived me," said Ja- 
 cintha, severely. 
 
 "Never! " 
 
 " You have. You never breathed 
 Laure's name to me." 
 
 " No more I did Josephine's." 
 
 Did n't 
 
 Ar( 
 
 you sure 
 
 Well, if you did not, Avhat has that to 
 do with it ? You pretended to be in 
 love with my young lady." 
 
 " No ! with one of them, I said." 
 
 " Well ! and how was I to guess by 
 that it was Laure ? '^ 
 
 "And how were you to guess it 
 was Josephine? " 
 
 " There was no guessing in the 
 case ; if it was not Josephine, anybody 
 with sense would have told a body it 
 was Laure; but you are mad. Be- 
 sides, who would look at Laure when 
 Josephine was by 1 Mademoiselle 
 Laure is very well ; she has a pretty 
 little fvce enough, but she is not a 
 patch upon mademoiselle." 
 
 " Why, Jacintha, you are blind. 
 But this is the way ; you women are 
 no judges of female beauty. They 
 are both lovely, but Laure is the 
 brightest, the gayest — 0, her smile ! 
 It seems brighter than ever now ; for 
 I have seen her frown, Jacintha ; think 
 of that and pity me. I have seen her 
 frown." J 
 
 " And if you look this way you may 
 see me frown." 
 
 " Why, what is the matter with 
 you 1 " 
 
 " The matter is, that I wash my 
 hands of the whole affair, it is infa- 
 mous." 
 
74 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 Jacintha then let him know, in her 
 own hui<;uai;e, tliat sncli lViii;htriil ir- 
 regularities us til is eoiild not i)a>s in 
 an ancient family, where precedent 
 and decorum rciL,'ned, and had for 
 centuries. " The elder daughter must 
 be got off our hands first ; then let 
 tiic younger take her turn." To gild 
 the pill of decorum, she returned to her 
 original argument. " Be more reason- 
 able, my son, above all, less blind. 
 !She is nice, she is frisky ; but she is 
 not like Josephine, tlic belle of belles." 
 
 Edouard, in rei)ly, anxious to con- 
 ciliate his only friend, affected to con- 
 cede the palm of beauty to the elder 
 sister, but he suggested that Laure 
 was quite beautiful enough for ordi- 
 nary purposes, — such as to be fallen 
 in love with, — nearer his own age, 
 too, than Josephine. He was pro- 
 ceeding adroitly to suggest that he 
 stood hardly high enough in France 
 to pretend to the heiress of Beaure- 
 paire, and must not look above the 
 younger branch of that ancient tree, 
 when Jacintha, who had not listened 
 to a word he was saving, but had got 
 over her surj)rise, and was noAv con- 
 verted to his side by her own reflec- 
 tions, interrupted him. 
 
 "And therefore, yes," said this 
 vacillating personage, carrying out 
 an internal chain of reasons. " Next, 
 I could not promise you Josephine, 
 but Laure you shall have if you can 
 be content with her." 
 
 The boy threw his arms round her 
 neck. 
 
 " Quite content with Laure," said 
 lie, — " ((uite content, you dear Jacin- 
 tha." Then his countenance fell. 
 
 " I forgot," said he ; " in the heat 
 of discussion one forgets so." 
 
 " Forgot what ? " cried Jacintha, in 
 some alarm. 
 
 " I have just lost her forever." 
 
 Jacintha put her hands on her hips, 
 knuckles downwards. 
 
 " Now then," said she, with some- 
 thing between a groan and a grin, 
 " what have you been at ? " 
 
 He related his interview, all but the 
 last passage. 
 
 Jacintlia congratulated him. 
 
 " Why, it goes swinimin,t:ly. You 
 arc very lucky. I wonder she spoke 
 to you at all out there all alone. In 
 Dard's cottage I knew she would, be- 
 cause she could not help. Well." 
 
 Then he told her Laure's parting 
 request. 
 
 " I say, mademoiselle," cried Ja- 
 cintha, " you are coming on pretty 
 well for a novice. There is one that 
 has a head. You thanked and blessed 
 her, Sec." 
 
 " No, indeed, I did not. I declined 
 — oh ! very respectfully." 
 
 " Very respectfully l'" repeated Ja- 
 cintha, with disdain. "You really 
 are not safe to go alone. Never- 
 theless, I can't be always at his el- 
 bow. Do you know what vou have 
 done ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " You have made her hate you, that 
 is all." 
 
 Riviere defended himself. 
 
 "It was so unjust to refuse me 
 her acquaintance, and then ask m.e to 
 amuse that ancient personage." 
 
 Jacintha looked him in the face, 
 sneering like a fiend. 
 
 " Listen to a parable. Monsieur the 
 Blind," said she. " Once there was 
 a little boy madly in love with rasp- 
 berry jam." 
 
 " A thing I hate." 
 
 " It is false, monsieur ; one does 
 not hate raspberry jam. He came to 
 the store closet, where he knew there 
 were a score jars of it, and' — oh ! 
 misery — the door was locked. He 
 kicked the door, and wept bitterly." 
 
 "Poor ciiild, his grief affects me." 
 
 "Naturally, monsieur, — a fellow- 
 feeling. His mamma came and said, 
 ' Here is the key,' and gave him the 
 key. And wha^t did he do ? Why, 
 he fell to crying and roaring, and 
 kicking the door. * I don't wa-wa-wa- 
 wa-nt the key-ey-ey. I wa-a-ant the 
 jiim, — oh ! oh ! oh ! oh ! ' " and 
 Jacintha mimicked to the life the 
 mingled grief and ire of infancy de- 
 barred its jam. 
 
 Edouard wore a puzzled air, but it 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 75 
 
 was only for a moment ; the -next he 
 hid his face in his hands, and cried : — 
 
 " Tool ! fool ! fool ! " 
 
 " I shall not contradict you," said 
 his Mentor, with affected politeness. 
 
 " She was my best friend." 
 
 " Who doubts it ? " 
 
 " Once acquainted with the doctor, 
 I could visit at Beaurepaire." 
 
 " Parbleu ! ]' 
 
 " She had thought of a way to rec- 
 oncile my wishes with this terrible 
 etiquette that reigns here." 
 
 " She thinks to more purpose than 
 you do, — that much is clear." 
 
 " Nothing is left now but to ask her 
 pardon, — and to consent, — I am 
 off." 
 
 "No, you are not," and Jacintha 
 laid a grasp of iron on him. " Will 
 you be quiet 1 — is not one blunder a 
 day enough ? If you go near her 
 now, she will affront you, and order 
 the doctor not to speak to you." 
 
 " O Jacintha ! your sex then are 
 fiends of malice 1 " 
 
 " While it lasts. Luckily with us 
 nothing does last very long. Take 
 your orders from me." 
 
 " Yes, general," said the young 
 man, touching his hat. 
 
 " Don't go near her till you have 
 made the doctor's acquaintance ; that 
 is easily done. He walks two hours 
 on the east road every day, with his 
 feet in the puddles and his head in 
 the clouds." 
 
 " But how am I to get him out of 
 the clouds ? " 
 
 " With the first black beetle you 
 meet." 
 
 "A black beetle!" 
 
 " Ay ! catch her when you can. 
 Have her ready for use in your hand- 
 kerchief : pull a long face : and says 
 you, ' Excuse me, monsieur, I have 
 the misfortune not to know the Greek 
 name of this merchandise here.' Say 
 that, and behold him launched. He 
 will christen the beast in Hebrew and 
 Latin as well as Greek, and tell you 
 her history down from the flood : next 
 he will beg her of you, and out will 
 come a cork and a pin, and behold 
 
 the creature impaled. Thus it is that 
 man loves beetles. He has a thousand 
 pinned down at home, — beetles, but- 
 terflies, and so forth. When I go near 
 the lot with my duster he trembles like 
 an aspen. I pretend to be going to 
 clean them, but it is to see the face he 
 makes, for even a domestic requires to 
 laugh : but I never do clean them, for 
 after all he is more stupid than wicked, 
 poor man ! I have not therefore the 
 sad courage to annihilate him." 
 
 " Let us return to our beetle, — 
 what will his tirades about the an- 
 tiquity of the beetle advance me 1 " 
 
 " Wretch ! one begins about a 
 beetle, but one ends Heaven knows 
 where." She turned suddenly grave. 
 "All this does not prevent my pot 
 from being on the fire " ; and', her 
 heart of hearts being now in the 
 kitchen, Eiviere saw it was useless to 
 detain her body, so thanking her 
 warmly made at once for the east 
 road. 
 
 Sure enough he fell in with the 
 doctor, but not being armed with an 
 insect he had to take refuge in a 
 vegetable, — the fallen elm. He told 
 St. Aubin he had employed a person 
 to keep his ears open, and, if anything 
 transpii-ed at either of the taverns, 
 let him know. 
 
 " You have done well, monsieur," 
 said the doctor ; " when the wine 
 goes in, the secrets ooze out." 
 
 The next time they met Eiviere 
 was furnished with an enormous 
 chrysalis. He had found it in a 
 hedge, and was struck Avith its 
 singular size. He produced it and 
 with modest diffidence and twink- 
 ling eye sought information. 
 
 The doctor's eye glittered. 
 
 " The death's head moth ! " he 
 cried with enthusiasm, — " the death's 
 head moth ! a great rarity in this 
 district. Where found you this 1 " 
 
 Riviere undertook to show him the 
 place. 
 
 It was half a league distant. Com- 
 ing and going he had time to make 
 friends with St. xVubin, and this was 
 the easier that the old gentleman, who 
 
76 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 uns a phypiojxnomist as well as oloirist, 
 had si'i'ti" ^(x^liicss ami sensibility in 
 Eduiianl's line. 
 
 At the end of the walk he bcjrfrcd 
 the doctor to accept the ehrysalis. 
 The doctor coiiuctted. 
 
 " That wovild he a robbery. You 
 take an interest in these things yonr- 
 sclf, — at least I hope so ! " 
 
 The younii- rognc confessed modest- 
 ly to the sentiment of entomology, but 
 *' the government worked him so hard 
 as to leave him no hopes of shining in 
 Ko high a science," said he, sorrow- 
 fully. 
 
 The doctor pitied him. "A j^oung 
 man of your attainments and tastes 
 to be debarred from the everlasting 
 secrets of Nature, by the fleeting poli- 
 tics of the day, in which it happens 
 so seldom that any great principle is 
 evolved." 
 
 Riviere shnigged his shoulders. 
 " Somebody must do the dirty work," 
 said he, chuckling inwardly. 
 
 Brief: the chrysalis went to Beau- 
 repaire in the pocket of a grateful 
 man. 
 
 " wise Jacintha ! " said the lover, 
 "I thought you were humbugging 
 me, but his heart is in these things. 
 "\Vc are a league nearer one another 
 than yesterday." 
 
 The doctor related his conversation 
 with young Riviere, on whom he pro- 
 nounced high encomiums, levelling 
 them at Laure tlie detractor from his 
 merit, as if he was planting so many 
 death-blows. Her saucy eyes spar- 
 kled with fun : you might have lighted 
 a candle at one and exploded a mine 
 at the other; but not a syllable did 
 she utter. 
 
 The white flag waved from tlie 
 battlements of Beaurepaire. 
 
 So (there 's a .sentence for you, — 
 tliere 's a ring, — there 's earthly 
 thunder !) the statesman dro])ped his 
 statistics, and took up his hat and 
 fled. 
 
 " Only to tell you you arc in high 
 favor, and I think you might risk a 
 call," said Jacintha. 
 
 " What, on the baroness 1 " 
 
 " Why not ? We shall be obliged 
 to let her have a finger in the pie, 
 soon or late." 
 
 " But I called on her, and was re- 
 pulsed with scorn." 
 
 " Ila ! ha ! I remember you came 
 to oflbr us your highness's i)atronage ! 
 Well, now I will tell you a better 
 game to play at Beaurepaire than 
 that. Tiiink of some favor to ask us : 
 come with your hat off. We like to 
 grant favors : we are used to that. 
 We don't know how to receive them." 
 
 " But what favor can I ask ? " 
 
 " Oh ! anything ; so that you can 
 make it sound a favor." 
 
 " I have it ; I will ask leave to shoot 
 over Beaurepaire." 
 
 " Good : and that will be an ex- 
 cuse for giving me some more birds," 
 said she, who had always an eye to 
 the pot. " Come, — forward." 
 
 " What, now 1 this very moment ? 
 — I Avas not prepared for this. My 
 heart beats at the idea." 
 
 "Fiddle-de-dee ! The baroness and 
 the doctor are on the south terrace. 
 But I am not to know that. I shall 
 show you up to the baroness, and she 
 won't be there, — you understand. 
 Run to the front door ; I '11 step 
 round and let you in." 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 " Madame the baroness, here is a 
 — young monsieur with a request — 
 come in, monsieur. But, mademoi- 
 selle,where is madame the baroness ? " 
 
 " My mother is on the terrace, 
 Jacintha," said Josephine. 
 
 " I will seek her ; be seated, mon- 
 sieur." 
 
 Edouard began to stammer apolo- 
 gies. 
 
 '* Such a trifle to trouble the baron- 
 ess with, — and you, mesdemoiselles." 
 
 " You do not trouble us, monsieur," 
 said Laure ; " you see we go on work- 
 ing as if nothing had happened." 
 
 " That is flattering, Mademoiselle 
 Laure." 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 77 
 
 "Biit we flutter," murmured 
 Josephine, too low for Riviere to 
 hear ; then, when the kindly beauty 
 had softened down her sister's pi- 
 quancy, she said aloud : — 
 
 " Well, monsieur, I think I can 
 answer for our mother that she will 
 not refuse one whom we must always 
 look on as — our friend." 
 
 " But not your acquaintance," said 
 Edouard, tenderly, though reproach- 
 fully. 
 
 " Monsieur then cannot forgive us 
 a repulse that cost us as much as it 
 could him." 
 
 Here was an unexpected turn. 
 Josephine's soft eyes and deprecatory 
 voice seemed to imply that she miglit 
 be won to retract a repulse for which 
 she went so near apologizing, 
 
 "Jacintha is right," thought he, 
 " she is the belle of belles." 
 
 " Ah ! mademoiselle," said he, 
 warmly, "how good you are to speak 
 so to me ! " 
 
 Tlie door opened, and the baroness 
 came in alone. 
 
 Edouard rose and bowed. The 
 baroness courtesied, gravely waved 
 him to a seat, and sat down herself. 
 
 " They tell me, monsieur, I have it 
 in my power to be of some slight ser- 
 vice to you, — all the better." 
 
 "Yes, madame; but it is a trifle, 
 and I am in consternation to think I 
 should have deranged you." 
 
 "Xowise, monsieur; I was about 
 to come in when Jacintha informed 
 me of the honor you had done me. 
 Then monsieur wishes — " 
 
 " Madame, I am a sportsman.*" I 
 am a neighbor of yours, madame, 
 though I have not the honor to be 
 known to you." 
 
 " That arises doubtless from this, 
 monsieur, that I so seldom go into 
 the world," said the lady, with pol- 
 ished insincerity. 
 
 " "Well, madame, I am a sportsman, 
 and shoot in your neighborhood, and 
 the birds fly over into your ground. 
 Now, madame, if I might follow them, 
 I should often have a good day's 
 sport." 
 
 "Monsieur," said the old lady, 
 with a faint smile, " follow those 
 birds wherever I have a right to in- 
 vite you. I must at the same time 
 inform you that since France was re- 
 formed, or, as some think, deformed, 
 it has not been the custom to give the 
 lady of Beaurepaire any voice in mat- 
 ters of this kind." 
 
 "Madame," said Edouard, "permit 
 me to separate myself in your judg- 
 ment from those persofts." 
 
 " Monsieur has done that already." 
 said the baroness, with all the grace of 
 the old regime. 
 
 Riviere bowed low. His head being 
 down, he cast a furtive glance, and 
 there Avas Josephine working Avith 
 that conscious complacency young 
 ladies mildly beam with Avhen they 
 are working and interested in a con- 
 versation. Laure, too, Avas working, 
 but her head was turned away, and 
 she AA'as bursting Avith suppressed 
 merriment. He felt uneasy, — " It 
 is me she is quizzing," — and yet he 
 had a nervous desire to laugh Avith 
 her ; so he turned away hastily. 
 
 " Monsieur," said the baroness, 
 languidly, " may I, without indiscre- 
 tion, ask, does it afford you much 
 pleasure to kill these birds ? " 
 
 " Not too much, madame, to tell the 
 truth, — but pursuit of anything is 
 very inviting to our nature." 
 
 " Ah ! " said Laure, dryly, off her 
 guard. 
 
 " Did you speak, my daughter ■? " 
 said the baroness, coldly. 
 
 " No, my mother," said Laure, a 
 little frightened ; Avith all her sauce 
 she dare no more put in her Avord, un- 
 invited, betAveen her mother and a 
 stranger, than she dare jump out of 
 the AA'indoAv. 
 
 " Besides," continued RiA'iere, 
 " AA'hen a man is A^ery hard AA'orkcd, 
 these relaxations — " 
 
 " Ah ! monsieur is hard AA'orked ! " 
 said the baroness ; her eye dwelling 
 Avith a delicate irony on his rosy face. 
 
 He did not perceiA^e it : it was too 
 subtle. He ansAvered with a shade of 
 pomp : — 
 
78 
 
 WHITE LIKS. 
 
 "Like nil who serve the stntc." 
 
 " Ah ! iiKinsiour — serves — the — 
 state." Slie seemed to eoii^a'al Avonl 
 by word. The yoiiii}; ladies ex- 
 changed looks of dismay. 
 
 " 1 serve France," said Kiviere, 
 gently ; and somethinir in his manner 
 and in his youth half disarmed the 
 old lady ; but not quite : she said as 
 she rose to eonclnde tiic interview : — 
 
 " Well, monsieur, (ah ! you will 
 forgive me if I cannot prevail on my- 
 self to call you citizen,") — this with 
 ironical courtesy. 
 
 " Call me what you please, madame, 
 except your enemy." 
 
 And lie said this with so much feel- 
 ing, and this submission of the con- 
 quering to the conquered party was so 
 graceful, that the water came into 
 Josephine's eyes, and Laure's bosom 
 rose and fell, and her needle went 
 slower and slower. 
 
 " Citizens have done me too much 
 ill," cxj)lained the baroness, with a 
 sombre look. 
 
 " Mamma," said Josephine, im- 
 jiloringly. 
 
 " They could not have known you, 
 madame," said Edouard, " as I, even 
 in this short interview — forgive my 
 ])resumption — seem to do"; and he 
 looked beseechingly at her. 
 
 " At least, monsieur," cried the old 
 lady, kindly, and almost gayly, " it is 
 a good beginning, I tliink." She 
 courtesied, and that meant " go." He 
 bowed to her and the young ladies, 
 and retired demurely : one twinkle of 
 triumph shot out of his eye towards 
 La lire. 
 
 The baroness turned to her daugh- 
 ters. 
 
 " Have you any idea who is this 
 little Kejfublican who has invented 
 the idea of asking permission to shoot 
 the jjartridges of another, and who, 
 be it said, in passing, has the face of 
 an angel ? " 
 
 They looked at one another. Laure 
 spoke : — 
 
 " Yes, mamma, we have an idea — 
 well, he is, you know — the purse." 
 
 The baroness flushed. 
 
 " Ah ! And why did you not tell 
 me, children ? " 
 
 " O mamma, it would have been 
 so awkward for you, we thought." 
 
 " You are very considerate." 
 
 " And we must have whispered it, 
 and that is so ill-bred." 
 
 " ]\Iore so than to giggle when I 
 receive a visitor ? " asked the baron- 
 ess, keenly. 
 
 " No, mamma," said Laure, humbly, 
 and the next moment she colored all 
 of a sudden, and the next moment 
 after she looked at her mother, and 
 her eyes began to fill. 
 
 " Let us compound, mademoiselle," 
 said the baroness. " Instead of cry- 
 ing, because your old mother speaks 
 more sharply than she means, which 
 would be absurd at your age, you 
 shall tell me why you laughed." 
 
 " Agreed, mamma," cried Madem- 
 oiselle April, vulgarly called Laure; 
 '* then because — he ! he ! — he has 
 been shooting over your ground for 
 two months past without leave." 
 
 " Oh ! impossible." 
 
 "I have heard the guns, and seen 
 him and Dard doing it. And now he 
 has come to ask for leave with the 
 face of an angel, as you remarked — 
 he ! he ! — and oh ! mamma, you com- 
 plimented him — he ! — and he ab- 
 sorbed the praise with such an in- 
 genuous gravity, — ha ! ha ! ha! 
 After all it is but reversing the period 
 at which such applications are made 
 by ordinary sportsmen, — after in- 
 stead of before. What does that mat- 
 ter ? — time flies so, — ha! ha ! ha! 
 ha! ha!" 
 
 " Humph ! " said the baroness, and 
 seemed very thoughtful, and mighty 
 little amused. 
 
 Edouard went home exulting : he 
 had inserted the wedge. 
 
 He little thought that IMademoiselle 
 A])ril had sacrificed him to a laugh, 
 still less that a council of war had 
 been convened and was even now 
 sitting on him. Had he known this, 
 the deluded youth that went along 
 exulting would have gone trembling, 
 and there ho would have been mis- 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 79 
 
 taken again. Yet there are two hun- 
 dred thousand people that believe a 
 gypsy girl campredict the future. 
 
 She cannot, — the wisest of us can- 
 not, — angels cannot, — Satan can- 
 not, though fifty thousand of my 
 Yankee friends have assumed as a 
 self-evident proposition that he can. 
 
 The baroness sent for St. Aubin to 
 ask his advice as to the best way of 
 keeping the citizen at a distance. 
 
 The doctor listened with gi-eat in- 
 terest, and often smiled as the baroness 
 put her portions of the puzzle to his 
 portions of it, and the whole enigma 
 lay revealed. 
 
 " Aha ! " said he, at last, " the 
 young rogue has taken me by my 
 foible ; but I will be revenged." 
 
 " The question is not your revenge, 
 but what / am to do." 
 
 " Ah ! " said the doctor, " you re- 
 quire my advice what you should 
 do ? " 
 
 " Certainly I do." 
 
 " Humph ! " said the doctor, and 
 reflected profoundly : " then my ad- 
 vice is, — let them alone." 
 
 "Let them alone," replied the 
 baroness, sharply, — " that is easily 
 said." 
 
 " It is as easily done," replied he, 
 quietly. 
 
 The baroness stared, and a faint 
 flush rose in her delicate cheek, at 
 her friend's cool way of disposing of a 
 question that so embarrassed her. 
 
 " Trust to Nature ! " said the 
 doctor, benignantly. 
 
 " Trust to Nature ! " screamed 
 the old aristocrat, with horror and dis- 
 may in her f\ice, — " is the man mad ?" 
 
 " No, madame ; nor is Nature : 
 trust to her. She will bring the 
 young lady and the young citizen 
 together quite quickly enough with- 
 out our inflaming them by oppo- 
 sition." 
 
 " You make me regret, sir, that I 
 disturbed your graver studies for a 
 matter so little serious as this," was 
 the bitter answer veiled in tones of 
 perfect politeness. 
 
 " My friend, if you wished for the 
 
 sort of advice that political prejudice 
 or other blinding influence gives, I 
 was indeed the wrong person to send 
 for." 
 
 " But," continued the lady, haugh- 
 tily, not deigning to notice his last 
 sentence, " you will make my apolo- 
 gies to the spiders, to whom and 
 their works you are, I conclude, about 
 to return." 
 
 The doctor rose at this piece of 
 polite insolence. 
 
 " Since you permit me, madame. 
 I shall find Nature in spiders, and 
 admire her : but not more than I do 
 in the young lady and the young 
 citizen Avho are now submitting to her 
 sweetest law." 
 
 " Enough ! monsieur, — enough ! " 
 
 "As I myself in former times, 
 when youth — " 
 
 " As that must be very long ago, 
 and as among the results marriage 
 has not been one, perhaps it would be 
 as well to spare me the recital," said 
 the baroness, too spiteful to let slip 
 this chance of a slap, fair or unfair. 
 
 " True, madame.' Well, then, let us 
 take an unimpeachable example, — as 
 yourself, — who {lave been married, — 
 in your younger days, — not deeming 
 the birds in spring unworthy imita- 
 tion — deigned — " 
 
 " Monsieur, our conference is end- 
 ed." 
 
 The doctor went oflf with a mali- 
 cious grin ; much he cared for his old 
 friend's grand airs and biting tongue. 
 The only creature he stood in awe of 
 was Jacintha. 
 
 " O that duster ! " 
 
 " What is the hardest substance on 
 earth ? " 
 
 " Adamant, stupid." 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Well, then, steel ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Platinum 1 " 
 
 " No. Do you give it up ? — do 
 vou ? — do you ? — do you 1 — ice." 
 
 "Ice?" 
 
 " Moral ice, not physical, — not 
 solidified water, but solidified eti- 
 
80 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 qucttc, — coiif^calcd essence of grand- 
 mamma, — custom, ceremony, pro- 
 priety when down at 32 Fahrenheit. 
 
 " Ilow many have jumped as high 
 as tlicy couh'i, and come down a:, 
 hard as tliey could, on purpose to break 
 this ice, — and been l)roken 1 You 
 can try it, mesdamcs, but not by my 
 advice. 
 
 " By a just balance of qualities, 
 this ice, once broken, is the liardest 
 thing in the world to mend. 
 
 " Human ice, once liquefied, cannot 
 be congealed back to its original 
 smoothness, strength, and slippcri- 
 ncss. 
 
 " Nature glides in and unrecog- 
 nized, unthanked, keeps the thawed 
 from freezing again, the frozen from 
 petrifying." 
 
 "When the ladies of Beaurepaire 
 darted from their family oak, and 
 caught Eivicre in his felonious act, 
 they broke the ice. 
 
 Josephine's attempt to repair it 
 on the spot was laudable but use- 
 less. 
 
 It was not in nature that this young 
 man and these two young women 
 could CA'cr 1>c again the strangers they 
 were before. 
 
 Whenever they met in the park, 
 he had always a word ready, and they 
 answered. It was but a sly Avord or 
 two ; but these Avords were like little 
 sticks judiciously inserted as a fire 
 burns up. 
 
 Factotum Dard co-operated. 
 
 So powerful was Factotum's desti- 
 ny, that even w^hen he was laid up in 
 his arm-chair another little odd job 
 fell upon him ; he became a go- 
 between, though unable to stir. 
 
 Lovers met — to nurse him. 
 
 First would come the two ladies, or 
 sometimes only Laure, and curious 
 enough in less than ten minutes 
 Edouard was sure to arrive, very hot; 
 it happened so, — how, I have no 
 idea; indeed it would be idle to at- 
 tempt to account for all the strange 
 coincidences that occur. Let me 
 rather mention here, apologizing for 
 its complete irrelevance, that the 
 
 young man had been much puzzled 
 what to do with the twenty pieces of 
 gold. 
 
 "They arc sacred," said he. 
 
 But eventually ho laid them out, 
 and ten more, in a new telescope with 
 an immensely powerful lens. 
 
 Science, by its mouthpiece St Au- 
 bin, highly approved the purchase, 
 and argued great things for a young 
 man who turned his lodgings into an 
 observatory. 
 
 "Also a politician who looks heav- 
 enwards is not of every-day occur- 
 rence," said the dry doctor. 
 
 One day that both young ladies and 
 Riviere met round black-foot* Dard, 
 that worthy, Avho had hitherto signal- 
 ized himself by the depth of his silent 
 reflections, and by listening intently 
 to good books as read by Josephine, 
 and by swearing at his toe, rather than 
 by any prolonged conversational ef- 
 forts, suddenly announced his desire 
 to put a few queries. 
 
 The auditory prepared to sustain 
 the shock of them. 
 
 " It is about the lives of the suffer- 
 ing saints I have been reading to con- 
 sole him," thought Jose})hine. 
 
 " What I want to know is, how it 
 happens that you aristocrats come to 
 see me so ofceu 1 " 
 
 " Dard," said Josephine, " don't 
 you know 1 " 
 
 "No! I don't." 
 
 " Don't you see it is the least wo 
 can do : only think of the number of 
 little odd jobs you have done for us." 
 
 " O, as to that, yes, I have, by St. 
 Denis I have." 
 
 " I have myself seen you Avork in 
 the garden, drive the cow, eho|) wood, 
 alas! poor lad, once too often, and 
 take fish for us out of the pond, 
 and — " 
 
 " Stop, mademoiselle, it is no use 
 your trying to count them. Heaven 
 has given no man iingcrs enough to 
 count my little odd jobs, much less a 
 woman," added he, getting confused 
 between the jobs and the fingers. 
 
 * A Scotch word for a go-between : excuse 
 the heartluas pun. 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 81 
 
 " Well, then, you see you agree with 
 us. You have every claim on our 
 gratitude." 
 
 " 0, then, it is the jobs I did up at 
 Beaurepaire that gain me these vis- 
 its." 
 
 " Yes ! but above all the good heart 
 that prompted them." 
 
 Dard was silent a moment : then 
 suddenly bursting out into an otF- 
 liand, reckless, jaunty tone : " Oh ! 
 as to that," said he, " I am not one 
 of your fellows that are afraid of 
 work. A few little jobs more or less 
 make no diiference to me. ' Too 
 much of one thing is good for noth- 
 ing,' as the saying goes, — and 
 ' changes are lightsome.' " His next 
 observation betrayed more candor 
 than tact. " It was to please Jacintha 
 I did them, not out of regard for you, 
 though." 
 
 " What have we '.o do with that ? " 
 said Laure, sharply : " we benefited by 
 them : and now you shall benefit by 
 them. Ah, Dard ! if we were but a 
 little richer, we would make you so 
 comfortable." 
 
 " I wish you were the richest citi- 
 zens in France," said he, bluntly. 
 
 Edouard walked to the gate of the 
 Pleasance with the ladies, and talked 
 nineteen to the dozen, to leave no 
 room for them to say Adieu and so 
 get rid of him. They did not hate 
 him for not giving them that chance. 
 
 He gave the ice no time to freeze 
 again. 
 
 And all tliis time he was making 
 friends Avith Doctor St. Aubin ; and 
 as things will turn in this world, or 
 rather twist, the way least expected, 
 he got to like the doctor and greatly 
 to admire him. He was a mine of 
 knowledge, and his tastes were al- 
 most as wide as his information. He 
 relished Nature more perhaps than 
 anything else ; but he was equally 
 ready with poetry, with history, and, 
 what charmed young Edouard, with 
 politics of the highest order. 
 
 In their graver converse he made 
 the young man see how great and 
 rare a thing is a statesman, how com- 
 
 mon and small a thing is a place- 
 man. He poured examples drawn 
 from many nations and many epochs, 
 and sounded trumpet notes of great 
 state policy, and the patriotism it is 
 founded on ; and on these occasions 
 he would rise into i*eal eloquence, and 
 fire the young heart of Citizen Riv- 
 iere. 
 
 In short they became friends, and 
 Eiviere no sooner felt they were 
 friends than his conscience smote 
 him, and he said to himself: "I will 
 tell him all: hs is a good man, — a 
 wise man, — a just man. I'm not 
 ashamed of my love. I will entreat 
 him to be on my side." 
 
 " My friend," he began, "I have a 
 confession to make." 
 
 He looked at his friend : the doctor 
 twinkled from head to foot. 
 
 " Terhaps it will not take you alto- 
 gether by surprise." 
 
 " We shall see." 
 
 Then Edouard told his story as 
 people tell their own stories. How he 
 had come to this district a stanch 
 Republican. How he had seen two 
 young ladies Avalking so calm, gentle, 
 and sad, always in black. How their 
 beauty and grace had made them in- 
 teresting, but their misfortunes had 
 made them sacred. How after many 
 meetings a new feature had arisen 
 in their intercourse; INIademoiselle 
 Laure had smiled on him, -as earth, he 
 thought, had never smiled before. 
 (The doctor grinned here, as many an 
 old fellow has grinned on like occa- 
 sion, mindful of the days when he was 
 a young fool and did not know it ; 
 and now he is an old one, and does n't 
 know it. ) This had gone througli his 
 heart. Then, suppressing Jacintha, he 
 told his friend he had learned from a 
 sure source the family was in bitter 
 poverty. The doctor sighed. The ar- 
 dent desire to save them, coupled with 
 the diflPioulty, and their inaccessibility, 
 had almost driven him mad. 
 
 " I lost all my color," cried he, half 
 angrily. Then he told the story of the 
 purse, and how happy he had felt 
 when he drofl{)ed it and stole away, 
 
wiirn: lies. 
 
 and happier when he lioard it liad 
 been fouiid, and how, after all, that 
 attempt to save them had failed ; 
 " and now, monsieiu"," he said, "my 
 Heart often aehes, and I bnrn and 
 freeze by turns. I watch hours and 
 hours for the chance of a Avord or a 
 look. If I fail, I am miserable all 
 that day ; if I succeeil, I am the hap- 
 piest man in France for half an hour. 
 Then I go back to my little room. It 
 looks like a prison after that. The 
 sun seems to have left the earth, and 
 taken hope with him. O my friend, 
 much as I love her, there are moments 
 I wish I had never seen her. She I 
 love will be my ruin. But I shall 
 love her all the same; it is not her 
 fault. I am in a fever night and day. 
 My duties, once so pleasant, are 
 tasteless now. Ah ! monsieur, pity 
 me and advise mc ! " 
 
 " 1 will ; tell me first, are you con- 
 scious of a slight tremor on the skin 
 when you wake in the morning ? " 
 
 "No." 
 
 " Occasional twitches, mostly in the 
 region of the thigh ? " 
 
 " No ! — yes ! — how could you 
 know that ? but such trifles are not 
 worth our attention." 
 
 " Diagnostics are not worth our 
 attention ! " 
 
 " No, no ! it 's my heart ! — it 's my 
 heart ! " 
 
 " My young friend," said the doc- 
 tor, " you have done well to come to 
 me. You must do one of two things : 
 the choice I leave to you." 
 
 " Thank you, my friend ! " 
 
 " You must either leave this district 
 to-morrow — " 
 
 " I would rather leave the earth ! " 
 
 "Or—" 
 
 "Ah! or—" 
 
 " You must go with mc to the bar- 
 oness, and, Ijacked by me, ask leave 
 U) court her daughter openly like a 
 man." 
 
 " Backed by you ! am I so fortu- 
 nate ? are you on my side ? " 
 
 " Firm as a rock ! " shouted the 
 doctor ; " and what is more I have 
 been your secret ally, a»traitor in the 
 
 cam]) Bcaurepaire, this three weeks ; 
 also I have watched your little ma- 
 nteuvres wiih me, Citizen Clierubin, 
 with no less interest and curiosity than 
 I watch a young bird building its first 
 nest, or a silkworm s])iiming her silk, 
 or a spider her web, or any other cun- 
 ning inspired by great Nature. O, 
 you need not bide your head, fox with 
 tlie face of the Madonna : I awaited 
 this revelation from you : I knew it 
 would come. I am glad it is come so 
 soon ; a want of candor is unmanly, 
 and a great fault in youth; you shall 
 now learn how wise it is to be candid. 
 Now tell me, Edouard — " 
 
 " Ah ! thank you, monsieur ! " 
 
 " Your parents ! — would they con- 
 sent to a match between you and a 
 young lady of rank, but no wealth ? " 
 
 "JMonsieur, I am not so fortunate 
 as to have any parents, — unless you 
 will let me look on you as one." 
 
 " This, dear child ! — I consent, — 
 my snuff-box, — good ! left it at 
 home." 
 
 '• I have an uncle ; but you know 
 one is not bound to obey an uncle, ex- 
 cept perhaps — " 
 
 " When his wishes are the echo of 
 our own, — then we are." 
 
 " Besides, my uncle loves me, — at 
 least, I think so." 
 
 " Oh ! impossible. You must be 
 mistaken." 
 
 " Monsieur is too good. I do not 
 please all as I have, by good fortune, 
 pleased you, my friend. But, in fact, 
 my uncle has no aversion towards the 
 aristocrac}'." 
 
 " All the better. Well, my young 
 lover, I am satisfied. All the battle, 
 then, will be at Bcaurepaire. Have 
 you courage ? " 
 
 " I am full of it ; only sometimes it 
 is the courage of hope, sometimes of 
 despair." 
 
 " Call on rne to-morrow with tlie 
 courage of hope." 
 
 " What, at the chateau ! " cried the 
 young man, all in a flutter. 
 
 " Ay, at the impregnable castle it- 
 self, where, jircposterous as it may 
 appear, the right of receiving my 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 83 
 
 visitors is conceded me. "Were it not, 
 I should take it." 
 
 " It does mo good to hear a man 
 talk so boldly about the chateau." 
 
 " I shall present you to my friend 
 the baroness." 
 
 " Heavens ! " 
 
 " She will receive you as a glacier 
 the Polar Star." 
 
 " I feel she will. I shiver in ad- 
 vance." 
 
 " And, deaf to me, your advocate, 
 in other words, to reason and good 
 sense personified, ahem ! she will yield 
 to you. My vanity will be shocked, 
 and behold us enemies for life." 
 
 Riviere shook his head despond- 
 ingly. " Deaf to you, yield to me, — 
 how can this be ? " 
 
 " Because she is the female of our 
 species, — a thing to be persuaded, 
 not convinced ; trust to me, — have 
 faith in Nature, — and come at twelve 
 o'clock." 
 
 St. Aubln, on reaching the chateau, 
 found the dun pony standing at the 
 door. He hurried into the dining- 
 room, and there were the notary and 
 the young ladies, all apparently in 
 good spirits. The notary had suc- 
 ceeded. He showed the doctor, as he 
 had already showed the ladies, a penal 
 contract by which Bonard bound him- 
 self not to sell the estate, or assign 
 the loan, to any one. 
 
 The doctor was enchanted, shook 
 the notary again and again by the 
 hand, and took him up stairs to the 
 baroness. 
 
 " There is no further necessity for 
 concealment," said he, " and it would 
 be most unjust not to give her an 
 opportunity of thanking you." 
 
 The baroness looked rather cold 
 and formal at sight of tlie notary, 
 but her manner soon changed. Al- 
 though the doctor underrated the 
 danger the chateau had just escaped, 
 yet at the bare mention she turned as 
 pale as deatli ; both her daughters and 
 the doctor observed this. 
 
 " Strange," said she, " I had a pre- 
 sentiment." 
 
 When she found the danger was 
 past, a deep sigh showed how the 
 mere relation had taken away her 
 breath. 
 
 " Heaven reward you, monsieur," 
 cried she ; " the last time you were 
 here, yoit gave me advice which 
 offended me, probably because it was 
 wise advice. Accept my excuses." 
 
 " They are unnecessary, madame. 
 I could not but respect your pre- 
 judices, though I suffered by them." 
 
 " In future, monsieur, count on 
 more candor, and perliaps more hu- 
 mility ; that is, should my impetuosity 
 not deter you from ever wasting good 
 advice on me again." 
 
 " On the contrary, madame, if you 
 could give me an hour to-morrow, I 
 should be glad to show you a means 
 by which the estate and chateau can 
 be placed above all risk, not only 
 from a single creditor, but from the 
 whole body, were they to act hostilely 
 and in concert." 
 
 " Hear ! hear ! " cried the doctor. 
 
 " I shall be at your disposal." 
 
 " At this interview, I request that 
 the heiress of Bcaurepaire may be 
 also present." 
 
 "What necessity for that?" in- 
 quired the baroness, sharply. 
 
 " O," said the doctor, " I under- 
 stand ; the next heir's formal consent 
 is required to arrangements made for 
 the benefit of the life-holder. Am I 
 mad ? to talk of the next heir. Why, 
 Josephine is the present proprietor." 
 
 "I!" cried Josephine, with aston# 
 ishment, not unmixed with horror. 
 
 The notary's lip curled with con- 
 tempt at the little party that had not 
 even asked themselves to whom the 
 property belonged. 
 
 " Mademoiselle de Bcaurepaire will 
 be present," said the baroness. 
 
 A little before twelve o'clock, Ed- 
 ouard Riviere stood at the door, with 
 something like an ice javelin running 
 the length of his backbone. The 
 baroness was in his eyes the most 
 awful human creature going. He 
 would have feared an interview with 
 
Si 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 the First Consul one shade less, or 
 half a shade. 
 
 Jacintlia, smilinj; and winking, 
 showed liiin into St. Auliin's study. 
 The doetor received him warmly, and, 
 after a few words of kind encoura<;e- 
 nient, committed him to the beetles, 
 Mhile he went to intercede with the 
 baroness. 
 
 The baroness stopped him cunning- 
 ly at the first word. 
 
 " Ah ! my good doctor, spare me 
 this topic ior once. The most dis- 
 agreeable draught ceases to be poig- 
 nant when administered every day for 
 three weeks." 
 
 " If you and I only were concerned 
 in it, I would prescribe it no longer, 
 but those we love are deeply interested 
 in it." 
 
 " Josephine, my daughter," cried 
 the baroness, " are you deeply inter- 
 ested in marrying Citizen lliviere, — 
 with a face Hke a girl ? " 
 
 " No ! mamma ! " 
 
 " We must not ask Laure, I think, 
 — she is rather too young for such 
 topics.'' 
 
 "Not a bit too young, mamma, if 
 you please ; but I lack the inclina- 
 tion." 
 
 " In short, somehow or another, 
 you can both dispense with the doc- 
 tor's friend for a liusband. Let him 
 go then. Now, if the doctor had pro- 
 posed himself, we should all three be 
 pulling caps for him." 
 
 A little peal of laughter, like as of 
 silver bells, rang out at the doctor's 
 expense. 
 
 He never moved a muscle. •* 
 
 " Permit me to recall to you the 
 general substance of the reasons I 
 have urged for admitting the visits of 
 my friend Monsieur Edouard Riviere 
 at this house," 
 
 "A sort of jireris, or recapitulation." 
 remarked the baroness, dryly. 
 
 " Exactly." 
 
 " Such as precedes the final dismis- 
 sal of an exhausted subject." 
 
 ''Or makes the intelligent hearer 
 at bi-;t compn^hcnd and retain it. 
 
 "i'ir.-t, and above all, this young 1 
 
 man is good and virtuous ; then he 
 loves witii delicacy, — with rare deli- 
 cacy ; am I right, mesdemoiscUes ? 
 Well — I await your answx'r — Cow- 
 ards!! — and with ardor. lie burns 
 to do good to you all. Now, let us 
 soberly inquire, is the family in a 
 position to scorn such a godsend ? 
 Some fine day, when the chateau is 
 sold over our heads, shall we not feel 
 too late that imprudence is guilt in 
 those who have the charge of beloved 
 ones as well as of themselves. Look 
 facts in the face, madame ; comprehend 
 to-day what all the rest of France has 
 long comprehended, that the Bourbons 
 are snuffed out. They Avere little men, 
 whom accident placed high, and acci- 
 dent could lay low. This Bonaparte's 
 finger is thicker than their loins. 
 Well, if you can really doubt this, 
 lean on your rotten reeds ; but not 
 with all your Aveight ; marry one 
 daughter to a Royalist, but one into 
 the rising dynasty ; then we shall be 
 safe, come what may, and this ancient 
 but tottering house will not fall in our 
 day, or by any fault of ours." 
 
 " This may be prudence," said the 
 baroness. "I think it is; but it is 
 prudence so hard, Avorldly, and cyni- 
 cal, that, had I known it was coming, 
 I think I should have sent that child 
 out of the room." 
 
 Laure cast a look of defiance at 
 Josepliine for not being called a child 
 and she was. 
 
 St. Aubin winced, but kept his 
 temper. 
 
 " Show me, then," said he, " that 
 you can rise to things less cynical 
 and worldly than prudence. Look 
 at the young man's virtue, — his 
 character." 
 
 " What do we know of his char- 
 acter ? " 
 
 " What do we know of his char- 
 acter ? Are we Idind, then, or can we 
 see virtue only Avhcn it comes to us on 
 paper ? Is there nothing in our own 
 souls that recognizes great virtues at 
 sight, and cries, ' Hail ! brother ' ? " 
 
 " Yes ! yes ! there is ! " cried Laure, 
 her eyes flaming. 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 85 
 
 "Be silent, my child." 
 
 "Needs there a long string of scrib- 
 blers to tell us what actions are good 
 and beautiful, and beyond the little 
 vulgar and the great vulgar to do or 
 to admire ? 
 
 " What do you know of his char- 
 acter ? You know that in a world 
 which vaunts much and does nothing 
 but egoism, sometimes bare egoism, 
 sometimes gilt egoism, but always 
 egoism, this poor boy has loved you 
 all as angels love and as mortals don't, 
 and like angels has done you good un- 
 seen. You know nothing ? You know 
 he is not rich, yet consecrated half his 
 income to you, without hope even of 
 thanks. Is it his fault he was found 
 out ? Xo ! my young ladies there 
 were too cunning for him, or you 
 would never have known your angel 
 friend. Eead now those great Mes- 
 sieurs Corneille and Racine for a love 
 so innocent, so delicate, so like a wo- 
 man's, so like an angel's. Search their 
 immortal pages for it, — and find it not. 
 
 " Are you deaf to sentiment, blind 
 to beauty of person and the soul ? 
 Then be shrewd, be prudent, and be 
 friends with the rising young citizen. 
 I have measured him, — he is no 
 dwarf. He was fii'st at the Ecole 
 Politechnique, — he won't be last in 
 France. Are you too noble to be 
 prudent "? then be noble enough to 
 hold out the hand to the noble and 
 good and beautiful for their own 
 sakes, unless, after twenty years' 
 friendship, I am anything to you ; 
 in that case, O, welcome them for 
 mine." 
 
 The baroness hung her head, but 
 made no answer. 
 
 " ]My mother," said Josephine, im- 
 ploringly, " the dear doctor is in 
 earnest. I fear he may doubt our 
 love for him if you refuse him. He 
 never spoke so loud before. Mamma, 
 dear mamma ! " 
 
 " "What is it you wish me to do, 
 monsieur 1 " 
 
 " Only to receive my friend, and let 
 him plead his own cause." 
 
 " I consent. I am like Josephine. 
 
 I do not love to have an old friend 
 bawling at me." 
 
 " Thank you, ladies, for your con- 
 sideration for my feelings — and your 
 ears." 
 
 " Where are vou going 1 " 
 
 " To fetch him ! "' 
 
 " W^hat, to-day 1 " 
 
 " This minute." 
 
 " My daughters, this was a trap. 
 Whei-e* is he ? In the Pleasance ? " 
 asked she, ironically, taking for grant- 
 ed he was much farther off. 
 
 " No ; in my room : trembling at 
 the ordeal before him." 
 
 " It is not too late to retreat ; better 
 so than give me the pain of dismissing 
 liim." 
 
 " In one minute he will be with 
 you. Break his heart if you are 
 quite sure there is any real neces- 
 sity ; but at least do it gently." 
 
 " That is understood. My child, 
 take a turn on the terrace." Laure 
 went out, after shaking her snowball 
 at Josephine for being allowed to stay 
 and she not. 
 
 " my dear friend, what a sur- 
 prise I have endured ! what a time 
 you have been ! " 
 
 "I have had a tough battle." 
 
 "But you have won ? your reasons 
 have prevailed ? " 
 
 " My reasons ? — straws ! One of 
 them calls them so openly, I forget 
 which. Xo! my reasons fell to the 
 earth unheeded ; did n't I tell you 
 they would 1 " 
 
 " Heaven ! " 
 
 " But, luckily, in reasoning I shout- 
 ed. Then that angel Josephine said, 
 ' my mother, we cannot refuse 
 the doctor ; he has shouted, — he who 
 never shouts.' Xew definition of rea- 
 son, — an affair of the lungs. Xow 
 go and show them your pretty face." 
 
 " Yes ! O my friend, what shall 
 I sayl what shall I say?" 
 
 " "What matters it what you say ? 
 Wisdom won't help you, folly won't 
 hurt you ; still, by way of being ex- 
 tremely cautious, I Avould n't utter 
 too much good sense. Turn two be- 
 
SG 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 sccfhiiijx eyes upon her ; add the lan- 
 guage of your i'ace to tlic logic of my 
 lungs, and win. Come." 
 
 "Madame, this i s Monsieur Edouard 
 Kivicrc, my friend." 
 
 A stately reverence from the baron- 
 ess. 
 
 " May my esteem and his own 
 merits ])rocure him at your hands fa- 
 vorahle treatment, and should you 
 find him timid and Hurried, and little 
 able to adtlress you thicntly, allow, I 
 pray you, for his youth, for the mod- 
 esty that accompanies merit, and for 
 the agitation of his heart at such a 
 moment. I leave you." 
 
 Edouard, trembling and confused, 
 stammered, scarcely above a whis- 
 per: — 
 
 " madame, I feel I shall need all 
 my friend's excuses " ; and here his 
 whisper died out altogether, and his 
 tongue seemed to glue itself to some- 
 thing and lose the power of motion. 
 
 " Calm yourself, monsieur : I listen 
 to you." 
 
 " Madame, I do not deserve her, — 
 but I love her. My position is not 
 what she merits, — but I love her." 
 
 "IIuw can that be, monsieur'? — 
 you do not know her," 
 
 " Ah yes, madame ! — I know her : 
 there are souls that speak through the 
 countenance : I have lived on hers 
 too lung not to know her. Say rather 
 you do not know me, — you may 
 well hesitate to allow one unknown 
 to come near so great a treasure. 
 There I am sure is the true obstacle. 
 Well, madame, as my merits are sm.all, 
 let my request be moderate : give me 
 a trial. Let me visit you, — I am 
 not old enough to be a hypocrite : if I 
 am undeserving, such an eye as yours 
 will soon detect mo : you will dismiss 
 me, and I shall go at a word, for I am 
 ])roud too, thougli I have so little to 
 be proud of." 
 
 " You do not appear to see, mon- 
 sieur, that this little experiment will 
 comjiromise my daughter." 
 
 " Not at all, madame ; I promise it 
 shall not ; I swear I will not presume 
 
 on any opportunity your goodness 
 shall give me. Consider, madame, it 
 is only here that 1 can make you ac- 
 quainted witli my chai-acter : you 
 never leave the chateau, madame : let 
 me come to the chateau now and then, 
 oh, pray let me come, madame the 
 baroness ! " and he turned his be- 
 seeching eyes on her. 
 
 " Was ever anything so unreason- 
 able ? " 
 
 " Ah ! madame, the more I shall 
 bless you if you will be so generous 
 as not to refuse me." 
 
 "But if it is my dutv to refuse 
 wu V 
 
 " Then I shall die, madame, that is 
 all." 
 
 " Childishness ! " 
 
 " And you will be sorry." 
 
 " You tliink so ! " 
 
 " O yes ! for madame has a good 
 heart, — only she cannot see, and will 
 not believe, h-h-how I l-love." 
 
 " Child ! now if you cry, I will send 
 you away at once. One Avould say I 
 am very cruel, but I am not, — I am 
 only in my sejises, and this child is 
 not. In the first place, these things 
 are not done in this way. The ap- 
 proaches are made, not by the young 
 madman himself, but by his parents : 
 these open the treaty with the parent 
 or parents of the lady.". 
 
 " But, madame, I am not so fortu- 
 nate as to have a parent." 
 
 " What ! no father ? " 
 
 " No, madame. I cannot even re- 
 member my father." 
 
 " No mother'? " 
 
 " Madame, she died five years 
 ago. INIademoiselle Josephine can 
 tell you what I lost that day. If she 
 was alive she would be about your 
 age. Ah, no, madame ! you may be 
 sure she is gone from me, or I should 
 not kneel before you thus friendless. 
 She would come to you and say, 
 ' ^Madame, you are a mother as I am, 
 — feel for me, — my son loves your 
 daughter ; he will die if you refuse 
 him. Have ])ity on me and on my 
 son. I know him, — he is not 
 unworthy.' O Mademoisello Jose- 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 87 
 
 phine, speak a word for me, I im- 
 plore you ; for mc who, less happy 
 than you, have no mother, — for me 
 who speak so ill, and have so much 
 need to speak well. I shall be re- 
 jected — by my own fault. Can 
 one have so much to say and say so 
 little ? Can the heart be so full and 
 the tonirue so powerless ? My moth- 
 er, why did you leave me 1 " 
 
 The baroness rose. 
 
 She turned her head away. 
 
 Riviere awaited his doom trem- 
 bling- with agitation, and wishing he 
 had said anything but what he had 
 said ; he saw, too, a little tremor pass 
 over the baroness, but did not know 
 how to interpret that. 
 
 " The emotion such words cause 
 me — no, I cannot. My child, you 
 siiall leave me now. I will send you 
 my answer by letter." 
 
 These last words were spoken in 
 almost a coaxing tone, in a much 
 kinder tone than she had ever used 
 before, and Edouard's hopes rose. 
 
 " yes, madame," said he, inno- 
 cently, " I prefer it so ; thank you, 
 madame, from the bottom of my 
 heart, thank you ! " 
 
 He paused in the middle of his 
 gratitude, for to his surprise the baron- 
 ess's eyes suddenly became fixed with 
 horror and astonishment. He wheeled 
 round to see what direful object had so 
 transfixed her, and caught Josephine 
 behind him, but at some distance, 
 looking at her mother with an im- 
 ploring face, a face to melt a tigress, 
 and both her white hands clasped to- 
 gether in mute supplication, and her 
 cheeks wet. 
 
 When she saw herself detected, 
 she attempted no further secrecy, but 
 came forward, her hands still clasped. 
 
 " Ah, no, my mother ! " Then she 
 turned to Edouard. " Do you not see 
 she is going to refuse you by letter be- 
 cause she has not the courage to look 
 in your sweet face and strike you ? " 
 
 ''Ah, traitress ! traitress ! " shrieked 
 the baroness. 
 
 Edouard sighed. 
 
 Josephine stood supplicating. 
 
 "A new light strikes me," cried 
 the old lady : " what a horror ! Why, 
 Josephine, — my daughter, — is 'it 
 possible you are interested — to such 
 a degree — in this — " 
 
 Josephine lowered her lovely head. 
 
 " Yes, my mother," said she, just 
 above a whisper. 
 
 The baroness groaned. 
 
 Edouard, to comfort her, began : — 
 
 " But, madame, it is not — " 
 
 " Ah ! hold your tongue," cried 
 Josephine, hastily, in an accent of 
 terror. 
 
 The mystified one held his tongue. 
 
 " She is right, monsieur," said the 
 baroness, dryly : " leave her alone, 
 she will have more influence with me 
 than you. In a word, monsieur, I am 
 about to consult my daughter in this 
 wise and well-ordered affair. Be 
 pleased to excuse us a few minutes." 
 
 " Certainly, madame." He took 
 his hat. 
 
 "I will send for you. Meantime 
 go and play with that other child on 
 the terrace," said she, spitefully ; for 
 all her short-lived feeling in his fa- 
 vor was gone now. 
 
 Monsieur Edouard bowed respect- 
 fully, and submitted demurely to his 
 penance. 
 
 " All is ended," said the baroness ; 
 " the sentiments that have corrupted 
 the nation have ended by penetrating 
 i into my family, — my eldest daughter 
 I flinjTs herself at a man's head, — 
 again it is not a man, but a boy, Avith 
 the face of an angel." 
 
 Josephine glided to her mother's 
 side, and sank on her knees. 
 
 " My mother, have some little con- 
 fidence in your Josephine ! Am I so 
 very foolish ? Am I so very wicked ? " 
 And she laid her cheek against her 
 mother's. 
 
 The old lady kissed her. 
 
 " Thou shalt have him, — thou shalt 
 have him ! my well-beloved : have no 
 fear : thy motlier loves thee too well to 
 vex thee." But at this the old lady 
 began to sob and to cry : " They are 
 taking away my children ! they are 
 taking away my cliildren ! " And to 
 
88 
 
 \x 
 
 TE LIES. 
 
 the doctor, wlio came in full of curios- 
 ity, she cried out : " Ah ! you lire 
 come, you ! — enjoy then your tri- 
 umph, for you have won ! " 
 
 " All the better ! " cried the doctor, 
 gayly. 
 
 " Nevertheless, it was a sorry tri- 
 umiih to come to a poor old woman 
 from whom they had taken all except 
 her dauahters, and to rob her of them, 
 too, — ah ! " 
 
 The doctor hung his head : then he 
 stepped quickly u|) to her with great 
 concern, and took her hand. 
 
 " ]My dear, dear friend," he cried, 
 " the laws of Nature are inevitable. 
 Sooner or later the young birds must 
 leave the parent's nest." 
 
 " Nature is very cruel, — oh ! oh ! " 
 
 " She but seems so, because she is 
 unchangeable. There is another law, 
 to which you and I must both yield 
 erelong." 
 
 " Yes, my friend." 
 
 " Shall we go, and leave these tender 
 ones to choose mates and protectors for 
 themselves, out of a world of wolves 
 in sheep's clothing ? Shall we refuse 
 them, Mhile we live, the light of our 
 age and wisdom in this the act that is 
 to color their whole lives ? " 
 
 " You have always reason on your 
 side, you. Well ! send for the young 
 man. He is good : he will forgive me 
 if, in spite of myself, I should be some- 
 times rude to him : he will understand 
 that to my daughter he is a lover, but 
 to me a ])urg]ar, — a highway i-obber, 
 
 — poor child ! lie is very handsome 
 all the same. Next, he has no moth- 
 er, — if I was not so wicked I should 
 try and supply her ])lace, — you see I 
 am reasonable. Tell me now how 
 l<jMg it will be before you come to me 
 for Laure ? O, do not he afraid : I 
 will let her go too. I will not give all 
 this trouble a second time, — the first 
 struggle it is that tears us. Yet I 
 knew it must come some day. But I 
 (lid not cxjtect it so soon. No matter 
 
 — I will l)e reasonable — to-day is the 
 fourth of November. I shall remem- 
 licr the fourth of November, — go to. 
 All I ask is, when they are both gone, 
 
 and the house is quite, quite deso- 
 late, then sutfer me to die, — when all 
 I love is gone from me. Oh ! oh ! oh ! 
 oh ! oh ! " 
 
 " Monsieur Pcrrin, the notary, is be- 
 low and would speak to madame," 
 said Jacintha, at the door. 
 
 "Ah ! I remember, away with our 
 tears, my friends : here comes one 
 who would not understand them. He 
 would say, ' Wiiat, have they all the 
 toothache at once, in this house?'" 
 
 St. Aubin, after the first compli- 
 ments, retired ; and the notary, the 
 baroness, and Josephine seated them- 
 selves in a triangle. 
 
 lie began b}' confessing to them that 
 he had not overcome the refractory 
 creditor without much trouble; and 
 that he had since learned there was 
 another, a larger creditor, likely to 
 press for payment or for sale of the es- 
 tate. The baroness was greatly agi- 
 tated by this communication : the 
 notary remained cool as a cucumber, 
 and keenly ol)servant. 
 
 " Bonard," said he, " has put this in- 
 to their heads ; otherwise I believe they 
 never would have thought of it." 
 
 He went on to say all this had 
 caused him grave reflections. 
 
 " It seems," said he, witli cool can- 
 dor, " a sad pity that the estate should 
 pass from a family that has held it 
 since the days of Charlemagne." 
 
 " Now God forbid ! " cried the bar- 
 oness, lifting her eyes and her quiver- 
 ing hands to Heaven. 
 
 Now the notary held the Republi- 
 can creed in all its branches. 
 
 "Providence, madame, does not in- 
 tei'fere in matters of business," said 
 he. " Nothing but money can save 
 the estate. Let us then look at things 
 solid. Has any means occurred to 
 you of raising money to pay oft' these 
 encumbrances ? " 
 
 " No. What means can there be ? 
 The estate is mortgaged to its full 
 value : so they all say." 
 
 " And they say triie ! " put in the 
 notary, quickly. 
 
 " There is no hope." 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 89 
 
 " Do not distress yourself, madame : 
 I am here ! ! " 
 
 *' Ah, my good friend, may JSeav- 
 en reward you." 
 
 " Madame, up to the present time 
 I have no complaint to make of this 
 same Heaven. By the by, permit 
 me to show you that I am on the rise : 
 here, mademoiselle, is a gimcrack 
 they have given me " ; and he unbut- 
 toned his overcoat, and showed them 
 a piece of tricolored ribbon and a 
 clasp. -"As for me, I look to the 
 solid, I care little for these things," 
 said he, secretly bursting with grati- 
 fied vanity ; " but the world is dazzled 
 by them. However, I can show you 
 something better." He took out a 
 letter. " This is from the Minister 
 of the Interior to a client of mine : 
 it amounts to a promise I shall be the 
 next prefect, and the present prefect 
 
 — I am happy to say — is on his 
 death-bed. Thus, madame, your hum- 
 ble servant in a few short months will 
 be notary no longer, but prefect ; I 
 shall then sell my office of notary, — it 
 is worth one hundred thousand francs, 
 
 — and I flatter myself when I am a 
 prefect you will not blush to own me." 
 
 " Then as now, monsieur," said 
 the baroness, politely, "we shall rec- 
 ognize your merit. But — " 
 
 " I understand, madame : like me, 
 you look to what is solid. Thus then 
 it is : I have money." 
 
 " Ah ! all the better for you.-" 
 
 " I have a good deal of money. 
 But it is dispersed in a great many 
 small, though profl table investments. 
 Now to call it in suddenly would en- 
 tail some loss." 
 
 *' I do not doubt it." 
 
 " Never mind, madame, if you and 
 my young lady there have ever so lit- 
 tle of that friendly feeling towards 
 me of which I have so much towards 
 you, all my investments shall be 
 called in. Six months will do it; 
 two thirds of your creditors shall be 
 paid off at once. A single party on 
 whom I can depend, one of ray cli- 
 ents, who dares not quarrel with me, 
 will advance the remaining third ; 
 
 and so the estate will be safe. In an- 
 other six months even that diminished 
 debt shall be liquidated, and Beau- 
 repaire chateau, park, estate, and 
 grounds, down to the old oak-tree, 
 shall be as free as air ; and no power 
 shall alienate them from you, madem- 
 oiselle, and from the heirs of your 
 body." 
 
 The baroness clasped her hands in 
 ecstasy. 
 
 " But what are we to do for this, 
 monsieur ? " inquired Josephine, calm- 
 ly, " for it seems to me that it can 
 only be effected by great sacrifices on 
 your part. " 
 
 " I thank you, mademoiselle, for 
 your penetration in seeing that I 
 must make sacrifices. I would never 
 have told you, but you have seen it, 
 — and I do not regret that you have 
 sc(3n it. Madame, mademoiselle, those 
 sacrifices appear little to me, — will 
 seem nothing, — will never be men- 
 tioned, or even alluded to, after this 
 day, if you, on your part, will lay me 
 iinder a far heavier obligation, — if 
 in short," — here the contemner of 
 things unsubstantial reopened his 
 coat, and brought his ribbon to light 
 again, — "if you, madame, will ac- 
 cept ME FOK TOUR SOX-IN-LAW, 
 
 IF TOU, MADEMOISELLE, WILL TAKE 
 ME FOR TOUR HUSBAND ! " 
 
 The baroness and her daughter 
 looked at one another in silence. 
 
 " Is it a jest ? " inquired the former 
 of the latter. 
 
 " Can you think so, my mother 1 
 Answer Monsieur Perrin. Above all, 
 ray rpother, remember he has just 
 done us a kind office." 
 
 "I shall remember it. Monsieur, 
 permit me to regret that, having lately 
 won our gratitude and esteem, you 
 have taken this way of modifying those 
 feelings. But after all," she added 
 with gentle courtesy, " we may well 
 put your good deeds against this — 
 this error in judgment. The balance 
 is in your favor still, pi'ovided you 
 never return to this topic. Come, is 
 it agreed ? " 
 
90 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 The baroness's manner was full of 
 tact, and tlic latter sentences were 
 said with an open kindliness of man- 
 ner. • 
 
 There was nothing to prevent Per- 
 rin from dropping the sulijeet and re- 
 maining good friends. A gentleman 
 or a lover would have so done. 
 
 Monsieur Perrin was neither. He 
 said in rather a threatening tone : 
 "^'ou refuse me then, niadame ! ! " 
 
 The tone and the words were each 
 singly too much for the baroness's 
 pride. She answered coldly but civ- 
 illy: — 
 
 " I do not refuse you. I do not 
 take an affront into consideration." 
 
 " Be calm, my mother," said Jose- 
 phine ; " no artiont was intended." 
 
 " Ah ! here is one that is more 
 reasonable," cried Perrin. 
 
 " There are men," continued Jose- 
 phine, without noticing him, " who 
 look to but one thing, interest. It 
 was an otler made politely in the way 
 of business ; decline it in the same 
 spirit, my mother ; that is what you 
 have to do." 
 
 " ^Monsieur, yon hear what ma- 
 demoiselle says i " 
 
 " I am not deaf, madame." 
 
 " She carries politeness a long way. 
 After all, it is a good fault. Well, 
 monsieur, I need not answer you 
 since Mademoiselle do Beaurepaire 
 has answered you ; but I detain you 
 no longer." 
 
 Strictly a weasel has no business 
 with the temper of a tiger, but this 
 one had, and the long vindictiveness 
 of a Corsican. 
 
 " Ah ! my little lady, you turn me 
 out of the house, do you ? " cried he, 
 grinding ids teeth. 
 
 " Turn him out of tlic house ! what 
 a phrase ! My daughtei", where has 
 this man lived ? " 
 
 " To the Devil with phrases. You 
 turn me out ! A man, my little la- 
 dies, whom none ever yet insulted 
 without repenting it, and repenting in 
 vain. You are under obligations to 
 me, and you think to turn me out ! 
 You are at my mercy, and you think 
 
 I will let you turn me to your door ! 
 Say again to me, either with or with- 
 out i)h rases, ' Sortez ! ' and by all the 
 devils in less than a month I will 
 stand here, here, here, and say to you, 
 'Sortez!'" 
 
 " Ah ! — mon Dim ! inon DIeu ! " 
 
 " I will say, ' Beaurepaire is mine ! 
 Begone from it ! ' " 
 
 When he uttered these terrible 
 words, each of which was a blow with 
 a bludgeon to the baroness, the old 
 lady, whose courage was not equal 
 to her spirit, shrank over the side 
 of her arm-chair and cried piteously : 
 " He threatens me ! he threatens 
 me ! I am frightened ! " and put up 
 her trembling hands, so suggestive 
 was the notary's eloquence of phys- 
 ical violence. Then his brutality 
 received an unexpected check. Im- 
 agine that a sparrow-hawk had seized 
 a trembling pigeon, and that a royal 
 falcon swooped, and, with one light- 
 ning-like stroke of body and wing, 
 buffeted him away, and there he was 
 on his back, gaping and glaring and 
 grasping at nothing with his claws. 
 So swift and irresistible, but far more 
 terrible and majestic, Josephine de 
 Beaurepaire came from her chair 
 with one gesture of her body be- 
 tween her mother and the notary, 
 who was advancing on her with 
 anus folded in a brutal, menacing 
 way, — not the Josephine we have 
 seen her, tlie calm, languid beauty, 
 but the demoiselle De Beaurepaire, 
 her great heart on fire, — her blood 
 up, — not her own only, but all the 
 blood of all the De Beaurepaires, — 
 pale as ashes with great wrath, her 
 purple eyes flaring, and her whole 
 panther-like body ready either to 
 spring or strike. 
 
 " Slave ! you dare to insiilt her, 
 and before me ! Arricre, miserable ! * 
 or I soil my hand with your face ! " 
 And her hand was uj) with the word, 
 up, u]), higher it seemed than ever 
 a hand was lifted before. And if 
 he had hesitated one moment, I be- 
 lieve it would have come down ; and 
 * " Back 1 wrclch ! " 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 91 
 
 if it had he would have gone to her 
 feet before it : not under its weight, 
 — the lightning is not heavy, — but 
 under the soul that would have struck 
 with it : but there was no need ; the 
 towering threat and the flaming eye 
 and the swift rush butieted the caitiiF 
 away : he recoiled three steps and 
 nearly fell down. She followed him 
 as he went, strong in that moment 
 as Hercules, beautiful and terrible 
 as Michael driving Satan. He dared 
 not, or rather he could not, stand be- 
 fore her ; he wreathed and cowered 
 and recoiled all down the room, while 
 she marched upon him. Then the 
 driven serpent hissed as it wriggled 
 away. 
 
 " For all this she too shall be turned 
 out of Beaurepaire, not like me, but 
 forever. I swear it, parole de Per- 
 riu." 
 
 " She shall never be turned out. I 
 swear it, foi de De Beaurepaire." 
 
 " You too, daughter of Sa — " 
 
 " Tais toi, et sors a Vinstant meme — 
 Lache ! " * 
 
 The old lady moaning and trem- 
 bling and all but fainting in her chair : 
 the young noble, like a destroying an- 
 gel, hand in air, and great eye scorch- 
 ing and withering; and the caitiff 
 wriggling out at the door, wincing with 
 body and head, his knees knocking, 
 his heart panting yet raging, his teeth 
 gnashing, his cheek livid, his eye 
 gleaming with the fire of hell. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 *' Mademoiselle, your mother has 
 sent me here to play with you." 
 
 " Monsieur ! " 
 
 " It is true. She said, * Go and 
 play with that other child.' " 
 
 " Mesdames our mothers take liber- 
 ties which we do not put up with from 
 a stranger." 
 
 " Mademoiselle, I felt like you at 
 such a term being applied to me, but 
 
 * " Hold your tongue ! and begone this 
 very moment, coward and slave I " 
 
 it is sweet to share anything with you, 
 even an affront, a stigma." 
 
 " So they sent you to amuse me 1 " 
 asked the beauty, royally. 
 
 " It appears so." 
 
 " Whether I like or not ? " 
 
 " No, mademoiselle, at a word from 
 you I was to leave you : that was un- 
 derstood." 
 
 " Go away." 
 
 "I go." 
 
 He retired. 
 
 " Monsieur Riviere," called the lady 
 to him, in a calm, friendly tone as if 
 nothing had happened. 
 
 He came back. 
 
 " How thoughtless you are : you 
 are going away without telling me 
 what you have been saying to my 
 mother about me behind my back." 
 
 " I never mentioned you, madem- 
 oiselle ! " 
 
 " Oh ! oh ! all the better ! " 
 
 Then this child told that child all 
 he had said to the baroness, and her 
 replies ; and this child blushed in 
 telling it and looked timidly every 
 now and then to see how that capri- 
 cious child took it : and that capricious 
 child wore a lofty, contemplative air, 
 as much as to say, " I am listening 
 out of politeness to a dry abstract of 
 certain matters purely speculative 
 wherein I have no personal interest." 
 Certain blushes that came and went 
 gave a charming incongruity to the 
 performance, and might have made an 
 aged by-stander laugh. 
 
 When he came to tell Josephine's 
 interference, and how her mother 
 thought it was she he loved ; and how 
 Josephine, to his great surprise, had 
 favored the delusion ; and how, on 
 this, the tide had turned directly in his 
 favor, our young actress being of an 
 impetuous nature and off her guard a 
 moment, burst out, "Ah, I recognize 
 you there, my good Josephine ! " but 
 she had no sooner said this than she 
 lowered her eyes and her cheek burned. 
 
 Riviere was mystified. 
 
 " But, mademoiselle," said he, " do 
 pray explain to me, — can I be mista- 
 ken after alH — is she —-? " 
 
92 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 " Is slic wliat ? " 
 
 " I mean duos she — ? " 
 
 " Docs she what ? " 
 
 " You know what I mean." 
 
 " No, I do not : how should I ? 
 Tlic vanity of tlicsc chihlrcn ! Now, 
 if slie did. would she have confessed 
 before you that she did ? " 
 
 " Well I am astonished at you, 
 ^Mademoiselle Laure ; Jaeintha tiien 
 is right ; you ncknowledge that every- 
 thiiii; vour sex says is a falsehood, — 
 Hef" 
 
 " Xo ! not everything," replied 
 Laure, with naivete unparalleled, 
 " only certain things ! don't tease me," 
 cried she, with sudden small violence; 
 " of this be sure, that Josephine was 
 a good friend to you, not because she 
 loves children, but because she is not 
 one of us at all, but an angel and 
 loves everybody, — even monsieur." 
 
 " This is what I think," said 
 Edouard, gravely. " The baroness 
 fancies you a child, — you arc woman 
 enough to puzzle me, mademoiselle." 
 
 " That may easily be." 
 
 " And Mademoiselle? Josephine 
 thought I should not be allowed to 
 come into the house at all, if, at that 
 critical moment, another prejudice 
 came in tlie way." 
 
 " What prejudice? " 
 
 " That you arc too young to love." 
 
 "That is no prejudice, — it is a 
 fact, I am, monsieur, — I am much 
 too young." 
 
 "No ! I was confused, I mean too 
 young to be loved." 
 
 " O, I am not too young for that, 
 — not a bit too young." 
 
 " And so the angel Josephine tem- 
 porized, out of pity to me : that is my 
 solution, and, — ah! Heaven bless 
 her ! " 
 
 " Forgive me if I say your solution 
 is a very absurd one." 
 
 " It is the true one." 
 
 " Are you sure ? " 
 
 " Positive." 
 
 " Then it is no use my contradicting 
 you." 
 
 " Not the least." 
 
 " Then I shall not contradict you." 
 
 " Ah, well ! mademoiselle angel, 
 perhaps my turn will t-omc," said the 
 young man, his lips treml)liiig. 
 " Won't I cut myself in pieces for 
 you at a word, that is all." 
 
 " I like you better when you talk 
 so." 
 
 " Mademoiselle Laure ? " 
 
 " Monsieur Edouard ? " 
 
 "If you will come to where the 
 great oak-tree stands. " 
 
 " To the Pleasance, you mean 1 " 
 
 " O, the Pleasance, is it ? What 
 lovely names everything has here ! 
 Well, if you "vvill come into the Pleas- 
 ance, I will make you a drawing of 
 that dear old tree I love so." 
 
 " And what right have you to love 
 it ? — it is not yours : it is oui*s. You 
 are always loving something you have 
 no business to." 
 
 " I love things that one can't help 
 loving, — is that a crime ? " 
 
 " He can't help loving a tree, tender 
 nature ! " 
 
 " No, I can't help loving a tree out 
 of Avhich you introduced yourself to 
 me." 
 
 " Insolent ! Well, draw it with two 
 ladies flying out and a boy rooted 
 with terror." 
 
 " There is no need. That scene is 
 more than draw^n, it is engraved, on 
 all our memories forever ! " . 
 
 " Not on mine ! not on mine ! Oh ! 
 how terrified you w^ere, — ha ! ha ! — 
 and how terrified we should have been 
 if you had not. Listen : once npon a 
 time — don't be alarmed : it was 
 after Noah — a fi-ightened hare ran 
 l)y a ])ond : the frogs splashed into 
 the w\ater in terror. She said, ' Ah 
 ha ! there are then those I frighten in 
 my turn : I am the thunderbolt of 
 war,' Excuse my quoting La Fon- 
 taine : I am not in ' Charles the 
 Twelfth of Sweden ' yet. I am but 
 a child." 
 
 " And I am glad of it, for when 
 you grow up you Avill be too much for 
 mo, that is evident. Come, then, 
 niadomoiselle the (|uizzer." 
 
 " Monsieur, shall I make you a 
 confession 1 You will not be angry : 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 93 
 
 I could not support your displeas- 
 ure." 
 
 " I am afraid you could : so I will 
 not try you/' 
 
 " Then I have a strange inclination 
 to walk up and down this terrace 
 whilst you draw that tree in the Fleas- 
 ance." 
 
 " Resist that inclination : perhaps 
 it will fly from you." 
 
 " No ! you fly from me and draw. 
 I will rejoin you in a few minutes." 
 
 " Thank you ! Not so stupid ! " 
 
 "Do you doubt my word, sir?" 
 asked she, haughtily. 
 
 " Heaven forbid, mademoiselle ! 
 only I did not see at first that it was 
 a serious promise you are doing me 
 the honor to make me. I go." 
 
 He went, and placed himself on the 
 west side of the oak and took out his 
 sketch-book, and worked zealously 
 and rapidly. He had done the out- 
 lines of the tree and was finishing in 
 detail a part of the huge trunk, when 
 his eyes were suddenly dazzled : in the 
 middle of the rugged bark, deformed 
 here and there with great wart-like 
 bosses, and wrinkled, seamed, and 
 ploughed all over with age, burst a bit 
 of variegated color : briglit as a poppy 
 on a dungeon wall, it glowed and 
 glittered out through a large hole in 
 the brown dark ; it Avas Laure's face 
 peeping. To our young lover's eye 
 how divine it shone ! None of the 
 half-tints of common flesh were there, 
 but a thing all rose, lily, sapphire, and 
 soul. His pencil dropped, his mouth 
 opened, he was downright dazzled by 
 the glowing, bewitching face, spar- 
 kling with fun in the gaunt tree. Tell 
 me, ladies, did she know the value of 
 that sombre frame to her bright- 
 ness ? Oh ! no, — she was only a 
 child !!!!!! 
 
 The moment she found herself de- 
 tected, the gaunt old tree rang musi- 
 cal with a crystal laugh, and out 
 came the arch-dryad. 
 
 " I have been there all the time. 
 How solemn you looked ! — ha ! ha ! 
 Now for the result of such profound 
 studv." 
 
 He showed her his work ; she al- 
 tered her tone. 
 
 " Oh ! how clever," she cried, "and 
 how rapid ! AYhat a facility you 
 have ! Monsieur is an artist," said she, 
 gravely ; " I will be more respectful," 
 and she dropped him a low courtesy. 
 " Mind you promised it to me," she 
 added, sharply. 
 
 " You will accept it, then ? " 
 
 "That I will : it will be worth 
 having : I never reckoned .%on that, 
 — hence my nonclialance. Finish it 
 directly," cried this peremptory young 
 person. 
 
 " First I must trouble you to stand 
 out there near the tree." 
 
 " What for ? " 
 
 " Because I want a contrast. The 
 tree is a picture of Age and gradual 
 decay ; by its side, then, I must place 
 a personification of Youth and grow- 
 ing loveliness." 
 
 She did not ansAver, but made a 
 sort of pirouette, and went where she 
 was bid, and stood there with her 
 back to the artist. 
 
 "But that will not do, mademoi- 
 selle ; you must turn round." 
 
 " 0, very well." And when she 
 came round he saw her color was 
 high. Flattery is sweet. 
 
 This child of nature was pleased, 
 and ashamed that it should be seen 
 that she was pleased, — and so he 
 drew her ; and kept looking off the 
 paper at her, and had a right in his 
 character of artist to look her full in 
 the face, and he did so with long, lin- 
 gering glances beginning severe and 
 business-like, and ending tender, that 
 she, poor girl, hardly knew which way 
 to look, not to be scorched up by his • 
 eye like a tender flower, or blandly 
 absorbed like the pearly dew. Ah ! 
 happy hour ! ah ! happy days of 
 youth, and innocence, and first love ! 
 
 " Here is my sister. All ! something 
 is the matter ! " 
 
 Josephine came towards them, pale 
 and panting. 
 
 " my children," she cried, and 
 could not speak a moment for agitation. 
 
94 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 The;)' came round her in the great- 
 est concern. 
 
 '' A i^rcrtt misfortnnc has fallen on 
 us, and I am the cause." 
 
 " Heaven ! " 
 
 " We have an enemy now, a deadly 
 enemy. I'errin the notary ; Limre — 
 monsieur — he insulted us — he in- 
 sulted my mother — I could not hear 
 that — I insulted }um." 
 
 " You, Josephine 1 " 
 
 " Yes ! you may well wonder. How 
 little wc know ourselves ! hut our 
 mother was tremhling in her chair, 
 her noble, her beloved face all pale, — 
 all pale, — and she put up her hands 
 before her sacred head, for the ruflian 
 was threatening^; her with his loud voice 
 and brutal gestures." 
 
 " O my poor mother ! " 
 
 " Sacr-r-7-e canaille ! — and I not 
 tlicre ! " 
 
 " Then in a moment, I know not 
 how, I was upon him, and I cried, 
 * Back, wretch \' " 
 
 " Well done." 
 
 " With my hand over his head. 
 O, if he had faced me a moment, 
 I should have struck him with all my 
 soul, and in the face. I should have 
 killed him. I was stronger than lions, 
 and as fierce. I was not myself. I 
 knew no fear; I who now am all fear 
 again. My children, it was but a sin- 
 gle coward, — had it been a regiment 
 of braves, I should have flung myself 
 upon them, — for ray mother. Mad- 
 woman that I was ! " 
 
 " You notde creature — you goddess 
 
 — I only loved you, and honored you 
 
 — now i adore you." 
 
 " O Edouard, you do not see what 
 my violence has done. Alas ! I who 
 love my sister so have ruined her, I 
 h.ave ruined the mother I tried to pro- 
 tect. I have ruined the house of 
 Bcaurepaire. For that shrinking 
 coward has the heart of a liend. He 
 told us he had never forgiven an 
 affront, — and he holds our fate in his 
 hands. * Yon turn me out of the 
 room,' he yelled (oh ! I turn cold now 
 when I tliink of his words), ' 1 will 
 turn vou out of the room, and out of 
 
 the house as well. You stand here 
 and say to me, ' Sortez ! ' lu a little 
 while I will stand here, — here, and 
 say to you, ' Sortez ! ' He will do it. 
 It is written in my heart, so hot with 
 rage a moment ago, so cold with ter- 
 ror now — he will do it — he will 
 come armed with the law — the iron 
 law — and say to us poor debtors — 
 ' Sortez !'" 
 
 "And if he docs," said Edouard, 
 firmly, and cutting each word with 
 his clenching tcetli, "this is what will 
 liappcn. I will cut his liver out with 
 my dog-whip before you all, and you 
 will not go at all." 
 
 "That is spoken like a man!" 
 cried Laure, warmly. 
 
 " You talk like a child," said Jose- 
 phine. " Yet perhaps you might do 
 something. Will you do something 
 for me ? " 
 
 " Did you do nothing for me to- 
 day, that you put such a question 1 " 
 
 " We will not speak of that, my 
 friend." 
 
 "No," cried the boy, trembling 
 with emotion, " Ave will not talk of it; 
 these are not things to talk of; but 
 we will — " And for lack of words 
 he seized iipou both her hands and 
 kissed them violently, and then seized 
 her gown and kissed that. 
 
 "Y"ou know Bonard the farmer, 
 — he lives about a league from this." 
 " Yes ! yes ! " 
 
 " Run thither across the meadows, 
 and find out whether Perrin has been 
 to him since leaving the chateau. He 
 has only a few minutes' start ; you 
 will perhaps arrive before he leaves." 
 " Before he leaves ! I shall bo 
 there before him. Do you think a 
 dun cow can carry a scoundrel to- 
 wards villany as fast as I can go to 
 please an angel ? " 
 
 " You will come back to Beaure- 
 paire and tell me ? " 
 
 " Yes ! yes ! " and he was gone. 
 The sisters followed slowly to the 
 gate, and watched the impetuous boy 
 run across the park. 
 
 " He does not take the path/' said 
 Josephine. 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 95 
 
 " 0," said Laure, " what are paths 
 to him 1 He has no prejudice in favor 
 of beaten tracks. He is going the 
 shortest way to Bonard, that we may 
 be sure of." 
 
 "How gallantly he runs, Lam-e ; 
 how high he holds his head ; how easi- 
 ly he moves ; and yet how he clears 
 the ground, — already at the edge of 
 the park." 
 
 " Yes, but, Josephine, the strong 
 bramble hedge, — there is no gap 
 there, — no stile. What will he do *? 
 Ah ! " 
 
 Edouard had solved the riddle of 
 the hedge ; by a familiar manoeuvre 
 unknown to those ladies until that 
 moment, he increased his pace and 
 took a flying leap right at the hedge, 
 but, turning in the air, came at it 
 with his back instead of his face, and, 
 by his weight and impetus, contrived 
 to burst through Briareus in a mo- 
 ment, and was next seen a furlong 
 beyond it. 
 
 The girls looked at one another. 
 Josephine smiled sadly. Laure looked 
 up hopefully. 
 
 " All our lives we have thought 
 that hedge a barrier no mortal could 
 pass, — he ffid n't make much of it. 
 Have courage then, my sister." 
 
 "Laure, go in and comfort our 
 mother." 
 
 " Yes, my sister, — alone 1 "Where 
 are you going 1 " 
 
 " To the oratory." 
 
 " Ah ! you are right." 
 
 "O Laure, the blessing and the 
 comfort of believing the God of the 
 fatherless is stronger than wicked 
 men. Dark days are coming, my 
 sister." 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Laure tried to comfort her moth- 
 er ; the consoling topic she chose was 
 young Riviere. She described his 
 zeal, his determination to baffle the 
 enemy, how, she did not know, but 
 she was sure he would somehow: 
 
 and, to crown all, his jumping through 
 the hedge. 
 
 The baroness listened like a wound- 
 ed porcupine round whom a fly 
 buzzes. The notary was her wound ; 
 the statesman her worrying fly. 
 AVhen her patience was exhausted, 
 she lashed out against him. 
 
 Now, capricious imps like Laure, 
 Avhom their very nature seems to im- 
 pel to tease and flout, and even quar- 
 rel with a lover to his fiice, arc bal- 
 anced by another strong impulse, — 
 viz. to defend him behind his back, 
 ay, with more spirit than those who 
 have more loving natures. -Perhaps 
 they feel they owe him this reparation. 
 Perhaps to abuse him is to infringe 
 their monopoly, and they can't stand 
 that. 
 
 Laure defended Edouard so warm- 
 ly, that, between her mother's sagacity 
 and her own vexation at his being 
 sneered at by anybody but her, and 
 also at her being called once or twice 
 in the course of the argument by the 
 hateful epithet " a child," it transpired 
 that she was the young lady Edouard 
 came to Beaurepaire for. 
 
 The baroness was so shocked at 
 this that Laure repented bitterly her 
 unguarded tongue. 
 
 " O mamma ! don't look so, — 
 pray, don't look so ! Mamma dear, 
 be angry again, do pray be very 
 angry : but don't look so at your 
 Laure. I could not help growing up. 
 I could not help being like you, mam- 
 ma. So then they call that being 
 pretty, and come teasing me. But I 
 am not obliged to love him, mamma, do 
 pray remember that. I don't care for 
 him the least in the world, not as I 
 do for you and Josephine ; and if he 
 brings dissension here, I shall hate 
 him ! ah yes ! you could easily make 
 me hate him, — poor boy ! " 
 
 " I was wrong : it is a weakness of 
 parents never to see that their children 
 are young women." 
 
 " I am nineteen and a half, my 
 mother, and he is only twenty-one. 
 So, you see, it is very natural." 
 
 " Yes ! it is very natural, — there, 
 
96 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 c:o and tell the doctor all that has 
 hapjK'Uod tills inisiral)le j,(lay. For I 
 ain worn out, — (juito worn out. Let 
 me have some one of my own ago to 
 talk to. Ah ! how unhappy I am ! " 
 
 Never since our story commenced 
 did a sadder, gloomier jjarty sit round 
 the little table and its one candle in 
 the corner of that vast saloon. 
 
 Josephine tilled with gloomy appre- 
 hensions, and accusing herself of the 
 ruin of the family. 
 
 Tlie doctor, sharing her anxieties, 
 and bitterly mortified at the defeat of 
 reason and St. Aubin : athavii|g'been 
 deceived by this wolf in sheep's cloth- 
 ing. 
 
 Laurc sad, for now for the first 
 time they were not all united in opin- 
 ion, as well as in trouble, and she 
 herself the cause. 
 
 The Ijaroness in a state of prostra- 
 tion, and looking years older than in 
 the morning. 
 
 " You arc worn out, madame," said 
 the good doctor ; " let me persuade 
 you to retire to rest a little earlier 
 than usual." 
 
 "No, my friend, I want to sit and 
 look at you all a little longer. Who 
 knows how long we shall be to- 
 gether ? " 
 
 There was a heavy silence. 
 
 Laure whispered to Josephine : 
 " Tell our mother she can dismiss 
 him whenever she pleases : it is all 
 one to me." 
 
 " No ! no ! " said Josephine, " that 
 is not what she is thinking of. She 
 is right : I have ruined you all." 
 
 The door opened. 
 
 " Monsieur Riviere," cried Jacin- 
 tha : and a moment after the young 
 man shone in the doorway. 
 
 "Is this an hour — V began the 
 baroness. 
 
 " lie comes by my request," said 
 Josephine, hastily. 
 
 " That is a different thing." 
 
 Edouard came down tlie saloon 
 with a brisk step and a general ani- 
 mation, and joined the l-inguid group 
 like a sunbeam struggling into thick 
 fog. lie bowed all round. 
 
 " Mademoiselle, he has been there. 
 As I Jumped over the last stile, that 
 dun pony trotted into the yard ; I 
 say, how he must have spurred 
 him." 
 
 Josephine, who had risen all ex- 
 cited to hear his report, sat down 
 again with a gentle, desponding 
 mien. 
 
 " I waited in ambush to see what 
 l)ecame of him. He was with the 
 farmer a good hour, — then he went 
 home. I followed him ; but I did 
 nothing, — you understand, because 
 I had not precise orders from you ; 
 but I went hence, and got my dog- 
 whip, — here it is< whenever you give 
 the word, or hold up your little finger 
 to that effect, it shall be applied, and 
 with a will," — crack, and the ex- 
 school-boy smacked his whip, mean- 
 ing to make a little crack, but it went 
 off like a pistol-shot. 
 
 " Ah ! " cried the baroness, and 
 nearly jumped out of her seat. 
 
 Edouard was abashed. 
 
 " The young savage ! " cried Laure, 
 and smiled ap])rovingly. 
 
 " It is no question of dog-Avhips," 
 said St. Aubin, with dignity. 
 
 " And the man is enough our ene- 
 my without our giving him any real 
 cause to hate us," remonstrated Jo- 
 sephine. 
 
 " We shall not be here long," 
 muttered the baroness, gloomily. 
 
 " Forgive me if I venture to con- 
 tradict you, madame." 
 
 "We are ruined, — and no power 
 can save us." 
 
 " Yes, madame, there is one who 
 can." 
 
 " Who can save me now ? " 
 asked the baroness, with deep de- 
 spondency. 
 
 "I!" 
 
 "You? child?" 
 
 "I ! if you will permit me." 
 
 This frantic announcement took 
 them so by surprise that they had not 
 even the presence of mind to exclaim 
 against its absurdity, but sat looking 
 at one another. 
 
 The statesman took advantage of 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 97 
 
 tiiei>petriftiction, and began to do a 
 little bit of pomposity. 
 
 " Madame the baroness, and you, 
 monsieur, who have honored me with 
 your esteem, and you, Mademoiselle 
 de Beaurepaire, whom I adore, and 
 you, Mademoiselle Laure whom I — 
 whom I hope to be permitted — 
 whom I — hsten all. You have this 
 day done me the honor to admit 
 me to an intimacy I have long 
 sought in vain : let me then this day 
 try to make you some small return, 
 and to justify in some degree Mon- 
 sieur St. Aubin, my kind advocate. 
 Madame, it is your entire ignorance 
 of business, and unfortunate neglect 
 of your property, that make you 
 fancy yourself ruined." 
 
 The baroness lauglied bitterly at 
 the boy. Then her head drooped. 
 
 " Let us come to facts. You are 
 living now upon about one thousand 
 two hundred francs a year, — the bal- 
 ance of your rents, after the interest 
 of yonr loans is paid." 
 
 Oh ! — and they were astounded 
 and terrified at his knowledge of their 
 secret, and blushed in silence for their 
 poverty. 
 
 " Your real balance, after paying 
 your creditors, is — that is, ought to 
 be — five thousand two hundred 
 francs. Yoiir fai'ms are let a good 
 forty per cent below their value : 
 your tenants are of two classes, — 
 those who never had any leases, and 
 those whose leases have long been run 
 out. The tenants are therefore in 
 your power, and whenever you can 
 pluck up resolution to have your real 
 income, say the word, and I will get it 
 you."- 
 
 The baroness smiled fainth'. 
 
 " Monsieur," said she, " you are 
 right, I understand little of business ; 
 but this I know, that the farms are 
 let too high, not too low. They all 
 say so." 
 
 " Who says so, madame ? " 
 
 " They who should know best, — 
 the tenants tliemselves. Two of their 
 wives came here last week and com- 
 plained of the hard times." 
 5 
 
 j " What ! the smooth-faced cheats, 
 the liars whose interest it is to chant 
 that tune. Give me better evidence." 
 
 "That man, the notary, he said 
 so. And in that point at least I see 
 not what interest — " 
 
 " You — don't — see — what — in- 
 terest — he has ! " cried Edouard. 
 
 " On me covpe la parole,'^ * said the 
 fine lady, dolefully, looking round with 
 an air of piteous surprise on them all. 
 
 " Forgive me, madame : zeal for you 
 boiled over ; but now is it possible you 
 don't see what interest that canaille of 
 a pettifogger has 1 " 
 
 " What phrases ! " 
 
 "In humbugging you on that 
 point ! " 
 
 "It is a whole vocabulary ! ! ! " 
 
 " Blame the things and the peo- 
 ple, not me, madame, since I do but call 
 both by their true names." 
 
 " Which, if not so polite as to 
 call them by other names, is more 
 scientific," suggested St. Aubin. 
 
 " Madame, pray see the thing as it 
 is, and if you insist on elegant phrases, 
 well, then : Beaurepaire is a dying kid 
 that all the little ravens about here are 
 feeding on, and all the larger vultures, 
 or Perrins, are scheming to carry away 
 to their own nests. The estate of 
 Beaurepaire is the cream of the dis- 
 trict. The first baron knew how to 
 choose land ; perhaps he took the one 
 bit of soil on which he found some- 
 thing growing by the mere force of 
 nature, all being alike uncultivated in 
 that barbarous time : it is a rich clay 
 watered by half a dozen brooks. Ah ! 
 if you could farm it yourself, as my 
 uncle does his, you might be wealthy 
 in spite of its encumbrances." 
 
 " Farm it ourselves ! Is he mad 1 " 
 
 " No, madame ; it is not I who am 
 mad. Why, if you go to that, it re- 
 quires no skill to deal with meadow 
 land, especially such land as yours, in 
 which the grass springs of itself. 
 Fundit humo facilem victuni justissima 
 tellus, doctor. There, I will back 
 Jacintha to farm it for you, without 
 spoiling the dinner. She has more 
 
 * He takes the words out of my mouth. 
 G 
 
98 
 
 "WHITE LIES. 
 
 intelligence tluui nicadow land asks. 
 In that ease your ineome would be 
 twelve thousand franes a year. The 
 very iilea makes you ill. Well, I 
 withdraw it ; and there go seven 
 thousanil francs per annum ; hut the 
 three thousaml francs I must and 
 will force upon you for the young la- 
 dies' sake; and justice's and common 
 sense's, — do you consent ? but, mon- 
 sieur, the baroness is ill, — she does 
 not answer me ! her lips are colorless ! 
 O, what have I done ? I have killed 
 her by my brusquerie." 
 
 " It is nothin<j:, my child," said the 
 baroness, faintly : " too much trouble, 
 — too much grief," — and she was 
 sinking back in her chair, but Laure's 
 arm was already sui)porting her, and 
 Josephine holding salts to her. 
 
 " It is fatigue," said the doctor. 
 " The baroness should have retired to 
 rest earlier, after so trying a day." 
 
 " He is right, my children. At my 
 age ladies cannot defy their medical 
 adviser with impunity. Your arm, 
 my youngest," said she ; and she re- 
 tired slowly, leaning upon Laure. 
 
 This little shade of j)reference was 
 a comfort to Laure after the short- 
 lived differences of the day ; and 
 Josephine it would seem did not 
 think it quite accidental, for she re- 
 sisted lier desire to come on her 
 mother's other side, and only went 
 slowly before them with the light. 
 
 On the young ladies' return they 
 were beset with anxions inquiries 
 by Edouard. St. Aubin interrupted 
 them. 
 
 " They will not tell you the truth," 
 said he, " perhaps they do not even 
 know it. It is partly fatigue, partly 
 worry : but these would not kill her 
 so fast as they arc doing, — if — if — 
 her food was more generous — more — 
 more nutritious ! " and the doctor 
 groaned. 
 
 " O doctor," cried Laure, "we give 
 her the best we have." 
 
 "I know you do, little angel,' but 
 you give her delicacies, — she wants 
 meat; you give her spiced and per- 
 fumed slops, — she wants the essence 
 
 of soup ; and what are grapes and 
 apples and pears and peaclies ? — wa- 
 ter; what arc jellies '( — sticky water, 
 water and glue, but not fibre : what 
 are salads ? — water : what are nearly 
 all vegetables ? ninety-six jjarts in the 
 hundred water; this has been lately 
 jjroved by analysis in Paris, by a 
 iViend of mine. Nature is very cun- 
 ning, she disguises water with a hun- 
 dred delicious flavors ; and then we 
 call it food. Farina and flesh, those 
 two are food : the rest ai'c water, air, 
 notliing. The baroness is at an age 
 when people ought to eat little at a 
 time, but often, and only sovereign 
 food." 
 
 " She shall have it from this day," 
 cried Edouard. "Let us conspire." 
 
 " yes," cried Laure, " let us con- 
 spire ! '■ 
 
 " Let us be kinder to her than she 
 will ever be lo herself. You saw how 
 prompt she was to oppose my plans 
 for baffling her enemies ? Let us act 
 without lier knowledge." 
 
 " But how 1 " 
 
 " Let me see. First let us think of 
 her health." 
 
 " yes ! that first of all." 
 
 "Ah! thank you, Edouard," cried 
 Josephine, warmly. 
 
 " Well, then, we must begin thus. 
 One of you young ladies must ask to 
 be allowed to manage the household 
 matters. You can say you wish to 
 prepare yourself for the day when 
 you shall yourself be mistress of an 
 estal)lishment. Perhaps, Mademoi- 
 selle Laure, you Avould make the pro- 
 posal i " 
 
 " Me ! I shall never be mistress 
 of an establishment," said Laure, 
 dolefully and pettishly. She added, 
 in quite a dit!erent key, " 1 do not 
 mean to : I would not lor the world." 
 
 " What a violent disclaimer," said 
 Jesephinc; "it will be best for me to 
 make the pnqiosal. I will be api»arent 
 mistress of the house, but, as Laure 
 rules me in all thinus, she will be 
 the real mistress. Wdl that meet my 
 friend's views ? " 
 
 " Provided she can be got to obey 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 99 
 
 me," was Edouard's answer. "May 
 I ask for another candle ? " The bell 
 was rung. ''Another candle, Jaciu- 
 tha." 
 
 Meantime, Edouard, too eager to 
 wait for anything long, took out of 
 his pocket a map, and spread it all 
 over the table : Jacintha came in, 
 and, being tormented with curiosity, 
 took a long time lighting the candle, 
 with a face made stolid for the occa- 
 sion. 
 
 " Now you all know what this is a 
 map of ? " 
 
 " No ! " said Laure, " it is not 
 France ; but what country it is I don't 
 know." 
 
 " O fie ! Jacintha knows, I '11 be 
 bound. What map is this, Jacin- 
 tha ? " 
 
 " It is Italy," replied Jacintha, 
 firmly, and without any of that hesi- 
 tation Avhich in some minds accompa- 
 nies entire ignorance of a subject. 
 
 Edouard groaned. 
 
 " Well, I did think she would have 
 known Beaurepaire when she saw it." 
 
 Jacintha gave an incredulous toss 
 of her head. 
 
 " How can it be Beaurepaire ? 
 Beaurepaire is in Brittany, and this 
 country is bigger than Brittany. 
 Brittany is down stairs." 
 
 " Ah I " cried Laure, " here is the 
 cliateau ! " 
 
 " Sahits preserve us, so it is, ma- 
 demoiselle, I declare. And here is the 
 park, and two ladies walking in it, 
 but I don't see monsieur : neverthe- 
 less he is as often there as you are, 
 mesdemoiselles," said Jacintha, de- 
 murely. 
 
 " What an unfortunate omission ! " 
 
 " I am glad you think so : it is 
 easily supplied," and with his pencil 
 he rapidly inserted a male figure 
 walking Avith the ladies, and its body 
 paying them a world of obsequious 
 attention. 
 
 Jacintha retired with a grin. 
 
 The map was warmly admired. 
 
 " O, I used always to get a prize 
 for them at the Polytechnic." 
 
 " And so beautifully colored : but 
 
 what are all these names ? " said 
 Josephine, " the Virgin's Coppice 1 I 
 never heard of that." $ 
 
 " Oh ! oh ! " cried Edouard, " she 
 never heard of the Virgin's Coppice. 
 What is it 1 Why, it is a sort of marsh : 
 I shot a brace of snipes in it the other 
 day." 
 
 " But you have not painted any 
 trees on it to show it is a coppice." 
 
 " Trees ? there is not a tree in it, 
 and has not been this two or three 
 hundred years." 
 
 " Then why do we call it a coppice 
 still ? " 
 
 " I don't know : all I know is, 
 there are snipes in it, — no small 
 virtue," 
 
 Laure. " The Deer Park, — I 
 never heard of that." 
 
 Edouard (lifting up his hands). 
 '•' They don't know their own fields : 
 the Deer Park is a ploughed field not 
 far from Dard's house, which you 
 may behold. Now give me your at- 
 tention." The young man then 
 showed them the homesteads of the 
 several tenants, and pointed out the 
 fields that belonged to each farm, 
 and the very character of the soil of 
 each field. 
 
 They gazed at him in half-stupe- 
 fied wonder, and at the mass and pre- 
 cision of his knowledge on a suliject 
 where they were not only profoundly 
 ignorant, but had not even deemed 
 knowledge accessible to ladies and 
 gentlemen. He concluded by as- 
 suring them that he had carefully 
 surveyed and valued every field on 
 tlie estate, and that the farms were 
 let full forty per cent below their 
 value. 
 
 " Now, mesdemoiselles, your mother 
 has a claim upon the estate for her 
 jointure, but you are the true pro- 
 prietors." 
 
 " Are we 1 " 
 
 " gracious Heavens ! they did 
 not even know who their estate be- 
 longed to. Well, give me an author- 
 ity, on this paper, to act as your 
 agent, or we shall never get our forty 
 per cent. Neither you nor your 
 
100 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 mother are any mateli for these slicep- 
 faceil rustics, — Iceelios who have 
 hoen puckiufx your l>lood tliis fifty 
 years, — tryin<j liycnas that have 
 iicen inoanin.i^ and whining because 
 thcv could not gnaw your bones as 
 wefl." 
 
 " My friend," snid Josephine, " I 
 would do this with jjleasure, but 
 nianuna would be so hurt, it is im- 
 possible." 
 
 " Mademoiselle — Josephine — you 
 saw how your motlicr received my 
 proposals for her irood and yours. 
 Consider, I am strong enough to de- 
 feat your enemies, provided I have 
 none but enemies to battle ; but if I 
 am to fight the baroness, and her pre- 
 judices, as well as Perrin and the 
 tenants, then failure is certain, and I 
 wash my hands of it." 
 
 "But consider, impetuous boy, wc 
 cannot defy our motlier, whom we 
 love so." 
 
 "Defy her? no! But yon need 
 not go and tell her everything you 
 
 " Certainly not. You know, doc- 
 tor, we kept from her Bonard's threat 
 till the danger seemed passed." 
 
 " And we did well," cried Laure ; 
 " think if she had known what was 
 hanging over her all that time ! " 
 
 " Wliat do you say, doctor?" 
 asked Josephine. 
 
 "I don't know, my dear. It is a 
 hard alternative. As a general rule 
 I don't like deception." 
 
 " I do not propose deception," said 
 the young man, blushing ; " only a 
 wise reticence; and without this reti- 
 cence, this reserve, even my plan for 
 improving her diet must fail." 
 
 " In that case I take the sin of 
 reticence on me. I claim the post of 
 honor ! " cried Laure, with great agi- 
 tation and glistening eyes. 
 
 "I consent ! "exclaimed Josephine; 
 " this cliild, so young, so pure, cannot 
 be wrong." 
 
 " All I know is," said the doctor, 
 "that the more roast meat she has, 
 and the l(;ss worry, the longer my 
 poor friend will live." 
 
 " give me the ])aper, Edouard, 
 we will both authorize you, and 
 thank you for letting us." 
 
 " Yes ! yes ! and we will do what- 
 ever he advises us," cried Laure ; 
 "that is, you shall, — I'll see about 
 it." 
 
 " And doctor," said Josephine, 
 " what a comfort it is to have some 
 one about us who has energy and de- 
 cision and, above all, takes the com- 
 mand ! " 
 
 The next day Edouard came into 
 the kitchen and adopted Jacintha into 
 the conspiracy : consulted her how to 
 smuggle nutriment into the baroness, 
 and bar the tenants from all access to 
 her for a while. He told her why. 
 
 " Canaille of tenants," she cried, 
 "this then has been your game all 
 these years : good, — wait till the 
 next of you comes here jjulling a long 
 face, crocodiles : I '11 tell you my 
 mind ! " 
 
 " No ! no ! anything but that : the^ 
 Avould say it is Jacintha who keeps us 
 from the baroness, and they would 
 write to her or try a dozen artifices to 
 gain her ear." 
 
 " You are right, my son : I was 
 stupid ; no, it shall be diamond cut 
 diamond. I '11 meet them with a face 
 as smooth as their own, and say to 
 them— what shall I say to the ca- 
 naille ? " 
 
 " Say the baroness in her failing 
 state sees no one on business ; say 
 also that she has made over the control 
 of the property to her dau<iliters and 
 their agent: add that — ahem — she 
 is dying ! " 
 
 " Yes ! that is the best of all to say ; 
 but stay, no, — it is not lucky. Per- 
 haps in that case she will die, and I 
 shall have killed — " 
 
 " Stulf ! peo])lc don't die to make 
 other people's words good, fhat would 
 be too stu])id : cut me forty bunches 
 of grajies." 
 
 Jacintha looked rueful. 
 
 " My dear, it is not for me to deny 
 you." 
 
 " I don't ask you to deny me." 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 101 
 
 " Well, but forty bunches ! " 
 
 " Order from the mistress ! " said 
 
 the young man, pompously drawing 
 
 out a paper. 
 It ran thus : — 
 
 " Jacintha, do whatevei' Monsieur 
 Riviere bids you ! 
 
 "Josephine de Beaurepaire/' 
 
 " "Well, to be sure. I say, you have 
 not lost much time, my young mon- 
 sieur. At least tell me what you 
 want forty bunches of grapes for? " 
 
 Before he could answer came a 
 clatter, and a figure hopped in Avith a 
 crutch. 
 
 " Why, Dard ! a sight of you is 
 good for sore eyes. Who would have 
 thought you could have got so far as 
 this f" 
 
 " I am going farther than this. I 
 am going down to the town to sell 
 your grapes, and such like belly ven- 
 geance, and bring back grub, — 
 aha ! " 
 
 " 0, that is the g^me, is it, my 
 lads 1 " cried Jacintha. 
 
 " That, and no other," replied 
 Dard. 
 
 " If the baroness comes to hear of it, 
 won't you catch it, that is all ! " 
 
 " But she never will hear of it, un- 
 less you tell her." 
 
 " O, I sha' n't tell her. I durst n't. 
 She would faint away. Here is a 
 down-come. Selling our fruit. Ah ! 
 wel!-a-day. What is Beaurepaire 
 coming to ? " 
 
 " AVill you go and cut them '? " cried 
 Eiviere, stamping with impatience. 
 
 " Well, 1 am going," snapped Ja- 
 cintha. 
 
 Dard had got a little cart outside, 
 and his grandmother's jackass. 
 
 " Citizen, if you will bring the 
 hampers out of my cart into the gar- 
 den, I will help her cut the fruit ; it is 
 all I am fit for at the present. I am 
 no longer a man. Behold me a robin- 
 redbreast, hop-ping a-bout ! " 
 
 " We may as well be killed for a 
 sheep as a lamb," said Jacintha, dole- 
 fully. " I have pulled a few dozen 
 
 peaches. It is a highway robbery ; 
 they would have rotted on the tree. 
 
 Dard ! you won't ever let the folks 
 know where they come from ? " 
 
 " No, no ! he has got his lessons 
 from me." 
 
 " That is a different thing : what 
 would they say if they knew ? Why, 
 that we are at our last gasp ! Selling 
 our very fruit off our walls " ; and 
 the corner of her apron was lifted to 
 her eye. 
 
 " You great baby," cried Edouard ; 
 " don't you see this is the beginning 
 of common sense, and proper econo- 
 my, and will end in riches ? " 
 
 Dard shrugged his shouldei'S. 
 
 " Reason is too good a thing to 
 waste : let her snivel ! " 
 
 " Now, Dard," cried Jacintha, cheer- 
 fully, " what I want most is some lard, 
 some butter, some meal, a piece of 
 veal, a small joint of mutton, and a 
 bit of beef for soup ; but a little 
 chocolate would not be amiss, our 
 potatoes are very short, and you can 
 bring up some white beans, if you see 
 any good ones." 
 
 " Nothing more than that wanted? " 
 inquired Dard. 
 
 " Yes. Was I mad ? Coffee is 
 wanted most dismally." 
 
 " Buy it if you dare ! " cried Riv- 
 iere. "No, Dard, that is my affair, 
 and mine alone." 
 
 Presently there was a fresh anxiety. 
 Dard would be recognized, and, by 
 him, the folk would know out of what 
 garden came his merchandise. 
 
 " All is provided for," said Edouard. 
 " Dard, embellish thyself." 
 
 Dard drew out of his pocket a 
 beard and put it on. 
 
 '^ Is he Dard now ? " 
 
 " My faith, no ! " 
 
 " Is he even human ? " 
 
 " Not too much so, ha ! ha ! — well, 
 Beaurepaire is alive since you came 
 into it, my gaillard! " 
 
 " Now you know," said Dard, " if 
 
 1 am to do this little job to-day, I 
 must start." 
 
 " Who keeps you ■? " was the reply. 
 Thus these two loved. 
 
102 
 
 WHITE LIKS. 
 
 Edouard Imd no sooner cmbcllislicd, 
 primed, and started Dard, by fencing 
 with a ])ointed stiek at his jackass, 
 •which like a sliip was a good traveller 
 but a coy starter, than he went round 
 to all the tenants with St. Aubin. 
 lie showed them his authority, and 
 otfered them leases at forty per cent 
 advance on the present rent. They 
 refused, to a man. 
 
 It came out that most of them had 
 been about to propose a reduction, but 
 had forborne out of good feeling to- 
 wards the baroness. And that same 
 feeling would perhaps give them the 
 courage to go on under the burden a 
 year or two longer, but as for advan- 
 cing the rent a sou, never ! ! 
 
 Others could not be got to take a 
 grave view of so merry a proposal. 
 They were all good-humor and jokes, 
 with satire underneath, at the jolly 
 audacity of talking of raising the 
 Beaurepaire rents : with one and all 
 Ei\ iere was short and clear. 
 
 " There is my card : the leases 
 await you at my house : you must 
 come and sign in three days ! " 
 
 " And if I should happen not to 
 come nor sign cither, my little mon- 
 sieur ? " . 
 
 " In that case a writ of ejectment 
 will be served on you before sunset of 
 the third day. Adieu ! " 
 
 " All the better for me," sang out 
 one as Edouard retired. 
 
 The doctor was much discouraged. 
 
 " This universal consent surely 
 goes to prove — " 
 
 " That they have a common inter- 
 est in deceiving." 
 
 " You are very young to think so 
 ill of men." 
 
 " I have been months in a govern- 
 ment office. Ah ! monsieur, I have 
 seen men too near : I left the Poly- 
 technic with illusions about honesty 
 and sincerity among men, — pulf they 
 are gone." 
 
 " Are they ? then accursed be the 
 hour vou ever saw a government 
 office."' 
 
 " No, no : but fcjr my ex])erience 
 under government 1 shi;u!d not l)e s<; 
 
 sharp, and if I was not sharp I could 
 not serve our sacred cause." 
 
 " Still at your age to have lost all 
 confidence in men and women ! " 
 
 " I beg your pardon," cried the 
 misanthro])ist, eagerly, " not in wo- 
 men : they have none of the vices of 
 men ; no selfishness, no heartlessness. 
 I see in them some little tendency to 
 fib, — I mean in the uneducated ones ! 
 but, dear me, their fibs are so innocent. 
 Women ! ! we men are not worthy to 
 share the earth with them." 
 
 The doctor smiled. For the last 
 thirty or forty years he had no longer 
 been able to see this prodigious differ- 
 ence between the sexes. 
 
 " And can all these honest male 
 faces be deceiving us ? " asked he. 
 
 " What ? because they are round ! 
 I too used to picture to myself a 
 sharper with a sharp face — eyes close 
 together — foxy: but I soon found 
 your true Tartuffe is the round-vis- 
 aged or square-faced fellow. He 
 seems a lump of candor : he is a razor 
 keen and remorseless. There arc no 
 better actors in the Theatre Frangais 
 than these frank peasants. You will 
 see. Good by ; I must run to the town 
 for drafts of leases, Mocha coffee, and 
 writs of ejectment." 
 
 There were in the little town in 
 question two notaries, Perrin and Pi- 
 card, on good terms with each other 
 outwardly. 
 
 Though young and impetuous, and 
 subject to gusts of vanity, Edouard 
 was not so shallow as to des])isc an 
 enemy of whom he knew nothing but 
 that he was a lawyer. No. He said 
 to himself: " We have a notary 
 against us. I must play a notary." 
 He went to Picard, and began by re- 
 questing him to draw up seven agree- 
 ments for leases, and to have ready 
 three or four writs of ejectment. Hav- 
 ing thus propitiated the notary by 
 doing actual business Avith liim, he 
 began cautiously to hint at the other 
 notary's enmity to Beaurepaire. 
 
 " You surprise me," said Picard. 
 " I really think you must be mistaken. 
 Monsieur Perrin owes all to tliat f'\m- 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 103 
 
 ily. It was the baron who launched 
 liim. How often have I seen him, 
 ■when a boy, hold tlie baron's horse, 
 and be rewarded by a silver coin. 
 O no, Monsieur Perrin is a man 
 that bears a fair character : I cannot 
 believe this of him.'"' 
 
 This defence of his competitor 
 looked so like master asp in his basket 
 of figs, that Edouard hesitated no 
 longer, but gave him the general fea- 
 tures of the case, and went by rapid 
 gradations into a towering passion. 
 
 Picard pro])osed to him to be cool. 
 
 " I cannot," said he, " enter into 
 your feud with Perrin, for the best of 
 all reasons : I do business with him." 
 
 Edouard looked blank. 
 
 "He is also a respectable man." 
 
 Edouard looked blanker. 
 
 " But, on the other hand, you are 
 now my client, monsieur, and he is 
 not my client. You understand 1 " 
 
 " Perfectly," said Edouard. " You 
 are an honest man," he cried, not 
 sto])ping to pick his epithets, and 
 seized the notary's hand, and shook 
 it : it let itself be shaken, and Avas in 
 that and other respects like cold jelly. 
 Its owner invited him to tell the whole 
 story. 
 
 " Never have any reserves with your 
 notary," said he, severely ; " that is 
 the grand folly of clients : and then 
 they come and blame us if we make 
 a mistake ; they forget that it is they 
 who mislead us." 
 
 On this theme he rose to tepid. 
 He dwelt on this abominable practice 
 of clients, till Edouard found out that 
 lawyers are the worst-used people liv- 
 ing. 
 
 But who is not that ? 
 
 They put their heads together, and 
 Edouard found what an advantage 
 his new friend's coolness and com- 
 mand of temper gave him, and he 
 vowed to ally his own energy to the 
 notary's cold blood. 
 
 When he was gone, Picard went 
 into his clerk's room and gave him 
 an order to draw up agreements for 
 lenses, leaving blanks for the names : 
 then he added : — 
 
 " What do you think ? The rascal 
 is scheming to get hold of Beaure- 
 paire now." 
 
 " Is it possible ? But it is just like 
 him," said the clerk, 
 
 " But I '11 put a spoke in his 
 wheel," said Picard. 
 
 Josephine was now household queen 
 at Beaurepaire ; Laure, viceroy over 
 her. This j-oung lady was born to 
 command, and Nature prevailed over 
 seniority. Therein Nature was re- 
 warded by the approbation, the warm 
 approbation, of Monsieur Edouard 
 Riviere. That young statesman elect- 
 ed himself prime minister to the lady- 
 lieutenant ; and so great was his def- 
 erence to her judgment, even on 
 points where she was unfathomably 
 ignorant, that he was forever seeking 
 grave conferences with her. 
 
 The leading maxim with them all 
 was that the baroness was on no ac- 
 count to be worried or alarmed, nor 
 her prejudices shocked : where these 
 stood between her own comfort and 
 her friends' plans for that comfort, the 
 governing powers made a little detour 
 and evaded collisions with them. 
 
 Eor instance, the baroness would 
 never have consented to sell a Beau- 
 repaire grape. She would have starved 
 sooner, or lived on the grapes ; if 
 diarrhoeaing can be called living. So 
 wlien she demanded of Queen Jose- 
 phine how there came such an influx 
 of beef, mutton, and veal into the cha- 
 teau, Lieutenant Laure explained that 
 Edouard had begged Josephine to 
 give him some fruit that was rotting 
 on the walls, and she had consented. 
 
 "It seems, mamma, that these gov- 
 ernment officers interchange civilities 
 with the tradespeople. So he made 
 presents of fruit to those he deals 
 with, and they sent him in return — 
 he ! he ! — specimens of their several 
 arts. And he never dines at home 
 now, but always here. So he sent 
 them over, and do you know I think 
 it is as well he did, for that boy eats 
 like a wolf, does n't he, Josephine 1 " 
 
 " Yes, love," said Josephine. 
 " What did you say, dear ? I was 
 
104 
 
 wiiiTi': u 
 
 full of my tliou^lits, my foio1)ocl- 
 ings." 
 
 '• Tlion what riglit had you to say 
 ' yes ' ? " 
 
 " Because it was you who appealed 
 to me, my sister." 
 
 " No, no, no ! it is your natui*e to 
 say that silliest of words, — that is 
 why." 
 
 The baroness took no notice of 
 this by-talk 
 
 " I should not like him not to have 
 enough," said she, Avith some hesita- 
 tion. 
 
 In short Doctors Laure and Jose- 
 phine so gilded the meat pills that the 
 baroness swallowed them, and was 
 none the worse for them, actually ! 
 
 Another day dead chickens flooded 
 the larder. 
 
 " mamma, come and see what 
 the tenants Iiave sent us ! " 
 
 " The good souls ! and these are 
 the people whose rents he talked of 
 raising." 
 
 " Who minds wliat he says, mam- 
 ma ? — a young madman." 
 
 Another fine day it rained eggs. 
 These too were fathered upon the 
 tenants. 
 
 Hope then to escape false accusa- 
 tions ! ! 
 
 In these and many other ways 
 they beguiled the old lady for her 
 good. The baroness was not to see 
 or hear anything but what she would 
 like to see and hear. 
 
 " Do not deceive her unnecessarily. 
 But deceive her rather than thwart or 
 vex her." 
 
 This was the leading maxim of the 
 new queen-craft, and all played their 
 part to perfection, — none better than 
 Jacintha, who, besides a ready inven- 
 tion and an oily tongue, possessed in 
 an eminent degree the vhUks claiisus 
 of the Latins, — volto Sciolto of their 
 descendants : in English, a close face. 
 And, though they entered on this game 
 with hesitation, yet they soon warmed 
 in it. The new guile was charming. 
 To defraud a beloved one of discom- 
 fort, — to cheat her into a good opin- 
 ion of all she wished to think well of, 
 
 — to tlirow a veil, a silver tissue of 
 innocent fibs, between her and trouble, 
 
 — to smuggle sovereign food into her 
 mouth and more sovereign hope into 
 her heart. Pious IVauds ! and you 
 know many a holy man has justified 
 these in writings dedicated to the 
 Church, and practised them for the 
 love of God and the good of man. 
 
 The baroness's health, strength, and 
 spirits improved visibly. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 On the third day a tenant called on 
 Riviere, hemmed and hawed, and pre- 
 pared to draw distant, but converging 
 lines of circumvuUation round the 
 subject of Rent. 
 
 Riviere cut the process short. 
 
 *' I am a public man, and have no 
 time to waste in verbiage. On tliat 
 table is a seven years' lease, with 
 blanks ; you can sign it at forty per 
 cent increased rent, or, by paying a 
 bonus of one thousand francs, at thir- 
 ty per cent." 
 
 The man attempted to remonstrate. 
 
 Riviere cut him dead short this 
 time. 
 
 The farmer then lowered his voice. 
 
 " I have got a thousand francs in 
 my pocket," said he. 
 
 " O, you prefer the thirty per cent, 
 and the bonus. Very well." 
 
 " That is not what I mean. You 
 and I might do better than that. "VVe 
 will say nothing about a bonus ; you 
 shall clap on ten per cent to show 
 your zeal to the landlord, and this," 
 lowering his voice, " will be for you, 
 and no (piestions asked." 
 
 Riviere's first impulse was to hit 
 him ; the next was to laugh at him, 
 which he accordingly did. 
 
 " My man," said he, " you must 
 be very much in love with dishonesty. 
 Now listen : if I rejjort that little pro- 
 ])osal of yours at IJeaure])aire, you 
 will never get a lease upon any 
 terms." 
 
 " But you won't ! you won't ! " 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 105 
 
 " "Won't I ? if you don't come to 
 book in five minutes, I will ! " 
 
 " Give me ten, and I will see about 
 it." 
 
 " Humph ? I don't see Avhat you 
 want wdth ten minutes, — but take 
 them." 
 
 The farmer retired, and ^ry soon 
 after voices were hoard and heavy 
 feet, and in came four farmers. 
 
 Riviere grinned. No. 1 had been 
 secretly a deputation. The little lot 
 had been all under the window, wait- 
 hv^ till the agent should have taken 
 the bribe, and made them all right 
 Vt'ith Beaurepaire. But when No. 1 
 came down with his hair standing on 
 end, to tell them that he had fallen in 
 with a monster, a being unknown, 
 fobulous, incredible, an agent that 
 would not swindle his master, they 
 succumbed as the bravest spirits must, 
 even Macbeth, before the su])crnatural. 
 
 They came up stairs, and sorrow- 
 fully knuckled down ; only No. 1 put 
 in a hope that they v»'ere not to be 
 treated worse than those who had not 
 come to him at all. 
 
 " Certainly not." 
 
 " Because two or three are gone to 
 the chateau." 
 
 " They shall gain nothing by that." 
 
 " But ive said why ]-»lague the bai*- 
 oness : she is old. She is at death's 
 door. Lastly she has got an honest 
 agent ; let us go to him." 
 
 'N. B.— They had all been at the cha- 
 teau ; but Jacintha had fooled the lot. 
 
 Eiviere opened a door ami beck- 
 oned. Out popped M. Picard's clerk, 
 brisk and smiling. 
 
 " You have got the writs in your 
 pocket." 
 
 " Seven of them, monsieur." 
 
 The farmers looked at one another. 
 
 " The moment vv^e have settled these 
 leases, run up to the chateau, and, if 
 you catch any farmers prowling about, 
 serve them — he ! he ! Now, messieurs." 
 
 A rustling of parchments, — a crush- 
 ing of pens to death on the table to 
 sec what they would stand on paper, 
 — a putting out of tongues to write 
 well, — a writing ill, — a looking at the 
 5* • 
 
 work after it was done, — a wn-enching 
 out of bags of silver from the breech- 
 es-pocket like molars from the jaws, 
 — a sighing, — a making of bows, — a 
 clattering down the stair, — a dying 
 away of feet and voices, — and nothing 
 was left but the four money-bags dis- 
 persed at intervals over the floor, and 
 the statesman dancing a Saraband 
 among them. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 "VYiLDiSH conduct. But sixty 
 years ago when a man was a boy he 
 was young. And, besides, the (jaillard 
 was not born in the isle of fogs. 
 
 Such relaxations are brief with busy 
 men. In another five minutes he was 
 off to the chateau. He went the 
 shortest way across the park, and, as 
 he drew near the little gate, lo ! the 
 Pleasancc M-as full of people. He 
 w^ts soon among them. Besides the 
 doctor and the two young ladies there 
 were three farmers and two farmers' 
 waves. Failing in their attempts to 
 see the baroness, and believing Jacin- 
 tha's story that she never came down 
 stairs, but employed herself on the 
 second floor in pious offices and in 
 departing this life, they had been sore 
 puzzled what to do ; but, catching a 
 sight of the young ladies going out 
 for a walk, they had boldly rushed 
 into the Pleasancc and intercepted 
 them, and told them the tale of their 
 wrongs so glihly and with such hear- 
 tiness and uniformity of opinion, and 
 in tones so mellow and convincing, 
 that both the ladies and the doctor 
 inclined to their view. 
 
 " We will talk to Monsieur Riv- 
 iere," said Josephine, kindly : " ah ! 
 here he is." 
 
 " Yes, here I am. I thought I 
 should find you here, good pcop)le. 
 Well, have you piped your tune? are 
 you overburdened with rent already ? 
 IS your part of the estate cold and 
 sour, and does it lie low, &c., &c., &c., 
 &c., &c., &e., eh 1 " 
 
106 
 
 WHITE LILS. 
 
 " Yes," cried Laurc, " tlicv have. 
 La!" 
 
 "And it is too true, monsieur." 
 
 Chorus. " Too true." 
 
 "Jacques Tirot," cried Edouard, 
 sternly, " last market-day you broke a 
 bottleof wine, I use your own phrase, 
 with the man who bou!:;ht your calves." 
 
 " Well, monsieur, was that a sin ? " 
 
 " When you had broken that, and 
 spilled the wine into your gullet, you 
 broke another." 
 
 " And that is what brings you home 
 from market the face red and the 
 tongue stuttering," cackled Pirot's 
 wife, there present. 
 
 " Silence ! " cried Edouard. " When 
 the wine is in, the truth comes out, 
 even of a farmer. You bragged that 
 Grapinct had otfered you fifteen hun- 
 dred francs to change farms with him, 
 and that you had laughed in his face." 
 
 " Do not believe it, mademoiselle ; 
 it is not true." 
 
 " Liar ! I heard you. You too 
 were there, Rennacon, drunk and 
 truthful, — two events that happen to 
 3'ou once a week, — thanks to Bac- 
 chus, not to Kennacon. You boasted 
 that Braconniei- had offered to change 
 ■with you and give you two thousand 
 francs." 
 
 " I lied ! I lied ! " cried Rennacon, 
 eagerly. 
 
 •' Unjust to thyself! it was thy 
 half-hour for speaking the truth." 
 
 "Now, mademoiselle, deign to cast 
 your eyes on these parchments. 
 These arc leases. Grapinct and Pe- 
 pin and Braconnier have just signed ; 
 their rent is advanced thirty per cent." 
 
 General exclamation of the doctor 
 and ladies. 
 
 Looks of surprise and dismay from 
 the others. 
 
 "For which favor — " 
 
 " He calls that a favor." 
 
 " They have just paid me one thou- 
 sand francs apiece. You, l)y youi- 
 own showing, can pay me two thou- 
 sand five hundred francs instead of a 
 thousand. Now I will make a bar- 
 gain with you. Sign similar leasos 
 here iu three minutes, and 1 will let 
 
 you off for one thousand francs each ; 
 hesitate, and 1 will have two thou- 
 sand francs." 
 
 " I will not sign at all, for one." 
 
 " Nor I " 
 
 "Nor I." 
 
 Chorus of women : — 
 
 " We will sign away our lives 
 sooner." 
 
 Edouard shouted : — 
 
 " Jacintha, — Jacintha ! " 
 
 Jacintha appeared with suspicious 
 
 celerity, the (listance from the kitchen 
 
 to the Pleasance considered. 
 
 *• Fetch me a good pen and some ink." 
 
 " But they say they will not sign// 
 
 said Laurc. 
 
 " They will sign, mademoiselle. 
 Monsieur Chose, approach, — serve 
 the ejectments." 
 
 The clerk, who had just arrived, 
 but stood aloof, drew out three slips 
 of stamped paper, and made three 
 steps foi-ward. 
 
 The eflfcct was like a pistol pre- 
 sented at each head. The whole party 
 set up their throats : — 
 
 " Wait a moment, for Heaven's 
 sake! Mademoiselle, it is for you to 
 sjjcak. This is to usurp your place. 
 Do not let them persecute honest men, 
 who have paid their rent faithfully 
 they and their forbears to you and 
 yours in quiet times and troubled times, 
 in good harvests and bad harvests." 
 
 " Messieurs," replied Josephine, 
 " M. Riviere, my good friend, has 
 deiizncd to act as our agent. It would 
 be little^delicate on my part were I, 
 after the trouble he has taken, to 
 interfere with his proceedings. Set- 
 tle then this affair with him, who ap- 
 pears to understand your sentiments, 
 whereas my sister and I we do not 
 understand you." And she with- 
 drew quietly a little way, like an angel 
 gently evading moral ]ntch. 
 
 " Arc you satisfied ? is every door 
 shut? here is Jacintha! In one 
 word, will you sign or will you not 
 sign { " 
 
 Jac-intlia, with characteristic promp- 
 titude, took Riviere's part, without 
 knowing what it was about. 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 107 
 
 " O, they will sign it fast enough," | 
 she cried. " Come to the scratch, my j 
 masters ! " cried she, cheerfully, and 
 held out a pen, 
 
 " Mon Dieu! mon Dieu! mon Dieu! 
 but where are we to find a thousand 
 francs ? " cried one. 
 
 " Mon Dieu ! vion Dieu ! mon Dieu ! 
 in your left-hand breeches-pocket" 
 said' Riviere, laughing. 
 
 " I see it bulge," screamed Ja- 
 cintha. 
 
 Three hands went by a foolish im- 
 pulse to three breeches-pockets, to 
 hide the swelling. It was too late. 
 
 "Allons!" cried Jacintha, like a 
 merry trumpet, "come forth, five- 
 franc pieces ! " 
 
 '• It is a sorcerer then ! " cried one 
 of the women. 
 
 " No, madame," said Riviere, polite- 
 ly, " it is only an observer. You left 
 your dens armed at all points. The 
 first game was to come here and 
 throw dust in mademoiselle's eyes. 
 Had you failed there, the thousand 
 francs was to bribe me to swindle my 
 principals." 
 
 " Decidedly he is a sorcerer ! My 
 good monsieur, say no more. We 
 sign." 
 
 "They sign," said the doctor, "it 
 is incredible." And he joined the 
 ladies, who were walking slowly up 
 and down the Pleasance, abstaining 
 upon a principle of delicacy from in- 
 terfering with Edouard. but, as may 
 well be supposed, keenly though fur- 
 tively attentive. 
 
 When the farmers had signed. 
 Riviere signed the duplicates. 
 
 " Are we not to have your name to 
 it, mademoiselle ? " asked a farmer. 
 
 Josephine moved toward Riviere, 
 thinking he might require her. 
 
 " Xo ! " he cried, haughtily, " I 
 have got her name on this authority, 
 but my name is good enough for you. 
 She shall not sign, and you shall not 
 speak to her. You may look at her : 
 that is no small thing. Good ! you 
 have looked at her. Now decamp, 
 rogues and jades." 
 
 Th^^y went off muttering. They 
 
 felt deeply wronged. Each a shade 
 more so than the other. Rennacon 
 vented the general sentiment of ill 
 usage thus : — 
 
 " Cursed be interlopers ! Another 
 year or two and I should have pat 
 aside enough to buy my form : it will 
 take me ten years at this rate." 
 
 " Come, Jacintha, hold your apron 
 for the bags ; lock them in one of 
 your cupboards. Away with you." 
 
 Then his friends all came round 
 Edouard, and shook his hand warmly, 
 and thanked him with glistening eyes 
 again and again and again, Laure 
 and all. 
 
 Now this young gentleman was so 
 formed that, if one did not see his 
 merit, he swelled with bumptiousness 
 like a peacock, but if one praised him 
 too much, straightway he compared 
 himself with his beau ideal, his model, 
 say the Chevalier Bayard, and turned 
 modest and shame-faced : so now he 
 hung his head and stammered as they 
 showered praise and admiration on 
 him. And this was pleasing and 
 pretty by contrast with his late tre- 
 mendous arrogance and rudeness. 
 
 It struck them all. 
 
 "No more words," said Josephine, 
 "they make him blush, I crown 
 him. Run, Laure, and bring me 
 some bay leaves." 
 
 " No ! mesderaoiselles ! no ! there is 
 more work to be done before I dare 
 triumph, I must take your monej 
 down to the town, and pay that cred- 
 itor off. Then my heart will be at 
 ease about you all, and then I confess 
 I should like to wear a crown — for 
 half an hour." 
 
 " Come back to supper, Edouard, 
 and wear it," 
 
 " O, thank you," 
 
 " There he" goes without being 
 measured, the giddy child. Take off 
 your hat, monsieur." 
 
 Then there was a mysterious glid- 
 ing of soft palms and delicate fingers 
 about his brow and head, and the 
 latter was announced to be measured. 
 And reader, what botheration 
 
103 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 miixht bo paved if every man was 
 nioasurod l)i-fore a crown was clajiped 
 on him ! He is for a hat. 
 
 " Tliey can measure the outside," 
 said the' doctor, saucily ; " their art 
 goes so far," 
 
 Edouard ran off. 
 
 " He quits us every minute," said 
 Laure to Josephine ; " that is why I 
 detest him." 
 
 " You don't detest him," objected 
 the doctor, as gravely as if he was 
 announcing a fact in physics. 
 
 " That is why I like him, then," 
 said saucel)OX. 
 
 Edouard ran to Jacintba for two 
 out of the three money-bags, took 
 them home, converted the six thou- 
 sand francs into l)ank paper (not 
 assignats), and pelted down to the 
 town. 
 
 He went at once to his notary to 
 ask him what forms were to bo com- 
 plied with in discharging the creditor. 
 To this question, asked with eager- 
 ness and agitation, the notary .an- 
 swered with perfect coolness : — 
 
 " Tlie thing to do now is to take 
 the money to the mayor. Perhaps 
 you had better go to him at once : on 
 your return I have something to say 
 to you." 
 
 Edouard ran to the Mairie ; in 
 front of it he found some forty or 
 fifty idlers collected, and gaping at a 
 placard on the wall. 
 
 Edouard's eyes followed theirs care- 
 lessly, and sau^ a sight that turned 
 him cold, and took the pith out of his 
 body. 
 
 A great staring notice, the paste 
 behind which Avas scarce dry, glaretl 
 him in the face. 
 
 " For sale. The lands of 
 Beacuepaire, with the chateau 
 and other the buildings mes- 
 suages and teneme>jts. 
 
 "At THE KEQUISITION OK 
 
 Jacques Bonard, cueditou. Bv 
 order of the directory, 
 
 " Armand, Mayor." 
 
 This was the bri;fhtest afternoon 
 
 Bcaui-cpnire liad seen fov years. These 
 young women, whose lives had so few 
 l>leasures, denied themselves the lux- 
 ury of telling their mother the family 
 triumph. Unsellish and innocent, 
 they kept so sacred a pleasure for 
 their friend. 
 
 But, though their words were 
 guarded, their bird-like notes and 
 l)right glances were free, and chirped 
 and beamed in tune with their hearts. 
 Their very breath was jierfumed gay- 
 ety and hope. 
 
 And the baroness felt herself breath- 
 ing a lighter, brighter, and more mu- 
 sical air. Slie said : " Are better 
 days in store, my children ? For to- 
 day, I know not how or why, the 
 cloud seems less heavy on us all." 
 
 " So it does, mamma," cried Laure. 
 " I smile at Josephine, and Josephine 
 smiles at me, and neither of us have 
 the least id3a why, — have we, my 
 elder 1 and here is your coffee, dear, 
 dear mamma." 
 
 " Good ! and what an aroma this 
 has too, to-day ; and a flavor ? if this 
 is from Arabia, what I have been 
 drinking for months must have been 
 a nearer neighbor, I think." 
 
 " Let me taste, mamma," said 
 Laure. She tasted and was thunder- 
 struck. She took occasion to draw 
 Josephine into the dark part of the 
 room. " Some one has been drug- 
 ging my coffee, — it tastes of Mocha, 
 — was it you, love 1 — traitress, I 
 mean ? — tell me, dear." 
 
 " No. Guess." 
 
 " That is enough, the imp ! ! I Ml." 
 
 " I would," replied Josephine. " He 
 said to me, ' Mademoiselle Laure de- 
 ceives her mother : let us deceive her.' 
 T told him I would betray him, and I 
 have kept my word." 
 
 " Yes, after cheating me : double 
 traitress ! ! kiss me, (juick ! quick ! ! " 
 
 Supper was ready. No Edouard. 
 
 His crown of bay leaves was on the 
 table : but no Edouard. They were 
 beginning to fear he would not come 
 at all, when lie arrived in haste, and 
 sank into a chair, fatigued partly 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 109 
 
 by a long day's work, partly by the 
 emotions he had passed through. 
 Through all this peeped an au- of self- 
 content. 
 
 " Forgive me, madame, — it has 
 been a long day." 
 
 " Repose yourself, monsieur," said 
 the baroness, ceremoniously. She was 
 not best pleased at his making him- 
 self so at home. " Or rather let us 
 offer you soraetliing to restore you." 
 
 " Nothing, madame, but a tumbler 
 of wine with a little water,- — thank 
 you, madame. Mesdames, great 
 events have occurred since I left 
 you." 
 
 "0, tell ! tell ! " Eyes bright as 
 sword-blades in the sun with interest 
 and curiosity were fastened on him, 
 and their lovely proprietors held their 
 breath to hear him. 
 
 He glanced round with secret satis- 
 fiiction, paused, relished their curios- 
 ity, and then began his story. 
 
 He told them how he rode down to 
 the town, and went to his notary : 
 here he explained that, being at war 
 ■svith a notary, he had been compelled 
 in common prudence to enlist a nota- 
 ry : and his notary had sent him to 
 the Mairie, and there he had seen a 
 placard oiFcring the cliateau and lands 
 of Beauvepairc for sale. 
 
 " O Heaven ! O Edouard ! " 
 
 " Be calm, — there, I meant to 
 keep you a moment or two in sus- 
 pense, but I have not the heart. I 
 went into the Mairie : I saw the may- 
 or : it was Bonard's doing, set on, of 
 course, by Perrin : I paid your six 
 thousand francs into the mayor's 
 hands for Bonard. Here, ladies, is 
 the mayor's receipt ; from that mo- 
 ment Beaurepaire was youi's again, 
 and that accursed placard mine. I 
 tore it down before all the crowd ; 
 they cheered me." 
 
 " Heaven bless them ! " cried the 
 doctor. 
 
 " Dard was there in his donkey 
 cart : he put his cap on his crutch, 
 and waved it in the air, and cried : 
 'Long live the Baroness and the 
 Demoiselles de Beaurepaire ' : and 
 
 I they all joined, — aha ! — well, as I 
 made my way through the crowd, 
 who should I run against but Per- 
 rin ! " 
 
 " The wretch." 
 
 " The pieces of the placard were in 
 my hand : I hurled them with all my 
 force into the animal's face." 
 
 " O you good boy ! " 
 
 " It was the act of a young man." 
 
 " You are right, monsieur : I am 
 almost sorry I did it." 
 
 "Monsieur Edouard," cried the 
 baroness, rising, the tears in her 
 eyes, " I scarcely understand all you 
 are doing, and have done for us : "but 
 this I comprehend, that you are a 
 worthy yoimg man ; and that I have 
 not till now had the discernment to 
 see all your value ! " 
 
 " O madame, do not speak to me 
 so : it makes me ashamed : let me 
 continue my story." 
 
 " Yes ! but first tell me, this six 
 thousand francs, — 0, how my heart 
 beats ! my children, how near 
 ruin we have been, — O dear ! O 
 dear ! " 
 
 " Dear mamma, do not tremble : it 
 is all our own, thanks to our guardian 
 angel," said Josephine. " Edouard, I 
 think our mother wishes to learn how 
 we came to have so much money." 
 
 " What, have you not told her 1 " 
 
 *' No ! Laure said you should have 
 that pleasure : it was your right." 
 
 " Ah ! thank you, Mademoiselle 
 Laure," cried the young man, very 
 warmly. " Madame, the tenants paid 
 you seven thousand francs to-day for 
 leases at a rent raised thirty per cent 
 from this day." 
 
 " Lowered, my child, you mean." 
 
 " No, thank you, raised." 
 
 " Is it possible ? — the good crea- 
 tures ! ! " 
 
 " Eh ? ah ! humph ! yes ! " 
 
 " But is it reallv true ? Can this be 
 true ? " 
 
 " Jacintha holds a thousand fi-ancs 
 at your disposal, madame, and this 
 receipt is your A'oucher for the other 
 six thousand ; and the leases signed 
 are in the house." 
 
no 
 
 WHITE LIl-S. 
 
 " And these are tlic peo]>1e you had 
 hard thou<;hts of, monsieur." 
 
 " See how unjust I was ! ! ! " 
 
 " Did they volunteer all this ? " 
 
 " Not exactly. It was proposed to 
 them, and within three days — " 
 
 " They fell into it ? " 
 
 " They fell into it." 
 
 "]May Heaven reward them ! " 
 
 " Humph ! " 
 
 "As they deserve." 
 
 " Amen ! amen ! " 
 
 " Such actions do the heart good 
 as well as the house. I cannot but 
 be affected by the sympathy of these 
 humble people, who have known how 
 to show their f::ood feelinti;, and, may I 
 venture to suy, their trratitnde." 
 
 " Call it by any fine name you 
 please, madame ; they will not con- 
 tradict you." 
 
 " Their p;ratitude, then, at a mo- 
 ment when it was so needed. After 
 all, the world is not so ill. I seem to 
 have gone l)ack to the days of my 
 youth, when such things were common. 
 Ah ! how happy I am ! and how much 
 1 tliank you for it, my young friend." 
 
 lliviere hung his head. 
 
 " jMay I continue my story ? " 
 
 " O yes," cried Laurc, " pray go 
 on. I guess you went next to the 
 honest notary." 
 
 " The what ? ? 1 ! " 
 
 " The notary that is on our side." 
 
 " I did, and what do you think his 
 news was ? That for two days past 
 Perrin had been at him to lend him 
 money upon Beaiirepaire." 
 
 " And he did not turn him out of 
 the room ? " 
 
 " No ; he spoke him fair." 
 
 " But I thought he was our friend." 
 
 " Nothing of the sort. He is our 
 notary. Perhaps all the better servant 
 for having no heart, and therefore no 
 temper. He had been very civil to 
 Perrin, had jjromised to try and get 
 him the money, and so was keeping 
 him from ^oing elsewhere. Oil ! this 
 glacier gave me wiser advice than 
 tlesh and blood could have given. I 
 am never five minutes witli Picard, 
 but I come away iced and wiser," 
 
 Lanre. " And wickeder." 
 
 Edouard (with sublime indiffer- 
 ence). " Clearly. He said, * I have a 
 huiulrcd and twenty thousand francs: 
 I will lend you them on Heaurei)aire. 
 (lO to some other capitalist for a sim- 
 ilar sum. Tlie total will pay all the 
 debts. Capitalists will not refuse you : 
 for, observe, this rise in the rents ])lus 
 the six thousand francs you have paid 
 off alters the face of the security and 
 leaves a fiir nuu'gin. Get the money 
 while I amuse Perrin with false hopes.' 
 Here was a stroke of policy beyond 
 ])Oor little Edouard lliviere to have 
 invented. Notary cut notary ! ! So 
 to-morrow I ride to Commandant 
 Paynal for a week's leave of absence, 
 and the next day I ride to my uncle, 
 and beg liim to lend a hundred and 
 twenty thousand francs on Beaure- 
 paire. He can do it if he likes. Yet 
 his estate is scarce half so large as 
 yours, and not half so rich, but he has 
 never let any one share it with him. 
 ' I '11 have no go-between/ says he, 
 ' to impoverish us both ' " 
 
 " Both whom ? " 
 
 " Self and soil, — ha ! ha ! ' The 
 soil is always grateful,' says my uncle, 
 — ' makes you a return in exact pro- 
 portion to what you bestow on it in 
 the way of manure and labor, — men 
 don't.' Says he, ' the man that has 
 got one hand in your pocket shakes 
 the other fist in your face ; the man 
 that has got both hands in your pocket 
 spits in your face.' Asking excuse of 
 you, madame, for quoting my uncle, 
 who is honest and shrewd, but little 
 polished. He is also a bit of a misan- 
 thrope, and has colored me : this you 
 must have observed." 
 
 " But if he is misanthrope, Mon- 
 sieur Edouard, he will not sympathize 
 with us, — will he not despise us, who 
 have so mismanaged Beaurepaire? " 
 
 "Permit me, joseiihine," said the 
 doctor. " Natural history steps in 
 here, and teaches by me, its mouth- 
 piece, — ahem ! A misanthrope hates 
 all mankind, but is kind to everybody, 
 generally too kind. A ])hi!anthropc 
 loves the whole human race, but dis- 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 Ill 
 
 likes his wife, his mother, his brother, 
 and his friends and acquaintances. 
 jMisauthrope is the potato, — rough 
 and repulsive outside, but good to the 
 core. Philanthrope is a peach, — his 
 manner all velvet and bloom, and his 
 words sweet juice, but his lieart of 
 hearts a stone. Let me read pliilan- 
 thrope's book, and fall into the hands 
 of misanthrope." 
 
 " He is right, ladies. My uncle will 
 say plenty of biting words, which, by 
 the by, will not luirt you, who will 
 not liear them, — only me. He will 
 lash us and lend us the money, and 
 Beaurepaire will be free : and I shall 
 have had some little hand in it, — 
 hurrah ! " 
 
 " Some little hand in it, good 
 angel that Heaven has sent us ! " 
 said Josephine. 
 
 Then came a delicious hour to Ed- 
 ouard Riviere. Young and old poured 
 out their glowing thanks and praises 
 upon him till his cheeks burned like 
 fire. 
 
 Josephine. " And, besides, he raises 
 our spirits so : does he not, my 
 mother? Now, is not the house 
 changed of late, doctor? I appeal 
 to you." 
 
 St. Auhin. "I offer a frigid expla- 
 nation. Among the feats of science 
 is the infusion of blood. I have seen 
 it done. Boiling blood from the veins 
 of the healthy and the young is in- 
 jected into old or languid vessels. 
 The effect is magical. Well, Beaure- 
 paire was old and languishing. Life's 
 warm current entered it with Ed- 
 ouard ; its lan2:uid pulses beat, and 
 its system swells and throbs, and its 
 heart is warm once more, and leaps 
 with the blood of youth, and dances in 
 the sunshine of hope : I also am young 
 again, like all the rest. Madame the 
 baroness, gavottons ! — you and I, — 
 tra la la la lab, tra la la la lab ! " 
 
 Ijxure. "Ha! ha! ha! Down 
 with science, doctor." 
 
 St. Auhin. " What impiety ! Some 
 one will say, down with young ladies 
 next." 
 
 Laure. " No ! That would be pun- 
 
 ishing themselves. Hear my solution 
 of the mystery. Injection of blood 
 and infusion there is none. Monsieur 
 is nothing more or less than a merry 
 imp that has broken into paradise." 
 
 Josephine. " The fine paradise that 
 it was before the imp came. No : it 
 is that a man has come among a par- 
 cel of weak women, and put spirit 
 into them." 
 
 St. Auhin. " Also into an old use- 
 less dreamer worth but little." 
 
 Josephine. " Fie then ! It was you 
 who read him at sight. We babble, 
 and he remains uncrowned." 
 
 EcJouard. '' No ! no ! There are 
 no more Kings in France ! " 
 
 Josephine. " Excuse me, there is 
 the King of Hearts ! And we are 
 going to crown him. Come, Laure. 
 Mamma, since monsieur has become 
 diffident, would it be very wrong of 
 us to use force just a little ? " 
 
 " No, provided monsieur permits 
 .it," said the baroness, with some hesi- 
 tation. 
 
 Laughter like a cliime of bells fol- 
 lowed this speech, and to that sweet 
 music Riviere, spite of his mock dis- 
 sent, was crownied. And in that 
 magic cii-clet the young Apollo's 
 beauty shone out bright as a star. 
 
 The green crown set off the rich 
 chestnut hair, the shapely head, the 
 rich glowing cheek, and the delicate 
 white brow. Blushes mantled on his 
 face, and triumph beamed in his ar- 
 dent eyes. He adorned his crown ia 
 turn. 
 
 " Is it permitted to be so handsome 
 as that ? " inquired the baroness, with 
 astonishment. 
 
 " And to be as good as pretty 1 " 
 cried Josephine. 
 
 Whilst he thus sat in well-earned 
 triumph, central pearl set round by 
 loving eyes and happy faces that he 
 had made shine, Jacintha came in and 
 gave him a letter. 
 
 " Dard brought it up from the 
 town," said she. 
 
 Edouard, after asking permission, 
 opened the letter, and the bright color 
 ebbed from his cheek. 
 
112 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 " No ill news, I trust ! " said the 
 baroness, kindly. " >.'o relation, no 
 frieiiil — " 
 
 " No, niadanio," said the vonnjj: man. 
 " NothinLT serious ; a teni])orary an- 
 noyance. Do not let it disturb your 
 hai)i»iness for a moment." And with 
 these words he dismissed the subject, 
 and was very gay and rather louder 
 than before. 
 
 Soon after he took his leave. He 
 went into the kitchen, and, after a few 
 earnest words with Jacintlia, went 
 into the stable and gave his horse a 
 feed. 
 
 The baroness retired to rest. In 
 takinj^ leave of them all, she kissed 
 Laure with more than usual warmth, 
 and, putting her out at arm's length, 
 examined her, then kissed her again. 
 
 " Stay, doctor," said Josephine, who 
 ■was about to retire too. " What is 
 it? What can it be?" 
 
 " Some family matter," he said. 
 
 " No ! no ! bid you not see what 
 a struggle the poor boy went through 
 the moment he read it ; lie took off 
 his crown too, and sighed, O so sadly, 
 as he laid it down." 
 
 " Mademoiselle," said Jacintha, 
 softly, at the door, " may he come in 1 " 
 
 •' Yes ! — yes ! " 
 
 Edouard came sadly. 
 
 " Is she gone to bed happy ? " 
 
 " Yes, dear ! thanks to you, and we 
 will be firm. Keep nothing from us." 
 
 Edouard just gave her the letter, 
 and leaned his head sorrowfully on 
 liis hand. 
 
 They all read it together. It Avas 
 from Picard. Perrin, it seems, had 
 already purchased one of the claims 
 on Beaurepaire, value sixty thousand 
 francs, and now demanded in his own 
 name the sale of the property, upon 
 the general order from the directory. 
 The mayor had consented, and the 
 affiche was even now in the printer's 
 hands. The letter continued : — 
 
 " It is to be recirfttcd that yon immJled 
 Perrin, at this st(if/e of tha business. 
 Jfad }/ou consulted its on this point, ire 
 slionld have advised you not to take any 
 steps of that sort until after the estate 
 
 should he absolutely safe. We think he 
 must have ful lowed y OH to our place and 
 so learned that you are our client in this 
 miilter, for he has sent a line to say he 
 will not trouble us, but will get the money 
 elsewhere." 
 
 " That is what cuts me to the 
 heart ! " cried Edouard. " It is I who 
 ruin you after all. Oh ! how hard 
 it is for a young man to be wise ! " 
 
 The girls came and sat beside 
 Edouard, and, without speaking, glid- 
 ed each a kind hand into his. The 
 doctor finished the letter. 
 
 " But if you ivill send medown the new 
 leases in a parcel, ice shall perhaps be 
 able to put a spoke in his wheel still ; 
 meantime, ice advise you to lose no time 
 in raising a hundred and twenty thousand 
 francs. We renew our offer of a simi- 
 lar sum : but you must give us three 
 days' notice." 
 
 " Good b}^ then." 
 
 " Stay a little longer." 
 
 " No ! I am miserable till I repair 
 my folly." 
 
 " We will comfort you." 
 
 " Nothing can comfort me, but re- 
 pairing the ill I have done." 
 
 " The ill you have done ! But for 
 you, all would have been over long 
 ago ! " 
 
 " Thank you for saying that, — oh ! 
 thank you: Avill you see me off? I 
 feel a little daunted, — for the mo- 
 ment." 
 
 " Poor boy, yes, we will see you 
 off." 
 
 They went down with him. He 
 brought his horse round, and they 
 walked together to the garden gate in 
 silence. 
 
 As he put his foot in the stirrup, 
 Josephine murmured : " Do not vex 
 yourself, little heart. Sleep well 
 to-night after all your fatigues, and 
 come to us early in the morning." 
 
 Edouard checked his horse, who 
 wanted to start ; and turning in the 
 saddle cried out with surprise : " Why, 
 where do you think I am going ? " 
 
 " Home, to be sure." 
 
 " Home ? while Beaurepaire is in 
 peril ; sleep while Beaurepaire is in 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 113 
 
 peril ! What ! don't you see I am 
 going- to my uncle, twenty leagues 
 from here." 
 
 " Yes, but not now." 
 
 " Wliat 1 fling away half a day ! — 
 no, not an hour, a minute ; the enemy 
 is too keen, the stake is too great." 
 
 "But think, Ed — Monsieur Ed- 
 ouard," said Laure, "you are so tired. ^' 
 
 " I was. But I am not now." 
 
 " But, 7710)1 Dieu ! you will kill your- 
 self, — one does not travel on horse- 
 back in the dark by night." 
 
 " Mademoiselle, the night and the_ 
 day are all one to a man when he can 
 serve those he loves." With the very 
 words his impatient heel pricked the 
 willing horse, who started forward, 
 striking fire in the night from the 
 stones with his iron heels, that a mo- 
 ment after rang clear and sharp down 
 the road. They listened to the sounds 
 as they struck, and echoed along, and 
 then rang fainter and fainter and 
 fainter, in the still night. When at 
 last they could hear him no more, 
 they went slowly and sadly back to 
 the chateau. Laure was in tears. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 The French league in those days 
 was longer than now ; it was full 
 three miles English. Edouard baited 
 his horse twenty miles from Beaure- 
 paire : he then rode the other forty 
 miles judiciously, but without a halt. 
 
 He reached his uncle's at three in 
 the morning : put his horse in the 
 stable, and, not to disturb the inmates, 
 got in by the kitchen window, which 
 he found left open as in the golden 
 age : the kitchen fire was smoulder- 
 ing ; he made it up, and dropped 
 asleep on a chair as hard — as hard 
 as a philanthropist's heart, doctor. 
 He seemed to have been scarce a min- 
 ute asleep, when Red Indians screech- 
 ing all around woke him with a start, 
 and there stood his uncle's house- 
 keeper, who screamed again at his 
 jumping up, but died away into an 
 
 uncertain quaver, and from that rose 
 crescendo to a warm welcome. 
 
 " But saints defend us, how you 
 frightened me ! " 
 
 " You had your revenge. I 
 thought a legion of fiends were yell- 
 ing right into my ear. My uncle, — 
 is he up ■? " 
 
 " Your uncle ! What, don't you 
 know ? " 
 
 " No ! how should I know ? What 
 is the matter 1 heaven, he is 
 dead ! " 
 
 " Dead ? No ! Wotdd he die like 
 I that, without settling his affairs ? No, 
 but he is gone." 
 
 " Where 1 " 
 
 " We don't know. Took one 
 shirt, a razor, and a comb, and off 
 without a word, — just like him." 
 
 Edouard groaned. 
 
 " When did he go ? " 
 
 " Yesterday, at noon." 
 
 Edouard swore. 
 
 " O, don't vex yourself like that, 
 Master Edouard." 
 
 " But, Marthe, it is life and death. 
 I shall go mad ! I shall go mad ! " 
 
 "No, don't ye, — don't ye; bless 
 you! he will come back before 
 long." 
 
 " So he will, Marthe ; he must 
 be back to-day, — he took but one 
 shirt." 
 
 " Hum ! " said Marthe, doubtfully, 
 " that does not follow. I have seen 
 him wear a shirt a good deal more 
 than a day." 
 
 Edouard walked up and down the 
 kitchen in great agitation. To spir- 
 its of his kind to be compelled to be 
 passive and wait for others, unable to 
 do anything for themselves, is their 
 worst torture ; it is fever plus paral- 
 ysis. 
 
 The good woman soothed him and 
 coaxed him. 
 
 "Have a cup of coffee. Sec, — I 
 have warmed it, and the milk and all." 
 
 " Thank you, my good Marthe. 
 I have the appetite of a wolf" 
 
 "And after that go to bed, and the 
 moment your uncle comes I will 
 v/ake you." 
 
 H 
 
114 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 " Ah ! tliank yon, pood ]\Inrtl\e. 
 O yes ; bod by all moans. Better 
 hcu^lcop than twiddling' one's thumbs 
 awake." 
 
 h>o Marthc pot him to bed ; and, 
 once there, Nature prevailed, and he 
 slept twelve hours at a streteh. 
 
 Just at sunset he awoke, and took 
 it for sunrise. He 'dressed himself 
 hastily and came down. Ilis uncle 
 had not arrived, lie did not know 
 wliat on earth to do. He had a pre- 
 sentiment that while his hands were 
 tied the enemy was working. 
 
 " And if not," said he, " wliy, then, 
 chance is robbing me of the advan- 
 tage zeal ought to be gaining me." 
 
 *' Wait till to-morrow," said Mar- 
 the ; " if he does not come I shall 
 have a letter." 
 
 Pxlouard sat down and wrote a line 
 to Doctor St. Aubin, telling him his 
 ill luck, and begging the doctor to 
 send down the leases to Picard, as he 
 had requested. 
 
 "Picard is wiser than I am," said 
 he. 
 
 The morning came, — no letter. 
 Then Edouard had another anxiety, 
 — he was away from his ])ost. Com- 
 mandant Raynal was a Tartar. He 
 had better ride over and ask for a 
 week's leave of absence ; and now 
 was the time to do it. On his return 
 perhaps his uncle would he at home. 
 
 " Yes 1 I '11 saddle Mirabeau and 
 ride over, then I shall not be twid- 
 dling my thumbs all day." 
 
 Commandant Raynal lived about 
 half-way between his uncle's farm 
 and Beauropaire. 
 
 As Edouard came in sight of the 
 house a dun pony was standing 
 voluntarily by the door, and presently 
 tlie notary issued forth, got into the 
 saddle, and ambled towartls Edouard. 
 Edouard felt a chill at sight of him, 
 but this Avas soon followed by a burn- 
 ing heat and a raging desire to go at 
 him like the whirlwind, and ride both 
 him and his beast of a pony into the 
 dust. 
 
 He was obliged to keej) saying to 
 liimself, " Wait a day or two, wait a 
 
 day or two," and did not trust him- 
 self to look at the man as they passed 
 one another. 
 
 The other looked at him, though, 
 through his half-open lids, a glance 
 of bitter malignity. ^Meeting his ene- 
 my so suddenly, and at his comman- 
 dant's house, discomposed Edouard 
 greatly, perplexed him greatly. 
 
 " Can these notaries divine one's 
 very plans before they are formed ? " 
 said he to himself ; "can these prac- 
 tised villains? — no. He has come 
 1 here simply to do me some general 
 'mischief, to set my commandant 
 against me : he has timed the attack 
 well, now that I have a favor to ask 
 him, and he such a disciplinarian." 
 
 Edouard came before Raynal de- 
 spondently, and after the usual greet- 
 ing said: — 
 
 "I have a favor to ask yov;, com- 
 mandant." 
 
 " Speak ! " rang out the com- 
 mandant. 
 
 " A short leave of absence 1 " 
 
 " Humph ! " 
 
 " On pressing affairs : monsieur, 
 do not refuse me 1 " 
 
 " Who tells you that I shall re- 
 fuse you 1 " asked the commandant, 
 roughly. 
 
 " No one, monsieur, but I have 
 enemies : and I feared one of them 
 might have lately maligned me be- 
 hind my back." 
 
 " Citizen Riviere," replied the 
 other, sternly, "if a man came to 
 me to accuse any one of my officers 
 behind his back, I should send for 
 that officer and say to his accuser: 
 ' Now there is the man, look him ia 
 the fice and say your say.' " 
 
 " I was a fool," cried the young 
 man : " my noble commandant — " 
 
 " Enough ! " said the commandant, 
 rudely. " Nobody has ever said a 
 word against you in my hearing. It 
 is true," he added satirically, "very 
 few have ever mentioned you at all." 
 
 " My name has not boon mentioned 
 to you to-day, commandant ? " 
 
 " No ! — halt ! " cried the exact 
 soldier, " except by the servant who 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 115 
 
 announced you. Read that despatch 
 while I give an order outside 1 " 
 
 Edouard read the cfespatch, and the 
 blood rushed to his brow at one sen- 
 tence in it : " Edouard Riviere is act- 
 ive, zealous, and punctual. In six 
 months more you can safely promote 
 him." This was all : but not a 
 creature besides was praised at all. 
 
 The commandant returned. 
 
 " O commandant, what goodness ! " 
 
 " Citizen, I rose from the ranks, — 
 how? — guess ! " 
 
 " By valor, by chivalry, by Spart — " 
 
 " Gammon ! — by minding my 
 business : there is the riddle key : 
 and that is why my eye is on those 
 who mind their business, — you are 
 one ; I have praised you for it, — so, 
 now, how many days do you want to 
 Avaste ■? Speak." 
 
 " A few, a very few." 
 
 " Are ye in love ? That is 
 enough, — you arc, — more fool you. 
 Is it to go after her you fall to the 
 rear ? " 
 
 "No indeed, commandant." 
 
 " Look me in the face ! There arc 
 but two men in the world, — the man 
 Avho keeps his word, and the man 
 who breaks it. The first is an hon- 
 est man, the second is a liar, and 
 waiting to be a thief; if it is to run 
 after a girl, take a week : anything 
 else, a fortnight. No ! no thanks ! 
 I have not time for chit - chat. 
 March." 
 
 Edouard rode away in triumph. 
 
 "Long live the Commandant Ray- 
 nal ! " he shouted. "He is not flesh 
 and blood. He is metal : he rings, 
 loud and true. His words are not 
 words, they are notes of some golden 
 trumpet ; and after being with him 
 five minutes one feels like beating all 
 the notaries on earth." 
 
 He reached his uncle's place. 
 
 " Not come home, Master Ed- 
 ouard." 
 
 The cold fit fell on him. 
 
 The next morning came a letter 
 from his uncle, dated Paris. 
 
 Edouard was ready to tear his hair. 
 
 " Gone to Paris with one shirt ! 
 
 Who could foresee a human creature 
 going from any place but Bicetre to 
 the capital of the world with one 
 shirt ! Order my horse, INIarthe. He 
 will turn it, I suppose, after the first 
 week. That will be a compliment to 
 the capital. Ten thousand devils ! I 
 shall go mad. Order my horse." 
 
 " Where are you going, my young 
 monsieur ? " 
 
 " To Paris. Equip me ; lend me a 
 shirt. He has one left, has he not ? " 
 
 INlarthe did not even deign to no- 
 tice tliis skit. 
 
 " But he is coming home ! — he is 
 coming home!" she cried; " yoii 
 don't read the letter." 
 
 " True : he is coming home to-day 
 or to-morrow. Heaven above, how 
 these old men talk ! as if to day and 
 to-morrow were the same thing, or 
 anything like the same thing. I shall 
 ride to Paris." 
 
 " Then you will miss him on the 
 road." 
 
 " Give me paper and ink, Marthe. 
 I will write letters all day. Ah ! how 
 unlucky I am !" 
 
 He wrote along letter to St. Aubin, 
 telling him all he had done and suf- 
 fered. He wrote also to the notary, 
 conjuring him again to watch the in- 
 terests of Beaurepaire keenly while he 
 should be aAvny. Then he got his 
 horse and galloped round and round 
 his uncle's paddock, and suffered the 
 tortures that sluggish spirits never 
 feel and cannot realize. The next 
 afternoon — oh joy ! — his uncle's 
 burly form appeared, and gave him a 
 hearty welcome. 
 
 The poor boy wanted to open his 
 business at once, but he saw there 
 was no chance of his being listened 
 to, till a good score of farm questions 
 had been put and answered. 
 
 In the evening he got his uncle to 
 himself and told him his story, and 
 begged his uncle to advance the two 
 hundred and forty thousand francs on 
 mortgage. 
 
 His uncle received the proposal 
 coldly. " I don't see my way to it, 
 Edouard," said he. "I must draw 
 
116 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 my money out of the jmblic funds, 
 and they arc rising fast. No ; I can't 
 do it." 
 
 Edouanl implored his uncle not to 
 look on if in tliar li^ht, hut as a be- 
 nevolent action, that would be attend- 
 ed with loss loss than actions of such 
 merit usually are. 
 
 "But why shoidd I lose a sou for 
 those aristocrats ? " 
 
 " If you knew them, — but you do 
 not, my uncle : du it for me ! — forme 
 whose heart is tied to tiiem forever ! " 
 
 " PheujTjh ! Well, look here, Edouard, 
 if you have really been fool enough to 
 fall in love there, and have a mind to 
 play Georges Uandin, I '11 find you 
 some money for the part ; but I can't 
 alVord so much as this, and I wash my 
 hands of your aristos." 
 
 " Enough, my uncle. I have not 
 then a friend in the world but those 
 whom you call an'stos." 
 
 " You are an ungrateful boy. It is 
 I who have no friend : and I thought 
 he came to see me out of love : old 
 fool ! it was for money, like all the 
 rest." 
 
 " You insult me, my uncle. But 
 you have the right. 1 do not answer. 
 I go away." 
 
 "Go to all the devils, my nei^hew ! " 
 
 Edouard was interrupted on his 
 way to the stables by 61d Marthe. 
 
 " No, my young monsieur, you do 
 not leave us like tliat." 
 
 " He insulted me, Marthe." 
 
 " Ah bah ! he insults me three 
 times a week, and I him for that mat- 
 ter : but we don't part any the more 
 for that. He shall apologize. Above 
 all, he shall lend your aristocrats the 
 money. It won't ruin us." 
 
 " Why, ]\Iarthe, you must have lis- 
 tened." 
 
 "Parbleul and a good thing too. 
 You keep quiet. You will see he has 
 had his bark, and there is not much 
 bite in him, ])0()r nuin, though he 
 thinks he is full of it." 
 
 " O my good Marthe, I know his 
 character, and that he is good at bot- 
 tom, but to come here and wait, and 
 wait, and lo.se days when every hour 
 
 was gold, and then to be denied. 
 Mon Dim ! wh^rc should I come for 
 help but to my mother's brother 1 
 Alas ! I have no other kindred ! " 
 
 Marthe prevailed on him to stay. 
 
 This done, she went and attacked 
 her master. 
 
 " Are you content ? " asked she, 
 calmly, dusting a chair, or pretending 
 to. " He weeps." 
 
 " Who weeps 1 " 
 
 " Oiu- guest, — our nephew, — our 
 pretty child." 
 
 " All the worse for him. You 
 don't know then, — he insulted me." 
 
 " To whom do you tell that 1 I 
 was at the keyhole." 
 
 " Ugh ! " 
 
 " The boot is on the other leg ; it 
 is you Avho treated him cruelly. He 
 weeps, and he is going away." 
 
 " Going ? Where f " 
 
 " Do I know 1 Where you bade 
 him go !!!!!! " 
 
 " That gives me pain, that he should 
 go like that." 
 
 " I knew it would, our master, so I 
 stopped him, sore against his will." 
 
 " You did well ; that will be worth 
 a new gown to you. What did you 
 say to him ? " 
 
 " I said, ' You must not take 
 things to heart like that ; our master 
 is a vile temper — ' " 
 
 " Ye lied ! " 
 
 " ' But he has a good heart.' " 
 
 " You spoke the truth ; I ara too 
 good." 
 
 " ' He is your mother's brother,' 
 said I, ' and though he is a little 
 wicked he docs not hate you at the 
 bottom. Stay wjth us, and don't talk 
 about money,' said I, ' that nettles 
 him.' For all that, master, I could 
 not help thinking to myself, we are 
 old, and we can't take our money 
 away with us : our time will soon 
 come when we must go away as bare 
 as we came." 
 
 " That is true, confound it ! " 
 
 "As for my dirt of money, and I 
 have rolled up a good bit in your ser- 
 vice, for you know you never were 
 stingy to me ! " 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 117 
 
 " Because I never caught you rob- 
 bing me, you old jade." 
 
 " I shall let him have that, any- 
 way." 
 
 " If you dare to say such a word 
 to him I'M wring your neck round; 
 who are you to come with your three 
 coins between my sister's son and me ? 
 be off and cook the dinner." 
 
 -" I go, our master." 
 
 Uncle and nephew met at dinner : 
 and nephew, after his rebuff, talked 
 anything but money. After dinner, 
 which Marthe took care should be 
 much to his taste, the old man leaned 
 back in his chair, and said with a 
 good-humor large as the ocean : — 
 
 " Now, nephew, about this little af- 
 fair of yours ? Now is the time to 
 come to a man for money ; after din- 
 ner I feel like doing anything, how- 
 ever foolish, to make all the world 
 happy before I die." 
 
 Edouard, finding him in this humor, 
 told the story of Beaurepaire more 
 fully, and laid bare his own feelings 
 to an auditor wlio, partly for good- 
 humor, partly remorse, exhibited an 
 almost ludicrous amount of sympa- 
 thy, real or factitious, with every sen- 
 timent, however delicate, Edouard ex- 
 hibited to him. 
 
 He concluded by vowing they 
 should have the money if the security 
 was sound : " And it must be," said 
 he, " because the rents are raised, and 
 you have paid off one of the mort- 
 gages. How long can you give me 1 " 
 
 " O my dear uncle, we may have 
 a deadly enemy. Time is gold, too." 
 
 " Let us see : to-morrow is market- 
 day, and the next day is the fair." 
 
 Edouard sighed. 
 
 " The daytifter — we will see about 
 it." 
 
 Edouard groaned. 
 
 " I mean we will go down to the 
 Maii'ie \\\ mv cabriolet." 
 
 " Ah ! " 
 
 " And the money in our pocket." 
 
 " Ah ! let me embrace you, my un- 
 cle." 
 
 Thus a term was put to Edouard's 
 anxieties. In three days his uncle 
 
 would be the sole creditor of Beaure- 
 paire. Still he could not help counting 
 the hours, and he did not really feel 
 safe till Thursday evening came, and 
 his uncle showed him an apoplectic 
 pocket-book, and ordered his Norman 
 horse, a beast of singular power and 
 bottom, to be fed early for the jour- 
 ney. 
 
 The youth was in a delicious rev- 
 ery : the old man calmly smoking his 
 pipe: when Martlie brought a letter 
 in that the postman had just left. It 
 was written in a lady's hand. His 
 heart throbbed : ^Nlarthe watched him 
 with a smile, and found an excuse for 
 hanging about. He opened it : his eye 
 went like lightning to the signature. 
 
 Laure Aglae Rose de Beaurepaii-e. 
 
 The SAVcet name was on its way to 
 his eager lips, when he caught sight 
 of a word or two above it that struck 
 him like some icy dagger. He read, 
 and the color left his very lips. He sat 
 with the letter, and seemed a man 
 tui-ned into stone, all but his quiver- 
 ing lip, and the trembling hands that 
 held that dear handwriting. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Notary read notary. The pieces 
 of that placard flung in Perrin's face 
 were a revelation as Avell as an affront. 
 
 He made inquiries and soon learned 
 the statesman was the champion of 
 Beaurepaire and also a client of Pi- 
 card. Putting the two together, he 
 suspected his rival had been playing 
 with him. " Picard is playing that 
 young ruffian's game," said he. " Pei'- 
 haps means to lend him his money 
 instead of me." His suspicions went 
 no further. 
 
 But the next day a gossip told him 
 the Beaurepaire tenants had been 
 screwed up thirty pegs. 
 
 He saw at once the consequences to 
 the estate. His vengeance would 
 escape him as well as his prize. 
 
 He took a quick resolution and 
 acted upon it. 
 
118 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 Tic rode to Commandant "Raynnl. 
 
 That ollici-r, it may he remeiiihorcd, 
 had months iVj;o <^Wv\\ him a commis- 
 sion to hny an estate. He had been 
 lookin<j: ont for one for him ever since, 
 hut unhu'kiiy he had not been able to 
 find a bad enough one to suit. An 
 agent looks not to his employer's in- 
 terest, hut his own. The small nomi- 
 nal percentage he receives is a mere 
 blind. lie would not give you the 
 detriment of his own judgment for a 
 paltry five per cent. From a jjiano- 
 furte to a house, and down again to 
 that most despised property, an au- 
 thor's creation, agency is an organ- 
 ized swindle. 
 
 Perrin had liis eye on Beaurcpaire 
 when Kaynal lirst gave him the com- 
 mission ; hut lie never for a moment 
 intended to get his employer such a 
 bargain as that. lie was waiting till 
 some one should have an estate to sell 
 worth one hundred and eighty thou- 
 sand francs. He would have gone to 
 this man and said, " Now if I get 
 you your money, five per cent comes 
 to me of course." This being assent- 
 ed to, he would have kept quiet 
 awhile : then he would have come 
 back, and said, " I can get you a cus- 
 tomer, but you must ask two hundred 
 and tifcy thousand francs, — the odd 
 seventy thousand over your price is 
 for mc." 
 
 This is the principle of agency as 
 practised in France, in England, and 
 above all in Poland, where an apple 
 can't change hands without an Is- 
 raelite to come between the two silly 
 natives, and pass it across after peel- 
 ing it thick. But neither in France, 
 England, nor Poland was the princi- 
 ple in all its branches better under- 
 stood than by this worthy notary. 
 
 And to those principles he was now 
 for the first time al)<)ut to be a traitor. 
 Behold him jogging along on the dun 
 pony, to give his principal the best 
 bargain in the country-side. 
 
 A sharp pant; of remorse shot 
 through him at tlie thought: but he 
 never wavered. Fortunately for him- 
 self he was not all one vice, lie was 
 
 vindictive, as well as grinding; was 
 capable of^ sacrificing, not his interest 
 ])crhaps, but a percentage on it, to 
 revenge. When Ave are bent on do- 
 ing a thing we find reasons of all 
 si)rts. He said to himself, ' I shall 
 be his steward, his agent ; he is a 
 soldier, — never there, — perhaps get 
 knocked on the head, — die intestate, 
 — aha ? " In short a vista of possi- 
 ble consequences. 
 
 Raynal cut short the notary's glov/- 
 ing description of the unrivalled bar- 
 gain he had with unexampled zeal 
 and fidelity secured him. 
 
 " What is to be done ? " 
 
 " We must go together to the 
 mavor, at Santenoy 1 " 
 
 '' Good." 
 
 " How many days shall you require 
 to get your money from your bank- 
 ers 1 " 
 
 " My bankers ? it is all in my 
 knapsack." 
 
 " Ah ! then we can settle this im- 
 mediately." 
 
 " No ! we can't ! public business 
 first, private afterwards." He con- 
 sulted a card. " To-morrow, after one 
 o'clock, I 'm free, — be at Santenoy 
 at three, — Avill that do ? " 
 
 " Yes, monsieur." 
 
 " Get everything ready : I will ride 
 down b}'*three. How much money ? " 
 
 " About two hundred and fifty thou- 
 sand francs." 
 
 " I did not ask you about how 
 much ! " said the precisian. " I said 
 how much ? never mind, I '11 bring 
 enough. Good day." 
 
 Next day, at a quarter before three, 
 Perrin was parading in some anxiety 
 before the Mairic. ,Iust at the stroke 
 of three up clattered the comman- 
 dant in full uniform ; off his horse in 
 a moment, and got a hoy to hohl it. 
 He gave Perrin two hundred and fifty 
 thousand francs, and sent him to the 
 Mairie to buy Beaurcpaire while he 
 went to inspect a small barrack that 
 was building in the town of Santenoy. 
 
 Perrin went in and had audience of 
 the mayor, and announced a purchas- 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 119 
 
 er of Beaurepaire : the mayor's coun- 
 tenance fell. He loitered about ; was 
 a long time finding this document and 
 that : at last he said, " Have you got 
 the money 1 " 
 
 "Yes!" said the notary, "two 
 hundred and fifty thousand francs. 
 Hero they are." 
 
 The mayor pottered about again ; 
 found a paper ; put on his spectacles. 
 " That is not the price," said he ; 
 " tlie estate is worth two hundred and 
 ninety-five thousand francs." 
 
 " How can that be, monsieur? two 
 hundred and fifty thousand is the fig- 
 ure on your placard." 
 
 " So it is," said the mayor, apolo- 
 getically. " I ought to have altered 
 it. The order from the directory men- 
 tions no sum. It is conceived in gen- 
 eral terms : the estate is to be sold for 
 a certain sum, over and above the capi- 
 tal of the rents at twenty-seven years' 
 purchase. Since I put up that placard 
 the rents have been raised : in evi- 
 dence of which the leases have been 
 sent over to me. Here they are. Since 
 you propose to purchase, you are at 
 liberty to inspect them. For two 
 hundred and ninety-five thousand one 
 hundred and forty francs, the chateau 
 and the estate arc yours." 
 
 " This is Picard," said Perrin, 
 spitefully. 
 
 The mayor affected not to hear him. 
 Perrin went out to tell this rebuff to 
 Kaynal. He found him inspecting 
 the barrack. He explained the mat- 
 ter, and excused himself, throwing 
 the blame on the mayor, who, not 
 being a man of business, allowed a 
 placard with false figures to stand 
 upon his wall. 
 
 " Well, but," said Raynal, " since 
 it turns out to be worth two hun- 
 dred and ninety -five thousand one 
 hundred and forty francs, instead of 
 two hundred and fifty thousand francs, 
 all the better for me : it is only pay- 
 ing the odd money." 
 
 " But where are we to get it ? I 
 would lend it you to-morrow, but to- 
 morrow may be too late." 
 
 " O, I have got another fifty thou- 
 
 sand francs in my pocket," said the 
 other, coolly. " I brought all I have 
 got ; you did not seem very clear how 
 much we should want." 
 
 " Come to the mayor, monsieur, at 
 once ! " cried the exulting notary : 
 " make haste, or he will pretend it is 
 after office hours." 
 
 When the commandant entered, 
 epaulet on shoulder, sword clanking, 
 and laid down the whole purchase- 
 money demanded, the mayor made no 
 further resistance. 
 
 He was personally acquainted with 
 Raynal : admired him, stood in awe 
 of him, and of the sword whose power 
 he represented. As for Raynal, he 
 bought the property he had never 
 seen, much as you buy a hot roll 
 across a counter. 
 
 From this moment the ancient 
 lands, timber, chateau, fish-ponds, 
 manorial, and baronial rights in abey- 
 ance, and the oak-tree that was older 
 than the family itself, belonged to a 
 soldier who had risen from the ranks, 
 and to the heirs of his plebeian body. 
 
 " I can sleep there to-night, eh? " 
 
 The notary stared, and then smiled : 
 here was a man who outran even his 
 vengeance. 
 
 He explained to him that he could 
 not sleep at his own house till he had 
 turned his lodgers out. The law re- 
 quires that we serve a notice on them, 
 
 " Let us go and serve it, then." 
 
 " But it is not even drawn up." 
 
 " Draw it up." 
 
 " And then it has to be engrossed." 
 
 " Engross it. I '11 wait here." 
 
 " But it must be served before noon 
 of the day it is served on." 
 
 " Sac-r-r-r-r-e 1 ! dog of a law ! that 
 can't do a single thing without half a 
 dozen preliminaries. The bayonet 
 forever. Well, let me see. One of 
 my officers lives near at hand. He is 
 absent on leave. Do you know him ? 
 His name is Riviere." 
 
 " I know him by sight." 
 
 " I '11 take possession of his quarters 
 for the night : his landlady knows me." 
 
 "Yes! yes!" cried the notary, his 
 eyes glittering with gratified malice. 
 
120 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 " Why, he lives close to the cha- 
 teau."' 
 
 " Good ! then we can sally out on 
 it in the morning." 
 
 "Yes! commandant, — yes! You 
 have bri.ujht ideas, that is the ])lace to 
 sally from " ; and he chuckled tiend- 
 ishly. " At ten to-morrow I call on 
 you ; and we take possession of your 
 property." 
 
 "So be it! at ten. Good day, I 
 must <;o back to the barracks and spur 
 the workmen." 
 
 As the commandant went to the 
 barracks, he thougiit to himself : 
 *" ]SIy property,' those words have a 
 fine sound. They ought, too : cost 
 one hundred and fifty thousand francs 
 apiece. By St. Denis I am a fortu- 
 nate man ! there arc not many sol- 
 diers of my age that can say ' my 
 property,' especially soldiers that have 
 carried a knapsack. How proud my 
 poor old mother would be I Ah ! that 
 spoils it all. She will not sit facing 
 me on the hearth. It would be her 
 new house : or our new house. It 
 will only be mine. Allans ! I am an 
 ungrateful cur to whine. We can't 
 h ive everything. I 'm not the first to 
 whom prosperity has come a year or so 
 too late. I shall not be the last. Her 
 dream of paradise used to be a house in 
 the country. Duty ! " And the sword 
 clanked on the pavement as he walked 
 sharply to spur the woi-kmen, before 
 riding up to his quarters for the night. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 After Edouard's departure Jose- 
 phine de Beaurcpaire was sad, and 
 weighed down with presentiments. 
 
 "My friend," said slic to St. Aubin, 
 " I feel as I think soldiers must feel 
 who know the enemy is undermining 
 them : no danger on the surface : 
 nothing that can 1)C seen, met, batfied, 
 attacked, or evaded. In daily ])eril, 
 all the more horrible that it imitates 
 perfect serenity, they await the fatal 
 match." 
 
 "You exaggerate," replied St. 
 Aubin, soothingly. " We have a 
 friend still more zealous and active 
 than our enemy : believe me, your 
 depression is really caused by his ab- 
 sence : we all miss the contact of that 
 young heroic spirit ; we are a body, 
 I and he its soul." 
 
 Josephine was silent, for she said 
 to herself: " Why should I dash these 
 spirits ? they are so happy and con- 
 fident." 
 
 So after that she remained alone in 
 her musings. Edouard had animated 
 Laure and St. Aubin with a courage 
 that withstood the fears caused by the 
 notary's last blow. 
 
 As for the baroness, she was like a 
 fading plant revived by showers and 
 sun. The system they pursued with 
 her, which Edouard dubbed reticence, 
 made her a happy old woman. She 
 was allowed to see her own cham- 
 pion's last move, and then the curtain 
 was dropped. This then was to her 
 the whole face of affairs : her rents 
 raised, the only hostile creditor she 
 knew of paid off, a thousand francs 
 in the house, and an ardent youth 
 with the fi\cc of an angel added to her 
 family and her heart. Shall I own 
 that even juicy meat and Arabian 
 coffee co-operated with nobler inci- 
 dents to cheer and sustain her ? — 
 no ! This refined lady was all soul, 
 — like yourself, Mrs. Reader !_ 
 
 It was a balmy morning, though 
 late in the year ; Josephine and Laure 
 had breakfasted, and were walking 
 slowly on the south terrace, by ordi- 
 nance of physician. Recent events 
 had brought St. Aubin quite down 
 out of the clouds. His attention be- 
 ing fairly awakened to all sublunary 
 aiiairs on his beat, he now super- 
 intended the health of the entire 
 family with extraordinary severity. 
 
 Not being an apothecary with drugs 
 to sell, right or wrong, or a physician 
 in lea<j:ue with a retailer of drugs, ho 
 prescribed to each of these three ladies 
 every dry day, and to the youuixer 
 ones every day, a draught of morning 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 121 
 
 air. He -was now waiting in the hall 
 to give the baroness his arm as soon 
 as she should come down. 
 
 " What a delicious morning, Jose- 
 phine ! the dear doctor is right ; the 
 morning is really a good time to walk, 
 the air seems perfumed." 
 
 " Yes, Laure, let us enjoy our 
 home as much as we can, since any 
 day we may lose it." 
 
 " Now are you going to begin 1 — 
 such idle fears ! The estate is for 
 sale, but money is scarce. "Who can 
 find such a quantity of it all in a mo- 
 ment 1 Clearly it must be some one 
 who loves us." 
 
 " Or some one who hates us." 
 
 " O, love is stronger than hate." 
 
 " In you." 
 
 " In everybody. Here is mamma ! 
 here 's mamma ! " 
 
 Then — how you young people of 
 an unceremonious age would have 
 laughed ! — the demoiselles De Beau- 
 repaire, inasmuch as this was their 
 mother's first appearance, lowered 
 their fair heads at the same time, like 
 young poplars bowing to the wind, 
 and so waited reverently till she had 
 slightly lifted her hands, and said : — 
 
 " God bless you, my children ! " 
 
 It was done in a moment on both 
 sides, but was full of grace and piety 
 and the charm of ancient ;nanners. 
 
 " How is our dear mother's health 
 this morning ? " inquired Josephine. 
 
 " You must ask monsieur ; he has 
 become tyrannical, and forbids me to 
 have an opinion on such points." 
 
 " The baroness is well, mesdemoi- 
 selles, but she will be better when she 
 has taken my prescription, — one turn 
 before breakfast and two draughts of 
 you know what." 
 
 " Perhaps, since you know every- 
 thing, doctor, you will tell me how 
 mamma slept?"' inquired Laure, a 
 little pertly. 
 
 " She slept well if she took what I 
 gave her." 
 
 " But did she take what you gave 
 her ? — ha ! ha ! You don't know." 
 
 " To ascertain that I must feel her 
 pulse." 
 
 6 
 
 did. 
 
 I slept, Laure, and I am sorry I 
 
 " Ingrate ! " said the doctor. 
 
 " For I dreamed, doctor, and it was 
 an ugly dream. I was with you all 
 in the garden, on this very spot or 
 near it. But it was not at this time 
 of year, for I was admiring my flow- 
 ers and my old friends the trees, and 
 the birds were singing with all their 
 might. Suddenly a loud clock struck. 
 I do not know what hour, but it struck 
 a great many times. In a moment 
 flowers, trees, sky, and the light of 
 day were gone. I looked, — I "could 
 see no more my beloved dwelling nor 
 my children's eyes. Shall I tell you 
 what it means ? " said the old lady, 
 gravely. " It means that I was 
 dead. An ugly dream, my children, 
 — an ugly dream. Again, had it 
 come a month ago, — but now all is 
 so bright and hopeful, I wish to stay 
 with my darlings a little longer." 
 
 " It was only a dream, dear moth- 
 er," cried Josephine, gayly. 
 
 " See, here is your terrace and 
 your chateau." 
 
 " And here are your daughters," 
 said Laure ; and they both came close 
 to her to put their existence out of 
 doubt. 
 
 " And here is your faithful though 
 useless old friend." 
 
 " Breakfast, madame ! " and Jacin- 
 tha courtesied to each lady in turn. 
 
 " Jacintha has turned the conversa- 
 tion agreeably. I was going to cloud 
 you all." 
 
 " I now prescribe breakfast, ma- 
 dame, and oblivion of idle dreams. 
 You will walk half an hour more, 
 young ladies." 
 
 The sisters took several turns in 
 silence. Laure was the first to speak. 
 
 " How superstitious you are, my 
 sister." 
 
 "II I have said nothing." 
 
 " No ; but you look volumes. I 
 believe in our young madman more 
 than in our dear mother's dreams." 
 
 " He will do all he can. Yes! — 
 yes ! — I think with you his energy, 
 his spirits, will defeat our enemy." 
 
122 
 
 WHITE LIKS. 
 
 " Of course they will, Joscpliinc. I 
 am ^l;ul you hcLiiu to look at tlihifrs 
 as thi'v are. !Scc how our luotlicr's 
 health and spirits are improving; no 
 wonder, since everything now is 
 bright, — and here conies Jacintha in 
 a wonderful hurry, — mamma wants 
 us. No ; how white she is. O Jo- 
 sephine, there is something the mat- 
 ter ! Mamma is ill, — her dream ! " 
 
 " Hush ! hush ! hush ! " cried Ja- 
 cintha, who came towards them, 
 wringing her hands. " O mesdem- 
 oiselles, — O mesdemoisellcs, — the 
 chateau ! — oh don't let my poor mis- 
 tress know, — it will kill her. Oh 
 what shall I do ? wliat shall I do ? " 
 
 " Be calm, Laure, — be calm, Jacin- 
 tha," said Josephine, trembling all 
 over, except her voice. " Now one 
 word, — oh ! my presentiments ! — 
 Beaurepaire ! " 
 
 Jacintha clasped her hands and 
 burst out sobbing. 
 
 " It is sold," said Josephine. 
 " Heaven give me wisdom, what shall 
 I do ? quick, girl, who to ? to that man, 
 — to Perrin ? " 
 
 " To a stranger, to an officer, a 
 grand officer. Dard told me the very 
 name, cursed be it." 
 
 " A Bonapartist ! Then we are 
 ruined. I have killed my own moth- 
 er." 
 
 "No ! no ! my sister, — she will 
 faint." 
 
 " No ! Laure. This is no time for 
 weakness. Come to the Pleasance. 
 There is water there. I love my 
 mother ! I love my mother ! " 
 
 She went with tottering steps 
 towards the pool in the Pleasance, 
 but turning the corner she started 
 back with a c(mvulsive cry, and her 
 momentary feebleness left her direct- 
 ly ; she crouclied against the wall and 
 gripped the ancient coi>fier-stonc with 
 her tender hand till it ])Owdere(l, and 
 she sjiicd with dilating eye into the 
 Pleasance, Laure and Jacintha panting 
 behind her. Two men stood, with 
 their backs turned to her, looking at 
 the oak-tree : one an otHcer in full 
 uniform, the other the human snake 
 
 Perrin. Though the soldier's back 
 was turned, his oll'-handeii, i)eremptory 
 ujunner told her he was inspecting tlio 
 place as its master. 
 
 " The baroness ! the baroness ! " 
 cried Jacintha, with horror. They 
 looked round, and the baroness was 
 at their very backs. 
 
 " What is it ? " cried she, gayly. 
 
 "Nothing, mamma ! " 
 
 " Let me see this nothing ? " 
 
 They glanced at one another, and, 
 idle as the attempt was, the habit of 
 sparing her prevailed, and they flung 
 themselves between her and the blow. 
 
 " Josephine is not well, my mother. 
 She wants to go in." Both girls 
 faced the baroness. 
 
 " Yes, if my mother will go with 
 me," said Josephine. 
 
 " Jacintha," said the baroness, 
 " fetch Monsieur St. Aubin. There, 
 I have sent her away. So now tell 
 me why do you drive me back in this 
 way ? " 
 
 " Did I ? I was not aware." 
 
 " Children, something has hap- 
 pened " ; and she looked keenly from 
 one to the other. 
 
 " O mamma, do not go that way : 
 there are strangers in the Pleasance." 
 
 " Let me see, — I tell you I will 
 see. So there are. Insolents ! Call 
 Jacintha, that I may order these 
 people out of my premises." 
 
 " Mother, for Heaven's sake," cried 
 Josephine, " be calm." 
 
 " Be calm when impertinent in- 
 truders come into my garden ? " 
 
 " Mother, they are not intruders." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " They have a right to be in our 
 Pleasance." 
 
 " Josephine ! Laure ! oh ! my 
 heart ! " 
 
 " Yes, mother ! that officer has 
 bought the chateau." 
 
 " It is impossible ! He was to buy 
 it for us, — there is some mistake, — 
 what man would kill a poor old 
 woman like me ! I will speak to this 
 monsieur; he wears a sword. Sol- 
 diers do not trample on women. Ali ! 
 that man." 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 123 
 
 The notary, attracted by her voice, 
 came towards her, a paper in his 
 hand. 
 
 Kaynal coolly inspected the tree, 
 and tapped it with his scabbard, and 
 left Perrin to do the dirty work. 
 
 The notary took otf his hat, and, 
 with a malignant affectation of re- 
 spect, presented the baroness with a 
 paper. 
 
 The poor old thing took it with a 
 courtesy the effect of habit, and read 
 it to her daughters as well as her emo- 
 tion permitted and the language which 
 was as new to her as the dialect of 
 Cat Island to Columbus. 
 
 " Jean Raynal, domiciled by rigid, 
 and lodging in fact at the chateau of 
 Beaurepaire, acting by the pursuit and 
 ddifjence of Master Perrin, notary; I 
 Guitlaume Le Gras, bailiff, give notice 
 to Josephine Aglae St. Croix de Beau- 
 repaire, commonly called the Baroness 
 de Beaurepaire, having no known place 
 of abode — " 
 
 "Oh!" 
 ''but lodging wrongfully at the said 
 chateau of Beaurepaire that she is 
 warned to decamp within twenty four 
 hours — " 
 
 " To decamp ! Ah ! Dieu ! " 
 "failing which, that she will be thereto 
 enforced in the manner for that case 
 made and provided with the aid of all the 
 officers and agents of the public force." 
 
 "Ah! no, messieurs, pray do not 
 use force. I am frightened enough 
 already. Mon Dieu ! I did not know 
 I was doing anything wrong. I have 
 been here thirty years. But, since 
 Beaurepaire is sold, I comprehend 
 perfectly that I must go. It is just. 
 As you say, I am not in my own 
 house. I will go, messieurs. Whith- 
 er shall I go, my children ? The house 
 where you were born to me is ours 
 no longer. Excuse me, gentlemen, — 
 this is nothing to you. Ah ! sir, you 
 have revenged yourself on two weak 
 women, — may God forgive you ! In 
 twenty-four hours ! yes ! in twenty- 
 four hours the Baroness de Beaure- 
 paire will trouble no one more in this 
 world." 
 
 The notary turned on his heel. 
 The poor baroness, all whose pride 
 the iron law, with its iron gripe, had 
 crushed with dismay and terror, ap- 
 pealed to him. 
 
 " sir ! send me from the house, 
 but not from the soil where ray Henri 
 is laid ! is there not in all tliis domain 
 a corner where she who was its mis- 
 tress may lie down and die ! Where 
 is the new baron, that I may ask the 
 favor of him on my knees ? " 
 
 She turned towards Raynal, and 
 seemed to be going towards him with 
 outstretched arms. But Laure checked 
 her with fervor : — 
 
 " mamma, do not lower yourself! 
 Ask nothing of these wretches ! Let 
 us lose all, but not forget ourselves." 
 
 The baroness had not her daugh- 
 ter's spirit. Her very person tottered 
 under this blow. Josephine support- 
 ed her, and the next moment St. 
 Aubin came out and hastened to her 
 side. Her head fell back : what little 
 strength she had failed her. She was 
 half lifted, half led into the house. 
 
 Commandant Raynal was amazed 
 at all this. 
 
 " What the deuce is the matter ? " 
 said he. 
 
 " Oh ! " said the notary. " We are 
 used to these little scenes in our busi- 
 ness." 
 
 " But I am not," replied the soldier. 
 " You never told me there was to be 
 all this fuss." 
 
 " What does it matter to you, mon- 
 sieur, — the house is yours. To-mor- 
 row at this time I will meet you here, 
 and we will take actual possession. 
 Adieu ! " 
 
 " Good day." • 
 
 The soldieV strode up and down the 
 Pleasance. He twisted his mus- 
 taches, muttered, and peste'd, and was 
 ill at ease. 
 
 Accustomed to march gayly into a 
 towm and see the regiment that was 
 there before marching gayly out, or 
 vice versa, and to strike tents twice a 
 quarter at least, he was little prepared 
 for such a scene as this. True, he 
 did not hear the baroness's words. 
 
124 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 but nioro than one tone of sharp dis- 
 tress roarhed liini wliore he stood, and 
 tho action of the wliole scene was so 
 expressive there was little need of 
 words. He saw the notice j^iven, — 
 the dismay it caused, and the old lady 
 turn imploringly towards him with a 
 speaking gesture, and above all he saw 
 her carried away, half fainting, her 
 hands clasped, her reverend face pale. 
 He was not a man of quick sensibili- 
 ties. He did not thoroughly take the 
 scene in : it grew upon him after- 
 wards. 
 
 " Confound it," thought he, " I 
 am the proprietor. Tlicy all say so. 
 Instead of which I feel Hkc a thief, 
 
 — like a butcher. Fancy any on-e 
 getting so fond of a place as all 
 this." 
 
 Presently it occun*ed to him that 
 the shortness of the notice must have 
 a great deal to do with their distress. 
 
 " What an ass that Perrin is not 
 to tell me the house was full of wo- 
 men. But these notaries comprehend 
 nothing save law : women can't 
 * Left should-der — forward — quick — 
 march ! ' — like us : they have such 
 piles of baggage, tliey never can strike 
 tents when the order comes. Perhaps 
 if I were to give them twenty-four days 
 instead of hours ? — hum ? " 
 
 With this the commandant fell 
 into a l)rOwn study, a rare thing for 
 him, who had so little time and so 
 much work. Now each of us has his 
 attitude of brown study. One runs 
 about the room like hyena in his 
 den : another stands stately with fold- 
 ed arms (this one seldom thinks to 
 the purpose) : another sits cross-legged, 
 brows lowered : another must put his 
 head into his hand, and so keep it 
 up to thinking mark : another must 
 twiddle a l)it of string, or a key, — 
 grant him this, he can hatch an ci)ic. 
 This commandant must draw himself 
 up very straight, and walk six paces 
 and back very slowly till the ])roblem 
 was solved : there, — I will be frank, 
 
 — he had done a good deal of sentinel 
 work : and such is the force of early 
 hajjits, that when ho was not busy, 
 
 only thinking, his body still slipped 
 back to its original hal)it. 
 
 Whilst he was guarding the old 
 oak-tree, for all the world as if it had 
 been the gate of the Tuileries or the 
 barracks, Josephine de Beaurcpaire 
 came suddenly out from the house 
 and crossed the Pleasance : her hair 
 was in disordef, her manner wild : 
 she passed swiftly into the park. 
 
 Now Kaynal was puzzling himself 
 how to let the family know tlicy need 
 not pack up their caps and laces in J 
 twenty-four hours. The notary was I 
 gone, and he did not like to enter the 
 house. 
 
 " It is theirs for four-and-twenty 
 hours," said he, " and I should be 
 like the black dog in their eyes if I 
 went in." So when he caught sight 1 
 of Josephine he said : " Ah, this will 9 
 do : here is one of them, I '11 tell ■ 
 her!" 
 
 He followed her accordingly into 
 the park : but it was not so easy to 
 catch her, — she flew. " Want my 
 cavalry to come up with this one," 
 muttered Raynal. He took his scab- 
 bard in his left hand and ran after 
 her : she was, however, still many 
 yards in advance of him when she en- 
 tered a small building which is not 
 new to us, though it was so to Ray- 
 nal. He came up and had his foot 
 on the very step to go in when he was 
 arrested by that he licard within. 
 
 Josephine was praying aloud : 
 praying to the Virgin with sighs and 
 sobs and all her soul : wrestling so in 
 prayer with a dead saint as by a 
 strange perversity men cannot or will 
 not wrestle with Ilim who alone can 
 hear a million prayers at once from a 
 million different places, can realize 
 and be touched with a sense of all 
 man's infirmities in a way no single 
 saint with his partial experience of 
 them can realize and be touched by 
 them, who unasked suspended the 
 laws of nature that had taken a stran- 
 ger's only son, and she a widow, — 
 who wept at human sorrow while the 
 eyes of all the great saints that stood 
 around it and Him were dry. 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 125 
 
 The soldier stood, his right foot on 
 the step and his sword in his left 
 hand, transfixed : listening gravely to 
 the agony of prayer the innocent 
 young creature poured forth within. 
 
 " O Mother of God ! hear me : it is 
 for my mother's life. She will die, — 
 she will die ! You know she cannot 
 live if she is taken away from her 
 house and from this holy place where 
 she prays to you this many years. O 
 Queen of Heaven ! put out your hand 
 to us unfortunates ! Virgin, hear a 
 virgin ! — mother, listen to a child 
 who prays for her mother's life ! The 
 doctor says she will not live away 
 from hex-e. Slie is too old to wander 
 over the world. Let them drive us 
 forth : we are young, but not her, 
 mother, O not her ! Forgive the 
 cruel men that do this thing ! — they 
 are like those who crucified your Son, 
 — they know not what they are doing. 
 But you, Queen of Heaven, you know 
 all : and, sweet mother, if you have 
 kind sentiments towards me, the poor 
 Josephine, oh ! show them now : for 
 you know it was I who insulted that 
 wicked notary, and it is out of hatred 
 to me he has sold our beloved house 
 to a hard stranger. Look down on 
 me, a child who loves her mother, yet 
 will destroy her unless you pity me 
 and help me. O my God, what 
 shall I say ? what shall I do ? mer- 
 cy ! mercy ! for my poor mother, for 
 me !" 
 
 Here her prayer was broken by 
 sobs. 
 
 The soldier withdrew his foot qui- 
 etly. Thought he, " It is hardly the 
 part of a man to listen to this poor 
 girl ; besides, I have heard enough : her 
 words knock against my breast-bone : 
 let me reflect." And he marched 
 slowly to and fro before the chapel, 
 upright as a dart and stiff as a ram- 
 rod. 
 
 Josephine's voice was heard again 
 in prayer. 
 
 Raynal looked at his watch. " She 
 does not finish," said he, quaintly. 
 
 Josephine little thought who was 
 her sentinel before the chapel. She 
 
 I came to the door at last, and there he 
 , w^as marching backwards and for- 
 wards upright and stitF. She gave a 
 faint scream and drew back with a 
 shudder. 
 
 Not being very quick at interpret- 
 ing emotion, Raynal noticed her 
 alarm, but not her repugnance : he sa- 
 luted her with military precision by 
 touching his cap as only a soldier 
 can. 
 
 " A word with you, mademoiselle ! " 
 
 " With me, monsieur ? what can 
 you have to say to me ? " and she be- 
 gan to tremble. 
 
 " Don't be frightened ! " said Ray- 
 nal, in a tone not very reassuring. 
 "I propose an armistice, — a confer- 
 ence." 
 
 " I am at your disposal, monsieur," 
 said Josephine, assuming a calmness 
 tliat was belied by the long swell of 
 her heaving bosom, 
 
 " You must not be afraid of me, 
 my young lady, — there is nothing 
 to be afraid of." 
 
 " No, monsieur ; I am not fright- 
 ened, — not much frightened, — but 
 you are a stranger to me — and — " 
 
 " And an enemy." 
 
 " We have no right to hate you, sir. 
 You did not know us. You just 
 wanted an estate, I suppose — and — 
 oh ! — " 
 
 " Let ixs come to the point, since I 
 am a man of few words." 
 
 " If you please. My mother may 
 miss me." 
 
 " I was in position on the flank 
 when the notary delivered his fire." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "I saw the old woman's distress." 
 
 "Ah! monsieur." 
 
 " And I said to myself, ' This 
 Beaurepaire campaign begins unluck- 
 ily.' " 
 
 "It was kind even to care that 
 much for our feelings." 
 
 " When you came flying out I fol- 
 lowed to say a word to you. I could 
 not catch you. I listened while you 
 prayed to the Virgin. That was not 
 a soldier-like trick, you will say. I 
 confess it." 
 
126 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 " I nm not anjri'y, monsieur, and 
 you lioaitl noiliii)^- I blush lor." 
 
 "No! by St. Dciiis, — (juite the con- 
 trary. Well, — to tlic ])oint. Younij 
 lady, you love your mother ! " 
 
 *' What has she on earth but her 
 children's love ? " 
 
 " Youni; lady, I had a mother ; I 
 loved her, my young lady. She 
 promised me faithfully not to die till 
 I should be a colonel, — and she 
 went and died before I was a com- 
 mandant even ; just before, too." 
 
 " Then I pity you," murmured Jo- 
 sepliine. 
 
 " She pities mc ! What a wonder- 
 ful thins^ a word is ! No one has 
 been able to find the right word to 
 say to me till to-day. ' Ah ! bah ! ' 
 says one. ' Old people will die,' says 
 another." 
 
 " Oh ! " 
 
 " Take a young one and forget her ! ' 
 that is the favorite cry of all, madem- 
 oiselle." 
 
 "Certainly a person of monsieur's 
 merit need never want a young wo- 
 man, but that is different, — it is 
 wicked to talk so." 
 
 " For all that, you arc the only one 
 that has said, ' I pity you ! ' " 
 
 " I pity you ! " repeated Josephine, 
 her soft purple eye beginning to dwell 
 on him instead of turning from him. 
 
 " Shall I tell you about her and 
 me," said Raynal, eagerly. 
 
 "I shall be honored," said Josephine, 
 politely. 
 
 Then he told her all about how he 
 had vexed her when he was a boy, 
 and gone for a soldier though she was 
 all for trade ; and how he had been 
 the more anxious to see her enjoy his 
 honors and success. 
 
 " And, mademoiselle," said he, ap- 
 pealingly, " the day this epaulet was 
 put on my shoulder in Italy, she died 
 in I'aris. Ah ! how coidd you have 
 the heart to do that, my old woman ? " 
 
 The soldier's mustache quivered, 
 and he turned away brusqeuly, and 
 took several steps. Then he came 
 back to Josephine. 
 
 " Monsieur," said she, tenderly, 
 
 " she would have lived if she could, 
 to please you, not herself, — it is I 
 who tell you so." 
 
 " I believe it," cried Raynal, a light 
 breaking in on him : " how can you 
 read my mother ? you never saw 
 her ? " 
 
 " Perhaps I see her in her son." 
 
 The purple eye had not been idle 
 all this time. 
 
 " You arc wonderfully quick," said 
 Raynal, looking at her with more and 
 more surprise, — " and what is the 
 matter ? " Josephine's eyes were thick 
 with tears. "What"? you are within 
 an inch of crying for my mother, — 
 you who have your own trouble at 
 this hour." 
 
 " Monsieur, our situations are so 
 alike I may well spare some little sym- 
 pathy for your misfortune." 
 
 " Thank you, my good young lady ; 
 well, then, while you were praying to 
 the Virgin, I was saying a word or 
 two for my part to her who is no 
 more." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 " 0, it was nothing beautiful like 
 the things j-ou said to the other. Can 
 I turn phrases ? no ! I saw her behind 
 her counter in the Rue Quincampoix : 
 for she is a woman of the people is 
 my mother. I saw myself come to 
 the other side of the counter, and I 
 said, ' Look here, mother, here is the 
 devil to pay about this new house. 
 Here is the old woman talks of dying 
 if we take her from her home, and 
 the young one weeps and prays to 
 all the saints in Paradise. What 
 shall we do, — chl ' Then my old 
 woman said to me, 'Jean, you are a 
 soldier, a sort of vagabond, though 
 not by my will. But, at least, be 
 what you are! AVhat do you want 
 with a house in France ? you who arc 
 always in a tent in Italy or Austria, 
 or wlio knows where? Have you the 
 courage to give honest folk so much 
 ])ain for a caprice ? your fine chateau 
 is n't worth it, my lad, it is I who tell 
 you so. Come now,' says she, ' the 
 lady is of my age, say you, and I can't 
 keep your fine house, because God 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 127 
 
 has willed it otherwise : so give her | 
 my place : so then you can fancy it is j 
 me you have set down at your hearth : 
 that will warm your heart up a bit, 
 little scamp, go to,' said my old 
 woman, in her rough way. She was 
 not Avell-bred like you, mademoiselle. 
 A woman of the people, — Rue Quin- 
 campoix." 
 
 " She was a woman of God's own 
 making," cried Josephine, the tears 
 now running down her cheeks. 
 
 " That she was ! so between her and 
 me it is settled, — what are you cry- 
 ing for now ? why, you have won the 
 day : the field is yours : your mother 
 and you remain. I decamp." He 
 whipped his scabbard up with his left 
 hand and was otF probably for years, 
 perhaps forever, if Josephine had not 
 stopped him. 
 
 " But, monsieur, what am I to 
 think ? what am I to hope ? it is im- 
 possible that in this short interview 
 — and we must not forget what is due 
 to vou. You have bought the es- 
 tate?' 
 
 " True ! well, we will talk of that 
 to-morrow : the house tp-day, — that 
 was the bayonet thrust to the old 
 woman." 
 
 " Ah ! yes ! but, monsieur ! " 
 
 " Silence in the ranks ! " cried he, 
 sharply : " mind I am more used to 
 command than listen in this district ! " 
 
 " Monsieur, I will obey you," said 
 Josephine, a little fluttered. 
 
 Eaynal checked her alarm. " The 
 order is, that you run in and put the 
 old lady's heart at rest. Tell her that 
 she may live and die here for Jean 
 Eaynal : above all, tell her about the 
 old woman in the Rue Quincampoix : 
 only put it in your own charming 
 phrases, you know." 
 
 " Heaven forbid ! I go. God bless 
 you. Monsieur Eaynal ! " 
 
 " Are you going 1 " said he, per- 
 emptorily. 
 
 " O yes ! " and she darted towards 
 the chateau. 
 
 Now, when she had taken three 
 steps, she paused, and seemed irreso- 
 lute. She turned, and in a moment 
 
 she had glided to Eaynal again and 
 had taken his hand before he could 
 hinder her, and pressed two velvet 
 lips on it, and was away again, her 
 cheeks scarlet at what she had done, 
 and her wet eyes beaming with joy. 
 She skimmed the grass like a lapwing, 
 — you would have taken her at this 
 moment for Laure, or for Virgil's 
 Camilla : at the gate she turned an 
 instant and clasped her hands to- 
 gether, to show Eaynal she blessed 
 him again, then darted into the house. 
 
 "Aha! my gaillarde," said he, as 
 he watched her fly, " behold you 
 changed a little since you came out." 
 He was soon on the high road marcli- 
 ing down to the town at a great rate, 
 his sword clanking, and thus ran his 
 thoughts : — 
 
 " This does one good, — you are 
 right, my old woman. My bosom 
 feels as warm as a toast. Long live 
 the five-franc pieces ! And they pre- 
 tend money cannot make a fellow 
 happ}-. They lie ! It is that they 
 don't know how to spend it ! Good 
 Heavens ! one o'clock ! a whole morn- 
 ing gone talking." 
 
 Meantime at the chateau, as still 
 befalls in emergencies and trials, the 
 master spirit came out and took its 
 real place. 
 
 Laure was now the mistress of 
 Beaurepaire. 
 
 She set Jacintha, and Dard, and the 
 doctor, to pack up everything of value 
 in the house. 
 
 " Do it this moment," she cried ; 
 "once that notary gets possession of 
 the house it will be too late." 
 
 " But have we the right ? " asked 
 St. Aubin. 
 
 "Do it," was the sharp reply. 
 " Enough of folly and helplessness. 
 We have fooled away house and 
 lands : our movables shall not fol- 
 low them." 
 
 Having set the others to work, she 
 wrote a hasty line to Eiviere to tell 
 him the chateau and lands were sold, 
 and with this letter she ran herself to 
 Bigot's auberge, the nearest post- 
 
128 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 oflicc, and tl)cn she ran back to com- 
 fort her mother. 
 
 The haroness was seated in her arm- 
 chair, moaiiin<x, and wringinj^ her 
 liands, and Laure was nursinj^ and 
 sooth iiij; her, and hathini; her temples 
 with her hist drop of iitu de Cologne, 
 and trying in vain to put some of her 
 own courage into her, when in came 
 Josepliinc radiant with liappiness, 
 crying, " Joy ! joy ! joy ! " and told 
 her strange "talc much as I have told 
 it, with this cxcc])tion, that she re- 
 lated her own share in it briefly and 
 coldly, and was more clotiuent than I 
 about the strange soldier's goodness, 
 and the interest her mother had awa- 
 kened in his lieart. And s!ie told about 
 the old woman in the Rue Quincam- 
 poix, her rugged phrases, and her 
 noble, tenilcr heart : and she ascribed 
 all to the Virgin. 
 
 " Heaven is on our side, ray mother. 
 Courage, my mother ! " 
 
 The baroness, deaf to Laure, bright- 
 ened up directly at Josephine's news, 
 and her glowing face, as she knelt be- 
 fore her mother, pouring the good 
 news, and hope, and comfort, point- 
 blank into her face, as well as her 
 heart. But Laure chilled them both. 
 
 "It is a generous offer," said she; 
 " but one we cannot accept." 
 
 " Not accept it," cried the baroness, 
 with dismay. 
 
 " AVe cannot live under so great an 
 obligation. Is all the generosity to be 
 on the side of this Bouapartist ? — we 
 are then noble in name only. What 
 would our father have said to such a 
 proposal ? " 
 
 Josephine hung her head. The 
 baroness groaned. 
 
 "No! my mother, let house and 
 land go, but honor and true nobility 
 remain." 
 
 " What shall I do ? you arc cruel 
 to me, my dauj^htcr." 
 
 " ^lamma," cried the enthusiastic 
 girl, " we need depend on no one. 
 Josephine and I have youth and spirit, 
 and you have money." 
 
 " \Vc have no money. We are beg- 
 gars ! " 
 
 " We have a hundred thousand 
 francs ! " 
 
 " A hundred thousand francs ? Are 
 you mad ? " 
 
 " No, mamma : our debts were two 
 hundred and twenty-live thousand 
 francs. But the estate, owing to the 
 increase of the rents, has sold for two 
 hundred and ninety-live thousand 
 francs." 
 
 " How can you know what it sold 
 for ? " 
 
 " Edouard's letter told us his nota- 
 ry would not let it go for less. Seven- 
 ty thousand francs, therefore, of the 
 purchase-money is ours. And we have 
 movables worth thirty thousand 
 francs. With a portion of this mon- 
 ey, if you will permit me, I will take a 
 farm. By the by, there are one thou- 
 sand francs in the house, too." 
 
 A fan 
 
 shrieked the baroness. 
 
 " Edouard's uncle has a farm, and 
 we have had recourse to him for 
 help." 
 
 " Ah ! behold the key of the enig- 
 ma," said the baroness, satirically. 
 " It is the child's loyer who has been 
 speaking to us all this time, not her- 
 self. A farm-house ! I ])refer the 
 grave ! " 
 
 " Better a farm-house than an alms- 
 house," cried Laure, " though that 
 almshouse Avere palace instead of cha- 
 teau ! " 
 
 Josephine winced, and held up her 
 hand deprecatingly. 
 
 The baroness paled : it was a terri- 
 ble stroke of language to come from 
 her daughter. 
 
 She said sternly : — 
 
 " There is no answer to that. We 
 were born nol)les, let us die farmers : 
 only permit me to die the first." 
 
 " Forgive me, my mother," said 
 Laure, kneeling. " 1 was wrong, — 
 it is for me to obey you, — not to dic- 
 tate. I sj)eak no more." And, after 
 kissing her mother and Josephine, she 
 crept huml)ly away. 
 
 " The moment they have a lover he 
 detaches their hearts from their ])Oor 
 old mother. She is not to me now 
 what my Josephine is." 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 129 
 
 " Mamma, she is my superior. I 
 see it more and more every day. She 
 is proud : she is just. She looks at 
 both sides. Your poor Josephine is 
 too apt to see only those she loves ! " 
 
 " And that is the daughter for 
 me ! " cried the baroness, opening 
 her arms wide to her. 
 
 Josephine nestled to her, and 
 soothed her all day, and kept telling 
 her Heaven was on their side, and she 
 should never have to leave Beaure- 
 paire. 
 
 " Let me temporize," thought Jo- 
 sephine, " and keep her happy : that is 
 the first consideration." 
 
 The next morning when they were 
 at breakfast, in came Jacintha to say 
 the officer was in the dining-room, and 
 wanted to speak with the young lady 
 he talked to yesterday. Josephine rose 
 and went to him. 
 
 ** Well, mademoiselte," said he, gay- 
 ly, " the old woman was right. Here 
 I have just got my orders to march : to 
 leave France in a month. A pretty 
 business it would have been if I had 
 turned your mother out. So you see 
 there is nothing to hinder you from 
 living here." 
 
 " In your house, monsieur 1 " 
 
 " Why not 1 ^ve you too proud ? " 
 
 " Forgive us ! It is a fault that 
 should not survive our fortunes." 
 
 " Well, but — yesterday." 
 
 " I have reflected. I was unjust." 
 
 " If such an offer was made to my 
 mother, instead of yours, I should not 
 be too proud to take it ; but it seems 
 you belong to the nobility. Now I 
 rose from the ranks ; so I have no 
 right to be proud." 
 
 Raynal said this inadvertently, and 
 in good faith. But the quicker Jose- 
 phine read it satirically and ironically. 
 She colored up. 
 
 " Forgive rne, sir, if I have offended 
 you. It was as far from my intention 
 as from your merit." 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 " 0, your delicacy does not surprise 
 me, neither. I can understand it." 
 
 " I am sure you can." 
 
 Another pause. 
 6* 
 
 " Confound it," roared Raynal, an- 
 grily, " why did I go and buy the 
 house 1 I did n't want it." 
 
 " Some other would have bought 
 it, some one more severe, less con- 
 siderate, than you, monsieur. I beg 
 you to believe that it is a great com- 
 fort to us not to be removed with an 
 unkind hand from so beloved a place." 
 There was another silence. Ray- 
 nal was puzzled. He sentinelled Brit- 
 tany as represented by a bad map that 
 hung on the wall. Josephine eyed 
 him furtively, in secret anxiety, as he 
 marched to and fro. 
 
 All this time she had been saying 
 what she felt she ought to say, in 
 hopes that the man would do his part, 
 and pooh-pooh her, and carry out his 
 scheme for her good in spite of her 
 teeth, — her tongue, rather. For to 
 decline the thing we want, and so not 
 only get it but have it forced upon 
 us ; the advantage of having it plus 
 the credit of refusing it, is delicious : 
 is it not, mesdames'? and well worth 
 risking all for : is it not, mesdames ? 
 
 Now Raynal was a man, — a crea- 
 ture not accustomed to disguise its 
 wishes, and therefore apt to misinter- 
 pret such as do : above all, he was an 
 honest man. A word from him was 
 a thing, the exact thing he meant. 
 So he took for granted Josephine was 
 saying exactly what she meant, and 
 she nonplussed him. 
 
 When she saw her success, she 
 wished she had declined more faint- 
 ly, and the interview was to recom- 
 mence. 
 
 Had it recommenced, she would 
 hsLve done just the same over again : 
 it Avas not in her blood to do any oth- 
 er. Luckily Raynal's brown study 
 resulted in a fresh idea. 
 
 " I have it," said he, " this must be 
 settled by a third party, a mutual 
 friend, some one more skilful than I, 
 and who can arrange this trifle so as 
 not to shock your delicacy. I am no 
 diplomatist." 
 
 Raynal interrupted himself by sud- 
 denly opening a window and shout- 
 ing : — 
 
130 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 "IliiUoa! conic here, — you are 
 ■w.inti'il." 
 
 Josephine almost screamed : " What 
 arc you doing, monsieur ; that is our 
 enemy, our bitterest enemy. He only 
 ?old you the estate to spite us, not 
 fur tlie love of you. I had — he liad 
 — we nioriificd his vanity. It was 
 not our fault— he is a viper. O sir, 
 pray be on your guard against his 
 counsels." 
 
 These words, spoken with great fire 
 and earnestness, carried conviction, 
 and, when the notary' came in, the 
 contrast between the invitation that 
 brought him and the reception that 
 met him twenty seconds after was 
 droll. 
 
 Perrin started at sight of Josephine, 
 and Kaynal hardly knew what to say 
 to him. Whilst he hesitated, the no- 
 tary, little sus])ccting what had oc- 
 curred, began : — 
 
 " So you have taken possession, 
 monsieur. These military men are 
 prompt, are they not, mademoiselle ? " 
 
 "])o not speak to me, monsieur," 
 said Josephine, quietly. 
 
 " Why not 1 We ought to enter- 
 tain our guests." 
 
 " Mademoiselle is at home," said 
 Ivaynal, sternly ; " address her with 
 respect, or she will perhaps order you 
 out." 
 
 " She is very capable, monsieur," 
 said the notary, " but luckily she has 
 no one to order." 
 
 " Don't be too sure of that," said 
 Raynal. 
 
 The notary looked round uneasily, 
 expecting to see young Riviere. He 
 turned tlie conversation. 
 
 " Mademoiselle," said he, in a mere 
 tone of business, *' it is my duty as 
 M. liaynal's agent to inform you, 
 that whatever movables you have 
 removed are yours ; those that we 
 find in the house upon entering are 
 ours " ; and he grinned. 
 
 " And as we are not going to enter 
 for a week or two, if at all, you will 
 have plenty of time to shift your 
 chairs and tables," explained Kaynal. 
 
 '* Monsieur," said the notary. 
 
 " really I do not understand you. 
 Have I done anything to merit this ? 
 Have I served you so ill that you 
 withdraw your conlidence from me ? " 
 
 "No," said liaynal, "but you ex- 
 ceed your ])owers, my lad. I com- 
 mand, — you obey." 
 
 " So be it, monsieur. What are 
 your orders, and what on earth is the 
 meaning of all this ? " 
 
 " The meaning is this. I want 
 mademoiselle and her family to stay 
 here while I go to Egj)yt with the 
 J^'irst Consul. oSIadcmoiselle makts 
 dilliculties, — it offends her delicacy." 
 
 " Comedie! " 
 
 " Though her mother's life depends 
 >on her staying here." 
 
 " Comedie! " 
 
 " Her pride is like to be too much 
 for her affection." 
 
 " Farce ! " 
 
 " I pitched ujion you to reconcile 
 the two." 
 
 " Then you pitched upon the wrong 
 man," said Perrin, bluntly. He added 
 obsequiously, " I am too much your 
 friend." 
 
 Raynal frowned. 
 
 " I will never abet you in such a 
 sin. She has been talking you over 
 no doubt ; but you have a friend, an 
 Ulysses, who is deaf to the siren's 
 voice. I will be no party to such a 
 transaction. I will not co-operate to 
 humbug my friend and rob him of 
 his rights." 
 
 " Then be off, that 's a good soul, 
 and send me a more accommodating 
 notary." 
 
 " A more accommodating notary ! " 
 screamed Perrin, stung to madness by 
 this reproach. " There is not a more 
 afcommodating notary in Europe. 
 Ungrateful man ! is this the return 
 lor all my zeal, my integrity, my un- 
 selfishness ? Is there another agent 
 in the world who would have let such 
 a bargain as Beaurepairc fall into 
 your hands ? Oh ! it serA'cs me right 
 for deviating from the rules of busi- 
 ness. Send me another agent — 
 oh! !! !" 
 
 The honest soldier was confused. 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 131 
 
 The lawyer's eloquence overpowered 
 him. He felt guilty. Josephine saw 
 his simplicity, and made a cut with a 
 woman's two-edged sword. 
 
 " jVIonsieur," said she, coldly, " do 
 you not see it is an affair of money 1 
 This is a way of saying, pay me doubly 
 the usual charge ! " 
 
 " And I '11 pay him double ! " cried 
 Eaynal, catching the idea ; " don't be 
 alarmed, I '11 pay you handsomely." 
 
 *' And my zeal — my devotion i " 
 
 "Put 'em in figui-es, my lad." 
 
 " And mv prob — 1 " 
 
 " Add it up ! " 
 
 " And my integ — 1 " 
 
 " Add tliem all together, — and 
 don't bother me." 
 
 " I see ! I see ! my poor soldier. 
 You are no match for a woman's 
 tongue." 
 
 " Nor a notary's ! Go to h — , 
 and send in your bill," roared the sol- 
 dier, in a fury. " Well, will you go, 
 or must I — " And he marched at 
 him. 
 
 The notaiy scuttled out, with some- 
 thing between a snarl and a squeak 
 
 Josephine hid her face in her hands. 
 
 " What is the matter with you ? 
 Crying again ? Well, it is you for 
 crying." 
 
 "Mel monsieur. I never cry — 
 liardlv. No ! I hid my face because 
 — h<{\ he ! " 
 
 " Haw ! haw ! " 
 
 " You frightened me, monsieur," 
 said Josephine, stiddenly assuming a 
 small reproachful air. " I was afraid 
 you would beat him." 
 
 " No ! no ! a good soldier never 
 leathers a ci^■ilian, if he can possibly 
 help it, — it looks so bad : and before 
 a lady ! You must not think I know 
 nothing." 
 
 " I would have forgiven you, mon- 
 sieur," said Josephine, witli tender 
 benignity, and something like a little 
 sun danced in her eye. 
 
 " Now, mademoiselle, since my 
 friend has proved a pig, it is your 
 turn. Choose you a friend." 
 
 "We have but one fit, and he is 
 so young. Ah ! how stupid I am. 
 
 You know him ! Monsietir is doubt- 
 less the commandant of whom I once 
 heard him speak with so much admi- 
 ration, — his name is Riviere, — Ed- 
 ouard Riviere." 
 
 " Know him ! he is my best officer : 
 oiit and out." 
 
 " Ah ! I am so glad. Would it be 
 derogatory on the part of monsieur to 
 admit one so young and in a subordi- 
 nate position ) " 
 
 " Ah, bah ! It is not I who makes 
 difficulties : it is you. Riviere be it. 
 But where is he ? for I have given the 
 young dog leave of absence." 
 
 " He is at a farm-house near Rennes, 
 at his uncle's." 
 
 " Well, I am going home. I will 
 send him a note. We will confer, 
 and we will arrange this mighty 
 afiair. My general would settle a 
 kingdom in the time we take. Mean- 
 time tell the old lady to pluck up 
 spirit. My mother used to say, ' A 
 faint heart makes its own troubles.' " 
 
 " O what a wise saying ! " 
 
 " Say we arc none of us dead yet, 
 nor like to be, and, mademoiselle, let 
 me hear you say courage ? " 
 
 " Courage ! " 
 
 " Yes ! only just six times as loud 
 and hearty, ' Courage.' " 
 
 " How good he is, ' Cour-age ! ' — 
 there ! " 
 
 " Good ! on that behold me gone." 
 Clink, clank, clank, clink, clatter, clat- 
 ter, clank. 
 
 Josephine came into the saloon 
 radiant. 
 
 " Well ! well ! " was the crj-. 
 
 " Mamma, he offered us the house 
 again : I declined, Laure — O yes, I 
 declined firmly." 
 
 "Are you mad, my poor Jose- 
 phine ? " cried the baroness, in dismay. 
 
 " No, mamma ! then he proposed to 
 
 refer all this to a third person, and he 
 
 tried Monsieur Perrin. The man ar- 
 
 j rived just in time to reveal his nature, 
 
 I and be dismissed with ignominy." 
 
 General exultation. 
 I " Then he was so good as to let me 
 choose a referee, and I chose Edouard 
 1 Riviere." 
 
132 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 This announcement caused a f^rcat 
 sensation. 
 
 " He is very youn;;,'' denmivcd tlie 
 baroness, " but you know more of 
 him than I do." 
 
 "I know this, that he will not let 
 you be turned out of l>(aurej)airc ! " 
 
 " Then I shall love him well." 
 
 " Is that a promise, my mother ? " 
 
 " That it is ! " 
 
 "A promise made to your Jose- 
 phine before these witnesses ? " 
 
 " A jironiisc m:ido to my Josc- 
 ))hine," said she ; and she looked at 
 Laure. 
 
 That young lady kept her eyes 
 steadily down on her work. 
 
 The notary went home gnashing 
 liis teeth. His whole life of success 
 ■was turned to wormwood this day. 
 liaynal's parting com'missions rang in 
 his ear : in his bitter mood the want 
 of logical sequence in the two orders 
 disgusted him. 
 
 lie inverted them. 
 
 lie sent in a thundering bill the 
 very next morning, and postponed the 
 other commission till his dying day. 
 
 Edouard Riviere was with diffi- 
 culty prevailed on to stay the rest of 
 the evening at his uncle's. Sorrow 
 for Ids friends and mortification at 
 his own defeat weighed him down. 
 
 lie shook hands with his uncle, and 
 flung himself recklessly on his horse : 
 the horse, being rather fresh, bolted off 
 Avith him as soon as he touched the 
 saddle. 
 
 Some fool had left a wheelbarrow 
 on his road ; and just as Edouard was 
 getting his fo(jt into the off stirrup 
 tiie horse sliied violently, and threw 
 Eilouard on the stones of the court- 
 yard, lie jumped up in a moment 
 and laughed at ]\Iarthe's terror ; 
 meantime a farm-servant ciiught the 
 Jiag and brought him back to his 
 work. 
 
 When Edounnl went to ])ut his 
 hand on the; saddle, he found it would 
 iM>' obey him. " Wait a minute, — my 
 iiiiu is benumbed." 
 
 " Let me sec ! " said the fanner, 
 himself; "benumbed? yes; and no 
 wonder, poor boy. Jaccpics, get on 
 his horse and ride for the surgeon ! " 
 
 " Are you mad, uncle ? " cried 
 Edouard. " I can't spare my horse, 
 and I want no surgeon: it' will be 
 well directly." 
 
 " It will be worse before it is better, 
 my poor lad." 
 
 " 1 don't know what you mean, 
 uncle: it is only numbed, ah ! it hurts 
 when I rub it." 
 
 " It is worse than numbed, Edouard : 
 it is broken ! " 
 
 " Broken, uncle 1 nonsense " ; and 
 he looked at it in jjiteous bewilder- 
 ment. " How can it be broken ? it 
 does not hurt, except when I touch 
 it." 
 
 " It ivilJ hurt : I know all about it. 
 I broke mine fifteen years ago : fell 
 off a haystack." 
 
 " O how unfortunate I am ! But I 
 will go to Beaurepaire all the same. 
 I can have it mended there as well as 
 here." 
 
 " You will go to bed : that is where 
 you will go." 
 
 " I '11 go to blazes sooner." 
 
 The old man made a signal to his 
 myrmidons Avhom JNIarthe's exclama- 
 tion had brought around, and four 
 stout fellows took hold of Edouard by 
 the legs and the left shoulder, and car- 
 ried him up stairs raging and kicking, 
 and deposited him on a bed. 
 
 lie began to feel faint, and that made 
 him more reasonable. 
 
 They cut his coat off, and put him 
 in a loose wrapper, and after a con- 
 siderable delay the surgeon came and 
 set his arm skilfully, and behold this 
 ardent spirit caged. 
 
 He chafed and fretted and retarded 
 his cure. And oh ! he was so peevish 
 and fretfiil. Passive fortitude, he did 
 not know what it meant. 
 
 It was two days after his accident. 
 He was lying on his back environed 
 by slo])S, cursing his evil fate, and fret- 
 ting his soul out of its fleshly ])rison, 
 when suddenly he heard a cheerful 
 trombone saying three words to Mar- 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 133 
 
 the, then came a clink clank, and 
 Marthe ushered into the sick-room tlie 
 Commandant Raynal. The sick man 
 raised himself in bed, with great sm*- 
 prise and joy. 
 
 " O commandant, this is kind to 
 come and see your poor officer in 
 hell ! " 
 
 " Ah," cried Raynal, " you see I 
 know what it is. I have been chained 
 down by the arm, and the leg, and all, 
 — it is tiresome." 
 
 " Tiresome ! it is — it is — O dear 
 commandant. Heaven bless you for 
 coming ! " 
 
 " La ! la ! la ! Besides I am come 
 on business." 
 
 " All the better. I have nothing to 
 do — that is what kills me — but to 
 eat my own heart." 
 
 " Cannibal, go to. Well, my lad, 
 since 3'ou are in that humor,^cheer up, 
 for I bring you a job, and a tough 
 one, — it has puzzled me." 
 
 " What is it, commandant? What 
 is it 1 " 
 
 " Well. Do you know a house and 
 a family called Beaurepaire ? " 
 
 " Do I know Beaurepaire 1 " 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 " A LETTER for mademoiselle." 
 "Ah!" 
 
 "No, not for you, Mademoiselle 
 Laure, for mademoiselle." 
 
 " Mademoiselle : Before I could 
 Jind time to write to our referee, news 
 came in that he had just broken his 
 arm, so I — " 
 
 "Oh! oh! dear — our poor Ed- 
 ouard ! " 
 
 And if poor Edouard had seen the 
 pale faces, and heard the faltering ac- 
 cents, it would have reconciled him to 
 his broken arm almost. This hand gre- 
 nade the commandant had dropped so 
 coolly among them, it was a long 
 while ere they could recover from it 
 enough to read the rest of the let- 
 ter : — 
 
 so I rode over to him, and found him 
 on his back,frettin(j for want of some- 
 thing to do. I told him the ichole stori/. 
 He undertook the business. I have re- 
 ceived his secret instructions, and next 
 week shall be at his quarters to clear off 
 his arrears of business, and make ac- 
 quaintance with all your family, if they 
 permit. " Raynal." 
 
 As the latter part of this letter 
 seemed to require a reply, the baron- 
 ess wrote a polite note, and Jacintha 
 sent Dard to leave it for the com- 
 mandant at RiAiere's lodgings. But 
 fii'st they all sat down and wrote kind 
 and pitying and soothing letters to 
 Edouard. Need I say these letters 
 fell upon him like balm ? 
 
 Next week Raynal called on the 
 baroness. She received him alone. 
 They talked about Madame Raynal. 
 The nexPSay he dined witli the whole 
 party, and the commandant's man- 
 ners were the opposite of what the 
 baroness had inculcated. But she 
 had a strong prejudice in his favor. 
 Had her feeli»gs been the other way, 
 his brusquerie would have shocked 
 her. It amused her. If people's 
 hearts are with you, that for their 
 heads! In common with them all, 
 she admired his frank and manly 
 sincerity. He came every day for a 
 week, chatted with the baroness, 
 walked with the young ladies, and 
 when, after woi'k, he came over in the 
 evening, Laure used to cross-examine 
 him ; and out came such descriptions 
 of battles and sieges, such heroism 
 and such simplicity mixed, as made 
 the evening pass delightfully. On 
 these occasions the young ladies 
 fixed their glowing eyes on him, and 
 drank in his character as well as his 
 narrative, in which were fewer " I 's " 
 than in anything of the sort you ever 
 read. 
 
 Thus they made acquaintance 
 and learned to know and esteem 
 him. 
 
 Josephine said to her mother : 
 " Tell me, mamma, are there many 
 such men in the world 1 " 
 
134 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 " lie is cliarniinp:," roplicil the old 
 lady, somewhat vaj^uely. 
 
 '' lie is a mail of crystal : he 
 never says a word he does not 
 moan." 
 
 " Why, Josephine ! " said Laurc, 
 " liave you not observed he always 
 means more than he says, and does 
 more ? " 
 
 " I wish I was like him," sighed 
 Josejihine. 
 
 " No, I thank you," said the baron- 
 ess, hastily, " he is a man : a tlior- 
 ough man. lie would make an in- 
 tolerable woman. A fine life if one 
 had a parcel of women about one all 
 blurting out their real minds every 
 moment, and never smoothing mat- 
 ters." 
 
 " ]\ramma, what a horrid picture ! " 
 cried Laure. 
 
 " Josephine," said the baroness, 
 " you are the fiivorite, I think 1 " 
 
 " O no ! mamma, you are the fa- 
 vorite, you know," 
 
 " Well : perhaps I am," and she 
 smiled. " But he has already opened 
 the subject with you, never with me." 
 
 Jacintha came in and interrupted 
 the conversation : " Mademoiselle, the 
 commandant is in the Plcasance." 
 
 " Well ? " 
 
 " He would be glad to speak to 
 you " 
 
 " I will come." 
 
 " How droll he is ! " said Laure ; 
 " fancy his sending for a young lady 
 like that : he is like nobody else. 
 Don't go, Josephine : how he would 
 stare." 
 
 " My dear, I no more dare disobey 
 him than if I was one of his sol- 
 diers." 
 
 " AVell go to your commanding of- 
 ficer." 
 
 " He comes apropos. I was just 
 going to tell you to ask him what 
 Edouard has proposed about Beaure- 
 paire." 
 
 " I will try, mamma. But indeed I 
 hope he will speak first, for what else 
 can he want me for ? " 
 
 After the first salutation, there was 
 a certain hesitation about Kaynal 
 
 which Josephine had never seen a 
 trace of in him before. So to put 
 him at his ease, and at the same time 
 please her mother, she began : — 
 
 " Monsieur, has our friend Edouard 
 been al)le to suggest anything i " 
 
 " What, don't you know tiiat I have 
 been acting all along upon his in- 
 structions .' " 
 
 " No indeed ! and you have not told 
 us what he advised ! " 
 
 " Told you ? why, of course not, — 
 they were secret instructions." 
 
 " And do you mean to obey them 1 " 
 
 " To the letter ! I have obeyed one 
 set, and now I come to the other, and 
 there is the difficulty." 
 
 " But is not this inverting the order 
 of things for you to obey that boy ? " 
 
 " A man is no soldier unless he can 
 obey as well as command, and in ev- 
 erything somebody must command. 
 He is very shrewd in these matters, 
 that boy : and my only fear is that I 
 shall fall short in carrying out his or- 
 ders, — not from want of good-will, 
 but of skill and experience." 
 
 Josephine looked thoroughly mys- 
 tified. 
 
 " You see, mademoiselle, it is a kind 
 of warfare I know nothing about." 
 
 " It must be savage warfiire then ? " 
 
 " No ! it is not. I don't know how 
 to begin : by all the devils I am 
 afraid !" and he stared wdth surprise 
 at himself. 
 
 " That must be a new sensation to 
 you, monsieur ! I think I understand 
 you : you fear a repulse, you meditate 
 some act of singular delicacy ? " 
 
 " No ! rather the reverse ! " 
 
 " Of generosity then ? " 
 
 " No, by St. Denis ! Confound the 
 young dog, why is he not here to help 
 me? " 
 
 "But after all you have only to 
 carry out his instructions." 
 
 " That is true ! that is true ! but 
 when one is a coward, a poltroon." 
 
 This repeated assertion of cowardice 
 on the ])art of the living Damascus 
 blade that stood bolt upright before 
 her struck Josephine as so fuuny 
 that she laughed merrily. 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 135 
 
 " Fancy it is only a fort you are at- 
 tacking instead of the terrible me, — 
 he ! he ! " - 
 
 " Tiiank you," cried Raynal warm- 
 ly, " you are A^ery good to put in an en- 
 couraging word like that ! " and the 
 soldier rallied visibly. " Allans ! " he 
 cried, "it is only a fort, — mademoi- 
 selle!" 
 
 " Monsieur ! " 
 
 " Hum ! will you lend me your 
 hand a moment ? " 
 
 " My hand, what for ? — there," 
 and she put it out an inch a minute. 
 
 He took hold of it. 
 
 " A charming hand ! the hand of a 
 virtuous woman ? " 
 
 " Yes ! " said Josephine, as cool as 
 a cucumber, too sublimely and ab- 
 surdly innocent even to blush. 
 
 " Is it your own I " 
 
 " Monsieur ! " — she blushed at 
 that, I can tell you. 
 
 " Because, if it was, I would ask 
 you to give it me. I 've done it ! " 
 
 Josephine whipped it off his palm, 
 where it lay like cream spilt on a 
 table. 
 
 " Ah ! I see, you are not free.: you 
 have a lover 1 " 
 
 " No ! no ! " cried Josephine, in dis- 
 tress, " I love nobody but my mother 
 and my sister : I never shall." ^ 
 
 " Ah ! your mother ! that reminds 
 me. He told me to ask her : by Jove, 
 I think he told me to ask her first " ; 
 and he up with his scabbard and ran 
 off. 
 
 Josephine begged him not to. 
 
 '* I can save you the trouble," said 
 she. 
 
 " 0, I don't mind a little trouble. 
 My instructions ! my instructions ! " 
 and he ran into the house. 
 
 Laure came out the next moment, 
 for the soldier had demanded a tete-a- 
 tete abruptly. 
 
 She saw her sister walking pen- 
 sively, and ran to her. 
 
 " O Laure, he has ! ! ! ! " 
 
 " Heaven forbid ! " 
 
 " It is not his fault ; it is your 
 Edouard who set him to do it." 
 
 "My Edouard? Don't talk in 
 
 that horrid way ; 1 have no Edouard. 
 You said ' no,' of course." 
 
 " Something of the kind." 
 
 " Something of the kind ! What, 
 did you not say ' no ' plump 1 " 
 
 " I did not say it brutally, dear." 
 
 "Josephine, you frighten me. I 
 know you can't say ' no ' to any one ; 
 and if you don't say ' no ' plump to 
 such a man as this, you might as well 
 say ' yes.' '' 
 
 " Indeed I said nothing that could 
 be construed into consent." 
 
 This did not quite satisfy Laiu-e, 
 and she dilated on the advantages of 
 a plump " negative," and half scolded 
 Josephine for not having learned to 
 say " no " plump to anybody. 
 
 "Well, love," said Josephine, "our 
 mother will relieve me of all this. 
 What a comfort to have a mother ! " 
 
 " O yes, but why lean on her ? You 
 are always for leaning on somebody." 
 
 " What, may not I lean on my 
 own mother ? " 
 
 " Xo ; learn to lean on nobody — 
 but me." 
 
 Raynal came out of the house, and 
 walked up to the sisters. 
 
 Laure seized Josephine, and held 
 her tight, and cast hostile glances. 
 
 " Now hold your tongue, Josephine ; 
 you can't say * no ' plump ; leave it 
 to me." 
 
 " With all my heart," said Jose- 
 phine. 
 
 " INIonsieur," said Laure, before he 
 could speak, "even if she had not 
 declined, we could not consent, — so 
 you see." 
 
 " I have no instructions to ask 
 your consent," said Raynal, brusquely. 
 
 Laure colored high. 
 
 " Is her own consent to be dis- 
 pensed with too ? She declined the 
 honor, did she not ? " 
 
 " Of course she did ; but my in- 
 structions are, not to take the first 
 two or three refusals." 
 
 " Josephine, it is that insolent 
 boy who sets him on ! " 
 
 " Insolent boy ! " cried Raynal, 
 angrily ; " why, - it is the referee of 
 your own choosing, and as well-be- 
 
136 
 
 WHITE LIKS. 
 
 liavod a lad as ever I saw, and a zeal- 
 ous olticer." 
 
 " My friends," put in Josephine, 
 with a sweet languor, " I cannot let 
 you quanel about a straw." 
 
 "It is not a straw," said Raynal, 
 " it is yon." 
 
 " The distinction involves a com- 
 pliment. Laure, you who are so 
 shrewd, is it possible you do not see 
 Monsieur IJaynal's stranrrc proposal 
 in its true light? This generous 
 man has no i)ersonal feeling in this 
 eccentric ])roceeding : he wishes to 
 make us all happy, especially my 
 mother, without seeming to lay us 
 under too great an obligation. Surely 
 good nature was never carried so far 
 before. Ah! monsieur, I will en- 
 cumber you with my friendship for- 
 ever, if you permit me, but further 
 than that I will not abuse your gener- 
 osity." 
 
 " Now look here, mademoiselle," 
 began Raynal, bluntly, " I did start 
 with a good motive at first, that I con- 
 fess. But since I have been every 
 day in your company, and seen how 
 good and kind you are to all about 
 you, I have turned selfish ; and I say 
 to myself, what a comfort such a wife 
 as you would be to a soldier ! Why, 
 only to have you to write letters home 
 to would be worth half a fellow's pay. 
 Do you know sometimes when I see 
 the fellows writing their letters it 
 gives me a knock here to think I have 
 no one at all to write to." 
 
 " Ah ! " 
 
 " So you see I am not so disinter- 
 ested. Now, mademoiselle, you speak 
 60 charmingly I can't tell what you 
 mean. Can't tell whether you say 
 * no,' because you could never like 
 me, or whetlier it is out of delicacy, 
 and you only want pressing. So I 
 say no more : it is a standing oflTer. 
 Take a day to consider. Take two 
 if you like. I must go to the bar- 
 racks. By the by, your mother has 
 consented, — good day." 
 
 lie Avas gone ere they could recover 
 the amazement his last words caused 
 them. 
 
 " Oh ! this must be put an end to 
 at once, J()sei)hinc." 
 
 " Certainly, — if possible." 
 
 " Will you speak to our mother, or 
 shall I ? " 
 
 " Oh, you ! " 
 
 " Coward ! " 
 
 " No, love ; but you have always 
 energy and will. I can burst out on 
 great emergencies ; but I cannot al- 
 ways be fighting." 
 
 " O my sister, and is not this a 
 great emergency'? " 
 
 " Yes : I ought to feel it one ; but 
 I don't, — I can't." 
 
 "I can, then." 
 
 "That is fortunate. You then arc 
 the one to act. You settle it with my 
 mother." ' 
 
 " I will. Well, where are you 
 going ? " 
 
 " Up stairs, love." 
 
 " Wretch ! do you think I will go 
 to our mother without you 1 " 
 
 "As you please." 
 
 Thc3''^cntercd the room, Laure ask- 
 ing herself in some agilfition how 
 she should begin. 
 
 To their surprise they found the 
 baroness walking up and down the 
 room with unusual alacrity. She no 
 sooner caught sight of Josephine than 
 she threw her arms open to her with 
 joyful vivacity and kissed her warmly. 
 
 " My Josephine, it is you who save 
 us. I am a happy old woman. If I 
 had all France to pick from I could 
 not have found a man so worthy of 
 my Josephine. lie is brave, he is 
 handsome, he is a rising man, he is a 
 good son, and good sons make good 
 husbands, — and — I shall die at 
 Beaurepaire, shall I not, madame the 
 command ante ? " 
 
 Josephine held her mother round 
 the neck, but never spoke. After a 
 silence she held her tighter, and cried 
 a little. 
 
 " What is if? " asked the baroness, 
 confidentially of Laure, but without 
 showing much concern. 
 
 " Mamma ! mamma ! she does not 
 love him ! " 
 
 •' Love hipa 1 Heaven forbid ! Sho 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 137 
 
 would be no daughter of mine if she 
 loved a man at sight. A modest 
 woman loves lier husband only." 
 
 " But she scarcely knows Monsieur 
 Kaynal." 
 
 " She knows more of him than I 
 knew of your father when I married 
 him. She knows his virtues and ap- 
 preciates them. I have heard her, 
 have I not, love 1 Esteem soon ripens 
 into love when they are once fairly 
 married." 
 
 " My mother, does her silence then 
 tell you nothing ? Her tears, — are 
 they nothing to you ? " 
 
 " Silly child ! These are tears that 
 do not scald. The sweet soul weeps 
 because she now for the first time sees 
 she will have to leave her mother, 
 Alas ! my eldest, it is inevitable. This 
 is Nature's decree. Sooner or later 
 the young birds must leave the parent 
 nest. Mothers are not immortal. 
 While they are here it is their duty to 
 choose good husbands for their 
 daughters. My youngest chose for 
 herself, — I consented. But for my 
 eldest I choose. We shall sec which 
 chose the best. Meantime we stay 
 at Beaurepaire, — thanks to my treas- 
 ure here." 
 
 " Josephine ! Josephine ! you say 
 nothing," cried Laure, in dismay. 
 
 " Mon Dieu ! what can I say ? I 
 love my mother and I love you. You 
 draw me different ways. I Avant you 
 to be both happy." 
 
 " Then, if you will not speak out, 
 I must. My mother, do not deceive 
 yourself: it is duty alone that keeps 
 her silent ; this match is' odious to 
 her." 
 
 " Then we are ruined ! Josephine, 
 is this match odious to you ? " 
 
 " Not exactly odious, mother ; but 
 I am very, very indifferent." 
 
 " There ! " cried Laure, trium- 
 phantly. 
 
 " There ! " cried the baroness, in 
 the same breath, triumphantly. " She 
 esteems his character : but his person 
 is indifferent to her : in other words, 
 she is a modest girl, and my daugh- 
 ter ; and let me tell you, Laure, that 
 
 but for the misfortunes of our house, 
 both my daugliters would be married as 
 I was, without knowing half as much 
 of their husbands as Josephine knows 
 of this brave, honest, generous, filial 
 gentleman." 
 
 " Gentleman ! " 
 
 " You are right : I should have said 
 noble, by the heart." 
 
 " Well, then, since she will not speak 
 out, I will ! Pity me : I love her so. 
 If this stranger, whom she does not 
 love, mamma, takes her away from 
 us, he will kill me. I shall die, — 
 oh!" 
 
 Josephine left her mother and went 
 to console Laure. 
 
 The baroness lost her temper at this 
 last stroke of opposition. 
 
 " Now the truth comes out, Laure, 
 this is selfishness. Do not deceive 
 yoiaseif, — selfishness ! " 
 
 " Mamma ! " 
 
 " You are only waiting to leave 
 me yourself Yet your elder sister, 
 forsooth, must be kept here for you ! 
 — till then." She added more gently, 
 " let me advise you to retire to your 
 own room, and examine your heart 
 fairlv." 
 
 "iwill." 
 
 " You will find th^re is a strong 
 dash of egoism in all this." 
 
 " If I do — " 
 
 " You will retract your opposition." 
 
 " My heart won't let me : but I 
 will despise myself and be silent." 
 
 And the young lady who had dried 
 her eyes the moment she was accused 
 of selfishness walked, head erect, from 
 the room. Josephine cast a depre- 
 cating glance at her mother. 
 
 " Yes, my angel ! " said the latter, 
 " I was harsh. But we are no longer 
 of one mind, and I suppose never 
 shall be again." 
 
 " yes, we shall ! be patient ! My 
 mother, you shall not leave Beau- 
 repaire ! " 
 
 The baroness colored faintly at 
 these four last words of her daughter, 
 and hung her head. 
 
 Josephine saw that, and darted to 
 her and covered her with kisses. 
 
138 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 •' Wliat have you been doing to 
 your mother, dears ? lier pulse is 
 very high." 
 
 •• We had adiseussion." 
 
 " Then have no more discussions : 
 we have trieil her too much with our 
 discussions lately. A little more of 
 this agitation, and I foresee a palpita- 
 tion of the heart." 
 
 " () let me go to her!" cried 
 Laure. 
 
 "On the contrai-y, do pray let her 
 be quiet. I have sent her to lie down 
 till dinner-time. But you really must 
 adopt a course with her, and adhere 
 to it." 
 
 " We will, we will. What shall 
 we do ? " 
 
 " Let her have her own way. She 
 won't be here so very long that we 
 should thwart her. I repent my 
 share in it : my dears, I do not like 
 her symptoms." 
 
 " O doctor ! my darling mother." 
 
 " Depend upon it, her mind is not 
 at rest. She is not easy yet about 
 Bcaurcpaire. In her heart she thinks 
 she will be turned adrift upon the 
 world some day, and with as little 
 warning as that Satan of a notary 
 gave her : that morning's work has 
 shaken her all to pieces." 
 
 Laure sighed," Josephine smiled. 
 
 The commandant did not come to 
 dinner as usual. The evening passed 
 heavily : tlicir hearts were full of 
 uncertainty. 
 
 " We miss our merry, spirited 
 companion," said the baroness, Avith 
 a grim look at Laure. Both young 
 ladies assented with ludicrous eager- 
 ness. 
 
 That night Laure came and slept 
 with Josephine, and more than once 
 she awoke with a start, and seized 
 Josephine convulsively and held her 
 tight. 
 
 The commandant did not come for 
 his answer next day, but in his place 
 a letter to say lie was obliged to go 
 to head-quarters for two days, but 
 would then return and attack the fort 
 again until it should ca]»ituhite. 
 Between the discussion with her 
 
 mother and the receipt of tliis letter, 
 Ivaure had been very sad, and very 
 thoughtful. Accused of egoism ! at 
 first her whole nature rose in arms 
 against the charge : but after a while, 
 coming as it did from so revered a 
 person, it forced her to serious self- 
 examination. The poor girl said to 
 herself : " Mamma is a shrewd wo- 
 man. Am I after all deceiving my- 
 self ? Would she be happy, and am 
 I standing in the way 1 " She begged 
 her sister to walk with her in the 
 park, tliat so they might be safe 
 from interruption. 
 
 " I am in deep perplexity : I can- 
 not understand my own sister. Why 
 are you so calm, and cold, while I 
 am in tortures of anxiety ? Have 
 you made some resolve and not con- 
 fided it to your Laure ? " 
 
 " No, love. I am scarce capable 
 of a resolution, — I drift." 
 
 " Let me put it in other words, 
 then. How will this end 1 " 
 
 " I hardly know." 
 
 " Shall you marry Monsieur Ray- 
 nal, then? answer nie that." 
 
 " I should not be surprised if he 
 were to marry jne." 
 
 " But you said * no ' ! " 
 
 " Yes, I said ' no ' once." 
 
 "And don't you mean to say it 
 again ? " 
 
 " What is the use 1 you heard him 
 say he would not desist any the more, 
 and I care too little to persist." 
 
 " Why not, if he goes on pestering 
 you ? " 
 
 " He is like you, — all energy, at 
 all hours. I have so little where ray 
 heart is unconcerned : he seems, too, 
 to have a wish : I have none either 
 way, and my conscience says ' marry 
 him ! ' " 
 
 " Your conscience says marry one 
 man, loving another ? " 
 
 " God forbid ! my sister, I love no 
 one : I have loved, but now my heart 
 is dead and says nothing : and my 
 conscience says, ' You are the cause 
 of all your mother's trouble : you 
 are the cause that Beaurepaire was 
 sold. Now you can repair that mis- 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 139 
 
 chief and at the same time make a 
 brave man happy, our benefactor 
 happy.' It is a great temptation : I 
 hardly iinow why I said ' no ' at all, 
 surprise perhaps, or to please you, 
 pretty one," 
 
 Laure groaned. 
 
 " Are you then worth so little 
 that' you would throw yourself away 
 on a man who does not love you 1 " 
 
 " He will love me : I see that." 
 
 " He does not want you, he is per- 
 fectly happy as he is." 
 
 " Laure, he is not happy : he is 
 only stout-hearted and good, and 
 therefore content : and he is a char- 
 acter tliat it would be easy — in 
 short, I feel my power here : I could 
 make that man happy : he has no- 
 body to write to even when he is 
 away, — poor fellow ! " 
 
 "I shall lose my patience, Jose- 
 phine : you are at your old trick, 
 thinking of everybody but yourself: I 
 let you do it in trifles, but I love you 
 too well to permit it when the happi- 
 ness of your whole life is at stake. I 
 must be satisfied on one point : or else 
 this marriage shall never take place : 
 I will say three words to this Raynal 
 that will end it. I leave you to guess 
 what those words will be." 
 
 " My poor Laure," replied Jose- 
 phine, " you will not : for, if you do, 
 my mother and Monsieur Raynal will 
 be the sufferers : as for me, it gives me 
 jDain to refuse him, but I should have 
 no objection whatever to be refused by 
 him." 
 
 " 0, this monstrous, this stony in- 
 difference ! there, I threaten no more, 
 I entreat : my sister, be frank with me 
 unless I have lost your affection." 
 
 " I will speak to you, Laure, as I 
 would to an angel." 
 
 " Then show me the bottom of your 
 heart." 
 
 " How can I do that 1 " 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " I cannot fathom my own heart ! " 
 
 " Josephine ! " 
 
 " Yours, love, I can, or our mother's, 
 or Monsieur Raynal's, anybody's, but 
 not my own. Can you yours 1 " 
 
 " Well ! well ! then don't, but just 
 answer me this, and I '11 read you : if 
 Camille Dujardin stood on one side 
 and Monsieur Raynal on the other, 
 and both asked your hand, which 
 would you take ^ " 
 
 "That will never be. Whose? 
 Xot his whom I despise. Esteem 
 might ripen into love, but what must 
 contempt end in ? " 
 
 " I am satisfied ; yet one question 
 more and I have done. Suppose 
 Camille should turn out to be not 
 quite — what shall I say 1 — inex- 
 cusable." 
 
 *' All the world should not separate 
 me from him. Why torture me with 
 such a question ? Ah ! I see — O 
 Heaven ! you have heard something. 
 I was blind. This is why you would 
 save me from this unnatural marriage. 
 You are breaking the good news to 
 me by degrees. There is no need. 
 Quick — quick — let me have it. I 
 have waited three years. I am sick 
 of waiting. Why don't you speak ? 
 Why don't you tell me? Then 
 I will tell you. He is alive, — he 
 is well, — he is coming. It was not 
 he those soldiers saw ; they were 
 so far off. How could they tell? 
 They saw an uniform, but not a face. 
 Perhaps he has been a prisoner, and 
 so could not write, could not come. 
 But he is coming now. Why do you 
 groan ? — why do you turn pale ? — 
 ah ! I see, — I have once more de- 
 ceived myself. I was mad. He I 
 love is still a traitor to France and 
 me, and I am wretched forever. Oh 
 that I were dead! — oh that I were 
 dead ! No — don't speak to me -— 
 never mind me ; this madness will 
 pass as it has before, and leave me a 
 dead thing among the living — and 
 so best. my sister, why did you 
 wake me from my dream ? I was 
 dpfting so calmly, so peacefully, so 
 dead, and painless, — drifting over the 
 dead sea of the heart towards the liv- 
 ing waters of gratitude and duty. I 
 was going to make more than one 
 worthy soul happy ; and seeing them 
 happy I should have been content and 
 
140 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 useful, — what nm I now ? — and com- 
 Ibrtt-'d otiicr hearts, and died jovfid, — 
 and youni:, — for (iod is ^uud : lie 
 lolcasi's tho <:,(>ud and patient from 
 their burdens ! " 
 
 Willi tins, quiet tears came to tlic 
 jioor girl's relief. The sliort-lived 
 storm was lulled, and I'atience began 
 to creep slowly back to her seat in 
 this large heart. 
 
 "Accursed be that man's name, 
 and cursed be my tongue, if ever I 
 utter it again in your hearing ! " cried 
 Laure. " You are wiser than I, and 
 every way better. ( ) Joseidiine, love, 
 dry your tears. Here he comes : 
 ' look ! riding across the ])ark." 
 
 " Laure," cried Josej)binc, hastily, 
 " I leave all to you. Receive ]\Ion- 
 sieur Raynal, and decline liis offer if 
 you think proper. It is you who love 
 me best. My mother would give me 
 np for a house, — for an estate, — poor 
 dear ! " 
 
 " I would not give you for all the 
 world." 
 
 " I know it. I trust all to you. 
 Whatever you decide I will adhere to, 
 upon my honor " ; and she moved 
 towards the house. 
 
 " AVell, but don't go ; stay and 
 hear what I shall say." 
 
 " O no ; the sight of that poor 
 man is intolerable to me 7ww. Let 
 me think of his virtues." 
 
 Laure was left alone, mistress of 
 her sister's fate. She put her head 
 into her hands and thought with all 
 her soul : — 
 
 " What shall I do ? " 
 
 That now fell on Laure which has 
 in like manner taken by surprise all 
 of us who are not utter fools, — doubt. 
 
 She was positive so long as the de- 
 cision did not rest with her. Easy to 
 be an advocate in re inccrta, — hard 
 to be the judge.* So long as Laure 
 
 * "Were you ever a member of the Opposi- 
 tion, satirical and 'positive ? and did an 
 adroit minister, whom j'oii had badt;ered 
 overmuch, ever say suddenly to you, with a 
 twinkle in his eye, " You are ripht, my lads, 
 f,'overn the country " ? And on that did your 
 great lieart colhiiise like a pricked bladder ? 
 aad did your poor little head flud out that it 
 
 was ojiposed she had seen the cons 
 onlv, i)ut now tlic pros came rush- 
 ing ujtou her mind. 
 
 " What awful power a man has 
 over a woman ! ! I shall never cure 
 my sister of this fatal passion. A 
 husband might. No happiness for 
 her unless she is cured of it. Our 
 mother prays for it, — he wishes it. 
 She was indifferent, or not averse, be- 
 fore I was so mad as to disturb her 
 judgment with that rascal, Avhose 
 name she shall never hear again : 
 and she will return to that tranquil 
 state in a day or two. Well, then, — 
 that she should lose me, and I her, 
 for one she does not Ic.e, nor he her ! 
 How can I decide ? and here he is — 
 Heaven guide me ! " 
 
 " Well, little lady," cried the cheer- 
 ful horn, " and how arc you, and how- 
 ls my mother-in-law that is to be, — 
 or is not to be, as your sister pleases ? 
 and how is she ? have I frightened 
 her away ? There were two petti- 
 coats ; and now there is but one." 
 
 " O no, monsieur ! but she left me 
 to answer you." 
 
 "All the worse for me : I am not 
 to your taste." 
 
 " Monsieur, do not say that." 
 
 " O, it is no sacrilege not to like 
 me. Not one in fifty does. I for- 
 give you, haw ! haw ! we can't all 
 have good taste." 
 
 " But I do like you, Monsieur Ray- 
 nal." 
 
 " Then Avhy won't you let me have 
 your sister ? " 
 
 " I have not quite decided that you 
 shall not have her." 
 
 " All the better." 
 
 " I dare say you think me very un- 
 kind, very selfish, and you are not the 
 only one who calls me that." 
 
 " Selfish ? I don't know what you 
 mean." 
 
 " Yes, you do. Oh ! you don't 
 think what I must feel, I who love 
 my sister as no man can ever love 
 her, I whose heart has been one flesh 
 
 is easy to see and say one side of things 
 three-sided, but the hardest thing on earth to 
 balance alternatives, — eh ? 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 141 
 
 and one soul with hers all my life. 
 A stranger comes and takes her away 
 from me as if she was nothhig." 
 
 " It is too bad ! " cried Raynal, 
 good-naturedly ; " as you say, I am a 
 comparative stranger : still it is not 
 as if I was going to part you two.^' 
 
 " Not separate us ? — when you 
 take her to Egypt." 
 
 " I shall not take her to Egypt." 
 
 " Yes, you will, — you know you 
 will." 
 
 " What ! do you think I am such 
 a brute as to take that delicate crea- 
 ture out fighting with me 1 no, it 
 won't be fighting : yon mark my 
 words, it will be hunting Egyptians 
 and Arabs : — why, the hot sand 
 would choke her, to begin." 
 
 " 0, my good Monsieur Raynal ! 
 what, then, you do not tear her from 
 us?" 
 
 "No, you don't take my manoeu- 
 vre. I have no family. I try for a 
 wife that will throw me in a mother 
 and sister. You will live altogether 
 the same as before, of course ; only 
 you must let me make one of you 
 when I am at home. And how often 
 will that be ? Besides, I am as likely 
 to be knocked on the head in Egypt 
 as not; you are worrying yourself for 
 nothing, little lady." 
 
 Raynal uttered the last topic of 
 consolation in a broad, hearty, hilari- 
 ous tone, like a trombone thoroughly 
 impregnated with cheerful views of 
 fate. 
 
 " Heaven forbid ! " cried Laure ; 
 " and it will, for I shall pray for you 
 now. Ah ! monsieur, forgive me ! " 
 
 " Yes, I forgive you, — stop ! what 
 am I forgiving you for ? " 
 
 " What /or ? why, for not seeing 
 all your worth : of course I knew you 
 were an angel, but I had no idea you 
 were a duck. You are just the man 
 for my sister. She likes to obey : you 
 are all for comniianding. So you see. 
 Then she never thinks of herself : any 
 other man but you would impose on 
 her good-nature ; but you are too 
 generous to do that. So you see. 
 Then she esteems you so liighly." 
 
 " Brief, you are her plenipotentiary, 
 and you say ' yes.' " 
 
 " Why should I say ' no ' ? you will 
 make one another happy some day : 
 you are both so good. Any other 
 man but you would tear her from me ; 
 but you are too just, too kind. Heav- 
 en will reward you. No ! I will. I 
 will give you Josephine : ah, my dear 
 brother-in-law, I give you there the 
 most precious thing I have in the 
 world." 
 
 " Thank you, then. So that is 
 settled. Hum ! no, it is not quite : I 
 forgot : I have something for you to 
 read : an anonymous letter. I got it 
 this morning : it says your sister has 
 a lover, — read it." 
 
 The letter ran to this tune : a friend 
 who had observed the commandant's 
 frequent visits at Beaurepaire wrote 
 to warn him against traps. Both the 
 young ladies of Beaurepaire were 
 doubtless at the new proprietor's ser- 
 vice to pick and choose from. But 
 for all that each of them had a lover, 
 and, though these lovers had their 
 orders to keep out of the way till 
 monsieur should be hooked, he might 
 be sure that, if he married either, the 
 man of her heart would come on the 
 scene soon after, perhaps be present 
 at the wedding. 
 
 In short, it was one of those poisoned 
 arrows a coarse vindictive coward can 
 shoot. 
 
 It was the first anonymous letter 
 Laure had ever seen. It almost drove 
 her mad on the spot. Raynal was 
 sorry he had let her see it. 
 
 She turned red and white by turns, 
 and gasped for breath. 
 
 " 0, why am I not a man "? — why 
 don't I wear a sword. I would pass 
 i it through this caitiff's heart. The 
 ; cowardly slave ! — the fiend ! for who 
 but a fiend could slander an angel 
 like my Josephine ? Hooked 1 O, 
 she will never marry you if she sees 
 this." 
 
 " Then don't let her see it, and 
 don't take it to heart like that. I 
 don't trust to the word of a thief, who 
 owns that his story is a thing he dare 
 
142 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 not sip:n liis name to ; at all events I 
 shall not i)ut his word against yours. 
 But this is wliy I put the question to 
 you. I am an lionest man, but not a 
 coiiipUuKaut one. I sliould not be an 
 easy-going husband like some I see 
 about. I 'd have no wasps round my 
 honey. If my wife took a lover I 
 would not lecture the woman, — what 
 is the use ? I 'd kill the man then 
 and there ; I 'd kill him in doors or 
 out; I 'd kill him as I would kill a 
 snake. If she took another I M send 
 him after the first, and so on till one 
 killed me." 
 
 " And serve the wretches right." 
 
 " Yes, but, for my own sake, I 
 don't choose to marry a woman that 
 loves any other man. So tell me, 
 come." 
 
 " Monsieur, the letter is a wicked 
 slander. I have no lover. I have a 
 young fool that comes and teases me : 
 but it is no secret. He is away, but 
 whv ? He is on a sick-bed, poor little 
 fellow." 
 
 " But your sister ? " 
 
 " My sister ? ask my mother wheth- 
 er she has a lover." 
 
 "What for? I ask you. She 
 would not have a lover unknown to 
 you." 
 
 "I defy her. "Well, monsieur, I 
 have not seen her speak three words 
 to any young man except Monsieur 
 Riviere this three years past." 
 
 " That is enough " ; and he tore the 
 letter quietly to atoms. 
 
 Then Laure saw she could afford a 
 little more candor : — 
 
 " Understand me, I can't speak of 
 what happened when I was a child. 
 But if ever she had a girlish attach- 
 ment, he has not followed it up, or 
 surely I should have seen something 
 of him all these years." 
 
 " Parblm — (), as for flirtations, let 
 them pass : a lovely girl does not 
 grow up without one or two whis- 
 pering some nonsense into her ear. 
 Why, I myself should have flirlcd 
 often, but I never had the time. l>o- 
 napartc gives you time to eat and drink, 
 but not to bleep or flirt, and that re- 
 
 minds me I have fifty miles to ride; so 
 good by, sister-in-law, eh ? " 
 
 " Adieu, brother-in-law." 
 
 Left alone, Laure had some misgiv- 
 ings. She had ecjuivocated with one 
 whose upright, candid nature ought to 
 have protected him : but an enemy 
 had accused Josephine; and it came 
 so natural to shield her. " Did he 
 really think I would expose my own sis- 
 ter I " said she to herself, angrily. Was 
 not this anger secret self-discontent? 
 
 Laure was con)ing round a little to 
 the match before this brisk interview 
 with Kaynal. His promise not to take 
 Josephine to Egypt turned the scale. 
 The anonymous letter, too, fired her 
 with anger and resistance. " So we 
 have an enemy who tries to hinder 
 him from marrying her ! ! ! " 
 
 Irresolution was no part of this 
 young lady's character. She did not 
 decide blindly in so important a mat- 
 ter ; but, her decision once made, she 
 banished objections and misgivings : 
 the time for them was gone by, they 
 had had their hearing. 
 
 She went to Josephine. 
 
 " Well, love," said Josephine, " have 
 you dismissed him ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 Josephine smiled feebly. "It is 
 easy to say, ' say no ' : but it is not so 
 easy to say ' no,' especially when j'ou 
 feel you ought to say ' j-es,' and have 
 no wish either way except to give 
 pleasure to others." 
 
 " But I am not such skim-railk," re- 
 plied Laure : " I have always a strong 
 wish where you are concerned, and 
 your happiness. I hesitated whilst I 
 was in doubt : but I doubt no longer : 
 I have hud a long talk with him : he 
 has shown me his whole Ireart : he is 
 the best, the noblest of creatures : he 
 has no littleness or meanness. Also 
 he is a thorough man ; I know that by 
 his being the very opposite of a wo- 
 man in his ways : now you are a thor- 
 ough woman, and you will suit one 
 another to a T. I have decided, my 
 Josephine : no more doubts, love : no 
 more tears : no more disputes : we arc 
 all of one mind." 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 143 
 
 "All the better." 
 
 " Embrace ine, I love a'ou ! 0, nev- 
 er sister loved sister as I you : I have 
 secured your happiness." 
 
 " Never mind my happiness, think 
 of our mother, think of — " 
 
 " Your happiness is before all. It 
 will come ! not all in a day perhaps, 
 but it will come. So then in one lit- 
 tle fortnight my sister — ah! — you 
 marry Monsieur Raynal." 
 
 " You have settled it 1 " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " What, — finally ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " But are you sure I can make him 
 as happv as he deserves 1 " 
 
 "Positive." 
 
 "I think so to; still — " 
 
 "It is settled, dear," said Laure, 
 soothingly. 
 
 "0 the comfort of that, — you re- 
 lieve me of a weight." 
 
 " It is settled, love, and by me." 
 
 "Then I am at peace. *^You are 
 my best friend. I shall have duties ; 
 I shall do some good in the world. 
 They were all for it but you be- 
 fore." 
 
 " And now I am stronger for it 
 than any one. It is settled." 
 
 " Bless you, dear Laure, — you have 
 saved your sister. Camille, — 
 
 CaMILLE ! WHY HAyE YOU ABAN- 
 
 DOXED 3IE ! "■ 
 
 She fell to sobbing terribly. Laure 
 wept on her neck, but said nothing. 
 She too was a woman, and felt those 
 despairing words were the woman's 
 consent to many him she esteemed 
 but did not love. It was the last 
 despairing cry of love giving up a 
 hopeless struggle. 
 
 And in fact these were the last 
 words that passed between the sis- 
 ters. 
 
 It was settled. 
 
 And now Jacintha came to tell 
 them it was close upon dinner- 
 time. 
 
 They hastened to dry their tears 
 and wash their red eyes, for fear their 
 mother should see what they had been 
 at, and worry herself. 
 
 " Well, mademoiselle, these two con- 
 sent ; but what do you say 1 for, after 
 all, it is you I am courting, and'not 
 them. Have you the courage to ven- 
 ture on a rough soldier like me ? " 
 
 " Speak, Josephine," said the bar- 
 oness. 
 
 For this delicate question was put 
 plump before the three ladies. 
 
 " Monsieur," said Josephine, timid- 
 ly, "I will be as frank, as straight- 
 forAvard, as you are. I thank you for 
 the honor you do me." 
 
 Raynal looked perplexed. 
 
 " Mother-in-law ? does that mean 
 yes or no ? " 
 
 " I did not hear the word ' na,' did 
 you? " 
 
 " Not downright ' no ' ! " 
 
 " Then she means ' yes.' " 
 
 " Then I am very much obliged to 
 her." 
 
 " You have little reason to be, 
 monsieur." 
 
 " Yes, he has ! " cried the baroness, 
 " and so have you, my beloved child ; 
 my brave soldier, I would have se- 
 lected you for a son out of all the 
 nation." 
 
 "And I never saw an old lady, but 
 one, that suited me for a mother like 
 you." 
 
 " You have but one fault : you nev- 
 er can stay quietly and chat." 
 
 "That is Bonaparte's fault. I 
 have got to go to him at Paris to- 
 morrow." 
 
 " So soon ? but you stay with us 
 this evening : I insist on it. I shall 
 be hurt else." 
 
 "All the evening. And just now 
 I want to say something to you that 
 I don't wish those two to hear, 
 mother ! " 
 
 " That is a hint, my young ladies," 
 said the baroness. 
 
 " And a pretty broad one," said 
 Laure, with a toss. 
 
 The details of this conversation be- 
 tween the baroness and Raynal did 
 not transpire : but it left tlie baroness 
 very happy, and at the same time 
 much affected. 
 
 " He is an angel, my dears," cried 
 
144 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 she : " he thinks of cverytliinj]^. I 
 shall love all hrusque people ; and 
 once I hold them in snch aversion. 
 You are a happy ^^irl, Josephine, and 
 I am a happy oUl woman." 
 
 Josephine hriyhtcned up at tlic old 
 hxdy's joy, then she turned quickly to 
 examine Laure ; Laurc's face beamed 
 Avitli unaffected happiness. 
 
 " Ah ! " said Josephine, compla- 
 cently. She added, " And what a com- 
 fort to be all of one mind." 
 
 The wedding was fixed for that day 
 fortnight. 
 
 The next morning wardrobes were 
 ransacked. The silk, muslin, and lace 
 of their prosperous days were looked 
 out : grave discussions were held over 
 each work of art. 
 
 Laure M-as active, busy, fussy. 
 
 The baroness threw in the weight 
 of her judgment and experience. 
 
 Josephine smiled whenever either 
 Laure or the baroness looked at all 
 fixedly at her. 
 
 So glided the peaceful days. So 
 Josephine drifted towards the haven 
 of wedlock. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 At Bayonne, a garrison town on 
 the south frontier of France, two sen- 
 tinels walked lethargically, crossing 
 and recrossing before the governor's 
 house. Suddenly their official drow- 
 siness burst into energy ; they lowered 
 their jiieces and crossed them Avith a 
 clash before the gateway. A pale, 
 grisly man, in rusty, defaced, dirty, 
 and torn regimentals, was walking 
 into the court-yard really as if it be- 
 longed to him. The battered man 
 did not start back. 
 
 He stopped and looked down with 
 a smile at the steel barrier the soldiers 
 had improvised for him, then drew 
 himself a little up, carried his hand 
 carelessly to his cap, winch was near- 
 ly in two, and gave the name of an 
 officer in the French army. 
 
 If you or I, dressed like a begj^^'ir, 
 who years ago had stolen regimentals 
 
 and worn them down to civil gar- 
 ments, had addressed these soldiers 
 with these very same words, the bay- 
 onets would have kissed closer, or 
 perhaps the points been turned against 
 our sacred but rusty person ; but 
 there is a freemasonry of the sword : 
 the light, imperious hand that touched 
 that battered cap, and the quiet, clear 
 tone of command, told. 
 
 The soldiers slowly recovered their 
 pieces, but still looked uneasy and 
 doubtful in their minds. The battered 
 one saw this, and gave a sort of lofty 
 smile ; he turned up his cufts and 
 showed his wrists, and drew himself 
 still higher. 
 
 The sentinels shouldered their 
 pieces sharj), then dropped them simul- 
 taneously with a clatter and ring upon 
 the pavement. 
 
 " Pass, captain." 
 
 The battered, rusty figure rang the 
 governor's bell. A servant came and 
 eyed him with horror and contempt. 
 He gave his name, and begged to see 
 the governor. 
 
 The servant left him in the hall, 
 and went up stairs to tell his master. 
 At the name the governor reflected, 
 then frowned, then bade his servant 
 reach him down a certain book. He 
 inspected it. " I thought so : any 
 one with him 1 " 
 
 " No, monsieur the governor." 
 
 "Load my pistols, put them on the 
 table, put that book back, show him in, 
 and then order a guard to the door." 
 
 The governor was a stern veteran, 
 with a powerful brow, a shaggy eye- 
 brow, and a piercing eye. He never 
 rose, l)ut leaned his chin on his hand, 
 and his elbow on a table that stood 
 between them, and eyed the new- 
 comer very fixedly and strangely. 
 
 " We did not expect to see you on 
 this side the Pyrenees." 
 
 " Nor I myself, governor." 
 
 " What do you come to me for ? " 
 
 " A welcome, a suit of regimentals, 
 and money to take me to Paris." 
 
 " And sn])pose, instead of that, I 
 turn out a corporal's guard, and bid 
 them shoot you in the court-yard 1 " 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 145 
 
 " It would be the drollest thing 
 you ever did, all things considei-ed," 
 said the other, coolly, but he looked 
 a little surprised. 
 
 The governor went for the book he 
 had lately consulted, found the page, 
 handed it to the rusty officer, and 
 watched him keenly. The blood 
 rushed all over his face, and his lip 
 trembled ; but his eye dwelt stern yet 
 sorrowful on the governor. 
 
 "I have read your book : now read 
 mine." He drew off his coat, and 
 showed his wrists and arras, blue and 
 whaled, " Can you read that, mon- 
 sieur 1 " 
 
 " Xo ! " 
 
 " All the better for you : Spanish 
 fetters, general." He showed a white 
 scar on his shoulder. " Can you 
 read that, sir 1 " 
 ." Humph?" 
 
 " This is what I cut out of it," and 
 he handed the governor a little round 
 stone as big and almost as regular as 
 a musket-bal!. 
 
 " Humph ! That could hardly have 
 been fired from a French musket." 
 
 '" Can you read this ? " and he 
 showed him a long cicatrix on his 
 other arm. 
 
 " Knife, I think," said the governor. 
 
 "You are right, monsieur: Spanish 
 knife ! Can you read this ? " and 
 opening his bosom he showed a raw 
 and bloody wound on his breast. 
 
 " 0, the devil ! " cried the general. 
 
 The wounded man put his rusty 
 coat on again, and stood erect and 
 haughty and silent. 
 
 The general eyed him, and saw his 
 great spirit shining through this man. 
 The more he looked the less could 
 the scarecrow veil the hero from his 
 practised eye, 
 
 " There has been some mistake, or 
 else I dote, and can't tell a soldier 
 from a — " 
 
 " Don't say the word, old man, or 
 your heart will bleed." 
 
 "Humph! I must go into this 
 matter at once. Be seated, captain, 
 if you please, and tell me what have 
 you been doing all these years ? " 
 7 
 
 " Suffering." 
 
 " What, all the time ? " 
 
 " Without intermission ! " 
 
 " But what ? suffering what 1 " 
 
 " Cold, hunger, darkness, wounds, 
 
 solitude, sickness, despair, prison, all 
 
 that man can suffer," 
 
 " Impossible ; a man would be 
 
 dead at that rate before this," 
 
 " I should have died a dozen times, 
 
 but for one thing." 
 
 " Ay ! what was that 1 " 
 
 " I had promised to live." 
 
 There was a pause. Then the old 
 
 man said calmly, " To the facts, young 
 
 man : I listen." 
 
 An hour had scarce elapsed since 
 the rusty figure was stopped by the 
 sentinels at the gate, when two glitt-er- 
 ing officers passed out under the same 
 archway, followed by a servant carry- 
 ing a furred cloak. The sentinels 
 presented arms. The elder of these of- 
 ficers was the governor : the younger 
 was the late scarecrow, in a bran-new 
 uniform belonging to the governor's 
 son. He shone out now in his true 
 light : the beau ideal of a patrician 
 soldier ; one would have said he had 
 been born with a sword by his side 
 and drilled by Nature, so straight and 
 smart yet easy he was in every move- 
 ment. He was like a falcon, eye and 
 all, only, as it were, down at the bottom 
 of the hawk eye seemed to lie a dove's 
 eye. That wonderful compound and 
 varying eye seemed to say : I can 
 love, I can fight ; I can fight, I can 
 love, as few of you can do either. 
 
 The old man was trying to per- 
 suade him to stay at Bayonne, until 
 his wound should be cured, 
 
 " No, general, I have other wounds 
 to cure of longer standing than this 
 one," 
 
 "Paris is a long journey for a 
 wounded man." 
 
 " Say a scratched man, general." 
 
 " Well, promise me to stay a month 
 at Paris ? " 
 
 " General, I shall stav an hour in 
 Paris." 
 
 " An hour in Pai-is ! " Well, at 
 J 
 
146 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 least call at tlic War OfTicc and pre- 
 sent tins lottor." 
 
 " I will." 
 
 That same afternoon, wrapped in 
 the governor's furred cloak, the young 
 officer lay at his full lengtli in the 
 coiip^ of the diligence, the whole of 
 which the governor iiad peremptorily 
 demanded for him, and rolled day and 
 night towards Paris. 
 
 He reached it worn with fatigue 
 and fevered by his wound, but his 
 spirit as indomitable as ever. He 
 went to the War Oflice with the gov- 
 ernor's letter. It seemed to create 
 some little sensation : one functionary 
 came and said a polite word to him, 
 then another. At last, to his infinite 
 surprise, the minister himself sent 
 down word he wislied to see him ; the 
 minister put several questions to him, 
 and seemed interested in him and 
 touched by his relation. 
 
 " I think, captain, I shall have to 
 send to you : where do you stay in 
 Paris ? " 
 
 " Nowhere, monsieur, — I leave Par- 
 is as soon as I can find an easy-going 
 horse." 
 
 " But General Bertaux tells me you 
 are wounded." 
 
 "A little." 
 
 " Pardon me, captain, but is this 
 prudent? is it just to yourself and 
 your friends ? " 
 
 " Yes, monsieur, I owe it to those 
 who perhaps think me dead." 
 
 " You can write to them." 
 
 "I grudge so great, so sacred a joy 
 to a letter. No ! after all I have suf- 
 fered I claim to be the one to tell her 
 I have kept my word : 1 promised to 
 live, and I live." 
 
 " Her ? I say no more, captain, — 
 only tell me what road you take." 
 
 " The road to Brittany." 
 
 As the young otruer was walking 
 his horse by the roadside about a 
 league and a half frona Paiis, he heard 
 a clatter behind him, and up gallojjcd 
 an aide-de-camp, and drew up along- 
 side, bringing his horse nearly on his 
 haunches. 
 
 He handed him a large packet 
 sealed with the arms of France. The 
 other tore it open and there was his 
 brevet as colonel. His cheek fluslicd, 
 and his eye glittered with joy. The 
 aide-dc-cauip next gave him a par- 
 cel. 
 
 " Your epaulets, colonel ! We hear 
 you are going into the wilds where 
 epaulets don't grow. You are to join 
 the army of the Kliine as soon as 
 your wound is well." 
 
 " AVherever my country calls me." 
 
 "■ Your address, then, colonel, that 
 we may know where to put our finger 
 on a hero when we want one." 
 
 "I am going to Beaurepaire." 
 
 " Ah ! Beaurepaire ? 1 1 
 
 heard 
 of it. 
 
 " You never heard of Beaurepaire ? 
 Beaui-epaire is in Brittany, twenty- 
 five leagues from Paris, twenty-three 
 leagues and a half from here." 
 
 " Good ! Health and honor to you, 
 colonel." 
 
 " The same to 3'ou, monsieur, — or 
 a soldier's death." 
 
 The new colonel read the pre- 
 cious document across his horse's 
 mane, and then he was going to put 
 one of the epaulets on his right 
 shoulder, bare at present : but he re- 
 flected. 
 
 " No ; I will not crown myself. She 
 shall make mc a colonel with her own 
 dear hand. I will put them in my 
 pocket. I will not even look at theni 
 till she has seen them ; I have no 
 right. how happy I am, not only 
 to come back to her alive, but to come 
 l)ack to her honored." 
 
 His wound smarted, his limbs 
 ached, but no ])ain ])ast or present 
 could lay hold of his mind. In his 
 great joy he remenil)ered past suf- 
 fering and felt present ])ain — and 
 smiled. 
 
 Only every now and then he pined 
 for wings. 
 
 () the weary road ! 
 
 He was walking his horse quietly, 
 drooi)ing a little over his saddle, when 
 anotlier ofiicer well mounted came 
 after him and passed him at a hand 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 147 
 
 gallop with one hasty glance at his 
 uniibrm, and went tearing on like one 
 riding for his life. 
 
 "■ JJon't I know that face 1 " said 
 he. 
 
 He cudgelled his memory, and at 
 last he remembered it was the face of 
 an old comrade. They had been lieu- 
 tenants together. 
 
 " It icas Kaynal," said he, " only 
 bronzed by service in some hot coun- 
 try. No wonder he did not know me. 
 I mi;stbe more changed still. I wish 
 I had hailed the fellow. Perhaps I 
 shall fall in with him again at the 
 next town." 
 
 He touched his horse with the s))ur, 
 and cantered gently on, for trotting 
 shook him more than he could bear. 
 Even when he cantered he had to 
 press his hand against his bosom, 
 and often with the motion a bitterer 
 pang than usual came and forced the 
 water from his eyes ; and then he 
 smiled. 
 
 His great love and his high courage 
 made this reply to the body's idle an- 
 guish. And still his eyes looked 
 straight forward as at some object in 
 the distant horizon, while he came 
 gently on, his hand pressed to his 
 bosom, his head drooping now and 
 then, smiling patiently upon the road 
 to Bcaurepaire. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 At Beaurepaire they were making 
 and altering wedding dresses. Laure 
 was excited, and even Josephine took 
 a calm interest. Dress never goes for 
 nothing with her sex. The chairs 
 and taijles were covered with dresses, 
 and the floor was littered. 
 
 " I wish you would think more of 
 what you are to wear." 
 
 '■ Of course you do," said Laure ; 
 " Init that is selfish of you. You al- 
 ways want to have your own way, 
 and your way is to be thinking of 
 everybody before Josephine; but 
 you shall not have your own way 
 
 whilst I am here, because I am the 
 mistress." 
 
 " Nobody disputes that, love! " 
 
 " All the better for them, dear. 
 Now, dear, you really must work 
 harder. It only Avants five days to 
 the wedding, and see what oceans we 
 have to do ! " 
 
 It was three o'clock in the after- 
 noon : the baroness had joined her 
 daughters, and was presiding over 
 the rites of yanity, and telling them 
 what she wore at her wedding, under 
 Louis XV., with strict accuracy, and 
 what we men should consider a won- 
 derful effort of memory, when the 
 Commandant Raynal came in like a 
 cannon-ball, without any warning, 
 and stood among them in a stiff mili- 
 tary attitude. Exclamations from all 
 the party, and then a kind greeting, 
 especially from the baroness. 
 
 " We have been so dull without 
 you, Jean." 
 
 '* And I have missed you once or 
 twice, motlier-in-law, I can tell you. 
 Well, mother-in-law, I am afraid I 
 shall vex you, but you must consider 
 we live in a busy time. To-morrow 
 I start for Egypt ! " 
 
 " Oh ! " cried Laure. 
 
 " To-morrow ! " cried the baron- 
 ess. 
 
 Josephine put down her work 
 quietly. 
 
 " Yes, it is all altered. Bonaparte 
 leaves Paris the day after to-mono w 
 at seven in the morning, and I go 
 with him. I rode back here as fast 
 as I could to spend what little time is 
 left with you." 
 
 The ladies' eyes all telegraphed one 
 another in turn. 
 
 " My horse is a good one. If I 
 start to-morrow at noon I shall be at 
 Paris by five in the morning, — must 
 be with Bonaparte at half past 
 five." 
 
 The baroness sighed deeply, and 
 the tears came into her eyes. 
 
 " Just as we were all beginning to 
 know and love you." 
 
 " Oh ! you must not be down- 
 hearted, old lady. Why, I am as 
 
148 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 likely to come back from Egypt as 
 not. It is an even cluvncc, to say the 
 least." 
 
 This piece of consolation complet- 
 ed the baroness's unhappincss. She 
 really liad conceived a great affection 
 for llaynal, ami her heart had been 
 set on the -wedding. 
 
 These her motives were mixed ; 
 and so, by the by, are yours and 
 mine, in nearly all we do, — good, 
 bad, or indillerent. 
 
 " Take away all that finery, girls," 
 said she, bitterly, " we shall not want 
 it for years. Ah ! my friend, I shall 
 not be alive when you come home 
 from Egypt. I shall never have a 
 son ! " 
 
 " What do you mean ? " said Ray- 
 nal, a little roughly, " It will be 
 your own fault if you don't have a 
 son ; it shall not be mine." 
 
 " I should ratlier ask, what do you 
 mean ? You will be my friend and 
 the betrothed of my daughter. But 
 consider ; but for this contretemps you 
 really would have belonged to me in 
 a few days' time. I should have had 
 the right to put my finger on you and 
 say, ' This is my sou.' Alas ! that 
 name had become dear to me. I 
 never had a son, — only daughters, — 
 the best any woman ever had ; but 
 one is not complete without a son, 
 and I shall never live to have one." 
 
 Raynal looked puzzled. The young 
 ladies were putting away the wedding- 
 things. 
 
 " I hate General Bonaparte," said 
 Laure, viciously. 
 
 " Hate my general ? " groaned 
 Raynal, looking down with a sort of 
 superstitious awe and wonder at the 
 lovely vixen. . " Hate the best soldier 
 the world ever saw ? " 
 
 " What do I care for his soldier- 
 ship. He has ))ut off our wedding. 
 For how many years did you say? " 
 
 " No ; he has put it on." 
 
 " And after me working my finger 
 to the l)one — put it on — what do 
 you mean ? " 
 
 " I mean the wedding was to be in 
 a week, and now it is to be to-morrow 
 
 at ten o'clock ; that is putting it on, I 
 call." 
 
 The three ladies set up their throats 
 together. 
 
 " To-morrow ? " 
 
 " To-morrow. Why, what do you 
 suppose I left Paris for yesterday ? 
 left my duties even." 
 
 " What, monsieur ? " asked Jose- 
 phine, timidly, " did you ride all that 
 way, and leave your duties, merely to 
 marry me ? " and she looked a little 
 pleased. 
 
 " You are worth a great deal more 
 trouble thanthat,"said Raynal,simply. 
 " Besides, I had passed my woi*d, and 
 I ahviTvs keep my word." 
 
 "So do I, monsieur," said Josephine, 
 a little proudly. " I will not go from 
 it now, if you insist ; but I confess 
 to you that such a proposal staggers 
 me; so sudden, — no preliminaries, 
 — no time to reflect ; in short, there 
 are so many difficulties that I must 
 request of your courtesy to recon- 
 sider." 
 
 "Difficulties," shouted Raynal, Avith 
 merry disdain ; " there are none unless 
 you sit down and make them : difli- 
 cidtiesl'? ha! ha! we do more diffi- 
 cult things tlian this every day of our 
 lives : we passed the bridge of Areola 
 in thirteen minutes : and we had not 
 the consent of the enemy : as we have 
 now, mademoiselle, — have we not ? '* 
 
 " Monsieur, it seems ungracious in 
 me to raise oljjections, when you have 
 taken so much trouble, — but — mam- 
 ma ! ! " 
 
 "Yes, my daughter : my dear friend, 
 you do us both great honor by this 
 empresseinent : but I see no possibility : 
 there is an etiquette we cannot alto- 
 gether defy : there are jn-eliminaries 
 before a daughter of the Baron do 
 Beaurcpaire — " 
 
 "There used to be all that, ma- 
 dame ! " laughed Raynal, ])utting her 
 down good-humoredly, " but jt was 
 in the days when armies came out 
 and touched their caps to one another, 
 and went back into winter quarters. 
 Then the struggle was who could go 
 slowest : now the fight is who can go 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 149 
 
 fastest. Time and Bonaparte wait 
 for nobody : and ladies and other 
 strong ])laces are taken by storm, not 
 tmdermined a foot a month as under 
 Noah Quatorze : let me cut this short 
 as time is short : mademoiselle, you 
 say you are a woman of your word, 
 and that if I insist you will give in : 
 well, I insist ! " 
 
 " In that case, monsieur, all is said : 
 I shall not resist you." 
 
 " It would be no use," cried Laure, 
 clapping her hands, " the man is irre- 
 sistible." 
 
 " You will not resist ? that is all I 
 require: now don't worry yourself: 
 don't fancy difficulties : don't trouble 
 yourself I undertake everything : 
 you will not have to lift a finger ex- 
 cept to sign the marriage contract. 
 As the time is short I cut it into ra- 
 tions beforehand : the carriages will 
 be here at nine : they will whisk us 
 down to the mayor's house by a quar- 
 ter to ten : Ficard the notary meets 
 us there with the marriage contract 
 to save time : the contract signed, the 
 mayor will do the marriage at quick 
 step out of respect for me and to save 
 time, — : half an hour, — quarter past 
 ten : breakfast all in the same house 
 an hour and a quarter : — we mustn't 
 hurry a wedding breakfast, — then 
 ten minutes or so for the old fogies to 
 .waste in making speeches about our 
 virtues, mademoiselle, — yours and 
 mine ; my answer ten seconds, — my 
 watch will come out, — my charger 
 will come round, — I rise from the 
 table, — embrace my dear old mother, 
 — kiss my wife's hand, — into the sad- 
 dle, — canter to Paris, — roll to Tou- 
 lon, — sail to Egypt. But I shall 
 leave a Madame Raynal and a moth- 
 er behind me : they will both send me 
 a kind word now and then ; and I 
 will write letters to you all from Egypt, 
 and when I come home my wife and 
 I will make acquaintance, and we will 
 all be happy together : and if I am 
 killed out there don't you go and fret 
 your poor little hearts about it : it is a 
 soldier's lot, sooner or later. Besides, 
 you will find I have taken care of 
 
 you : my poor women, Jean Raynal's 
 hand won't let any skulking thief come 
 and turn you out of your quarters, 
 even though Jean Raynal should be 
 dead. I have got to meet Picard at 
 Riviere's on that very business, — I 
 am off." 
 
 He was gone as brusquely as he 
 came. 
 
 " My mother ! my sister ! " cried 
 Josephine, " help me to love this 
 man." 
 
 " You need no help ! " cried the 
 baroness, with enthusiasm ; " not love 
 him, — we should all be monsters." 
 
 Raynal came to supper, looking 
 bright and cheerful. 
 • " No more work to-day. I have 
 nothing to do but talk, fancy that." 
 
 There is no time to relate a tithe of 
 what they said to one another ; I se- 
 lect the most remarkable thing. 
 
 Josephine de Beaurepaire, v/ho had 
 been silent and thoughtful, said to 
 Raynal, in a voice scarce above a 
 whisper : — 
 
 " Monsieur ! " 
 
 " Mademoiselle ! " rang the trom- 
 bone. 
 
 " Am I not to go to Egypt ? " 
 
 " No," was the brusque reply. 
 
 Jose|diine drew back, like a sensitive 
 plant. But she returned to the attack. 
 
 "Nevertheless, monsieur, it seems 
 to me that a wife's duty is to be by 
 her husband's side, — to look after his 
 comfort, — to console him when oth- 
 ers vex him, — to soothe him when 
 he is harassed." 
 
 " Her first duty is to obey him." 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " Well, when I am your husband, 
 I shall bid you stay with your mother 
 and sister, while I go to Egypt." 
 
 " As you please, monsieur." 
 
 " If I come back from Egypt, and 
 you make the same proposal after we 
 have lived together awhile, I shall 
 jump at the offer : but this time stay 
 where you are : look at your sister, a 
 word more and we shall raise the Ava- 
 ters. I don't think any the worse of 
 you for making the offer, mademoi' 
 selle." 
 
150 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 The next day at sliarp nine two car- 
 ria.i^es wtro at "the door. The ladies 
 kept Kaynal waitinir, and threw out 
 all his serial divisions of time at once. 
 He stamped backwards and forwards, 
 and twisted his nmstaelies and swore. 
 This was a new torture to him, to be 
 made unpunctual. Jaeintha told them 
 he was in a ra.t;e, and tliat made them 
 nervous and flurried, and their hngcrs 
 strayed wildly among hooks and eyes, 
 aiid'all sorts of fastenings ; they were 
 not ready till half past nine. Con- 
 scious they deserved a scolding, they 
 sent Josephine down first. She 
 dawned upon the honest soldier so ra- 
 diant, so dazzling in her snowy dress, 
 with her coronet of pearls (an heir- 
 loom), and her bridal veil parted, and 
 the flush of conscious beauty on her 
 cheek, that, instead of scolding her, he 
 actually blurted out : — 
 
 " Well ! by St. Denis, it was worth 
 waiting half an hour for." 
 
 He recovered a quarter of an hour 
 by making the di'iver gallop. Occa- 
 sional shrieks issued from tlie carriage 
 that held the baroness. The ancient 
 lady anticipated anniliihition. She had 
 not come down from a galloping age. 
 
 They rattled into the town, drew 
 up at the mayor's house, were received 
 with great ceremony by that function- 
 ary and Picard, and entered the 
 house. 
 
 When their carriages rattled into the 
 little town from the north side, the 
 wounded officer had already entered 
 it from the south, and was riding at a 
 foot's pace along the principal street. 
 The motion of his horse now shook 
 him past endurance. He dismounted 
 at an inn a few doors from the mayor's 
 house, and determined to do the rest of 
 the short Journey on foot. The land- 
 lord bustled about him obsecpiiously. 
 " You are faint, my olHcer : you have 
 travelled too far. Let me order you 
 an excellent breakfast." 
 
 " No. 1 want a carriage ; have you 
 one ? " 
 
 " My officer, I have two." 
 
 " Order one out." 
 
 " But, my officer, unluckily they are 
 
 both engaged for the day and by peo- 
 ple of tlistinction." 
 
 " Then I must rest here half an 
 hour, and then proceed on foot." 
 
 The landlord showed him into a 
 room : it had a large window looking 
 on the street. 
 
 " Give me a couple of chairs to lie 
 down on, and open the window : I 
 feel faint." 
 
 " It is that monsieur wants his 
 breakfast." 
 
 " Well. An omelet and a bottle 
 of red wine : but open the window 
 first." 
 
 He lay near the window, revived by 
 the air, and watched the dear little 
 street he had not seen for years, — 
 watched with great interest to see 
 what faces he could recognize and 
 which were new. 
 
 The wounded hero felt faint, but 
 happy, very, very happy. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 The marriage contract was signed 
 and witnessed. 
 
 "Now to the church," cried the 
 baroness, gayly. 
 
 " To the church ! What for ? " 
 asked Raynal. 
 
 " Is not the wedding to take place 
 this morning 1 " 
 
 " ParUea." 
 
 Picard put in his word with a know- 
 ing look. 
 
 " I understand, madarae the baron- 
 ess is not aware of the change in the 
 law. People are not married in 
 church now-a-days." 
 
 " People are not married in church 1 " 
 and he seemed to her like one that 
 mocketh. 
 
 " No. The state marries its citi- 
 zens now ; and with reason ; since 
 marriage is jv civil contract." 
 
 " Marriage a civil contract ! " re- 
 peated the baroness. " What, is it 
 then no longer one of the holy Sacra- 
 ments ^ Wliat horrible impiety shall 
 we come to next ■? Unhappy France ! 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 151 
 
 Josephine, such a contract would never 
 be a marriage in my eyes : and what 
 would become of an union the Church 
 had not blessed ? " 
 
 " Madame," said Picard, " the 
 Church can bless it still ; but it is 
 only the mayor here that can do it." 
 
 "My daughter! my poor daugh- 
 ter ! " " 
 
 All this time Josephine was blush- 
 ing scarlet, and looking this way and 
 that, with a sort of instinctive desire 
 to fly and hide, no matter where, for a 
 week or so. 
 
 " Haw ! haw ! haw ! " roared Ray- 
 nal : " here is a pretty mother. Wants 
 her daughter to be unlawfully mar- 
 ried in a chui-ch, instead of lawfully in 
 a house. Give me the will! " 
 
 Picard handed him a document. 
 
 " Look here, mother-in-law ; I have 
 left Beaurepaire to my lawful wife." 
 
 " Otherwise," put in Picard, " in 
 case of death, it would pass to his 
 heir-at-law." 
 
 " And he woi;ld turn you all out, 
 and that does not suit me. Xow there 
 stands the only man who can make 
 mademoiselle my laicful wife. So 
 * quick march, monsieur the mayor, 
 for time and Bonaparte wait for no 
 man." 
 
 " Stay a minute, young people," 
 said the mayor. " We should soothe 
 respectable prejudices, not crush them. 
 Madame, I am at least as old as you : 
 and have seen many changes, I per- 
 fectly understand your feelings." 
 
 " Ah, monsieur ! oh ! " 
 
 " Calm yourself, dear madanie : the 
 case is not so bad as you think. It is 
 perfectly true that in Republican 
 Prance the civil magistrate alone can 
 bind French citizens in lawful wed- 
 lock. But this does not annihilate 
 the religious ceremony. You can ask 
 the Church's blessing on my work ; 
 and be assured you are not the only 
 one who retains that natural preju- 
 dice. Out of every ten couples that 
 I marry, four or five go to church 
 afterwards and perform the ancient 
 ceremonies. And they do well. For 
 there before the altar the priest tells 
 
 them what it is not my business to 
 dilate upon, the grave moral and re- 
 ligious duties they have undertaken 
 along with this civil contract. The 
 State binds, but the Church still 
 blesses, and piously assents to 
 that — " 
 
 " From which she has no power to 
 dissent ! " 
 
 " Monsieur Picard, do you consider 
 it polite to interrupt the chief magis- 
 trate of the place while he is explain- 
 ing the law to the citizen ? " 
 
 Picard shut up like a knife. 
 
 " Ah, monsieur ! " cried the baron- 
 ess, " you are a worthy man. Mon- 
 sieur, have you daughters ? " 
 
 " Ay, madame ! that I love well. I 
 married one last year." 
 
 " Did you marry her after this fash- 
 ion ? " 
 
 " I married her myself, as I will 
 marr}^ yours if you will trust me with 
 her." 
 
 " I will, monsieur : you are a father : 
 you are a worthy man : you inspire 
 me with contidence." 
 
 " And after I have made them one, 
 there is nothing to prevent them ad- 
 journing to the church." 
 
 "I beg your pardon," cried Ray- 
 nal, " there are two things to pre- 
 vent it : things that wait for no man : 
 time and Bonaparte. Come, sir, 
 enough chat : to work." 
 
 The mayor assented. He invited 
 Josephine to stand before him. She 
 trembled and wept a little : Laure 
 clung to her and wept, and the good 
 mayor married the parties off-hand. 
 
 " Is that all ? " asked the baroness ; 
 " it is terribly soon done." 
 
 " It is done effectively, madame," 
 said the mayor, with a smile. " Per- 
 mit me to tell you that his Holiness 
 the Pope cannot undo my work." 
 
 Picard grinned slyly, and whispered 
 something into Raynal's ear. 
 
 " Oh ! indeed ! " said Raynal, aloud, 
 and carelessly. " Come, Madame 
 Raynal, to bi-eakfast : follow us." 
 
 They paired and followed the bride 
 and bridegroom into the breakfast- 
 room. 
 
152 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 The liulit Avoids Picard wliispercd 
 were just live in minihcr. 
 
 Tliose live words contained seven 
 syllables. Now if tlie mayor had not 
 snubbed Picard just before, lie would 
 have uttered those joeose but true 
 words aloud. There was no particu- 
 lar reason why he should not. And 
 if be had — Tlie threads of the web of 
 life, how sul)tle they arc ! The finest 
 cotton of Manchester, the finer meshes 
 of the spider, seem three-inch cables 
 by comparison with those moral gos- 
 samers which vulLTJir eyes cannot see 
 at all, the "somct!iin<;s, nothings," on 
 which great fiites have hung. 
 
 It was a cheerful breakfast, thanks 
 toRaynal, who was in high spirits and 
 woulcl not allow a woixl of regret from 
 any one. JNIadame Kaynal sat by his 
 side, looking u]) at him every now and 
 then with innocent admiration. A 
 merry wedding breakfast ! 
 
 Oh ! if we could see through the 
 walls of houses ! 
 
 Five doors off sat a wounded sol- 
 dier alone, recruiting the small rem- 
 nant of his sore-tried strength, that he 
 might struggle on to Beaurepaire, and 
 lose in one moment years of separa- 
 tion, pain, prison, anguish, martyr- 
 dom, in one great gush of joy without 
 compare. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 The wedding breakfast was ended. 
 The time was drawing near to part. 
 There was a silence. It was broken 
 by ^Madame Raynal. 
 
 " Monsieur," said she, a little tim- 
 idly, " have you reflected ? " 
 
 "On Avhat ?" 
 
 "About taking me to Egypt." 
 
 "No ; I have not given it a thought 
 since I said ' no.' " 
 
 "Yet permit me to say that it is 
 my duty to be by your side, my hus- 
 band ! ' and she colored at this word, 
 — it was the first time she had ever 
 used it. 
 
 "Not when I excuse you." 
 
 " I would not be an encumbrance 
 
 to you, monsieur: I should not bo 
 useless. I could add more to his 
 comfort than he gives me credit for, 
 messieurs." 
 
 AVarm assent of the mayor and no- 
 tary. 
 
 " I give you credit for being an an- 
 gel, my wife." 
 
 He looked up. Laure was trem- 
 bling, her fork shaking in her poor 
 little hand. 
 
 She cast a piteous glance at him. 
 
 " But all the generosity must not be 
 on your side. You shall go with me 
 next time ; that is settled. Let us 
 speak of it no more." 
 
 " Monsieur, I submit. At least, 
 give me something to do for you 
 while you are away. Ah ! tell me 
 what I can do for my absent friend to 
 show my gratitude — my regard — 
 my esteem." 
 
 " Well, raadame, — let me think. 
 Well, I saw a plain gray dress at 
 Beaurepaire." 
 
 " Yes, monsieur. My gray silk, 
 Laure." 
 
 " I like that dress." 
 
 " IMonsieur, the moment I reach 
 home after losing you I shall put it 
 on, and it shall be my constant wear. 
 I see, — you arc right, — gray becomes 
 a wife whose husband is not dead, but 
 is absent, and alas ! in hourly dan- 
 ger." 
 
 " Now look at that ! " cried Raynal 
 to the company. " That is her all 
 over ; she can see six meanings where 
 anoiher would see but one. I never 
 thought of that, I swear. I like mod- 
 est colors, that is all. jNly mother used 
 to be all for modest wives wearing 
 modest colors." 
 
 " Count on me, monsieur. Is there 
 nothing more difficult you will be so 
 good as give me to do ? " 
 
 " No ; there is only one order more, 
 and that will be easier still to such a 
 woman as you. I commit to your 
 care, mademoiselle, — madame, I 
 mean, — the name of Raynal. It is 
 not so high a name as yours, but it is 
 as honest. I am proud of it, — I am 
 jealous of it. I shall guard it for you 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 153 
 
 in Eeypt ; voii guard it in France for 
 me." 
 
 "With my life ! " cried Josephine, 
 lifting lier eyes and her hand to heaven. 
 
 Raynal rang the bell, and ordered 
 his charger round. 
 
 The baroness began to cry. 
 
 " The young people may hope to 
 see yoii a^ain," said she; " but there 
 are two chances against your poor old 
 mother." 
 
 " Courage, mother ! " cried the stout 
 soldier. " No, no ; you won't play 
 me such a trick, — once is enough for 
 that game." 
 
 " My brother ! " cried Laure, " do 
 not go without kissing your little sis- 
 ter, who loves you and thanks you." 
 
 He kissed her. 
 
 " Brave, generous man ! " she cried, 
 with her arms round his neck; " God 
 protect you, and send you back safe 
 to us ! " 
 
 " Amen ! " cried all present, by one 
 impulse, — even the cold notary. 
 
 Eaynal's mustache quivered. 
 
 He kissed Josephine hastily on the 
 brow ; the baroness on both cheeks, 
 sh.ook the men's hands warmly but 
 hastily, and strode out without look- 
 ing behind him. 
 
 They followed him to the door of 
 the house. He was tightening his 
 horse's girths He flung himself with 
 all the resolution of his steel nature 
 into the saddle, and,, with one grand 
 wave of his cocked hat to the tearful 
 group, he spurred away for Egypt. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 The baroness made the doctor go 
 shopping. 
 
 " I must buy Laure a gray silk." 
 
 In doing this she saw many other 
 tempting things. I say no more. 
 
 ]\Ieantime the young ladies went 
 up to Beaurepaire in tlie other car- 
 riage, for Josephine wished to avoid 
 the gaze of the town, and get home, 
 and be quiet. 
 
 The driver went very fast. He had 
 '7* 
 
 drank the bride's health at the may- 
 or's, item the bridegroom's, the brides- 
 maid's, the mayor's, &c., &c., and " a 
 spur in the head is worth two in the 
 heel," says the proverb. The sisters 
 leaned back on the soft cushions and 
 enjoyed the smooth and rapid motion 
 once so familiar to them, so rare of 
 late. 
 
 Then Laure took her sister gently 
 to task for having offered to go to 
 Egypt. 
 
 " You forgot me, rruel one." 
 
 " Xo, love, did you not see I dared 
 not look towards you. I love you 
 better than all the world ; but this 
 was my duty. I was his wife : I had 
 no longer a feeble inclination and 
 a feeble disinclination to decide be- 
 tween, — but right on one side, wrong 
 on the other." 
 
 " O, I know where your ladyship's 
 strength lies : my force is — in — my 
 inclinations." 
 
 " Yes ! Laure," continued Jose- 
 phine, thoughtfully, " duty is a great 
 comfort, — it is tangible, — it is some- 
 thing to lay hold of for life or death : 
 a strong tower for the weak but well 
 disposed." 
 
 " How fast we glide, Josephine, — 
 it is so nice. I am not above own- 
 ing I love a carriage ; now lean back 
 with me, and take my hand, and as 
 we glide shut your eyes and think, 
 — whisper me all vour feelings, all, 
 all." 
 
 " Laure," said Josephine, half clos- 
 ing her eyes, " I feel a great calm, a 
 heavenly calm." . 
 
 " I thought you would," murmured 
 Laure. 
 
 " My fate is decided. No more 
 suspense. My duties are clear. I 
 have a husband I am proud of. There 
 is no perfidy with him, no deceit, no 
 disingenuousness, no shade. He is a 
 human sun. Xothing unmanly either. 
 Xo feebleness : one can lean on him. 
 He will make me a better, truer 
 woman, and I him a happier man. 
 Yes, is it not nice to think that great 
 and strong as he is I can teach him a 
 happiness he knows not as yet 1 " 
 
154 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 Ami she smiled with the sense of lier 
 delicate power. 
 
 " Yes, go on, dear," purred Laure, 
 " I seem to sec your jn-etty little 
 thoui^hts rising out of your heart like 
 a bubbliui; fountain : go on." 
 
 " Yes, love, and then, gratitude, — 
 Laure, I have heard it said, or read 
 it somewhere, that gratitude is a bur- 
 den : I don't understand that senti- 
 ment, — why, to mc gratitude is a 
 delight, gratitude is a passion. It is 
 the warmest of all the tender feelings 
 I have for dear Monsieur Raynal. I 
 feel it glow here — in my bosom." 
 
 " One word, dear : do you think 
 you shall love him ? " 
 
 " Indeed, I do." 
 
 " When ? " 
 
 " 0, long before he comes back." 
 
 " Before ? " 
 
 Josephine, her eyes still half closed, 
 •went murmuring on. " His virtues 
 will always be present to me. His 
 little faults of manner will not be in 
 sight. Good Raynal ! The image of 
 those great qualities I revere so, per- 
 haps because I fail in them myself, 
 will be before my mind : and ere he 
 comes home I shall love him : don't 
 you think so ? tell me." 
 
 " I am sure of it, I love him al- 
 ready. I am a seHisli girl. My moth- 
 er found me out. I atn so much 
 obliged to her. But I am not a wick- 
 ed girl : and if I have been unkind to 
 him, I will make it up to him. Go 
 on, dear, tell me your whole heart." 
 
 " Yes. One reason why I wished 
 to go home at once was — no — 
 guess." 
 
 " To put on your gray silk. O, I 
 know you " 
 
 " Yes, Laure, it was : dear good 
 Raynal. Yes, I feel prouder of his 
 honest name than of our noble one. 
 And I am so calm, my sister, — so 
 tranquil, — so pleased, that my moth- 
 er's mind is at rest, — so convinced all 
 is for the best, — so contented with 
 my own lot, — so hap — py." 
 
 A gentle tear stole from beneath her 
 long lashes. Laure looked at her 
 wistfully : then laid her cheek to hers. 
 
 They leaned back hand in hand, placid 
 and silent. 
 
 Tiie carriage glided fast. Beaure- 
 paire was almost in sight. 
 
 Suddeidy Josephine's hand tight- 
 ened on Laure's, and slie sat up in the 
 carriage like a person awakened. 
 
 " Wbat is it ? " asked Laure. " Are 
 we at home f No." 
 
 Josephine turned quickly round, 
 '' No window at the back," said she. 
 
 Laure instantly put her head out at 
 the side window. 
 
 " What is it ? I see nothing. What 
 was it ? " 
 
 " Some one in uniform." 
 
 " O, is that all." 
 
 " I saw an epaulet." 
 
 " O, an officer ! I saw nobody. 
 To be sure the road took a turn. Ah ! 
 you thought it was a message from 
 Raynal." 
 
 "0 no ! on foot, — walking very 
 slowly. Coming this Avay, too. 
 Coming this way I Coming this 
 way ! " 
 
 " Ah, bah ! it is no such rarity, — 
 there are plenty of soldiers on the 
 road." 
 
 " Not officers, — em foot." 
 
 After a pause Josephine added : — 
 
 " He seemed to drag himself along." 
 
 " 0, did he ''" cried Laure, careless- 
 ly. ** Here we are ; we are just at 
 home." 
 
 " I am glad of it," said Josephine, 
 " very glad." 
 
 " Will you go np g;airs and put on 
 your gown ? " 
 
 " Presently. Let us walk in the 
 Pleasance a minute first for the air." 
 
 They walked in the Pleasance. 
 
 " How you tear along, Josephine ! 
 Stop, let me look at you ! AVhat is 
 the matter ? " 
 
 " Nothing ! nothing ! " 
 
 " There 's a fretful tone ; and how 
 e.\cited you arc, why, you burn all 
 over. Well, it 's no wonder ; I 
 thought you were calmer than natural 
 after such an event." 
 
 " Who coidd he be, Laure '? " 
 
 " Who ? " 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 155 
 
 "That officer. I only saw his 
 back : but did you not see him, 
 Laiire 1 " 
 
 " Xo." 
 
 " Are vou sure you did not see him 
 at all I "■' 
 
 " Why, of course not : I don't be- 
 lieve there was one ; I am wronjj: ; for 
 there comes his cocked hat : I can see 
 it bob every now and then above the 
 palings." 
 
 Josephine turned very slowly round 
 and looked : she said nothing. 
 
 " Come, dear," said Laure, " let us 
 go in : the only cocked hat we care 
 for is on the way to Paris ! " 
 
 " Yes, Laure : let us go in. No ! I 
 can't go in, — I feel faint : I want air : 
 I shall stay out a little longer ! 
 Look, Laure, ivhat a shame ! They 
 put all manner of rubbish into this 
 dear old tree : I will have it all 
 turned out ! " and she looked with 
 feigned interest into the tree ; but her 
 eyes seemed turned inward, 
 
 Laure gave a cry of surprise. 
 
 " Josephine ! ' ' 
 
 " What ? What ? " 
 
 " He is waving his hat to me ! 
 What on earth does that mean ? " 
 
 " He takes you for me ! " said 
 Josephine. 
 
 " Who is it 1 " 
 
 " It is he ! I knew his figure at a 
 glance ! " and she blushed and trem- 
 bled with joy ; she darted into the 
 tree and tried to look through the aper- 
 tures : but she could not see at that 
 angle: turning ]:ound she found Laure 
 at her back, pale and stern. 
 
 " Ah ! Laure, I forgot ! ! " 
 
 " Are you mad, Josephine 1 into 
 the house this moment, — if it is he, 
 I will receive and dismiss hftn". Fly ! 
 (piick ! for Heaven's sake." 
 
 '*I can't! I must hear! 0, don't 
 fear ! he shall never see me ! I must 
 know why he comes here to-day and 
 not for all these years : some mystery 
 is here : something terrible is going 
 to happen ! something terrible ! — ter- 
 rible ! — terrible ! — go outside : let 
 him see you ! — Oh ! — " 
 
 Laure no sooner got round the tree 
 
 again, than the cocked hat stopped, — 
 a pale face, with eyes whose eager fire 
 shone all that way into the tree, rose 
 up and looked over the palings, and 
 never moved. 
 
 Josephine's eyes were fixed on it. 
 
 " I feel something terrible coming ! 
 something terrible ! terrible ! " 
 
 " Malediction on him, heartless, 
 selfish traitor ! " cried Laure. " He 
 has deserted you these three years : 
 they have told him you are married : so 
 he hunts you directly, to destroy your 
 peace. Ah ! I am glad you are come, 
 wretch, to hear that a better man than 
 you has got her : Josephine, you lis- 
 ten : I will tell him that you have a 
 husband whom you love as you never 
 loved him ; and that if he dares to 
 show bis face here you will laugh at 
 him, and your husband will kill him 
 or kick him. O, I '11 insult the Idche : 
 I '11 insult him as you never saw a 
 man insulted yet." 
 
 "No, you will not ! " said Josephine, 
 doggedly : " for I should hate you." 
 
 " Ah ! Josephine ! — cruel Jose- 
 phine. The accursed wretch ! for him 
 you have stabbed me I " 
 
 " And you me ! Unmask him, and 
 I will bless you on my knees ! But 
 pray do not insult him. We are 
 parted forever. Be wise now, girl, be 
 shrewd," hissed Josephine, in a tone 
 of which one would not have thought 
 her capable. " Find out who is the 
 woman who has seduced him from me, 
 and has brought two wretches to this ! 
 I tell you it is some bad woman's 
 doing ! He loved me once." 
 
 " Not so loud ! — one word ! — you 
 are a wife ! You Avill not let him see 
 you, — swear ! " 
 
 "0, never! never! Death soon- 
 er ! When you have heard all, then 
 tell him I am gone — tell him I went 
 to Egypt this day with him I — Ah ! 
 would to God I had ! " 
 
 " Sh ! sh ! " 
 
 " Sh ! " 
 
 Camille was at the little gate. 
 
 Laure stood still, and nerved herself 
 in silence. Josephine panted in her 
 hiding-place. 
 
156 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 Laurc's only thonjirht now was to 
 exp()>e the traitDr to hor sister, and 
 restore lier to that sweet ])eace. 8he 
 would not sec Camillc till he was near 
 her. He eaine eagerly towards her, 
 his pale fare flushing with great joy, 
 and his eyes like diamonds. 
 
 " Jo.^ephine ! it is not Josephine ! 
 Why this must be Laure, little Laurc 
 grown up to a fine lady, a beautiful 
 lady -^ my darling ! ! " 
 
 '' What do you come here for, mon- 
 sieur 1 " asked Laurc, in a tone of 
 icy indiilerence. 
 
 "What do I come hero for?" is 
 that the way to speak to me ? but I 
 am too hap])y to mind. Dear Beau- 
 repaire ! do I sec you once again 1 
 All, Laure, I am not given to despair, 
 hut there have been moments, look 
 you — Bah ! it is past. I am here." 
 
 " And madame ? " 
 
 " What madame ? " 
 
 " Madame Dujardin that is or was 
 to be." 
 
 " This is the first I have ever heard 
 of her," said Camillc, g:iyly. 
 
 " This is odd, for we have heard all 
 about it." 
 
 " Are you jesting 1 " 
 
 " No ! " 
 
 " If I understand you right, you 
 imply that I have broken faith with 
 Josephine 1 " 
 
 " Certainly ! " 
 
 " You lie ! Mademoiselle Laure de 
 Beaurepaire." 
 
 " Insolent !" 
 
 " No ! it is you who have insulted 
 your sister as well as me. She was 
 not made to be deserted for meaner 
 women. With me it has ever been 
 one God, one Josephine ! Come, ma- 
 demoiselle, insult me, and me alone, 
 and you shall find me more patient. 
 O, who would have thought Beaure- 
 paire would receive mc thus.' " 
 
 " It is your own fault." 
 
 " Arc you sure ? " 
 
 " Positive." 
 
 " Not my misfortune ? " 
 
 "You never sent her a lino for all 
 these years." 
 
 " Alas, no ! how could II" 
 
 " Nonsense : well, monsieur, the in- 
 formation you did not sii])ply others 
 did." 
 
 " All the better ? who ? how ? " 
 
 " We know from excellent author- 
 ity that you deserted to the enemy." 
 
 " I ! Camillc Dujardin — deserted ! 
 Josephine, why arc you not here ? I 
 know how to answer a man who in- 
 sults me, but what can I say to a 
 woman ? O God, do you hear what 
 they say to me after all I have gone 
 through ? " 
 
 "Ah, monsieur, you act well!" 
 said Laure, acting herself, for her 
 heart began to quake : " let us cut this 
 short : you were seen in a Spanish vil- 
 lage drinking between two guerillas 1 " 
 
 " Well ! " 
 
 " An honest French soldier fired at 
 you ? " 
 
 " lie did." 
 
 " You confess it," cried Laure, joy- 
 fully. 
 
 " The bullet passed through my 
 hand, — here is the mark, look." 
 
 " Ah ! ah ! He and his comrades 
 told us all. " 
 
 " All ? " 
 
 " All ! " 
 
 "Did he tell you that under the 
 table I was chained tight down to the 
 chair I sat in ? Did he tell you that 
 my hand was fastened to a drinking- 
 horn, and my elbow to the tal)]e, and 
 tw^o fellows sitting opposite me with 
 pistols quietly covering me, ready to 
 draw the trigger if I should utter a 
 cry ? Did he tell you that I would 
 have uttered that cry and died at that 
 table but for one thing ? — I had prom- 
 ised her to live." 
 
 " What an improbable story ! " said 
 Laurc, Iffit her voice trembled. " Be- 
 sides, what became of you this three 
 years ? Not a word, — not a line." 
 
 " Mademoiselle," began Camillc, 
 veiy coldly, " if you are really my 
 Josephine's sister, you Aviil reproach 
 yoiu-self for this so bitterly that I need 
 not reproacli you. If she I love were 
 to share these unworthy suspicions it 
 would kill mc on the spot. I am 
 then on my defence. I feel myself 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 157 
 
 blush, — God ! — but it is for you I 
 blush, not for myself This is what 
 became of me, I went out alone to ex- 
 plore. I fell into an ambuscade. I 
 was surrounded. I shot one of them, 
 and pinked another, but my arm be- 
 in<2: broken by a bullet, and my horse 
 killed under me, the rascals got me. 
 I was in fact insensible, probably from 
 loss of blood, — a cut in the thigh. 
 These fellows throw their knives Avith 
 great force and skill. They took me 
 about with them, tried to make a de- 
 coy of me, as I have told you, and 
 ended by throwing me into a dun- 
 geon, — a damp, dark dungeon. They 
 loaded me with chains too, though 
 the walls were ten feet thick, and the 
 door iron, and bolted and double- 
 bolted outside. And there for months 
 and years, in spite of wounds, hunger, 
 thirst, and all the tortures those cow- 
 ards made me sufter, I lived, because, 
 Laure, I had promised some one at 
 that gate there" (and he turned sud- 
 denly and pointed to it) " that I would 
 come back alive. At last one night 
 my jailer came to my cell drunk. I 
 seized him by the throat and throttled 
 him : I did not kill him, but I griped 
 him till he was insensible : his keys 
 nnlocked my fetters, and locked them 
 again upon his limbs, and locked him 
 in the cell, and I got safely outside. 
 But there a sentinel saw me, and fired 
 at me. He missed me, but ran after 
 me, and caught me, — for 1 was stiff, 
 confined so long, — he gave me a 
 thrust of his bayonet, I flung my 
 heavy keys fiercely in his face, — he 
 staggered, — I wrested his piece from 
 him, and disabled him." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 " I crossed the frontier in the night, 
 and got to Bayonne; and thence, day 
 and night, to Paris. There I met a 
 reward for all my angnish. A greater 
 is behind, a greater is behind ! They 
 gave me the epaulets of a colonel. 
 See, here they ai-e. France does not 
 give these to traitors, young lady. 
 And from the moment I left dark 
 Spain and entered once more la belle 
 France, everv man and woman on the 
 
 road was so kind, so sympathizing ; 
 some cried after me, ' God speed you ! ' 
 They felt for the poor worn soldier 
 coming back to his love. All but 
 you, Laure. You told me I was a 
 traitor." 
 
 " Forgive me. I — I — " and she 
 thought, " O Heaven enlighten me, — 
 what'shall I say ? — what shall I do ? " 
 
 " O, if you repent," cried he, " that 
 is different, I forgive you. There is 
 my hand. You are not a soldier, and 
 did not know Avhat you Avere talking 
 about. I am very sorry I spoke so 
 harshly to you. But you understand. 
 How you look ! How you pant ! 
 Poor child ! I forgive you. There, 
 I Avill show you how I forgive you. 
 These epaulets, dear, — I have never 
 put them on. I said, no, Josephine- 
 shall put them on for me. I will take 
 honor as well as happiness from her 
 dear hand. But you are her sister, 
 and Avhat are epaulets compared 
 with what she will give me ? You 
 shall put them on, dear. Come; then 
 you Avill be sure I bear no malice." 
 
 Laure, faint at heart, consented in 
 silence, and fastened on the epaulets. 
 " Yes, Camille," she said, " think of 
 glory now : nothing but glory." 
 
 " No one thinks of it more. But 
 to-day hoAV can I think of it, how can 
 I give her a rival ? To-day, I am all 
 loA'e. Laure, no man ever loved a 
 human creature as I love Josephine. 
 Your mother is Avell, dearl All are 
 Avell at Beaurepaire ? 0, Avhere is she 
 all this time ? in the house ? " He was 
 moving quickly towards the house : 
 but Laure in turn put out her hand to 
 stop him. He recoiled a little and 
 winced. 
 
 " What is the matter ? " cried she. 
 
 " Nothing, dear girl ; you put your 
 hand on my wound, — that is all." 
 
 " O, you are wounded 1 " 
 
 " Yes ; I got a bayonet thrust from 
 one of the sentinels when I escaped 
 from prison. It is a little inflamed, I 
 will tell you ; but you must promise 
 and not tell Josephine ; why vex that 
 angel 1 This Avound has worried me 
 a little all the way. They Avanted me 
 
158 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 to stop und lay up at Bayonnc, — how 
 could I.' and a^aiii at I'aris, — how 
 coukl I ? Tlicy said, ' Vou will die/ 
 ' Not heforc 1 j^ct to BeaurcjjaiiX',' said 
 I. I could bear the motion of a liorse 
 no lou.ucr. I asked for a carria<!:e. 
 Would you believe it? — both his 
 carriages were out at a weddiiiij:. I 
 could not wait till they came back. I 
 have waited an eternity. 1 came on 
 foot. I dragged myself along, — the 
 body was weak, but the heart was 
 strong. A little way from here my 
 wound seemed inclined to open ; I 
 pressed it together tight with my 
 hand ; you see I could not afford to 
 lose any more blood, and so struggled 
 on. 'Die 1 ' said I, ' not before Beau- 
 repaire.' And O Laure, now I 
 could be content to die, — at her feet, 
 — for I am hapjn' ! — (), I am happy ! 
 "What I have gone through ! But I 
 kept my word, — and this is Beaure- 
 
 pairt 
 
 Hi 
 
 ! ■' — and his pale 
 
 cheek flushed feebly, and his eye 
 gleamed, and he waved his hat feebly 
 over his head, — " hurrah ! hurrah ! 
 hurrah ! " 
 
 " O, don't ! — don't ! — don't ! " 
 
 " How can I help ? — I am wild with 
 joy, — hurrah ! hurrah ! hurrah ! " 
 
 " Oh ! no ! no ! no ! no ! no ! " 
 
 " What is the matter 1 " 
 
 " Oh ! must I stab you worse than 
 all your enemies have stabbed you ? " 
 
 " What is the matter 1 You turn 
 me cold, — very cold. What is the 
 matter? Josephine does not come. 
 My heart ! " 
 
 " Camille, — my poor Camille ! 
 there is but one thing for you to do. { 
 Leave Beaurepaire on the instant, — [ 
 fly from it, — it is no place for you." I 
 
 " She is dead ! " I 
 
 " No." j 
 
 " She is dead ! — she does not ! 
 come to me, — she is dead ! Yuu are ! 
 all in white, — they mourn in white 
 for angels like her that go to Heaven, j 
 — virgins ! Oh ! I was blind. You j 
 might have told me at once. You see | 
 1 can bear it. What does it matter 
 to one who loves as I love ? It is 
 only to give her one more proof I j 
 
 lived only for her. I would have 
 died a hundred times but for my prom- 
 ise to her. Yes! I am coming, love ! 
 I am coming ! " 
 
 He fell on his knees and smiled, 
 and whispered : — 
 
 " I am coming, Josephine, — I am 
 coming ! " 
 
 A sob and a moan as of a creature 
 dying in anguish answered him. 
 
 Laure screamed with terror whea 
 she heard it. 
 
 Camille rose wildly to his feet. 
 
 " I hear her ! she is behind the 
 tree." 
 
 " No ! no ! " 
 
 A rustle and a rush were heard in 
 the tree. 
 
 Camille darted furiously round the 
 tree. Laure followed the next mo- 
 ment. 
 
 Josephine was in his arms. 
 
 Josephine wrestled long and ten-i- 
 bly with nature in that old oak-tree. 
 But who can so struggle forever"? 
 Anguish, remorse, horror, despair, 
 and love Avrenched her heart to and 
 fro, like giants fighting for a prey : 
 and oh ! mysterious human heart ! 
 gleams of a mad fitful joy shot 
 through her, coming quick as light- 
 ning, going as quickly, and leaving the 
 despair darker. And oh ! the fierce 
 struggle of the soul to make itself 
 heard. More than once she had to 
 close her mouth with her hand : more 
 than once she seized her throat, not to 
 cry out. But, as the struggle endured, 
 she got weaker and weaker, and na- 
 ture mightier and mightier. And 
 Avhen the wounded hero fell on his 
 knees so close to her, — when he 
 who had resisted death so bravely for 
 her prepared to give up life calmly 
 for her, her bosom rose beyond all 
 control : it seemed to fill to choking, 
 then to sjdit wide open and give the 
 struggling soul passage in one gasp- 
 ing sob and heart-stricken cry. 
 
 Could she have pent this in, she 
 must have died. 
 
 It betrayed her. She felt it had : 
 then came the woman's instinct, — 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 159 
 
 flight : the coward's impulse, — flight : 
 the chaste wife's instinct, — flight : 
 She rushed from her hidiug-pkee and 
 made wildly for the liouse. 
 
 But Camille was darting round the 
 tree. She ran right upon him. He 
 caught her in his arms. He held her 
 irresistibly. "I liave got her, — I 
 have got her," he shouted in wild 
 triumph. " No ! I will not let you 
 go. None but God shall ever take 
 you from me, and he has spared you 
 to me. You are not dead : you liave 
 kept faith as I have ! You have lived. 
 See ! look at me. I am alive, — I am 
 well, — I am happy. I told Laure I 
 had suffered. I lied. If I had suf- 
 fered I should remember it. It is all 
 gone at sight of you, my love ! my 
 love ! O my Josephine ! my love ! " 
 
 His arm was firm roujid her waist. 
 His glowing eyes poured love ujion 
 hv-^r. She felt his beating heart. 
 
 All that passed in her, — what 
 mortal can say 1 She seemed two 
 women : that part of her which could 
 not get away from his strong arm 
 lost all strength to resist, — it yielded 
 and thrilled under his embrace, her 
 bosom heaving madly ; all that was 
 free writhed away from him ; her 
 face was averted with a glare of 
 terror, and both her hands put up be- 
 tween his eyes and it. 
 
 " You turn away your head. Laure, 
 she turns away. Speak for me. 
 Scold her ; for I don't know how to 
 scold her. No answer from either ; 
 O what has turned your hearts j 
 against me so ? " 
 
 " Camille," cried Laure, the tears 
 streaming down her cheeks, " my 
 poor Camille ! leave Beaurepaire. 
 O, leave it at once." 
 
 He turned towards her with a look 
 of inquiry. 
 
 At that Josephine, like some feeble 
 but nimble wild creature on whom a 
 grasp has relaxed, writhed away from 
 him and fled. " Farewell ! Farewell ! " 
 she cried. 
 
 It seemed despair itself who spoke. 
 
 She had not taken six steps when 
 Jacintha met her right in front. 
 
 " Madame Eaynal," she cried, cour- 
 tesy ing, "the baroness is in the sum- 
 mer-house, and wants to speak to 
 you. I was the first to call her 
 madame " ; and Jacintha, little 
 dreaming of all she had done, went 
 off in triumph, after another courtesy. 
 
 This blow turned those three to 
 stone. 
 
 Josephine had no longer the power 
 or the wish to fly. " Better so," she 
 thought, and she stood cowering. 
 Then the great passions that had 
 spoken so loud were struck dumb, 
 and a deep silence fell upon the place. 
 Madame Raynal's quivering eye 
 turned slowly and askant towards 
 Camille, but stopped in terror ere it 
 could see him. y^ 
 
 Silence, — dead silence ! ^ ' 
 
 The ladies knew by this fearful 
 stillness that the truth was creeping 
 on Camille. 
 
 Madame Eaynal cowered more and 
 more. 
 
 Camille sjjoke one word in a low 
 whisper : — 
 
 "Madame?" 
 
 Dead silence, 
 
 " White ? both in white 1 " 
 
 " Camille, it was our doing. TVe 
 drove her to it. sir, look how 
 afraid of you she is. Do not kill 
 her ; do not reproach her, if you are 
 a man." 
 
 He waved her out of his way as if 
 she had been some idle feather, and 
 he walked up to Josephine. " It is 
 for you to speak to me, my betrothed. 
 Are you married 1 " The poor crea- 
 ture, true to her nature, was thinking 
 more of him than herself. Even iu 
 her despair it flashed across her, " If 
 he knew all, he too would be wretched 
 for life. If I let him scorn me, he 
 may be happy one day." She cowered, 
 the picture of sorrow and tongue-tied 
 guilt. 
 
 " Ax'e vou a wife 1 " 
 
 "Yes!" 
 
 He staggered. 
 
 " This is how I came to be sus- 
 pected : she I loved was false 1 " 
 
 " Yes, Camille ! " 
 
160 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 " No ! no ! " cried Laurc. " She 
 alone never snspcoted you ; and we 
 have hrou.i;ht her to this, — we alone." 
 
 " Be silent, Laiuv ; O, be si- 
 lent ! ! ! " gasped Jose])liine. 
 
 " I lived for you : I would have 
 died for you : you could not even 
 wait for nic." 
 
 A low moan, but not a word of ex- 
 cuse. 
 
 " What can I do for you now ? " 
 
 " Forget me, Camille ! " 
 
 " Forget you ? never ! never ! 
 There is but one thing I can do to 
 show you how I loved you, — forgive 
 yon, and begone. Whither shall I 
 go .' whither shall I go now ? " 
 
 " O Camille, your words stab her : 
 she — A 
 
 " Be Client ! let none speak but I, — 
 none here but I has the right to speak. 
 Poor weak f^ngel that loved yet could 
 not wait : I forgive you ! be happy ! 
 — if you can — I bid you be hap-py ! " 
 
 The gentle, despairing tones died 
 away, and with them life seemed to 
 end to her, and hope to go out. He 
 turned his back quickly on her. " To 
 the army ! " he cried, hoarsely. He 
 drew himself haughtily up in marcli- 
 ing attitude. He took three strides, 
 erect and fiery and bold. At the 
 fourth the great heart snapped, and 
 the worn body it had held up so long 
 rolled like a dead log upon the ground 
 with a tremendous fall. 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 The baroness and St. Aubin were 
 walking gently on the South Terrace, 
 when suddenly they heard shrieks of 
 tenor in the Pleasance. They came 
 with (juaking hearts as fast as their 
 old limbs would carry them. 'JMiey 
 found Lanre and Josephine crouched 
 over the Ijody of a man, — an officer. 
 
 Laure was just tearing open his col- 
 lar and jacket. Dard and Jacintha 
 had run from the kitchen at the 
 screams. Camille lay on his back, 
 white and motionless. 
 
 The doctor now came up. " Who ! 
 what is this?" He shook his head. 
 "This is a bad case. Stand away, 
 ladies. Let nie feel his pulse," 
 
 Whilst the old man was going stiffly 
 down on one knee, Jacintha uttered a 
 cry of terror. "See! see! his shirt! 
 that red streak ! Ah ! ali ! it is get- 
 
 ting bigger and bigger 
 
 and she 
 
 turned faint in a moment, and would 
 have fallen but ibr Dard. 
 
 The doctor looked. " All the bet- 
 ter," said he, firmly. " I thought he 
 was dead ! His blood flows : then I 
 will save him ! Don't clutch me so, 
 Josephine, — don't cling to me like 
 that. Now is the time to show your 
 breed : not turn sick at the sight of 
 a little blood like that foolish crea- 
 ture ; but help me save the poor 
 man." 
 
 " Take him in-doors ! " cried the 
 baroness, 
 
 " Into our house, mamma ? " gasped 
 Laure. 
 
 " The lightning would strike it if 
 we did not ! " cried the baroness. 
 " What ! a wounded soldier who has 
 fought for France ! leave him to lie 
 and die outside my door, — never! 
 what would my son say ■? He is a 
 soldier." 
 
 Laure cast a hasty look at Jose- 
 phine ; Josephine's eyes were bent on 
 the ground and her hands clenched. 
 
 " Now, Jacintha, you be off ! " 
 cried the doctor. " I can't have cow- 
 ards about him to make the others as 
 bad ; go and stew down a piece of 
 good beef for him, my girl." 
 
 " That I wdll ; ])oor thing." 
 
 The baroness recognized Camille. 
 
 " Why, I know him : it is an old 
 acquaintance, young Dujardin, — you 
 remember, Josephine ; I used to sus- 
 ])ect him of a fancy for you, poor fel- 
 low ! Why, he must have come hero 
 to .see us, — poor soul." 
 
 " No matter who it is, — it is a man. 
 Now, girls, have you courage, have 
 you humanity ? Then come one on 
 each side of him and take hands be- 
 neath his back, while I lift his head 
 and Dard his legs." 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 161 
 
 Dard assented. 
 
 " And handle him gently, monsieur, 
 whatever you do," said Dard. " 1 
 know what it is. I have been wound- 
 ed." 
 
 These four carried the lifeless bur- 
 den very slowly and gently across the 
 Pleasance to the house : then with 
 more difficulty and caution up the 
 stairs. 
 
 All the while the sisters' hands 
 griped one another tight beneath the 
 lifeless burden, and spoke to one an- 
 other. And Josephine's arms upheld 
 tenderly but not weakly the hero she 
 had struck down. She avoided 
 Laure's eye, her mother's eye, and 
 even the doctor's eye ; one gasping 
 sob escaped her as she walked with 
 head half averted and vacant, terror- 
 stricken eyes, and her victim on her 
 sustaining arm. 
 
 They laid him in the tapestried 
 chamber. 
 
 " I must have an airy room for 
 him," said the doctor. " Now, away 
 with you, girls : Dard, help me un- 
 dress him." 
 
 Laure took Josephine's hand : " Sit 
 on the stairs," said she : " then 
 when Dard c#mes out we shall 
 hear." 
 
 Josephine obeyed passively. She 
 sat in gloomy silence, her eyes on the 
 ground, like one waiting for her 
 death-blow. 
 
 Laure, sick at heart, sat silent too. 
 At last she said faintly, " Have we 
 done well ? " 
 
 " I don't know," said Josephine, 
 doggedly. Her eyes never left the 
 ground. 
 
 " We could not let him die for 
 want of care and skill. He will not 
 thank us, my sister. Better to die 
 than live." 
 
 At this instant Dard came running 
 down, " Good news ! Mesdemoi- 
 selles ! good news ! the wound runs 
 all along : it is not deep, like mine 
 was. He has opened his eyes and 
 shut them again. The dear good 
 doctor stopped the blood in a twinkle. 
 The doctor says he '11 be bound to 
 
 save him. I must run and tell Jacin- 
 tha. She is taking on in the kitchen." 
 
 Josephine, who had risen eagerly 
 from her despairing posture, clasped 
 her hands together ; then lifted up her 
 voice and wept. 
 
 " He will live ! he will live ! " 
 
 When she had wept a long while 
 she said to Laure : " Come, my sis- 
 ter, help your poor Josephine.'^ 
 
 " Yes, love, what ? " 
 
 " My duty," faltered Josephine, — 
 " my duty that an hour ago seemed 
 so sweet." And she fell to weeping 
 patiently again. 
 
 They went to Josephine's room. 
 She crept slowly to a Avardrobe, and 
 took out a gray silk dress. 
 
 " 0, never mind for to-dav," cried 
 Laure. " Alas ! alas ! " 
 
 " Help me, my sister. It is for 
 mvself as well." 
 
 '"For yourself?" 
 
 " To remind me every moment I 
 am Madame Raynal." 
 
 They put the gray gown on her, 
 both Aveeping patiently. It will be 
 known at the last day what honest 
 women have suffered weeping silently 
 in this noisy world. 
 
 Camille soon recovered his senses 
 and a portion of his strength : then 
 the irritation of his wound brought 
 on fever. This in turn retired bcf^ore 
 the doctor's remedies and a sound 
 constitution ; but it left behind it a 
 great weakness and general prostra- 
 tion. And in this state the fate of 
 the body depends greatly on the 
 mind. 
 
 The baroness and the doctor went 
 constantly to sec him and soothe him ; 
 he smiled and often thanked them, 
 but his eager eyes watched the door 
 for one who came not. 
 
 When he got well enough to leave 
 his bed the largest couch was sent up 
 to him from the saloon ; a kind hand 
 lined the baron's silk dressing-gown 
 for him warm and soft and nice : and 
 he would sit or lie on his couch, or 
 take two turns in the room leaning 
 upon Laure's shoulder, and glad of 
 the support : and O, he looked so 
 K 
 
162 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 pitconsly in licr eyes when she came, 
 ami when slie went. Laure lowered 
 her eyes before them, — she could do 
 nothing, — she could say nothinij^. 
 
 She saw that witii his strcngjth 
 Camille had lost a portion of his 
 pride : that he pined for a sight of 
 her he no longer respected : pined 
 for her, — as the thirsty pine for wa- 
 ter in Zahara. 
 
 xVt last one day he spoke. 
 
 " How kind you are to me, Laure ! 
 how kind you all are, — but one." 
 
 He waited in ho])es she would say 
 somctliing, but she held her tongue. 
 
 " At least tell me wiiy it is. Is she 
 ashamed ? Is she afraid ? " 
 
 " Neither." 
 
 " She hates me ? it is then true 
 that we hate those whom we have 
 wounded. Cruel ! cruel Josephine. 
 
 heart of marble, against which 
 my heart has wrecked itself forev- 
 er ! " 
 
 " Alas ! she is not cruel, — but she 
 is Madame Ravnal." 
 
 "Ah! — I forgot! But have I 
 no claim on her ? Nearly four years 
 siie has been my betrothed. What 
 have I done 1 Was I ever false to 
 her ? I could forgive her for what 
 she has done to me, but she cannot 
 forgive me. Does she mean never to 
 see me again ? " 
 
 " What good could come of it ? " 
 
 " Very well," said Camille, with a 
 malicious smile. " I am in her way. 
 
 1 see what she wants, — she shall 
 have it." 
 
 Laure carried these words to Jo- 
 sephine. They went through her like 
 a sword. 
 
 Laure pitied her. 
 
 "Let us go to him. Anything is 
 better tlian this." 
 
 " Laure, I dare not." 
 
 Tiie next day early, Josephine took 
 Laure to a door outside the house, 
 a door that had long been disused. 
 Nettles grew before it. She produced 
 a key and with great difficulty oi)ened 
 this door. 
 
 " Ah, it is a good many years since 
 I liavo been in there," said Laure. 
 
 " Why, Josephine, it leads to the tap- 
 estrv chamber." 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " What am I to do ? " 
 
 " Watch him ! you remember 
 where we used to peep through into 
 the room." 
 
 " Yes ! Ah, how happy we were 
 then." 
 
 " Watch him, as a mother does her 
 child. O, if anything ha])pens to him 
 while he is under my care — " 
 
 " Be calm, love, do not fear, I will 
 watch him. I share your misgivhigs, 
 your fears, I share all with you." 
 
 " My sister ! my Laure ! my guar- 
 dian angel ! oh, if I had not you, who 
 know what a miserable Avomau J am, 
 I should go raving mad ! " 
 
 When Josephine had placed Ca- 
 mille under this strange surveillance, 
 she felt a little, a very little easier, she 
 hardly knew why ; for in truth it was 
 a vague protection against a danger 
 equally mysterious. So great was Jo- 
 sephine's forethought, so unflinching 
 her determination, that s!ie never once 
 could be prevailed on to mount those 
 stairs, and peep at Camille herself. 
 " I must starve my heart, not feed it." 
 And she grew paler and more hollow- 
 eyed day by day. 
 
 Y^'ct this was the same woman who 
 showed such feebleness and irresolu- 
 tion when Raynal pressed her to 
 marry him. 
 
 But then, dwarfs feebly drew her 
 this way and that. Now giants 
 fought lor her. Between a feeble 
 inclination and a feeble disinclination 
 her dead heart drifted to and fro. 
 Now honor, duty, gratitude, which 
 with her was a passion, dragged her 
 one way, — love, pity, and remorse 
 another. 
 
 Neither of these giants would re- 
 lax his gi'asp, and nothing yielded 
 except her vital ])Oweis. Yes ; her 
 temper — the loveliest temper Heav- 
 en ever gave a human creature — was 
 soured at times. 
 
 There lay the man she loved pin- 
 ing for her. Cursing her for her 
 cruelty, — i)rayii)g Heaven to forgive 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 163 
 
 him and to bless her, and curse him 
 instead, — sighing, at intervals, all 
 the day long so loud, so deep, so 
 piteously, as if his heart broke with 
 each sigh ; and sometimes, for he lit- 
 tle knew, poor soul, that any human 
 eye was upon him, casting aside his 
 manhood in his despair, and flinging 
 himself on the very floor, and muf- 
 fling his head, and sobbing, — he a 
 hero. 
 
 And here was she pining in secret 
 for him who pined for her. " I am 
 not a woman at all," cried she, who 
 ■was all woman. "I am crueller to 
 him than a tiger or any savage crea- 
 ture is to the victim she tears. I 
 must not tempt you. To love me 
 now is a sin. I must cure you of 
 your love for me, and then die : for 
 what shall I have to live for ? He 
 weeps, he sighs, he cries for Jose- 
 jihine ! " 
 
 Tills enforced cruelty was more 
 contrary to this woman's nature as 
 well as to her heart than black is to 
 white, or heat to cold ; and Nature 
 rebelled with all her forces. As 
 when a roek tries to stem a current, 
 the water fights its way on moi'e 
 sides than one, so insulted Nature 
 dealt with Josephine. Not only did 
 her body pine, but her nerves were 
 exasperated. Sudden twitches came 
 over her, that almost made her 
 scream. Her permanent state was 
 utter despondency ; but across it 
 came fitful flashes of irritation ; and 
 then she was scarce mistress of her- 
 self. 
 
 Wherefore, you who find some 
 hoh^ woman cross and bitter, stop a 
 moment before you sum her up vixen 
 and her religion naught : inquire the 
 history of her heart : percltance, be- 
 neath the smooth, cold curface of du- 
 ties well discharged, her life has 
 been, or even is, a battle against some 
 self-indulgence the insignificant 
 saint's very blood cries out for : and 
 so the poor thing is cross, not be- 
 cause she is bad, biit because she 
 is better than the rest of us, — yet 
 human. 
 
 As for Josephine's little bursts of 
 fretfulness, they were always followed 
 by disproportionate penitence and pa- 
 thetic efforts to be so very kind to 
 those whom she had scratched, and 
 then felt for as if she had ploughed 
 great bleeding furrows in them. 
 
 Now, though she was more on her 
 guard with the baroness than with 
 Laure, or the doctor, or Jacintha, her 
 state could not altogether escape the 
 vigilance of a mother's eye. 
 
 But the baroness had not the clew 
 we have. 
 
 That makes all the difference : 
 how small an understanding put by 
 accident or instruction on the right 
 track shall run the game down ; how 
 great a sagacity shall wander if it 
 gets on a false scent.* 
 
 " Doctor, you are so taken up with 
 your patient, you neglect the rest of 
 us. Do look at Josephine ! She is 
 ill!"^ 
 
 " No, madame, or she would have 
 told me." 
 
 " Well, then, she is going to be ill. 
 She is so pale, and so fretful, so pee- 
 vish, which is not in her nature. 
 Wottld you beleive it, doctor, she 
 snaps 1 " 
 
 " Our Josephine snap ? This is 
 new." 
 
 " And snarls ! " 
 
 " Then look for the end of the 
 world." 
 
 " The other day I heard her snap 
 Laure; and this morning she half 
 snarled at me, just because I pressed 
 her to go and console our patient. 
 Hush ! here she is. My child, I am 
 accusing you to monsieur here. I am 
 telling him you neglect his patient." 
 
 " I^ mamma 1 " 
 
 "You never go near him. 
 
 " I will visit him one of these days," 
 said Josephine, coldly. 
 
 " One of these days, my daughter ! 
 You used not to be so hard-hearted. 
 A soldier, an old comrade of your 
 
 * Vide all authentic records of man's rea- 
 sonings and inventions : for climax plunge 
 from Newton reasoning astronomy down to 
 Newton reasoning alchemy. 
 
1G4 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 luisbaiKrs, woumk'd and sick, and 
 you aloiic lu'vor p) to him to console 
 iiiiu wiih a word of synipatiiy or eii- 
 coura<;oinoiit." 
 
 Jo.sej)liiiic looked at her motlicr 
 with a sort of incredulous stare. 
 
 " I do not recognize you. You 
 who are so kind-hearted and pitiful, 
 cxcejit to wounded soldiers." 
 
 Josephine smiled bitterly. Then 
 after a struggle she replied with a 
 tone and manner so spiteful and icy 
 that it would have deceived even us 
 who know her, had we heard it. 
 
 " He has plenty of nurses without 
 me," she added, almost violently. 
 " My husband, if he were wounded, 
 would not have so many, perhaps not 
 have one." 
 
 "With this she rose and went out, 
 leaving them aghast. She sat down 
 in the passage on a window-seat, and 
 laughed hysterically. 
 
 Laure heard her and ran to her. 
 Josephine told her wdiat her mother 
 had said to her. Laure soothed her. 
 
 " Never mind. You have your 
 sister who understands you : don't 
 come in till they^iave got some other 
 topic." 
 
 Laure out of curiosity went in, and 
 found a discussion going on. The doc- 
 tor was fathoming Josephine for the 
 benefit of his companion. 
 
 " It is a female jealousy ; and of a 
 mighty innocent kind. We are so 
 occupied with this poor fellow, she 
 thinks her soldier is forgotten." 
 
 " Surely, doctor, our Josephine 
 would not be so unreasonable, so 
 unjust." 
 
 *' She belongs to a sex, be it said 
 without offending you, madame, 
 among whoso numberless virtues 
 justice does not fill a prominent 
 place." 
 
 The baroness shook her head. 
 
 " That is not it. It is a piece of 
 prudery. This young gentleman 
 was a sort of admirer of hers, though 
 she did not admire him nmch, as far 
 as I remember. But it was four 
 years ago ; and she is married to a 
 man she loves, or is going to love." 
 
 " AVcll, but, mamma, a trifling ex- 
 cess of delicacy is surely excusable." 
 
 " It is not delicacy : it is j)rudery. 
 Atid when people are sick and suf- 
 fering, an honest woman should take 
 up her charity, and lay dowji her 
 jKudery or her coquetry : two things 
 that I suspect are the same thing in 
 dirtercnt shapes." 
 
 Here Jacintha came in. 
 
 " JMadeinoiselle, here is the colo- 
 nel's broth : Madame Raynal has fla- 
 vored it for him, and you are to take 
 it up to him, and keep him company 
 while he eats it." 
 
 " Come,'^ cried the baroness, " my 
 lecture has not been lost." 
 
 Laure followed Jacintha up stairs. 
 Laure was heart and head on Ray- 
 nal's side. 
 
 She had deceived him about Jose- 
 phine's attachment, and felt all the 
 more desirous to guard him against 
 any ill consequences of it. Then he 
 had been so generous to her ; he had 
 left her her sister, who would have 
 gone to Egypt, and escaped this mis- 
 cry, but fur her. 
 
 But on the other hand, if I may 
 use a great master's words, 
 
 " Gentle pity 
 Tugged at her heart-strings with complainiug 
 cries." 
 
 This watching of Camille made her 
 wretched. When she was with him 
 his pride bore him up : but when he 
 was alone, as ho thought, his an- 
 guish and despair were terrible, and 
 broke out in so many ways that often 
 Laure shrank in terror from her peep- 
 hole. 
 
 She dared not tell Josephine the 
 half of what she saw : what she did 
 tell her agitated her so terribly ; and 
 often Laure had it on the tip of her 
 tongue to say, " Do ])ray go and 
 see if you can say nothing that will 
 do him good " : but she fought the 
 imjnilse down. This battle of feeling, 
 though less severe than her sister's, 
 was constant : it destroyed her gaye- 
 ty. She whose merry laugh used to 
 ring like chimes through the house 
 never laughed now, seldom ' smiled, 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 165 
 
 and often sighed. The elders felt 
 a deep gloom settle down upon the 
 house. 
 
 One evening the baroness, Jose- 
 phine, and St. Aubin sat iu the saloon, 
 in dead sileuce. 
 
 Doctor St. Aubin had been the last 
 to succumb to the deep depression, 
 but for a day or two he had been as 
 grave and as sad as the rest. 
 
 He now broke silence. 
 
 " I am glad Laure is out of the 
 room," said he, thoughtfully ; " I wish 
 to consult you two." 
 
 " We listen, my friend," said the 
 bai'oness, with interest. 
 
 " It is humiliating, after all my expe- 
 rience, to be obliged to consult unpro- 
 fessional persons. Forty years ago I 
 should have been too wise to do so. 
 But since then I have often seen 
 science baffled and untrained intelli- 
 gences throw light upon hard ques- 
 tions ; and your sex in particular has 
 luminous instincts and reads things 
 by flashes that we men miss with a 
 microscope. Our dear Madame Ray- 
 nal read that notary, and to this day 
 I believe she coiild not tell us 
 how." 
 
 " I know very well how I read him, 
 dear friend." 
 
 " How ? " 
 
 " 0, I can't tell how." 
 
 "There you see. Well, then, you 
 must help me in this case. And this 
 time I promise to treat your art with 
 more respect." 
 
 " And who is it she is to read 
 now 1 " asked the baroness. 
 
 Josephine said nothing, but trem- 
 bled, and was secretly but keenly on 
 her guard. 
 
 " Who should it be but my poor 
 patient 1 He puzzles me. I never 
 knew a patient so faint-hearted." 
 
 " A soldier faint-hearted ! " ex- 
 claimed the baroness. "To be sure 
 these men that storm cities and fire 
 cannon, and cut and hack one an- 
 other with so much spirit, are poor 
 creatures compai-ed with us when 
 they have to lie quiet and suffer." 
 
 " Josephine," said the doctor, ab- 
 
 ruptly, " do you know Colonel Dujar- 
 din's character ? " 
 
 " No ! yes ! by the bulletins of the 
 army, — long ago." 
 
 " Do you know his history ? " 
 
 " No, — yes. He told Laure : and 
 she told me. He was taken prisoner 
 in Spain. The cowards made him 
 suffer tortures. doctor ! he is 
 alive by a miracle. I cannot think ' 
 that Heaven will desert him now. 
 Do send for Laure ; she will tell you 
 better than I can all he has gone 
 through." 
 
 " No," said St. Aubin, " you mis- 
 take me. That is not Avhat I want 
 to know. It is not the past but the 
 present that gives me so much con- 
 cern. Past dangers are present de- 
 lights." 
 
 " Doctor, what do you mean ? " 
 
 " I mean this, that he ought to get 
 well, and does not. But it is not my 
 fault : no man can be cured without his 
 own help ; and he will not put a finger 
 to the work. Patients complain of 
 our indifference : it is not so here : I 
 am all anxiety and zeal, and my sick 
 man is his own by-stander apathetic as 
 a log." 
 
 The doctor walked the room in 
 great excitement. 
 
 " Ladies, for pity's sake help me : 
 get his history from him, and tell it 
 me : you, Josephine, with your in- 
 stincts, do for pity's sake help me : do 
 throw oft' that sublime indiflference you 
 have manifested all along to this man's 
 fate." 
 
 " She has not ! " cried the baroness, 
 firing up. " She lined his dressing- 
 gown for him ; and she inspects every- 
 thing that he eats : do you not? " 
 
 " Yes ! my mother." 
 
 " Have patience, my friend : time 
 will cure your patient, and time 
 alone." 
 
 " Time ! you speak as if time was 
 a quality : time is only a measure of 
 events, favorable or unfavorable : time 
 kills as many as it cures." 
 
 " Why, doctor, you surely would 
 not imply his life is in any dan- 
 ger ?" . . „ 
 
1C6 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 " Should I be sayinp: all this if it I 
 was not ? Must I .spcak out 1 Well, 
 then, I will. It" si)iuc change does 
 not take ])lacc soon, he will he a dead 
 man in another ibrtnight. That is all 
 time will do for him. Now." 
 
 The baroness uttered an exclama- 
 tion of pity and distress. 
 
 Josephine put her hand to her 
 bosom, and a creeping horror came 
 over her, and then a faintness. Sud- 
 denly she rushed from the room. In 
 the passage she met Laure coming 
 hastily towards the sa/o//, laughing : 
 the first time she had laughed this 
 many a day. O wliat a contrast 
 between the two faces that met there, 
 — the one ])alc and horror-stricken, 
 the other rosy and laughing ! " 
 
 " Well, dear, at last I am paid for 
 all my trouble. I have found my 
 lord out. What do you think he 
 does ? What is the matter 1 " 
 
 " Nothing, — tell me ! tell me ! " 
 " You are agitated, Josephine. 
 My sister, — my sweet sister ! What 
 have they been doing to you now? 
 You want my story first ? Very 
 well. 0, the doctor would be in a 
 fine rage if he knew it." 
 
 " The doctor ? " 
 
 " Yes ! it is soon told. Camille 
 never takes a drop of his medicine. 
 lie pours it into the ashes under the 
 grate. I saw him. I caught him in 
 the act, — ha ! ha ! " 
 
 Josephine stared wildly at Laure 
 to hear her laugh. 
 
 " Ah ! I forgot : you don't know : 
 come." 
 
 " Where to 1 " 
 
 " To /i/m." 
 
 Josephine paused on the first land- 
 ing. 
 
 " Promise me not to contradict a 
 word I shall say to him. I must hide 
 )ny heart from him I love, — yes, him 
 I love, I adore, I worship. Ah ! I 
 have got you to whom I can tell the 
 truth, or I could not go on the Avalk- 
 ing lie I am. I love him : I adore him : 
 I will deceive him, and save him, and 
 then lie down and die." 
 
 "Be calm! pray be calm!" said 
 Laure. " O that he had never l)cen 
 born ! Say what you will, I will not 
 speak. Shall I tell him you are com- 
 ingV 
 
 " No. Let me have every advan- 
 tage : let me think beforehand every 
 word I shall say : but take him by 
 surprise, coward and double-face that 
 I am." 
 
 The sisters stood at the door. • 
 Josephine's heart beat audibly. She 
 knocked : a faint voice said, " Come 
 in." She and Laure entered the 
 room. Camille sat on the sofii, his 
 head bowed over his hands. A glance 
 showed Josephine that he was dog- 
 gedly and resolutely thrusting him- 
 self into the grave. Thinking it was 
 only Laure, for he had now lost all 
 liopc of seeing Josephine come in at 
 the door, he never moA-ed. Some 
 one glided gently but rapidly up to 
 him. 
 
 He looked up. 
 
 Josephine was kneeling to him. 
 
 He lifted his head with a start, and 
 trembled all over. 
 
 " Camille, I am come to you to beg 
 your pity, to appeal to your gen- 
 erosity, to ask a favor, — I who de- 
 serve so little of you." 
 
 " You have waited a long time," 
 said Camille, agitated greatly ; "and 
 so have I," he added, bitterly. 
 
 " Camille, you are killing "one who 
 loved you once, and who has been 
 very weak and faithless, but not so 
 wicked as she appears." 
 
 " How am I killing you ? " 
 
 " With remorse, — to see you sink- 
 ing into the tomb. Camille, is this 
 generous of you ? Do I not suffer 
 enough ? Would you make me a 
 murderess ? " 
 
 " Then why have you never been 
 near me 1 I could forgive your 
 weakness, but not your heartless- 
 ness." 
 
 " It is my duty. I have no right 
 to seek your society. If you really 
 wanted mine you would get well, and 
 so join us down stairs a week or two 
 before vou leave us." 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 167 
 
 " How am I to get well ? My heart 
 is broken." 
 
 " Be a man, Camille. Do not fling 
 away a soldier's life becanse a fickle, 
 worthless woman could not wait for 
 you. Forgive like a man, or revenge 
 yourself like a man. If you cannot 
 forgive me, kill me. See, I kneel at 
 your feet. I will not resist you. Kill 
 me ! " 
 
 " I wish I could. Oh ! if I could 
 kill you with a look and myself with 
 a wish ! Xo man should ever take 
 you from me then. We would be to- 
 gether in the grave at this hour. Do 
 not tempt me, I say ! " 
 
 And he cast a terrible look of love, 
 and hatred, and despair ujwn her. 
 
 Her purple eye never winced : it 
 poured back tenderness and affection 
 in return. 
 
 He saw and turned away with a 
 groan, and held out his hand to her. 
 
 She seized it and kissed it. " You 
 are great, you ai-e generous ; you will 
 not strike me as a woman strikes, — 
 you will not die to drive me to de- 
 spair." 
 
 " Ah ! you love me still ! " 
 
 " Xo ! no! no! my heart is dead. 
 But I loved you once. When I had 
 a right to love you. A woman can- 
 not forget all. ' Can you 1 Yes ! you 
 can, to be revenged on poor silly 
 Josephine." 
 
 "I see : love is gone, — but pity 
 remains, — I thought that was gone 
 too." 
 
 " Yes, Camille," said Josephine in 
 a whisper; "pity remains, and re- 
 morse and terror at what I have done 
 to a man of whom I was never 
 wortliy." 
 
 " Well, madame, as you have come 
 at last to me, and even do me the 
 honor to ask me a favor, — I shall 
 try — if only out of courtesy — to — 
 ah, Josephine ! Josephine ! when did I 
 ever refuse you anything ? " 
 
 At this Josephine sank into a chair, 
 and burst out crying. Camille, at 
 this, began to cry too ; and the two 
 poor things sat a long way from one 
 another, and sobbed bitterly. 
 
 The man, weakened as he was, re- 
 covered his quiet despair first. 
 
 " Don't cry so, my poor soul ! " said 
 he. " But tell me what is your will, 
 and I shall obey you as I used before 
 any one came between us ! " 
 
 ■' Then ! live, Camille ! I implore 
 you to live ! " 
 
 " Well, Josephine, since a'Ou care 
 about it, I will live." 
 
 " Since I care ! — oh ! — bless vou, 
 Camille. How good you are : how 
 generous you are. You have prom- 
 ised, — you keep your promises : you 
 are not like rae.""^ 
 
 " Why did not you come before and 
 ask me ? I thought I was in your 
 way. I thought you wanted me 
 dead." 
 
 Josephine cast a look of wonder 
 and angiiish on Camille, but she said 
 nothing. She rang the bell, and, on 
 Jacintha coming up, she despatched 
 her to Doctor St. Aubin for the pa- 
 tient's medicine. 
 
 " Tell the doctor," said she, " Colo- 
 nel Dujardin has let fall the glass." 
 
 While Jacintha was gone, she 
 scolded Camille gently. 
 
 "How could you be so unkind to 
 the poor doctor, who loves you so ? " 
 
 " What have I done to him 1 " asked 
 Camille, coloring. 
 
 " You throw away his medicines. 
 Do you think I am blind. Look at 
 the ashes ; they are wet. Camille, 
 are you too becoming disingenuous ? " 
 
 " He gives me tonics that do me 
 too much good ; I could not die quick 
 enough, — there, forgive me. I have 
 promised to live, — I will live." 
 
 Jacintha came in with the tonic in 
 a glass, and retired witli an obeisance. 
 
 Josephine took it to Camille. 
 
 " Drink with me, then," said he, 
 " or I will not touch it." 
 
 Josephine took the glass. 
 
 "I drink to your health, Camille, 
 and to your glory : laurels to your 
 brow, my hero ! and some faithful 
 woman to your heart, who will make 
 you forget this folly : it is for her I 
 save you." She put the glass with 
 well-acted spirit to her lips ; but in 
 
1G8 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 the very action a spasm seized her 
 throat and almost choked her ; she 
 lowered her licad that he mi^ht not 
 see lier face and tried again ; bnt the 
 tears bnrst from her eyes and ran into 
 the hquid, and her lips trembled over 
 the hrini, and conld n't. 
 
 " Ah I give it me," he cried : 
 " there is a tear of yours in it." 
 
 lie drank otf the bitter remedy now 
 as if it had been nectar. 
 
 Josephine blushed. 
 
 " If you wanted me to live, why did 
 you not conic here before ? " 
 
 " I did not think you would be so 
 foolish, so wicked, so cruel as to do 
 what you have been doing." 
 
 " Josephine, come and shine upon 
 me every day, and you shall have no 
 fresh cause of complaint : things 
 flourish in the sunshine that die in 
 the dark : Laure, it is as if the 
 sun had come into my prison ; you 
 are pale, but 3'ou are beautiful as ever, 
 — more beautiful ; what a sweet 
 dress ! so cpiiet, so modest, it sets off 
 your beauty instead of vainly trying 
 to vie with it." 
 
 He put out his hand and took her 
 gray silk dress and went to kiss it as 
 a devotee kisses the altar steps. 
 
 She snatched it furiously away with 
 a shudder. 
 
 " Yes, you are right," said she ; 
 " thank you for noticing my dress : it 
 is a beautiful dress, — ha! ha! A 
 dress I take a pride in wearing, and 
 always shall, I hope. I mean to be 
 buried in it. Come, Laure ! Thank 
 you, Cainille; you are very good, you 
 have once more promised me to live. 
 Get well ; come down stairs ; then you 
 will see me every day, you knoAv, — 
 tliere is a temptation. Good by, Ca- 
 mille! — are you coming, Laure? 
 AVhat are you loitering for ? God 
 bless you, and comfort you, and help 
 you to forget what it is madness to 
 remember ! " 
 
 She was gone. 
 
 The room seemed to darken to Ca- 
 mille. 
 
 Outside the door Josephine caught 
 hold almost fiercely of Laure. 
 
 " Have I committed myself 1 " 
 
 " Over and over again. Do not 
 look so terrilied ! — I mean to rne : 
 but not to him. Oh ! what a fool he 
 is! and how much better you must 
 know him than I do to venture 
 on such a transparent deceit. He be- 
 lieves whatever you tell him. He is 
 all ears, and no eyes. Yes, love, I 
 watched him keenly all the time. He 
 really thinks it is pity and remorse ; 
 nothing more. My poor sister, you 
 have a hard life to lead, — a hard game 
 to jjlay : but so far you have succeed- 
 ed : you could look poor Raynal in the 
 face if he came home to-d:iy." 
 
 " Then God be thanked," cried 
 Josephine. " I am as happy to-day 
 as I can ever hope to be. Now let 
 us go through the farce of dressing : 
 it is near dinner-time ; and then the 
 farce of talking, and, hardest of all, the 
 farce of living." 
 
 From that hour, Camille began to 
 get better very slowly, yet percepti- 
 bly. 
 
 The doctor, afraid of being mista- 
 ken, said nothing for sonic days, but at 
 last he announced tlie good news at 
 the dinner-table. It was no news to 
 either of the sisters. Laure had 
 watched every symptom, and had told 
 Josephine. " He is to come down 
 stairs in three days," added the doc- 
 tor. 
 
 The baroness. " Thank heaven ! 
 and, now that anxiety is removed, I do 
 ho]je you will have time to cure her 
 who is dearer to us than all the 
 world." 
 
 Josephine. " My mother : there is 
 nothing the matter with me." 
 
 Baroness. " Then why do you an- 
 swer 1 I mentioned nobody." 
 
 Josei)hine was confused : the doctor 
 smiled ; but he said, kindly : " In- 
 deed, you look pale, and somewhat 
 thinner." 
 
 Baroness. " Thinner ? What won- 
 der, when she eats nothing? " 
 
 St. Aubin. " Is this true ? Do you 
 cat nothing ? " 
 
 Josephine. " I cat as Jiiucli as I 
 require. I have often heard you say 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 169 
 
 we should eat no more than we can 
 relish/' 
 
 St. Auhin. " She is right. Per- 
 haps we dine too early for you. I ob- 
 serve you don't seem to enjoy your 
 dinner." 
 
 Josephine. " Enjoy — my dinner 1 " 
 
 St. Aubiti. " Why not ? You are 
 not an angel in body, though you are 
 in mind ; and if you don't enjoy your 
 dinner, there is something wrong. 
 However, perhaps Jacintha does not 
 give us the dishes you like." 
 
 Josephine. " No ! no ! it is not 
 that. All dishes taste like one to 
 me." 
 
 St. Auhin. " What do they taste 
 like ? " 
 
 Josephine. "Like? — like all the 
 same, — quite tasteless. Don't tease 
 me. What does it matter ? " 
 
 Baroness. " There, doctor, there : 
 see how fretful the poor child is get- 
 ting." 
 
 St. Auhin. "I see, madame, and 
 divine the cause. Now, Madame Ray- 
 nal, let us be serious. I understand 
 you to say, that a slice of this mut- 
 ton, or of that chicken, taste the same 
 to you : or, to speak more correctly, 
 have no taste 1 " 
 
 Josephine. " None whatever." 
 
 St. Aubin. " Bile !!!!!" 
 
 Camille, bribed by the hope of see- 
 ing Josephine every day, turned his 
 mind seriously towards getting well ; 
 and, as his disorder had been lethargy, 
 not disease, he improved visibly. 
 But, as his body strengthened, some 
 of the worst passions in our nature at- 
 tacked him. 
 
 Fierce gusts of hate and love com- 
 bined overpowered this man's high 
 sentiments of honor and justice, and 
 made him clench his teeth, and vow 
 never to leave Beaurepaire without 
 Josephine. She had been his four 
 years before she ever saw Raynal, and 
 slie should be his forever. Her love 
 would soon revive when they should 
 meet every day, and — 
 
 Then conscience pricked him, and 
 reminded him how and why Raynal 
 
 had married her : for Laure had told 
 him all. Should he undermine an ab- 
 sent soldier, whose whole conduct in 
 this had been so pure, so generous, 
 so unselfish ? 
 
 But this was not all. 
 
 i Strange to say, he was under a great 
 personal obligation to his quondam 
 
 : comrade Raynal, of which more by 
 
 \ and by. 
 
 Whenever this was vividly present 
 to his mind, a great terror fell on him, 
 and lie would cry out in anguish : 
 " Oh that some angel would come to 
 me and tear me bv force from this 
 place ! " 
 
 And the next moment passion 
 swept over him like a flood, and carried 
 away all his virtuous resolves. His 
 soul was in deep waters ; great waves 
 drove it to and fro. Perilous con- 
 dition, which seldom ends well. 
 
 Camille was a man in whom honor 
 sat throned. 
 
 In no other earthly circumstance 
 could he have hesitated an instant be- 
 tween right and wrong. But such 
 
 I natures, proof against all other temp- 
 tations, have often fallen, and will 
 fall, where sin takes the angel form of 
 her they love. Yet, of all men, they 
 should pray for help to stand : for, 
 fallen, they still retain one thing that 
 divides them from mean sinners. 
 
 Remorse, — the giant that rends the 
 great hearts that mock at fear. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 The day came in which the doctor 
 had promised his patient he should 
 come down stairs. First his comfort- 
 able sofa was taken down into the 
 saloon for his use : then the patient 
 himself came down leaning on the 
 doctor's arm, and his heart palpitating 
 at the thought of the meeting. He 
 came into the room : the baroness 
 was alone. She greeted him kindly, 
 and welcomed him. Laure came in 
 soon after and did the same. But no 
 Josephine. Camille felt sick at heart. 
 
170 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 At Inst dinner was nnnounccd. " She 
 will surely join us at dinner, " thoui^ht 
 he. lie east his eyes anxiously on 
 the table : the napkins were laid 
 for four only. The baroness care- 
 lessly explained this to him as they 
 sat down. 
 
 " Madame Raynal dines in her own 
 room. I am sorry to say she is in- 
 disposed." 
 
 Camille muttered polite regrets : 
 the rage of disapjiointmcnt drove its 
 fangs into him, and then came the 
 liollow aehing of ho))e deferred. The 
 next day he saw her, but could not 
 get a word with her alone. The bar- 
 oness tortured him another way. She 
 was full of Kaynal. She loved him. 
 She called him her son : was never 
 weary of descanting on his virtues to 
 Camille. Not a day passed that she 
 did not pester Camille to make a cal- 
 culation as to the probable period of 
 his return ; and he was obliged to an- 
 swer her. She related to him, before 
 Josephine and Laure, how this honest 
 soldier had come to them like a guar- 
 dian angel and saved the whole family. 
 In vain he muttered that Laure had 
 told him. 
 
 " Let me have the pleasure of tell- 
 ing it you my way," cried she, and 
 to!d it diffusely. 
 
 The next thing was, Josephine had 
 received no letter from him this 
 month, — the first month he had 
 missed. In vain did Laure represent 
 that he was only a few days over his 
 time. Tiie l)aroncss became anxious, 
 communicated her anxieties to Ca- 
 mille among the rest, and by a tortur- 
 ing interrogatory compelled him to 
 explain to her before them all that 
 sliips do not always sail to a day, and 
 arc sometimes delayed. But oh ! he 
 writhed at the man's name ; and 
 Laure observed that he never men- 
 tioned it, nor acknowledged the ex- 
 istence of such a person as Jose- 
 ])hinc's husband, excej^t when others 
 eomjtelled him. Yet they were ac- 
 (juainted, and Laure wondered that 
 he (lid not sometimes detract or 
 sneer. 
 
 " I should," said she, " I know I 
 should." 
 
 "lie is too noble," said Josephine, 
 " and too wise. If he did, I should 
 respect him less, and my husband 
 more, — if possible." 
 
 Certainly Camille was not the sort 
 of nature that detracts ; but the rea- 
 son he avoided Raynal's name was 
 simply that his whole battle w:is to 
 forget such a man existed. From 
 this dream he was rudely awakened 
 every hour since he joined the family, 
 and the wound his self-deceiving 
 heart would fain have skinned over 
 was torn open. But worse than this 
 was the torture of being tantalized. 
 lie was in company with Josephine, 
 but never alone. Even if she left the 
 room for an instant, Laure aecom- 
 ])anied her and returned with her. 
 Camille at last began to comprehend 
 that Josephine had decided there 
 should be no private interviews -he- 
 tween her and him. Thus not only 
 the shadow of the absent Kaynal 
 stood between them, but her mother 
 and sister in person, and, worst of all, 
 her own will. 
 
 " Cold-blooded fiend," he cried in 
 his rage, "you never loved me; you 
 never will really love any one." 
 
 Then the tho'ught of all her tender- 
 ness and goodness came to rebuke 
 him. But, even in rebuking, it mad- 
 dened him. " Yes ! it is her A'cry 
 nature to love ; but, since she can 
 make her heart turn whichever way 
 her honor bids, she will love her 
 husband. She does not now; but 
 sooner or later she will, — then she 
 will have children, lie writhed witli 
 anguish and fury at this thonglit, — 
 loving ties between him and her. lie 
 has everything on his side ; I, nothing 
 but memories she will etVaee from her 
 heart. Will elVaee ? She must have 
 effaced them, or she could not liavc 
 married him." lie rose and went out 
 into the rieasance. He felt as if all 
 must see the frightful tem])est in his 
 heart. He went into the Park, and 
 wandered wildly. He was in that 
 state in wliieh men commit acts that 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 171 
 
 the next moment they look back on 
 with wonder as well as horror. 
 
 He wandered and wandered by the 
 side of the brook, and at each turn 
 where the stagnant current showed a 
 deeper pool than usual he stopped 
 and looked, and thou^ght, " How calm 
 and peaceful you are ! " 
 
 He sat down at last by the water- 
 side, his eyes bent on a calm green 
 pool. 
 
 " You are very calm and peaceful, 
 and you could give me your peace. 
 No more rage, — no more jealousy, — 
 no more despair. It is a sordid death 
 for a soldier to die who has seen great 
 battles. When I was a boy, — ah ! 
 why cannot I be a boy again ? — 
 then I read of a Spartan soldier that 
 was on a sinking ship. There was 
 no hope, — no more there is for me. 
 He drew his sword and fell on it ere 
 the ship could sink. I can understand 
 that man's heart. I am of his mind. 
 Still we must do the best we can. 
 Ah ! what is this ? my pistols. The 
 present my old comrades sent me 
 wliile I lay between life and death. 
 Why did not I die then ? 
 
 " iSTo matter : I am glad I have got 
 my pistols. How strange I should 
 put them away into this coat, and put 
 the coat on without knowing it. All 
 these things are preordained. 
 
 "To go without a word with her, 
 — a parting word. No ! it is best so. 
 For I should have taken her with me." 
 
 "Sir! colonel!" uttered a harsh, 
 dry voice behind him. 
 
 Camille started. 
 
 Absorbed and strung up to despera- 
 tion as he was, this voice seemed 
 unnaturally loud, and discordant with 
 his mood ; a sudden trumpet from 
 the world of small things. 
 
 Picard the notary stood behind 
 him. 
 
 "Can you tell me where Madame 
 Raynal is 1 " 
 
 " No. At the chateau, I suppose." 
 
 " She is not there : I inquired of 
 the servant. She was out. You 
 have not seen her, colonel '? " 
 
 " I ! no." 
 
 " Then perhaps I had better go 
 back to the chateau and wait for her : 
 stay, you are a friend of the family. 
 Colonel, suppose I were to tell you, 
 and ask you to tell jMudame Raynal, 
 or better still to tell the baroness, or 
 Mademoiselle Laure." 
 
 " Monsieur," said Camille, coldly, 
 " charge me Avith no messages, for I 
 shall not deliver them. I am going 
 another way." 
 
 " In that case, monsieur, I will go 
 to the chateau once more." 
 
 " Go ! " 
 
 Picard went, wondering at the col- 
 onel's strange manner. 
 
 Camille wondered that any one 
 could be so mad as to talk to him 
 about trifles, — to him a man standing 
 on the brink of eternity. Poor soul, 
 it was he who was mad and unlucky. 
 He should have heard what Picard 
 had to say. Notaries are not embar- 
 rassed, and hesitating to whom to 
 speak, for nothing. 
 
 He watched Pieard's retiring form. 
 When he was out of sight then he 
 turned round and resumed his thoughts 
 as if Picard had been no more than a 
 fly that had buzzed and then gone. 
 
 " Yes ; I should have taken her 
 Avith me." He sat gloomy and 
 dogged like a dangerous maniac in 
 his cell : never moved, scarce thought 
 for more than half an hour : but his 
 deadly purpose grew in him. Sud- 
 denly he started, a lady was at the 
 stile, about a hundred yards distant. 
 He trembled. It was Josephine. 
 
 She came towards him slowly, her 
 eyes bent on the ground in a deep 
 revery. She stopped about a stone's 
 throw from him, and looked at the 
 river long and thoughtfully : then cast- 
 ing her eyes around she caught sight 
 of Camille. He watched her grimly. 
 He saw her give a little start, and 
 half turn round ; but if this was an 
 impulse to retreat, it was instantly 
 suppressed : for the next moment she 
 pursued her way. 
 
 Camille stood gloomy and bitter, 
 awaiting her in silence. He planted 
 himself in the middle of the path. 
 
172 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 She looked him all over, and her 
 color came ami went. 
 
 "Out so far as tliis, Camille/' she 
 said, kindly. " Well done, but where 
 is your cap ? " 
 
 He jHit his hand to his head, and 
 discovered tiiat he was bareheaded. 
 
 " You will catch your death of 
 cold. Come, let us go in and get 
 your cap." 
 
 She made as if she would pass him. 
 He planted himself right belbrc her. 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Monsieur ! " 
 
 " You shun me." 
 
 " No, I do not shun you, Camille." 
 
 " You shun me." 
 
 " I have avoided conferences that 
 can lead to no good ; it is my duty." 
 
 " You are very wise : cold-hearted 
 people can be wise." 
 
 " Am I cold-hearted, Camille ? " 
 
 " As marble." 
 
 She looked him in the face; the 
 water came into her eyes : after a 
 while she whispered : — 
 
 " Well, Camille, I am." 
 
 " But, with all your wisdom and 
 all your coldness, you have made a 
 mistake : you have driven me to de- 
 spair." 
 
 " Heaven forbid ! " 
 
 " Your prayer comes too late ; you 
 have done it." 
 
 " Camille, let me go to the ora- 
 tory and pray for you. You terrify 
 me," 
 
 " Useless. Heaven has no mercy 
 for me. Take my advice, stay wdiere 
 you are, — don't Imrry, — since what 
 remains of your life you are to pass 
 with me, — do you understand 
 that ? " 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 " Can you read my riddle ? " 
 
 " I can read your eyes, and I 
 know you love me. I think you 
 mean to kill me. Men kill the thing 
 they love." 
 
 " Ay ! sooner than another should 
 have it, they kill it, — they kill it ! " 
 
 " God has not made them patient 
 like us women, — poor Camille ! " 
 
 " Patience dies when hope dies. 
 
 Come, Madame Raynal.saya prayer, 
 for you are going to die." 
 
 " Goil bless you, Camille!" said 
 the ])Oor girl, putting her hands to- 
 gether. 
 
 Camille hung his head, then, lashing 
 himself into lury, he ciied : — 
 
 " You are my betrothed, you talk 
 of duty, — but you forget your duty 
 to me. Are you not my betrothed 
 this four years ? Answer me that." 
 
 " Yes, Camille." 
 
 " Did I not suffer death a hundred 
 times for you, to keep faith witli you, 
 you cold-blooded traitress with an 
 angel's face." 
 
 " O Camille, why do you speak so 
 bitterly to me'? Have I denied your 
 right to kill me 1 You shall never 
 dishonor mc, but you shall kill me, 
 if it is your pleasure. I do not re- 
 sist. Why then speak to me like 
 that, — must the last w^ords I hear 
 from your mouth be words of anger, 
 cruel Camille ? " 
 
 " I was wrong. But it is hard to 
 kill her I love in cold blood. I want 
 anger as well as despair to keep me 
 to it ; well, turn your head away 
 from me." 
 
 " no, Camille, let me look at 
 you. Then you will be the last thing 
 I shall see on earth." 
 
 He hesitated a moment : then, with 
 a fierce stamp at his own weakness, 
 he levelled a pistol at her. 
 
 She put up her hands, with a pit- 
 eous cry : — 
 
 " 0, not my fiice, Camille ! pray 
 do not disfigure my face ! Here, — 
 kill me here, — in my bosom, — my 
 heart that loved you well, when it 
 was no sin to love you." 
 
 " I can't shoot you, I can't s])ill 
 your blood, Josephine." 
 
 " Poor Camille ! " 
 
 "This will end all, and not dis- 
 figure your beauty, that has driven 
 me mad, and cost you, poor wretch, 
 your life." 
 
 " Thank you, dear Camille. The 
 water docs not frighten me as a pis- 
 tol does, — it will not hurt me, — it 
 will only kill me." 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 173 
 
 " No, it is but a plunge, and you 
 will be at peace forever, — and so 
 shall I. Come. Take my hand, 
 Madame Raynal, — Madame Raynal, 
 — Madame Raynal ! " 
 
 " What, you too 1 " and she drew 
 back. " O Camille, my poor moth- 
 er ! and Laure, who loves me so ! " 
 
 "Ah! I forgot them." 
 
 He was silent a moment, then sud- 
 denly shrieked out : — 
 
 " Fly, Josephine, fly ! escape this 
 moment, that my better angel whis- 
 pers to me. Do you hear ? begone, 
 while it is time." 
 
 " I will not leave you, Camille." 
 
 " I say you shall. Go to your 
 mother and Laure, — go to those you 
 love, and I can bear you to love. Go 
 to the chapel, and thank Heaven for 
 your escape." 
 
 " I will not go Avithout you, Ca- 
 mille. I am afraid to leave you." 
 
 " You have more to fear if you 
 stay. 
 
 " Well, I can't wait any longer. 
 Stay, then, and learn from me how to 
 love." 
 
 He levelled the pistol at himself. 
 
 Josephine threw herself on him with 
 a cry, and seized his arm. They 
 struggled fiercely. It was not till 
 after a long and mighty effort that he 
 threw her oif. But he did throw her 
 otf, and raised the pistol rapidly to 
 take his life. 
 
 But this time, ere the deadly weap- 
 on could take effect, she palsied his 
 suicidal hand with a word : — 
 
 " No ! I LOVE TOU ! " 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 There lie the dead corpses of those 
 words on paper ; but O, my art is 
 powerless to tell you how they were 
 uttered, — those words, potent as a 
 king's, that saved a life. 
 
 They were a cry of terror ! 
 
 They were a cry of reproach ! 
 
 They were a cry of love unfathom- 
 able ! 
 
 The weapon shook in his hand. 
 He looked at her with growing aston- 
 ishment and joy. 
 
 She looked at him fixedly and anx- 
 iously, her hands clasped in supplica- 
 tion. 
 
 " Not as you used to love me ! " 
 
 " More, far more. Give me the 
 pistol. I love you, dearest ! I love 
 you ! " 
 
 At these delicious words he lost all 
 power of resistance ; her soft and sup- 
 ple hand closed upon his, and gently 
 withdrew the weapon and threw it 
 into the water. " Good, Camille ! — 
 now give me the other." 
 
 " How do you know there is anoth- 
 er 1 " 
 
 " You love me, Camille, — you 
 never meant to kill me and spare 
 yourself, — come." 
 
 " Josephine, 1 am so unhappy, — do 
 not deceive me, — pray do not take 
 this one from me, unless you really 
 love me." 
 
 " I love you, — I adore you ! " 
 
 She leaned her head on his shoul- 
 der, but with her hand she sought his, 
 and even as she uttered those loving 
 words she coaxed the weapon from his 
 now unresisting grasp. 
 
 " There, it is gone, you are saved 
 from death, — saved from worse, from 
 crime." The danger over, she trem- 
 bled for the first time, and sobbed hys- 
 terically. 
 
 He fell at her knees, and embraced 
 them again and again, and begged her 
 forgiveness in a transport of remorse 
 and self-reproach. 
 
 She looked down with tender pity 
 on him, and heard his cries of peni- 
 tence and shame. 
 
 " I think only of what you have to 
 suffer now." 
 
 " Let it come ! it will fall light on 
 me now. I thought I had lost your 
 love." 
 
 " No, it will not fall light on you 
 nor on me. Rise, Camille, and go 
 home with me," said she, faintly. 
 
 " Yes, Josephine." 
 
 They went slowly and in silence. 
 Camille was too ashamed and peni- 
 
174 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 tent to speak, — too full of terror, too, 
 at tlie ahvss of ciiine from which he 
 liad hocn saved. Tlie anticnts fcii^ned 
 that a vir;::ni couUl sultduc a lion ; 
 they meant by this that a pure gentle 
 nauire can subthie a nature tierce but 
 generous. Lion-like, Caniille walked 
 by Jose|>hine's side with his eyes bent 
 on the ground, a picture of humility 
 and ])L'nitcnee. 
 
 " Caniille, this is the last walk you 
 and I shall take together." 
 
 " I know it. I have forfeited all 
 right to l)e by your side." 
 
 " My poor friend, will you never un- 
 derstand me ? You never stood higher 
 in my esteem than at this moment. 
 It is the avowal you have forced from 
 me that parts us. The man to whom 
 I have said, 'I — ' must not remain 
 beneath my husband's roof. Does 
 not your sense of honor agree with 
 mine ? " 
 
 " Josephine," faltered Camille, " it 
 does." 
 
 " To-morrow you must leave the 
 chateau." 
 
 " ]\Iust I, Josephine ? " 
 
 " What, you do not resist, you do 
 not break my heart by complaints, by 
 reproaches ? 1 " 
 
 " No, Josephine, — all is changed. 
 I thought you unfeeling: I thought 
 you were going to be happy with him, 
 — that was what maddened me." 
 
 " Camille, I pray daily you may be 
 happy, no matter how. But you and 
 I are not alike, dear as we are to one 
 another. Well, do not fear : I shall 
 never he happy, — will that soothe 
 you, Camille ? " 
 
 " Yes, Josephine, all is changed, the 
 words you have spoken have driven 
 the fiends out of my heart. I have 
 ncjthing to do now but to obey, you to 
 command, — it is your right. Since 
 you love me, dispose of me. Bid me 
 live : bid me die : bid me stay : bid 
 me go. I shall never <lisol)ey the an- 
 gel who loves me, — my only friend 
 upon the earth." 
 
 A single deep sob from Josephine 
 was all the answer. 
 
 " Why did you not trust me, be- 
 
 loved one ? Why did you not say to 
 me long ago, ' I love you, but 1 am 
 a wife; my husband is an honest sol- 
 dier, absent, and lighting for France : 
 I am the guardian of his honor and 
 my own : l^e just, be generous, be 
 seif-denying ; de))art and love me only 
 as angels love ' ? You gave me no 
 chance of showing that I too am a 
 person of honor." 
 
 " I was wrong, Camille. I think 1 
 should have trusted more to you. 
 But who would have thought you 
 could really doubt my love ? You 
 were ill : I could not bear you to go ^ 
 till you were well, quite well. I saw | 
 no other way to keep you but this, ' 
 to treat you wdth feigned coldness. 
 You saw the coldness, but not what 
 it cost me to maintain it. Yes, I was 
 unjust and inconsiderate, for I had 
 many furtive joys to sustain me : I 
 had you in my house under my care, 
 — that thought was always sweet, — I 
 had a hand in everything that was 
 for your good, your comfort. I helped 
 Jacintha make your soup and your 
 chocolate every day. I lined your 
 dressing-goAvn : I had always some 
 little thing or other to do for you. 
 Tiiese kept me up : I forgot in my 
 selfishness that you had none of these 
 supi:)orts, and that I w^as driving you 
 to despair. I am a foolish, disingen- 
 uous Avoman : I have been very culpa- 
 ble. Forgive me ! " 
 
 " Forgive you, angel of purity and 
 goodness ? I am alone to blame. 
 What right had I to doubt your 
 heart 1 1 knew the whole story of 
 your marriage, — I saw your sweet 
 pale fiice, — but I was not pure enough 
 to comprehend angelic virtue and un- 
 selfishness. Well, I am brought to 
 my senses. God has been very good to 
 me this day. He has saved me from — 
 there is but one thing for me to do, — 
 you bade me leave you to-morrow." 
 
 " I was very cruel." 
 
 "No! not cruel ; wise. But I will 
 be wiser. I shall go to-night." 
 
 " To-night, Camille ? " cried Jose- 
 phine, turning pale. 
 
 " Ay ! for to-night I am strong, — 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 175 
 
 to-moiTOw I may be weak. To-night 
 evei'jthing thrusts me on the right 
 path. To-morrow everytliing will 
 draw me from it. Do not cry, beloved 
 one, — you and I have a hard tight : 
 we must be true allies : Avhenever 
 one is weak, then is the time for the 
 other to be strong. I have been 
 weaker than you, to ray shame be it 
 said : but this is my liour of strength. 
 A light from heaven sliows me my 
 path. I am full of passion, but, like 
 you, I have honor. You are Raynal's 
 wife, — and — llaynal saved my life." 
 
 " Ah ! is it possible 1 When ? 
 where 1 — may Heaven bless him for 
 it!" 
 
 " So you see you were right, — 
 this is no place for one so little master 
 of himself as I am. I shall go to- 
 night." 
 
 "It is so late, — too late to get a 
 conveyance." 
 
 " I need none to carry my sword, 
 my epaulets, and my love for you. 
 I shall go on foot." 
 
 Josephine raised no more objec- 
 tions : she walked slower and slower. 
 
 " Thank you, beloved one," said 
 Camille. And so the unfortunate pair 
 came along creeping slowly with 
 drooping heads towards the gate of 
 the Pleasance. There their last walk 
 in this world must end. Many a man 
 and woman have gone to the scaffold 
 witli hearts less heavy and more hope- 
 ful than theirs. 
 
 " Dry your eyes, Josephine. They 
 are all out on the Pleasance." 
 
 " No, I will not dr}' my eyes," 
 cried Josephine, almost violently. 
 " I care for nothing now." 
 
 The baroness, the doctor, and Laure, 
 were all in the Pleasance ; and as the 
 pair came in every eye was bent on 
 Josephine. 
 
 She felt this, and at another time it 
 would have confused her ; but the 
 cold recklessness of despondency was 
 on her. Camille, on the other hand, 
 spite of his deep misery, felt a shudder 
 of misgiving. 
 
 " They are all looking out for us," 
 said he to himself : he had a vague, un- 
 
 reasonable fear that they suspected 
 him ; thought Josephine unsafe in his 
 company. He stood with downcast 
 eyes. 
 
 Nobody took any notice of him. 
 
 The baroness with a trembling 
 voice said to Josephine : — 
 
 " Come with me, my poor child " ; 
 and drew her apart. 
 
 Laure followed them with her eyes 
 bent on the ground. 
 
 The doctor paced up and down 
 with a sad and troubled face. 
 
 Even he took no notice of Camille. 
 
 So at last Camille came to him, and 
 said : — 
 
 "]\Ionsieur, the time is come that 
 I must once more thank you for all 
 your goodness to me, and bid you 
 farewell." 
 
 " What, are you going before your 
 strength is re-established 1 " 
 
 " 1 am out of all danger, thanks to 
 your skill." 
 
 " Colonel, at another time I should 
 insist upon your staying a day or two 
 longer ; but now, — ah ! colonel, you 
 came to a happy house, but you leave 
 a sad one. Poor Madame Raynal ! ! " 
 
 " Monsieur ! " 
 
 " You saw the baroness draw her 
 aside." 
 
 " Y-yes." 
 
 " By this time she knows all." 
 
 " Monsieur, you torture me. In 
 Heaven's name f what do you mean 1 ^' 
 
 " I forgot ; you do not know the 
 calamity that has fallen upon our be- 
 loved Josephine, — on the darling of 
 the house." 
 
 Camille turned cold ^ith apprehen- 
 sion. 
 
 But he said faintly : — 
 
 " No ; tell me ! — for Heaven's sake, 
 tell me ! " 
 
 " My poor friend," said the doctor, 
 solemnly, " her hcsbaxd is dead ! " 
 
 CHAPTER XXVHL 
 
 Camille realized nothing at first: 
 he looked all confused in the doc- 
 
176 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 tor's face, and was silent. Then 
 after a while ho said : — 
 
 "What? Who? Dead?" 
 
 " Raynal has heen killed *nn ac- 
 tion." 
 
 A red flusli came to Camille's face, 
 and his eyes went down to tlie <;round 
 at his very foet, nor did he once raise 
 tliem while tlie doctor told him how 
 the sad news had come. 
 
 " Ficard tlic notary brought us the 
 Monitenr, and there was poor Raynal 
 among the killed in a cavalry skir- 
 mish ; and, — oh ! my friend, would 
 you hclicA-c it ? — there was another 
 Kaynal in tliis same action, — a 
 Colonel Raynal. lie was only wound- 
 ed ; but Commandant Raynal — our 
 Raynal, our hero, our benefactor, our 
 mainstay — must be killed. Ah ! 
 we arc unfortunates ! You share our 
 sorrow, colonel ? He was an old com- 
 rade of yours, — poor fellow ! " 
 
 " He saved mjj life." 
 
 Camille's eyes never left his feet. 
 
 " Excuse me, colonel ; I must go to 
 my poor friend the baroness. She 
 had a mother's love for him who is no 
 more, — well she might." 
 
 St Aubin went away, and left Du- 
 jardin standing there like a statue, 
 his eyes still glued to the ground at 
 his feet. 
 
 The doctor was no sooner out of 
 sight, than Camille raised his eyes 
 furtively, like a guilty person, and 
 looked irresolutely this way and that : 
 at last he went in and got his cap, then 
 came out again and went back to the 
 jdace where he had meditated suicide 
 and murder : looked down at it a long 
 while, — then looked up to heaven, — 
 then fell suddeidy on his knees, — and 
 so remained till niglitfall. 
 
 Then he came back to the chateau. 
 
 He said to himself: "And it is 
 too late to go away to-night." He 
 went softly into the saloon. No- 
 body was there l)ut Laure and St. 
 Aul)in. At sight of him Laure rose 
 and left the room. She returned in a 
 few minutes, and rang the ])ell, and 
 ordered some supj)er to be brought up 
 for Colonel Dujardin. 
 
 " You have not dined," said she, 
 coldly. 
 
 " 1 was afraid you were gone alto- 
 gether," said the doctor. " He told 
 me he was going this evening, Laure. 
 You had better stay fiuict another 
 day or two," added he, kindly. 
 
 " Do you think so '? " said Camille, 
 timidly. 
 
 The baroness drew Josephine aside, 
 and tried to break to her the sad 
 news : but her own grief overcame her, 
 and bursting into tears she bewailed 
 the loss of her son. Josephine was 
 greatly shocked. Death! — Raynal 
 dead, — her true, kind friend dead, — 
 her benefactor dead. She clung to 
 her mother's neck, and sobbed with 
 her. Presently she withdrew her face 
 and suddenly hid it in both her hands. 
 
 She rose and kissed her mother 
 once more, and went to her own 
 room ; and then, though there Avas 
 none to see her, she hid her wet but 
 burning cheeks in her hands. 
 
 Josephine confined herself for some 
 days to her own room, leaving it 
 only to go to the chapel in the park, 
 where she spent hours in prayers for 
 the dead and in self-humiliation. 
 Her "tender conscience" accused 
 herself bitterly for not having loved 
 this gallant spirit more than she had. 
 
 Camille, too, was not free from self- 
 reproach. 
 
 He said to himself: "Did I wish 
 him dead ? I hope I never formed 
 such a thought ! I don't remember 
 ever Avishing him dead." And he 
 went twice a day to that place by the 
 stream, and thought very solemnly 
 what a terrible thing ungoverned pas- 
 sion is; and rejiented, — not elo- 
 quently, but silently, sincerely. But 
 soon his im])aticnt spirit began to 
 torment itself a^ain. Why did Josc- 
 jjhine shun him now ? Ah ! she loved 
 Raynal now that he was dead. AYo- 
 mcn love the thing they have lost ; so 
 he had heard say. In that case tiic 
 very sight of him would of course I)e 
 odious to her : he could understand 
 that. The absolute unreasoning faith 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 177 
 
 he once had in her had been so rudely 
 shaken by her marriage with Raynal, 
 that now he could only believe just so 
 much as he saw, and he saw that she 
 shunned him. 
 
 He became moody, sad, and discon- 
 solate ; and as Josephine shunned 
 him, so he avoided all the others, and 
 wandered for hours by himself, per- 
 plexed and miserable. After a while, 
 he became conscious that he was un- 
 der a sort of surveillance. Laure de 
 Bcaui-cpaire, who had been so kind to 
 him when he was confined to his own 
 room, but had taken little notice of 
 him since he came down, now resumed 
 her care of him, and evidently made it 
 her business to keep up his heart. 
 She used to meet him out walking in 
 a mysterious way, and, in short, be 
 always falling in with hira and trying 
 to cheer him up, with very partial 
 success. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 Edouard Riviere retarded his 
 cure by an impatient spirit; but he 
 got well at last, and his uncle drove 
 him in the cabriolet to his own quar- 
 ters. He had received one letter from 
 Laure, one from the baroness, and 
 two from St. Aubin ; and in these let- 
 ters the news of the house had been 
 told him, but, of course, in so vague 
 and general a way that, thinking he 
 knew all, in reality he knew nothing. 
 
 Josephine had married Raynal. 
 The marriage was sudden, but no 
 dou!)t there was an attachment : lie 
 believed in sudden attachments : he 
 had some reason to. Colonel Diyar- 
 din, an old acquaintance, had come 
 back to France wounded, and the 
 good doctor had undertaken his cure : 
 this incident appeared neither strange 
 nor anyway important. What affect- 
 ed him niost deeply was the death of 
 Raynal, his personal friend and patron. 
 But when his tyrants, as he called the 
 surgeon and his uncle, gave him leave 
 to go home, all feelings were over- 
 powered by his great joy at the pros- 
 8* 
 
 pect of seeing Laure. He walked 
 over to Beaurepaire, his arm in a sling, 
 his heart beating. He was coming to 
 receive the reward of all he had done, 
 and all he had attempted. " I will 
 surprise them," thought he. " I will 
 see her face when I come in at the 
 door : O happy hour ! this pays for 
 all." He entered the house Avithout 
 announcing himself ; he went softly 
 up to the saloon ; to his great disap- 
 pointment he found no one. but the 
 baroness ; she received him kindly, 
 but not with the warmth he expectetl. 
 She was absorbed in her new grief. 
 He asked timidly after her daughters. 
 " ISIadame Raynal bears up, for the 
 sake of others. You will not, how- 
 ever, see her : she keeps her room. 
 My daughter Laure is taking a walk, 
 I believe." Al'ter some polite inqui- 
 ries, and sympathy with his accident, 
 the baroness retired to indulge her 
 grief, an^ Edouard thus liberated ran 
 in search of his beloved. 
 
 He had not far to go. 
 
 He met her at the gate of the Pleas- 
 ance, but not alone. She was walk- 
 ing with an officer, — a handsome, 
 commanding, haughty, brilliant offi- 
 cer. She was walking by his side, 
 talking earnestly to him. 
 
 An arrow of ice shot through young 
 Riviere ; and then came a feeling of 
 death at liis heart, a new symptom in 
 his young life. 
 
 The next moment Laure caught 
 siglit of him. She flushed all over, 
 and uttered a little exclamation, and 
 she bounded towards him like a little 
 antelope, and put out both her hands 
 at once. He could only give her one. 
 
 " Ah ! " she cried, with an accent of 
 heavenly pity, and took his hand with 
 both hers. 
 
 This was like the meridian sun 
 coming suddenly on a cold place. 
 His misgivings could not stand against 
 it. 
 
 When Josephine heard he was 
 come, her eye flashed, and she said, 
 quickly : — 
 
 " I w^ill come down to welcome 
 him, — dear Edouard ! " 
 
178 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 The sisters looked at one another. 
 Josopliinc 1j1u>1rm1. Laure smiled and 
 kissed lier. !She eolored hiy:her still. 
 
 When the time eame, Josephine 
 hesitated. 
 
 "lam ashamed to <ro down." 
 
 MVhy?" 
 
 " Look at my face ! " 
 
 " I see nothing wronj::^ with it, ex- 
 cept that it eclipses other people's : 
 there is that inconvenience." 
 
 *' yes, dear Lanre : look what a 
 color it has, and a fortnight ago it was 
 pale as ashes." 
 
 " Never mind ; do you expect me 
 to regret it i " 
 
 " Lanre, I am a very bad woman I " 
 
 " Are you, dear ? — hook this for 
 me." 
 
 " Yes, love ! But I sometimes 
 think you would forgive me, if you 
 knew iiow hard I pray to be better. 
 Laure, I do try so to be as unhappy 
 as I ought; but I can't, — »I can't! 
 ;RIy heart seems as dead to unhap])i- 
 ress, as once it was to happiness ; am 
 I a heartless Avoman, after all ? " 
 
 " Not altogether," said Laure, dry- 
 ly. " Fasten my collar, dear ; and 
 don't torment yourself You have 
 suffered much and nobly. It was Heav- 
 en's will : you bowed to it. It was 
 not Heaven's will that you should be 
 blighted altogether. Bow in this, too, 
 to Heaven's will ; take things as they 
 come, and cease to try to reconcile feel- 
 ings that arc too opposite to live to- 
 gether." 
 
 "Ah ! these are such comfortable 
 words, Laure ; but mamma will see 
 this dreadful color in my cheek, and 
 what can I say to her ? " 
 
 " Ten to one it will not bcobsen'ed ; 
 and, if it should, I will say it is the 
 excitement of seeing Edouard. Leave 
 all to me." 
 
 Jfjsephine greeted Edouard most 
 affeetifjnately, drew from him his 
 wl)ol(! history, and jtetti'd him and 
 sympathized with him delieiously, and 
 made him the hero of the evening. 
 Camille, who was not naturally of a 
 ji-alous temper, bore this very well at 
 iirst ; but at last he looked so bitter 
 
 at her neglect of him, that Laure took 
 liim aside to soothe him, Edouard, 
 missing the auditor he most valued, 
 and seeing her in secret conference 
 with the brilliant colonel, felt a re- 
 turn of the jealous pangs that had 
 seized him at first sight of the man : 
 and so they played at cross-purposes. 
 
 At another j)eriod of the evening 
 the conversation became more gener- 
 al, and Edouard took a dislike to Col- 
 onel Dujardin. A young man of 
 twenty-eight nearlv always looks on 
 a boy of twenty-one with the air of a 
 superior, and this assumption, not be- 
 ing an ill-natured one, is apt so be so 
 easy and so undefined, that the young- 
 er hardly knows how to resent or to 
 resist it. But Edouard was a little 
 vain, as we know; and the colonel 
 jarred him terribly. His quick, 
 haughty eye jarred him. His regi- 
 mentals jarred him : they fitted like 
 a glove. His mustache and his 
 manner jarred him ; and, worst of all, 
 his cool familiarity Avith Laure, who 
 seemed to court liim rather than be 
 courted b}- him. He ]}ut this act of 
 Laure 's to the colonel's account, ac- 
 j cording to the custom of lovers, and 
 revenged himself in a small way by 
 telling Josephine in her car, " that the 
 colonel produced on his mind the ef- 
 fect of a puppy." 
 
 Josephine colored up, and looked 
 at him with a momentary surprise : 
 she said quietly : " Military men do 
 give themselves some airs, — but he 
 is very amiable at bottom, — at least 
 so Laure says, — so they aH say. 
 You must make acquaintance with 
 him, and then he will reveal to you 
 his nol)ler qualities." " O, I have 
 no particular desire," sneered Ed- 
 ouard. Josephine said nothing, but 
 soon after she quietly turned Ed- 
 ouard over to St. Aubin, while she 
 joined Laure, and under cover of her 
 Iiad a sweet, timid chat with her false- 
 ly accused. 
 
 This occupied the two so entirely, 
 that iMlouard made his adieus to the 
 baroness, and marched off in dud- 
 geon unobserved. 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 179 
 
 Laure missed him first, but said 
 nothing-. 
 
 When Josephine saw he was gone, 
 she uttered a little exclamation, and 
 looked at Laure. Laure put on a 
 mien of haughty inditierence, but the 
 water was in her eyes. 
 
 Josephine looked soiTOwful. 
 
 When they talked over everything 
 together at night, she reproached her- 
 self. " We behaved ill to poor Ed- 
 ouard ; we neglected him." 
 
 " He is a little, cross, ill-tempered 
 fellow," said Laure, pettishly. 
 
 " no ! no ! " 
 
 "And as vain as a peacock." 
 
 " Laure, in this house has he not 
 some right to be vain ? " 
 
 " Yes, — no. I am very angry 
 with him. I won't hear a word in his 
 favor," said Laure, pouting : then she 
 gave his defender a kiss. " Yes, dear," 
 said Josephine, answering the kiss, 
 and ignoring the words, "he is a 
 dear ; and he is not cross, nor so very 
 vain, poor boy, — now don't you see 
 what it was ? " 
 
 " No." 
 
 "Yes, you do, you little cunning 
 thing : you are too shrewd not to see 
 everything." 
 
 " No, indeed, Josephine, — do tell 
 me, — don't keep me waiting 1 " 
 
 " Well then, —jealous ! ! " 
 
 " Jealous 1 O, what fun, — who of ? 
 Of Camille 1 Ha ! ha ! Little goose ! " 
 
 "And, Laure, I almost think he 
 would be jealous of any one that occu- 
 pied your attention. I watched him." 
 
 " AH the better, I '11 torment my 
 lord." 
 
 " Heaven forbid you should be so 
 cruel." 
 
 " 0, I will not make him unhappy, 
 but I '11 tease him a little : it is not in 
 nature not to." 
 
 This foible detected in her lover, 
 Laure was very gay at the prospect 
 of amusement it afforded her. 
 
 And I think I have many readers 
 who at this moment are awaiting un- 
 mixed enjoyment and hilarity from 
 the same source. 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 Edouard called the next day : he 
 wore a gloomy air. Laure met this 
 with a particularly cheerful one ; on 
 this Edouard's face cleared up, and 
 he was himself again ; agreeable as 
 this was, Laure felt a little disappoint- 
 ed. " I am afraid he is not jealous, 
 after all," thought she. 
 
 Josephine left her room this day 
 and mingled once more Avith the fam- 
 ily. The bare sight of her was 
 enough for Camille at first ; but after 
 a while he wanted more. He Avanted 
 to be often alone with her, — but sev- 
 eral causes co-operated to make her 
 shy of giving him many such oppor- 
 tunities. Eirst her natural delicacy 
 coupled with her habit of self denial, 
 then her fear of shocking her mother, 
 and lastly her fear of her own heart, 
 and of Camille, whose power over her 
 she knew. Eor Camille, when he did 
 get a sweet word alone with her, 
 seemed to forget eA-erything except 
 that she Avas his betrothed, and that 
 he had come back aliA'e to marry her. 
 He spoke to her of his love Avith an 
 ardor and an urgency that made her 
 thrill Avith happiness, and at the same 
 time shrink Avith a certain fear and 
 self-reproach. Possessed Avith a feel- 
 ing no stronger than hers, but single, 
 he did not comprehend the tumult, 
 the trouble, the daily contest in her 
 heart. The wind seemed to him to 
 be always changing, and hot and cold 
 the same hour. Since he did not 
 CA'en see that she Avas acting in hourly 
 fear of her mother's eye, he Avas little 
 likely to penetrate her more hidden 
 sentiments; and then he had not 
 touched her key-note, — self-denial. 
 
 Women are self-denying and un- 
 candid. Men are self-indulgent and 
 outspoken. 
 
 And this is the key to a thousand 
 double misunderstandings ; for good 
 women are just as stupid in misunder- 
 standing men, as good men are in 
 misunderstanding Avomen. 
 
 To Camille, Josephine's fluctuations, 
 joys, tremors, love, terror, modesty, 
 seemed one grand total caprice. The 
 component parts of it he saw not ; 
 
180 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 nnd hor caprice tortured him almost 
 to madness. Too ])riiitcnt to j,nvc 
 way again to violent ])assion, lie 
 fretted. His health retrograded, and 
 his temper hegan to sour. The eye 
 of timid love that watehed him with 
 maternal anxiety from under its long 
 lashes saw tliis with dismay, — and 
 Laure, who looked into lier sister's 
 bosom, devoted herself onee more to 
 soothe him without compromising Jo- 
 sephine's delicacy, llenee ai'ose mys- 
 tification No. 3. Kiviere's natural 
 jealousy being once awakened found 
 constant food in the attention Laure 
 paid Camille. The false position of 
 all the parties brought about some 
 singular turns. I give from their num- 
 ber one that forms a link, though a 
 small one, in my narrative. 
 
 One day, Edouard found Laure 
 alone in the Pleasance ; she received 
 him with a radiant smile, nnd they had 
 a charming talk, a talk all about 1dm; 
 Avhat the family owed him, etc. 
 
 On this, his late jealousy and sense 
 of injury seemed a thing of three 
 years ago, and never to return, 
 
 Jacintha came with a message from 
 the colonel, " AVouId it be agreeable 
 to Mademoiselle Laure to walk with 
 him at the usual hour ? " 
 
 " Certainly, said Laure." 
 
 As Jacintha was retiring Edouard 
 called to her to stop a minute. 
 
 " ]May I beg you to reconsider that 
 determination'?" said he to Laure, 
 politely. 
 
 " What determination ? " 
 
 " To sacrifice me to this Colonel 
 Dujardin ? " still politely, only a little 
 grimly. 
 
 Laure opened her eyes. " Are you 
 mad ? " inquired she, with quiet hau- 
 teur. 
 
 " Neither mad nor a fool," was the 
 reply. " I love you too well to share 
 your regard with any one, upon any 
 terms ; least of all upon these, that 
 there is to be a man in the world, at 
 whose beck and call you are to be, 
 and at whose orders you are to break 
 « I'mii interview with me. Perdition ! " 
 
 " Eduuard, what folly. Can you 
 
 suspect me of discourtesy, as well as 
 of — I know not what. Colonel Du- 
 jardin will join us, that is all, and wo 
 shall take a little walk with him." 
 
 "Not I; I decline the intrusion: 
 you are engaged with me, and I have 
 things to say to you that are not fit 
 for that puppy to hear. Choose there- 
 fore between me and him, and choose 
 forever." 
 
 Laure colored, but smiled. "I 
 should be very sorry to choose either 
 of you forever, but for this afternoon 
 I ehoose you." 
 
 " O, thank you, — my whole life 
 shall prove my gratitude for this pref- 
 erence." 
 
 Laure beckoned Jacintha, and sent 
 her with an excuse to Captain Dujar- 
 din. She then turned with an air of 
 mock submission to Edouard. " I 
 am at monsieur's orders." 
 
 Edouard, radiant with triumph, and 
 naturally good-natured, thanked her 
 again and again for her condescension 
 in setting his heart at rest. He pro- 
 posed a Avalk, since his interference 
 had lost her one. She yielded a cold 
 assent. This vexed him, but he took 
 for granted it would wear oflr' before 
 the end of the walk. Edouard 's heart 
 bounded, but he loved her too sin- 
 cerely to be happy unless he could sec 
 her ha])py too : the malicious thing 
 saw this, or peihaps knew it by in- 
 stinct, and by means of this good feel- 
 ing of his she revenged herself for his 
 tyranny. She tortured him as only a 
 Avoman can torture, and as even she 
 can torture only a Avorthy man, and 
 one Avho loves her. In the course of 
 that short Avalk this inexperienced 
 girl, strong in the instincts and inborn 
 arts of her sex, drove pins and needles, 
 needles and pins, of all sorts and sizes, 
 through her loA'cr's heart. 
 
 She Avas everything by turns, ex- 
 cei)t kind, — and nothing for long 
 together. She Avas peevish, she Avas 
 ostentatiously patient and submissive, 
 she Avas inatteniive to her companion, 
 and seemingly wrapped up in contem- 
 platit)U of absent things and ])ersons, 
 the colonel, to Avit. She was dogged. 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 181 
 
 repulsive, and as cold as ice ; and she 
 never was herself a single moment. 
 They returned to the gate of the 
 Pleasance. " Well, mademoiselle," 
 said Riviere, very sadly, " that inter- 
 loper might as well have been with 
 us." 
 
 " Of course he might, and you would 
 have lost nothing by permitting me 
 to be courteous to a guest and an in- 
 valid. If you had not played the 
 tyraiit, and taken tlie matter into your 
 own hands, I should have found means 
 to soothe your zeal, your vanity : 
 but you preferred to have your own 
 way. Well, you have had it." 
 
 " Yes, mademoiselle, you have given 
 me a lesson ; you have shown me 
 how idle it is to attempt to force a 
 young lady's inclinations in anything. 
 I shall not however offend again ; for 
 I am going away." 
 
 " O, are you ? " She did not believe 
 him. 
 
 " Yes, mademoiselle. I am sorry 
 to say I am promoted." 
 
 " Sorry you are jjromoted ? " 
 
 " I mean I was sorry this morning ; 
 because my new post is ten leagues 
 from Beaurepaire ; but now I am not 
 sorry, for, were I to stay here, I fore- 
 sec you would soon lose whatever 
 friendly feeling you have for me." 
 
 " I am, then, very changeable. I 
 am not considered so," remonstrated 
 Laure, gently. 
 
 Riviere explained : "I am not vain, 
 no man less so, nor am I jealous : but 
 I respect myself, and I could never be 
 content to share your time and your 
 regard Avith Colonel Dujardin, or with 
 a much better man." 
 
 " Monsieur," began Laure, angrily. 
 Then she reflected. " Monsieur Ed- 
 ouard," said she, kindly, "if you were 
 not going to leave us (only for a time, 
 I trust), "I should be angry, and let 
 you think — any nonsense, and so vex 
 yourself and affront me monsieur : 
 but it is no time for teasing you : my 
 friend, be reasonable, — be just to 
 yourself and me, — do not give way 
 to ridiculous fancies : do not raise 
 to a false importance this poor man, 
 
 who is nothing to you, nothing to me, 
 upon my honor." 
 
 " Dear Mademoiselle Laure," said 
 Edouard, " see what this person, who, 
 after your words, I am bound to be- 
 lieve is indifferent to you, has done. 
 He has made me arrogant and impe- 
 rious to you. Was I ever so before ? " 
 
 " No ! no ! no ! and I forgive you 
 now, my poor friend." 
 
 " He has made you cold as ice to 
 me?" 
 
 " No ! that was my own wickedness 
 and spitefulness." 
 
 " Wickedness, spitefulness ! they 
 are not in your nature. It is all this 
 wretch's doing." 
 
 Laure sighed, but she said nothing : 
 for she saw that to excuse Camille 
 Avould only make the jealous one 
 more bitter against him. 
 
 " Will you deign to write to me at 
 my new post '? once a month ? in an- 
 swer to my letters ? " 
 
 " Yes, my friend. But you will 
 ride over sometimes to see us." 
 
 " yes : but for some little time I 
 shall not be able. The duties of a 
 new post." 
 
 " I understand — well, then — in a 
 fortnight or so ? " 
 
 "■ Sooner perhaps, — the moment that 
 man is out of the house.'' 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 " Laure, dear, you have not walked 
 with him at all to-day." 
 
 " No : you must pet him yourself 
 to-day. I hate the sight of him." 
 
 " What has he done % " 
 
 " He has done nothing : but it has 
 made mischief between Edouard and 
 me, my being so attentive to him. 
 Edouard is jealous, and I cannot 
 wonder. After all, what right have I 
 to mystify him who honors me with 
 his affection ? " 
 
 Then, being pressed with questions 
 by Josephine, she related to her all 
 that had passed between Edouard and 
 her, word for word. •^ 
 
182 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 Josephine. "Poor Camillc ! " 
 
 Liunr. " O yes ! poor Camille ! 
 ■who has tlie powoi- to make us all 
 miserable, and who docs it, and will 
 do it, until he is haii))y himself." 
 
 "Ah! would to lieaven 1 could 
 make liiui as happy as he deserves to 
 be." 
 
 " You could easily do that. And 
 why not do it ? " 
 
 " Laure, you know very well what 
 sacred feelinj^s withhold me. Laure, 
 tell me, do you think it is really pos- 
 sible Camilie^oes not really know my 
 heart, and all the feelings that strive 
 in it 1 " 
 
 " My sister, these men arc absurd : 
 they believe only Avhat they see. I 
 have done Avhat I can for you and 
 Camille ; but it is useless. Would 
 you have him believe you love him, 
 you must yourself be kind to him ; 
 and it would be a charitable action, — 
 . you would make four unhappy people 
 happy, or at least put them on the 
 road : tiow they are oft" the road, and, 
 by what I have seen today, I think, 
 if we go on so a little longer, it will 
 be too late to try to return. Come, 
 Josephine, for my sake ! " 
 
 " Ah ! you say this out of kindness 
 tome, — and to me alone." 
 
 " No, indeed, I am thinking of my- 
 self. He will make us all miserable 
 for life if he is not made happy di- 
 rectly." 
 
 " If I thought that, I could almost 
 consent." 
 
 " To be happy yourself? " 
 
 " I will remonstrate with him for 
 his unkinduess to me, — in being mis- 
 erable." 
 
 "Josephine, I will go and tell him 
 what you say." 
 
 " Stay, Laure." 
 
 " No! I will not stay. There, the 
 crime is mine." 
 
 Latu-e returned the next minute. 
 
 " There," she cried, " he is going 
 away." 
 
 Josephine started. 
 
 " Going away 1 Impossible ! " 
 
 " Yes ! he is in his r0(uu, |)a(king 
 up hio tSngs to go. I spied through 
 
 the old place and saw him. He was 
 sighing like a furnace as he strapped 
 his portmanteau. I hate him, — but 
 I was sorry for him. I could not help 
 being." 
 
 Josephine turned pale, and lifted 
 her hands in surprise and dismay. 
 
 " Depend on it, Josephine, we arc 
 wrong," said Laure, firmly : " these 
 wretches will not stand our nonsense 
 above a certain time, — and they are 
 right. My sister, we are misnuuuig- 
 ing : one gone, — the other going, — 
 both losing faith in us." 
 
 Josephine's color returned to her 
 cheek, and then mounted high. Pres- 
 ently she smiled, a smile full of con- 
 scious power and furtive com2)lacency. 
 
 " He will not go." 
 
 Laure was pleased, but not sur- 
 prised, to hear her sister .speak so 
 confidently, for she knew her power 
 over Camille. 
 
 " That is right. Go to him, and 
 say two words, 'I bid you stay.'" 
 
 " O Laure ! no ! " 
 
 " Poltroon ! You know he would 
 go down on his knees, and stay di- 
 rectly." 
 
 " No : I should blush all my life 
 before you and him. I could not. I 
 should let him go sooner, almost. O 
 no ! I will never ask a man to stay 
 who wishes- to leave me." 
 
 " Well ! but you said just noAV — " 
 
 " Laure, dear, go to him, and say 
 Madame Kaynal is going to take a lit- 
 tle walk : will he do her the honor 
 to be her companion? Not a word 
 more, if you love me." 
 
 " I go ! Hypocrite ! " 
 
 Josephine received Camille with a 
 bright smile. She Avas in unusually 
 good spirits, and overHowing with 
 kindness and innocent aftection. On 
 this his gloomy brow^ relaxed, and all 
 his prospects l)rightened as by magic. 
 Then she communicated to him a 
 number of little plans for next week 
 and the week afier. Among the rest 
 he was to go with her and Laure to 
 Fre j us. 
 
 " Such a sweet place, Camille : 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 183 
 
 I must show it you. You will 
 come 1 " 
 
 He hesitated a single moment : a 
 moment of intense anxiety to the 
 smiling Josephine. 
 
 "Yes! he would come, — it was a 
 great teraptatiou, — he saw so little of 
 her." 
 
 " You will see more of me now, Ca- 
 mille ! " 
 
 " Shall I see you every day, — alone, 
 I mean ? " 
 
 " O yes, if you wish it," replied 
 Josephine, in "an off-hand, indifferent 
 way. 
 
 He seized her hand and devoured it 
 with kisses. 
 
 " Foolish Camille ! " murmured 
 she, looking down on him with inef- 
 fable tenderness. " Should I not be 
 always witli you if 1 consulted my in- 
 clination ? let me go." 
 
 " No ! consult your inclination a 
 little longer." 
 
 " Must I ? " 
 
 " Yes ; that shall be your punish- 
 ment for — humph ! " 
 
 " For what ] What have I done ? " 
 asked she, with an air of great inno- 
 cence. 
 
 "You have made me happy, me 
 who adore you." 
 
 Josephine came in from her walk 
 with a high color and beaming eyes. 
 
 " Run, Laure ! " 
 
 On this concise, and to us not very 
 clear instruction, Laure slipped up 
 the secret stair. She saw Camille 
 come in and gravely unpack his little 
 portmanteau, and dispose his things 
 in the drawers with soldierlike neat- 
 ness, and hum an agreeable march. 
 
 She came and told Josephine. 
 
 " Ah ! " said Josephine, with a lit- 
 tle sigh of pleasure, and a gentle tri- 
 umph in her eyes. 
 
 She had not only got her desire, 
 but had arrived at it her way, — wo- 
 man's way, — roundabout. 
 
 This adroit benevolence led to more 
 than she bargained for. 
 
 She and Camille were now together 
 every day : and their hearts, being 
 under restraint in public, melted to- 
 
 gether all the more in their stolen in- 
 terviews. JNIuch that passed between 
 these true lovers may well be left to 
 the imagination. 
 
 At the third delicious interview 
 Camille Dujardin begged Josephine 
 to be his wife directly. 
 
 Have you noticed those half-tame 
 deer that come up to you in a park so 
 lovingly, with great tender eyes, and, 
 being now almost within reach, stop 
 short, and, with bodies fixed like stat- 
 ues on pedestals, crane out their 
 graceful necks for sugar, or bread, or 
 a chestnut, or a pocket-handkerchief ? 
 Do but offer to put your hand i^)0U 
 them, away they bound that moment 
 twenty yards, and then stand quite 
 still, and look at your hand and you, 
 with great inquiring, suspicious, ten- 
 der eyes. 
 
 So' Josephine started at Camille's 
 audacious proposal. 
 
 " Never mention such a thing to me 
 again: or — or, I will not walk with 
 you any more " : then she thrilled 
 with pleasure at the obnoxious idea, 
 " she Camille's wife ! " and colored 
 all over, — : with rage, Camille thought. 
 He promised submissively not to re- 
 new the topic : no more he did till 
 next day. 
 
 The interval Josephine had spent in 
 thinking of it. 
 
 Therefore she was prepared to put 
 him down by calm reasons. She pro- 
 ceeded to do so, gently, but firmly. 
 
 Lo and behold, what does he do, 
 but meets her with just as many rea- 
 sons, and just as calm ones ; and 
 urges them gently but firmly. 
 
 Heaven had been very kind to 
 them : why should they be unkind to 
 themselves ? They had had a great 
 escape : why not accept the happi- 
 ness, as, being persons of honor, they 
 had accepted the misery ? with many 
 other arguments, differing in other 
 things, but agreeing in this, that they 
 were all sober, grave, and full of 
 common sense. 
 
 Finding him not defenceless on the 
 score of reason, she shifted her 
 ground and appealed to his delicacy. 
 
184 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 On this he appealed to her love, and 
 tlicn calni roasoiL was jostled off the 
 iield, and passion and sentiment bat- 
 tled in her jjlaee. 
 
 In these eon tests, day by day re- 
 newed, C'aniille had many advantac^es. 
 
 Laure, though she did not like him, 
 had now deelared on his side. She 
 i-efused to show him the least atten- 
 tion. This threw him on Josephine ; 
 and when Josephine begged her to 
 help reduee Camiile to reason, her 
 answer would run thus : — 
 
 " Hypoeiite ! " with a kiss : or else 
 she would say, with a half-comic pct- 
 ulaitte : " No ! no ! I am on his side. 
 Give him his own way or he will 
 make us all four miserable." 
 
 Thus Josephine's ally went over to 
 the enemy. 
 
 And then this coy young lady's 
 very power of resistance began to give 
 •way. She had now battled for 
 months against her own heart: first, 
 for her mother ; then, in a far more 
 terrible contlict for Raynal, for honor 
 and purity ; and of late she had been 
 battling, still against her own heart, 
 for delicacy, for etiquette, things very 
 dear to her, but not so great, holy, and 
 sustaining as honor and charity that 
 were her very household gods : and 
 so, just when the motives of resist- 
 ance %vere lowered, the length of the 
 resistance began to wear her out. 
 
 For nothing is so hard to her sex as 
 a long, steady .struggle. In matters 
 physical, this is the thing the muscles 
 of the fair cannot stand. 
 
 In matters intellectiud and moral, 
 the long strain it is that beats them 
 dead. Do not look for a Bacona, a 
 Newtona, a Handella, a Victoria 
 Huga. 
 
 Some American ladies tell us edu- 
 cation has stopped the growth of 
 these. 
 
 No ! mesdaraes. These are not in 
 nature. 
 
 They can bubble letters in ten min- 
 utes that you could no more deliver 
 to order in ten days than a river can 
 ])lay like a fountain. They can spar- 
 kle gems of stories : they can iLaah. 
 
 little diamonds of poems. The entire 
 sex has never ])roduced one opera nor 
 one epic that mankind could tolerate 
 a minute : and why ? — these come by 
 long, high-strung labor. But, weak 
 as they are in the long run of every- 
 thing but the affections (and there 
 giants), they are all overjiowering 
 while their gallop lasts. Fragilla 
 shall dance any two of you flat on the 
 floor before four o'clock, and then 
 dance on till ])eep of day. 
 
 You trundle off to your business as 
 usual, and could dance again the next 
 night, and so on through countless 
 ages. 
 
 She who danced you into nothing 
 is in bed, a human jelly crowned with 
 headache. 
 
 What did Josephine say to Laure 
 one day ? " I am tired of saying 
 ' No ! no ! no ! no ! no ! ' for ever and 
 ever to him I love." She added, com- 
 bining two leading ideas in one phrase 
 as it is not given the rude logical sex 
 to do, " I am weary of all this cruelty." 
 
 But this was not all. She was not 
 free from self-reproach. Camille's 
 faith in her had stood tiim. Hers in 
 him had not. She had wronged him, 
 first by believing him false, tlicn by 
 marrying another. One day she 
 asked his pardon for this, lie re- 
 plied : — 
 
 " I have forgiven that, Josephine ; 
 but why not make me forget it ? " 
 
 " I wish I could." 
 
 " You can. jMarr}-^ me : then your 
 relations with that man will seem but 
 a hideous dream. I shall be able to 
 say, looking at you my wife, — ' I was 
 fiiithful, — I suffered something for 
 her, — I came home, — she loved me 
 still, — the ])roof is, she was my wife 
 within three months of my return." 
 
 When he said that to her in the 
 rieasance, if there had been a priest 
 at hand — In a word Josejdiine 
 longed to show him her love, yet 
 wished not to shock her mother, or 
 otlt'iid her own sense of delicacy. 
 
 Camiile cared for nothing but his 
 love. To sacrifice love and happiness, 
 even for a time, to etiquette, seemed 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 185 
 
 to him to be trifling -vnth the sub- 
 stance of great things for the shadow 
 of petty things ; and he said so : 
 sometimes sadly, sometimes almost 
 bitterly. 
 
 Here then was a beleaguered fortress 
 attacked with one will, and defended 
 by troops one third of v/hich were hot 
 on the side of the besieger. 
 
 Here was a heart divided against 
 itself, attacked by a single heart. 
 
 When singleness attacks division, 
 you know the result beforehand. 
 Why then should I spin words ? I 
 will not trace so ill-matched a contest, 
 step by step, sentence by sentence ; let 
 me rather hasten to relate the one pe- 
 culiarity that arose out of this trite 
 contest, where, under the names of 
 Camille and Josephine, the two great 
 sexes may be seen acting the old 
 ■world-wide distich, 
 
 " It 's a man's part to try, 
 Aud a woman's to deny,"' [for a while ?] 
 
 Finding her own resolution oozing 
 away, Josephine caught at another 
 person. 
 
 She said to Camille, before Laure : — 
 
 " Even if I could bring myself to 
 snatch at happiness in tliis indeHcate 
 way, — scarce a month after — oh \" 
 — And there ended the lady's sen- 
 tence. In the absence of a legitimate 
 full stop, she put one hand before her 
 lovely face to hide it, and so no more. 
 But some two minutes after she deliv- 
 ered the rest in the form and Avith the 
 tone of a distinct remark : "My 
 mother would never consent." 
 
 " Yes, she would, if you could be 
 brought to implore her as earnestly as 
 I implore you." 
 
 " Would she, Laure ? " asked Jose- 
 phine, turning quickly to her sister. 
 
 " No, never ! Our mother would 
 look with horror on such a proposal. 
 A daughter of hers to marry within a 
 twelvemonth of her widowhood." 
 
 " There, you see, Camille." 
 
 "But, besides that, she loved Ray- 
 nal." 
 
 " She has not forgotten him as we 
 have, almost." 
 
 " Ungrateful creature that I am," 
 sighed Josephine. 
 
 " She mourns for him every day. 
 Often I see her eyes suddenly fill, — 
 that is for him. Josephine's influ- 
 ence with mamma is very great : it is 
 double mine : but if we all went on 
 our knees to her, — the doctor and 
 all, — she would never consent." 
 
 " There, you see, Camille ; and I 
 could not defy my mother, — even for 
 you." 
 
 Camille sighed. 
 
 " I see everything is against me, 
 even my love : for that love is too 
 much akin to veneration to propose to 
 you a clandestine mamage." 
 
 " O, thank you ! bless you for re- 
 specting as well as loving me, dear 
 Camille." 
 
 These words, uttered with gentle 
 warmth, were some consolation to Ca- 
 mille, and confirmed him, as they were 
 intended to do, in the above good reso- 
 lution. He smiled. 
 
 •' Maladroit ! " cried Laure. 
 
 " Why maladroit ? " asked Camille, 
 opening his eyes. 
 
 " Let us talk of something else," 
 rejjlied Laure, coolly. 
 
 Camille turned red. He under- 
 stood that he had done something 
 very stupid, but he could not conceive 
 what. 
 
 He looked from one sister to the 
 other alternately. Laure was smiling 
 ironically. 
 
 Josephine had her eyes bent demure- 
 ly on a handkerchief she was embroid- 
 ering. 
 
 That evening Camille drew Laure 
 aside. 
 
 " Will you be so generous as to ex- 
 plain why you called me maladroit ? " 
 
 " So it was," replied Laure, sharply. 
 
 But as this did not make the matter 
 quite clear, Camille begged a little 
 further explanation. 
 
 " Was it your part to make diffi- 
 culties'?" 
 
 "No, indeed." 
 
 " Was it for you to tell her a secret 
 marriage would not be delicate ? Do 
 you think she will be behind you in 
 
186 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 delicacy ? or, that a love -without re- 
 spect will satisfy her? yet you must 
 go and tell her you respected her too 
 much to ask her to marry you secret- 
 ly. In other words, situated as she 
 is, you asked hor not to marry you at 
 alh she consented to that directly. 
 What else could you expect ? " 
 
 " Maladroit I indeed," said Camille, 
 " but I would not have said it, only I 
 thouiiht — " 
 
 *' You tliought nothing would in- 
 duce her to marry secretly, so you said 
 to yourself, 1 will assume a virtue : 
 I will do a bit of cheap self-denial ! 
 decline to the sound of trumpets 
 what another will be sure to deny me 
 if I don't, — ha ! ha ! — well, for 
 your comfort, I am by no means so 
 sure she might not have been brought 
 to do anything for you, except openly 
 defy mamma : but now of course." 
 
 Here this young lady's sentence 
 ended : for there was a strong gram- 
 matical likeness between the sisters. 
 
 Camille was so disconcerted and sad 
 at what he had done, that Laure be- 
 gan to pity him : so she rallied him a 
 little longer in spite of her pity ; and 
 then all of a sudden gave him her 
 hand and said she would try and 
 re])air the mischief. 
 
 He began to smother her hand with 
 kisses. 
 
 " O," said she, " I don't deserve 
 all that : I have a motive of my own : 
 your unlucky speech will be quoted 
 to me a dozen times, — never mind." 
 
 " Josephine, you will not be happy 
 if you don't, no more will he." 
 
 Josephine sighed. 
 
 " You heard what he said 1 " 
 
 " O, that was only to please you. 
 He thought nothing would tempt you 
 to do so much for liim." 
 
 " I wouhl do anything for him but 
 lose his respect, and make my mother 
 unhappy." 
 
 " Well, love, you shall do neither : 
 you shall scarcely move in the matter : 
 only do not oppose me very violently, 
 and all will be well." 
 
 " Ah ! Laure ! I know Low you 
 
 love mc. Am I not fortunate to have 
 a sister who loves me, and who is so 
 shrewd ? it is delightful — terrible, I 
 mean — to have a little creature 
 about one tliat reads one like this. 
 What shall I do ? What shall I do V 
 
 " Yes, Josepliinc. It is very ])lain 
 what we must do : \vc must conceal it 
 from our mother." 
 
 " Marry, and hide my marriage 
 from her who bore me ? " 
 
 " We have concealed many things 
 from her, dear, not to give her ])ain." 
 
 " Yes ! but nothing like this. I 
 don't know what to do." 
 
 " We must do the best we can 
 under all the circumstances. Con- 
 sider, his wound is healed. He must 
 go buck to the army : you have both 
 suffered to the limits of mortal endur- 
 ance. Is he to go away iinhap]jy, in 
 any doubt of your affection ? arc you 
 to remain behind with misery of self- 
 reproach added to the desolation of 
 absence, — think." 
 
 " Dear Laure ! ! Find me some ex- 
 cuse for deceiving my mother." 
 
 " Do not say deceiving our mother, 
 that is such a shocking ])hrase." 
 
 Laure then reminded Josephine of 
 the day when Edouard had first told 
 them a wise reticence was not the 
 same thing as an immoral deceit. She 
 reminded her, too, how after they had 
 acted on his advice and always with 
 good effect, how many anxieties and 
 worries they had saved their mother, 
 — by reticence. Josephine assented 
 warmly to this. 
 
 Was there not some reason to think 
 they had saved their }nother's very life 
 by these reticences ? Josephine as- 
 sented. "And, Josephine, you are of 
 age, you are your own mistress, you 
 have a right to marry whom you 
 ])lease ; and, sooner or later, you will 
 certainly marry Camille. I doubt 
 whether even our mother could in-e- 
 vail on you to refuse him altogether. 
 So it is but a (juestion of time, and of 
 giving our mother pain, or sjjaring her 
 jiain. She is old, our dear mother: 
 she is prejudiced. Why shock her 
 prejudices .' She could not be brought 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 187 
 
 to understand the case : these things 
 never happened in her day. Every- 
 thing seems to have gone by rule then. 
 Let us do notliing to worry her for 
 the short time she has to live. Let 
 us take a course between pain to her 
 and cruelty to you and Camille." 
 
 These arguments went far to con- 
 vince Josephine ; for her own heart 
 supported them. Then Camille put 
 in his word : he proposed to the sis- 
 ters to let him begin by entreating the 
 baroness ; and, if she should be inex- 
 orable, then for Josephine to marry 
 him secretly. 
 
 "0 no ! " cried Josephine, " you 
 shall ask her if you please, but if she 
 says no (and she will say no), all is 
 ended. It is much to take such a 
 step without her sanction. Defy her 
 I never Mill," 
 
 " Had you not better be silent, Colo- 
 nel Maladroit 1 " said Laure, severe- 
 
 " Much better I " cried the gallant 
 colonel, hastily, in mortal terror. 
 
 Having silenced the colonel, Laure 
 pleaded his cause then and there so 
 ably, that Josephine went from her 
 solid objections to untenable ones, — a 
 great point gained. She urged the 
 difficulty, the impossibility of a secret 
 marriage. 
 
 Camille burst into the conversation 
 here : he undertook at once to over- 
 come these imaginary difficulties. 
 
 " We will be married ten leagues 
 from here." 
 
 " You will find no priest who will 
 consent to do such a wicked thing as 
 many us without my mother's knowl- 
 edge." 
 
 " O, as to that," said Laure, "you 
 know the mayor marries people now- 
 a-days." 
 
 "I won't be married without a 
 priest," said Josephine, sharply. 
 
 " Nor I," said Camille. " I know 
 a mayor who will do the civil forms 
 for me, and a priest who Avill marry 
 me in the sight of heaven, and both 
 will keep it secret for love of me till 
 it shall please Josephine to throw off 
 this disguise." 
 
 " "Wlio is the priest, Camille ? " in- 
 quired Josephine, keenly. 
 
 " An old cure; he lives near Fre- 
 jus ; he was my tutor, and the mayor 
 is the mayor of Frejus, also an old 
 friend of mine." 
 
 " But what on earth will you say to 
 them." 
 
 " That is my affair : I must give 
 them some reasons which compel me 
 to keep my marriage secret. 0, I 
 shall have to tell them some fibs, of 
 course." 
 
 " There, look ! — Camille ! I will 
 not have you tell fibs, — it lowers 
 you." 
 
 " Of course it does ; but you can't 
 have secrecy without a fib or two." 
 
 " Fibs that will injure no one," said 
 Laure, majestically. 
 
 From this day Camille began to 
 act as well as to talk. He bought a 
 light caleche and a powerful horse, 
 and elected factotum Dard his groom. 
 Camille rode over to Frejus and told 
 a made-up story to the old cure and 
 the mayor, and "^ these his old friends 
 believed every word he said, and read- 
 ily promised their services and strict 
 secrecy. 
 
 He told the young ladies what he 
 had done. 
 
 Laure approA^ed. Josephine shook 
 her head ; and, seeing matters going 
 as her heart desired and her con- 
 science did not quite approve, she 
 suddenly affected to be next to no- 
 body in the business, to be resigned, 
 passive, and disposed of to her sur- 
 prise by Laure and Camille, Avithout 
 herself taking any actual part in 
 their proceedings. 
 
 At last the great day arrived on 
 which Camille and Josephine were to 
 be married at Frejus. 
 
 The mayor awaited them at eleven 
 o'clock. The cure' at twelve. The 
 family had been prepared for this ex- 
 cursion by several smaller ones. 
 
 Laure announced their intention 
 overnight. 
 
 " Mamma," said she, blushing a 
 little, " Colonel Dujardin is good 
 enough to take us to Frejus to-mor- 
 
188 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 row. It is ft lonn^ way, find wc must 
 breakfast early, or wo shall not be 
 back to dinner." 
 
 " Do so, my cliikl. I hope you 
 will have a fine day ; and mind you 
 take ])k'nty of wraps with you in case 
 of a shower." 
 
 " I will take care, mamma." 
 
 At seven o'clock tlic next morning 
 Camille and the two ladies took a 
 hasty cup of coffee together instead 
 of breakfast, and then Dard brought 
 the ca/cche round. 
 
 The ladies got in, and Camille liad 
 just taken the reins in his hand, when 
 Jaciutha screamed to him from tlic 
 Hall : " Wait a moment. Colonel ! 
 wait a moment! The doctor! don't 
 go without the doctor ! " and the 
 next moment Doctor St. Aubin ap- 
 peared with his cloak on his arm, and, 
 saluting the ladies politely, seated 
 himself quietly in the vehicle before 
 the party had recovered their sur- 
 prise. 
 
 " AVhcre shall we have the pleasure 
 of taking you ? " asked Camille, and 
 gnawed his lip. 
 
 " To Frejus," was the reply. 
 
 Josephine cjuaked. Camille was 
 devoured with secret rage ; he lashed 
 the horse and away they went. 
 
 It Avas a silent party. The doctor 
 seemed in a revery. The others did 
 not know what to think, mucli less to 
 say. St. Aubin sat by Camille's 
 side ; so the latter could hold no 
 secret communication with either 
 lady. 
 
 Now it was not the doctor's habit 
 to rise at this time of the morning ; 
 yet there he was, going with them to 
 Frejus uninvited. 
 
 Josephine was in agony ; had their 
 intention transpired through some 
 imprudence of Camille '? 
 
 Camille was terribly uneasy. He 
 concluded the secret had transpired 
 through female indiscretion. Tiien 
 they all tortured themselves as to the 
 old man's intention. But what 
 seemed most likely was, that he was 
 with them to prevent a clandestine 
 
 marriage by his bare presence, with- 
 out making a scene and shocking 
 Josephine's pride ; and, if so, was he 
 tlici-e by his own impulse ? No, it 
 was rather to bo feared that all this 
 was done by order of the ])aroncss. 
 There was a finesse about it that 
 looked like a woman, and the baron- 
 ess was very capable of ado])ting 
 such a means as this to spare her 
 own pride and her favorite daughter's. 
 The clandestine is not all sugar. A 
 more miserable party never went 
 along, even to a wedding. 
 
 After waiting a long time for the 
 doctor to declare himself, they turned 
 desperate, and began to chatter all 
 manner of trifles. This had a good 
 effect ; it roused St. Aubin from his 
 revery, and presently to their great 
 surprise he gave them the following 
 piece of information : — 
 
 " I told you the other day that a 
 nephew of mine was just dead. A 
 nc])hew I had not seen for many years. 
 Well, my friends, I received last 
 night a hasty summons to his funer- 
 al." 
 
 "At Frejus?" 
 
 " No ! at Paris ! The invitation 
 was so pressing, that I was obliged to 
 go. The letter informed me a dili- 
 gence passed through Frejus, at eleven 
 o'clock, for Paris. Fortunately you 
 were going to Frejus. I packed up a 
 few changes of linen, and my MS., 
 my work on entomology, which at my 
 last visit to the capital all the pub- 
 lishers were mad enough to refuse ; 
 here it is. Apropos, has Jacintha put 
 my bag into the carriage ? " 
 
 On this a fierce foot-search, and the 
 bag was found. Meantime Josephine 
 leaned back in her seat with a sigh of 
 thankfulness. She was more intent 
 on not being found out than on be- 
 ing married. But Camille, who was 
 more intent on being married than on 
 not being found out, was askinir him- 
 self, witli fury, bow on earth they 
 should get rid of St. Aul)in in time. 
 
 Well, of course, under such cir- 
 cumstances as these, the coach did not 
 come to its time, nor till long after ; 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 189 
 
 and all the while they were waiting 
 for it they were failing tlieir rendez- 
 vous with the mayor, and making 
 their rendezvous with the curate im- 
 possible. But, above all, there was 
 the risk of one or other of those friends 
 coming up and blurting all out, tak- 
 ing for granted that the doctor must 
 be in their confidence, or why bring 
 him ? 
 
 At last, at half past eleven o'clock, 
 to their great relief, up came the coach. 
 The doctor prepared to take his place 
 in the interior, when the conductor 
 politely informed him that the dili- 
 gence stopped there a quarter of an 
 hour. 
 
 " In that case, I will not abandon 
 my friends," said the doctor, affec- 
 tionately. 
 
 One of his friends gnashed his teeth 
 at this mark of affection. 
 
 Josephine smiled sweetly. 
 
 At last he was gone ; but it wanted 
 ten minutes only to twelve. 
 
 Josephine inquired, amiably, wheth- 
 er it would not be as well to postpone 
 matters to another day — meaning 
 forever. 
 
 Camille replied by dragging them 
 both very fast to the mayor. 
 
 That worthy received them with 
 profound, though somewhat demure 
 respect, and invited them to a table 
 sumptuously served. The ladies, out 
 of politeness, were about to assent, 
 but Camille begged permission to 
 postpone that part until after the cer- 
 emony. 
 
 At "last, to their utter wonder, they 
 were married. Then, with a promise 
 to return and dine with the mayor, 
 they went to the cure. Lo and be- 
 hold, he was gone to visit a sick per- 
 son. " He had waited a long time for 
 them," said the servant. 
 
 Josephine was much disconcerted, 
 and showed a disposition to cry. The 
 servant, a good-natured girl, nosed a 
 wedding, and offered to run and bring 
 his reverence in a minute. 
 
 Presently there came an old, silvery- 
 haired man, who addressed them all 
 as his children, and seemed to mean 
 
 it. He took them to the church, and 
 blessed their union : and for the first 
 time Josephine felt as if Heaven con- 
 sented. They took a gentle farewell 
 of him, and went back to the mayor's 
 to dine ; and at this stage of the busi- 
 ness, Laure and Josephine had a sud- 
 den simultaneous cry, apropos of noth- 
 ing that was then occurring. 
 
 This refreshed them, and they 
 glowed at the mayor's table like 
 roses washed with dew. 
 
 But O, how glad at heart they all 
 were to find themselves in the carriage 
 once more going home to Beaure- 
 paire. 
 
 Laure and Josephine sat inter- 
 twined on the back seat: Camille, 
 the reins in his right hand, nearly 
 turned his back on the horse, and 
 leaned back over to them, and talked 
 with Laure, and looked at his wife 
 ineffable triumph and tenderness. 
 
 The lovers were in Elysium, and 
 Laure was not a little proud of her 
 good management in ending all their 
 troubles. Their mother received them 
 back with great, and, as tliey fancied, 
 with singular affection. She was be- 
 ginning to be anxious about them, 
 she said. Her kindness gave these 
 happy souls a pang it never gave 
 them before. 
 
 Since the above event scarce a fort- 
 night had elapsed : but such a change. 
 Camille sunburnt and healthy, and 
 full of animation and confidence : Jo- 
 sephine beaming with suppressed 
 happiness, and more beautiful than 
 even Laure could ever remember to 
 have seen her. For a soft halo of 
 love and happiness shone around her 
 head : a new and indefinable attrac- 
 tion bloomed on her foce. She was a 
 wife. Her eye, that used to glance 
 furtively on Camille, now dwelt de- 
 murely on him, — dwelt on him with 
 a sort of gentle wonder and surprised 
 admiration as well as affection ; and 
 when he came or passed near her, a 
 keen observer might just have seen 
 her thrill. 
 
 She kept a good deal out of her 
 mother's way : for she felt within that 
 
190 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 her face must be too happ.y. She 
 feared to shock licr motlier's grief 
 witli her nuliaiu-e. She was ashamed 
 of feeling unmixed heaven. lint the 
 flood of secret hliss she Hoated in bore 
 all misgivings away. The pair were 
 forever stealing away together for 
 hours, and on these occasions Laure 
 was to keep out of her mother's sight, 
 until they should return. So then 
 the new married couple could w^ander 
 hand and hand through the thick 
 woods of Bcaurepaire, whose fresh 
 green leaves were now just out, and 
 hear the distant cuckoo, and sit on 
 mossy banks, and pour love into one 
 another's eyes, and ])lan ages of hap- 
 piness, and murmur their deep p'assion 
 and their bliss almost more tlian mor- 
 tal : could do all this and more, with- 
 out shocking jn'opriety. These sweet 
 duets passed for trios ; for on their re- 
 turn Laiue would l>c looking out for 
 them, or would go and meet them at 
 some distance, and all three would go 
 up together to the l)aroness, as from a 
 joint excursion. And then, when they 
 went up to their bedrooms, Josephine 
 would throw her arms round her sis- 
 ter's neck, and sigh : " It is not hap- 
 piness, — it is beatitude ! ! " 
 
 ^Meantime the baroness mourned 
 for Kaynal. Her gi'ief showed no de- 
 crease. Laure even fancied at times 
 she wore a gloomy and discontented 
 look as well : but on relicction she at- 
 tributed that to her own fancy, or to 
 the contrast that had now sprung up 
 in her sister's beaming complacency. 
 
 Laure herself, Avhen she found her- 
 self day after day alone for hours, 
 was sa(l and thought of Edouard. 
 And this feeling gained on her day 
 by day. 
 
 At last one afternoon she locked 
 herself in her own room, and after a 
 long contest with her pride, which if 
 not indomitable was next door to it, 
 she sat down to write him a little let- 
 ter. Now in this letter, in the ])lace 
 devoted by men to their after-thoughts, 
 by women to their pretended after- 
 thoughts, i. e. to what they have been 
 thinking of all through the letter, 
 
 she dropped a careless hint that all 
 the party missed him very much, 
 " ev(-u i/ta ohnoxioHS rulonel, who hi/ the 
 hfi has transferred his services elsewhere. 
 I have Jbn/iven him that, because he has 
 said civil ihimjs about you." 
 
 Laure was reading her letter over 
 again, to make sure that all the prin- 
 cipal expressions were indistinct, and 
 that the composition generally except 
 the postseri])t rcscmldcd a Delphic 
 oracle, when there was a hasty foot- 
 step, and tap at her door. 
 
 " Come in " ; and in came Jacintha> 
 excited. 
 
 " He is come. Mademoiselle Laure," 
 cried she, and nodded her head like a 
 mandarin, only more knowingly : 
 then she added, "so you may burn 
 the letter." For her quick eye had 
 glanced at the table. 
 
 " Who is come ? " inquired Laure, 
 eagerly. 
 
 " Why, your one." 
 
 " My one 1 " asked the young lady, 
 reddening, "my what 1 " 
 
 " The little one, — Edouard, — 
 Monsieur Riviere." 
 
 " Monsieur Riviere ! " cried Laure, 
 acting agreeable surprise. " I am so 
 glad. AVhy could you not say so : 
 you use such phrases it is impossible 
 to conjecture who you mean. I will 
 come to Monsieur Riviere directly : 
 mamma will be so glad." 
 
 Jacintha gone, Laure tore up the 
 letter and locked up the pieces, — then 
 tore to the glass. 
 
 Etc. 
 
 Edouard was so thoroughly misera- 
 ble that he could stand it no longer : 
 so in spite of his determination not to 
 visit Bcaurepaire while it contained a 
 rival, he rode over to see whether he 
 had not tormented himself idly : above 
 all, to see the beloved face. 
 
 Jacintha put him into the salle a 
 inauejer. 
 
 " By that you will sec her alone," 
 said tlie knowing Jacintha. 
 
 He sat down, hat and whip in hand, 
 and wondered how he should be re- 
 ceived. 
 
 In glides Laure, all sprightliness 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 191 
 
 and good -humor, and puts out her 
 hand to him : the Avhicli he kisses. 
 
 " How could I keep away so lon^^ ? " 
 asked he, vaguely, and self-astonished. 
 
 " How indeed, and we missing you 
 so all the time ! " 
 
 " Have you missed me ? " was the 
 eager inquiry. 
 
 " no ! " was the cheerful reply, 
 " but all the rest have." 
 
 Presently the malicious thing gave 
 a sudden start. 
 
 " 0, such a piece of news : you re- 
 member Colonel Dujardin, — the ob- 
 noxious colonel ? " 
 
 No answer. 
 
 " Transferred his attentions, sir, — 
 fancy ! " 
 
 " Who to ? " 
 
 " To Josephine and mamma. But 
 such are the military. He only want- 
 ed to get rid of you : this done 
 (througTi your want of spirit), he 
 scorns the rich prize : so now I scorn 
 him, — will you come for a walk ? " 
 
 " O yes ! " 
 
 " We will go and look for my de- 
 serter. I say, tell me now : cannot I 
 write to the commander-in-chief about 
 this ? when all is done a soldier has 
 no right to be a deserter, — has he ? 
 tell me, you are a pitblic man, and 
 know everything, — except — ha ! 
 ha ! " 
 
 " Is it not too bad to tease me to- 
 day ? " 
 
 " Yes ! but let me do it. I do like 
 it so. Please, I have had few amuse- 
 ments of late." 
 
 " Yes, you shall tease me. I feel I 
 deserve no mercy." 
 
 Formal permission to tease being 
 conceded, she went that instant on the 
 opposite tack, and began to tell him 
 how she had missed him, and how 
 Sony she had been anything should 
 have occurred to vex their kind good 
 friend. In short, Edouard spent a 
 delightful day, for Laure took him one 
 way to meet Josephine, who she knew 
 was coming another. When the 
 whole party assembled, the last embers 
 of jealousy were quenched, for Jo- 
 sephine was a wife now and had 
 
 already begun to tell Camilla all her 
 little innocent secrets ; and she had 
 told him all about Edouard and Laure, 
 and had given him his orders : so he 
 treated Laure with great respect before 
 Edouard ; but paid her no marked 
 attention : also he was affable to 
 Riviere, who, having ceased to sus- 
 pect, began to like him. 
 
 In the course of the evening, the 
 colonel also informed the baroness 
 that he expected every day an order to 
 join the army of the Rhine. 
 
 Edouard pricked his ears. 
 
 The baroness said no more than 
 politeness dictated. She did not press 
 him to stay, but treated his departure 
 as a matter of course. Riviere rode 
 home late in the evening in high 
 spirits. 
 
 The next day, Laure varied her late 
 deportment : she sang snatches of 
 melody, going about the house : it 
 was for all the world like a bird chirp- 
 ing. In the middle of one chirp Ja- 
 cintha interfered. " Hush, mademoi- 
 selle, your mamma ! she is at the bot- 
 tom of the corridor." 
 
 "What am I thinking of?" said 
 Laure, " to sing ! " 
 
 " O, I dare say you know, madem- 
 oiselle," replied the privileged domes- 
 tic. 
 
 A letter of good news came from 
 St. Aubin. It was not for nothing 
 that summons to his nephew's funer- 
 al. 
 
 The said nephew was a rich man 
 and an oddity ; one of those who love 
 to surprise folk, and hate to be fore- 
 seen and calculated upon. Moreover, 
 he had no children, and detected his 
 nephews and nieces being civil and at- 
 tentive to hira. " Waiting to cut me 
 up ! " was his generous reading of 
 them. So Avith all this he turned res- 
 tive, and made a will, and there defied, 
 as fitr as in him lay, the laws of na- 
 ture. 
 
 For he set his wealth a flowing 
 backwards instead of forwards. 
 
 He handed his property up to an an- 
 cestor, instead of down to posterity. 
 
 All this the doctor related with 
 
192 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 some humor, and in the calm s])irit 
 with ^vhicll ji genuine philosopher 
 receives prosjicrity as well as adver- 
 sity. 
 
 One little retcret escaped him : that 
 all this wealth, since it was to come, 
 had not come one little half-year 
 sooner. 
 
 All at Beaurepairc knew what their 
 dear old friend meant. 
 
 He added that the affairs would be 
 wound up by tlic lawyers, and it would 
 take twelve months. He was, there- 
 fore, free ; and they might expect him 
 any day after this letter. 
 
 So here was another cause of re- 
 joicing. 
 
 " I am so glad," said Josephine. 
 " Now perhaps he will be able to pub- 
 lish his poor, dear Entomology, that 
 the booksellers were all so uukiud, so 
 unfeeling about." 
 
 CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 It was a fair morning in June : the 
 sky was a bright, deep, lovely, speck- 
 less blue : the flowers and bushes 
 poured perfume and sprinkled song 
 upon the balmy air. On such a day, 
 — so calm, so warm, so bright, so 
 scented, so tuneful, — to live and to 
 be young is to be happy. With gen- 
 tle hand it wipes all otlier days out of 
 the memory ; it laughs, and clouds 
 and rain and biting wind seem as far 
 off and as impossible as grief and trou- 
 ble. 
 
 Camille and Josephine had stolen 
 out, and strolled lazily up and down 
 close under the house, drinking the 
 sweet air, fragrant with perfume and 
 melody, the blue sky, and love. 
 
 Laure was in the house. She had 
 missed them ; but she thought they 
 must be near : for they seldom took 
 ](jng walks early in the day. INTeeting 
 Jacintha on the landing of the great 
 staircase, she asked her where her sis- 
 ter was. 
 
 " Madame Raynal is gone for a 
 walk, Mademoiselle Laure." 
 
 " Alone ? " 
 
 " no, mademoiselle. She took 
 the colonel with her. You know she 
 always takes the colonel out with her 
 now." 
 
 " That will do. You can finish 
 your work." 
 
 Jacintha went into Camille's room. 
 
 Laure, who had looked as grave as 
 a judge while Jacintha was present, 
 bubbled into laughter. She even re- 
 peated Jacintlia aloud and chuckled 
 over them : " You know she always 
 takes the colonel out with her now, — 
 ha ! ha ! ha ! " 
 
 La 
 
 " cried a distant voice. 
 
 Laure looked round, and saw the 
 baroness, at some distance in the cor- 
 ridor, coming slowly towards her, with 
 eyes bent gloomily on the ground. 
 Laure composed her features into a 
 settled gravity, and went to meet 
 her. 
 
 " I wish to speak with you, my 
 daughter ! " 
 
 " Yes, mamma." 
 
 " Let us sit down : it is cool here." 
 
 Laure ran and bi-ought a seat with- 
 out a back, but well stuffed, and set 
 it against the wall. The old lady sat 
 down and leaned back, and looked at 
 Laure in silence a good while : then 
 she said : — 
 
 " There is room for you ; sit down, 
 my youngest." 
 
 " Yes, dear mamma." 
 
 " I want to speak seriously to you." 
 
 " Yes, my mother : what is it ? " 
 
 " Turn a little round, and let me 
 see your face." 
 
 " There, mamma." 
 
 " Perhaps you can guess what I am 
 going to say to you ? " 
 
 " No ! there arc so many things." 
 
 " Well, I am going to put a ques- 
 tion to you." 
 
 " Yes, mamma." 
 
 " I invite you to explain to me the 
 most singular, the most unaccountj; 
 ble thing that ever fell under my n( 
 tice. Will you do this for yoi 
 mother ? " 
 
 " O mamma, of course I will do' 
 anything to please you that I can : 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 193 
 
 but indeed I don't know what you al- 
 lude to." 
 
 " I am goinj^ to tell you." 
 
 The old lady paused. The young 
 one felt a chill of vague anxiety strike 
 across her frame. 
 
 " Laure," said the old lady, speak- 
 ing yery gently but firmly, and lean- 
 ing in a peculiar way on her Avords, 
 while her eye worked like an ice gim- 
 let on her daughter's face, " a little 
 wliile ago, — when ray poor Raynal 
 
 — our benefactor — was alive — and 
 I was happy — you all chilled my 
 happiness by your gloom : the whole 
 house seemed a house of mourning, 
 
 — tell me now why was this ? " 
 
 " Mamma ! " said Laure, after a 
 moment's hesitation, " we could hard- 
 ly be gay. Sickness in the house ! 
 And if Colonel Raynal was alive, still 
 he was absent, and in danger." 
 
 " 0, then it was out of regard for 
 him we were all dispirited ? " 
 
 " Why not ? " said Laure, faintly. 
 She congratulated herself that her 
 mother's suspicion was confined to 
 past events. 
 
 " Good ! " said the baroness. " In 
 that case, tell me why is it that, ever 
 since that black day when the news 
 of his death reached us, the whole 
 house has gone into black, and has 
 gone out of mourning ? " 
 
 " Mamma," stammered Laure, 
 " what do you mean 1 " 
 
 " Even poor Camille,who was so pale 
 and wan, has recovered like magic." 
 
 " O mamma, is not that fancy 1 " 
 
 " Humph ? it may be, — or may 
 not: but the rest is certain. I have 
 seen the change : at first I doubted 
 my senses, and that is why I said 
 nothing. I waited to be sure, — and 
 now I am sure. So tell me. Do you 
 hesitate ? Is it come to this, then ? 
 has my youngest secrets from her 
 mother ? " 
 
 " O mamma, — pray ! pray ! do 
 not scold me ! You will break my 
 heart ! Of what do you suspect me ? 
 Can you think I am unfeeling, un- 
 grateful ? I should not be your daugh- 
 ter!" 
 
 9 
 
 " My child," said the baroness, " I 
 have not scolded you. On the con- 
 trary, I see you attempt sorrow as 
 you put on black. My Laure is too 
 right-minded not to do this." 
 
 " Thank you, mamma," said Laure, 
 humbly. 
 
 " But, my poor child, you do it 
 with so little skill that I see a horrible 
 gayety breaking through that thin 
 disguise : you are not true mourners : 
 you are like the mutes or the under- 
 takers at a funeral, forced grief on the 
 surface of your faces, and frightful 
 complacency below." 
 
 " Tra la ! lal ! la ! la ! Tra la ! la ! 
 Tra la ! la ! " carolled Jacintha, in 
 the colonel's room hard by. 
 
 The ladies looked at one another : 
 Laure in great confusion. 
 
 " Tra la ! la ! la ! Tra lal ! lal ! 
 la! la! la!" 
 
 " Jacintha ! " screamed Laure, 
 angrily. 
 
 " Hush ! not a word to her," said 
 the baroness ; and when Jacintha ap- 
 peared on the threshold, in answer to 
 the summons, she sent her down to 
 do her own room. 
 
 " Why remonstrate with her ? 
 Servants are like chameleons : they 
 take the tone of those they serve. 
 Do not cry! I wanted your confi- 
 dence, not your tears, love. There, 
 I will not twice in one day ask you 
 for your heart, it would be to lower 
 the mother, and give the daughter the 
 pain of refusing it, and the regret, sure 
 to come one day, of having refused 
 it. I will discover the meaning of 
 it all myself Kiss me, my youngest." 
 
 " O mamma ! mamma ! " 
 
 " There, the e, dry your eyes, and 
 go out into the garden this fine day. 
 I shall be sure to find it out without 
 tormenting you any more, my be- 
 loved. Stay ! you can tell all who 
 respect me, it will be as well to try at 
 least and mourn the death of my dear 
 son." 
 
 " Yes, Camille, all is lovely, all is 
 happy ; but one sad thought will 
 come. You will leave me." 
 M 
 
194 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 "Not to-(lnv." 
 
 "How likc'a soldier that is!" 
 
 "It is true," saiil Camillc : "the 
 fact is, \\c arc seldom sure of a day : 
 I mean when wc are undc^r arms." 
 
 " Must you iro at all ? ]Must you 
 risk aL^ain" the life on which my life 
 depends ? " 
 
 " My dear, that letter I received 
 from head-(iuarters two days aj;o, 
 that inquiry whether my wound was 
 cured. A hint, Josephine, — a hint 
 too broad for any soldier not to 
 take." 
 
 " Camille, you are very proud," 
 said Jose]ihine, with an accent of re- 
 proach, and a look of ai)proval. 
 
 " I am obliircd to 1)C. I am the 
 husband of the proudest woman in 
 France." 
 
 " Hush ! not so loud : there is Dard 
 on the fjrass." 
 
 " Dard ! " muttered the soldier, 
 with a world of meaning. 
 
 There M^as a sudden silence be- 
 tween the lovers. Camille broke it. 
 
 " Josephine," said he, a little pee- 
 vishly, " how much longer are we to 
 lower our voices, and turn away our 
 eyes from each other, and be ashamed 
 of our happiness ? " 
 
 " Five months longer ; is it not 7 " 
 answered Josephine, quietly. 
 
 "Five months longer ! ! ! " 
 
 "Is tliis just, Camille'^ Think of 
 two months ago : yes, yes, two 
 months ago, you were dying. You 
 doubted my love, because it could 
 not overcome my virtue and my grat- 
 itude ; yet you might have seen it 
 was destroying my life. Poor Ray- 
 nal, my husband, my benefactor, 
 died ! Then I could do more for 
 you, if not with delicacy, at least with 
 honor ; but no ! words and looks, 
 and tender ofHces of love, were not 
 enough, I must give stronger proof 
 Dear Camille, I have been reared in 
 a strict school : and ]ierha])s none of 
 your sex can know what it cost me 
 to go to Frejus that day with him 1 
 love ! " 
 
 " My own Josephine ! " 
 
 " I made but one condition : that 
 
 you would not rob mc of my moth- 
 er's respect : to her, such a marriage 
 would appear monstrous, heartless. 
 You consented to be secretly happy 
 for six months. One fortnight has 
 passed, and you arc discontented 
 again." 
 
 " O no ! do not think so. It is 
 every word true. I am an ungrateful 
 villain ! " 
 
 " You, Camille ? how dare you say 
 so ? and to mc ! No ! I have thought, 
 and I have discovered the reason of 
 all this, — you are a man ! ! ! " 
 
 " So I have been told : but my 
 conduct to you, sweet one, has not 
 been that of'a man from first to last. 
 Yet I could die for you, with a smile 
 on my lips. But when I think that 
 once I lifted this sacrilegious hand 
 against your life, — oh ! " 
 
 " Do not be silly, Camille. I love 
 you all the better'for loving me well 
 enough to kill me." 
 
 " The greater shame of me who am 
 your husband, yet am — " 
 
 " Hush ! " 
 
 " Discontented, — what a scoun- 
 drel ! " 
 
 " I tell you, you foolish thing, you 
 are a man : mon seigneur is one of the 
 lordly sex, that is accustomed to have 
 everything quite its own way. My 
 love^ in a world that is full of misery, 
 here are two that are condemned to be 
 secretly happy a few months longer : 
 a hard fate for one of your sex it 
 seems ; but it is so much sweeter than 
 the usual lot of mine, that really I 
 cannot share your misery " ; and she 
 smiled joyously. 
 
 " Then share my happiness, my 
 dear wife," 
 
 " Hush ! not so loud ! " 
 
 " Why, Dard is gone, and we are 
 out of doors, will the little birds be- 
 tray us f " 
 
 " The lower windows arc open, 
 and I saw Jacintha in one of the 
 rooms." 
 
 " Jacintha ? ! ! wc are in awe of the 
 very servants ! ! ! Well, if I must 
 not' say it loud, I will say it often," 
 and, putting his mouth to her ear, ho 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 195 
 
 poured a burning whisper of love into 
 it : " My love ! my angel ! my wife ! 
 my wife ! my wife ! " 
 
 She turned her swimming eyes on 
 him. 
 
 " jNIy husband ! " she whispered in 
 return. 
 
 Laure came out and found them 
 almost literally bilHng and cooing. 
 She looked into their beaming taces, 
 and said pettishly : — 
 
 " You must not be so happy, you 
 two ! " 
 
 " We can't help it." 
 
 " You must and shall help it ; 
 Josephine, our mother has reproached 
 me with the joy she sees around her. 
 She suspects." 
 
 " She has spoken to you ? Your 
 eyes are red. She has found me 
 out 1 " 
 
 " No ! not so bad as that. Come 
 away from the house a little way, and 
 I '11 tell you." 
 
 " After all," said Laure, as soon as 
 they got into the park, " why conceal 
 the truth from her any longer 1 She 
 will forgive us." 
 
 " Take care, Laui-e," said Camille, 
 slyly, " I have just offended her by a 
 word of the kind." 
 
 " How can I tell my mother that 
 within six weeks of my husband's 
 death — r ' 
 
 " Don't say your husband," put in 
 Camille, Avincing ; " the priest never 
 confirmed that union : words spoken 
 before a magistrate do not make a 
 marriage in the sight of Heaven." 
 
 Josephine cut him short. 
 
 " Amongst honorable men and wo- 
 men all oaths are alike sacred : and 
 Heaven's eye is in a magistrate's room 
 as in a church. A daughter of the 
 house of Beaurepaire gave her hand 
 to Captain Raynal, and called herself 
 his wife. Therefore she was his wife, 
 and is his widow. She owes him 
 everything ; the house you are all liv- 
 ing in, among the rest. She ought to 
 be proud of her brief connection with 
 that pure, heroic spirit, and, when 
 she is so little noble as to disown him, 
 then say that gratitude and justice 
 
 have no longer a place among man- 
 kind ! " 
 
 " Come into the chapel," said Ca- 
 mille, with a voice that showed he 
 was hurt. 
 
 They entered the chapel, and there 
 they saw something that thoroughly 
 surprised t!)em. A marble monument 
 to the memory of Eaynal. It leaned 
 at present against the wall below the 
 place prepared to receive it. The in- 
 scription, short, but emphatic, and 
 full of feeling, told of the battles he 
 had fought in, including the last fatal 
 skirmisia, and his marriage with the 
 heiress of Beaurepaire ; and, in a fev/ 
 soldier-like words, the uprightness, 
 simplicity, and generosity of his char- 
 acter. 
 
 The girls were so touched by this 
 unexpected trait in Camille, that they 
 threw their arms round his neck by 
 one impulse. 
 
 " Am I wrong to be proud of 
 him ? " said Josephine, triumphantly. 
 " You conquered yourself here, my 
 brave soldier ! " 
 
 " Do not praise me," said Camille, 
 looking down confused. " One tries 
 to be good ; but it is very hard, — to 
 some of us, — not to you, Josephine ; 
 and, after all, it is only the truth that 
 we have Avritten on that stone. Poor 
 Raynal ! he ■was my old comrade ; he 
 saved me from death, and not a sol- 
 dier's death, — drowning ; and he was 
 a better man than I am, or ever shall 
 be. Now he is dead, I can say these 
 things. If I had said them when he 
 was alive, it would have been more to 
 my credit." 
 
 Further comment was cut short by 
 two workmen, who came in with a 
 pail of liquid cement, to place and fix 
 the slab. 
 
 Camille and the ladies went back 
 towards the house ; and then, as praise 
 seemed to make Camille uncomforta- 
 ble, they naturally fell upon the other 
 topic. 
 
 Laure told them all that had 
 passed between the baroness and her. 
 When Laure came to the actual de- 
 tails of that conversation, to the 
 
196 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 words, and looks, and tones, Jose- 
 phine's uiiciisiiiess rose to an over- 
 powering height. 
 
 " We liave underrated mamma's 
 shrewdness. What shall I do ? " 
 
 " Better tell her than let her find 
 out," said Laure. " We must tell her 
 some day," 
 
 At last, after a long and agitated 
 discussion, Josephine consented ; but 
 Laure must be the one to tell all to 
 the baroness. 
 
 " 80, then, you at least will make 
 your peace with mamma," argued 
 Josephine, " and let us go in and do 
 this before our courage fails ; besides, 
 it is going to rain, and it has turned 
 cold. Where have all these clouds 
 come from ? An hour ago there was 
 not one in the sky ! " 
 
 They went, with hesitating steps 
 and guilty looks, to the saloon. Their 
 mother was not there. A reprieve. 
 
 Laure had an idea. "No, I will not 
 tell her here. I will ask her to go out 
 with me ; and then I will take her to 
 the chapel, and show her the monu- 
 ment, and then she will be so pleased 
 with poor Camille : after that, when 
 she is softened, I will begin by telling 
 her all the misery you have both gone 
 through ; and, when she pities you, 
 then I will show her it was all my 
 fault your misery ended in a secret 
 marriage." 
 
 " Ah, Laure ! you are my guardian 
 angel. ' I feel cold at what is coming : 
 it is very good of you to make the 
 plunge for us. After all, to-morrow 
 must come ! To-morrow we shall be 
 no longer playing a part, and hiding 
 our hearts from our dear mother. It 
 will seem like a return to nature to be 
 once more all open to her, as we used 
 to be till this last twelvemonth." 
 
 Laure assented warmly to this, and 
 the confederates sat there waiting for 
 the baroness. At last, as she did not 
 come, Laure rose to go to her. 
 " When the mind is made up, it is no 
 use being cowardly and ])utting off,'' 
 said she, firmly. For all that, her cheek 
 had but little color left in it when 
 she left her chair with this resolve. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 Now it happened as Laure went 
 down the long sdlon to carry out 
 their united resolve, that Jaeintha 
 looked in ; and, after a hasty glance 
 to see who was present, she waited 
 till Laure came up to her, and then 
 she drew a letter from under her 
 apron and gave it her. 
 
 " A letter for my mistress," said 
 she, with an air of mystery. 
 
 " Why not take it to her, then ? " 
 
 " I thought you might like to sec 
 it first, mademoiselle," said she, with 
 a quiet meaning. 
 
 " A letter for our mother, Jo- 
 sephine, that is all." 
 
 " Is it from the dear doctor ? " 
 asked Josephine. 
 
 " La, no, mademoiselle," said Ja- 
 eintha : " don't you know the doctor is 
 come home ? Why, he has been in 
 the house near an hour. lie is Avith 
 my lady." 
 
 The doctor entered the room at 
 this very moment. Laure threw 
 down the letter, and she and the 
 whole party were instantly occupied 
 in greeting him. 
 
 When they had all shaken hands 
 with him, and welcomed him again 
 and again, Laure remembered the 
 letter, and took it up to carry to tho 
 baroness. Looking at it then more 
 closely, she uttere(l an exclamation 
 and beckoned the doctor hastily. 
 
 lie came to her ; and she put the 
 letter into his hand. 
 
 lie put up his glasses and eyed 
 it. 
 
 " Yes ! " whispered he, " it is from 
 him." 
 
 Josephine and Camille saw some- 
 thing was going on : they joined the 
 other two with curiosity in their 
 faces. 
 
 Laure put her hand on a small 
 table near her and leaned a moment. 
 She turned half sick at a letter com- 
 ing from the dead. 
 
 " My love ! my Laure ! " cried Jo- 
 sejdiine, with great concern, "what 
 is the matter ? " 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 197 
 
 " My poor friends," said the doc- 1 
 tor, solemnly, " this is one of those | 
 fearful things that you have not seen I 
 in your short lives, but it has been j 
 more than once my lot to witness it. 
 The ships that carry letters from dis- 
 tant countries vary greatly in speed, 
 and are subject to detaining acci- 
 dents. Yes ! this is the third time I 
 have seen a letter come written by a 
 hand known to be cold. The baron- 
 ess is a little excited to-day, I don't 
 know from what cause. With your 
 approbation, Madame Raynal, I will 
 read this letter before I let her see it." 
 
 " Read it, doctor." 
 
 " Shall I read it out ? " 
 
 " Certainly. There may be some 
 wish expressed in it : and the last 
 wishes of a hero are sacred." 
 
 Camille, from delicacy, retired to 
 some little distance, and the doctor 
 read the letter in a low and solemn 
 
 " 2[y dear mother : — / hope all are 
 well at Beaurepaire as I am, or I hope 
 soon to be. I received a icound in our 
 last skinnish : not a very severe one : 
 but it put an end to my writing for some 
 time." 
 
 " Poor fellow ! it was his death- 
 wound. Why, when was this writ- 
 ten 1 — why 1 " and the doctor paused 
 and seemed stupefied : " why, my 
 dears, has my memory gone, or — " 
 and again he looked eagerly at the 
 letter, " for God's sake, what was the 
 dnte of the battle in which he was 
 killed : for this letter is dated the 
 15th of May. Is it a dream? — no! 
 — this was written since his death." 
 
 " No, doctor," said Camille, hasti- 
 ly, " you deceive yourself." 
 
 " Why, what was the date of the 
 Moniteur, then ? " asked St. Aubin, in 
 great agitation. 
 
 " Considerably later than this," 
 said Camille. 
 
 " Well, but suppose it was, — you 
 don't see, — the journal! the jour- 
 nal ! " 
 
 " My mother has it locked up. I '11 
 run." 
 
 " No, Laure, no one but me. Jose- 
 phine, do not give way to hopes that 
 mav be delusive. But I tell you 
 plainly, there are hopes. I must see 
 that journal directly. Stay where 
 you are. I will go to the baroness." 
 He hurried out. 
 
 He Avas scarcely gone, when a cry 
 of horror filled, the room, a cry as of 
 madness falling like a thunderbolt on 
 a human mind. 
 
 It was Josephine, who, up to this, 
 had not uttered one word. She 
 stood, white as a corpse, in the mid- 
 dle of the room, and wrung her hands. 
 
 " What have I done ? What shall 
 I do ? It was the third of May ! I 
 see it before me in letters of fire, — 
 the third of May ! the third of May! 
 — and he writes the 15th." 
 
 " No ! no ! " cried Camille, wild- 
 ly. " It was long, long after the 
 third." 
 
 " It "WAS THE THIRD OF JNIaT ! " 
 
 repeated Josephine, in a hoarse voice, 
 that none would have known for 
 hers. 
 
 Camille ran to her with words of 
 comfbrt and hope ; he did not share 
 her fears. He remembered about 
 when the Moniteur came, though not 
 the very day. He threw his arm lov- 
 ingly round her, as if to protect her 
 against these shadowy terrors. Her 
 dilating eyes seemed fixed on some- 
 thing distant in space or time, — at 
 some horrible thing coming slowly 
 towards her. She did not see Ca- 
 mille approach her, but the moment 
 she felt him she turned upon him 
 swiftly. 
 
 " Do you love me, — you 1 " still 
 in the hoarse voice that had so little 
 in it of Josephine. 
 
 " O Josephine ! " 
 
 " Does one grain of respect or vir- 
 tue mingle in your love for me 1 " 
 
 " What words are these, my wife 1 " 
 
 " Then leave Raynal's house upon 
 the instant. You wonder I can he so 
 cruel 1 I wonder, too ; and that I 
 can see my duty so clear in one short 
 moment ! ' But. Camille, I have lived 
 twenty years since that letter came. 
 
198 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 Oh ! my brain has whirled through a 
 thousand agonies. But I have come 
 back a thousand times to the same 
 thing, — you and I must sec each 
 other's face no more." 
 
 Caniille threw himself on his knees, 
 and imjjlored her to recall her words, 
 
 " Take care," she screamed, wildly, 
 " I am on the verge of madness ; is it 
 for you to thrust me over the preci- 
 pice ? Come noAv, if you are a man 
 of honor, if you have a spark of grati- 
 tude towards the poor woman who has 
 given you all except her tair name, — 
 that she will take to the grave in 
 spite of you -nil, — promise that you 
 will leave Ixaynal's house this minute, 
 if he is alive* and let mc die in hon- 
 or, as I have lived." 
 
 " No, no ! " cried Camille, terror- 
 stricken ; " it cannot be ! Heaven is 
 merciful ; and Heaven sees how liap- 
 py we are ! Be calm ; these are idle 
 fears, — be calm, I say ! Well, then, 
 my poor saint, if it is so, I will obey 
 you. I will stay, I Avill go, I will 
 die, I will live. Whatever you bid 
 me do, I will do, my poor Jose- 
 phine ! " • 
 
 " Swear this to me by the thing 
 you hold most sacred ! " 
 
 " I sAvear by my love for you." 
 
 Agitated voices were heard at the 
 door, and the baroness burst in, fol- 
 lowed by the doctor, who was trying 
 in vain to put some bounds to her 
 emotion and her hopes. 
 
 " O my children ! — my children ! " 
 cried she, trembling violently. 
 " Here, Laurc, my hands shake so ; 
 take this key, open the cabinet, there 
 is the MoniUmr. What is the date ? " 
 
 " The 20th of May." 
 
 " There ! " cried Camille. " I told 
 you." 
 
 The baroness uttered a feeble 
 moan. Her hopes died as suddenly 
 as they had been born, and she sank 
 droojjing into a chair, with a bitter 
 sigh. 
 
 Camille stole a joyfid look at Jose- 
 phine. She was in tlie same attitude, 
 looking straight before her as at a 
 coming horror. Presently Laurc ut- 
 
 tered a faint cry : " The battle was 
 before ! " 
 
 " To be sure," cried the doctor : 
 " you forget, it is not the date of the 
 ])aper, but of the battle it records. 
 For God's sake, when was the battle ? " 
 
 " The third of ^SIay," said 
 Josephine, in a voice that seemed to 
 come from the tomb. 
 
 Laurc's hands that held the journal 
 fell like a dead weight ujjon her knees. 
 She whispered : — 
 
 " It was the third of IMay." 
 
 " Ah ! " cried the baroness, starting 
 up. " He may 3-et be alive ! He 
 
 must be ali 
 
 Heaven is merciful 
 
 Heaven would not take my son from 
 me. A poor old woman who has not 
 long to live. There was a letter ! 
 Where is the letter ? " 
 
 " Yes, the letter ! Where is it 1 " 
 said the doctor. " I had it : it has 
 dropped from my old fingers. I 
 thought of nothing but the journal." 
 
 A short examination of the room 
 showed the letter lying crumpled up 
 near the door. Camille gave it to the 
 baroness. 
 
 " Head ! — read ! no, not you, old 
 friend ! You and I are old : our 
 hands shake, and our eyes are 
 troubled : this young gentleman will 
 read it to us : his eyes are not dim and 
 troubled. O, something tells me that 
 when / hear this letter, I shall find 
 out whether my son lives ! AYhy do 
 you not read it to me, Camille 1 " 
 cried she, almost fiercely. 
 
 Camille, thus pressed, obeyed me- 
 chanically, and began to read Ray- 
 nal's letter aloud, scarce knowing 
 what he did, but urged and driven by 
 the baroness. 
 
 " il/y dear mother : — 7 hope all are 
 well at Beaurepaire, as I am. I re- 
 ceived a ivound in our last skirmish, not 
 a I'ery severe one : hut it stopped my 
 writing for some time." 
 
 " Go on, dear Camille ! go on." 
 " Tlie ])agc ends there, madame." 
 The paper was thin, and Camille, 
 whose hand trembled, had some difii- 
 culty in detaching the leaves from one 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 199 
 
 another. He succeeded, however, at 
 last, and went on reading and writh- 
 ing. 
 
 " By the icay, you must address your 
 next letter to me as Colonel Raynal. I 
 teas promoted just before this last affair, 
 but had not time to tell you." 
 
 " There, there ! " cried the baroness. 
 " He was Colonel Raynal, and Colo- 
 nel Raynal was not killed." 
 
 " Pray don't interrupt." 
 
 " No, my friend : go on, Camille, 
 — why do you hesitate ? what is the 
 matter ? do for pity's sake go on, 
 sir." 
 
 Camille cast a look of agony 
 around, and put his hand to his brow 
 on which large drops of cold perspi- 
 ration, like a death dew, were gather- 
 ing ; but, driven to the stake on all 
 sides, he gasped on, rather than read : 
 for his eye had gone down the page. 
 
 " A namesake of mine, — Comman- 
 dant Raynal — " 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 " Has not been — so fortunate : 
 he — " 
 
 " Go on ! go on ! " 
 
 The wretched man could now 
 scarcely utter Raynal's words : they 
 came from him in a choking groan. 
 
 " He was Jcilled, — poor fellow ! — 
 xchile heading a gallant charge upon the 
 enemy's flank." 
 
 The letter was ground convul- 
 sively ; then it fell, all crumpled, on 
 the floor. 
 
 " Bless you, Caraille ! " cried the 
 baroness, — " bless you ! bless you ! I 
 have a son still ! Give me the precious 
 letter ! " 
 
 She stooped eagerly, took it up, and 
 kissed it again and again. 
 
 " Your husband is alive ! my son is 
 alive ! our benefactor is alive ! " 
 
 Then she fell on her knees, and 
 thanked Heaven aloud before them 
 all. Then she rose and went hastily 
 out, and her voice was heard crying 
 very loud : — 
 
 " Jacintha ! Jacintha ! " 
 
 The doctor followed, fearful for the 
 effects of this violent joy on so aged a 
 person. The three remained behind, 
 panting and pale like those to whom 
 dead Lazarus burst the tomb, and 
 came forth in a moment, — at a word. 
 Then Camille half kneeled, half fell at 
 Josephine's feet, and, in a voice choked 
 with sobs, bade her dispose of him. 
 
 She turned her head away. 
 
 " Do not speak to me, do not look 
 at me : if we look at one another, we 
 are lost. Go ! die at your post, and 
 I at mine ! " 
 
 He bowed his head, and kissed her 
 dress, then he rose calm as despair 
 and white as death, and, his knees 
 knocking under him, he tottered away 
 like a corpse set moving. 
 
 The baroness came back, trium- 
 phant and gay. 
 
 " I have sent her to bid them ring 
 the bells in the village ; the poor shall 
 be feasted, — all shall share our joy, 
 — my son was dead, and lives. O joy ! 
 joy! 'joy!" 
 
 " Mother ! " shrieked Josephine. 
 
 "Madwoman that I am, I am too 
 boisterous ! help me, Laure ! she is 
 going to faint, — her lips are white ! " 
 
 They brought a chair. They forced 
 Josephine into it. She was not the 
 least foint : yet her body obeyed their 
 hands just like a dead body. The 
 baroness burst into tears, tears 
 streamed from Laure's eyes. Jose- 
 phine's were dry and stony, and fixed 
 on coming horror. The baroness re- 
 proached herself. 
 
 " Thoughtless old woman. It was 
 too sudden : it is too much for my 
 dear child. I, too, am faint now " ; 
 and she kneeled, and laid her aged 
 head on her daughter's bosom, saying 
 feebly through her tears, " too much 
 joy, — too much joy." 
 
 Josephine took no notice of her. 
 She sat like one turned to stone, look- 
 ing far away over her mother's head 
 with rigid eyes fixed on the air and 
 on coming horrors. 
 
 Laure felt her arm seized. It was 
 
200 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 St. Auhin. He, too. was pale now, 
 tliou^li not before. He sj)oke in a ter- 
 rible wbisper to Laure, liis eye fixed 
 on the woman of stone that sat tliere. 
 
 " Is THIS JOY ? " 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 Josephine Ratnal is no stranger 
 to you : most of you know more 
 about her than about any other woman 
 of your aoquaintanee. Bring your 
 knowloilge to my aid. Imagine, as 
 the weary hours, and days, and weeks 
 roll over her head, what this loving 
 woman feels for her lover whom she 
 has dismissed : what tliis grateful 
 woman feels for the bcnetactor she 
 has uuwittingly wronged, — but will 
 never wrong with her eyes open. 
 What this woman, pure as snow, and 
 proud as fire, feels at the appearance 
 of frailty into which circumstances 
 have beti-ayed her. 
 
 Put down the book a moment : 
 shut your eyes : and imagine this 
 strange form of human suffering. 
 
 Doctor St. Aubin received one day 
 a note from a publishing bookseller, 
 to inquire whether he still thought of 
 giving the world his valual)le work on 
 insects. The doctor was amazed. 
 
 " ISIy valuable work ! Why, Laure, 
 they all refused it, and this one in 
 particular recoiled from me as if my 
 insects could sting on paper." 
 
 The publisher went on to say : — 
 
 " Stud'us of this class are (jaining 
 ground, and I think ive might venture 
 before the public." 
 
 This led to a correspondence, in 
 which the convert to insects explained 
 that the work must be published at 
 the author's expense, the publislier 
 contenting himself with the ])rotits. 
 
 Tlie author, thirsting for the public, 
 consented. 
 
 Then the publisher wrote again to 
 pay that the work must be spiced. A 
 litile politics must be Hung in: noth- 
 ing goes down clbc. 
 
 The autlior answered in some heat 
 that he would not dilute tilings ever- 
 lasting with the lleeting topics of the 
 day, nor defile science with politics. 
 On this liis Mentor smoothed him 
 down, despising him secretly for not 
 seeing that a book is a matter of trade 
 and nothing else. Brief, St. Aubin 
 went to Paris to hatch his Phamix. 
 
 lie had not been there a week, 
 when a small de])utation called on 
 him, and informed him he had been 
 elected honorary member of a certain 
 scientific societ}'. 
 
 " Hallo ! " thought he, and bowed 
 as gentlemen used and as dancing 
 masters use. Fair speeches on both 
 sides ! Exit deputation. 
 
 Next, invitations poured in. He 
 accepted them. He shone at parties. 
 Compliments were gracefully insin- 
 uated to his face. Science seemed 
 really to be coming into fashion. 
 
 But when a lovely young woman 
 or two began with the pliancy of their 
 sex to find they had for many years 
 secretly taken a warm interest in but- 
 terflies, — out of their own species, — 
 the naturalist smelt a rat. 
 
 " I sec," said he, " entomology, a 
 form of idiocy in a poor man, is a 
 graceful deviation of the intellect in a 
 rich one." 
 
 Philosoplicr without bile, he saw 
 through this, and let it amuse, not 
 shock him. His species had another 
 trait in reserve for liim. 
 
 He took a Avorld of trouble to find 
 out the circumstances of his nephew's 
 nephews and nieces : then he made 
 arrangements for distributing a large 
 part of his legacy among them. His 
 intentions and the proportions of his 
 generosity transpired. 
 
 Silent till now, they all fell to and 
 abused him : each looking only at the 
 amount of his individual share, not at 
 the sum total the doctor was giving 
 away to an ungrateful lot. 
 
 The donor was greatly amused, and 
 noted down the iiuident and some of 
 the remarks in his commonplace-book, 
 under this head, " JNIan." 
 
 Paris is full of seductions, some of 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 201 
 
 them innocent. It nettetl the doctor, 
 and held him fast. 
 
 He was disturbed from time to time 
 by ill accounts of Josephine's health; 
 and, if he had thought with the baron- 
 ess that her illness was of the body, he 
 "would have come to her side at once : 
 as it was, he hoped more from time 
 than from drugs in her case ; and, as 
 he had a vague suspicion he was not 
 desirous the baroness should share, he 
 was rather disposed to keep out of her 
 way. 
 
 He wrote, therefore, briefly and re- 
 servedly, assuring Madame de Beaure- 
 paire that Madame Raynal had no or- 
 ganic disease, and would outgrow 
 these fluctuations of health : he pre- 
 scribed some mild tonics. 
 
 The despair of Josephine's mind 
 was so terrible that Laure would glad- 
 ly have compounded for a bodily ill- 
 ness : she feared for her sister's rea- 
 son ; and, though it added another 
 anxiety, she was scai'cely sorry when 
 she discovered that symptoms which 
 looked like bile attacked, her frequent- 
 ly. 
 
 " I shall tell our mother of this." 
 
 " I would not tell her a word about 
 it," observed Jacintha, quietly. She 
 happened to be present. 
 
 " Why not ? she has already noticed 
 how ill my sister is." 
 
 " Mademoiselle Laure, take my ad- 
 vice, and don't go and worry her : it 
 can do no good." 
 
 Jacintha spoke so firmly, and 
 seemed so confident, that Laure drew 
 her aside. 
 
 "Jacintha, I am so anxious about 
 her : and perhaps our mother may 
 know some remedy ; she is more ex- 
 perienced than we are." 
 
 " There is no remedy wanted. You 
 are making a fuss about nothing, ma- 
 demoiselle." 
 
 " How do you know that, Jacintha ? 
 Did you ever see any one suffer as she 
 does ■? " 
 
 " Plenty ! " 
 
 " O Jacintha ! be frank with me : 
 did thev die 1 " 
 
 "No:" 
 
 9* 
 
 "None of them?" 
 
 " Not one." 
 
 " Then there is no danger, you 
 think 1 " 
 
 " Not an atom." 
 
 " Bless you for saying so, good Ja- 
 cintha ! And how confidently you 
 speak : your tone and manner reassure 
 me. Yet, after all, my poor Jacintha, 
 you are not a doctor ! " 
 
 " No, mademoiselle, but women in 
 my way of life see a many things, and 
 hear a many things, that don't come to 
 a young latly's knowledge like vou." 
 
 " Oh, do they ? " 
 
 The above symptom disappeared : 
 but a more serious cause of fear re- 
 mained in Josephine's utter listless- 
 ness and frightful apathy : she seemed 
 a creature descending inch by incli 
 into the tomb She shunned all com- 
 pany : even Laure's at times. She 
 seldom spoke. One day she said, " not 
 dead yet ! " half to herself, and in 
 such a tone, that Laure's heart died 
 within her. 
 
 The house fell into silence and 
 gloom. 
 
 Jacintha, naturally so bustling and 
 cheerful, became silent, thoughtful, 
 and moody. She had never been so 
 aftected by their former troubles, 
 Laure caught her eye at times, dwell- 
 ing with a singular expression of pity 
 and interest on Josephine. " Good 
 creature ! " thought Laure, she sees 
 my sister is unhappy, and that makes 
 her more attentive and devoted to her 
 than ever. 
 
 One day these three were together 
 in Josephine's room. Josephine was 
 mechanically combing her long hair, 
 when, all of a sudden, she stretched 
 out her hand and cried hastily : — 
 
 " Laure ! " 
 
 Laure ran to her, and coming be- 
 hind her saw in the glass that her lips 
 were colorless. She screamed to Ja- 
 cintha, and between them they sup- 
 ported Josephine to the bed. She had 
 hardly touched it when she fainted 
 dead away. 
 
 " Mamma ! mamma ! " cried Laure, 
 in her terror. 
 
202 
 
 winri: lies. 
 
 " IIusli ! " cviod Jacintliii, "hold 
 ynur toiiiriie ; it is onlyii liiint. Help 
 ine loosen her, don't make any noise 
 whatever." 
 
 They loosened her stays and ap- 
 ])lie(l tiie usual remedies, but it was 
 some time before she eame to. At 
 last the color eame back to her lips, 
 then to her cheek, and the light to 
 her eye. She smiled feebly on Jacin- 
 tha and Laurc. 
 
 " I have been insensible, have I 
 not ? " 
 
 "Yes, love, and frijj:htened us — a 
 little — not much — O dear ! dear ! " 
 
 " Don't be alarmed, sweet one, — I 
 am better." 
 
 " Now may I go and tell mam- 
 ma ? " asked Laiire. 
 
 " No ! mademoiselle," was Jaein- 
 tha's reply. " What makes you so 
 bent on tormenting my mistress ? " 
 
 " But, Jacintha, I am frightened : 
 it is not as if my sister was subject to 
 fainting fits. I never saw her faint 
 but once before." 
 
 "And I will never do it again, 
 since it frightens you." Then Jose- 
 phine said to her sister, in a low voice 
 and in the Italian language : " I 
 hoped it was Death, my sister ; but he 
 comes not to the wretched." 
 
 " If you hoped that ! " replied 
 Laure, in the same language, " you do 
 not love your poor sister who so loves 
 you." 
 
 While the Italian was going on, 
 Jacintha's dark eyes glanced suspi- 
 ciously on each speaker in turn. 
 I>ut her suspicions were all wide of 
 the mark. 
 
 " Now may I go and tell mammal " 
 
 " No, mademoiselle! Madame Ray- 
 > nal, do take my side, and forbid 
 her." 
 
 " Why, what is it to you ? " said 
 Laure, sharply. 
 
 " If it was 'not something to me, 
 should I thwart my dear young 
 lady ' " 
 
 " No. And you shall have your 
 own way, if you will but condescend 
 to give me a reason." 
 
 This to some of us might appear 
 
 reasonable, l)ut not to Jacintha : it 
 even hurt her fcelin;gs. 
 
 "Mademoiselle," she said, "when 
 you were little and used to ask mc for 
 anything, did I ever say to you, ' Give 
 me a reason first ' 1 " 
 
 " There ! she is right. We should 
 not make terms with tried friends. 
 Come, we will pay her devotion this 
 comjjliment. It is such a small 
 favor." 
 
 " And I shall take it as a great 
 one." 
 
 " Enough : Ave will not tell our 
 mother." 
 
 Laure acquiesced, but with a sigh. 
 
 " I did so hope that all our conceal- 
 ments from her were ended : but now 
 we have begun concealing, something 
 keeps always happening to make us 
 go on. 
 
 " Well, one comfort. Doctor St. 
 Au])in will be here next month, and 
 then I shall tell him ; there is no ob- 
 jection to that, I suppose." 
 
 " What day docs the doctor come ? " 
 was all Jacintha's answer. 
 
 " We don't know yet : but he will 
 write first." 
 
 An improvement took place in Jose- 
 phine's health about this time. A 
 slight tint came to her check, and faint 
 and fitful glows to her heart. The 
 powers of life in her received a sup- 
 port : she was conscious of it. She 
 said one day to Laure : — 
 
 " My sister, I no longer wish to 
 die : is it not strange ? Sometliing 
 seems to bid me live. Is Heaven 
 strengthening me to suffer more ? " 
 
 " No, my sister," said Laure ; 
 " time is 'blunting your anguish ! 
 And it is for my sake you wish to 
 live, bless you ! — for mine, who would 
 follow you to the tomb, my best be- 
 loved of all the world ! " 
 
 " Yes, Laure, you love your poor 
 sister too Avell. I fear you love mc 
 better than you do Edouard." 
 
 " He has no troubles ! Yes, my 
 poor patient saint, my life seems 
 to mo too small a thing to give 
 you." 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 203 
 
 "It is very consoling to be loved 
 so," sobbed Josephine. " Oh that 
 none other but you had ever loved me ! 
 I have caused the despair of one who 
 loved me well, too. my sister ! 
 — my sister ! " 
 
 This was the only time she had 
 ever alluded for mouths past to Ca- 
 mille. She guarded the avenues of 
 her heart, poor soul ! She fought for 
 licr purity as sternly, as keenly, as 
 heroes ever fought for glory, or mar- 
 tyrs for truth. 
 
 Josephine's appearance improved 
 still more. Her hollow cheeks recov- 
 ered their plump smoothness, and her 
 beauty its bloom, and her person grew 
 more noble and statue-like tlian ever, 
 and within she felt a sense of indomit- 
 able vitality. Her appetite had for 
 some months been excessively feeble 
 and uncertain, and her food tasteless ; 
 but of late by Avhat she conceived to 
 be a reaction such as is common after 
 youth has shaken off a long sickness, 
 her appetite had been not only healthy 
 but eager. 
 
 The baroness observed this, and it 
 relieved her of a large portion of her 
 anxiety. One day at dinner her ma- 
 ternal heart was so pleased with Jose- 
 phine's performance, that she took it 
 as a personal favor. 
 
 " Well done, my daughter ! that 
 gives your mother pleasure to see you 
 eat again. Soup and bouillon : and 
 now twice you have been to Laure for 
 some of that pate, which does you so 
 much credit, Jacintha." 
 
 Josephine colored high at this com- 
 pliment. 
 
 " It is true," said she, " I eat like 
 a pig " ; and, with a furtive glance at 
 the said pate, she laid down "her knife 
 and fork, and ate no more of any- 
 thing. 
 
 " The doctor will be angry with 
 me," said the baroness. " I have tor- 
 mented him away from Paris, and 
 when he comes he will find her as well 
 as ever." 
 
 " Madame the baroness," said Ja- 
 cintha, hastily, " when does the doctor 
 
 come, if I may make so bold, that I 
 may get his room ready ? " 
 
 "Well thought of, 'Jacintha. He 
 comes the day after to-morrow in the 
 afternoon." 
 
 At night when the young ladies 
 went up to bed, what did they find 
 but a little clotli laid on a little table 
 in Josephine's room, and the remains 
 of the pate' she had liked. Laure 
 burst out laughing : — 
 
 " Look at that dear duck of a 
 goose, Jacintha ! Our mother's flat- 
 tery sank deep ; she thinks we can cat 
 her pates at all hours of the day and 
 night. Shall I send it away 1 " 
 
 " Xo ! " said Josephine ; " that 
 would hurt her culinary pride, and 
 perhaps her atrection : only cover it 
 up, dear : for just now I am not in the 
 humor : it rather turns my stomach." 
 
 It was covered up. The sisters re- 
 tired to rest. In the middle of the 
 night, pitch dark, Josephine rose, 
 groped her way to the pate', and ate it 
 to the last mouthful : polished the 
 plate ; then to bed again, tranquil- 
 lized. 
 
 The large tapestried chamber, once 
 occupied by Camille Dujardin, was 
 now turned into a sitting-room, and it 
 was a favoi'ite room on account of the 
 beautiful view from the windows. It 
 had also a large side window looking 
 westward, as well as four windows 
 looking south : and this suited the 
 baroness ; her sight was dim. 
 
 Josephine sat there alone with some 
 work on a certain day in her hand : 
 but the needle often stopped, and the 
 fair head drooped. 
 
 She heaved a deep sigh. 
 
 To her surprise it was echoed by a 
 sigh tliat, like her own, seemed to come 
 from a heart full of sighs. 
 
 She turned hastily round, — it was 
 Jacintha. 
 
 Josephine, as we know, had a wo- 
 man's eye for reading faces, and she 
 was instantly struck by two things, by 
 a certain gravity in Jacintha's gaze, 
 and a flutter which the young woman 
 
204 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 was snpprossin!:; with tolerable but 
 not complete success. 
 
 DisLCuisiiii; tlic uneasiness this dis- 
 covery "xave her, she looked Jacintha 
 full in tiie face, and said mildly, but 
 a little coldiv : — 
 
 " Well, Jacintha ? " 
 
 Jacintha lowered her eyes, and mut- 
 tered slowly : — 
 
 " The doctor — comes — to - day." 
 Then raised her eyes all in a moment 
 to take Josephine off iier j^uard, — but 
 the calm face was im])i'netrable. So 
 then Jacintha added, " to our misfor- 
 tune," throwing in still more meanin^^ 
 
 " To our misfortune ? What, dear 
 old friend, — what do you mean ? " 
 
 " It is not so easy to say what I 
 mean ! " 
 
 " And it is impossible for me to 
 divine it, my poor Jacintlia ! " 
 
 " jNIadanie," said the other, firmly, 
 "do not jest, I entreat you ! the case 
 is too serious. That old man makes 
 me shake. You are never safe with 
 him. So lon<? as his head is in the 
 clouds, you mi,i;ht take his sliocs off, 
 and on he 'd walk and never know it ; 
 but every now and then he comes out 
 of the clouds all in one moment, with- 
 out a word of warninc:, and when he 
 does his eye is on everythintr, like a 
 bird's. Then he is so old. He has 
 seen a heap. Take my word for it, 
 the old are more knowinj;^ than tiie 
 young, let them he as sharp as you 
 like : the old have seen everything. 
 We have only heard talk of the most 
 part, with here and there a glimpse. 
 To know life to the bottom, you must 
 live it our, from the soup to the des- 
 sert ; and that is what the doctor has 
 done, and now he is coming here." 
 
 " Well, and what follows ? " 
 
 " Mademoiselle Laure will go tell- 
 ing him everything : and, if slie tells 
 him half what there is to tell, your 
 secret will be no secret." 
 
 " I\Iy secret ! " gasped Josephine, 
 turning pale. 
 
 " Don't look so, madame ! — don't 
 be frightened at poor Jacintha. Soon- 
 er or later, you must, trust somebody 
 bcbides Mademoiselle Laure." 
 
 Josephine looked at her with in- 
 quiring, tVightened eyes. 
 
 " Mademoiselle ! — I beg pardon, 
 madame, — I carried you in my arms 
 when I was a child. When 1 was a 
 girl you toddled at my side, and held 
 my gown, and lisped my name ; and 
 used to put your little arms round my 
 neck, and kiss me, you would. Ah, 
 mademoiselle, I wish those days could 
 come back ! " 
 
 " Ah ! would they could ! — would 
 they could ! " 
 
 " And if ever I had the least pain, 
 or sickness, your dear little face would 
 turn as sorrowful, and all the pretty 
 color leave it for Jacintha ; and now 
 you are in trouble, in sore trouble, — 
 but you turn away from me, you daro 
 not trust me, that would be cut in 
 pieces ere I would betray you ! Ma- 
 demoiselle, you are wrong. The poor 
 can feel : they have all seen trouble, 
 and a servant is the best of friends 
 where she has the heart to love her 
 mistress ! and do not I love you ? 
 Ah, mademoiselle ! do not turn from 
 her who has carried you in her arms, 
 and laid you to sleep uj)on her bosom, 
 many 's and many 's the time." 
 
 Josephine panted audibly. She 
 held out her hand eloquently towards 
 Jacintha, but she turned her head 
 away, and trembled. 
 
 Jacintha cast a hasty glance round 
 the room. Then she trembled too at 
 what she Avas going to say, and the 
 effect it might have on the young lady. 
 As for Josephine, terrible as the con- 
 versation had become, she made no 
 attempt to evade it, for she must learn 
 how far Jacintha had penetrated her 
 secret. 
 
 Jacintha, in a hurried, quivering 
 voice, hissed into Josephine's ear these 
 words : — 
 
 " When the news of Colonel Ray- 
 nal's death came, you wept, but the 
 color came back to your cheek. When 
 the news of his life came, you turned 
 to stone. Ah ! my poor young lady, 
 there has been more between you and 
 that 7nan than should be. Ever since 
 one day you all went to Frejus to- 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 205 
 
 gether you were a changed woman. 
 I have seen you look at him, as — as 
 a wife looks at her man. I have seen 
 him — " 
 
 " Hush ! Jacintha. Do not tell me 
 what you have seen, — oh ! do not 
 remind me of joys I pray God to help 
 me forget. He was my husband, 
 then ! — O cruel Jacintha, to remind 
 me of what I have been : of what I 
 am, — ah me ! ah me ! ah me ! " 
 
 " Your husband ! ! " muttered Ja- 
 cintha, in utter amazement. 
 
 Then Josei)hine drooped her head 
 on this faithful creature's shoulder, and 
 told her with many sobs the story I 
 have told you ; she told it very briefly, 
 for it was to a woman, who, though 
 little educated, was full of feeling and 
 shrewdness, and needed but the bare 
 facts : she could add the rest from her 
 own heart and experience : could tell 
 the storm of feelings through which 
 these two unhappy lovers must have 
 passed. Her frequent sighs of pity 
 and sympathy drew Josephine on to 
 pour out all her griefs. When the 
 tale was ended, she gave a sigh of 
 relief 
 
 " It might have been worse," said 
 Jacintha : " I thought it was worse, 
 — the more fool I — I deserve to have 
 my head cut off! " 
 
 It was Josephine's turn to be 
 amazed. 
 
 " It could have been worse ! " said 
 she. " How 1 tell me," added she, 
 bitterly. " It would be a consolation 
 to me, could I see that." 
 
 Jacintha colored and evaded this 
 question, and begged her to go on, — 
 to keep nothing back from her. 
 Josephine assufed her she had revealed 
 all. Jacintha looked at her a moment 
 ia silence. 
 
 *' It is then as I half suspected." 
 
 " What ? " 
 
 " You do not know all that is be- 
 fore you. You do not see why I am 
 afraid of that old man ? " 
 
 " No : not of him in particular." 
 
 " Nor why I want to keep Madem- 
 oiselle Laure from talking too much 
 to him 1 " 
 
 " No ! Jacintha, be not uneasy. 
 Laure is to be trusted. She is wise, 
 — wiser than I am." 
 
 " You are neither of you wise. 
 You know nothing. Ah ! my poor 
 young mistress, you are but a child 
 still. You have a deep water to wade 
 through," said Jacintha, so solemnly 
 that Josephine trembled. " A deep 
 Avater, and do not see it even. You 
 have told me what is past ; now I 
 must tell you Avliat is coming ; Heav- 
 en help me ! " 
 
 Josephine trembled. 
 
 " Give me your dear hand to hold, 
 mademoiselle, if you believe I love 
 you ! " 
 
 " There, dear Jacintha." 
 
 She trembled. 
 
 " Have you no misgiving ? " 
 
 " Alas ! I am full of them : at your 
 words, at your manner, they fly around 
 me in crowds." 
 
 " Have you no one ? " 
 
 " No ! " 
 
 " Turn your head from me a bit, 
 my sweet young lady : I am an hon- 
 est woman, though I am not so inno- 
 cent as you, and I am forced against 
 my will to speak my mind plainer 
 than I am used to." 
 
 Then followed a conversation, to 
 detail which might anticipate our 
 story; sufSce it to say that it gave 
 Josephine another confidante. 
 
 Laure, coming into the room rather 
 suddenly, found her sister weeping on 
 Jacintha's bosom, and Jacintha crying 
 and sobbing over her. 
 
 Doctor St. Aubin, on his arrival, 
 was agreeably surprised at Madame 
 Raynal's appearance. 
 
 " She looks much as usual," said 
 he. " She is even grown a little. 
 How is your appetite, my child ? " 
 
 " Very good, doctor." 
 
 " 0, as to her appetite," cried the 
 baroness, " it is immense." 
 
 " Indeed ! " 
 
 " It was," explained Josephine, 
 "just when I began to get better ; but 
 now it is much as usual." This an- 
 swer had been arranged beforehand 
 
206 
 
 AVIIITE J.IKS. 
 
 by Jacintlia. Slie acltlod : " The 
 fact is, we wan toil to see you, doctor, 
 and my ridiculous ailments were a 
 fjood excuse lor tearing you from 
 Taris." 
 
 " And now we liave succeeded," 
 said Laurc, " let us throw olf the 
 mask and talk of other things, — 
 above all, of Paris and your eclat." 
 
 " For all that," persisted the baron- 
 ess, " she Avas ill when I lirst wrote, 
 and very ill, too." 
 
 " Madame Kaynal," said the doc- 
 tor, solemnly, " your conduct has 
 been irregular, to say the least : once 
 ill, and your illness announced to 
 your medical adviser, you had no 
 right to get well, but by his prescrip- 
 tions. As, then, you have shown 
 yourself unlit to conduct a malady, it 
 becomes my painful duty to forbid you 
 henceforth ever to be ill at all, with- 
 out my permission first obtained in 
 writing." 
 
 This badinage was greatly relished 
 by Laurc : but not at all by the bar- 
 oness. 
 
 The doctor stayed a month at Beau- 
 repaire, then off to Paris again ; and 
 being now a rich man, and not too old 
 to enjoy innocent jjleasures, he got in- 
 to a habit of running backwards and 
 forwards between the two places, 
 spending a month or so at cacl^, alter- 
 nately. So the days rolled oiT. Jose- 
 phine fell into a state that almost de- 
 fies description. Her heart was full 
 of deadly wounds ; yet this seemed, 
 by some mysterious, half- healing 
 balm, to throb and ache, but bleed no 
 more. 
 
 Beams of strange, unreasonable 
 complacency would shoot across her : 
 the next moment reflection would 
 come ; she would droop her head, 
 and sigh piteously. Then all would 
 merge in a wild terror of detection. 
 
 She seemed on the borders of a 
 river of bliss, — bliss, new, divine, and 
 inexhaustible ; and on the other 
 bank mocking, malignant fiends 
 dared her to enter tliat heavenly 
 stream. 
 
 Nature was strong in this young 
 
 woman : and at this jtart of her event- 
 ful career Nature threw herself with 
 giant force into the scale of life. The 
 past to her was fiUl of regrets ; the 
 future full of terrors, and empty of 
 hope. Yet she did not, could not, 
 succumb. Instead of the listlessness 
 and languor of a few months back, 
 she had now more energy than ever ; 
 at times it mounted to irritation. An 
 activity possessed her : it broke out in 
 many feminine ways. Among the 
 rest she was seized with what we men 
 should call a cacoethes of the needle ; 
 " a raging desire " for work. Her fin- 
 gers itched for work. She was at it 
 all day. As devotees retire apart to 
 pray, so she to stitch. 
 
 On a wet day she would slip into 
 the kitchen, and ply the needle beside 
 Jacintlia : on a dry day she would 
 hide in the old oak-tree, and sit like a 
 mouse, and ply the tools of her craft, 
 and make things of no mortal use to 
 man or woman ; and she tried little 
 fringes of muslin upon her Avhite 
 hand, and held it up in front of her, 
 and smiled, and then moaned. It 
 was winter, and Laure used some- 
 times to bring her out a thick shawl, 
 as she sat in the old oak-tree, stitch- 
 ing, but Josephine nearly always de- 
 clined it. She was impervious to 
 cold. 
 
 Then, her purse being better filled 
 than formerly, she visited the poor 
 more than ever, and, above all, the 
 young couples : and took a warm in- 
 terest in their household matters, and 
 gave them muslin articles of her 
 own making, and sometimes sniffed 
 the soup in a young housewife's pot, 
 and took a fancy to it, and, if invited 
 to taste it, paid her the compliment 
 of eating a good plateful of it, and 
 said it was better soup than the cha- 
 teau produced ; and thought so ; and 
 whenever some peevish little brat set 
 up a yell in its cradle, and the father 
 shook his fist at the destroyer of his 
 ])cace, Madame IJaynal's lovely face 
 filled with concern, not for the suffer- 
 er, but the yeller, and she flew to it 
 and rocked it and coaxed it and con- 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 207 
 
 soled it, and the young housewife 
 smiled, and stopped its mouth by oth- 
 er means. And, besides the five-franc 
 pieces she gave the infants to hold, 
 these visits of Madame Raynal were 
 always followed by one from Jacintha 
 with a basket of provisions on her 
 stalwart arm, and honest Sir John 
 Burgoyne peeping out at the corner. 
 Kind and beneficent as she was, her 
 temper deteriorated a little ; it came 
 down from angelic almost to human. 
 Laure and Jacintha were struck with 
 the change, assented to evei'ything she 
 said, and encouraged her in every- 
 thing it pleased her caprice to do. 
 
 Meantime the baroness lived on her 
 son Raynal's letters (they came reg- 
 ularly twice a month). 
 
 Laure too had a correspondence, a 
 constant source of delight to her. 
 
 Edouard Kiviere was posted at a 
 great distance, and could not visit 
 her ; but their love advanced never- 
 theless rapidly. Every day he wrote 
 down for his Laure the acts of the 
 day, and twice a week sent the budget 
 to his sweetheart, and told her at the 
 same tiuie every feeling of his heart. 
 She was less fortunate than he ; she 
 had to carry a heavy secret ; but still 
 she found plenty to tell him, and ten- 
 der feelings too to vent on him in her 
 own arch, shy, fitful way. Letters can 
 enchain hearts ; it was by letters that 
 these two found themselves impercep- 
 tibly betrothed. 
 
 Their union was looked forward 
 to as certain, and not very distant. 
 Meantime, it was always a comfort 
 and a joy to slip out of sight and chat 
 to the beloved one on paper. On this 
 side, at least, all was bright. 
 
 One day. Dr. St. Aubin, coming 
 back from Paris to Beaurepaire rather 
 suddenly, found nobody at home but 
 the baroness. Josephine and Laure 
 wex-e gone to Frejus, — had been thei'e 
 more than a week. She was ailing 
 again : so, as Frejus had agreed with 
 her once, Laure thought it might 
 again. 
 
 " I will send for them back now you 
 are come." 
 
 " No ! " said the doctor, " Avhy do 
 that '? I will go over there and see 
 them." 
 
 Accordingly, a day or two after 
 this, St. Aul'in hired a carriage and 
 went off early in the morning to Fre- 
 jus. In so small a place he expected 
 to find the young ladies at once ; but, 
 to his surprise, no one knew them or 
 had heard of them. He was at a non- 
 plus, and just about to return home 
 and laugh at himself and the baroness 
 for this wild-goose chase, when he fell 
 in with a face he knew, one Mivart, a 
 surgeon, a young man of some talent, 
 who had made his acquaintance in 
 Paris. Mivart accosted him with 
 great respect; and, after the first 
 compliments, informed him that he 
 had been settled some months in this 
 little town, and was doing a fair stroke 
 of business. 
 
 "Killing some, and letting Nature 
 cure others, — eh ! monsieur ? " said 
 the doctor. 
 
 Mivart grinned. The doctor then 
 revealed in general terms the occa- 
 sion that had brought him to Fre- 
 jus. 
 
 " Are they pretty women, your 
 friends'? I think I know all" the 
 pretty Avomen about," said Mivart, 
 with unpardonable levity. 
 
 " They are not pretty," replied 
 St. Aubin. 
 
 Mivart's interest in them faded vis- 
 ibly out of his countenance. 
 
 " But they are beautiful. The el- 
 der might pass for Venus, and the 
 younger for Hebe." 
 
 " I know them ! " cried he : " they 
 are patients of mine." 
 The doctor colored. 
 " Ah, indeed ! " 
 
 " In the absence of your greater 
 skill," said Mivart, politely, " it is 
 Madame St. Aubin and her sister 
 you are looking for, is it not ? " 
 " Madame St. Aubin 1 " 
 " Yes ! and how stupid of me not 
 to know by the name who you were 
 inquiring for." 
 
 "It is a curious coincidence, cer- 
 tainly: but it happens to be a Ma- 
 
208 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 dame Raynal I am looking for, and 
 not a Madame St. Auhiii." 
 
 " Madame Kaynal ? don't know 
 her." 
 
 Mivnrt tlicn condoled with the 
 doctor for this, that Madame St. Aii- 
 bin was not the friend he was in 
 sciirch of 
 
 " She and lier sister," said he, " are 
 so lovel}- they make one ill to look at 
 them : the deepest blue eyes you ever 
 saw, both of them : high foreheads, 
 teetii like ivory mixed witli pearl, such 
 aristocratic feet and iiands, and their 
 arms — oh ! " and, by way of general 
 summary, the young surgeon kissed 
 the tips of his fingers, and was silent : 
 language succumbed under the theme. 
 
 The doctor smiled coldly. 
 
 " If you had come an hour sooner, 
 you might have seen Mademoiselle 
 Laure ; slie was in the town." 
 
 " Mademoiselle 'Laure 1 who is 
 that?" 
 
 " Why, Madame St. Aubin's sis- 
 ter." 
 
 " Hum ! where do these paragons 
 live ? " 
 
 " They lodge at a small farm : it 
 belongs * to a widow : her name is 
 Roth." 
 
 They parted. 
 
 Doctor St. Aubin walked slowly 
 towards his carriage, his hands behind 
 him ; his eyes on the ground. He 
 bade the driver inquire wliere the 
 Widow Roth lived, and learned it was 
 about half a league out of the town. 
 He drove to the farm-house : when 
 the carriage drove uj), a young lady 
 looked out of the window, on the 
 first floor. It was Laure de Beaure- 
 paire. She caught the doctor's eye, 
 and he hers. She came down and 
 welcomed him. She was all in a 
 flutter. 
 
 " How did you find us out? " 
 
 "From your medical attendant," 
 said the doctor, dryly. 
 
 Laure looked keenly in liis face. 
 
 " He said he was in attendance on 
 two paragons of beauty, — blue eyes, 
 white teeth and arms." 
 
 "And you found us out by that? " 
 
 inquired Laure, looking still more 
 keenly at him. 
 
 " Hardly ; but it was my last 
 chance of finding you, so I came. 
 Where is Madame Raynal ? " 
 
 " Come into this room, dear friend. 
 I will go and find her." 
 
 Full twenty minutes was the doc- 
 tor kept waiting, and then in came 
 Laure, gayly crying : — 
 
 " I liave hunted her high and low, 
 and where do you think my lady 
 was ? Sitting out in the garden, — 
 come." 
 
 Sure enough, they found Josephine 
 in the garden, seated on a low chair. 
 She smiled when the doctor came up 
 to her, and asked after her mother. 
 There was an air of languor about 
 her ; her color was clear, delicate, and 
 beautiful. 
 
 •' You have been unwell, my child ? " 
 
 " A little, dear friend : you know 
 me : always ailing, and tormenting 
 those I love." 
 
 " Well ! but, Josephine, this place 
 and this sweet air always sets you up. 
 Look at her now, doctor; did you 
 ever sec her look better ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " How can you say so ? See what 
 a color. I never saw her look more 
 lovely." 
 
 " 1 never saw her look so lovely : 
 but I have seen her look better. 
 Your pulse, my child ! A little lan- 
 guid ? " 
 
 " Yes, I am a little." 
 
 " Do you stay at Beaurepaire ? " 
 inquired Laure ; " if so, we will come 
 home." 
 
 " You will stay here another fort- 
 night," said the doctor, authorita- 
 tively. 
 
 " Prescribe some of your nice ton- 
 ics for me, doctor," said Josephine, 
 coaxingly. 
 
 " No ! I can't do that : y-ou are in 
 the hands of another practitioner." 
 
 " What docs that matter ? You 
 were at Paris." 
 
 "It is not the etiquette in our 
 profession to interfere with another 
 man's patients." 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 209 
 
 " dear ! I am so sorry," began 
 Josephine. 
 
 " I see nothing here that my good 
 friend Mivart is not competent to 
 deal with/' said the doctor, interrupt- 
 ing her. 
 
 Then followed some general con- 
 versation, at the end of which the 
 doctor once more laid his commands 
 on them to stay another fortnight 
 where they were ; and he bade them 
 good by. 
 
 When he was gone, Laure went to 
 the door of the kitchen, and called 
 out, " Madame Jouvenel ! Madame 
 Jouvenel ! you may come into the 
 garden again ! " 
 
 The doctor drove away : but, in- 
 stead of going straight to Beaurepaire, 
 he ordered the driver to return to the 
 town. He then walked to Mivart's 
 house. 
 
 He was an hour and three quarters 
 closeted with Mivart. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 Edouard Riviere contrived one 
 Saturday night to work off all arrears 
 of business, and start for Beaurepaire. 
 He had received a very kind letter 
 from Laui-e, and his longing to see 
 her overpowered him. On the road 
 his eyes often glittered and his cheek 
 flushed with expectation. At last he 
 got there. His heart beat ; for four 
 months he had not seen her. He ran 
 up into the drawing-room, and there 
 found the baroness alone ; she wel- 
 comed him cordially, but soon let him 
 know Laure and her sister were at Fre- 
 jus. His heart sank. Frejus Avas a 
 long way off. But this was not all. 
 Laure's letter was dated from Beau- 
 repaire, yet it must have been written 
 at Frejus. He went to Jacintha, and 
 demanded an explanation of this. 
 The ready Jacintlia said it looked as 
 if she meant to be home directly. 
 
 " That is a hint for me to get their 
 rooms ready," said Jacintha, 
 
 " This letter must have come here 
 enclosed in another," said Edouard, 
 sternly. 
 
 "Like enough," replied Jacintha, 
 with an appearance of sovereign in- 
 diffei-ence. 
 
 Edouard looked at her. " I will go 
 to Frejus," 
 
 " So I would," said Jacintha, fal- 
 tering a little, but not perceptibly : 
 " you might meet them on -the road, 
 
 — if so be they come the same road, 
 
 — there are two roads, you know." 
 Edouard hesitated ; but he ended 
 
 by sending Dard to the town on his 
 own horse with orders to leave him 
 at the inn and borrow a fresh horse. 
 "I shall just have time," said he. 
 He rode to Frejus and inquired at 
 the inns and the post-office for Ma- 
 demoiselle de Beaurepaire. They did 
 not know her : then he inquired for 
 Madame Raynal. No such name 
 known. He rode by the seaside upon 
 the chance of their seeing him, — no ! 
 He paraded on horsehack throughout 
 the place in hopes every moment that 
 a window would open, and a fair face 
 shine at it, and call to him, — no ! 
 At last his time was up, and he was 
 obliged to ride back — sick at heart — 
 to Beaurepaire. He told the baroness 
 with some natural irritation what had 
 happened. She was as much surprised 
 as he was. 
 
 " I write to Madame Raynal at the 
 post-office, Frejus," said she. 
 
 "And Madame Raynal gets your 
 letters 1 " 
 
 "Of course she does, since she an- 
 swers them ; you cannot have inquired 
 at the post." 
 
 " Madame, it was the first place I in- 
 quired at, and neither Mademoiselle 
 de Beaurepaire nor Madame Raynal 
 were known there." 
 
 Both parties were positive, and Ja- 
 cintha, who could have given the clew, 
 seemed so puzzled herself, that they 
 did not even apply to her. Edouard 
 took a sorrowful leave of the baroness, 
 and set out on his journey home. 
 
 Oil ! how sad and weary that ride 
 seemed now by what it had been, 
 N, 
 
210 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 coming;.- Ilis disappointment was 
 ii(.'Oi) 'iiit^ irritating, aiul, ere lie had 
 ricMcn half-way, a tortuior fastened 
 on ilis heart. Tliat torture is called 
 suspicion ; a vai^iie and shadowy, hut 
 •rigantie pliantoni, that ojipresses and 
 rends the mind more terribly than 
 certainty. In this state of vague, 
 sickening suspicion he remained some 
 days : then canic an affectionate letter 
 I'lom Laure, who had actually returned 
 home. In this she expresseil her re- 
 gret and disappointment at having 
 missed him ; blamed herself for mis- 
 leading him, but explained that their 
 stay at Frejus luul been prolonged 
 fi'om day to day far beyond her ex- 
 ])ectatiou. " The stupidity of the post- 
 office was more than she could account 
 for," said she. But what went fur- 
 thest to console Edouard was that af- 
 ter this contrete/nps she never ceased to 
 invite him to come to Beaurepairc. 
 Now before this, though she said many 
 kind and pretty things in her letters, 
 she iiad never invited him to visit the 
 chateau ; he had noticed this. " Sweet 
 soul," thought he, " she really is 
 vexed. I must he a brute to think 
 any more about it. Still — " So 
 this wound was skinned over. 
 
 At last, what he called his lucky 
 star ordained that he shpuld be trans- 
 ferred to the very post his Comman- 
 dant Raynal had once occupied. He 
 sought and obtained permission to fix 
 his quarters in the little village near 
 Beaurepairc. This arrangement could 
 not be carried out for three months ; 
 but the prospect of it was joyful all 
 that time, — joyful to both lovers. 
 Laure needed this consolation, for she 
 was very unhappy. Her beloved sis- 
 ter since their return from Frejus had 
 fallen into a state that gave her hour- 
 ly sorrow and anxiety. The flush of 
 health was gone from Josephine's 
 cheek, and so was her late energy. 
 
 She fell back into deej) depression 
 and languor, broken occasionally by 
 fits of nervous irritation. 
 
 She would sit for hours together at 
 one window. Can the reader guess 
 which way that window looked ? 
 
 Lanrc trembled for two things, — her 
 life and her reason. But Edouard 
 would come : he was a favorite of 
 Jose]jhine : he would help to distract 
 her attention from those sorrows which 
 a lapse of years alone could cure. 
 
 On every account, then, Edouard's 
 visit was looked forward to with hope 
 and joy. 
 
 He came. He was received with 
 open arms. He took up his quarters 
 at his old lodgings, but spent his even- 
 ings, and every leisure hour, at the 
 chateau. 
 
 He was very much in love, and 
 showed it. He adhered to his Laure 
 like a leech ; and followed her about 
 like a little dog, and was always 'hap- 
 py at the bare sight of her. 
 
 This would have made her very 
 happy if she had had nothing great to 
 distract her attention and her heart ; 
 but she had Josephine, whose deep de- 
 pression and fits of irritation and ter- 
 ror filled her with anxiety; and so 
 Edouard was in the way now and then. 
 On these occasions he was too vain to 
 sec what she was too polite to show 
 him offensively. 
 
 On this she became vexed at his 
 obtusencss. 
 
 " Does he think I can be always at 
 his beck and call ? " said she. 
 
 " She is always after her sister," 
 said he. 
 
 He was just beginning to be jealous 
 of Josephine, when the following inci- 
 dent occurred : — 
 
 Laure and the doctor were discuss- 
 ing Josephine. Edouard pretended 
 to be reading a book, but he listened 
 to every word. 
 
 At last, Dr. St. Aubin gave it as 
 his opinion that Madame Ilaynal did 
 not make enough l)lood. 
 
 " Oh ! if I "thought that ! " cried 
 Laure. 
 
 " Well, then, it is so, I assui'c you." 
 
 " Doctor," said Laure, " do ^'ou 
 remember, one day you said blood 
 could be drawn from young veins 
 ^md poured into old ones { " 
 
 " 1 don't rememl)cr saying so, but 
 it is a well-known fact." 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 211 
 
 "And healthy blood into a sick 
 patient ? " 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 " I don't believe it." 
 
 " Then you place a very narrow 
 limit to science," said the doctor, cold- 
 ly- 
 
 " Did you ever see it done 1 " asked 
 Laure. 
 
 " I have not only seen it done, but 
 have done it myself! " 
 
 " Then do it for us. There 's my 
 arm, take blood from that for dear 
 Josephine ! " and she thrust a white 
 arm out under his eye with such a 
 bold movement and such a look of 
 fire and love as never beamed from 
 common eyes ! 
 
 A keen, cold pang shot through the 
 human heart of Edouard Riviere. 
 
 The doctor started and gazed at 
 her with admiration; then he hung his 
 head. 
 
 "I could not do it. I love you 
 both too well to drain either of life's 
 current." 
 
 Laure veiled her fire, and began to 
 coax. 
 
 " Once a week : just once a week, 
 dear, dear doctor : you know I should 
 never miss it. I am so full of that 
 health which Heaven denies to her I 
 love." 
 
 " Let us try milder measures first," 
 said the doctor. " I have most faith 
 in time." 
 
 " What if I were to take her to 
 Frejus : hitherto the sea has always 
 done wonders for her." 
 
 "Frejus by all means," said Ed- 
 ouard, mingling suddenly in the con- 
 versation ; " and this time I will go with 
 you, and then I shall find out where 
 you lodged before, and how the boo- 
 bies came to say they did not know 
 you." 
 
 Laure bit her lip. It flashed across 
 her just then how much Edouard was 
 in her way and Josephine's. Their 
 best friends are in the way of those 
 who have secrets. Presently the doc- 
 tor went to his study. Edouard began 
 in a mock soliloquy. 
 
 " I wonder whether any one will 
 
 ever love me well enough to give a 
 drop of their blood for me ! " 
 
 " If you were in sickness and sor- 
 row, — who knows 1 " 
 
 " I would soon be in sickness and 
 sorrow if I thought that." 
 
 "Don't jest with such matters, 
 monsieur." 
 
 " I don't jest. I wish I was as ill 
 as Madame Raynal is, to be loved as 
 she is." 
 
 " You must resemble her in other 
 things to be loved as she is." 
 
 " You have often made me feel that 
 of late, dear Laure." 
 
 This touched her. She fought 
 down the kindly feeUng. 
 
 " I am glad of it," said she, out of 
 perverseness. She added after a 
 while : " Edouard, you are naturally 
 jealous ! " 
 
 " Not the least in the world, Laure, 
 I assure you. I have many faults : 
 but jealous I am not." 
 
 " You are, and suspicious, too : 
 there is something in your character 
 that alarms me for our happiness." 
 
 " There ai-e things in your conduct, 
 Laure, I could wish explained." 
 
 " There ! I told you so. You have 
 not confidence in me." 
 
 " Pray don't say that, dear Laure. 
 I have every confidence in you : now 
 don't ask me to divest myself of my 
 senses and my reason." 
 
 " I don't ask you to do that or any- 
 thing else for me, — au plaisir." 
 
 " Where ai'e you going now ? he ! 
 he ! I never can get a word of peace 
 with you." 
 
 " I am going uj) stairs to my sis- 
 ter." 
 
 " Poor Madame Raynal, she makes 
 it very hard for me not to dislike 
 her." 
 
 " Dislike my Josephine 1 " and 
 Laure bristled visibly. 
 
 " She is an angel, but I should hate 
 an angel if it came forever between 
 you and me." 
 
 " Excuse me, she was here long be- 
 fore you. It is you that come between 
 her and me." 
 
 " I came because I was told I should 
 
212 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 be welcome," paid Edonard, bitterly, 
 and LHjuivocatiiii:- a little: he added, 
 " and I dare say 1 shall go, when I 
 am told I am one too many." 
 
 " liad heart ! who says you are 
 one too many in the house ? But you 
 arc too cxitjcant, monsieur : you as- 
 sume the husband, and you tease me. 
 It is selfish : can you not see I am 
 anxious and worried ? you ought to 
 be kind to nie, and soothe ine : that is 
 wliat I look for from you, and, instead 
 of that, you are a never - ending 
 worry." 
 
 " 1 should not be if you los^ed me 
 as I love you. I give ijou no rival. 
 Shall I tell you the cause of all this ? 
 You have secrets." 
 
 " What secrets ? " 
 
 "Is it me you ask? am I trusted 
 with them ? Secrets are a bond that 
 nothing can overcome. It is to talk 
 secrets you run away from me to Ma- 
 dame Kaynal." 
 
 " Well," said Laurc, coolly, " and 
 who taught me ? " 
 
 " Colonel Uujardin ? " 
 
 Laurc was taken quite aback : she 
 misunderstood for a moment the di- 
 rection of Edouard's jealousy. He 
 eyed her with swelling suspicion. 
 She let him go on this wrong tack 
 awhile. By and by she said : " Was 
 it Colonel Dujardin who taught me 
 reticence? I thought it had been 
 yourself." 
 
 " Do I deserve this sarcasm ? The 
 reticence that springs from affection 
 is one thing : that which comes from 
 the want of it is another. Where did 
 you lodge at Frejus, mademoiselle the 
 Reticent ? " 
 
 " In a grotto, dry at low water, 
 monsieur the Inquisitive." 
 
 " That is enough, since you will 
 not tell me, I will find it out before 
 1 am a week older." 
 
 " Monsieur, I thank you for ])lay- 
 ing the tyrant a little i)rematiux'ly : 
 it has ]jut me on my guard. Let us 
 l>art ! we are not suited to each 
 other." 
 
 "Part! Laurc? that is a terrible 
 word to pass between you and me. 
 
 Forgive mc ! I suppose I am jeal- 
 ous." 
 
 " You arc, — you are actually jeal- 
 ous of my sister. Well, I tell you 
 plainly I love you : but I love my 
 sister better. I never could love any 
 man as I do her : it is ridiculous to 
 expect it." 
 
 " And you think I could bear to 
 plav second fiddle to her all my 
 life"? " 
 
 "I don't ask you. Go and play 
 first trumpet with some other lady." 
 
 " You speak your wislies so plainly 
 now, I have nothing to do but to 
 obey." 
 
 He kissed her hand, and went away 
 disconsolately. 
 
 Laure, instead of going to Jose- 
 phine, her determination to do which 
 had mainly caused the quarrel, sat 
 sadly down, and leaned her head on 
 her hand. 
 
 " I am cruel ! I am ungrateful ! 
 he has gone away broken-hearted ! 
 and what shall I do without him? — 
 little fool ! I love him better than he 
 loves me. He will never forgive me ! 
 I have wounded his vanity, — and 
 they arc vainer than we ai'c ! If we 
 meet at dinner, I will be so kind to 
 him, he will forget it all. No ! 
 Edouard will not come to dinner. 
 He is not a spaniel that you can beat, 
 and then Mhistle back again: Some- 
 thing tells mc I have lost him ; and, 
 if I have, what shall I do ? I will 
 write him a note. I will ask him to 
 forgive me ! " 
 
 She sat down at the table, and took 
 a sheet of note-paper and began to 
 write a few conciliatory words. She 
 was so occupied in making these kind 
 enough, and not too kind, that a light 
 step approached her unobserved. She 
 looked up and there was Edouard. 
 She M'hipped the paper off the table. 
 
 A spasm of suspicion crossed Ed- 
 ouard's face. 
 
 Laure caught it. 
 
 " Well," said she. 
 
 " Dear Laure, I came back to beg 
 you to forget Avhat passed just now." 
 
 Laurc's eye flashed : his return 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 213 
 
 showed her her power. She abused 
 it directly. 
 
 " How can I forget it if yoii come 
 reminding me 1 " 
 
 " Dear Laure, now don't be so nn- 
 kind, so cruel, — I have not come 
 back to tease you, sweet one. I come 
 to know Avhat I can do to please you : 
 to make you love me again ? " 
 
 " I 'U tell you. Don't come near 
 me for a month." 
 
 Edouard started from his knees, 
 white as ashes with mortification and 
 wounded love. 
 
 " This is how you treat rae for 
 humbling myself, when it is you that 
 ouglit to ask forgiveness ! " 
 
 "Why should I ask what I don't 
 care about ? " 
 
 " What do you care about ? — ex- 
 cept that sister of yours. You have 
 no heart. And on this cold-blooded 
 creature I have wasted a love an em- 
 press might hare been proud of in- 
 spiring ! I pray God some man may 
 sport with your affections, you heart- 
 less creature, as you have played with 
 mine, and make you suffer what I 
 suffer now ! " 
 
 And with a burst of inarticulate 
 grief and rage he flung out of the 
 room. 
 
 Laure sank trembling on the sofa 
 a little while : then with a mighty ef- 
 fort rose and went to comfort her sis- 
 ter. 
 
 Edouard came no more to Beaure- 
 paire. 
 
 There is an old French proverb, 
 and a wise one, Rieii n'est cei'tmn que 
 Vimpretu : it means you can make 
 sure of nothing but this, that matters 
 will not turn as you feel sure they 
 will ; and for this reason you, who 
 are thinking of, suicide because trade 
 is declining, speculation failing, bank- 
 ruptcy impending, or your life going 
 to be blighted forever by unrequited 
 love, — don't do it ! — whether you are 
 English, American, French, or Ger- 
 man, listen to a man that knows what 
 is what, and don't do it. Why not ? 
 because none of those horrors will af- 
 
 fect you as you are prophesying they 
 will. The joys we expect are not 
 so bright, nor the troubles so dark, as 
 we fancy they will be. Bankruptcy 
 coming is one thing, come is quite 
 another : and no heart or life can be 
 really blighted at twenty years of age. 
 The love-sick girls, that are picked 
 out of the canal alive, marry another 
 man, have eight brats, and screech 
 with laughter when they think of 
 sweetheart, and probably blockhead, 
 No. 1, for whom they were fools 
 enough to wet themselves, let alone kill 
 themselves. This happens invariablij. 
 The love-sick girls, that are picked 
 out of the canal dead, have fled from 
 short-lived memory to eternal misery, 
 from guilt that time never failed to 
 cure to anguish incurable. In this 
 world rien nest certain que Vimprevu. 
 
 Edouard and Laure were tender 
 lovers, at a distance. How much 
 happier and more loving they thought 
 they should be beneath the same roof. 
 They came together. Their promi- 
 nent faults of character rubbed : the 
 secret that was in the house did its 
 work : and, altogether, they quar- 
 relled. 
 
 Dard had been saying to Jacintha 
 for ever so long, " Wlien granny dies, 
 I will marry you." 
 
 Granny died. Dard took posses- 
 sion of her little property. Up came 
 a glittering official, and turned him 
 out. He was not her heir. Perrin 
 the notary was her heir. Ho had 
 bought the inheritance of her two 
 sons, long since dead. 
 
 Dard had not only looked on the 
 cottage and cow as his, but had 
 spoken of them for years. The dis- 
 appointment, and the irony of his 
 comrades, ate into him. 
 
 " I will leave this cursed place ! " 
 said he. 
 
 Josephine instantly sent for him to 
 Beaurepaire. He came, and was fac- 
 totum, with the novelty of a fixed 
 salary. Jacintha found him a new 
 little odd job or two. She set him 
 to dance on the oak floors with a 
 brush fastened to his right foot ; and, 
 
214 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 after a rehearsal or two, she made him 
 wait at table. Did n't ho banp: the 
 tliiiiixs about ! and when he brought 
 a lady a dish, and slic did not in- 
 stantly attend, he j^Mve her elbow a 
 ]ioke to attraet attention : then she 
 siiueakcd ; and he grinned at her 
 d()u!)le al)sunlity in minding a toueh, 
 and not minding tlic real busine.ss of 
 the table. 
 
 His wrongs rankled in him. lie 
 vented antique phrases. 
 
 " I want a change, — this village is 
 the last place the Almighty made," 
 etc. 
 
 He was attacked with a moral dis- 
 ease, viz. he affected the company 
 of soldiers. They had seen the world. 
 He spent his weekly salary carousing 
 with the military, a class of men so 
 brilliant that they arc not expected to 
 pay for their share in the drink ; they 
 contribute the anecdotes and the fa- 
 miliar appeals to Heaven. 
 
 Present at many recitals, the heroes 
 of which lost nothing by being their 
 own historians, Dard imbibed a taste 
 for military adventure. His very 
 talk, which used to be so homely, be- 
 gan now to be tinselled with big swell- 
 ing words of vanity imported from 
 the army. I need liardly say these 
 Ijombastical phrases did not elevate 
 his general dialect : they lay distinct 
 upon the surface, " like lumps of marl 
 upon a barren soil, encumbering the 
 ground they cannot fertilize." 
 
 Jacintha reminded him of an in- 
 cident connected with warfare, — 
 wounds. 
 
 " Do you remember how you were 
 down upon your huk when you did but 
 cut your foot ? AVhy, that is nothing 
 in the army. They never go out to 
 light but some come back with arms 
 oft', and some with legs off, and some 
 with heads, and some don't come back 
 ut all, and how would you like that ? " 
 
 This view of warfare at first cooled 
 Dard's impatience for the field. ]Jut 
 the fighting half of his heart received 
 an ally in one Sergeant La Croix : 
 not a bad name for a military aspi- 
 rant. This sergeant was at the vil- 
 
 lage on a short leave of absence, and 
 was now only waiting to march the 
 new recruits to Paris, to join the army 
 of the l\hine. Sergeant La Croix 
 was a man who could by the force of 
 his elocjuence make soldiering appear 
 the most delightful as well as glorious 
 of human pursuits. His tongue fired 
 the inexperienced soul with a love of 
 arms, as do the drums and trumpets 
 and gallant ringing tread of soldiers 
 marching under colors that blaze and 
 bayonets that glitter in the sun. He 
 would have been invaluable in Eng- 
 land, where we recruit by jargon. lie 
 was su]3crfluous in France, where they 
 recruited by compulsion : but he was 
 ornamental, and he set Dard and one 
 or two more on fne. Sergeant La 
 Croix had so keen a sense of military 
 glory, that he did not deign to descend 
 to that merely verbal honor civilians 
 call veracity. 
 
 To speak plainly, the sergeant was 
 a fluent, fertile, interesting, sonorous, 
 ever-ready, and most audacious liar : 
 and such was his success, that Dard 
 and one or two more became mere 
 human fiction ])ipes, irrigating a small 
 rural district with false views of mili- 
 tary life, derived from that inexhaus- 
 tible spring. At last the long-threat- 
 ened conscription was levied : every 
 person fit to bear arms, and not 
 coming under the allowed exceptions, 
 had a number given him ; and at a 
 certain hour the numbers correspond- 
 ing to these were deposited in an urn, 
 and one third of them were drawn in 
 presence of the authorities. Those 
 men whose numbers were drawn had 
 to go for soldiers. Jacintha awaited 
 the result in great tremor. She could 
 not sit at home. She left the chateau, 
 and went down the road to meet 
 Dard, who had promised to come and 
 tell her the result as soon as known. 
 At last she saw him approaching in a 
 disconsolate way. 
 
 " O Dard, speak ! are wo un- 
 done ? arc you a dead man ? " cried 
 she. 
 
 " What d' ye mean ? " 
 
 " Have they made a soldier of you ? " 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 215 
 
 *' No such luck : I shall die a man 
 of all work." 
 
 " And you are sorry ? you unnatu- 
 ral little monster ! you have no feel- 
 ing for me, then ? " 
 
 " yes ! I have ; but glory is 
 No. 1 M'ith me now, citizeness ! " 
 
 " How loud the little bantams 
 crow ! You leave glory to six feet 
 high, Dard." 
 
 " Gcnei-al Bonaparte is n't much 
 higher tlian I am, and glory sits upon 
 his brow. Why shouldn't glory sit 
 upon my brow 1 " 
 
 " Because it would weigh you down, 
 and smother you, you little fool." 
 
 " O, we know you girls don't care 
 for reputation." 
 
 " Don't we, though 1 " 
 
 " But you care for the blunt." 
 
 " Agreed ! " 
 
 " Well, then, soldiers are the boys 
 that make it." 
 
 " La ! Dard, I never heard that 
 before." 
 
 "At the wars I mean: pillaging 
 and cetera, not on three sous a day 
 here at home of course. Why, Jacin- 
 tha," said Dard, lowering his voice 
 mysteriously, " there 's scarce a sol- 
 dier in the army that has n't got a 
 thousand francs hid in his knapsack." 
 
 " La ! now ! But, then, what is the 
 use of it if he is to be killed next 
 minute ? " 
 
 " I '11 tell yon. When the soldier 
 is dead — " 
 
 " Yes, Dard." 
 
 " The general turns it into paper 
 money, and sends it home to the Min- 
 ister of War." 
 
 " Ay ! like enough." 
 
 " He takes it, and puts as much to 
 it out of the public chest : then he 
 sends it all to the dead man's wife, or, 
 if he has got no wife, to his sweet- 
 heart. Then witli that she can marry 
 the chap that she has been taking up 
 with all the time the first was getting 
 his brains knocked out. O, I am up 
 to all the moves now ! " 
 
 " But, Dard, you forget, I could n't 
 bear you to be killed at any price." 
 
 *• No more could I," was the frank 
 
 reply ; " but I should n't. The ene- 
 my always fire too high : that 's 
 through nervishness ! We 've licked 
 'em so often. Most of the bullets go 
 over, our army altogether into the 
 trees round about the field of battle : 
 the chaps that do get killed are your 
 six-foot ones : their stupid heads are 
 always in the way of everything, you 
 know. My heart is quite down about 
 it, girl. Here is ray number, ninety- 
 nine ! " 
 
 " And it was not dravrn Dard, you 
 are sure 1 " 
 
 " No ! I tell you that I saw them all 
 drawn. I saw the last number in the 
 gentleman's hand : it was sixty some- 
 thing. So I came to tell you, because 
 — because — " 
 
 " Because you were as glad as I 
 am. I don't think but what a bullet 
 would kill a little one as well as a big 
 one. You are well out of that, Dard. 
 Come and help me draw the water." 
 
 " Well ! since there is no immortal 
 glory to be jncked up to-day, I will go 
 in for odd jobs again." 
 
 " That is you, Dard. That is what 
 you are fittest for." 
 
 While they were drawing the water, 
 a voice was heard hallooing. Dard 
 looked up, and there was a rigid mili- 
 tary figure, with a tremepdous mus- 
 tache, peering about. Dard was over- 
 joyed. 
 
 " It is my friend ! it is my boon 
 companion ! Come here, old fellow. 
 Ain't I glad to see you ! that is all ? " 
 
 La Croix marched towards the 
 pair. 
 
 " What are you skulking here for, 
 i-ecruit ninety-nine ? " said he, sternly, 
 dropping the boon companion in the 
 sergeant : " the rest are on the road." 
 
 " The rest, old fellow ? what do you 
 mean ? why, I was not drawn." 
 
 " Yes, you were." 
 
 "No, I was n't." 
 
 " Thunder of war, but I say you 
 were. Yours was the last number." 
 
 " That is an unlucky guess of yours, 
 for I saw the last number. Loolc 
 here " : and he fumbled in his pocket 
 and produced his number. 
 
216 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 La Croix instantly fished out acor- 
 respondiiii; nuiiil)er. 
 
 •' Well : and here you are : this was 
 the last number drawn." 
 
 Dard burst out lauy;luiis. . 
 
 " You iroosc," said he, " that is six- 
 ty-six, — look at it." 
 
 " Sixty-six," roared the sergeant, 
 " no more than yours is, — they are 
 both sixty-sixes when you play tricks 
 with them, and turn them up like 
 that : but tliey arc both ninety-nines 
 when you look at them fair." 
 
 Dard scratched his head. 
 
 " Come, no shirking : make up his 
 bundle, girl, and let us be off, we have 
 got our marching orders. We are 
 going to the Kliiiie." 
 
 " And do you think I will let him 
 go ? " screamed Jacintha. " No ! I 
 will say one word to Madame Raynal, 
 and she will buy him a substitute di- 
 rectly." 
 
 Dard stopped her fiercely. 
 
 " No ! I have told all in the village 
 that I would go the first chance : it is 
 come, and I '11 go. I won't stay to be 
 laughed at about this too. If I was 
 sure to be cut in pieces, I 'd go ! give 
 over blubbering, my lass, and get us a 
 bottle of the best wine, and while we 
 are drinking it, the sergeant and I, 
 you make-up my bundle. I shall 
 never do any good here." 
 
 Jacintha knew the obstinate toad. 
 She did as she was bid, and soon the lit- 
 tle bundle was ready, and the two men 
 faced the wine : La Croix, radiant 
 and bellicose, — Dard, crestfallen but 
 dogged (for there was a little bit of 
 good French stuff at the bottom of 
 the creature), and Jacintha rocking 
 herself, with her apron over her 
 head. 
 
 La Croix. " I '11 give you a toast. 
 * Here 's gunpowder.' " 
 
 Jacintha. " Oh ! oh ! oh ! oh ! oh ! " 
 
 Dard (angrily). " Do drop that, 
 Jacintha, — do you think that is cn- 
 coura<,nng ? Sergeant, I told this 
 poor girl all about glory before you 
 came, but she was not ripe for it, — 
 say something to cheer lier up, for I 
 can't." 
 
 " I can ! " cried this trumpet of 
 battle, emptying its glass. " Atten- 
 tion, young woman." 
 
 " dear! O dear ! yes, sir." 
 
 " A French soldier is a man who 
 carries France in his heart." 
 
 " But if the cruel foreign soldiers 
 kill him ? oh ! " 
 
 " If they do, he does not care a — . 
 Every man must die : horses likewise 
 and dogs, and donkeys when they 
 come to the end of their troubles. 
 But dogs and donkeys and chaps in 
 blouses can't die gloriously as Dard 
 may, if he has any luck at all : so 
 from this hour, if there Avas twice as 
 little of him, be proud of him, for 
 from this time he is a part of France 
 and her renown. Come, recruit nine- 
 ty-nine, shoulder your traps at duty's 
 call, and let us go off in form. At- 
 tention ! ! Quick, march ! Ten thou- 
 sand devils ! is that the way I showed 
 you to march ? Did n't I tell you to 
 start from the left leg ? Nov>' try 
 again. Quick — march! left, right 
 — left, right — left, right. Now you 
 've GOT it — DRAT yC — KEEP it, left, 
 right — left, right — left, right. And 
 tRc sergeant marched the little odd- 
 jobber to the wars. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 Josephine. " Laure, the doctor is 
 cold to me." 
 
 Laure. " And to me too.^' 
 
 Josephine. " I have noticed it ever 
 since we came from Frcjus, Laure." 
 
 Laure. " Yes, and I have no pa- 
 tience with him : of course you know 
 why it is ? " 
 
 Josephine. " No ! would to Heaven 
 I did ! " 
 
 Laure. " It is jealousy : these men 
 are twice as jealous as we are, and 
 about twice as many things. We 
 had another doctor at Frcjus." 
 
 Josephine. " But how could I help ? 
 No ! It must be more than that. Oh ! 
 if he suspects ! ! ! " 
 
 Laure. " No, dear ! now don't tor- 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 217 
 
 ment yourself. I saw his face when 
 he said, 'I decline to interfere with 
 another doctor's patients ! ' ' Another 
 doctor's patients too ! ' such a phrase ! " 
 
 Josephine. " Pra}' Heaven you may 
 be rioht ! He is very cold to us, es- 
 pecially to me." 
 
 Lau7-e (sharply). "Don't be fanci- 
 ful, dear." 
 
 Josephine. " Forgive me. Let us 
 speak of something else. What have 
 you done to Edouard ? " 
 
 Laure. " That is a question I have 
 answered, let me see, twelve times." 
 
 Josephine. " Yes, Laure, but your 
 answers were no answers at all, and I 
 want the truth." 
 
 Laure. " He is a little ill-tempered, 
 jealous, tyrannical wretch." 
 
 Josephine. " Who is he jealous 
 of?" 
 
 Laure made a face, and began to 
 count on her fingers. " First, of Ca- 
 mille l^ujardin." 
 
 Josephine. " Oh ! " 
 
 Laure. ' Secondly, of Josephine de 
 Beaurepaire." 
 
 Josephine. " Ah ! " 
 
 Laure. " Thirdly, of all the world." 
 
 Josephine. " I must hear his ac- 
 count, and make you friends again." 
 
 Laure opened her mouth to remon- 
 strate, but Josephine implored her to 
 let her have her own way. 
 
 " I have not many joys, Laure : 
 this one we can all have, the pleasure 
 of making peace between our friends 
 that misunderstand one another." 
 
 " My poor sister ! " cried Laure, 
 " when will you think of yourself, and 
 leave fools and egotists to mend their 
 own breakages 1 " 
 
 " You consent to my interference, 
 Laure ? " 
 
 Ko answer. 
 
 Edouard, the moment his temper 
 cooled, became very sad. He longed 
 to be friends again with Laure, but he 
 die not know how. His own pride 
 held him back, and so did his fear 
 that he had gone too far, and that his 
 offended mistress would not listen to 
 an offer of reconciliation from him. 
 10 
 
 What a change ! He sat down 
 alone now to all his little meals. No 
 sweet mellow voices in his ear, after 
 the fatigues of the day. 
 
 His landlady brought him in a letter 
 in a lady's handwriting. His heart 
 gave a leap. But, on examining it, 
 he was disappointed. It was some- 
 thing like Laure's, but it was not hers. 
 It proved to be three lines from Jose- 
 ])hine, requestinsi: him to come and 
 speak to her. He went over directly. 
 Josephine was in the Pleasance. 
 
 " What has she been doing to you, 
 dear 1 " began she, kindly. 
 
 " Has not she told you, Madame 
 Ravnal ? " 
 
 '' No ! " 
 
 " But she has told you what / said 
 to her 1 " said Edouard, looking un- 
 easy. 
 
 '' No : she is refractory. She will 
 tell me nothing ; and that makes me 
 fear she is the one in fault." 
 
 " 0, if she does not accuse me, I 
 am sure I will not accuse her. I dare 
 say I am to blame : it is not her fault 
 that I cannot make her love me." 
 
 " But you can : she does." ^ 
 
 " Yes ! but she loves others better, 
 and she holds me out no hope it will 
 ever be otherwise. You are an angel, 
 Josephine ; but on this one point how 
 can I hope for your sympathy. Alas ! 
 you are my most terrible rival." 
 
 " I don't understand you." 
 
 " She told me plainly she never 
 could love me as she loves you " 
 
 " And you believed her ? " 
 
 " I saw no reason to disbelieve 
 her." 
 
 " Foolish boy ! Dear Edouard, you 
 must not attach so much importance 
 to every word we say. Does my sis- 
 ter at her age know everything 1 is 
 she a prophet ; Perhaps she really 
 fancies she will always love her sister 
 as she does now ; but you are a man 
 of sense : you ought to smile and let 
 her talk. When you marry her you 
 will take her to your own house. She 
 will only see me now and then. She 
 will have you and your affection al- 
 ways present. Each day some new 
 
218 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 tio between you nnd lier. Yon two 
 will share every joy, every sorrow. 
 Your chiltlren ]»layiiis ^^ yo^i* ^'^'^^ 
 niul relleetiui: tiie' features of both 
 ]iarents, will make yon one : your 
 liearts will melt touether in that blcsbed 
 union which raises earth so near to 
 lieaven ; and then you will wonder 
 you could ever be jealous of poor 
 Jose])hine, who must never hope — 
 ah ! me ! " 
 
 Edouard, wrapped up in himself, 
 niij>took Josephine's emotion at the 
 picture she had drawn of conjugal 
 love. He soothed her, vowed upon 
 his honor he never would separate 
 Laure from her. 
 
 " My dear sister," he cried : " you 
 are an angel and I am a fiend. Jeal- 
 ousy must be the meanest of all senti- 
 ments. I never will be jealous again, 
 — above all, jealous of you, sweet 
 angel : after all, you arc my sister, as 
 well as hers, and she has a right to 
 love you since I love you." 
 
 " You make me very happy when 
 yoii talk so," sighed Josephine : 
 " peace is made? " 
 
 " Never again to be broken. I will 
 go and ask her pardon. What is the 
 matter now ? " 
 
 Jacintha was cackling very loud, 
 and dismissing Avith ignominy two 
 beggars, male and female. 
 
 Jacintha was industry personified, 
 and had no sympathy with mendicity. 
 In vain the couple protested, Heaven 
 knows with what truth, that they were 
 not beggars, but mcclianics out of 
 work. " ]\Iarch ! tramp ! " was Ja- 
 cintha's least word. She added, giving 
 the rein to her imagination, " I '11 
 loose the dog." The man moved 
 away, tlie woman turned appcalingly 
 to Edouard. He and Joseptiinc came 
 towards the group. She had got a 
 sort of large hood, and in that hood 
 she carried an infant on her shoul- 
 d'Ts. Josephine inspected this ar- 
 rangement. 
 » " It looks sickly, ])Oor little thing." 
 
 " What can you exj)ect, my young 
 lady ? its mother had to rise and go 
 about when she ought to have been in 
 
 her bed : and now she has not enough 
 to give it." 
 
 " O dear ! " cried Josephine. "Ja- 
 cintha," she cried, " give them some 
 good food, and a nice bottle of wine." 
 
 " That I will," cried Jacintha, 
 changing her tone, with courtier-like 
 alacrity. " I did not sec she was 
 nursing." 
 
 Josephine put a franc into the in- 
 fant's hand : the little fingers closed on 
 it with that instinct of apj)ro])riation, 
 which is our first, and often our last 
 sentiment. Jose])hine smiled lovingly 
 on the child, and the child seeing that 
 gave a small crow. 
 
 " Bless it," said Josephine, and 
 thereupon her lovely head reared it- 
 self like a crested snake's, and then 
 darted down on the child : and the 
 young noble kissed the beggar's brat 
 as if she Avould eat it. 
 
 This won tiie mother's heart more 
 than even the gifts. 
 
 " Blessings on yoii, my lady," she 
 cried. " I pray the Lord not to forget 
 this when a woman's trouble comes 
 on you in your turn ! It is a small 
 child, mademoiselle, hut it is not an 
 unhealtliy one. See. Inspection was 
 oftercd and eagerly accepted. 
 
 Edouard stood looking on at some 
 distance in amazement, mingled with 
 disgust. 
 
 " LTgh ! " said he, when she re- 
 joined him, "how could you kiss 
 "that nasty little lirat 1 " . 
 
 " Dear Edouard, don't speak so of 
 a poor little innocent. Who would 
 pity them if we women did not ? It 
 liafi lovely eyes." 
 
 '• Like saucers ! " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " It is no compliment when you 
 are affectionate to anybody : you 
 overflow with benevolence on all 
 creation ; like the rose which sheds 
 its perfume on the first comer." 
 
 " If he is not going to be jeal- 
 ous of me next ! " whined Josephine. 
 
 She took him to Laure, and she 
 j said : " There, whenever good 
 I friends quarrel, it is understood they 
 I were both in the wrong. By-gones 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 219 
 
 are to be by-gones, and, when yonr 
 time comes round to quarrel again, 
 please consult me first, since it is me 
 you will afflict." 
 
 She left them together and went 
 and tapped timidly at the doctor's 
 study. 
 
 Monsieur St. Aubin received her 
 with none of that, coldness she had 
 seen in him. He appeared both sur- 
 prised and pleased at her visit to his 
 little sanctum. He even showed an 
 emotion Josephine Avas at a loss to 
 account for. But that wore off dur- 
 ing the conversation. 
 
 " Dear friend," said she, " I come 
 to consult you about Laure and Ed- 
 ouard," 
 
 She then told him what had hap- 
 pened, and hinted at Edouard's one 
 fault. 
 
 The doctor smiled. 
 
 "It is curious," said he. "You 
 have come to draw my attention to 
 a point on which it has been fixed 
 for some days past. I am preparing 
 a cure for the two young fuols : a 
 severe remedy, but in their case a 
 sure one." 
 
 He then sliowed her a deed, where- 
 in he had settled sixty thousand 
 francs on Laure and her children. 
 
 " Edouard has a good place. He 
 is active and rising, and with my 
 sixty thousand francs, and a little 
 purse of ten thousand more for fur- 
 niture and nonsense, they can marry 
 next week if they like. Yes, mar- 
 riage is a medicine which acts dif- 
 ferently on good men and good wo- 
 men. She does not love him quite 
 enough. Cure — marriage. He 
 loves her a little too much. Cure — 
 marriage ! " 
 
 " O doctor ! " 
 
 " Can't help it. I did not make 
 men and women. We must take 
 human nature as we find it, and 
 think God for it on the whole. Have 
 vou nothing else to confide to me, my 
 dear ? " 
 
 " No, doctor." 
 
 " Are you sure, my child 'i " 
 
 "No, dear friend." 
 
 " Then there is only this thing 
 in which I can co-operate with you 1 " 
 
 " But this is very near my heart," 
 faltered Josephine. 
 
 The doctor sighed. Ho then said 
 gently : — 
 
 " They shall be happy : as happy 
 as you wish them." 
 
 Meantime, in another room, a rec- 
 onciliation scene was taking place, 
 and the mutual concessions of two 
 impetuous, but generous spirits. 
 
 The doctor's generosity transpired 
 in the house, and the wedding be- 
 came an understood tiling. All Laitre 
 asked for was to see more color in 
 Josephine's cheek. 
 
 " 1 could not leave her as she is, and 
 I will not." 
 
 " Why leave her at all ? " said Ed- 
 ouard ; " we will have her and nurse 
 her till my dear commandant comes 
 back to her." 
 
 The baroness's sight had failed con- 
 siderably for some months past. But 
 the change in Josephine's appearance 
 was too marked to escape her. 
 
 She often asked Laure what could 
 be the matter, 
 
 " Some passing ailment." 
 
 " Passing ? She has been so, on 
 and off, a long time." 
 
 " The doctor is sure she will out- 
 grow it." 
 
 " Pray Heaven she may. She 
 makes me very anxioits." 
 
 Laure made liglit of it to her moth- 
 er, but in her own heart she grew 
 more and more anxious day by day. 
 She held secret conferences Avith Ja- 
 cintha ; that sagacious personage had 
 a plan to wake Josephine from her 
 deathly languor, and even soothe her 
 nerves, and check those pitiable fits 
 of nervous irritation to which she had 
 become subject. Unfortunately Ja- 
 cintha's plan was so difficult and so 
 dangerous that at first even the cour- 
 ageous Laure recoiled from it ; but 
 there are dangers that seem to dimin- 
 ish when you look them long in the 
 face. 
 
 The whole party was seated in the 
 
220 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 tapestried room : Jncinflia was there, 
 sowinjj: i\ pair of sheets, at a respcetful 
 (listanee from the gentlefolks, al)sorl)cd 
 in her work ; hut with hoth cars on 
 full eoek. 
 
 The doctor, holding his glasses to 
 his eSe, had just begun to read out 
 the Moniteur. 
 
 The baroness sat close to him ; Ed- 
 ouard, opposite ; and the young ladies, 
 each in lier corner of a large luxuri- 
 ous sofa, at some little distance. 
 
 " ' The Austrians left seventy can- 
 non, eight thousand men, and three 
 colors upon the field.' Aha ! 
 
 " ' Army of the North. General 
 Menard defeated the enemy after a 
 severe engagement, taking thirteen 
 field-pieces and a quantity of ammu- 
 nition.' The military news ought to 
 be printed larger instead of smaller 
 than the rest." 
 
 llie baroness. " And there is never 
 anything in the Moniteur." 
 
 St. Aubin. " The deuce there is 
 not." 
 
 Baroness. "It is ahvays the same 
 thing : it is only the figures that vary. 
 So many cannon taken, so many for- 
 tresses, and so many colors. There is 
 never anything about Egypt, the only 
 tiling that interests people." 
 
 St. Aubin. " ' Army of the Ehine.' 
 If I was king, I would put down small 
 type ; it is the greatest foe knowledge 
 has. 'A sanguinary engagement, — 
 eight thousand of the enemy killed and 
 wounded. We have some losses to 
 lament. The Colonel Dujardin — ' " 
 
 Josephine. " Ah ! " 
 
 Baroness. " Only wounded, I 
 hope ? " 
 
 St. Aubin. " ' At the head of the 
 22d Brigade, made a brilliant charge 
 on the enemy's flank, that is described 
 in the general order as having decided 
 the fate of the battle.' Bravo, well 
 d(jne, Camille ! " 
 
 Baroness. " IIow l»adly you do read, 
 luOMsieiir. I thought he was gone ; 
 instead of that he has covered himself 
 with glory ; but it is all our doing, is 
 it not, young ladies 1 We saved his 
 life." 
 
 St. Aubin. " We saved it amongst 
 us, madame." 
 
 Edouitrd. " What is the matter, 
 Laure ? " 
 
 Lanre. " Nothing : give me the 
 salts, quick." 
 
 Slie oidy passed them, as it were, 
 under her own nostrils ; then held them 
 to Josephine, Avho was now observed 
 to be trembling all over. Laure con- 
 trived to make it a])i)car that this was 
 mere sympathy on Jose])hine's part. 
 
 " Don't be silly, girls," cried the 
 baroness, cheerfully; "there is no- 
 bodv killed that we care about." 
 
 Jacintha. " If you please, monsieur, 
 is there anything about Dard ? " 
 
 aSV. Aubin. " There won't be any- 
 thing a!)out him, till he is knocked on 
 the head. 
 
 Jacintha. " Then I don't want to 
 hear anything about him at all." 
 
 At this very moment, the new ser- 
 vant, Eanehette, whom the baroness 
 had hired, to Jacintha's infinite dis- 
 gust, brought in the long-expected 
 letter from p]gypt. 
 
 Baroness. " Here is something bet- 
 ter than salts for you. It is a long 
 letter, Joscjihine, and all in his own 
 hand. So he is safe, thank Heaven ! 
 I was beginning to be uneasy again. 
 You frightened me for that poor Ca- 
 mille ; but this is worth a dozen Ca- 
 milles. This is my son: I would give 
 my old life for him. 
 
 " * My dear mother,' (bless him !) 
 ' my dear wife, and my dear sis- 
 ter,' (well, you sit there like two 
 rocks ! !) — ' We have just gained 
 a battle, — fifty colors.' (What do 
 you think of that ?) ' All the enemy's 
 baggage and ammunition are in our 
 hands.' (This is something like a 
 battle, this one.) ' Also the ]*acha of 
 Natolie.' (Ah ! the Pacha of Natolic, 
 — an important personnge, no doubt, 
 though I never had the honor of hear- 
 ing of him. Do you hear ? — you on 
 the sofa. My son lias captured the 
 Pacha of Natolie. He is as brave as 
 Ciiisar.) ' But this success is not one 
 of those that lead to important re- 
 sults,' (never mind, a victory is a vie- 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 221 
 
 tory ! ) ' and I think we shall be a long 
 time in this confounded couniry.' " 
 
 Here a glance quick as lightning 
 passed between Josephine and Laure. 
 
 " ' Have you news of your patient, 
 my old companion in arms, Dujardin ? 
 I spoke of him to Bonaparte the other 
 day. A thorough soldier, that fel- 
 low/ (So he is: and a charming 
 young man.) " Come here, Josephine." 
 She read to Josephine in a somewliat 
 lower tone of voice : " ' Tell my wife I 
 love her more and more every day. 
 I don't expect as much from her, hut 
 she will make me very happy if* she 
 can make shift to like me as avcII as 
 her family do.' No danger ! Wliat 
 husband deserves to be loved as he 
 does ? I long for his return, that his 
 wife, his mother, and his sister may 
 all combine to teach this poor soldier 
 ■what happiness means. We owe him 
 everything, Josepliine, and if we did 
 not love him, and make him happy, 
 •we should be monsters ; now should 
 we not ? '' 
 
 Josephine " Yes." 
 
 "Now you may all of you read his 
 letter. Jacintha and all," said the 
 baroness, graciously. 
 
 The letter circulated. Meantime 
 the baroness conversed wltli St. Au- 
 bin in quite an undertone. 
 
 " :\Iv friend, look at that child ! " 
 
 " What eliild ? " 
 
 " Josephine. See how pale she is. 
 I noticed it the moment she came 
 near me." 
 
 " Her nerves are weak, and I 
 frightened her." 
 
 " No ! no ! it is more than that. 
 She has lost her appetite. She never 
 laughs. She sighs. That girl is ill, 
 or else she is going to be ill." 
 
 " Neither the one nor the other, 
 madanie," said St. Aubin, looking 
 her coolly in the face. 
 
 " But I say she is. Is a doctor's 
 eye keener than a mother's "? " 
 
 " Considerably," replied the doctor, 
 with cool and enviable effrontery. 
 
 The baroness rose. 
 
 "Now, children, for our evening 
 walk. We shall enjoy it now." 
 
 '■' I trust you may : but for all that 
 I must forbid the evening air to one 
 of the party, — to ^Madame Kaynal." 
 
 The baroness came to him and 
 whispered : — 
 
 " That is right. Thank you. See 
 what is the matter with her, and tell 
 me." And she carried off the rest of 
 the party. 
 
 At the same time Jacintha asked 
 permission to pass the rest of the 
 evening with her relations in the vil- 
 lage. 
 
 But wliy that swift, quivering 
 glance of intelligence between Jacin- 
 tha and Laure de Beaurepaire when 
 the baroness said : " Yes, certainly." 
 
 Josephine and the doctor were left 
 alone. 
 
 Josephine had noticed the old peo- 
 ple whisper and her mother glance 
 her way, and the whole woman was 
 on her guard. She assumed a languid 
 complacency, and, by way of shield, 
 if necessary, took some work, and 
 bent her eyes and apparently her at- 
 tention on it. 
 
 The doctor was silent and ill at 
 ease. 
 
 She saw he had something weighty 
 on his mind, and that it would come 
 out, unless she could divert it. A 
 vague fear prompted her to avoid all 
 weighty topics. So she said quiet- 
 ly : — 
 
 " The air would have done me no 
 harm." 
 
 " Neither w^ill a few words with 
 me." 
 
 " O no ! dear friend. I think I 
 should have liked a little walk this 
 evening." 
 
 " I played the tyrant. A friend is 
 sometimes a tyrant ! " 
 
 "I forgive you. My walk is not 
 lost, since I gain a tete-a-tete with you 
 in exchange for it." 
 
 The doctor took no notice of this 
 somewhat hollow speech. There was 
 another silence, xi very long one. 
 
 " Josephine," said the doctor, quiet- 
 Iv, " when you were a child I saved 
 your life." 
 
 "I have often heard my mother 
 
222 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 speak of it. I was clioked by the 
 croup, and you had the courage to 
 lance my wimlpipe." 
 
 " Had" 1? " said the doctor, with a 
 smile. He added, j;iavely, '' It seems 
 then that to he cruel is sometimes 
 kindness. Josephine, we love those 
 whose life we liavc saved." 
 
 " And they love you." 
 
 " ISince that day, Josephine, how 
 many kind ofiiees, how sweet and sa- 
 cred an aft'eetion, between us two. 
 Many a father and dau;.;htcr mij^ht 
 Lave taken a lesson from us." 
 
 " From you, my second lather, — 
 not from me." 
 
 " Yet I have to rcproacli you or 
 myself. For after all tliese years I 
 have fiiiled to inspire you with confi- 
 dence." The doctor's voice was sad, 
 and Josephine's bosom panted. 
 
 " Fray do not say so," she cried. 
 " I woukl trust you with my life." 
 
 " But not, it seems, with your se- 
 cret." 
 
 " My secret ? What secret ? I have 
 no secrets." 
 
 "Josephine, you have now for full 
 twelve months suffered in body and 
 mind ; yet you have never come to 
 me for counsel, for comfort, for an 
 old man's experience and advice, or 
 even for medical aid." 
 
 " But, dear friend, I assure you — " 
 
 " We do not deceive our friend. 
 We cannot deceive our doctor." 
 
 Jo.sephine trembled, but women arc 
 not to be drawn as men are. She 
 fouijht every inch of ground after 
 the manner of her sex. " Dear doc- 
 tor," said she, " I love you all the 
 better for this. Your regard for me 
 has for once blinded your science. 
 I am not so robust as you have 
 known me, but tiiere is notliing se- 
 rious the matter with me. Let us 
 talk of something else. Besides, it 
 is not interesting to talk about one's 
 self." 
 
 " Very well, since there is nothing 
 serious or interesting in your case, 
 we will talk about something that is 
 boih serious and iiitei-esting." 
 
 "With all my heart": and she 
 
 smiled content at averting criticism 
 from herself. 
 
 " We will talk about YOUR ciiii.d!" 
 
 Tlie work dropped from Josephine's 
 hands ; she turned her face wildly on 
 St. Aubin, and with terrified eyes 
 fixed on him, faltered out : — 
 
 " M— my child 'i " 
 
 " ]My words are plain," replied he, 
 gravely. " Your child ! " 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVI. 
 
 Rien n'est certain que Vimprevu. 
 
 " Our success leads to no great re- 
 sults, and I fear we shall be a long 
 time in this confounded country." 
 So wrote Raynal, 
 
 Forty-eight hours after he was sail- 
 ing Franceward with General Bona- 
 parte. That great man dropped 
 Egypt suddenly, very suddenly to 
 those who confound the date of an 
 act with the date of the secret deter- 
 mination that has preceded it who 
 knows how long ? He dropped Egypt, 
 not, as his small critics fancy, because 
 France and he could not have con- 
 trived to hold a corner of Egypt to 
 this day, but because he had discov- 
 ered he could not make of little Egypt 
 the great stepping-stone he had in- 
 tended. 
 
 Take this clew to Napoleon I. 
 
 The ends of ordinary geniuses were 
 his means. 
 
 Their goals his stepping-stones. 
 
 Goes he to Egypt, be sure he goes 
 for Syria and Assyria, at least. 
 
 If Moscow — little city of huts — 
 thinks he went to Moscow for Mos- 
 cow, it pays itself too great a compli- 
 ment, and him too small a one. He 
 went to Moscow for Delhi and Can- 
 ton, 
 
 And when I think of this trait in 
 him, with all its mental consequences, 
 t come by my art, with regret, to the 
 conclusion, that Najjoleon I. was at no 
 period of his career a liapjiy man, 
 nor, wilh his gigajitic estimate of suc- 
 cess, what he would call a very sue- 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 223 
 
 cessful man ; nor much gratified by 
 the successes that dazzled all the rest 
 of the world. 
 
 In the magnitude of his views 
 Xapoleon will stand alone among the 
 sons of earth till the last trumpet. 
 But one trait he shared with every 
 successful genius, whether of the 
 sword, the pen, or the brush. Unsuc- 
 cessful geniuses waste themselves. 
 Successful geniuses lay themselves 
 out to advantage: ay, economize 
 themselves, — some by calculation, 
 the rest by instinct. Napoleon was 
 too practical to waste Napoleon long 
 on Egypt. He did not give up the 
 little country of the great pyramids 
 in despair : he flung it up by calcula- 
 tion. The globe offered greater 
 prizes, — and the globe was his prov- 
 ince. 
 
 He came swiftly back to Paris, and 
 Raynal, who was on his staff, came 
 with him, but not to stay. He was 
 to go off, without a day's delay, to 
 the Rhine with despatches and a com- 
 mand as brigadier in that army. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 "Your child!" 
 
 When the doctor repeated these 
 words, when Josephine, looking in his 
 face, savv he spoke from knowledge, 
 however acquired, and not from 
 guess, she glided down slowly off the 
 t^ofa, and clasped his knees as he 
 stood before her, and hid her face 
 in an agony of shame and terror on 
 his knees. In tliis attitude they were 
 surprised by Laure, who had slipped 
 back (on a pi'etcnce of forgetting her 
 gloves) to see Ayhat St. Aubin had to 
 say to Josephine. 
 
 Laure opened the door softly. She 
 did not arrive soon enough to hear 
 the terrible Avords ; but she saw her 
 siiter trembling at the doctor's knees, 
 and she herself stood white and pant- 
 ing. " Vrhat could it mean ? " 
 
 " Forgive me ! " cried Josephine, in 
 a choking voice, — " foriiive me ! 0, 
 
 pray do not expose me ! Do not de- 
 stroy me ! " 
 
 Laure lowered her head and darted 
 behind a large screen that stood in 
 the room, unseen either by the doctor, 
 whose back was turned to her, or by 
 her sister, who was hiding her eyes 
 against the doctor's knees. 
 
 The doctor raised ]Madame Raynal 
 against her will. She was so ashamed 
 slie could not bear him to see her face. 
 But he made her sic, and held one of 
 her hands, and soothed her terror, 
 while she turned from, him and hid 
 her face on her hand, and her hand 
 on a corner of the couch. 
 
 " Shall I ever expose or wound 
 you, foolish one ? This is to keep 
 you from exposing and destroying 
 yourself. Unhappy child, did you 
 think you had deceived me, or that 
 you are fit to deceive any but the 
 blind ? Your face, your anguish af- 
 ter Colonel Dujardin's departure, — 
 your languor, and then your sudden 
 robustness, yonr appetite, your ca- 
 prices, your strange sojourn at Fre- 
 jus, your changed looks, and loss of 
 health on your return ? Josephine, 
 your old friend has passed many an 
 liour thinking of you, divining your 
 folly, following your trouble step by 
 step, not invited to aid you, incapable 
 of betraying you." 
 
 As he concluded these words, Laure 
 came running towards him with tear- 
 ful eyes, and flung both her arms 
 round his neck. 
 
 " Ah, my poor child ! " said he ; 
 " this is not a secret for one of your 
 age to know ! " 
 
 " Josephine did not tell me," was 
 the prompt answer. 
 
 " Strange that nobody should think 
 me a proper person to be trusted ! " 
 said the doctor. 
 
 " Dear doctor ! if I had respected 
 you less, I could have borne to con- 
 fess to you." 
 
 " No, no ! you feared me. You 
 had no cause. You did not trust me. 
 You had every reason to. I will 
 show you I was not quite unworthy 
 of the confidence you denied me. 
 
224 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 First, I was worthy of it, because I 
 never lost my conlidcuce in you, Jo- 
 sephine. Here were all the signs of 
 an illicit attachment. Well, what 
 did I say ? I said, I know my Jose- 
 phine. 1 went to tlic iiiain'e i\t Frejus 
 upon a very difterent pretence. I 
 got a sijjht of the books, and in a 
 minute I found Camille's name and 
 yours. Such was my confidence in 
 you, who had none in me. I said 
 there must have been a marriage of 
 some sort." 
 
 The doctor looked round, trium- 
 phant in his own sagacity. Alas ! 
 he missed the merited a])plause. Jo- 
 sephine looked in his face, puzzled. 
 
 " Dear friend," said she, hesitating, 
 " I do not quite understand you. I 
 know your sagacity, but since you 
 had discovered I was a — a — moth- 
 er, of course you know I must be a 
 •wife. How could I be a mother, you 
 know, unless I was a wife first? " 
 
 The doctor wore a look half satiri- 
 cal, half tender : he took a pinch of 
 snufF. " That is very true," said he, 
 mighty dryly. " Well, I reyoke my 
 claim to intelligence on that score. 
 Let us try again. Mivart sent you 
 Bome soothing draughts after my visit 
 to Frejus, — magical ones, eh ? I pre- 
 scribed them." 
 
 " Is it possible ? dearest, best of 
 friends, — ali ! I have been very cul- 
 pable towards -you." 
 
 " Try again : a fortnight ago, I was 
 absent two days." 
 
 " Yes ! and you never told us where 
 you had been." 
 
 " I was at Frejus : that virulent 
 disease the small-pox Avas there." 
 
 " O Heaven ! " and Josephine 
 clasped her hands in terror. 
 
 " The danger is past. I heard of 
 it. Instantly I got some vaccine from 
 Paris, and 1 went over to Frejus, for 
 I said to myself — " 
 
 The doctor never said it to anybody 
 but himself: for ere he conchided his 
 sentence he was almost stilled with 
 em!)races and kisses by the young 
 moth(M-. In the midst of which she 
 ended his sentence for him. 
 
 " You said : ' I saved Josephine's 
 life, I will save her boy.'" 
 
 " We are i)cginning to understand 
 one another," saiil the doctor, with a 
 strong tendency to whimper, ibr which 
 he took a pinch of snuff as antidote. 
 Now, dears, I will tell you what I have 
 divined, and you shall tell me the rest, 
 and then we will act in concert. The 
 news came of Raynal's death. You 
 thought yourself free, that I under- 
 stand. But why marry so soon, and 
 why not marry openly ? " 
 
 Said Laure, hastily : — 
 
 " It was all his fault." 
 
 " Whose ? " 
 
 " No ! no ! " said Josepliine. " It 
 was not his fault, — ah ! do not tln-ow 
 the blame on the absent and the un- 
 happy." 
 
 " I am not going to blame him 
 inuch. He was a man, and required 
 Avhat I believe all young men do, — 
 that she should sacrifice ever}- feeling 
 to him. He said, if you love me you 
 will marry me before the priest, and 
 erase from our minds that other mar- 
 riage. She refused." 
 
 *' Say, rather, I hesitated." 
 
 " Well ! she declined : then he re- 
 proached her ! " 
 
 " Never ! doctor, dear doctor, Ca- 
 mille never reproached me : he only 
 pined away and douljtcd my love. 
 My resolution failed : I wanted to 
 make everybody happy : I volunteered 
 to marry him secretly, not to give my 
 mother pain." 
 
 " She volunteered ! " cried Laure, 
 impatiently. "It was I who forced 
 that fatal measure on her: I alone 
 am to blame : it is she alone who 
 suffers." 
 
 " O concealment ! — concealment ! " 
 cried the doctor. " But you are pun- 
 ished more than you deserve. I 
 understand it all too well ! your story 
 is but the story of your sex, — self- 
 sacrifice. I dare say you sacrificed 
 your heart to your mother in marry- 
 ing Colonel Ravnal." 
 
 "Sbe did ! — she did !" 
 
 " Then you sacrificed every feeling 
 but pity to your lover. And now 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 225 
 
 you will sacrifice everything to your 
 husband." 
 
 " He is well worthy of any sacrifice 
 I can make," said Josephine; "but, 
 O sir, if you knew how hard it is to 
 me to live ! " 
 
 " I hope to make it less hard to 
 you erelong," said the doctor, quietly. 
 He then congratulated himself on hav- 
 ing forced Josephine to confide in him. 
 "For," said he, "you never needed 
 an experienced friend more than at 
 this moment. Your mother will not 
 always be so blind as of late. Edouard 
 is suspicious. Jacintha is a shrewd 
 young woman, and very inquisitive." 
 
 Here the young ladies interchanged 
 a look, but were ashamed to own they 
 had taken Jacintha into their confi- 
 dence. 
 
 " I do not dwell much on tlic ter- 
 rible event of Raynal's immediate re- 
 turn : to-day's letter renders that im- 
 ju'obable. But improbable is not im- 
 possible ; and where all is possible, 
 and all is danger, the severest caution 
 is necessary : first, then, what are your 
 own plans ? " 
 
 " I don't know," said Josephine, 
 helplessly. 
 
 " You — don't — know ! " cried the 
 doctor, looking at her in utter amaze- 
 'ment. 
 
 " It is the answer of a madwoman, 
 is it not? Doctor, lam little bet- 
 ter. My foot has slipped on the edge 
 of a precipice. I close my eyes, and 
 let myself glide down it. What will 
 becume of me ? " 
 
 " All shall be well if you do not 
 still love that man." 
 
 " I shall love him to my last breath. 
 How can I help loving him ? He had 
 loved me four years. I M'as his be- 
 trothed. I wronged him in my 
 thoughts. War, prison, anguish, 
 could not kill him ; he loved me so. 
 He struggled bleeding to my feet : 
 and could I let him die, after all ? 
 Could I be crueller than prison and 
 torture and despair 1 " 
 
 The doctor sighed deeply ; but, arm- 
 ing himself with the necessary resolu- 
 tion, he said sternly : — 
 
 10* 
 
 " Josephine, a Avoraan of your name 
 cannot vacillate l»etween love and 
 honor ; such vacillations have but one 
 end. I will not let you drift a moral 
 wreck between passion and virtue ; 
 and that will be your lot if you hesi- 
 tate now." 
 
 " Hesitate ! Who dares to say I 
 have hesitated where my honor is 
 concerned 1 You can read our bodies 
 then, but not our hearts. What ! 
 you see me so pale, forlorn, and dead, 
 and that does not tell you I have bid 
 Cumille farewell forever ? " 
 
 "Is it possible? Give rae your 
 hand, — it was well and wisely and 
 nobly done. And, who knows ? kind- 
 ly too, perhaps." 
 
 Josephine continued: — 
 
 " That we might be safer still, I 
 have not even told him he is a father : 
 was woman ever so cruel as I am ? I 
 have written him i)ut one letter ; and 
 in that I must deceive him. I told 
 him I thought I might one day be 
 happy, if I could hear that he did not 
 give way to despair ; I told him wg 
 must never meet again in this world 
 So now dispose of me. Show me my 
 duty, and I will do it. This false- 
 hood wrings my heart ; shall I tell my 
 husband the truth ? " 
 
 O 
 
 no ! " cried Laure, " do 
 
 not let her. Colonel Raynal would 
 kill her." 
 
 " If I thought that, nothing should 
 stop me from telling him." 
 
 The doctor objected. 
 
 " What, tell him, while he is in 
 Egypt? while his return alive is un- 
 certain ? needless cruelty ! " 
 
 " And then my mother ! " sighed 
 Josephine, " my poor mother ! She 
 Avould hear it, and it would break her 
 heart ! I should wound her to death : 
 and I love her so. I always loved 
 her : but not as I do since — Xow 
 that I know what she has suffered for 
 me, my very heart yearns at sight of 
 her dear face. I must lose her one 
 day, I know: but if my misconduct 
 were to hasten that day — oh! it is 
 too horrible. This is my hope : that 
 poor Raynal will be long absent, and 
 o 
 
22 fi 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 that, cro he returns, mnmma will lie 
 safe from sorrow and shame in the 
 little chapel. Doetor, when a woman 
 of my a^e forms such wishes as these, 
 I think you mi,<;ht i)ity her, ami for- 
 give her ill treatment of you, for she 
 cannot he very happy. Ah me ! ah 
 me ! ah me ! " 
 
 " Couraj[;c ! poor soul ! All is now 
 in my hands : and I will save you," 
 said the doctor, his voice treni!)liii,i; in 
 spite of him. " Sin lies in tiie inten- 
 tion. A more innocent woman than 
 you does not hreathe. Two courses 
 lay open to you, — to leave this house 
 with Camille Dujardin, or to dismiss 
 him, and live for your hard duty till 
 it shall please Heaven to make that 
 duty easy (no middle course was ten- 
 able for a day) ; of these two paths 
 you chose the right one, and, having 
 chosen, you are not called on to re- 
 veal your misfortune, and make those 
 unhappy to wliose happiness you have 
 sacrificed your own for years to 
 come." 
 
 " Forever ! " said Josephine, quietly. 
 
 St. An.bin. "The young use that 
 word lightly. Tiie old have almost 
 ceased to use it. They have seen 
 how few earthly things can conquer 
 time." 
 
 He resumed : — 
 
 " You think only of others, Jose- 
 phine, hut I shall think of you as 
 well. I shall not allow your life to 
 be wasted in a needless struggle 
 against nature." 
 
 Lanre looked puzzled : so the doc- 
 tor explained. Her griefs were as 
 many, before her child was l)orn, yet 
 her health stood (irm. Why ? be- 
 cause nature was on her side. Now 
 she is sinking into the grave. Why? 
 because she is defying nature. Na- 
 tun; intended her to be pressing her 
 child to her bosom day and night : 
 instead of that, a peasant woman at 
 Frcjus imrses the child, and the 
 mother pines at Beaurepaire. 
 
 Through all this, Jose))hine leaned 
 her face on her hands and her hands 
 on the doctor's shouMer. In this 
 attitude she murmured to him : — 
 
 " I have only seen him once since 
 I came from Frcjus." 
 
 " I'oor thing !" 
 
 " Since you ])ermit it I will go 
 there to-morrow." 
 
 " You will do nothing of the kind. 
 A second journey thither, when the 
 first 'has awakened Edouard's suspi- 
 cions 1 I forbid it." 
 
 Josephine was seized Avith one of 
 her fits of irritation. 
 
 " Take care," cried she, pecking 
 round at the doctor like an irritated 
 pigeon, " don't be too cruel to me. 
 You see I am obedient, resigned. I 
 have given up all I lived for : but 
 if I am never to have my boy's little 
 arms round me to console me, there 
 — why torment me any longer ? 
 Why not say to me, 'Josephine, you 
 have offended Heaven : pray for par- 
 don and die ' ?" 
 
 " I mean you to spend, not hours, 
 but months, beside your child," said 
 the doctor. 
 
 "Oh!" 
 
 " Through him I mean to save 
 your life, so precious to us all. That 
 little hel])less soul is your guardian 
 angel, he is for some time to come 
 your one fount of hope and consola- 
 tion. But it is not at Frcjus you 
 shall meet, not in a chattering village 
 within a ride of Edouard, but in 
 that great city where nol)odv knows 
 or cares what goes on next door," 
 
 " In Paris ! " cried Lanre. 
 
 " Certainly : I shall go there to- 
 morrow, the first thing. I shall take 
 a house where I can receive you 
 both ; and outside the barrier, Avhere 
 the air is purest, Madame Jouvenel 
 and her nursling shall live on the fat 
 of the land, and you shall spend the 
 days with them. After all, my neph- 
 ew was not such a fool as they say. 
 He divined what good uses some of 
 his money would be put to by his an- 
 cestor." 
 
 Josephine's delight and gratitude 
 were somewhat dashed when the doc- 
 tor told her all this would take three 
 weeks, and that he would not go to 
 Paris unless she now promised him 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 227 
 
 on her honor not to go to Frejus in 
 his absence. 
 
 She hesitated. 
 
 " Promise, dear,'' said Laure, with 
 an intonation so fine that it attracted 
 Josephine's notice, but not the doc- 
 tor's. It was followed by a glance 
 equally subtle. 
 
 ' I promise," said Josephine, with 
 her eye fixed inquiringly on her sis- 
 ter. 
 
 For once she could not make tlie 
 telegraph out ; but she coukl see it 
 was playing, and that was enough. , 
 She did what Laure bid her. 
 
 " I promise. Ah ! — Forgive me." 
 
 " Forgive you ? what for ? " 
 
 " I sighed. It was ungrateful." 
 
 " I forgive you, black-hearted crea- 
 ture," said tlie doctor, " but orily 
 upon conditions. You must keep 
 your word about Frejus, and you 
 must also promise me not to go kiss- 
 ing every child you see. Edouard 
 tells me he saw you kissing a beg- 
 gar's brat. The young rogue was 
 going to quiz you about it at the din- 
 ner-table : luckily, he told me his in- 
 tention, and I would not let him. I 
 said the baroness would be annoyed 
 with you for descending from your 
 dignity, — and ex|)Osing a noble fam- 
 ily to "fleas, — hush ! here he is." 
 
 " Tiresome ! " muttered Laure, just 
 when Edouard came forwmd, with a 
 half- vexed face. 
 
 However, he turned it off in play. 
 
 " Won't the doctor give you your 
 gloves 1 " 
 
 " Scold him rather for interesting 
 me so : for it is he who has detained 
 me." 
 
 " Whnt have you been saying to 
 her, monsieur, to interest her so ? 
 Give me a leaf out of your book. I 
 need it." 
 
 The doctor was taken aback for a 
 moment, but at last he said, sly- 
 
 " I told her nothing that will not 
 interest her as much from your lips. 
 I have been proposing to her to name 
 the day. She says she must consult 
 you before she decides that." 
 
 " O you wicked doctor ! — and 
 consult him, of all people ! " 
 
 St. Auhin. " So be off, both of 
 vou, and don't reappear till it is set- 
 tled." 
 
 Edouard. " Come, mademoiselle, 
 you and I are de trop here." 
 
 Edouard's eyes sparkled. Laure 
 went out with a face as red as fire. 
 
 It was a balmy evening. Edouard 
 was to leave them for a week the next 
 day. They were alone : Laure was 
 determined he should go away quite 
 happy. Everything was in Edouard's 
 favor : he pleaded his cause warmly : 
 she listened tenderly : this happy 
 evening her piquancy and archness 
 seemed to dissolve with tenderness as 
 she and Edouard walked hand in 
 hand under the moon : a tenderness 
 all the more heavenly to her devoted 
 lover, that she was not one of those 
 angels that cloy a man by invariable 
 sweetness. 
 
 For a little while she forgot every- 
 thing but her companion. In that 
 soft hour he won her to name the 
 day. 
 
 " Josephine goes to Paris with the 
 doctor in about three weeks," mur- 
 mured she. 
 
 '' And vou will stay behind, all 
 alone ^ " ' 
 
 " Alone ? that shall depend on you, 
 monsieur ! " 
 
 On this Edouard caught her for the 
 first time in his arms. 
 
 She made but a faint resistance. 
 
 " Seal me that promise, sweet 
 one ! " 
 
 " No ! no ! — there ! " 
 
 He pressed a delicious first kiss 
 upon tw^o velvet lips, that in their in- 
 nocence scarcely shunned the sweet 
 attack. 
 
 For all that, the bond was no soon- 
 er sealed after this fashion, than the 
 lady's cheek began to burn. 
 
 She had been taken by surprise. 
 
 "Suppose we go in now?" said 
 she, dryly. 
 
 " Ah ! not yet." 
 
 " It is late, dear Edouard." 
 
 And with these words something 
 
228 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 returned to her mind with its full 
 force. — soniethinri: thut Edonard had 
 actually made her foriret for more 
 than an hour, llow should she get 
 rid of him now Avithout hurting his 
 fcclinirs ? 
 
 " Edouard," said she, "can you get 
 up early in the morning ? If you can, 
 meet me here to-morrow hefore any 
 of them are up : then we can talk 
 without interru])tion." 
 
 Edouard was delighted. 
 
 "Eiglit o'clock ^'' 
 
 " Sooner if you like. IMamma 
 bade me come and read to her in her 
 room to-night. She Avill be waiting 
 for me. Is it not tiresome ? " 
 
 " Yes, it is." 
 
 " Well, we must not mind, dear ; 
 in three weeks' time we are to have 
 too much of one another, you know, 
 instead of too little." 
 
 " Too much ! I shall never haA^e 
 enough of you. I shall hate the night 
 which will rob me of the sight of you 
 for so many hours in the twenty- 
 four." 
 
 " If you can't see me, perhaps you 
 may hear me : my tongue runs by 
 niglit as well as by day." 
 
 " Well ! that is a comfort," said 
 Edouard, gravely. " Yes, little quiz- 
 zcr, I would rather hear you scold 
 than an angel sing. Judge, then, 
 what music it is when you say you 
 love me ! " 
 
 " I love you, Edouard." 
 
 Edouard kissed her hand warmly, 
 and then looked at her face. 
 
 No! 
 
 said she, laughing and 
 
 blushing. '•' Don't be rude. Next 
 time we meet." 
 
 " That is a bargain. But I won't 
 go till you say you love me again." 
 
 " Edouard, don't he silly. I am 
 ashamed of saying the same thing so 
 often, — I won't say it any more. 
 What is the use ? You know I love 
 you. There, I Jiave said it : how stu- 
 pid ! " 
 
 " Adieu, then, my wife that is to 
 be." 
 
 " Adieu ! dear Edouard." 
 
 " My bus — Go on, — my bus—" 
 
 " Band that shall be." 
 
 Then they walked very slowly to- 
 wards the house, and once more 
 Laure left (piizzing, and was all ten- 
 derness. 
 
 " Will you not come in, and bid 
 them ' good night ' ? " 
 
 " No, my own. I am in heaven. 
 Common faces, common voices, would 
 bring me down to earth. Lot me 
 be alone ! — your sweet words ring- 
 ing in my ear. I will dilute you 
 with nothing meaner than the stars. 
 See how hrioht they shine in heaven : 
 hivt not so bright as vou shine in my 
 heart." 
 
 " Dear Edouard, you flatter me, 
 you spoil me. Alas \ why am I not 
 more worthy your love 1 " 
 
 " More worthy ! How can that 
 bel" 
 
 Laure sighed. 
 
 " But I will atone for all. I will 
 make you a better — (here she substi- 
 tuted a full stop for a substantive) — 
 than you expect. You will see else." 
 
 She lingered at the door ; a proof 
 that if Edouard, at that particular 
 moment, had seized another kiss, 
 there would have been no very violent 
 opposition or offence. 
 
 But he was not so impudent as 
 some. lie had been told to wait till 
 next meeting for that. He prayed 
 Heaven to bless her, and so the affi- 
 anced lovers parted for the night. 
 
 It was al)out nine o'clock. Ed- 
 oiiard, instead of returning to his lodg- 
 ings, started down towards the town, 
 to conclude a bargain with the inn- 
 keeper for an English mare he was in 
 treaty for. He wanted her for to- 
 morrow's work ; so that decided him 
 to make the purchase. In purchases, 
 as in otlier matters, a feather turns the 
 balanced scale. He sauntered leisure- 
 ly down. It was a very clear night : 
 the full moon and the stars shining 
 silvery and vivid. Edouard's heart 
 swelled with joy. He was loved, after 
 all, (k-eply loved ; and in three short 
 weeks he was actually to be Laure'3 
 husband: her lord and master. How 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 229 
 
 like a heavenly dream it all seemed, — 
 the tii'st hopeless courtship, and now 
 the wedding fixed ! But it was no 
 dream : he felt her soft words still 
 murmur music at his heart, and the 
 shadow of her velvet lips slept upon 
 his own. 
 
 He had strolled about a league 
 when he heard the ring of a horse's 
 hoofs coming towards him, accompa- 
 nied by a clanking noise : it came 
 nearer and nearer, till it reached a hill 
 that lay a little ahead of Edouard : 
 then the sounds ceased : the cavalier 
 was walking his horse up the hill. 
 
 Presently, as if they had started 
 from the earth, up popped between 
 Edouard and the sky first a cocked 
 hat that seemed, in that light, to be 
 cut with a razor out of flint, tlien the 
 wearer, phosphorescent here and there ; 
 so brightly the keen moonlight played 
 on his epaulets and steel scabbard. 
 
 A step or two nearer, and Edouard 
 gave a great shout; it was Colonel 
 liaynal. 
 
 After the first warm greeting, and 
 questions and answers, Raynal told 
 him he was on his way to the Rhine 
 with despatches. 
 
 " To the Rhine ? " 
 
 Raynal laughed. 
 
 " I am allowed six days to get there. 
 I made a calculation, and found I 
 could give Beaurepaire half a day. 
 I shall have to make up for it by hard 
 riding. You know me. Always in 
 a hurry. It is Bonaparte's fault this 
 time. He is another that is always in 
 a hurry." 
 
 " Why, colonel/' said Edouard, 
 " let us make haste then. Mind they 
 go early to rest at the chateau." 
 
 " But you are not coming my way, 
 youngster 1 " 
 
 " Not coming your way ? Yes, 
 but I am. Yours is a face I don't 
 see every day, colonel ; besides, I 
 Avould not miss their faces, especially 
 the baroness's and Madame Raynal's, 
 at sight of you : and, besides " — and 
 the young gentleman chuckled to 
 himself, and thought — " the next 
 time we meet : well, this will be the 
 
 next time. Mav I jump up be- 
 hind ? " 
 
 Colonel Raynal nodded assent; 
 Edouard took a run, and lighted like 
 a monkey on the horse's crupper. 
 He pranced and kicked at this unex- 
 pected addition ; but, the spur being 
 promptly applied to his flanks, he 
 bounded off with a snort that betrayed 
 more astonishment than satisfaction, 
 and away they cantered to Beaure- 
 paire without drawing rein. 
 
 " There," said Edouard, " I was 
 afraid they would be gone to bed ; 
 and they are. The very house seems 
 asleep — fency — at half past ten." 
 
 " That is a pity," said Raynal, 
 " for this chateau is the stronghold of 
 etiquette. They will be two hours 
 dressing before they can come out and 
 shake hands. I must put my horse 
 into the stable. Go you and give the 
 alarm. 
 
 " I will, colonel. Stop, first let me 
 see whether none of them are up, af- 
 ter all." 
 
 And Edouard walked round the 
 chateau, and soon discovered a light 
 at one window, — the window of the 
 tapestried room. Running round the 
 other way he came slap upon anoth- 
 er light : this one was nearer the 
 ground. A narrow but massive door, 
 which he had always seen, not only 
 locked, but screwed up, was wide open ; 
 and through the aperture the light of a 
 candle streamed out, and met the 
 moonlight streaming in. 
 
 " Hallo ! " cried Edouard. 
 
 He stopped, turned, and looked 
 in. 
 
 " Hallo ! " he cried again, much 
 louder. 
 
 A young woman was sleeping with 
 her feet in the silvery moonlight, and 
 her head in the orange-colored blaze 
 of a flat candle, which rested on the 
 next step above of a fine stone stair- 
 case, whose existence was now first re- 
 vealed to the inquisitive Edouard. 
 
 Coming plump upon all this so un- 
 expectedly, he quite started. 
 
 " Why, Jacintha ! " 
 
 He touched her on the shoulder to 
 
230 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 wake her. No. Jaointha was slecp- 
 iiifx »s only tired doinesiies can sleep. 
 He lui'iht have taken the candle and 
 burnt her <;o\vn olY her hack. Siie 
 liad found a step that fitted into the 
 small of her hack, and anotlicr that 
 supported iier head, and there she was 
 fast as the door. 
 
 At tliis moment Raynal's voice was 
 heard : — 
 
 '' Arc you there ? " 
 
 Etlouard went to him. 
 
 " There is a light in that bed- 
 room." 
 
 " It is not a bedroom, colonel : it is 
 our sittini;-room now. We shall find 
 them all there, or at least the young- 
 ladies, and ])erhaps the doctor. The 
 bai-oness got'S to bed early. JNIean- 
 time I can show you one of ovu' dm- 
 viat is persome, and an important one 
 too. She rules the roast." 
 
 He took him mysteriously and 
 showed him Jacintha. 
 
 " Hallo ! " cried Raynal. " She 
 can't have much on her conscience." 
 
 JNIoonlight by itself seems white, 
 and candlelight by itself seems yellow ; 
 but when the two come into close 
 contrast at night, candle turns a 
 bloody flame, and moonlight a bluish 
 gleam. 
 
 So Jacintha, with her shoes in this 
 celestial sheen, and her face in that 
 demoniacal glare, was enough to 
 knock the gazer's eye out. 
 
 " Make a good sentinel, — this 
 one," said Raynal, — "an outlying 
 picket for instance, on rough ground, 
 in front of the enemy's riflemen." 
 
 " Ha ! ha ! colonel. Let us see 
 where this staircase leads. I have an 
 idea it will ])rove a short cut." 
 
 " Where to ? " 
 
 " To the saloon, or somewhere, or 
 else to some of Jacintha's haunts. 
 Serve her right for going to sleep at 
 the mouth of her den." 
 
 " Forward then, — no, halt ! Sup- 
 pose it leads to the bedrooms ! mind 
 this, a thundering ])lace for cereinony. 
 We shall get drummed out of the 
 barracks if we don't mind our eti- 
 quette." 
 
 While they hesitated, a soft, deli- 
 cious harmony of female voices sud- 
 denly rose, and seemed to come and 
 run round the walls. The men looked 
 at one another in astcmishment : for 
 the ellect was magical. The stair- 
 cases being enclosed on all sides with 
 stone walls and floored with stone, 
 they were like flies inside a violoncel- 
 lo ; the voices rang above, below, and 
 on every side of the vibrating Avails. 
 In some epochs sj)irits as hardy as 
 Raynal's, and wits as quick as Riv- 
 iere's, would have fled tiien and there 
 to the nearest puldic, and told over 
 cups how they had heard the dames 
 of Beaurepaire long since dead hold- 
 ing their revel, and the conscious old 
 devil's nest of a chateau quivering to 
 the ghostly strains. 
 
 But this was an incredulous age. 
 They listened, and listened, and de- 
 cided the sound came from up stairs. 
 
 " Let us mount, and surprise these 
 singing witches," said Edouard. 
 
 "Surprise them: what for? It is 
 not the enemy, — for once. What is 
 the good of surprising our friends ? " 
 Storming parties and surprises were 
 no novelty and therefore no treat to 
 Raynal. 
 
 " It will be so delightful to see 
 their faces at first sight of you. O 
 colonel, for ray sake ! Don't spoil it 
 all by going tamely in at the front 
 door, after coming at night from 
 Egypt for half an hour." 
 
 " Half a day. It is a childish 
 trick ! Well, show a light, or we shall 
 surprise ourselves with a broken neck, 
 going over ground we don't know 
 to surprise tlic natives, — our skir- 
 mishers got nicked that way now and 
 then in Egy])t." 
 
 " Yes, colonel, I will go first with 
 Jacintha's candle." 
 
 Edouard mounted the stairs on tip- 
 toe. Raynal followed. The solid 
 stone steps did not prate. The men 
 had mounted a considerable way when 
 pnlfa blast of wind came through a 
 hole, and out went Edouard's candle. 
 He turned sharply round to Kaynal. 
 " Peste!" said lie, in a vicious whis- 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 231 
 
 per. But the other laid his hand on 
 his shoulder and whispered, " Look to 
 the front." He looked, and, his own 
 candle being out, saw a glimmer on 
 ahead. He crept tow^'ds it. It was 
 a taper shooting a feeble light across 
 a small aperture. They caught a 
 glimpse of what seemed to be a small 
 apartment. Yet Edouard recognized 
 the carpet of the tapestried room, 
 which was a very large room. Creep- 
 ing a yard neai-er, he discovered that 
 it was the tapestried room, and that 
 what had seemed the further wall was 
 only the screen, behind which were 
 lights, and Josephine and Laura sing- 
 ing a duet. 
 
 He whispered to Raynal : " It is 
 the tapestried room." 
 
 " Is it a sttting-room ? " whispered Raynal. 
 " Yes ! yes 1 Mind and uot knock your 
 foot against the wood." 
 
 " AVhat, am I to go first now ? " 
 
 '> Of course."' 
 
 " Why ? " 
 
 " You are the one from Egypt." 
 
 " Forward, then." 
 
 Raynal went softly up and put his 
 foot quietly through tbe aperture, 
 which lie now saw was made by a panel 
 drawn back close to the ground, and 
 stood in the tapestried chamber. The 
 carpet was thick ; the ladies' voices 
 favored the stealthy advance ; the floor 
 of the old house was like a rock ; and 
 Edouard put his face through the ap- 
 erture, glowing all over with anticipa- 
 tion of the little scream of joy that 
 would welcome his friend dropping in 
 so nice and suddenly from Egypt. 
 
 The feeling was rendered still 
 more piquant by a sharp curiosity 
 that had been growing on him for 
 some minutes past. For why was 
 this passage opened to-night? — he 
 had never seen it opened before ! 
 And why was Jacintha lying sentinel 
 at the foot of the stairs '? 
 
 But this was not all. Now that 
 they were in the room both the men 
 became conscious of another sound 
 besides the women's voices, — a very 
 peculiar sound. It also came from 
 behind the screen. They both heard 
 it, and showed by the puzzled looks 
 
 they cast at one another that neither 
 could make out what on earth it was. 
 It consisted of a succession of little 
 rustles, followed by little thumps on 
 the floor. 
 
 But what was curious, too, this rus- 
 tle, thump, — rustle, thump, — rustle, 
 thump, — fell exactly into the time of 
 the music; so that, clearly, either the 
 rustle thump was being played to the 
 tune, or the tune sung to the rustle 
 thump. 
 
 This last touch of mystery inflamed 
 Edouard's impatience beyond bearing : 
 he pointed eagerly and merrily to the 
 corner of the screen. Raynal obeyed, 
 and stepped very slowly and cautious- 
 ly towards it. 
 
 Rustle, thump ! rustle, thump ! rus- 
 tle, thump ! with the rhythm of har- 
 monious voices. 
 
 Edouard got his head and foot into 
 the room without taking his eye off 
 Raynal. 
 
 Rustle, thump ! rustle, thumj) ! rus- 
 tle, thump ! 
 
 Raynal was now at the screen, and 
 quietly put his head round it, and his 
 hand upon it. 
 
 Edouard bursting with expectation. 
 
 No result. What is this? Don't 
 they see him? Why does he not 
 speak to them ? He seems trans- 
 fixed. 
 
 Rustle, thump ! rustle, thump ! ac- 
 companied now for a few notes by one 
 voice only, Laure's. 
 
 Suddenly there burst a shriek from 
 Josephine, so loud, so fearful, that it 
 made even Raynal stagger back a 
 step, the screen in liis hand. 
 
 Then another scream of terror and 
 anguish from Laure. Then a fainter 
 cry, and the heavy, helpless fiiU of a 
 human body. 
 
 Raynal sprang forward, whirling 
 the screen to the earth in terrible agi- 
 tation, and Edouard bounded over it 
 as it fell at his feet. He did not take 
 a second step. 
 
 The scene that caught his eye stu- 
 pefied and paralyzed him in full 
 career, and froze him to tlie spot with 
 amazement and strange misgivings. 
 
232 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 Laurc parted from Edounnl, and 
 went in at the front door: hnt tlic 
 next moment slie o])ened it solily and 
 watc-iied her lover unseen. 
 
 " Dear Kdouard ! " she murmured : 
 and then she thou<;Iit, "how sad it is 
 that I must deeeive him, even to- 
 niglit : must make up an exeuse to 
 get him from me, when we were so 
 happy together. All ! he little knows 
 how / shall weleomc our wcddinj^- 
 day. When ouec I can sec my poor 
 martyr on the road to peace and con- 
 tent under the <xood doctor's care. 
 And oh ! the happiness of having; no 
 more secrets from him I love ! Dear 
 Edouard ! when once we are married, 
 I never, never will have a secret from 
 you again, — I swear it ! " 
 ' As a comment on tlicse -words she 
 now stepped cautiously out, and 
 peered in every direction. 
 
 " St ! — St ! " she whispered. No 
 answer came to this signal. 
 
 Laure returned into the house and 
 holtcd the door inside. She went up 
 to the tapestried room, and found the 
 doctor in the act of wishing Josephine 
 good night. The haroness, fatigued 
 a little hy her -walk, had mounted no 
 higher than her own hcdroom, which 
 Mas on the first floor just under tlie 
 tapestried room. Laure followed the 
 doctor out. 
 
 " Dear friend, one word. Jose- 
 phine talked of telling Raynal. You 
 have not encouraged her to do that ? " 
 
 " Certainlv not, while he is in 
 Egyp/." 
 
 " Still less on his return. Doctor, 
 you don't know that man. Josephine 
 does not know him. But I do. He 
 would kill her if he knew. He would 
 kill her that minute. He would not 
 wait ; he would not listen to excuses : 
 he is a man of iron. Or, if he spared 
 her, he would kill Camille : and that 
 would destroy her hy the cruellest of 
 all deaths ! My friend, I am a wick- 
 ed, miserahle girl. I am the cause 
 of all this misery ! " 
 
 She then told St. Auhin all about 
 the anonymous letter, and what Ray- 
 nal had said to her in consequence. 
 
 " He never would have married 
 her had he known she loved another. 
 lie asked me was it so. I told him a 
 falsehood. At least I equivocated, 
 and to equivocate with one so loyal 
 and simple was to deceive him.' I 
 am the only sinner : that sweet an- 
 gel is the only sufferer. Is this the 
 justice of Heaven 1 Doctor, my re- 
 morse is great. No one knows Vhat 
 I feel when I look at my work. Ed- 
 ouaid thinks I love her so much bet- 
 ter than I do him. He is Avrong : it 
 is not love only, it is pity ; it is re- 
 morse for the sorrow I have brought 
 on her, and the wrong I have done 
 poor Raynal." 
 
 The high-spirited girl Avas greatly 
 agitated ; and St. Aubin, though ho 
 did not acquit her of all blame, 
 soothed her, and made excuses for 
 her. 
 
 " We must not always judge by re- 
 sults," said he. " Things turned un- 
 fortunately. You did for the best. 
 I forgive you, for one. That is, I 
 will forgive you, if you piomise not 
 to act again without m}' advice." 
 
 " O, never ! never ! " 
 
 " And, above all, no imprudence 
 about that child. In three little 
 weeks they will be together witliout 
 risk of discovery. Well, you don't 
 answer me." 
 
 Laure's blood turned cold. " Dear 
 friend," she stammered, " I quite 
 agree with you." 
 
 " Promise, then." 
 
 " Not to let Josephine go to Fre- 
 jus ? " said Laure, hastily. " yes ! 
 I promise." 
 
 " You are a good child," cried St. 
 Aubin. " You have a Avill of your 
 own. But you can submit to age 
 and ex])ericnce." 
 
 The doctor then kissed her, and 
 bade her farewell. 
 
 " I leave for Paris at six in the morn- 
 ing. I will not try your patience or 
 hers unnecessarily. Perhaps it will 
 not be three weeks." 
 
 The moment Laure w:is alone, she 
 sat down and sighed bitterly. 
 
 " There is no end to it," she 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 233 
 
 sobbed, despairingly. " no ! I 
 shall never get clear of it. It is like 
 a spider's web; every struggle to be 
 free but multiplies the fine but irre- 
 sistible thread that seems to bind me. 
 And to-night I thought to be so hap- 
 py : instead of that he has left me 
 scarce the heart to do what I have to 
 do." 
 
 She went back to the room, opened 
 a window, and put out a white hand- 
 kerchief : then closed the window 
 down on it. 
 
 Then she went to Josephine's bed- 
 room door : it opened on the tapes- 
 tried room, 
 
 " Josephine," she cried, " don't go 
 to bed just yet." 
 
 " No, love. AYhat are vou do- 
 ing ? " 
 
 " 0, nothing particular. I want to 
 talk to you presently." 
 
 " Shall I come out to you, Lau- 
 reV 
 
 " No, stay where you are." 
 
 Laure sat down, and took a book. 
 
 She could not read it. 
 
 Then she took some work, and put 
 it down. Then she went to a win- 
 dow ; not the one where she had left 
 the handkerchief. She looked out 
 upon the night. 
 
 Then she walked restlessly up and 
 down the room. 
 
 Then she glided into the corridor, 
 and passed her mother's room and 
 the doctor's, and listened to see if all 
 was quiet. While she was gone, Jo- 
 sephine opened her door ; but, not 
 seeing Laure in the sitting-room, re- 
 tired again. 
 
 Laure returned softly, and sat down 
 with her head in her hand, in a calm 
 attitude belied by her glancing eye and 
 the quick tapping of her other hand 
 upon the table. 
 
 Presently she raised her head quick- 
 ly ; a sound had reached her ear, a 
 sound so slight that none but a high- 
 strung ear could have caught it. It 
 was like a mouse giving a single 
 scratch against a stone wall. 
 
 Laure coughed slightly. 
 
 On this a clearer sound was heard, 
 
 as of a person scratching wood with 
 the finger-nail. Laure darted to the 
 side of the room, pressed against the 
 wall, and at the same time put her 
 other hand against the rim of one of 
 the panels and pushed it laterally : it 
 yielded, and at the opening stood Ja- 
 cintha in her cloak and bonnet. 
 
 " Yes," said*Jacintha, " under my 
 cloak — look!" 
 
 "Ah! — you found the things on 
 the steps ? " 
 
 " Yes ! I nearly tumbled over them. 
 Have you locked that door, mademoi- 
 selle ? " 
 
 " No ! but I will." And Laure 
 glided to the door and locked it. Then 
 she put the screen up between Jose- 
 phine's room and the open panel : 
 then she and Jacintha were wonderful- 
 ly busy on the other side the screen, 
 but presently Laure said : — 
 
 " This is imprudent : you must go 
 down to the foot of the stairs and wait 
 till I call you." 
 
 ' Jacintha pleaded hard against this 
 arrangement. 
 
 " What chance is there of any one 
 coming there ? " 
 
 " No matter ! I Avill be guarded on 
 every side." 
 
 " Must n't I stop and just see her 
 happy for once ? " 
 
 "No! my poor Jacintha, you must 
 hear it from my lips." 
 
 Jacintha retired to keep watcli as 
 she was bid. Laure went to Jose- 
 phine's room, and threw her arms 
 round her neck and kissed her vehe- 
 mently. Josephine returned her em- 
 brace, then held her out at arm's 
 length and looked at.her. 
 
 " Your eyes are red : yet your lit- 
 tle face is full of joy. There, — you 
 smile." 
 
 " I have my reasons." 
 
 " I am glad of it ! — are you com- 
 ing to bed ? " 
 
 " Not yet. I invite you to take a 
 little walk with me first. Come ! " 
 and she led the way slowly, looking 
 back with infinite archness and tender- 
 ness. 
 
 " You almost frighten me," said 
 
234 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 Josephine, " it is not like you to be all 
 joy when I am tad. Three whole 
 weeks more." 
 
 "That is it! "Why arc you sad? 
 Because the doctor would not let you 
 po to Frejus. And why am I not sad ? 
 liecause 1 li;ul already tliou^^ht of a 
 way to let you see Edouard without 
 goini; so far." 
 
 *' b Laure ! O Laure ! O Laure ! " 
 
 "This way, — come!" and she 
 smiled and heckoncd with her linger; 
 while Josephine followed like one un- 
 der a spell, her bosom heaving, her 
 eye glancing on every side, hoping 
 some strange joy, yet scarce daring to 
 hope. 
 
 Laure drew back the sci-een, and 
 there was a sweet little berceaa that 
 had once been Josephine's own, and 
 in it, sunk deep in snow-white lawn, 
 ■was a sleeping child, that lay there 
 looking as a rose might look could it 
 fall upon new-fallen snow. 
 
 At sight of it Josephine uttered a 
 little cry, not loud, but deep, — ay, a 
 cry to bring tears into the eye of the 
 hearer, and she stood trembling from 
 head to foot, her hands clasped, and 
 her eye fascinated and fixed on the 
 cradle. 
 
 "My child under this roof! What 
 have you done ? " but her eye, fasci- 
 nated' and fixed, never left the cradle. 
 
 " I saw you languishing, dying, for 
 want of him." 
 
 "Oh! if anybody should come?" 
 but her eye never stirred an inch from 
 the cradle. 
 
 " No ! no ! no ! the door is locked. 
 Jacintha watches below, there is no 
 dan — Ah ! at last ! ah ! poor wo- 
 nian ! " 
 
 For, as Laure was speaking, the 
 young mother sprang silently upon 
 iier child. You would have thought 
 she was going to kill him ! her head 
 reared itself again and again like a 
 crested snake's, and again and a^aiii, 
 and again and again, jtlimged down 
 upon the child, and she kissed iiis lit- 
 tle body from head to foot with soft 
 violence, and murmured, through her 
 starting tears, " My child ! my dar- 
 
 ling! my angel! oh my poor boy! 
 my child ! my child ! " 
 
 I will ask my female readers of 
 every degree to tell their brothers and 
 husbands all the young noble did. 
 How she sat on the floor, and had her 
 child on her bosom ; how she smiled 
 over it through her tears ; how^ she 
 purred over it ; how she, the stately 
 one, lisped and ))rattled over it ; and 
 how life came pouring into her heart 
 from it. 
 
 Before she had had it in her arms 
 five minutes, her pale cheek was as red 
 as a rose, and her eyes brighter than 
 diamonds. 
 
 "Bless you, Laure! bless you! 
 bless you ! in one moment you have 
 made me forget all I ever sulFered in 
 my life. 
 
 " There is a draught," cried she, 
 with maternal anxiety ; " close the 
 panel, Laure." 
 
 " No, dear ! or I could not call to 
 Jiicintha, or she to me; but I will 
 shift the screen round between him 
 and the draught. There, — now come 
 to his aunt, — a darling ! " 
 
 Then Laure sat on the floor too, 
 and Josepliine put her boy on aunt's 
 lap, and took a distant view of him. 
 But she could not bear so vast a sep- 
 aration long. She must have him to 
 her bosom again. 
 
 " He is going to wake. See I see ! 
 his lovely eyes are unclosing." 
 
 " But he must not, love," said Lau- 
 re : " there, put him back into this 
 cradle, — quick." 
 
 This could not be done so adroitly 
 l)ut wliat young master did wake, and 
 began to cry tolerably loud. Laure 
 rocked the cradle hastily. 
 
 " Sing, Josephine," said she, and 
 she began an old-fashioned Breton 
 chant or lullaby. 
 
 Jos('|)hine sang with her, and, sing- 
 ing, watched with a smile her l)oy drop 
 olf i)y degrees to sleep under the gen- 
 tU; motion and the lulling son^. 'i'hcy 
 san": and rocked till the lids camo 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 235 
 
 creeping down, and hid the great blue 
 eyes ; but still they sang and rocked, 
 lulling the boy, — and gladdening 
 their own hearts : for tlie quaint old 
 Breton ditty was tunable as the lark 
 that carols over tlie green wheat in 
 April; and the words so simple and 
 motherly, that a nation had taken 
 them to heart. Such songs bind ages 
 together, and make the lofty and the 
 low akin by the great ties of Music 
 and the heart. Many a Breton peas- 
 ant's bosom in the olden time had 
 gushed over her sleeping boy as the 
 young dame's of Beaurepaire gushed 
 now, — in this quaint, tuneful lullaby. 
 
 Now as they kneeled over the cra- 
 dle, one on each side, and rocked it, 
 and sang that ancient chant, Jose- 
 phine, who was opposite the screen, 
 happening to raise her eyes, saw a 
 strange thing. 
 
 There was the face of a man set 
 close against the side of the screen, 
 and peeping and peering out of the 
 gloom. Tiie light of her candle fell 
 full on this face ; it glared at her, set 
 pale, wonder-struck, and vivid, in the 
 surrounding gloom. 
 
 Horror ! Her husband's face ! 
 
 At first she was stupehed, and 
 looked at it with soul and senses be- 
 numbed. Then she trembled, and put 
 her hand to her eyes ; for she thought 
 it a phantom or a delusion of the 
 mind. No : there it glared still. 
 Then she trembled violently, and held 
 out her left hand, the fingers working 
 convulsively, to Laure, who was still 
 singing. 
 
 But almost at this moment the 
 rriouth of this face suddenly opened 
 in a long-drawn breatli. At this Jose- 
 phine uttered a violent shriek, and 
 sprang to her feet, with her right hand 
 quivering and pointing at that pale 
 face set in the dark. 
 
 Laure started up, and, wheeling her 
 bead round, saw Raynal's gloomy face 
 looking over her shoulder. She fell 
 screaming upon her knees, and, almost 
 out of her senses, began to pray wild- 
 ly and piteously for mercy. 
 
 Josephine uttered one more cry, 
 but this was the faint cry of nature 
 sinking inider the shock of terror. 
 She swooned dead away, and fell 
 senseless on the floor ere Raynal could 
 debarrass himself of the screen, and 
 get to her. 
 
 This, then, was the scene that met 
 Edouard's eyes. 
 
 His mistress on her kness, white as 
 a ghost, trembling and screaming, 
 rather than crying for mei'cy. And. 
 Raynal standmg over his wife, show- 
 ing by the working of his iron fea- 
 tures that he. doubted whether she was 
 worthy he should raise her. 
 
 One would have thought nothing 
 could add to the terror of this scene. 
 Yet it was added to. The baroness 
 rang her handbell violently in the 
 room below. She had heard Jose- 
 phine's scream and fall. 
 
 " Oh ! she too ! " cried Laure, and 
 she grovelled on her kness to Raynal, 
 and, seizing his knees, implored him 
 to show some pity. 
 
 " O sir ! kill us ! we are culpa- 
 ble." 
 
 Dring ! dring ! dring ! dring ! dring ! 
 pealed the baroness's bell. 
 
 " But do not tell our mother. O, 
 if you are a man ! do not ! — do not ! 
 Show us some pity ! We are but wo- 
 men. Mercy ! mercy ! mercy ! " 
 
 " Speak out then ! " groaned Ray- 
 nal. " What does this mean ? " 
 
 " W — w — what 1 " faltered Laure. 
 
 " Why has my wife swooned at 
 sight of me ? — whose is this child ? " 
 
 " Whose ? " stammered Laure. 
 Till he said that, she ncA^er thought 
 there could be a doubt whose child. 
 
 Dring ! dring ! dring ! dring ! dring ! 
 
 " O my God ! " cried the poor girl, 
 and her eyes glanced every way like 
 some wild creature looking for a hole, 
 however small, to escape by. 
 
 Edouard, seeing her hesitation, 
 came down on her other side. 
 
 " Whose is the child, Laure ? '■ said 
 he, sternly. 
 
 " You too ! why were we born ? 
 mercy ! oh ! let me go to my sister ! " 
 
 Dring ! dring ! dring ! dring ! dring ! 
 
236 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 Tlic men were excited to Airy by 
 Laui-c's hesitation : they each seized 
 on arni,.aiul tore her scrcamiiiG: with 
 four at their violence from her knees 
 up to licr feet between them with a 
 sin.L'le frestiire. 
 
 " You hurt me ! " said she, bitterly, 
 to Edouard, and she left cryinj;, and 
 was terribly calm and sullen all in a 
 moment. 
 
 •' Whose is the child ? " roared Ed- 
 ouard and Raynal in one raging 
 breath. " Whose is the child ? " 
 
 " It is mine ! " 
 
 These were not words, they were 
 electric shocks. 
 
 Tiic two hands that griped Laura's 
 arms were i)aralyzed, and dropped off 
 them ; and there was silence. 
 
 Then the thought of all she had 
 done with those tlu'ee words began to 
 rise and grow and surge over her. 
 She stood, her eyes turned downwards 
 yet inwards, and dilating with horror. 
 
 Silence ! 
 
 Now a mist came over her eyes, 
 and in it she saw indistinctly the fig- 
 ure of Raynal darting to his Avifc's 
 side, and raising her head. 
 
 Slie dared not look round on the 
 other side. She heard feet stagger on 
 the floor. She heard a groan, too ; 
 but not a word. 
 
 Horrible silence ! 
 
 With nerves strung to frenzy, and 
 trembling acute ears, she waited for a 
 reproach, a curse : either would have 
 been some little relief. But no! a si- 
 lence far more terrible. 
 
 Then a step wavered across the 
 room. Her soul was in her ear. She 
 could hear and feel the step totter, 
 and it shook her as it went. All 
 sounds were trebled to her. Then it 
 struck on the stone step of the stair- 
 case, not like a step, but a loud, crash- 
 ing knell ; another step, another, and 
 another : down to the very bottom. 
 Each slow step made her head ring 
 and her heart freeze. 
 
 At last siic heiird no more. Then 
 a scream of anguish and recall rose 
 to her lips. She fought it down for 
 Jo.iephlne and Kaynal. Edouard was 
 
 gone. She had but her sister now, — 
 the sister she loved better than her- 
 self; the sister to save whose life and 
 honor sho had this moment sacrificed 
 her own and all a woman lives for. 
 
 She turned with a wild cry of love 
 and pity to that sister's side to help 
 her ; and, when she kneeled down l)e- 
 side her, an iron arm was promptly 
 thrust out between the beloved one 
 and her. 
 
 " This is my care, madame," said 
 Raynal, coldly. 
 
 There was no mistaking Jiis man- 
 ner. The stained one was not to 
 touch his wife. 
 
 She looked at him in piteous amaze- 
 ment at liis ingratitude. 
 
 " It is well," said she. " It is just. 
 I deserve this from you." 
 
 She said no more, but drooped gen- 
 tly down beside the cradle, and hid 
 her forehead in the clothes beside the 
 child that had brought all this woe, 
 and sobbed l)ittcrly. 
 
 Honest Raynal began to be sorry 
 for her in spite of himself. But there 
 was no time for this. Josephine 
 stiiTcd ; and, at the same moment, a 
 violent knocking came at the door of 
 the apartment, and the new servant's 
 voice, crying : — 
 
 " ladies ! for Heaven's sake, 
 what is the matter ? The baroness 
 heard a fall, — she is getting up, — 
 she will be here. What shall I tell 
 her ? — what is the matter ? " 
 
 Raynal was going to answer, but 
 Laure, who had started up at the 
 knocking, put her hand in a moment 
 before his mouth. 
 
 SIic ran to the door. 
 
 " There is nothing the matter; tell 
 mamma I am coming down to her 
 directly." She flew back to Ixaynal 
 in an excitement little short of frenzy. 
 "Help me carry her into her own 
 room ! " cried she, imperiously. 
 
 Raynal obeyed by instinct ; for the 
 fiery girl spoke like a general giving 
 the word of command with the enemy 
 in front. 
 
 "Now put it out of sight, — take 
 this, — quick, quick ! " 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 237 
 
 Raynal went to the cradle. 
 
 " Ah ! my poor girl," said he, as 
 
 he lifted it in his arms, " this is a sorrv 
 ; business to have to hide your own 
 
 child from your own mother ! " 
 
 " Colonel Raynal ! " said Laure, 
 
 " do not insult a poor despairing girl ! 
 1 — cast Idchey 
 
 I " I ana silent, young woman ! " 
 I said Raynal, sternly. " VVhatis to be 
 
 done ? " 
 
 • " Take it down the steps, and give ! 
 
 it to Jacintha. Stay, here is a candle. ! 
 ' I go to tell mamma you are come : 
 I and, Colonel Raynal, I never injured 
 ' you: and if you tell my mother you 
 \ will stab her to the heart and me, and 
 ' may the curse of cowards light on 
 I you ! may — " 
 
 " Enough ! " cried Raynal, fiercely. 
 '• " Do you take me for a babbling girl ? 
 I I love your mother better than you 
 
 do, or this would not be here. I shall 
 ' not bring her gray hairs down with 
 ' sorrow to the grave. I shall speak of 
 
 this villany to but one person ; and to 
 
 him I shall talk with this, and not 
 1 with the idle tongue ! " and he tapped 
 
 his sword-hilt with a sombre look of 
 ' terrible significance. 
 ' He carried out the cradle. The 
 ' child slept sweetly through it all. 
 I Laure darted into Josephine's room, 
 
 took the key from the inside to the 
 I outside, locked the door, put the key 
 i in her pocket and ran down to her 
 ! mother's room : her knees trembled 
 I under her as she went. 
 
 I Jacintha, sleeping tranquilly, snd- 
 I denly felt her throat griped, and heard 
 ' a loud voice ring in her ear : then she 
 ' was lifted and wrenched, and dropped. 
 ! She found herself lying clear of the 
 ; steps in tlie moonlight : her head was 
 ■ where her feet had been, and her can- 
 j die out. 
 
 ' She uttered shriek upon shriek, 
 
 and was too frightened to get up. 
 
 She thought it was supernatural : 
 
 some old De Beaurepaire had served 
 
 I her thus for sleeping on her post. A 
 
 • struggle took place between her fidel- 
 
 ; ity and her superstitious fears. Fi- 
 
 delity conquered. Quaking in eveiy 
 limb, she groped up the staircase for 
 her candle. 
 
 It was gone. 
 
 Then a still more sickening fear 
 came over her. 
 
 What if this was no spirit's work, 
 but a human arm, — a strong one, — 
 some man's arm ? 
 
 Her first impulse was to dart up 
 the stairs, and make sure that no 
 calamity had befallen through her 
 mistimed drowsiness. But when she 
 came to try, her dread of the super- 
 natural revived. She could not ven- 
 ture without a light up those stairs, 
 thronged perhaps with angry spirits. 
 She ran to the kitchen. She found 
 the tinder-box, and with trembling 
 hands struck a light. She came back 
 shading it with her hands, and, com- 
 mitting her soul to the care of Heav- 
 en, she crept quaking up the stairs. 
 Then she heard voices above, and 
 that restored her more ; she mounted 
 more steadily. Presently she stopped : 
 for a heavy step was coming down. 
 It did not sound like a woman's step. 
 It came farther down : she turned to 
 fly. 
 
 " Jacintha ! " said a deep voice, 
 that in this stone cylinder rang like 
 thunder from a tomb. 
 
 " O saints and angels, save me ! " 
 yelled Jacintha, and fell on her 
 knees, and hid her head for security, 
 and down went her candlestick clat- 
 tering on the stone. 
 
 " Don't be a fool ! " said the iron 
 voice over her head. " Get up and 
 take this." 
 
 She raised her head by slow de- 
 grees, shuddering. 
 
 A man was holding out a cradle to 
 her : the candle he carried lighted up 
 his face. 
 
 " Colonel Raynal ! " 
 
 " Well, what do you kneel there 
 for, gaping at me like that ? Take 
 this, I tell you, and carry it out of the 
 house ! " 
 
 He shoved it roughly down into 
 her hands, then turned on his heel 
 without a v»^ord. 
 
238 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 Jacinfha collapsed on the stairs, 
 and the cradle sank beside her : for 
 nil the power was driven out of 
 her body : she could hardly support 
 her own weight, niucli less the cra- 
 dle. 
 
 She rocked herself and groaned. 
 
 " 0, what 's this 1 — O, what 's 
 this ? " 
 
 A cold perspiration came over her 
 whole frame. 
 
 " (), what does this mean ? What 
 has happened ? " 
 
 She took np the candle that was 
 lying burning and guttering on the 
 stairs : scraped up the grease with 
 the snuti'ers, and tried to polish it 
 clean with a l^it of paper that shook 
 between her fingers. She took the 
 child out of the cradle, and wrapped 
 it carefully in her shawl : then went 
 slowly down the stairs, and, holding 
 liim close to her bosom, with a fur- 
 tive eye, and brain confused, and a 
 heart like lead, stole away to the ten- 
 antless cottage where Madame Jouve- 
 nel awaited her. 
 
 Laure found the baroness pale 
 and agitated. " What is the mat- 
 ter ? What is going on over mv 
 head ? " 
 
 " Darling mother, something has 
 happened that will rejoice your heart. 
 Somebody has come home ! " 
 
 " My son ? O no ! impossible ! 
 We cannot be so happy." 
 
 " He will be with you directly." 
 
 The old lady now trembled with 
 joyful agitation. 
 
 " In five minutes I will bring him 
 to you. Shall you be dressed? I 
 will ring for the girl to help you." 
 
 "But, Laure, tlie scream, and that 
 terrible fall. Ah ! where is Jose- 
 phine ? " 
 
 " Can't you guess, mamma ? 0, 
 the fall was the fail of the screen, 
 and they stumbled over it in the 
 dark." 
 
 " They ! who ? " 
 
 " Colonel Raynal and — and Ed- 
 ouard. I will tell you, mamma, but 
 don't be angry or even mention it. 
 They wanted to surjjrisc us. They 
 
 saw a light burning, and they crept 
 on tiptoe up to tlie tapestried room, 
 where Josephine and I were, and 
 they did give us a great fright." 
 
 " What madness ! " cried the bar- 
 oness, angrily ; " and in Josephine's 
 weak state ! Such a surprise might 
 have driven her into a fit." 
 
 " Yes, it was foolish ; but let it 
 pass, mamma. Don't speak of it. 
 lie is sorry about it." 
 
 Laure slipped out, ordered a fire in • 
 the salon, and not in the tapestried 
 room, and the next minute was at her 
 sister's door. There she found Ray- 
 nal knocking and asking Josephine 
 how she was. 
 
 " Pray leave her alone a moment," 
 said she. " I will bring her down to 
 you. Mamma is waiting for you in 
 the salon." 
 
 Raynal went down. Laure un- 
 locked the bedroom door, went in, 
 and to her horror found Josephine 
 lying on the floor. She daslied water 
 in her face, and applied every remedy ; 
 and at last she came back to life and 
 its terrors. 
 
 "Save me, Laure! save me, — he 
 is coming to kill me, — I heard him 
 at the door " ; and she clung, trembling 
 piteously, to Laure. 
 
 Then Laure, seeing her terror, was 
 glad at the suicidal falsehood she had 
 told. She comforted and encouraged 
 Josephine, and — deceived her. 
 
 " All is Avell, my poor coward," she 
 cried ; " your fears are all imaginary : 
 another has owned the child ; and the 
 story is believed." 
 
 " Another ! impossible ! He would 
 not believe it." 
 
 " He docs believe it : he shall be- 
 lieve it." 
 
 Laure then, feeling by no means 
 sure that Josephine, terrified as she 
 was, would consent to let her sister 
 come to shame to screen her, told her 
 boldly that Jacintha had owned her- 
 self the mother of the child, and that 
 Raynal's only feeling towards her was 
 ))ity, and regret at having so foolishly 
 irightened her, weakened as she was 
 by illness. I told him you had been 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 239 
 
 ill, dear. But how came you on the 
 ground ? " 
 
 "Laure, I had come to myself; I 
 was on ray knees praying. He tapped. 
 I heard his voice. I remember no 
 more. I must have fainted again di- 
 rectly." 
 
 Laure had hard work to make her 
 believe that her guilt, as she called it, 
 was not known ; and even then she 
 could not prevail on her to come 
 down stairs, until she said, " If you 
 don't, he will come to you." On that 
 Josephine consented eagerly, and with 
 trembling fingers began to adjust her 
 hair and her dress for the interview. 
 
 All this terrible night Laure fought 
 for her sister. 
 
 She took her down stairs to the 
 salon. She put heron the sofa. She 
 sat by her and pressed her hand con- 
 stantly to give her courage. She told 
 the story of the surprise her own way, 
 before the whole party, including the 
 doctor, to prevent Raynal from being 
 called on to tell it his way. She 
 laughed at Josephine's absurdity, but 
 excused it on account of her feeble 
 health. In short, she threw more and 
 more dust in all their eyes. 
 
 But, by the time when the rising 
 sun came fiintly in, and lighted the 
 haggard party, where the deceived 
 were happy, the deceivers wretched, 
 the supernatural strength this young 
 girl had shown was almost exhausted. 
 She felt an hysterical impulse to scream 
 and weep : each minute it became 
 more and more ungovernable. Then 
 came an unexpected turn. Raynal, 
 after a long and loving talk with his 
 mother, as he called her, looked at his 
 watch, and, in a characteristic wav, 
 coolly announced his immediate de- 
 parture, this being the first hint he 
 had given them that he was not come 
 back for good. 
 
 The baroness was thunderstruck. 
 
 Laure and Josephine pressed one 
 another's hands, and had much ado 
 not to utter a loud cry of joy. 
 
 Raynal explained the case. Six 
 days were allowed him to carry his 
 despatches to the Rhine. 
 
 He had calculated that he could do 
 it in four days from Paris. " So I 
 stole a day to get a peep at you and 
 my wife. But now I must be off: 
 not an hour to lose. Don't fret, 
 mother, I shall soon be back again, if 
 I am not knocked on the head." 
 
 Raynal took a jovial leave of them 
 all. When it came to Laure 's turn 
 he drew her aside, and whispered into 
 her ear : — 
 
 " Who is the man ? '' 
 
 She started, and seemed dum- 
 founded. " No one you know," she 
 whispered. 
 
 " Tell me, or I ask my wife." 
 
 " She has promised me not to betray 
 me; I made her swear. Spare me 
 now, brother ; I will tell you all when 
 you come back." 
 
 " That is a bargain, now hear me 
 swear ; he shall marry you or he shall 
 die by my hand." 
 
 He confirmed this by a tremendous 
 oath. 
 
 Laure shuddered, but she said noth- 
 ing, only she thought to herself, " I 
 am forewarned. Never shall you 
 know who is the father of that 
 child." 
 
 He Avas gone. 
 
 I'/ie baroness. " What had he to 
 say to you, Laure ? Your poor moth- 
 er is jealous ! " 
 
 Laure. " He was only telling me 
 what to do to keep up your courage 
 and Josephine's till he comes back for 
 good." 
 
 Baroness. " Ah ! Heaven grant it 
 may be soon ! " 
 
 This was the last lie the entangled 
 one had to tell that morning. The 
 next minute the sisters, exhausted by 
 their terrible struggle, went feebly, 
 with downcast eyes, along the corridor 
 and up the staircase to Josephine's 
 room. 
 
 They went hand in hand. They 
 sank down, dressed as they were, on 
 Josephine's bed, and clung to one an- 
 other and trembled together, till their 
 exhausted natures sank into uneasy 
 slumbers, from which each in tui*n 
 would wake ever and anon, with a 
 
240 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 convulsive start, and clasp her sister 
 tiijiiter to her hroast. 
 
 Theirs was a marvellous love. 
 Even a course of deceit had not yet 
 prevailed to separate or chill their sis- 
 ter bosoms. 13ut even in this deep 
 and wonderful love there were de- 
 grees : one went a shade deeper than 
 tlie other now ; ay, since last night. 
 Whicli ? why, she who had sacriticed 
 herself for the otlier, and dared not 
 tell her of it, lest the sacrifice should 
 be refused. 
 
 It was the gray of the morning, and 
 foggy, Avhen Raynal, after taking 
 leave, went to the stable for his horse. 
 At the stable door, he came upon a 
 man sitting doubled up on tlie very 
 stones of the yard, witli his head on 
 l)is knees. This figure lifted its head, 
 and showed him the face of Edouard 
 Riviere, white and ghastly : his hair 
 lank with the mist, his teeth chatter- 
 ing with cold and misery. The poor 
 wretch had walked frantically all 
 night round and round the chateau, 
 ■waiting till he should come out. He 
 toll! him so. 
 
 "But why didn't you — ? Ah! I 
 see. No ! you could not go into the 
 house after that. Be a man ! There 
 is but one thing for you to do. Turn 
 your back on her, and forget she ever 
 lived. She is dead to you." 
 
 " There is something to be done be- 
 sides that," said Edouard, gloomily. 
 
 " What ? " 
 
 " Vengeance." 
 
 " That is my affair, young man. 
 "When I come back from the Rhine, 
 she will tell me who her seducer is. 
 She has promised." 
 
 " She will never tell you : she is 
 young in years, but old in treachery. 
 Thank Heaven, we don't depend on 
 her. I know the villain." 
 
 " Ah ! Then tell me this mo- 
 ment!" 
 
 " Ir is that scoundrel Dujardin ! " 
 
 " Dujardin f Wliat do you mean ? " 
 
 " I mean that, while you were light- 
 ing for France, your house was turned 
 into a hospital for wounded soldiers." 
 
 "All the better." 
 
 " That this Dujardin was housed 
 by you, was nursed l)y your wife, and 
 ail the family ; and in return has se- 
 duced your sister, — my attianccd ! " 
 
 " I can't believe it. Camille Du- 
 jardin was always a man of honor, 
 and a good soldier." 
 
 " Colonel, there has been no man 
 near the i)lace but this Dujardin. I 
 tell you it is he. Don't make me tear 
 my bleeding heart out : must I tell 
 you how often I caught them togeth- 
 er, how I suspected, and how she 
 gulled me, blind fool that I was, to 
 believe a woman's words before my 
 own eyes ? I swear to you he is the 
 villain. The only question is, which 
 of us two is to kill him ? " 
 
 " Where is the man ? " 
 
 " He is in the army of the Rhine." 
 
 "Ah! all the better." 
 
 " Covered with glory and honor. 
 Curse him ! O, curse him ! curse 
 him ! " 
 
 " I am in luck. I am going to the 
 Rhine." 
 
 " I know it. That. is why I wait- 
 ed here all through this night of mis- 
 ery. Yes, you are in luck. But you 
 will send me a line when you have 
 killed him: will you not? Then I 
 shall know joy again. Should ho 
 escape you, he shall not escape me." 
 
 " Young man," said Raynal, calm- 
 ly, " this rage is unmanly. We have 
 not heard his side of the story. He 
 is a good soldier. Perhaps he is not 
 all to blame : or perhaps passion has 
 betrayed him into a sin that his con- 
 science and honor disap])rove : if so, 
 he must not die. You think only 
 of your wrong : it is natural. But I 
 am the girl's brother, — guardian of 
 her honor and my own. His life is 
 precious as gold, I shall make him 
 mnrry her." 
 
 "What! rcAvard him for his vil- 
 lany ! " cried Edouard, frantically. 
 
 " I don't see the mighty reward," 
 replied Raynal, with a sneer. 
 
 " You leave one thing out of the 
 calculation, monsieur," said Edouard, 
 trembling with anger, — " that I will 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 241 
 
 kill your brother-in-law at the altar, 
 before her eyes." 
 
 " You leave one thing out of the 
 calculation, — that you will first have 
 to cross swords at the altar with me." 
 
 " So be it. I will not draw on my 
 old commandant. I could not : but 
 be sure I will catch him and her 
 alone some day, and the bride shall 
 be a widow in her honeymoon." 
 
 " As you please," said Ravnal, 
 coolly. "That is all fair. I 'shall 
 make her an honest wife : you may 
 make her an honest widow. (This is 
 what they call love, and sneer at me 
 for keeping clear of it.) But neither 
 he nor you shall keep 7iiy sister what 
 she is now, a — " And he used a 
 word out of the camp. 
 
 Edouard winced and groaned. 
 
 " Oh ! don't call her by such a 
 name ! There is some mystery. 
 She loved me once. There must 
 have been some strange seduction." 
 
 " Why so 1 " cried Raynal, " I 
 never saw a girl that could take her 
 own part better than she can. She is 
 not like her sister at all in character. 
 Not that I excuse him. It was a dis- 
 honorable act : an ungrateful act to 
 my wife and my mother." 
 
 " And to you." 
 
 " In four days I shall stand before 
 him. I shall not go into a pet like 
 you; I am in earnest. I shall just 
 say to him, ' Dujardin, I know 
 all ! ' Then, if he is guilty, his face 
 will show it directly. Then I shall 
 say, ' Comrade, you must marry her 
 whom you have dishonored.'" 
 
 " He will not ! He is a libertine, 
 a rascal." 
 
 " You are speaking of a man you 
 don't know. He will marry her, and 
 repair the wrong he'has done." 
 
 " Suppose he refuses ? " 
 
 " Why should he refuse ? the girl 
 is not ugly or old, and if she has done 
 a folly, he was her partner in it." 
 
 " Suppose he refuses 1 " 
 
 Raynal ground his teeth. 
 
 " Refuse ? if he does I '11 run my 
 sword through his carcass, then and 
 there. And the girl to a convent." 
 11 
 
 CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 The French army lay before a for- 
 tified place near the Rhine, which v/e 
 will call Philipsburg. 
 
 This army knew Bonaparte by re- 
 port only : it was commanded by 
 generals of tlie old school. 
 
 Philipsburg was defended on three 
 sides by the nature of the ground : 
 but on the side that faced the French 
 line of march there was only a zigzag 
 wall, piex'ced, and a low tower or two 
 at the salie4it angles. 
 
 There were evidences of a tardy at- 
 tempt to improve the defences. In 
 particular there was a large round 
 bastion, about three times the height 
 of the wall : the masonry was new : 
 and the very embrasures were not 
 cut. 
 
 Young blood was for assaulting these 
 equivocal fortifications at the end of the 
 day's march that brought the French 
 advanced guard in sight of the place ; 
 but the old generals would not hear of 
 it. The soldiers' lives must not be 
 flung away assaulting a place that 
 could be reduced in twenty-one days 
 with mathematical certainty. For at 
 this epoch a siege was looked on as a 
 process with a certain result : the on- 
 ly problem was in how many days 
 would the place be taken ; and even 
 this they used to settle to a day or 
 two on paper by arithmetic ; so many 
 feet of wall, and so many guns on the 
 one side : so many guns, so many 
 men, and such and such a soil to cut 
 the trenches in on the other, — result, 
 two figures varying from fourteen to 
 forty. These two figures represented 
 the duration of the siege. 
 
 For all that, siege arithmetic, right 
 in general, has always been terribly 
 disturbed by one little incident that 
 occurs now and then, viz, genius 
 inside. This is one of the sins of 
 genius : it goes and puts out calcula- 
 tions that have stood the brunt of 
 years. Archimedes and Todle-ben 
 were, no doubt, clever men in their 
 way, and good citizens, yet one char- 
 acteristic of delicate men's minds they 
 
242 
 
 WHITE LTKS. 
 
 lacked, — Acncration. They showed 
 an utter di.sre8])eet for the wisdom of 
 the ancients, der!in;_'ed the calcula- 
 tions which so nuich k'aniin<j^ and pa- 
 tient thought liad hallowed, disturbed 
 the minds of white-haired veterans, 
 took sieges out of the grasp of science, 
 and plunged them back into the licld 
 of the wildest conjecture. 
 
 Our generals then sat down at four- 
 teen hundred yards' distance, and 
 planned the trenches artistically, and 
 directed them to be cut at artiul an- 
 gles, and so creep nearer and nearer 
 the devoted town. Then the Prus- 
 sians, whose hearts had been in their 
 shoes at tirst sight of the French 
 shakos, plucked uj), and they turned, 
 not the garrison only, but the popula- 
 tion of the town, into engineers and 
 masons. Their fortifications grew al- 
 most as fast as the French trenches. 
 
 The first day of the siege, a young 
 but distinguished brigadier in the 
 French army rode to the quarters of 
 General Rainibaut, who commanded 
 his division, and was his personal 
 friend, and respectfully but firmly 
 entreated the general to represent to 
 the commander-in-chief the propriety 
 of assaulting that new bastion, before 
 it should l)ecome dangerous. 
 
 *\]My brigade shall carry it in fif- 
 teen minutes, general." 
 
 " What, cross all that open under 
 fire ? one half your brigade Avould 
 never reach the bastion." 
 
 " The other half would take it, 
 general." 
 
 " That is very doul)tful." 
 
 " And the next day you would have 
 the town." 
 
 General Raimbaut refused to for- 
 ward the young colonel's proposal to 
 head-quarters. 
 
 " I will not subject you to tico re- 
 fusals in one matter," said he, kindly. 
 
 The young colonel lingered, lie 
 said, respectfully : " C)ne ({ucstion, 
 general : when that bastion cuts its 
 teeth will it be any easier to take than 
 now ? " 
 
 " Certainly : it will always be ca.sier 
 to take it from the sa]) than to cross 
 
 the open under fire to it, and take it. 
 Come, colonel, to your trenches, and 
 if your Iriend should cut its teeth, you 
 shall have a battery in your attack 
 that will set its teeth on edge, — ha! 
 ha!" 
 
 The young colonel did not echo his 
 chief's humor; he saluted gravely, 
 and returned to the trenches. 
 
 The next morning, three fresh tiers 
 of embrasures grinned one above an- 
 other at the besiegers. The besieged 
 had been up all night, and not idle. 
 In half these apertures, black muz- 
 zles showed themselves. 
 
 The bastion had cut its front teeth. 
 
 CHAPTER XXXIX. 
 
 Thirteenth day of the siege. 
 
 The trenches were within four hun- 
 dred yards of the enemy's guns, and 
 it was hot work in them. The enemy 
 had three tiers of guns in the round 
 bastion, and on the top they had got 
 a long 48-pounder, which they worked 
 with a swivel joint, or something, and 
 threw a great roaring shot into any 
 part of the French lines. 
 
 As to the commander-in-chief and 
 his generals, they were dotted about a 
 long way in the rear, and no shot 
 came as far as them ; but in the trench- 
 es the men began now to fall fast, es- 
 pecially on the left attack, which fticed 
 the round bastion. Our young col- 
 onel had got his heavy battery, and 
 every now and then he would divert 
 the general efforts of the bastion, and 
 compel it to concentrate its attention 
 on him by pounding away at it till it 
 was all in sore places. Bn,t he meant 
 it worse mischief than that ; still, as 
 heretofore, regarding it as the key to 
 Philipsburg. He had got a large force 
 of engineers at work driving a mine 
 towards it : and to this he trusted 
 more than to breaching it, for the big- 
 ger holes he made in it by day were 
 all stopped at night by the towns-peo- 
 ple. 
 
 This colonel was not a favorite in 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 243 
 
 the division to which his brigade be- 
 longed. He was a good soldier, but 
 a dull companion. He was also ac- 
 cused of liauteur and of an unsoldierly 
 reserve with his brother officers. 
 
 Some loose-tongued ones even 
 called him a milksop, because he was 
 constantly seen conversing with the 
 priest, — he who had nothing to say to 
 an honest soldier. 
 
 Others said, " No, hang it ! he is 
 not a milksop : he is a tried soldier : 
 he is a sulky beggar all the same." 
 Those under his immediate command 
 were divided in opinion about him. 
 There was something about him they 
 could not understand. Why was his 
 sallow face so stern, so sad ? and why 
 with all that was his voice so gentle ? 
 The few words that did fall from his 
 mouth were prized. One old soldier 
 used to say, " I would rather have a 
 word from our brigadier than from 
 the commander - in - chief." Others 
 thought he must at some part of his 
 career have pillaged a church, taken 
 the altar-piece, and sold it to a picture- 
 dealer in Paris, 8r whipped the ear- 
 rings out of the Madonna's ear, or 
 admitted the female enemy to quarter 
 upon ungenerous conditions, this or 
 some such crime to which we poor sol- 
 diers are liable : and now was com- 
 mitting the mistake of remording him- 
 self about it. " Always alongside the 
 chaplain, you see ! " 
 
 This cold and silent man had won 
 the heart of the most talkative ser- 
 geant in the French army. SergeantLa 
 Croix protested with many oaths that 
 all the best generals of the day had 
 commanded him in turn, and that his 
 present colonel was the first that had 
 succeeded in inspiring him -with un- 
 limited confidence. " He knows every 
 point of war, — this one," said La 
 Croix ; " I heard him beg and pray 
 for leave to storm this thundering bas- 
 tion before it was armed : but no! the 
 old mutfs would be wiser than our 
 colonel. So now here we are kept at 
 bay by a place that Julius Caesar and 
 Cannibal would n't have made two 
 bites at apiece ; no more would I if I 
 
 was the old boy out there behind the 
 hill." In sucli terms do sergeants de- 
 note commanders-in-chief — at a dis- 
 tance. A talkative sergeant has more 
 influence with the men than the Min- 
 ister of War is perhaps aware : on the 
 whole, the 22d Brigade would have 
 followed its gloomy colonel to grim 
 death and a foot farther. 
 
 One thing-gave these men a touch 
 of superstitious reverence for their 
 commander. He seemed to them free 
 from physical weakness. He never 
 sat down to dinner, and seemed never 
 to sleep. At no hour of the day or 
 night were the sentries safe from his 
 visits. 
 
 Very annoying. But, after a while, 
 it led to keen watchfulness : the 
 more so that the sad and gloomy col- 
 onel showed by his maimer he appreci- 
 ated it. Indeed, one night he even 
 opened his marble jaws, and told Ser- 
 geant La Croix that a watchful sentry 
 was an important soldier, not to his 
 brigade only, but to the whole army. 
 Judge whether the maxim, and tlie 
 inTplied encomium, did not circulate 
 next morning with additions. 
 
 16th day of the siege. The round 
 bastion opened fire at eight o'clock, 
 not on the opposing battery, but on 
 the right of the French attack. Its 
 advanced position enabled a portion 
 of its guns to rake these trenches 
 slant-wise ; and depressing its guns 
 it made the round shot strike the 
 ground first and ricochet over. 
 
 On this our colonel opened on them 
 with all his guns : one of these he 
 served himself. Among his other 
 warlike accomplishments, he was a 
 wonderful shot with a cannon. He 
 showed them capital practice this 
 morning : drove two embrasures into 
 one, and knocked about a ton of ma- 
 sonry off the parapet. Then, taking 
 advantage of this, he served two of 
 his guns with grape, and swept the 
 enemy off the top of the bastion, and 
 kept it clear. He made it so hot they 
 could not work the upper guns. 
 Then they turned the other two tiers 
 
244 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 all upon liim, and at it both sides 
 went, ding, donjr, till the guns were 
 too hot to l)C worked. So then Ser- 
 geant La Croix jiopped his head up 
 troin the hatierv. and showed the enc- 
 mv a great white plate. This was 
 meant to eonvev to tlieni an invitation 
 to dine with the Freneh army : the 
 other side of the table, of course. 
 
 To the credit of Prussian intelli- 
 gence be it recorded, that this panto- 
 mimic hint was at once taken, and both 
 sjdes went to dinner. 
 
 The fighting colonel, however, re- 
 mained in the battery, and kept a 
 detachment of his gunners employed 
 cooling and loading the guns and 
 repairing the touch-holes. He ordered 
 his two cutlets and his glass of water 
 into the battery. 
 
 Meantime the enemy fired a single 
 gun at long intervals, as much as to 
 say, " We had the last word." Let 
 trenches be cut ever so artfully, there 
 will be a little space exposed here and 
 there at the angles. These spaces the 
 men are ordered to avoid, or whip 
 quickly across them into cover. 
 
 Now the enemy had just got the 
 range of one of these places with their 
 solitary gun, and had already dropped 
 a couple of sliot right on to it. A 
 camp follower with a tray, two cut- 
 lets, and a glass of water came to this 
 open space just as a puif of white 
 smoke burst from the bastion. In- 
 stead of instantly seeking shelter till 
 the shot had struck, he in his inexperi- 
 ence thouglit the shot must have 
 struck, and all danger be over. He 
 stayed there musing, instead of pelt- 
 ing under cover : the shot (18lb.) 
 struck him right on the breast, knocked 
 him into sjjillekens, and sent the mut- 
 ton-chops flying. 
 
 The human fragments lay quiet, ten 
 yards oti". But a soldier that was eat- 
 ing his dinner kicked it over, and 
 jumped up at the side of " Death's 
 Alley " (as it was cliristened next 
 minute), and danced and yelled with 
 pain. 
 
 " Haw ! haw ! haw ! " roared a sol- 
 dier from the other side of the alley. 
 
 " What is that ? " cried Sergeant 
 La Croix. " What do you laugh at, 
 Private Cadel ? " said he, sternly, for, 
 though he was too far in the trench to 
 see, lie had heard tliat horrible sound 
 a soldier knows from every other, — 
 the " thud " of a round shot striking 
 man or horse. 
 
 " Sergeant," said Cadel, respect- 
 fully, " I laugh to see Private Dard, 
 that got the wind of the sliot, dance 
 and sing, when the man that got the 
 shot itself docs not say a word." 
 
 " The wind of the shot, you ras- 
 cal ! " roared Private. Dard : " look 
 here ! " and he showed the blood run- 
 ning down his face. 
 
 The shot had actually driven a 
 splinter of bone out of the sutler into 
 Dard's temple. 
 
 " I am the unluekiest fellow in the 
 army," remonstrated Dard ; and he 
 stamped In a circle. 
 
 "Seems to me you are only the 
 second unluekiest this time," said a 
 young soldier with his mouth full; 
 and, with a certain dry humor, he 
 pointed vaguely ovofhis shoulder with 
 the fork towards the corpse. 
 
 The trenches laughed and assented. 
 
 This want of sympathy and justice 
 irritated Dard. 
 
 " You cursed fools ! " cried he. 
 " He is gone where we must all go, — 
 without any trouble. But look at me. 
 I am always getting barked. Dogs 
 of Prussians ! they pick me out among 
 a thousand. I shall have a headache 
 all the afternoon, you see else." 
 
 " Some of our 'heads would never 
 have ached again : but Dard had a 
 good thick skull." 
 
 Dard pulled out his spilleken sav- 
 agely. . 
 
 " i '11 wrap it up in paper for Jacin- 
 tha," said he. " Then that will learn 
 her what a poor soldier has to go 
 through." 
 
 Even this consolation w^as denied 
 Private Dard. 
 
 Corporal Coriolanus Gand, a bit of 
 an intidel from Lyons, who sometimes 
 amused himself with the Breton's su- 
 perstition, told him, with a grave face, 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 245 
 
 that the splinter belonged, not to him, 
 but to the sutler, and, though so small, 
 was doubtless a necessary part of his 
 frame. For a broken link is a broken 
 chain. 
 
 "It will be a bone of contention 
 between you two," said he ; " especial- 
 ly at midnight. He loitl be always com- 
 ing back to you for it." 
 
 " There, take it away ! " said the 
 Breton, hastily, "and bury it with the 
 poor follow." 
 
 Sergeant La Croix presented him- 
 self before the colonel with a rueful 
 face, and saluted him and said : — 
 
 " Colonel, your dinner has been 
 spilt, — a shot from the bastion." 
 
 " No matter," said the colonel. 
 " Get me a piece of bread instead." 
 
 Returning from this. La Croix found 
 Cadel sitting on one side of Death's 
 Alley, and Dard with his head bound 
 up on the other. They had got a 
 bottle which each put up in turn 
 wherever he fancied the next round 
 shot would strike, and they were bet- 
 ting their afternoon rations, which 
 would get the Prussians to hit the 
 bottle first.* 
 
 La Croix pulled their ears plar- 
 fully.^_ 
 
 " Time is up for playing marbles," 
 said he. " Mizzle, and play at round 
 shot " ; and he bundled them off into 
 the battery. 
 
 It was an hour past midnight : a 
 cloudy night. The moon was up, 
 but seen only by fitful gleams. A 
 calm, peaceful silence reigned. 
 
 Dard was sentinel in the battery. 
 
 An officer going his rounds found 
 the said sentinel flat instead of verti- 
 cal. He stirred him with his scab- 
 bard, and up jumped Dard. 
 
 " It 's all right, sergeant. O Lord ! 
 it's the colonel. I wasn't asleep, 
 colonel." 
 
 " I have not accused you. But you 
 will explain what you were doing." 
 
 " Colonel," said' Dard, all in a flut- 
 
 * So deep an impression had the above 
 melancholy incident made upon these two 
 soldiers. 
 
 ter, " I was taking a squint at them, 
 because I saw something." 
 
 " What 1 " 
 
 " Colonel, the beggars are building 
 a wall." 
 
 " Where ? " 
 
 " Between us and the bastion." 
 
 ""Show me." 
 
 " I can't, colonel ; the moon has 
 gone in : but I did see it." 
 
 " How long was it ? " 
 
 " About a hundred yards." 
 
 " How high ? " 
 
 " Colonel, it was ten feet high if it 
 was an inch." 
 
 " Have you good sight ? " 
 
 " La ! colonel, was n't I a bit of a 
 poacher before I took to the bayonet ! " 
 
 " Good ! Now reflect. If you per- 
 sist, I turn out the brigade on your in- 
 formation." 
 
 " I '11 stand the fire of a corporal's 
 guard at break of day, if I make a 
 mistake now," said Dard. 
 
 The coloner glided away, called his 
 captain and first lieutenants, and said 
 two words in each ear, that made 
 them spring off their backs. 
 
 Dard, marching to and fro, mus- 
 ket on shoulder, found himself sud- 
 denly surrounded by giira, silent, but 
 deadly eager soldiers, that came pour- 
 ing like bees into the open space be- 
 hind the battery. The ofiicers came 
 round the colonel. 
 
 " Attend to two things," said he to 
 the captains. " Don't fii-e till they 
 are within ten yards : and don't fol- 
 low them unless I lead you." 
 
 The men were then told off by com- 
 panies, some to the battery, some to 
 the trenches, some were kept on each 
 side Death's Alley, ready for a rush. 
 
 They were not all of them placed, 
 when those behind the parapet saw 
 something deepen the gloom of night, 
 some fourscore yards to the front ; it 
 was like a line of black ink suddenly 
 drawn upon a sheet covered with In- 
 dian ink. 
 
 It seemed quite stationary. The 
 novices wondered what it was. 
 
 The veterans muttered, " Three 
 deep." 
 
246 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 Thoufrh it looked stationary, it got 
 blaikcr and blacker. The soldiers of 
 the -sld Hri;:a(ie i^riped their muskets 
 hard, ami set tlieir teeth, and the ser- 
 geants had much ado to keep them 
 quiet. 
 
 All of a sudden, a loud yell on the 
 riglit of tlie l)rigade, two or three sin- 
 gle shots from the trenches in that di- 
 rection, followed by volley, the cries 
 of wounded men, and the fierce hur- 
 rahs of an attacking party. 
 
 Our colonel knew too well those 
 sounds : the next parallel had been 
 surjjriscd, and the Prussian bayonet 
 ■was now silently at work. 
 
 Disguise on the part of the enemy 
 •was no longer possible. At the first 
 shot, a guttural voice was heard to 
 give a word of command. There was 
 a sharp rattle, and in a moment the 
 thick black line was tipped with 
 steel. 
 
 A roar and a rush, and the Prus- 
 sian line three deep came furiously 
 like a huge steel-pointed wave at the 
 French lines. A tremendous wave of 
 fire rushed out to meet that w^ave of 
 steel ; a crash of two hundred mus- 
 kets, and all was still. Then you 
 could see through the black steel- 
 tipped line in a hundred frightful 
 gaps, and the ground sparkled with 
 bayonets, and the air rang with the 
 cries of the wounded. 
 
 A tremendous cheer from the bri- 
 gade, and the colonel charged at the 
 head of his column, out by Death's 
 Alley. 
 
 The broken wall was melting away 
 into the night. The colonel wheeled 
 his men to the right : one company, 
 led by the impetuous young Captain 
 Jullien, followed the flying enemy. 
 
 The other attack had been only too 
 successful. They shot the sentries, 
 and bayoneted many of the soldiers 
 in their^cnts : others escaped by run- 
 ning to the rear, and some into the 
 next parallel. 
 
 Several, half dressed, snatched up 
 their muskets, killed one Prussian, 
 and fell riddled like sieves. 
 
 A gallant officer got a company to- 
 
 gether into the place of arms and 
 formed in line. 
 
 Half the Prussian force went at 
 them, the rest swept the trenches : the 
 French company delivered a deadly 
 volley, and the next momint clash the 
 two forces crossed bayonets, and a 
 silent deadly stabbing match was 
 played : the iinal result of which was 
 inevitable. The Prussians wefe five 
 to one. The gallant officer and the 
 poor fellows did their duty so stoutly, 
 liad no thought left but to die hard, 
 when suddenly a roaring cheer seemed 
 to come from the rear rank of the en- 
 emy. " France ! France ! " The 
 24th Brigade was seen leaping and 
 swarming over the trenches in the 
 Prussian rear. The Prussians wa- 
 vered. " France ! " cried the little 
 party, that were being overpowered, 
 and they charged in their turn, with 
 such fury that in two seconds the two 
 French corps went through the ene- 
 my's centre like paper, and their very 
 bayonets clashed together, in more 
 than one Prussian body. 
 
 Broken then in two fragments, the 
 Prussian corps ceased to exist as a 
 military force. The men fled, each 
 his own way, back to the fort, and 
 many flung away their muskets, for 
 French soldiers were swarming in 
 from all quarters. At this moment, 
 bang ! bang ! bang ! from the bas- 
 tion. 
 
 " They are firing on my brigade," 
 said our colonel. " Who has led his 
 company there against my orders ? 
 Captain Neville, into the battery, and 
 fire twenty rounds at the bastion. 
 Aim at the flashes from their middle 
 tier." 
 
 " Yes, colonel." 
 
 The battery opened with all its 
 guns on the bastion. The riglit at- 
 t&ck followed suit. The town an- 
 swered, and a furious cannonade 
 roared and blazed all down both 
 lines till daybreak. Hell seemed 
 broke loose. 
 
 Captain Jullien had followed the 
 flying foe, but could not come up 
 with them ; and, as the enemy had 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 247 
 
 prepared for every contingency, the 
 fatal bastion, after first throwing a 
 rocket or two to discover their posi- 
 tion, poured showers of grape into 
 them, killed many, and would have 
 killed more, but that Captain Neville 
 and his gunners happened by mere 
 accident to dismount one gun, and to 
 kill a couple of gunners at the other. 
 This gave the remains of the compa- 
 ny time to disperse and run back. 
 When the men were mustered, Cap- 
 tain Jullien and twenty-five of his com- 
 pany did not answer to their names. 
 At daybreak they were visible from 
 the trenches, lying all by themselves 
 within eighty yards of the bastion. 
 
 A flag of truce from the fort. 
 
 The dead removed on both sides, 
 and buried. Some Prussian officers 
 strolled into the French lines. Civili- 
 ties and cigars exchanged : " Bon 
 jour," " Gooten daeg," and at it again, 
 ding dong all down the line, blazing 
 and roaring. 
 
 At twelve o'clock they had got a 
 man on horseback, on top of a hill, 
 ■with colored flags in his hand, mak- 
 ing signals. 
 
 " What are they up to now 1 " in- 
 quired Dard. 
 
 " You will see," said La Croix, af- 
 fecting mystery : he knew no more 
 than the other. 
 
 Presently off went Long Tom on 
 the top of the bastion, and the shot 
 came roaring over the he^ds of the 
 speakers. 
 
 The flags were changed, and off 
 went Long Tom again at an elevation. 
 
 Ten seconds had scarcely elapsed, 
 when a tremendous explosion took 
 place on the French right. Long 
 Tom was throwing red-hot shot : one 
 had fallen on a powder wagon and 
 blown it to pieces, and killed two 
 poor fellows and a horse, and turned 
 an artillery-man at some distance into 
 a nigger parson ; but did him no 
 great harm ; only took him three days 
 to get the powder out of his clothes 
 with pipe clay, and his face with raw 
 potato peel. 
 
 When the tumbril exploded, the 
 Prussians could be heard to cheer, 
 and they turned to and fired every 
 iron spout they owned. Long Tom 
 worked all day. 
 
 They got him into a comer where 
 the guns of the battery could not hit 
 them or him, and there was his long 
 muzzle looking towards the sky, and 
 sending half a hundred-weight of iron 
 up into the clouds, and plunging 
 down a mile off into the French lines. 
 
 And, at every shot, the man on 
 horseback made signals to let the 
 gunners know where the shot fell. 
 
 At last, about four in the afternoon 
 they threw a forty-eight-pound shot 
 slap into the commander-in-chief's 
 tent, a mile and a half behind the 
 trenches. 
 
 Down comes a glittering aide-de 
 camp as hard as he can gallop. 
 
 " Colonel Dujardin, what are ye 
 
 about. 
 
 Your bastion has thrown 
 
 a round shot into the commander- 
 in-chiefs tent." 
 
 The colonel did not appear so 
 staggered as the aide-de-camp ex- 
 pected. 
 
 " Ah ! indeed ! " said he, quietly. 
 " I observed they were trying dis- 
 tances." 
 
 " Must not happen again, colonel. 
 You must drive them from the 
 gun ! " 
 
 " How, monsieur ? " 
 
 " Why, where is the difficulty ? " 
 
 " If you will do me the honor to 
 step into the battery, I will show 
 you," said the colonel. 
 
 " If you please, sir," said the aide- 
 de-camp, stiffly. 
 
 Colonel Dujardin took him to the 
 parapet, and began, in a calm, pains- 
 taking way, to show him how and 
 why none of his guns could be 
 brought to bear upon Long Tom. 
 
 In the middle of the explanation, 
 a melodious sound was heai'd in the 
 air above them, like a swarm of Brob- 
 dingnag bees. 
 
 "'What is that?" inquired the 
 aide-de-camp. 
 
 " What 1 I see nothing." 
 
248 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 " That humminc: noi^c." 
 
 "O, that ? rrns>ian bullets. Ah! 
 by the bv, it is a coinjiliineiit to your 
 uniform, monsieur; they take you 
 for some one of importance. Well, 
 as I was observing — " 
 
 " Your explanation is sufficient, 
 colonel ; let us get out of this. Ha ! 
 ha! you are a cool hand, colonel, I 
 must say. But your battery is a 
 warm place enough : I shall report it 
 so at head-quarters." 
 
 The grim colonel relaxed. 
 
 "Captain," said he, politely, " you 
 shall not have ridden to my post in 
 vain. Will you lend nic your horse 
 for ten minutes ? " 
 
 " Certainly ; and I will inspect 
 your trenches meantime." 
 
 " Do so ; and be so good as to 
 avoid that angle : it is exposed, and 
 the enemy have got the range to an 
 inch." 
 
 Colonel Dnjardin slipped into his 
 quarters : off with his half-dress jack- 
 et and his dirty boots, and presently 
 out became full fig, glittering l)right- 
 er than the other, with one French 
 and two foreign orders shining on his 
 breast, mounted the aide-de-camp's 
 horse and away full pelt. 
 
 Admitted, after some little delay, 
 into the generalissimo's tent, Dnjar- 
 din found the old gentleman sur- 
 rounded by his staff, and wroth : nor 
 was the danger to which he had been 
 exposed his sole cause of ire. 
 
 The shot had burst through his 
 canvas, struck a table on which was 
 a large inkstand, and had squirted 
 the whole contents over the despatch- 
 es he was writing for Paris. 
 
 Now, this old gentleman prided 
 himself upon the neatness of his de- 
 spatches : a blot on his paper darkened 
 his soul. 
 
 Colonel Dujardin expressed his 
 profound regret. 
 
 Commamhr-in-rhirf. " I have a. 
 great deal of writing to do, as you 
 arc aware, and when I am writing I 
 like to be quiet." 
 
 Colonel Dujardin as':ented respect- 
 fully to the justice of this. He then 
 
 explained at full length why he could 
 not bring a gun in the battery to si- 
 lence Long Tom, and quietly asked 
 to be permitted to run a gun out 
 of the trenches, and take a shot at 
 the offender. 
 
 "It is a point-blank distance, and 
 I have a new gun, with which a man 
 ought to be able to hit his own ball 
 at three hundred yards." 
 
 The commander hesitated. 
 
 " I cannot have the men exposed." 
 
 " I engage not to lose a man, ex- 
 cept — except him who fires the 
 gun. He must take his chance." 
 
 " Well, colonel, it must be done 
 by volunteers. The men must not 
 be ordered out on such a service as 
 that." 
 
 Colonel Dujardin bowed and re- 
 tired. 
 
 " Volunteers to go out of the 
 trenches ! " cried Sergeant La Croix, 
 in a stentorian voice, standing erect 
 as a poker, and swelling with impor- 
 tance. 
 
 There were fifty offers in less than 
 as many seconds. 
 
 " Only twelve allowed to go," said 
 the sergeant ; " and I am one," added 
 he, adroitly inserting himself. • 
 
 A gun was taken down, placed on 
 a carriage, and posted near Death's 
 Alley, but out of the line of fire. 
 
 The colonel himself superintended 
 the loading of this gun'; and, to the 
 surprise of the men, had the shot 
 weighed first, and then weighed out 
 the powder himself. 
 
 He then waited quietly a long 
 time till the bastion pitched one of its 
 periodical shots into Death's Alley : 
 but no sooner had the shot struck, 
 and sent the sand flying past the two 
 lanes of curious noses, than Colonel 
 Dnjardin jumped upon the gun and 
 waved his cocked hat : at this pre- 
 concerted signal, his battery opened 
 fire on the bastion, and the battery to 
 his right opened on the wall that 
 fronted them ; and the colonel gave 
 the word to run the gun out of the 
 trenrhes. They ran it out into the 
 cloud of smoke their own guns were 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 249 
 
 belching forth, unseen by the enemy ; 
 but tliey had no sooner twisted it into 
 the line of Long Tom, than tlie smoke 
 was gone, and there they were, a fair 
 mark. 
 
 "Back into the trenches, all but 
 one ! " roared Dujardin. 
 
 And in they ran like rabbits. 
 
 " Quick ! the elevation." 
 
 Colonel Dujardin and La Croix 
 raised the muzzle to the mark, — hoo ! 
 hoo ! hoo ! ping ! ping ! ping ! came 
 the bullets about their ears. 
 
 " Away with you ! " cried the colo- 
 nel, taking the luistock from him. 
 
 Then Colonel Dujardin, ht'teen 
 yards from the trenches, in full blaz- 
 ing uniform, showed two armies what 
 one intrepid soldier can do. He 
 kneeled down and adjusted his gun, 
 just as he would have done in a prac- 
 tising-ground. He had a pot shot to 
 take, and a pot shot he would take. 
 He ignored three hundred muskets 
 that were levelled at him. He looked 
 along his gun, adjusted it, and read- 
 justed to a hair's-breadth. The ene- 
 my's bullets pattered over it, still he 
 acljusted and readjusted. His men 
 were groaning and tearing their hair 
 inside at his danger. 
 
 At last it was levelled to his mind, 
 and then his movements were as 
 quick as they had hitherto been slow. 
 In a moment he stood erect in the 
 half fencing attitude of a gunner, and 
 his linstock at the touch-hole : a huge 
 tongue of flame, a volume of smoke, 
 a roar, and the iron thunderbolt was 
 on its way, and the colonel walked 
 haughtily but rapidly back to the 
 trenches : for in all this no bravado. 
 He was there to make a shot ; not to 
 throw a chance of life away watching 
 the effect. 
 
 Ten thousand eyes did that for him. 
 Both French and Prussians risked 
 their own lives ci'aning out to see 
 what a colonel in full uniform was 
 doing under fire from a whole line of 
 forts, and what would be his fate ; 
 but wlien he fired the gun their curi- 
 osity left the man and followed the 
 iron thunderbolt. 
 
 11* 
 
 t'or two seconds all was uncertain : 
 the ball was travelling. 
 
 Tom gave a rear like a wild horse, 
 his protruding muzzle went up sky 
 high, then was seen no more, and a 
 ring of old iron and a clatter of frag- 
 ments was heard on the top of the 
 bastion. Long Tom was dismount- 
 ed. Oh ! the roar of laughter and 
 triumph from one end to another of 
 the trenches ; and the clapping of 
 forty thousand hands, that went on 
 for full five minutes : then the Prus- 
 sians, either through a burst of gen- 
 erous praise for an act so chivalrous 
 and so brilliant, or because they would 
 not be crowed over, clapped their ten 
 thousand hands as loudly, and thun- 
 dering, heart-thrilling salvo of ap- 
 plause answered salvo on both sides 
 that terrible arena. 
 
 That evening a courteous and flat- 
 tering message from the commander- 
 in-chief to Colonel Dujardin ; and 
 several officers came to his quarters 
 to look at him : they went back dis- 
 appointed. Tiie cry was, " What 
 a miserable, melancholy dog ! I ex- 
 pected to see a fine dashing fellow." 
 
 The trenches neared the town. 
 Colonel Dujardin's mine was far ad- 
 vanced : the end of the chamber was 
 within a few yards of the bastion. Of 
 late, the colonel had often visited this 
 mine in person. He seemed a little 
 uneasy about something in that quar- 
 ter : but no one knew what : he was 
 a silent man. The third evening, af- 
 ter he dismounted Long Tom, he re- 
 ceived private notice that an order was 
 coming down from the commander-in- 
 chief to assault the bastion. H% 
 shrugged his shoulders, but said 
 nothing. That same night the colo- 
 nel and one of his lieutenants stole out 
 of the trenches, and by the help of a 
 pitch-dark, windy night, got under the 
 bastion un perceived, and crept round 
 it, and made their observations, and 
 got safe back. About noon down 
 came General Raimbaut. 
 
 " Well, colonel, you are to have 
 your way at last. iTour bastion is to 
 
250 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 be stormed tliis afternoon, previous to 
 the f^enoral assault. Wliy, how is 
 this ? you don't seem enchanted 1 " 
 
 " I am not." 
 
 " Why, it was you who pressed for 
 the assault." 
 
 " At the ri<j:ht time, general, not at 
 the wrong. In five days, I undertake 
 to blow that bastion into the air. To 
 assault it now would be to waste our 
 men." 
 
 General Raimbant thought this ex- 
 cess of caution a groat piece of perver- 
 sity in Achilles. They were alone, 
 and he said a little peevishly : — 
 
 " Is not this to blow hot and cold 
 on the same thing ? " 
 
 " No, general," was the calm repW. 
 " I blew liot upon timorous counsels ; 
 I blow cold on rash ones. General, 
 last night Lieutenant Fleming and I 
 were under that bastion, and all round 
 it." 
 
 "Ah ! my prudent colonel, I 
 thought I should not talk long with- 
 out your coming out in your true 
 light. If ever a man secretly enjoyed 
 risking his life, it is you." 
 
 " No, general," said Dujardin, look- 
 ing gloomily down. " I enjoy neither 
 that nor anything else. Live or die, 
 it is all one to me ; but to the lives of 
 my soldiers I am not indifferent, and 
 never will be while I live. My appar- 
 ent rashness of last night was pure 
 prudence." 
 
 Raimbaut's eye twinkled Avith sup- 
 pressed irony. 
 
 "No doubt!" said he, — "no 
 doubt ! " • 
 
 The impassive colonel woiild not 
 notice the other's irony : he went 
 lealmly on. 
 
 " I suspected something : I went to 
 confute or confirm that suspicion. I 
 confirmed it." 
 
 Rat! tat! tat! tat! tat! tat! tat! 
 relieving guard in the mine. 
 
 Colonel Dujardin interrupted him- 
 self. 
 
 " That comes apropos," said he. 
 " 1 expect one proof more from that 
 quarter : sergeant, send me the senti- 
 nel they are relieving." 
 
 Sergeant La Croix soon came hack, 
 as ])OMipous as a hen with one chick, 
 predominating with a grand military 
 air over a droll figure that chattered 
 with cold, and held its musket in 
 hands clothed in great mittens. 
 Dard. 
 
 La Croix marched him up as if he 
 had been a file : halted him like a 
 file, sung out to him as to a file, stento- 
 rian and inaudible, after the manner 
 of sergeants. 
 
 " Private No. 4." 
 
 Da rd. ' ' P-p - p - presen t ! " 
 
 La Croix. "Advance to the word of 
 command, and sj)eak to the colonel." 
 
 I'he shivering figure became an up- 
 right statue directly, and carried one 
 of his mittens to his forehead. Then 
 suddenly recognizing the rank of the 
 gray-haired officer, he was morally 
 shaken, and remained physically erect 
 and stammered : — 
 
 " Colonel ! — general ! — colonel ! " 
 
 " Don't be frightened, my lad. But 
 look at the general." 
 
 " Yes ! general ! colonel ! " and he 
 levelled his eye dead at the general, as 
 he would a bayonet at the foe, being 
 so commanded. 
 
 " Now answer in as few syllables 
 as you can." 
 
 " Yes, general, — colonel." 
 
 Colonel Dujardin. " You have been 
 on guard in the mine." 
 
 " Yes, general." 
 
 " What did you see there ? " 
 
 " Nothing, it was night down 
 there." 
 
 " What did you feel ? " 
 
 " Cold ! I — was — in — water — 
 hugh ! " 
 
 " Did vou hear nothing, then ? " 
 
 " Yes.'' 
 
 " What ? " 
 
 "Bum ! hum ! bum ! " 
 
 " Are you sure you did not hear 
 particles of earth fall at the end of 
 the trench." 
 
 " 1 (lid, and the earth trembled." 
 
 "Ahl" 
 
 " Very gently, and this " Ctouching 
 his musket) " sounded of its own ac- 
 cord." 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 251 
 
 " Good ! you have answered well, 
 go." 
 
 " Serf^eant, I did not miss a word," 
 cried i)ard, exulting. He thought 
 he had passed a sort of college exam- 
 ination. The sergeant was awe-struck 
 and disgusted at his familiarity, speak- 
 ing to him before the great : he pushed 
 Private Dard hastily out of the pres- 
 ence, and bundled him into the 
 trenches. 
 
 " Are you countermined then 1 
 asked General Raimbaut. 
 
 " I think not, general ; but the en- 
 emy's whole position is. And, gen- 
 eral, we found the bastion had been 
 opened in the rear, and lately half a 
 dozen broad roads cut through the 
 masonry." 
 
 " To let in reinforcements ? " 
 
 " Or to let the men run out in case 
 of an assault. I have seen from the 
 first an able hand behind that part 
 of the defences. If we assault that 
 bastion, they will pick off as many 
 of us as they can with their muskQts : 
 then they will run for it, and fire a 
 train, and blow it and us into the 
 air." 
 
 " Colonel, this is serious. Are you 
 prepared to lay this statement be- 
 fore the commander-in-chief?" 
 
 " I am, and I do so through you, 
 the general of my division. I even 
 beg you to say, as from me, that 
 the assault will be mere suicide, — 
 bloody and useless." 
 
 " I will go to him at once. For 
 the order was to come down in a 
 couple of hours." 
 
 General Raimbaut went off" to head- 
 quarters in some haste, a thorough 
 convert to Colonel Dujardin's opinion. 
 The colonel ordered a strong force of 
 engineers into the mine, and went 
 slowly to his tent. At the mouth 
 of it, a corporal, who was also his 
 body servant, met him, saluted, and 
 asked respectfully if there were any 
 orders. 
 
 "A few minutes' repose, Fran- 
 cois, that is all. Do not let me 
 be disturbed for a quarter of an 
 hour." 
 
 " Attention ! " cried Francois. 
 " Colonel wants to sleep." 
 
 " He shall hear the gnats' wings 
 for us," answered an honest sol- 
 dier. 
 
 The tent was sentinelled, and Du- 
 jardin was alone with the past. 
 
 Then had the fools, that took (as 
 fools always do) deep sorrow for sul- 
 lenness, seen the fiery soldier droop, 
 and his sallow face fall into haggard 
 lines, and his martial figure shrink, 
 and heard his stout heart sigh ! ! He 
 took a letter from his bosom : it was 
 almost torn to pieces. He had read 
 it a thousand times : yet he read it 
 again. A part of the sweet, sad words 
 ran thus : — 
 
 "We must bow! We can never he 
 happy together on earth : let us make 
 Heaven our friend, — this is still left 
 us, — not to blush for our love, to do our 
 duty, and to die I " 
 
 " How tender but how firm," 
 thought Camille. " I might agitate, 
 taunt, grieve her I love, but I should 
 not shake her. No ! God and the 
 saints to my aid ! They saved me 
 from a crime I now shudder at ! and 
 they have given me the good chap- 
 lain : he prays with me, he weeps for 
 me. His prayers still my beating 
 heart. I wish he was here now ! 
 Yes, poor suffering angel ! I read 
 youv will in these tender but bitter 
 words, — you prefer duty to love: 
 and one day you will forget me : not 
 yet awhile, but it will be so. It wounds 
 me when I think of it : but I must 
 bow! Your will is sacred. I must 
 rise to your level, with God's help : 
 not drag you down to mine." 
 
 Then the soldier that stood between 
 two armies in a hail of bullets, and 
 fired a master-shot, took a little book 
 of offices in one hand, — the chaplain 
 had given it him, — and fixed his eyes 
 upon the pious words, and clung like 
 a child to the pious words, and kissed 
 his lost wife's letter, and tried so hard 
 to be like her he loved, — patient, 
 very patient, — till the end should 
 come. 
 
9n9 
 
 WHITE Lii:s. 
 
 " Qui virc?'" cried the sentinel, out- 
 side. 
 
 "France! " was the reply. 
 
 The same voice asked the sentinel : — 
 
 " Where is the colonel commanding 
 the brii^ade ? " 
 
 The sentinel lowered his voice : — 
 
 " Asleep, my officer," said he ; for 
 the new - comer carried two epau- 
 lets. 
 
 " Wake liim ! " said he, in the tone 
 of a man used to command ou a large 
 scale. 
 
 Dujardin heard, and did not choose 
 such a man should think he was 
 asleep in broad day. He came quickly 
 out of the tent with Josephine's letter 
 in his hand, and, in the very act of 
 convcynig it to his bosom, he found 
 liimself face to face witli — Colonel 
 Rayxal. 
 
 CHAPTER XL. 
 
 Did you ever see two practised 
 duellists cross rapiers 1 
 
 How smooth and quiet the bright 
 blades are, — they glide into contact ! 
 polished and slippery though they 
 are, they hold each other. So these 
 two men's eyes mot, and fastened : 
 neither spoke, each searched the other's 
 face keenly. Raynal's countenance, 
 prepared as he was for this meeting, 
 was like a stern statue's. The other's 
 pale face flushed, and his heart raged 
 and sii'kencd at sight of the man that, 
 once his comrade and benefictor, Avas 
 now possessor of the woman he loved. 
 But the figures of both stood alike 
 haughty, erect, and immovable, face 
 to face. 
 
 Colonel Raynal saluted Colonel 
 Dujardin. Colonel Dujardin returned 
 tlic salute. • 
 
 " You thought I was in Egypt ! ! " 
 paid Raynal, with grim significance, 
 that caught Diijardin's attention, 
 though he did not know (juitc how to 
 interpret it. 
 
 He answered mechanically, " Yes." 
 
 " I am sent here by General Bona- 
 p i.te to take a command." 
 
 " You arc welcome. What com- 
 mand ] " 
 
 " Yours." 
 
 " ]\Iine? " cried Dujardin, his fore- 
 head flushing with mortiflcatiuu and 
 anger. " What, is it not enough that 
 you take my — hem ! " 
 
 " Come, colonel," said the other, 
 calmly, " do not be unjust to an old 
 comrade. I take your demi-brigadc : 
 but you are promoted to Raimbaut's 
 brigade." 
 
 " Raynal, I was wrong," said the 
 fiery Camille, lowering his eyes for 
 the first time this campaign. 
 
 " The exchange is to be made 
 to-morrow," continued the other, in 
 the clear tone of military business. 
 
 " Was it then to announce to me my 
 promotion you came to my quar- 
 ters ? " and Camille looked with a 
 strange mixture of feelings at his old 
 comrade. 
 
 " That was the first thing." 
 
 " The first ? " 
 
 " The first, being duty, you know." 
 
 " What ? have you anything else to 
 say to me then ? " 
 
 "I have." 
 
 " Is it important ? for my own du- 
 ties will soon demand me." 
 
 " It is so important, that, command 
 or no command, I should have come 
 farther than the Rhine to say it to 
 you." 
 
 Let a man be as bold as a lion, a 
 certain aAve still waits upon doubt and 
 mystery ; and some of this vague awe 
 crept over Camille Dujardin at Ray- 
 nal's mysterious speech, and his grave, 
 quiet, significant manner. 
 
 Had he discovered something, and 
 what ? For Josephine's sake, not his 
 own, Camille was on his guard di- 
 rectly. 
 
 Raynal looked at him in silence a 
 moment. 
 
 "What?" said he, with a slight 
 sneer, " has it never occurred to you 
 that I must have a serious word to say 
 to you ? " 
 
 " 8peak, Colonel Raynal ! I am at 
 your service." 
 
 "First let me put you a question, 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 253 
 
 did they treat you well at my 
 house ? " 
 
 " At your house 1 " 
 
 " At the Chateau de Beaurepaire 1 " 
 
 " Yes," faltered Camille. 
 
 " You met, I trust, all the kindness 
 and care due to a wounded soldier, 
 and an officer of merit '? It would 
 annoy me greatly if I thought you 
 were not treated like a brother in my 
 house." 
 
 Colonel Dujardin writhed inwardly 
 at this view of matters. He could 
 not reply in few words. This made 
 him hesitate. 
 
 His inquisitor waited ; but, receiv- 
 ing no reply, went on^: — 
 
 " Well, colonel, have you shown the 
 sense of gratitude we had a right to 
 look for in return ? In a word, when 
 you left Beaurepaire, had your con- 
 science nothing to reproach vou 
 with ? " 
 
 D uj ardin still hesitated. He scarce- 
 ly knew what to think or what to say. 
 But he thought to himself, " Who 
 has told him ? does he know all ? " 
 
 " Colonel Dnjardm, I am the hus» 
 band of Josephine, the son of Ma- 
 dame de Beaurepaire, and the brother 
 of Laure ! You know what brings 
 me here. Your answer "? " 
 
 " Colonel Raynal, between men of 
 honor, placed as you and I are, few 
 words should pass : for words are idle. 
 Never would you prove to me that I 
 have wronged you : I should never 
 convince you that I have not. Let us 
 therefore close this painful interview 
 in the way it is sure to close. Colonel 
 Raynal, dispose of me ; I am at your 
 service at any hour and place you 
 please." 
 
 "And pray is that all the answer 
 you can think of 1 " asked Raynal, 
 somewhat scornfully. 
 
 " Why, what other answer can I 
 give you ? " 
 
 " A more sensible, a more honest, 
 and a less boyish one. Who doubts 
 that you can tight, you silly fellow ? 
 have n't I seen you ? I want you to 
 show me a much higher sort of 
 courage: the courage to repair a 
 
 wrong, not the paltry courage to de- 
 fend one." 
 
 " I really do not understand you, sir. 
 How can 1 undo what is done ? " 
 " Whv, of course you can't." 
 " Weil, then ? " 
 
 " And therefore I stand here ready 
 to forgive all that is past : not without 
 a struggle, which you don't seem to 
 appreciate." 
 
 Camille was now utterly mystified. 
 
 " Upon condition that you consent 
 
 to heal the wound you have made. 
 
 If you refuse — hum ! but you will 
 
 not refuse." 
 
 " To the point, sir. What do you 
 require of me ? " 
 
 " Only a little common honesty. 
 This is the case : you have seduced a 
 young lady." 
 
 " Monsieur ! " cried Dujardin, an- 
 grily. 
 
 "'What is the matter ? The word 
 is not so bad as the crime, I take it. 
 I You have seduced her, and under 
 circumstances — But we won't speak 
 of them, because I mean to keep cool. 
 Well, sir, as you said just now, it's 
 no use crying over spilled milk ; you 
 can't unseduce the little fool : you 
 oaust marry her ! " 
 
 " M — m — marry her ? " and Du- 
 jardin flushed all over, and his heart 
 beat, and he stared in Raynal's face. 
 " Why, what is the matter again ? 
 I If she has played the fool, it was with 
 you, and no other man : it is not as 
 : if she was depraved. Come, my lad, 
 J a little generosity ! Talll the conse- 
 { quences of your own act, — or your 
 I share of it, — don't throw it all on the 
 ' poor feeble woman. If she has loved 
 you too much, you are the man of all 
 others that should forgive her. Come, 
 what do you say ? " 
 
 "Am 1 in my senses ? Is it you, 
 Jean Raynal, who stand there, and 
 tell me to marry her ? " 
 
 " I do. After all, is it such a mis- 
 fortune to marry Laure de Beaure- 
 paire ? She is young, she is pretty, 
 she has good qualities, and she would 
 have walked straight to the end of 
 her days, but for you." 
 
254 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 " Lfiurc (Ic Bcauropniro ? " 
 
 " Yos ! Latire do IJi'nurepairc, — 
 Laure Dujardin that ou^dit to be, and 
 that is to be, if von plea.se." 
 
 " One word, monsieur : is it of 
 Laure de Beaure|)aire we have been 
 talkin}^ all this time I " 
 
 Kaynal nearly lost his temper at 
 tliis (fuestion, and tlic cold, contemptu- 
 ous t(ine with Avhich it was put, but 
 he frulped down his ire. 
 
 " It is," said he, 
 
 " One question more. Did Laure de 
 Beaurepaire tell you I had — had — " 
 
 " Why, as to that, she was in no 
 condition to deny she had fallen, poor 
 girl, — the evidence was too strong. 
 She did not reveal her seducer's name : 
 but I had not far to go for that." 
 
 These words of Raynal made Du- 
 jardin think the strange proposal 
 came from Josephine. She was de- 
 ceiving her husband then in some 
 other way, and not for love of him ; 
 since she proposed to marry him to 
 Laure. He sickened at the cold- 
 blooded insult to his love. Then 
 came a fit of jealous rage. 
 
 " They want me to marry Laure 
 de Beaurepaire, do they ? I decline," 
 said he, coldly and bittei'ly. 
 
 " Yon decline 1 this passes belief. 
 Such heartlessness as this is not writ- 
 ten either in your actions or your face." 
 
 " I refuse." 
 
 " And I insist, in Josephine's 
 name ! " 
 
 " Perdition ! " 
 
 " In tlic imme of the whole family ! " 
 
 " I refuse. 
 
 " You will not marry her ? " 
 
 " Upon my honor, never." 
 
 " Your honor ! you have none. 
 You will not marry her? Would 
 yon rather die? " hissed Raynal. 
 
 " A great deal rather," was the 
 cool and irritating answer. 
 
 " Then you shall die." 
 
 " Ah ! Did not I tell you we 
 were wasting time, monsieur ? " 
 
 " You did. Let us waste no more. 
 When and where ? " 
 
 " At the rear of the commander-in- 
 chiefs tent, when you like." 
 
 " This afternoon, then — at five ? " 
 
 "At five." 
 
 " Seconds ? " 
 
 " Wh-atfor?" 
 
 " You are right. They are only in 
 the way, and the less gossip the better. 
 Good by, till five " ; and the two salut- 
 ed one another with grim ceremony : 
 and Raynal turned on his heel. 
 
 Camillc stood transfixed : a fierce, 
 guilty joy throbbed in his heart. His 
 rival had quarrelled with him, had 
 insulted him, had challenged liim. 
 It was not his fault. The sun shone 
 briglit now u])on his cold despair. 
 An hour ago life offered nothing. A 
 few hours more, and then joy beyond 
 expression, or an end of all. Death 
 or Josephine ! His benefactor ! At 
 that* thought a dull of misgiving 
 struck across his boiling heart. 
 
 Tramp ! tramp ! tramp ! tramp ! 
 the even tread of soldiers marching. 
 Dujardin looked up, and there were 
 several officers coming along the edge 
 of the trench, escorted by a corporal's 
 guard. 
 
 . He took a step or two to meet them. 
 After the usual salutes, one of the 
 three colonels delivered a large paper, 
 with a large seal, to Dujardin. He 
 read it out to his captains and lieu- 
 tenants, who had assembled at sight 
 of the cocked hats and full uniforms. 
 
 " Attack hij the army to-morrow upon 
 all the lines. Attack of the Bastion St. 
 Andre' this evening. The 22d, 24th, and 
 \2tk Brigades will furnish the contin- 
 gents : the operation icill be conducted by 
 one of the colonels of the Second Divis- 
 ion, to he appointed by General Raim- 
 baut." 
 
 "Aha!" sounded a voice like a 
 trombone at the reader's elbow. " I 
 am just in the nick of time. When, 
 colonel, when ? " 
 
 "At five this evening," Colonel 
 Raynal. 
 
 " At five 1 " 
 
 " At five." 
 
 " Could not they choose any hour 
 but that ? " said Raynal, under his 
 breath. 
 
 " Do not be uneasy," said Camille, 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 255 
 
 under his breath. He explained aloud. 
 " The assault will not take plac(^ 
 gentlemen : the bastion is mined." 
 
 " What of that ? half of them are 
 mined. We Avill take our engineers 
 in with us." 
 
 " Such an assault would be an use- 
 less massacre," continued Dujardin, 
 reddening at Raynal's interruption. 
 I reconnoitred the bastion last night, 
 and saw their preparations for blowing 
 us to the Devil ; and General Raim- 
 baut, at my request, is even now pre- 
 senting my remarks to the command- 
 er-in-chief, and enforcing them. There 
 will be no assault. In a day or two 
 Ave shall blow the bastion, mines, and 
 all, into the air." 
 
 At this moment Raynal caught 
 sight of a gray-haired officer coming 
 at some distance. 
 
 " There is General Raimbaut," said 
 he. " I will go and pay my respects 
 to him." 
 
 General Raimbaut shook his hand 
 warmly, and welcomed him to the 
 army. They Avere old and warm 
 friends. 
 
 " And you are come at the right 
 time," said he. " It will soon be as 
 hot here as in Egypt." 
 
 Raynal laughed. 
 
 " All the better." 
 
 " Good day, messieurs. Colonel 
 Dujardin, I presented your observa- 
 tions to the commander-in-chief. He 
 gave them due attention. But they 
 are overruled by imperious circum- 
 stances ; some of which he did not 
 reveal ; they remain in his own breast. 
 However, on the eve of a general at- 
 tack, which he cannot postpone, that 
 bastion must be disarq^ed, otherwise 
 it would be too fatal to all the storm- 
 ing parties. It is a painful necessity. 
 He added, ' Tell Colonel Dujardin I 
 count greatly on the courage and dis- 
 cipline of his brigade, and on his own 
 wise measures.' " 
 
 Colonel Dujardin bowed. Then he 
 whispered : — 
 
 " Both will alike be wasted." 
 
 The other colonels waved their hats 
 in triumph at the commander-in-chiefs 
 
 decision, and Raynal's face showed 
 he looked on Dujardin as a soi-t of 
 spoil-sport, happily defeated. 
 
 " Well, then, gentlemen," said 
 General Raimbaut, " we begin by 
 settling the proportion to be furnished 
 by your several brigades. Say an 
 equal number from each. The sum 
 total shall be settled by Colonel Du- 
 jardin, who has so long and ably baf- 
 fled the bastion, at this post." 
 
 Colonel Dujardin bowed stiffly, and 
 not very graciously. In his heart 
 he despised these old fogies, — com- 
 pounds of timidity and rashness. 
 
 " So, how many men in all, colo- 
 nel ? " 
 
 " The fewer the better," replied the 
 other, solemnly, " since — " and then 
 discipline tied his tongue. 
 
 " I understand you," said the old 
 man. " Shall we say eight hundred 
 men 1 " 
 
 " I should prefer three hundred. 
 They have made a back door to the 
 bastion, and the means of flight ^t 
 hand will put flight into their heads. 
 They will pick off some of our men as 
 we go at them. When the rest jump in 
 they will jump out, and — " he paused. 
 
 " Why, he knows all about it before 
 it comes," said one of the colonels, 
 naively. 
 
 " Monsieur, I do. I see the whole 
 operation and its result before me, as 
 I see this hand. Three hundred men 
 will do." 
 
 '' But, general," objected Raynal, 
 *'you are not beginning at the begin- 
 ning. The first thing in these cases 
 is to choose the officer to command 
 the storming party." 
 
 " Yes, Raynal, unquestionably ; 
 but you must be aware that is a pain- 
 ful and embarrassing part of my duty, 
 especially after Colonel Dujardin's 
 remarks," 
 
 " Ah, bah ! " cried Raynal. " The 
 colonel is prejudiced. He has been 
 digging a thundering long mine here : 
 and now you are going to make his 
 child useless. We none of us like 
 that. But when he gets the colors in 
 his hand, and the storming column at 
 
256 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 his back, liis niis:c:iviiic^s will all ^o to 
 the wind, and the enemy after them, 
 unless he has been committing some 
 crime and is very much changed from 
 what I knew hitn four years ago." 
 
 " Colonel Kaynal," said one of the 
 other colonels, j)olitely but lirmly, " do 
 not assume that Colonel Dujardin is 
 to lead the column, since there are 
 three other claimants. General llaini- 
 baut is to select from us four." 
 
 " Yes, gentlemen, and in a service 
 of this kind I would feel grateful to 
 you all if you would relieve me of 
 that painful duty." 
 
 " Gentlemen," said Dujardin, with 
 an imperceptible sneer, " the general 
 means to say this : the operation is so 
 glorious and so sure to succeed, that 
 he could hardly withoiit partiality as- 
 sign the command to either of us four 
 claimants. Well, then, let us cast lots." 
 
 The proposal was received by ac- 
 clamation. 
 
 •" The general will mark a black 
 cross on one lot, and he who draws it 
 wins the command." 
 
 The young colonels prepared their 
 lots with almost boyish eagerness. 
 These fiery spirits were sick to death 
 of lying and skulking in the trenches. 
 They flung their lots into the hat. 
 
 After them, who shonld approach 
 the hat, lot in hand, but Kaynal. 
 
 Dujardin instantly interfered, and 
 held his arm as he was in the act of 
 dropping in his lot. 
 
 " What is the matter ? " said Ray- 
 nal, sharply. 
 
 " This is our affair, Colonel Ray- 
 nal." 
 
 " What, have I no epaulets 1 " (an- 
 grily- ) 
 
 " You have epaulets, but you have 
 no soldiers in this army." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir, — I have 
 yours." 
 
 " Not till to-morrow." 
 
 " Why, you would not take such a 
 pettifogging advantage of an old com- 
 rade as that? " 
 
 " Tell him the day ends at twelve 
 o'clock," said one of the colonels, in- 
 terested by this sti'ange strife. 
 
 9 " Ah ! " cried "Raynal, triumphant-' 
 ly ; " but no," said he, altering his 
 tone, ." let us leave that sort of argu- ' 
 ment to lawyers. I have come a 
 good many miles to fight with you, 
 general, and now you must decide to 
 pay me this little compliment on my t 
 arrival, or put a bitter affront on me, * 
 — choose 1 " 
 
 While the old general hesitated, 
 Camille replied : — 
 
 " Since you take that tone, there 
 can be but one answer. You are too 
 great a credit to the French army for 
 even an apparent slight to be put on 
 you here. The rule, I think, is, that 
 one of the privates shall hold the hat. 
 Hallo! Private Dard, come here — 
 there — hold this hat." 
 
 " Yes, colonel ! — Lord, here is my 
 young mistress's husband ! " 
 
 " Silence ! " 
 
 And they began to draw, and in the 
 act of drawing a cliange of manner 
 was first visible in these gay and ar- 
 dent spirits. 
 
 " It is not i," said one, throwing 
 away his lot. 
 
 "Nor I." 
 
 " It is I," said Raynal, quietly ; 
 " the luck is mine." 
 
 " And I held the hat for you, colo- 
 nel," said Dard, with foolish triumph. 
 
 " Ah, Raynal, my dear friend," 
 said General Kaimbaut, sorrowfully, 
 " it was not worth while to come from 
 Egypt for this." 
 
 Baipial. " At what o'clock ? " 
 
 Dujardin. " At five." 
 
 Itdijnal (drawing out his watch). 
 " Then I 've no time to lose. I must 
 inspect the detachments I am to com- 
 mand. But first I have some little 
 arrangements to make. Hitherto, 
 general, on these occasions, 1 was a 
 bachelor. Now I am married." 
 
 " Married ? I am sorry for it, 
 Raynal." 
 
 " A droll marriage, my old friend ; 
 I Ml tell you all about it, — if ever I 
 have the time. It began with a pur- 
 chase, general, and ends with — with a 
 bequest, which I might as well write 
 now, and so have nothing to think of 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 257 
 
 but duty afterwards. Where can I 
 write ? " 
 
 " Colonel Dujardin will lend you 
 his tent, I am sure." 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 "And, messieurs," said Eaynal, 
 " if I waste time you need not. You 
 can pick me my men from your bri- 
 gades. Give me a strong spice of old 
 hands." 
 
 The colonels withdrew on this, and 
 General Raimbaut walked sadly and 
 thoughtfully towards the battery. 
 Dujardin and Raynal were left alone. 
 
 " This postpones our affair, sir." 
 
 "Yes, Raynal." 
 
 " Perhaps forever. Have you writ- 
 ing materials in your tent ? " 
 
 " Yes ; on the table." 
 
 " You are quite sure the bastion is 
 mined 1 " 
 
 " Unfortunately, I am foo sure." 
 
 Raynal turned and went to the 
 tent. 
 
 Dujardin's generosity was up in 
 arms. He came cagerh* towards him. 
 
 " Raynal, for Heaven's sake, resign 
 this command." 
 
 "Allow me to write to my wife, 
 colonel," was the reply, as cold as ice. 
 
 He went in and sat down, and be- 
 gan to write. 
 
 Dujardin folded his arms and 
 watched him. What he wrote ran 
 thus : — 
 
 " A bastion is to be attacked at Jive. 
 I command. Colonel Dujardin pro- 
 posed we should draw lots, and I lost. 
 The service is honorable, but the result 
 may, I fear, give you some pain. My dear 
 wife, it is our fate. I was not to have 
 time to make you know, and perhaps love 
 me. God bless you ! " 
 
 In writing these simple words, Ray- 
 nal's hard face worked, and his mus- 
 tache quivered, and once he had to 
 clear his eye with his hand to form 
 the letters. He, the man of iron. 
 
 He who stood there with folded 
 arms watching him saw this, and it 
 stirred all that was great and good 
 in that grand, though passionate 
 heart of his. 
 
 " Poor Raynal ! " thought he, 
 " you were never like that before on 
 going into action. He is loath to die. 
 Ay, and it is a coward's trick to let 
 him die. I shall have her : but shall 
 I have her esteem 1 What will the 
 army say 1 What will my conscience 
 say 1 O, I feel already it will gnaw 
 my heart to death ; the gh6st of that 
 brave fellow — orf^e my dear friend, 
 my rival now by no fault of his — 
 will rise between her and me, and re- 
 proach me with my bloody inheritance. 
 The heart never deceives — I feel it 
 now whispering in my ear: skulking 
 captain, white-livered soldier, that 
 stand behind a parapet while a better 
 man does your Avork, you assassinate 
 the husband, but the rival conquers 
 you. There, he puts his hand to his 
 eyes. I must speak to him ! I ivill 
 speak to him ! " 
 
 " Colonel," said a low voice, and 
 at the same time a hand was laid on 
 his shoulder. 
 
 It was General Raimbaut. The 
 general looked pale and distressed. 
 
 " Come apart, colonel, for Heav- 
 en's sake! One word while he ig 
 writing. Ah ! colonel, that was an 
 unlucky idea of yours." 
 
 " Of mine, general ! " 
 
 " 'T was you proposed to cast 
 lots." 
 
 " Good God ! so it was." 
 
 " I thought, of course, it was to be 
 managed so that Raynal should not 
 be the one. Between ourselves, what 
 honorable excuse can we make ? " 
 
 " None, general." 
 
 " Colonel, the whole division will 
 be disgraced, and forgive me if I say 
 a large portion of the shame will fall 
 on you." 
 
 "Help me to avert that shame, 
 then," cried Camille, eagerly. 
 
 " Ah ! that I will : but how ? " 
 
 " Take your pencil and write, — 
 ' I authorize Colonel Dujardin to saA^e 
 the honor of the colonels of the sec- 
 ond divison.' " 
 
 The general hesitated. He had 
 never seen an order so worded. He 
 hesitated for a moment : but at last 
 Q 
 
258 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 he took out his pencil and wi'otc tlic 
 required order, nftcr Iiis own I'asliion, 
 i. e. in milk and water : — 
 
 " On account of ihe sincjuJar ability 
 and roura(je irith ivhivh Colonel Dujar- 
 din has conducted the operations against 
 the Bastion St. Andre', a discretionary 
 power is given him at the moment of 
 assault to can-y intc^effect such meas- 
 ures, as, without interfering ivith the 
 commander-in-chiefs or<Ter, may sustain 
 his own credit, and that of the other 
 colonels of the second division. 
 " Raimbaut, General of Division/' 
 
 Camillc put the paper into his bos- 
 om. 
 
 "Now, general, you may leave all 
 to me. I swear to you, Raynal shall 
 not die ! — shall not lead this as- 
 sault." 
 
 " Your hand, colonel. You are an 
 honor to the French armies. How 
 will you do it ? " 
 
 " Leave it to me, general, it shall 
 be done." 
 
 " I feel it will, my noble fellow : 
 but, alas ! I fear not witliout risking 
 some valuable life or other, most like- 
 ly your own. Tell me." 
 
 " General, I refuse ! " 
 
 "You refuse me, sir? " 
 
 " Yes ; this order gives me a dis- 
 cretionary power. I will hand back 
 the order at your command ; but 
 modify it I will not. Come, mon- 
 sieur, you veteran generals have been 
 unjust to me, and listened to me too 
 little all through this siege, but at 
 last you have honored me. This 
 order is the greatest honor that was 
 ever done me since I wore a sword." 
 
 " My poor colonel ! " 
 
 " Let me wear it intact, and carry 
 it to my grave! " 
 
 "Say no more! One word, is 
 there anything on earth I can do for 
 you, my brave soldier ? " 
 
 " Yes, general. Be so kind as to 
 retire to your quarters ; there are rea- 
 sons why you ought not to be near 
 this post in half an hour." 
 
 " I go. Is there nothing else ? " 
 
 " AVoll, general, ask the good priest 
 Ambrose to jiniy for all those who 
 shall die doini,'^ their duty to their 
 country this afternoon." 
 
 They parted. General Kaimbaut 
 looked back more than once at the 
 firm, intre]jid hgure that stood there, 
 Avith folded arms, unflinching, on the 
 edge of the grave. But he never took 
 his eye off Kaynal. The next minute 
 Raynal's sad letter was finished, and 
 he walked out of the tent, and con- 
 fronted the man he had challenged 
 to single combat. 
 
 I have mentioned elsewhere that 
 Colonel Dujardin had eyes strange- 
 ly compouncied of battle and love, of 
 the dove and the hawk. And these, 
 softened by a noble act he meditated, 
 now rested on Kaynal with a strange 
 expression of warmth and goodness. 
 This strange gaze struck Raynal, so 
 far at least as this : he saw no hostile 
 eye. He was glad of that, for his oavu 
 heart was calmed by the solemn pros- 
 pect before him. 
 
 " We, too, have a little account to 
 settle before I order out the men," 
 said he, calmly, " and I can't give you 
 long credit. I am pressed for time." 
 
 !Now, even while he was uttering 
 these few words, quick as lightning, 
 Camille resolved to let Raynal have 
 his own "way. What on earth did it 
 matter to him (Camille) ! And he 
 felt a sudden and natural longing to 
 take tliis man's hand : not because 
 Raynal had once been his benefactor, 
 but because he was going to be Ray- 
 nal's benefactor. 
 
 " And things are changed, Dujardin. 
 When duty sounds the recall, a sol- 
 dier's heart leaves private quarrels. 
 See ! I come to you without anger 
 and ill-will. Just now my voice was 
 loud, my manner, I dare say, offen- 
 sive, and menacing even, and that al- 
 ways tempts a brave fellow like you 
 to resist. But now, you see, I am 
 harmless as a woman. We are alone. 
 Humbug to the winds ! I know that 
 you are the only man fit to command 
 a division in this army. I know that, 
 when you say the assault of that bus- 
 
 I 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 259 
 
 tion is death, death it is. To the 
 point, then. Now that my manner is 
 no longer irritating, now that I am 
 going to die, Camille Dujardin, my 
 old comrade, have you the heart to 
 refuse me ? am I to die unhappy ? " 
 
 " I will do vvhatever you like." 
 
 " You will marry that poor gu-1, 
 then 1 " 
 
 " yes ! yes ! " 
 
 " Aha ! did not I always say he was 
 a good fellow ? Clench the nail ; give 
 me your honor." 
 
 "I give you my honor to marry 
 her, if I live." 
 
 " You take a load off me. Heaven 
 will reward you. In one hour those 
 poor women, whose support I had 
 promised to be, wnll lose their pro- 
 tector: but I give them another in 
 you. We shall not leave that family 
 in tears, Laure in shame, and your 
 child without a name." 
 
 " My child ? Raynal 1 " and he 
 looked amazed. What new decep- 
 tion was this ? 
 
 " Poor little fellow ! I surprised 
 him in his cradle; his mother and 
 Josephine were rocking him, and 
 singing over him. O, it was a scene, 
 I can tell you! My poor wife had 
 been ill for some time, and was so 
 weakened by it, that I frightened her 
 into a fit, stealing a march on her 
 that way. She fainted away. Per- 
 haps it is as well she did : for I — I 
 did not know what to think : it looked 
 ugly: but, while she lay at our feet 
 insensible, I forced the .truth from 
 Laure ; she owned the boy was hers." 
 
 While Raynal told him this strange 
 story, Camiile turned hot and cold. 
 First came a thrill of glowing joy. 
 He had the clew to all this. He was 
 a father. That child was Josephine's 
 and his. The next moment he froze 
 within. So Josephine had not only 
 gulled her husband, but him too. She 
 had refused him the sad consolation of 
 knowing he had a child. Cruelty, cal- 
 culation, and baseness unexampled ! 
 
 Here was a creature who could sac- 
 rifice anything and anybody to her 
 comfort, to the peace and sordid 
 
 smoothness of her domestic life. She 
 stood between two men, — a thing! 
 Between two truths, — a double lie. 
 
 His heart, in one moment, turned 
 against her like a stone. A musket 
 bullet through the body does not 
 tarn life to death quicker than Ray- 
 nal turned his rival's love to hatred 
 and scorn : that love which neither 
 wounds, absence, prison, nor even 
 her want of constancy had prevailed 
 to shake ! 
 
 " Out of my bosom ! " he cried, — 
 " out of it, in this world and the 
 next ! " 
 
 He forgot, in his lofty rage, who 
 stood beside him. 
 
 " What ? — what ? " 
 
 " No matter. Give me your hand, 
 comrade." 
 
 " There." 
 
 " I esteem you, Raynal. You are 
 truth, Tou are a man, and deserve a 
 better lot." 
 
 " Don't say that," replied Raynal, 
 quite misunderstanding him. " It is 
 a soldier's end : I never desired nor 
 hoped a better, — only, of course, I 
 feel a little regret. You are a happy 
 fellow, to have a child and to live to 
 see it and her." 
 
 "O yes! I am very happy," re- 
 plied the poor fellow, his hp quiver- 
 ing. 
 
 " Watch over those poor women, 
 comrade, and sometimes speak to 
 them of me. It is foolish, but we 
 like to be remembered." 
 
 " Yes ; but do not let us speak of 
 that. Raynal, you and I wei'e lieu- 
 tenants together ; do you remember 
 saving my life in the Arno ? " 
 
 " Yes ; now you mention it, I do." 
 
 " Promise me, if you should live, 
 to remember not our quarrel of to- 
 day, nor anything ; but only those 
 earlv days, and this afternoon." 
 
 "I do." 
 
 " Your hand, dear Raynal." 
 
 " There, old comrade, there." 
 
 They wrung one another's hands, 
 and turned away and hid their faces 
 from each other, for their eyes were 
 moist. 
 
260 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 " This won't do, comrade ; I must 
 go. I shall attack iVom your posi- 
 tion. So I shall ^o down the line, 
 and hrinj; the men up. JNIcantiuie 
 pick me your detachment, (iive n)c 
 a good s])ice of veterans. I shall get 
 one word with you before we go out. 
 God bless you ! " 
 
 " God bless you, Raynal ! " 
 
 The moment Raynal was gone, Ca- 
 mille beckoned a lieutenant to him, 
 and ordered half tlie brigade to form 
 in a strong column on both sides 
 Death's Alley. 
 
 His eye fell upon Private Dard. 
 
 " Come here," said he. 
 
 Dard came and saluted. 
 
 " Have you anybody at Bcaure- 
 paire that would be sorry if you were 
 killed 1 " 
 
 " Yes, colonel : Jacintha, that used 
 to make your broth, colonel." 
 
 •' Take this line to Colonel Raynal. 
 You will find him with the 12th Bri- 
 gade." 
 
 He wrote a few lines in pencil, 
 folded them, and Dard went off with 
 them, little dreaming that the colonel 
 of his brigade was taking the trouble 
 to save his life, because he came from 
 Beaurepaire. Colonel Dujardin then 
 went into his tent and closed the 
 aperture, and took the good book the 
 priest had given him, and prayed 
 humbly, and forgave all the world. 
 
 Then he sat down, his head in his 
 hands, and thought of his child, and 
 how hard it was he must die and 
 never see him. One sad sob at this, 
 — one only. 
 
 Tben he lighted a candle and sealed 
 up his orders of valor, and wrote a 
 line begging that they might be sent 
 to his sister. He also sealed up his 
 purse and left a memorandum that 
 the contents should be given to dis- 
 abled soldiers of his brigade, upon 
 their being invalided. 
 
 Then he took out Josephine's let- 
 ter. " Poor coward," he said, " let 
 mc not be unkind. See, I burn your 
 letter, lest it should be found, and dis- 
 turb the peace you ])rize so highly. 
 I too shall soon be at peace, thank 
 
 God ! " He lighted it, and droi)ped 
 it on the ground : it burned slowly 
 away. He eyed it. despairingly. 
 " Ay ! you perish, last record of an 
 unha])py love : and, as you ))ass away, 
 so I am going, — my soul to irs Crea- 
 tor, my body to dust, — ay, poor let- 
 ter, even so pass a^vay my'life wasted 
 by generals not fit to command a cor- 
 poral's guard, — my hopes of glory, 
 and my dreams of love, — it all ends 
 to-day ; at nine-and-twenty." 
 
 He put his white handkerchief to 
 his eyes. Josephine had given it him. 
 He cried a little, not at dying, but at 
 seeing his life thrown away. 
 
 When he had done crying, he put 
 his white handkerchief in his bosom, 
 and the whole man Avas transformed 
 beyond language to express. Powder J 
 does not change more when it catches 
 fire. He rose that moment, and went 
 like a flash of lightning out of the 
 tent. The next, he came down like 
 falcon between the lines of the strong' 
 column in Death's Alley. 
 
 " Attention," cried the sergeants, 
 " the colonel ! " 
 
 There was a dead silence, for the 
 bare sight of that erect and inspired 
 figure made the men's bosoms thrill 
 with the certainty of great deeds to 
 come : the light of battle was in his 
 eye. No longer the moody colonel ; 
 but a thunderliolt of war, red-hot, and 
 waiting to be launched. 
 
 " Officers, sergeants, soldiers, a 
 word with you ! " 
 
 La Croix. "Attention !" 
 
 " Do you know what passed here 
 five minutes ago ? " 
 
 " Tbc attache of the bastion was 
 settled ! " cried a captain. 
 
 "It was, and who was to lead the 
 assault ? do you know that 1 " 
 
 "No!" 
 
 " A colonel from Egypt." 
 
 A groan from the men. 
 
 " With detachments from the other 
 brigades." 
 
 " An ! " an angry roar. 
 
 Colonel Dujardin walked quickly 
 down between the two lines, looking 
 with his fiery eye into the men's eyes 
 
WHITE LIES, 
 
 261 
 
 on his right. Then he came back on 
 the other side, and, as he went, he 
 lighted those men's eyes with his own. 
 It^was a torch passing along a line of 
 ready gas-lights. 
 
 " The work to us ! " he cried, in a 
 ■vt)ice like a clarion, that fired the 
 hearts as his eye had fired the eyes, — 
 " the triumph to strangers ! our fa- 
 tigues and our losses have not gained 
 the brigade the honor of going out at 
 those fellows that have killed so many 
 of our comrade^." 
 
 A fierce groan from the men. 
 
 " What ! shall the colors of another 
 brigade and not ours fly from that 
 bastion this afternoon ? " 
 
 "Xo! Xo r' in a roar like thun- 
 der. 
 
 " Ah ! you are of my mind. Atten- 
 tion ! the attack is fixed for five 
 o'clock." 
 
 " Suppose you and I were to carry 
 the bastion ten minutes before the 
 colonel from Egypt can bring his men 
 upon the ground ? " 
 
 A fierce roar of joy and laughter : 
 the strange laughter of veterans and 
 born invincibles._ 
 
 " That was a question I put to your 
 hearts, — your answer ? " 
 
 The answer was a yell of exulting 
 assent, but it was half drowned by an- 
 other response, the thunder of the im- 
 patient drums, and the rattle of fixing 
 bayonets. 
 
 The colonel told off a party to the 
 battery. 
 
 "Level the guns at the top tier. 
 Fire at my signal, and keep firing 
 over our heads, till you see our colors 
 on the place." 
 
 He then darted to the head of the 
 column, which instantly formed behind 
 him in the centre of Death's Alley. 
 
 " The colors ! No hand but mine 
 shall hold them to-day." 
 
 They were instantly brought him, 
 his left hand shook them free in the 
 afternoon sun. 
 
 A deep murmur of joy for the old 
 hands, at the now unwonted sight. 
 Out flashed his sword like steel light- 
 ning. He waved it to the battery. 
 
 Bang ! bang ! bang ! bang ! went 
 the cannon, and the smoke rolled over 
 the trenches. At the same moment 
 up went the colors waving, and the 
 colonel's clarion voice pealed liigh 
 above all. 
 
 " Twenty-fourth, demi - brigade, — 
 
 FORWARD ! ! 1" 
 
 They went so swiftly out of the 
 trenches that they were not seen 
 through their own smoke until they 
 had run some sixty yards. Xo sooner 
 were they seen coming on like devils 
 through their own smoke, than two 
 thousand muskets were levelled at 
 them from all the Prussian line. It 
 was not a rattle of small arms, — it 
 was a ci'ash : and the men fell fast : 
 but in a moment they were seen to 
 spread out like a fan, and to offer less 
 mark, and, when the fan closed again, 
 it half encircled the bastion. It was 
 a French attack. Part swarmed at it 
 in front like bees, part swept round 
 the glacis and flanked it. They were 
 seen to fall in numbers, shot down 
 from the embrasures. But the living 
 took the place of the dead : and the 
 fight raged evenly there. Where are 
 the colors '? Towards the rear there. 
 The colonel and a hundred men are 
 fighting hand to hand with the Prus- 
 sians, who have charged out at the 
 back doors of the bastion. Success 
 there ! and the bastion must fall, — 
 both sides know this. 
 
 All in a moment the colors disap- 
 peared. There was a groan from the 
 French lines. No ! there they were 
 again, and close under the bastion. 
 
 And. now in front the attack was so 
 h^ that often the Prussian gunners 
 ■\^CTe seen to jump down, driven from 
 their posts : and the next moment a 
 fierce ^rrah from the rear told that 
 the French had won some great ad- 
 vantage there. The fire slacking told 
 a similar tale, and presently down 
 came the Prussian flag-statt". That 
 might be an accident. A few mo- 
 ments of thirsting expectation, and 
 up went the colors of the 24th Brigade 
 upon the Bastion St. Andre'. 
 
 The whole French army raised a 
 
262 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 shout that rent the slcy, ami their can- 
 non bcpan to play on the I'russinn 
 lines, unci between the l>asti()n and 
 the nearest fort, to jjvevcnt a recap- 
 ture. 
 
 All in a moment shot from the earth 
 a cubic acre of lire whore last the bas- 
 tion was seen : it carried up a heavy 
 mountain of red and black smoke, 
 that looked solid as marble. There 
 ■was a heavy, sullen, tremendous ex- 
 plosion, that snulled out the sound of 
 the cannon, and paralyzed the French 
 and Prussian gunners' hands, and 
 checked the very beating of their 
 hearts. Thirty thousand pounds of 
 gunpowder were in that awful explo- 
 sion. Then war itself held its breath, 
 and both armies, like peaceful specta- 
 tors, gazed- wonder-struck, terror- 
 struck. Great hell seemed to have 
 burst through the earth's crust, and to 
 be rushing at heaven. Huge stones, 
 cannon, corpses, and limbs of soldiers, 
 were seen driven or falling through 
 the smoke. Some of these last even 
 came quite clear of the ruins, ay, into 
 the French and Prussian lines, that 
 even the veterans put their hands to 
 their eyes. Ilaynal felt something 
 patter on him from the sky, — it was 
 blood, — a comrade's, perhaps. Oh ! 
 war ! war ! 
 
 The smoke cleared. Where a mo- 
 ment before the great bastion stood 
 and fought was a monstrous pile of 
 blackened, bloody stones and timbers, 
 with dismounted cannon, sticking up 
 here and there. 
 
 And, rent and crushed to atoms 
 beneath the smoking mass, lay jj^ 
 relics of the gallant brigade and t^S- 
 victorious colors. 
 
 CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 A FEW wounded soldiers of the 
 brigade lay still and feigned death 
 till dusk. Then they crept back to 
 the trenches. These had all been 
 Btruck down, or disabled short of the 
 
 I 
 
 bastion. Of those that had taken tho 
 place no one came home. 
 
 Kaynal, after the lirst stupefaction, 
 pressed hard and even angrily for an 
 immediate assault on the whole Prus- 
 sian line. Not they. It was on paper 
 that the assault should be at daybreak 
 to - morrow. Lilera scripta laanet. 
 This sort of leader cannot hnpro- 
 vise. 
 
 Rage and grief in his heart, Raynal 
 waited, chafing like a blood-horse in 
 the trenches, till five; minutes past ■ 
 midnight. He was then commander ■ 
 of the brigade, gave his orders, and m 
 took thirty men out to creep up to the 
 wreck of the bastion, and find the late 
 colonel's body. 
 
 Going for so pious a purpose, he 
 was rewarded by an important dis- 
 covery. The whole Prussian lines 
 had been abandoned since sunset, and, 
 mounting cautiously on. the ramparts, 
 Raynal saw the town too was evacu- 
 ated, and lights and other indications 
 on a rising ground behind it convinced 
 him that the Prussians were in full re- 
 treat, probably to effect that junction 
 with other forces which the assault he 
 had recommended would have ren- 
 dered impossible. 
 
 They now lighted lanterns, and 
 searched all over and round the bas- 
 tion for the poor colonel. In the rear 
 of the bastion they found many French 
 soldiers, most of whom had died by 
 the bayonet. The Prussian dead had 
 all been carried off. 
 
 Here they found the talkative Ser- 
 geant La Croix. The poor fellow 
 was silent enough now. A terrible 
 sabre-cut on the skull. The colonel 
 was not there. Raynal groaned, and 
 led the way on to the bastion. Tho 
 ruins still smoked. Seven or oight 
 bodies were discovered by an arm or 
 a foot protruding through the masses 
 of masonry. Of these some were 
 Prussians. A proof that some de- 
 voted hand had fired the train, and 
 destroyed both friend and foe. 
 
 They found the tube of Long Tom 
 sticking up, just as he had shown 
 over the battlements that glorious day, 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 263 
 
 with this exception, that a great piece 
 was knocked off his lip, and the slice 
 ended in a long broad crack. 
 
 The soldiers looked at this. " That 
 is our bullets' work," said they. Then 
 one old veteran touched his cap, and 
 told Raynal, gravely, he knew where 
 their beloved colonel was. 
 
 "Dig here, to the bottom," said he. 
 "He lies beneath his work." 
 
 Improbable and superstitious as this 
 was, the hearts of the soldiers assented 
 to it. 
 
 Presently there was a joyful cry 
 outside the bastion. A rush was 
 made thither. But it proved to be 
 only Dard, who had discovered that 
 Sergeant La Croix's heart still beat. 
 
 They took him up carefully, and 
 carried him gently into camp. To 
 Dard's delight the surgeon pronounced 
 him curable. For all that, he was 
 three days insensible, and after that 
 unfit for duty. So they sent him 
 home invalided, with a hundred francs 
 out of the poor colonel's purse. 
 
 Raynal reported the evacuation of 
 the place, and that Colonel Dujardin 
 was buried under the bastion. He 
 then bound a black scarf across his 
 sick heart, and rode out of the 
 camp. 
 
 And how came Jean Raynal to turn 
 his back on Avar ? 
 
 His rival was the cause. 
 
 The words Camille had scratched 
 with a pencil, and sent him from the 
 edge of the grave, were few, but 
 great. 
 
 " A dead man takes you once more 
 by the hand. My last diought, thank 
 God, is France. For her sake and 
 mine, Raynal, go for General Bo- 
 naparte. Tell him, from a dying 
 soldier, the Rhine is a river to these 
 generals, but to him a field of glory. 
 He will lay out our lives, not waste 
 them. Go ! " 
 
 The 24th Brigade, thinned already 
 by hard service, was reduced to a file 
 or two by the Sampson bastion. 
 
 It was incorporated with the 12th, 
 and Raynal rode heavy at heart to 
 Paris. 
 
 CHAPTER XLII. 
 
 " How is my poor Josephine to- 
 day, doctor ? " 
 
 " Much better ; she tells me she 
 slept without laudanum last night : 
 the first night this ten days. Nature 
 will win the day, — with my assist- 
 ance." 
 
 *' No, doctor ; not unless you can 
 cure her of that which made her 
 sicken." 
 
 " Sun, air, and exercise must com- 
 plete the work," said the doctor, eva- 
 sively. 
 
 " Can they cure her of her sor- 
 row ? " 
 
 " What sorrow "? " 
 
 " She has a secret soitow, and so 
 have you, Laurc." , 
 
 "I? mamma?" 
 
 " Oh ! I know you think me very 
 blind, but there is something myste- 
 rious going on here, which peeps 
 through all your precautions." 
 
 " What do you mean, mamma ? " 
 
 " I mean, Laure, that my patience 
 is worn out at last. I am tired of 
 playing the part of a statue amongst 
 you. Raynal's gloomy air as he left 
 us ; Josephine ill ever since, bursting 
 into tears at every word ; Laure pale 
 and changed, hiding an unaccounta- 
 ble sadness under a forced smile : 
 don't interrupt me, Laure ! Edouard, 
 who was almost like a son, gone off 
 without a word. Never comes near 
 us ! " 
 
 " He is gone a journey, mam- 
 ma." 
 
 " And not returned ? " 
 
 " Is that so, doctor ? " 
 
 " I believe so," replied the doctor. 
 " I called on him yesterday, and the 
 servant said he was Jfc'ay." 
 
 " Good ! " said the baroness. " It 
 is clear I am to learn nothing from 
 you two : but it does not follow I 
 will not learn from some one else." 
 
 The doctor and Laure exchanged 
 an uneasy look. 
 
 " This uncomfortable smiling and 
 unreasonable crying : these appear- 
 
264 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 anccs of tlic absent, and disappear- 
 ances of tlic present. " 
 
 " Disappeiuanees of the present, 
 maninia ? What do you mean ? " 
 
 " No matter. All these mysteries 
 of Beaureiiaire will, perhaps, take 
 less time to penetrate than those of 
 Udoli)ho." 
 
 " Koally," said St. Aubin, quietly, 
 " I did not think my old friend such 
 an adept at buildin<r mare's nests, 
 and tormenting herself." 
 
 " It is easy to understand," replied 
 the baroness. " I am an old woman. 
 I have seen erookcd. I hear amiss. 
 I understand by contraries. For all 
 that, monsieur, with your permission, 
 I will say two words to my daugh- 
 ter." 
 
 " I retire, madame." 
 
 Tjaure nerved herself for what was 
 to come : but the trial in store for her 
 was a very different one from what 
 she expected. She was bracing her- 
 self up against a severe interroga- 
 tory. 
 
 instead of that her mother sat 
 down, and burst into tears. 
 
 " mamma ! my sweet mam- 
 ma ! " cried Laure, and was on her 
 knees at her mother's feet in a mo- 
 ment. 
 
 *' My girl," sobbed the old lady, 
 " may you never know what a moth- 
 er feels, who finds'* herself shut out 
 from her daughters' hearts ! " 
 
 " O mamma ! are you not in my 
 heart ? " 
 
 " No ! or I should be in your con- 
 fidence. Sometimes I think it is ray 
 fault. The age I was born in was 
 strict. A mother now-a-days seems 
 to be a sort of elder sister. In my 
 day she was something more. Yet 
 I loved my motlier as well or better 
 than I did m0 sisters. But it is 
 not so with those I have borne in my 
 bosom, and nursed upon my knee." 
 
 Laure's sob at this became so wild 
 and despairing, that the baroness was 
 afraid to say too much, though her 
 bosom was too full of pent-u[) grief. 
 Poor old lady, her heart had lung 
 been sore, but pride had kept her silent. 
 
 " Come, Laure," she said, "do not 
 cry like that. It is not too late to 
 take your poor old mother into your 
 confidence. Why is this mysterv and 
 this sorrow on us? How comes it I 
 intercept, at every instant, glances 
 that were never intended for me ? 
 The very air is loaded with signals 
 and secrecy. What does it all 
 mean ? " 
 
 No answer but sobs. 
 
 " Is some deceit then going on ? " 
 
 No answer but sobs. 
 
 " I ask you once more : I will 
 never descend to ask you again : give 
 me some better reply than these sul- 
 len sobs. You will not? Well, since 
 you will not tell me anything — " 
 
 "I cannot, — I have nothing to 
 tell." 
 
 " Will you do something for me, 
 mademoiselle ? " 
 
 " yes, mamma ! anything, every- 
 thing." 
 
 " I shall not ask much. I should 
 hesitate now^ to draw largely on your 
 affection. It is -only to write a let- 
 ter." 
 
 Laure jumped up eagerly, and 
 went zealously for the paper and 
 ink, thankful to her mother for giv- 
 ing her something she coidd do for 
 her. 
 
 " Now write." 
 
 Laure took the pen with alacrity. 
 
 " Dear Monsieur Riviere ! " 
 
 " O mamma ! is it to him ? " 
 
 " Oblifje me by coming here at your 
 very earliest convenience. Is it writ- 
 ten ? " 
 
 " Yes ! " faltered Laure, trem- 
 bling. 
 
 " Then sign my name." 
 
 " 0, thank you, mamma ! " 
 
 " Fold it, — address it to his lodg- 
 ings." 
 
 " Yes, there. Shall I send Jacintha 
 with it?" 
 
 " No, mademoiselle, you will not 
 send Jacintha with it. I trust neither 
 her nor you! — give it me. No, I 
 trust neither the friend of twenty 
 years, nor the servant that stayed by 
 me in adversity, nor the daughter I 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 265 
 
 suffered for, and nursed. And why 
 don't I trust you ? You have fold me 
 a lie! I saw Edouard Riviere in the 
 park two days ago, — I saw him. My 
 old eyes arc feeble, — but they jire not 
 liars' I saw him. Send my break- 
 fast to my own room. I come of an 
 ancient race: I could not sit with 
 liars. I should forget courtesy, — 
 you would all see my scorn in my 
 face." 
 
 She went out, with the letter in her 
 hand, leaving Laure sick and terrihed 
 at these stern words from lips so be- 
 loved. 
 
 Edouard Riviere fell, in one night, 
 from happiness such as dull souls 
 cannot imagine to deep and hopeless 
 misery. 
 
 He lost that, which, to every heart 
 capal)le of loving, is the greatest 
 eartldy good : the woman he adored, 
 — and with her he lost those prime 
 treasures of the soul, — belief in hu- 
 man goodness and in female purity. 
 
 To him there could be no more in 
 nature a candid eye, a virtuous, ready- 
 mantling cheek. Frailty and treach- 
 ery had worn these signs of virtue and 
 nobility too skilfully for human eye 
 to detect : his heart was broken and 
 his faith was gone. 
 
 For who could he now trust or be- 
 lieve in ? Here was a creature whose 
 virtues seemed to make frailty impos- 
 sible : treachery, doubly impossible : 
 a creature whose faults — for faults 
 she had — had seemed as opposite to 
 treachery as her very virtues were. 
 Yet she was all frailty and lies. 
 
 He passed in that one night of 
 anguish from youth to age. He 
 went about his business like a leaden 
 thing. His food was tasteless. His 
 life seemed ended. Nothing appeared 
 what it had been. The very land- 
 scape seemed cut in stone, and he 
 a stone in the middle of it, and his 
 heart a stone in him. At times, across 
 that heavy heart came gushes of furi- 
 ous rage and bitter mortification. For 
 his vanity had been stabbed as fiercely 
 as his love. " Georges Dandin ! " he 
 12 
 
 would cry. " You said well, old man. 
 I wondered at your word then. 
 Georges Dandin ! curse her ! curse 
 her ! " But love and misery overpow- 
 ered these heats, and froze him to 
 stone again. 
 
 The poor boy pined and pined. His 
 clothes hung loose about him ; his 
 face was so drawn with suffering you 
 would not have known him. *He 
 hated company. The things he was 
 expected to talk about ! — he with his 
 crushed heart. He could not. He 
 would not. He shunned all the 
 world ; he went alone like a wounded 
 deer. The good doctor, on his return 
 from Paris, called on him to see if he 
 was ill : since he had not come for 
 days to the chateau. He saw the doc- 
 tor coming, and bade the servant say 
 he was not in the village. 
 
 He drew down the blind, that he 
 might never see the chateau again. 
 He drew it up again : he could not 
 exist without seeing it. " She will be 
 miserable, too," he cried, gnashing 
 his teeth. " She will see whether she 
 has chosen well." At other times all 
 his courage, and his hatred, and his 
 wounded vanity, were drowned in his 
 love and its despair, and then he 
 bowed his head, and sobbed and cried 
 as if his heart would burst. This 
 very day he was o# sobbing with his 
 head on the table, when his landlady 
 tapped at his door. He started up, 
 and turned his head away from the 
 door. 
 
 " A young woman from Beaure- 
 paire, monsieur ! " 
 
 " From Beaurepaire ? " His heart 
 gave a furious leap. " Show her in." 
 
 He wiped his eyes and seated him- 
 self at a table, and, all in a flutter, 
 pretended to be the State's. 
 
 It was not Jacintha, as he expected, 
 but the other servant. She made a 
 low reverence, cast a look of admira- 
 tion on him, and gave him a letter. 
 His eye darted on it : his hand trem- 
 bled as he took it. He turned away 
 again to open it. He forced himself 
 to say, in a tolerably calm voice, " I 
 will send an answer." 
 
266 
 
 WniTK LIES. 
 
 After the first violent emotion, a 
 preat struj;<:le. Her h:\n(hvritin<;. 
 Her mother's letter. " Ah ! I see ! 
 The old woman is to he drawn into it, 
 too. She is to help to make Geor{>:es 
 Dandin of me. I will <^o. I will 
 balHo iluMn all. I will expose this 
 nest of depravity, all ceremony on the 
 surface, and voluptuousness and 
 treachery below. O God ! who could 
 believe that creature never loved me! 
 They shall none of them sec my 
 weakness. Their benefactor shall be 
 still their superior. They shall see 
 me cold as ice, and bitter as gall." 
 
 He made his toilet with care, and 
 took his hat and went to Beaurepaire 
 as slowly as he used to go quickly 
 once. 
 
 In the pi-csent state of things at 
 Beaurepaire, we must go back a step. 
 
 When Josephine and Laure broke 
 from that startled slumber that fol- 
 lowed the exhaustion of that troubled 
 night, Laure was by far the more 
 wretched of the two. She had not 
 only dishonored herself, but stabbed 
 the man she loved. 
 
 Josephine, on the other hand, was 
 exhausted, but calm. The fearful 
 escape she had had softened down by 
 contrast her more distant terrors. 
 
 She was beginning to shut her eyes 
 again, and let herself drift. Above 
 all, the glimpse of her boy comforted 
 her, and the thought that in three 
 weeks she could have him beside her 
 in Paris. 
 
 This deceitful calm of the heart 
 only lasted three days. 
 
 Carefully encouraged by Laure, it 
 was destroyed by Jacintha. 
 
 Jacintha, conscious that she had be- 
 trayed her part, was almost heart- 
 broken. She, ashamed to appear be- 
 fore her young mistress, and coward- 
 like, wanted to avoid knowing oven 
 Jiow much harm she had done. 
 
 She ])rctended toothache, bound 
 up her iace, and never stirred from 
 the kitchen, liut she was not to es- 
 cape : the other .servant came down 
 with a message : — I 
 
 " Madame Raynal wanted to see 
 her directly." 
 
 She came, quaking, and found Jo- 
 sephine all alone. 
 
 Josephine rose to meet her, and, 
 casting a furtive glance round the 
 room first, threw her arms round Ja- 
 cintha's neck, and embraced her with 
 many tears. 
 
 " Was ever fidelity like yours ? 
 how could you do it, "^Jacintha 1 and 
 how can I ever repay it ? You are 
 my superior ; it is base for me to ac- 
 cept such a sacrifice fi'om any wo- 
 man ! " 
 
 Jacintha was so confounded she 
 did not know what to say. But it 
 was a mystification that could not en- 
 dure long between two women, who 
 were both deceived by a third. Be- 
 tween them they soon discovered 
 that it must have been Laure who 
 had sacrificed herself. 
 
 " And Edouard has never been 
 here since." 
 
 " And never will, madame." 
 
 " Yes, he shall ! there must be 
 some limit even to my feebleness and 
 my sister's devotion. " You shall take 
 a line to him from me, I will write it 
 this moment." 
 
 The letter was written. But it 
 was never sent. Laure surprised Jo- 
 sephine and Jacintha together : saw 
 a letter was being Avritten, asked to 
 see it ; on Josephine's hesitating, 
 snatched it out of her hands and tore 
 it to pieces, and told Jacintha to 
 leave the room. She hated the sight 
 of poor Jacintha, who had slept at 
 the very moment when all depended 
 on her watchfulness. 
 
 " You were going to send to him, 
 unknown to me." 
 
 " Forgive me, Laure." 
 
 " Josephine ! is it come to this ? 
 
 WoUr.D YOU DECEIVE ME?" 
 
 " You HAVE DECEIVED ME ! 
 
 Yes ! it has come to that. I know 
 all. I Avill not consent to destroy all 
 I love." 
 
 She 
 send the letter. 
 
 Laure gave an impetuous refusal. 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 267 
 
 " What could you say to him ? fool- 
 ish woman, don't you know him, and 
 his vanity ? When you had exposed 
 yourself to him, and showed him I 
 was nothing worse tlian a liar who 
 had insulted him, — do you think he 
 would forgive me 1 No ! this is to 
 make light of my love, — to make me 
 waste the sacrifice I have made. I 
 feel that sacrifice as much as you do, 
 more perhaps, and I would rather die 
 in a convent than waste that night of 
 shame and agony. Come, promise 
 me, no more attempts of that kind, or 
 we are sisters no more, friends no 
 more, one heart and one blood no 
 more." 
 
 The weaker nature, weakened still 
 more by ill health and grief, was ter- 
 rified into submission, or rather tem- 
 porized. 
 
 " Kiss me then," said Joseplrine, 
 " and love me to tlie end," 
 
 Laure kissed her with many sighs, 
 but Josephine smiled. Laure eyed 
 her with suspicion. That deep smile. 
 What did it mean 1 She had formed 
 some resolution. She is going to de- 
 ceive me somehow. 
 
 From that day Laure watched her 
 like a spy. Confidence was gone be- 
 tween them. Suspicion took its place. 
 
 Laure was right. The moment 
 Josephine saw that Edouard's happi- 
 ness and Laure's were to be sacrificed 
 for her whom nothing could make 
 happy, the poor thing said to herself, 
 
 " I CAN DIE." 
 
 Therefore she smiled. 
 
 The doctor gave her laudanum : he 
 found she could not sleep : and he 
 thought it all - important that she 
 should sleep. 
 
 Josephine, instead of taking these 
 small doses, saved them all up, se- 
 creted them in a phial, and so, from 
 the sleep of a dozen nights, collected 
 the eternal sleep ; and now she was 
 very tranquil. This young creature 
 that could not bear to give pain to 
 any one else prepared her own death 
 with a calm resolution the heroes of 
 our sex have not often equalled. It 
 was so little a thing to her to strike 
 
 Josephine. Death would save her 
 honor, would spare her the frightful 
 alternative of deceiving her husband, 
 or of telling him she was another's. 
 " Poor Raynal," said she to herself, 
 " it is too cruel to tie him to a woman 
 who can never be to him what he 
 deserves. Laure would then prove 
 her innocence to Edouard. A few 
 tears for a weak, loving soul, and they 
 would all be happy and forget her." 
 
 While she was in this mind, Ray- 
 nal wrote from Paris that he was to 
 be expected at any moment ; " And 
 •this time," he added, " I stay a month." 
 
 Josephine gave a shudder that my 
 female readers can understand. This 
 letter was the last word in her death- 
 warrant. 
 
 Her days being now counted, and 
 her very hours uncertain, the mother's 
 heart could not leave the world with- 
 out putting her poor boy into some 
 loving hand, and securing him kind 
 treatment. And so it happened that 
 she came from her room to open her 
 heart to Laure just after the baroness 
 went out with those bitter words. 
 And when I say open her heart, I am 
 wrong. Her fote was still to conceal 
 all or a part. Laure was quick and 
 suspicious. Laure would never con- 
 sent to her dying. All she dare do 
 was to say something to her now, that 
 poor Laure should understand when 
 she should be gone, and say, " This 
 was my poor lost sister's last request." 
 
 Laure, then, stricken to the heart 
 by her mother's words, was sitting 
 weeping in the tapestried room when 
 Josephine came out to her, and sat 
 down beside her M'ith a tender smile, 
 and drew her to her bosom. 
 
 " I am glad I have found you alone. 
 You are crying, love 1 " 
 
 " Mamma has scolded me so ; and 
 she has written to Edouard ; but you 
 have something to say to me ? " 
 
 " Indeed I have, but not now. It 
 is no time to try your courage, poor 
 girl ! You weep ! " 
 
 " I can always find courage to de- 
 fend you, Josephine " ; and she dried 
 her eyes directly. 
 
268 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 "It is not tliat kind of courage, 
 sister. Ah ! nic ! was 1 born to give 
 pain ? " 
 
 " Speak, Josepliine! " 
 
 " CJivc me your hand. Bo brave, 
 — my ])oor Laiire, — this it is. I am 
 worse than 1 seem. I have something 
 here at my heart that will try the 
 poor doctor's skill. And you know, 
 love, life at the best is but a little can- 
 dle that a breath puts out." 
 
 Laurc said nothing, but she trem- 
 bled and watched lier keenly. 
 
 "It is about my little Edouard. 
 What would you do with him if — if 
 anything should happen to mel " 
 
 " What would I do with liim ? He 
 is mine. I should be his mother. 
 Oh! what words are these ! my heart! 
 my heart ! " 
 
 "No, Laure ; some day you will be 
 married, and owe all the mother to 
 your children, and Edouard is not 
 ours only. He belongs to some one I 
 have seemed unkind to. Perhaps he 
 thinks me heartless. For I am a 
 foolish woman ; I don't know how to 
 be virtuous, yet show a man my heart. 
 But then he will understand me and 
 forgive me. Laure, dear, you will 
 write to him. He will come to you. 
 You will go together to the place 
 where I shall be sleeping. You will 
 show him my heart. You will tell 
 him all my long love that lasted to the 
 end. You need not blush to tell him 
 all. I have no right. Then you will 
 give him his poor Josephine's boy, 
 and you will say to him, " She 
 never loved but you : she gives you 
 all that is left of her, her child. She 
 prays you not to give him a bad 
 mother." 
 
 Poor soul ! this was her one bit of 
 little, gentle jealousy : but it made 
 her eyes stream. She would have put 
 out her hand from the tomb to keep 
 her boy's father single all his life. 
 
 " O my Josephine, — my darling sis- 
 ter," cried Laure, " why do you sj)eak 
 of death ? Do you meditate a crime ? " 
 
 "No; but it was on my heart to 
 Bay it : it has done me good." 
 • " Af least, take me to your bosom. 
 
 my well-boloved, that I may not see 
 your tears." 
 
 "There — tears? No, you have 
 lightened my heart. Bless you! bless 
 you ! " 
 
 The sisters twined their bosoms to- 
 gether in a long gentle embrace. You 
 might have taken them for two angels 
 that flowed together iu one love, — 
 but for the tears. 
 
 They remained silently one for 
 some minutes. Then they went to 
 Josephine's room. Laure, however, 
 was soon summoned out by the bar- 
 oness. 
 
 She came, full of misgivings, but 
 the mood of the baroness had changed. 
 A sly benevolence lurked now in her 
 features. 
 
 " Sit down by me on the sofa. 
 Now, mademoiselle, confess ! There 
 has been a tiff between you and 
 Edouard : a lover's quarrel ? " 
 
 " Y — \' — yes, mamma." 
 
 " And if I make it up for you ? " 
 
 " Not for the world ! — not for the 
 world ! " 
 
 " Nonsense, child ! " 
 
 " Monsieur Riviere," was an- 
 nounced by the new servant. 
 
 Laure started up to fly. 
 
 " Sit still," said the baroness, im- 
 peratively. 
 
 Edouard came in, wan and agi- 
 tated. 
 
 The baroness waved him to a seat, 
 and took one herself, leaving Laure 
 on the sofa. 
 
 The effrontery of Laure in facing 
 him before her mother disgusted and 
 enraged Edouard. " She will rue 
 it," said he, bitterly. 
 
 " You don't see Laure," said the 
 baroness, quietly. 
 
 He had not taken an\^ notice of 
 her. 
 
 Edouard stammered some excuse, 
 rose, and bowed to Laure. 
 
 Now in performing this cold saluta- 
 tion he caught sight of her face : it 
 was pale, and her eyes red. She was 
 unhappy tlien. 
 
 " Monsieur Riviere," said the baron- 
 ess, ceremoniously and slowly, "you 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 269 
 
 have not honored us with a visit 
 lately." 
 
 " Excuse me, madame, I have been 
 much occupied." 
 
 " Familiar as you were in the house, 
 and esteemed by us, you must have a 
 motive for abandoning us so suddenly. 
 Make me your confidante. What is 
 your motive ? Is it Laure's fault ? " 
 
 " Yes, madame." 
 
 " yes, mamma, it is my fault. 
 My temper ! " and she cast a piteous 
 look of supplication on Edouard. 
 
 " Do not interfere, Laure : let me 
 hear M. Riviere." 
 
 " Madame, my temper and Madem- 
 oiselle Laure's could not accord." 
 
 " Why, her temper is charming ; it 
 is joyous, equal, and gentle." 
 
 " You misunderstand me, madame ; 
 I do not reproach jNIademoiselle 
 Laure. It is I who am to blame." 
 
 " For what ? " inquired the baron- 
 ess, dryly, 
 
 " For not being able to make her 
 love me." 
 
 " O, that is it ! She did not love 
 you ? " 
 
 " Ask herself, madame." 
 
 " Laure," said the baroness, her eye 
 now beginning to twinkle, " are you 
 really guilty of such a want of dis- 
 crimination ? Did n't you love mon- 
 sieur ? " 
 
 " No, mamma. I did not love 
 Monsieur Edouard." 
 
 Edouard groaned. 
 
 " You tell me that, and you are cry- 
 ing ! " 
 
 " She is crying, madame ? ? ! ! " 
 
 "Why, you see she is. Come, I 
 see how this will end." 
 
 " Where are you going, mamma ? " 
 
 " To my other daughter. Alas ! 
 her case is worse than yours. Mon- 
 sieur Edouard, forgive me, if I leave 
 you a moment with the enemy. I 
 hope, in spite of her, to find you ex- 
 tant on my return." 
 
 She went off with knowing little 
 nods into Josephine's room. 
 
 Dead silence. 
 
 " Monsieur," began Laure, in a 
 faint whisper. 
 
 " Mademoiselle ! " 
 
 " I thank you humbly for your gen- 
 erosity. But you were always gener- 
 ous. I felt you would not betray . 
 me." 
 
 " Mademoiselle, your secret belongs 
 to you, not to others. I — Curse on 
 my weakness ! Adieu ! " 
 
 He moved to go. 
 
 She bowed her head with a de- 
 spairing moan. 
 
 It took him by the heart and held 
 him. He hesitated, then came to- 
 wards her. 
 
 " I see you are sorry for what you 
 have done to me who loved you so, — 
 whom you loved. yes, do not 
 deny it, Laure ; there was a time you 
 loved me. And that makes it worse : 
 to have given me such sweet hopes, 
 only to crush both them and me. 
 And is not this cruel of you 1 — even 
 now, to weep so and let me see your 
 penitence, — when it is too late ! " 
 
 " Alas ! how can I help my regrets 1 
 I have insulted so good a friend." 
 
 There was a sad silence. Then, as 
 he looked at her, her looks belied the 
 charge her own lips had made against 
 herself. 
 
 A light seemed to burst on Ed- 
 ouard from that high-minded, sorrow- 
 stricken face. 
 
 " Tell me it is false ! " he cried. 
 
 She hid her. face in her hands, — 
 woman's instinct to avoid being read. 
 
 " Tell me you were misled, then, 
 — fascinated, perverted, — but that 
 your heart returned to me. Clear 
 yourself of deliberate deceit, and I 
 wid believe and thank you on my 
 knees." 
 
 " Heaven have pity on us ! " cried 
 poor Laure, 
 
 "On us ! Thank you for saying 
 on us. See now, you have not gained 
 happiness by destroying mine. One 
 word : do you love that man ? — 
 that Dujardin 1 " 
 
 " You know I do not." 
 
 " I am glad of that ; since his life 
 is forfeited ; if he escapes my friend 
 Raynal, he shall not escape me ! " 
 
 Laure uttered a cry of terror. _ ^ 
 
270 
 
 WHITE Lii:s. 
 
 " Hush ! not so loud. The life of 
 Camillc ! Oil ! if lie were to die, 
 whiit were to become of — O, pray 
 do not speak so loud ! " 
 
 " Own then tliat you do love him," 
 yelled Edouard ; "give me truth, if 
 you liave no love to give. Own that 
 you love him, and he shall be safe. 
 It is myself I will kill, for being such 
 a slave as to love you still ! " 
 
 Laure's fortitude gave way. 
 
 I cannot bear 
 
 she cried, de- 
 
 spairingly ; " it is beyond my strength ! 
 lulouaid, swear to me you will keep 
 Avhat I tell you secret as the grave ? 
 — hush ! here they come." 
 
 The baroness came smiling out, 
 and Josephine's wan, anxious face 
 was seen behind her. 
 
 " Well," said the baroness, " is the 
 war at an end ? What, are we still 
 silent ? Let me try then what I can 
 do. Edouard, lend me your hand." 
 
 While Edouard hesitated, Josephine 
 clasped her hands and mutely suppli- 
 cated him to consent. Her sad face, 
 and the thought of how often she had 
 stood his friend, shook his resolution. 
 He held out his hand slowly and un- 
 willingly : for what was the use taking 
 hands when hearts were estranged ? 
 
 " There is my hand," he muttered. 
 
 "And here is mine, mamma," said 
 Laure, smiling to please her. 
 
 Oh ! the mixture of feeling, when 
 her soft warm palm pressed his. How 
 the delicious sense baffled and mysti- 
 fied the cold judgment. 
 
 Josephine smiled. It was a res- 
 pite. 
 
 While the young lovers yet thrilled 
 at each other's touch, yet could not 
 look one another in the face, a sudden 
 clash of horses' feet was heard. 
 
 " That is Colonel Kaynal," said 
 Josephine, with unnatural calmness. 
 " I expected him to-day." 
 
 The baroness was at tho side win- 
 dow in a moment. 
 
 " It is he ! — it is he ! " 
 
 She hurried down to embrace her 
 son. 
 
 Josephine went without a word to 
 her own room. Laure followed her 
 
 the next moment. But in that one 
 moment she worked miigic. 
 
 She glided up to Edouard, and 
 looked him full in the face. Not the 
 Slid, depressed, guilty-looking, humble 
 Laure of a moment before, but the 
 old, high-spirited, and somewhat im- 
 perious girl. 
 
 " You have shown yourself noble 
 this day. I am going to trust you as 
 only the noble are trusted. Stay in 
 the house till I can speak to you ! " 
 
 She was gone, and something leaped 
 within Edouard's bosom, and a (iood 
 of light seemed to burst in on him. 
 Yet he saw no object clearly : but he 
 saw light. 
 
 Josephine went to her room, opened 
 a drawer, and took out a little phial. 
 She knelt down, and was in the act of 
 conveying the pliial to her lips wlicn 
 the handle of the door was turned, 
 and as the instinct of concealment was 
 stronger even than the desire of death, 
 she hid the phial swiftly in her bosom, 
 and rose hastily from her knees. But 
 this latter action was surprised by 
 Laure. 
 
 " What are you doing, Josephine, 
 on your knees ? " 
 
 " I have a great trial to go through 
 to-day," was the hesitating answer. 
 
 Laure said nothing. She turned 
 paler. She is deceiving me again, 
 thought she, and Laure sat down full 
 of bitterness and terror ; and, affecting 
 not to watch Josephine, watched her. 
 
 " Go and tell them I am coming, 
 Laure." 
 
 " No, Josephine, I will not leave 
 you till this terrible meeting is over." 
 
 " Let us come then," said Jose- 
 phine, doggedly, " and encounter it 
 at once." 
 
 " Yes, Josephine, hand in hand 
 as we used to go, when our hearts 
 were one." 
 
 Josephine arranged her hair in the 
 glass ; woman to her last gasp. A 
 deep voice was now heard in the sit- 
 ting-room. 
 
 Josej)hine and Laure went to the 
 door, paused irresolutely a moment, 
 then entered the tapestried room. 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 271 
 
 Eaynal was sitting on the sofa : 
 the baroness's hand in his. Edouard 
 was not there. 
 
 Colonel Raynal had given him a 
 strange look, and said : " What, you 
 here ! " in a tone of voice that Avas 
 intolerable. 
 
 Kaynal came to meet the sisters. 
 He saluted Josephine on the brow. 
 
 " You are pale, my wife ; and how 
 cold her hand is ! " 
 
 " She has been ill this month past," 
 said Laure. 
 
 '• You look ill, too. Mademoiselle 
 Laure." 
 
 " Never mind," cried the baroness, 
 joyously, " you will cheer them all 
 up." 
 
 " Yes," said Raynal, moodily. 
 
 " How long do you stay this time, 
 — a day?" 
 
 " A month, mother." 
 
 The doctor now joined the party, 
 and friendly greetings passed between 
 him and Raynal. 
 
 But erelong somehow all became 
 conscious this was not a joyful meet- 
 ing. The baroness could not alone 
 sustain the spirits of the party, and 
 soon even she began to notice that 
 Raynal's replies were short, and that 
 his manner was distrait and gloomy. 
 Tlie sisters saw this, too, and trem- 
 bled for what might be coming. 
 
 The gloum deepened. At last 
 Raynal whispered : — 
 
 " Josephine, I want to speak to 
 you alone." 
 
 The baroness did not hear, but by 
 his whispering she divined he would 
 speak in private to his wife. 
 
 She giwe the doctor a look, and 
 made an excuse for going down stairs 
 to her own room. As she was go- 
 ing, Josephine went to her. 
 
 " Mother, you have not kissed me 
 to-day." 
 
 " There ! Bless yon, my darling ! " 
 
 Raynal looked at Laure. She saw 
 she must go : but she lingered, and 
 sought her sister's eye : it avoided 
 her. ("She is deceiving me.") 
 Laure ran to the doctor, who was 
 just going out of the door. 
 
 '' doctor ! " she whispered, trem- 
 bling, " don't go beyond tlie door. 
 I found her praying. My mind mis- 
 gives me." 
 
 " What is she going to do ? " 
 
 " Tell her husband — or something 
 worse." 
 
 " What 1 Speak ! — what do you 
 -«ear ? " 
 
 " I am afraid to say all I dread. 
 She could not be so calm if she 
 meant to live. Be near ! as I shall." 
 
 She left the old man trembling, 
 and went back to Raynal. She in- 
 terrupted them just as he was saying 
 to Josephine : — 
 
 " I was a little surprised at your 
 reception of me, but it Avas my own 
 fault." 
 
 " Excuse me," said Laure, " I only 
 came to ask Josephine if she wants 
 anything." 
 
 '' No ! — yes ! — a glass of eau 
 Sucre." 
 
 Laure mixed it for her. While 
 doing this, she noticed that Jose- 
 phine shunned her eye, but Raynal 
 gazed gently and with an air of pity 
 on her. 
 
 She retired slowly into Josephine's 
 bedroom. 
 
 " Well," said Raynal, with a heavy 
 sigh, " first let us speak of your 
 health, — it alarms me ; and of your 
 apparent sadness, which I do not un- 
 derstand. You have no news from 
 the Rhine, have you ? " 
 
 " Monsieur! " 
 
 " Do not call me monsieur ; nor 
 look so frightened. Call me your 
 friend. I am your sincere friend." 
 
 "O yes ! you always were." 
 
 " Thank you ! You will give me 
 a dearer title before we part this 
 time." 
 
 " Yes," said Josephine, in a low 
 whisper. And she took a phial from 
 her bosom, and poured the contents 
 into the glass of eau sucre. 
 
 " What is that ? " asked Raynal. 
 
 "A soothing draught. I suffer, 
 monsieur." 
 
 " Call me Jean." 
 
 "If you please. I suffer, Jean; 
 
272 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 more than I can bear : this soothes 
 my pain." 
 
 "" i'oor soul ! But sit down and 
 cahn yourself, for I have something 
 very serious to say." 
 
 Josephine took'the seat with some 
 rehietance. ISho eyed the ghiss wist- 
 fully. After all, she could get to it 
 at any moment. 
 
 IJaynal hesitated. 
 
 " First, have you forgiven me 
 frightening you so that night ? " 
 
 •' Yes." 
 
 " It was a shock to me too : I hke 
 the boy. She professed to love him, 
 and, to own the truth, I loathe all 
 treachery and dceeir. If I had done 
 a murder, I would own it. A lie 
 doubles every crime. But I took 
 heart ; we are all selfish, wc men : 
 of the two sisters one was all innocence 
 and good faith ; and she was the one I 
 had chosen." 
 
 At these words Josephine rose hke 
 a statue moving, and put out her 
 hand to the cup, and in one moment 
 she would have drank, and sat pa- 
 tient, attending to Kaynal with death 
 coursing through her veins. 
 
 But between her and the king of 
 terrors, into whose arms she was glid- 
 ing, was a danger she dared not face. 
 
 A wasp was hovering right over the 
 sugared death. 
 
 She drew back hastily, with a look 
 of dismay. Kaynal took up a paper- 
 knife with zeal. 
 
 " O, do not kill it, poor thing ! 
 The window is open : make it fly 
 away." 
 
 Kaynal drove away the wasp with 
 his handkerchief, and Josephine 
 stretched her hand out to the glass, 
 and, fixing her eye on Kaynal to see 
 •whether he would let her, raised it 
 slowly to her lips. 
 
 jMeantime, Kaynal, with his eyes 
 gloomily lowered, said in a voice full 
 of strange solemnity : — 
 
 " I went to the army of the Khinc." 
 
 Josej>hine put down the glass di- 
 rectly, though without removing her 
 hand from it. 
 
 " I see you understand me, and ap- 
 
 prove. Yes ! I saw that your sister 
 would be dishonored, and I went to 
 the army and I saw Dujardin." 
 
 " Ah ! what did you say to him?" 
 and she quivered all over. 
 
 " I TOLD II I M ALL." 
 
 " You — told him all ? " 
 
 " Ilu^h, Josephine, don't speak so 
 loud, and come this way ; there, don't 
 hddle with that glass, my i)Oor soul. 
 Drink it, or leave it alone : for I want 
 all your attention, all your aid, all 
 your excuses." 
 
 lie took the glass out of her patient 
 hand, and, with a furtive look at the 
 bedroom door, drew her away to the 
 other end of the room. 
 
 " I taxed Dujardin with her seduc- 
 tion ; he did not deny it. I told him 
 he must marry her ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " He refused. I challenged him. 
 He accepted." 
 
 Josephine shuddered, and shrank 
 from Kaynal. 
 
 " Do not alarm yourself. We 
 never met." 
 
 " Ah ! thank Heaven ! " 
 
 " O no, that sin was spared me : 
 indeed, before we parted, the poor fel- 
 low consented. I felt happy tlien. I 
 thought I had saved the honor of our 
 family. My wife, I have a favor to 
 ask you. I am in distress, and em- 
 barrassment. And you can do it : 
 for he was indifferent to you, compar- 
 atively. And I have not the courage 
 — oh* I should feel like a thief, like a 
 coward, before her. Will /yow ? " 
 
 " What 1 " gasped Josephine. " You 
 confuse, you perplex me ! 0, wliat 
 does this terrible preparation mean 1 " 
 
 " It means that I shall never save 
 the honor of vour house now." 
 
 " Oh ! is that all ? thank Heaven !" 
 She did not know what she was say- 
 ing. I 
 
 " He will never marry Laurc ; he 
 will never see her more." 
 
 " I sec ! he told you he would nev- 
 er come to Beaurcpaire. He did 
 well." 
 
 " Alas ! no ! that is not it. I tell 
 you he consented." 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 273 
 
 " To what ? In Heaven's name ! " 
 
 " To marry lier. He shook liands 
 with me, the tears in liis eyes. All ! 
 I understand the tears in tliose lion 
 eyes now, now that it is too hite." 
 
 Ravnal groaned. 
 
 " Wife, I was to attack the bastion. 
 He knew it was mined. He took ad- 
 vantage of my back being turned. 
 He led his men out of the trenches ; 
 he assaulted the bastion at the head 
 of his brigade. He took it." 
 
 " Ah ! it was noble : it was like 
 him ! " 
 
 " The bastion, undermined by the 
 enemy, was blown into the air, and 
 Dujardin is dead." 
 
 " Dead ! " 
 
 " Hush ! I hear Laure at the door ! 
 hush ! He took my place, and is 
 dead. Swallowed up in flames, and 
 crushed to atoms under the ruins." 
 
 "Oh! — oh! — oh! — oh!" 
 
 Her whole body gave way, and 
 bowed like a tree falling under the 
 axe. She sank slowly to her knees, 
 and low moans of agony broke from 
 her at intervals. 
 
 " Is it not terrible ? " he cried. 
 
 She did not hear him nor see him. 
 
 •* Dead ! — dead ! — dead ! " 
 
 " War ! I never felt you till that 
 hour." 
 
 '' Dead ! — ah ! — pity ! — the 
 glass!" 
 
 She stretched her hands out, wild- 
 ly. Rayual, with a face full of con- 
 cern, ran to the table and got the 
 glass. She crawled on her knees to 
 meet it, he stirred it, and brought it 
 quickly to her hand. 
 
 " There, my poor soul ! " 
 
 Now, as their hands met, Laure 
 threw herself on the cup, and snatched 
 it with fury from them both. She 
 was white as ashes, and her eyes, su- 
 pernaturidly large, glared on Raynal 
 with terror. 
 
 " Madman ! " 
 
 He glai-ed back on her : what did 
 this mean ? Their eyes were fixed 
 on each other like combatants for life 
 and death : they did not see that the 
 room was filling with people, that the 
 12* 
 
 doctor was only on the other side the 
 table, and that the baroness and Ed- 
 ouard were at the door, and all look- 
 ing wonder-struck at this strange 
 sight, — Josephine on her knees, and 
 those two facing each other, white, with 
 dilating eyes : the glass between them. 
 
 But what was that to the horror, 
 when the next moment the patient 
 Josephine started to her feet, and, 
 standing in the midst, tore her hair 
 by handfuls out of her head. 
 
 " Ah ! you snatch the kind poison 
 from me ! " 
 
 " Poison ! " 
 
 " Poison ! ! " 
 
 " Poison ! ! ! " 
 
 " Ah ! you won't let me die. 
 Curse you all ! — curse you ! I never 
 had my own way in anything. I was 
 always a slave and a fool. I have 
 murdered the man I love, — I love ! 
 Yes, my husband, do you hear, the 
 man I love ! " 
 
 " Hush ! daughter, — respect my 
 gray hairs — " 
 
 " Your gray hairs ! You are not 
 so old in years as I am in agony. So 
 this is your love, Laure. Ah ! you 
 won't let me die, — won't you? 
 Thex 1 'll do worse, — I 'll 
 
 TELL ! " 
 
 — • — 
 
 CHAPTER XLIIL 
 
 " Enough of baseness and lies ! 
 From this moment, honor to whom 
 honor is due, shame to whom shame. 
 Ah ! there is Edouard. I am glad of 
 it. He, who is dead, — and I will 
 follow iiim, I will! I will, — he was 
 my betrothed. He struggled, wound- 
 ed, bleeding, to my feet. He found 
 me married. News came of my hus- 
 band's death, — I married my be- 
 trothed." 
 
 " Married him ! my daughter 1 " 
 " Ah, here is my poor mother. And 
 she kissed me so kindly, just now, — 
 she Avill kiss me no more. Oh ! I am 
 not ashamed of marrying him. I am 
 only ashamed of the cowardice that 
 dared not do it in face of all the 
 
274 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 •world. "NVc had scarce l)Con lia])pv a 
 fortnii:ht, wlioii a letter caino from 
 Colonel Raynal. He was alive. 1 
 drove my true husband away, wretch 
 that I was. I tried to do my duty to 
 my lep:al husband. He was my bene- 
 factor. I th()UL'"ht it was my duty, — 
 was it ? I don't know. I have lost 
 the sense of ri(^ht and wron;^. I 
 turned from a lovinjj^ creature to a lie. 
 He who had scattered benefits on me 
 and all this house, he whom it was 
 too little to love, he ought to have 
 been adored, — this man came here one 
 ni<j:ht to his wife, proud, joyous, warm- 
 hearted. He found a cradle, and two 
 women watching it. Now, Edouard, 
 now monsieur, do you see that life is 
 impossible to me ? One bravely ac- 
 cused herself. She was innocent. 
 One swooned away like a guilty cow- 
 ard." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 "Yes, Edouard, you shall not be 
 miserable like me. She was guilty. 
 You do not understand me yet, my 
 poor mother, — she was so happy this 
 morning, — I was the liar, the cow- 
 ard, the double-faced wife, the mis- 
 erable mother that denied her child. 
 Now will you let me die ? Now do 
 you see that I can't and won't live 
 upon shame and despair. Ah, Mon- 
 sieur Raynal, my dear friend, you 
 were always generous : you will j)ity 
 and kill me. I have dishonored the 
 name you gave me to keep ; I am 
 neither De Beaurepaire nor Raynal. 
 Do pray kill me, monsieur, — jean, 
 do pray release me from my life ! " 
 
 And she crawled to his knees and 
 embraced them, and kissed his hand, 
 and pleaded more piteously for death, 
 than others have begged for life. 
 
 Raynal stood like a rock : he was 
 pale, and drew his breath audil)ly : 
 l)Ut not a word. Then came a sight \ 
 scarce less terrible than Josephine's 
 despair. The baroness, looking and 
 moving twenty years older tiian an 
 liour before, tottered across the room 
 to Raynal. 
 
 " Sir, you whom I have called my 
 son, but whom 1 will never presume 
 
 ' so to call again. I thought I had 
 lived long enough never to have to 
 blush again. I loved you, monsieur. 
 I i)rayed every day for you. But she 
 who was my daughter was not of my 
 mind. Monsieur, I have never knelt 
 but to God and to ray king, and I 
 kneel to you ; forgive us, sir ; forgive 
 us ! " 
 
 She tried to go down on her knees. 
 He raised her with his strong arm, but 
 he could not speak. She turned on 
 the others. 
 
 " So this is the secret you were hid- 
 ing from me ! This secret has not 
 killed you all. Oh ! I sliall not live 
 under its shame so long as you have. 
 Chateau of Beaurepaire, — nest of 
 treason, ingratitude, and immodesty, 
 — I loathe you as much as once' I 
 loved you. I will go and hide my 
 head, and die elsewhere." 
 
 At last Raynal spoke. 
 
 " Stay, niadame ! " said he, in a 
 voice whose depth and dignity were 
 such that it seemed impossible to dis- 
 obey it. " It was sudden, — I was 
 shaken, — but I am myself again, I 
 see it all now." 
 
 " O, show some pity ! " cried 
 Laure. 
 
 " I shall be just." 
 
 There was a long, trembling si- 
 lence, and during that silence and 
 terrible agitation one figure stood 
 firm among those quaking, beating 
 hearts, like a rock with the waves 
 breaking round it, — the man of 
 PRINCIPLE among the creatures of 
 imi)ulse. 
 " Rise, Madame Dujardin, sit there." 
 
 He ])laced her, more dead than alive, 
 in a large arm-chair. 
 
 " Mother ! " 
 
 " What ! you call me mother still ? " 
 
 " You are a trille too hard upon the 
 weak. I must be neither harsh nor 
 weak, — I must be just. 
 
 " Madame Dujardin, you are an 
 honest woman. But you are not 
 o])en. Your fault has been cowardice 
 and want of truth. You should have 
 told me long ago. AVhat had you to 
 fear 1 I was your friend, and not a 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 275 
 
 selfish friend. I was not enough in 
 love with you to cut your throat : I 
 don't hold with that sort of love. If 
 you had only trusted me, I would 
 have saved you all this. You doubted 
 me without cause. I am angry with 
 you, and I forgive you. She does 
 not even hear me." 
 
 " yes, monsieur, my sister hears 
 you. See the tears streaming from 
 her poor eyes." 
 
 " Poor thing ! I have some little 
 comfort in store for her. First, this 
 unfortunate marriage of ours can be 
 annulled." 
 
 There was a general exclamation, 
 except from Josephine. 
 
 " We have only to consent to do 
 away Avith it. The notary told me so in 
 my ear on our wedding-day : and that 
 is what tears me when I think if she 
 could but have been frank with me. 
 — Ten thousand devils ! that marriage j 
 shall be annulled to-morrow. But I 
 must not stop there. I have others to 
 be just to. If I stand here a living 
 man, to whom do I owe it ? To Colo- 
 nel Dujardin, who gave his life for 
 me. To risk life for a comrade is 
 nothing; but to sacrifice it without 
 hope, as he did for me, is very ditfer- 
 ent. What, when he had but to fold 
 his arms, and let me die, and by my 
 death get the woman he loved; he 
 gave up life and love for me, and 
 for his own heroic sense of honor." 
 
 At these words Josephine sobbed 
 wildly. 
 
 The just man warmed : — 
 
 " I have lived with heroes ; I have 
 fought with the brave against the 
 brave, and I say this was a godlike 
 action. The world has never seen a 
 greater. If he stood there, and asked 
 me for all the blood in my body, I 
 would have given it him at a word. 
 He is dead ! but his widow and his 
 child arc my care, and no other man's. 
 To-morrow I shall be in Paris, and 
 your marriage with Dujardin shall be 
 confirmed. Ah ! weak but lofty crea- 
 ture. I see by your eyes that this 
 brightens even your despair. You 
 thought all was lost, — no ! Jose- 
 
 phine, all is never lost when honor is 
 saved." 
 
 " Bless you ! bless you ! my boy 
 blesses you by his poor mother's lips ; 
 bless — " She sank feebly back in 
 her chair in a vain endeavor to thank 
 hira in the midst of her despair. 
 
 " AYhat ! you are grateful to me, 
 then do something to please me. 
 Words go for little with me." 
 
 The poor soul revived a little when 
 he told her she could do something 
 for him. 
 
 " Promise me something." 
 
 "I will." 
 
 "Not to attempt self-destruction 
 again. Come, promise me upon your 
 honor." 
 
 " I promise," sighed Josephine, 
 
 " Now, mother, and you, Edouard, 
 we will leave her with the doctor and 
 her sister. Come," and he took thera 
 all out of the room sharp. Looking 
 round he caught sight of Edouard's 
 face ; it was radiant with joy. Ray- 
 nal started at sight of it, — then he 
 reflected and muttered : " 0, ay ! I 
 see ! " • 
 
 Such is life. 
 
 I drop the curtain on the sad scene 
 that followed in the room he left : no 
 words could give any idea of Jose- 
 phine's sorrow. Fear and misgivings, 
 and the burning sense of deceit gnaw- 
 ing an honorable heart, were gone. 
 Grief reigned alone. 
 
 The marriage was annulled before 
 the mayor; and three days afterwards 
 Raynal, by his influence, turned a 
 balanced scale, and got the consum- 
 mated marriage formally allowed in 
 Paris. 
 
 With a delicacy for which one 
 would hardly have given him credit, 
 he never came near Beaurepaire till 
 all this was settled ; but he brought 
 the document from Paris that made 
 Josephine the AYidow Dujardin, and 
 her boy the heir of Beaurepaire ; and 
 the moment she was really Madame 
 Dujardin he avoided her no longer : 
 and he became a comfort to her, in- 
 stead of a terror. 
 
27G 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 The dissolution of tlic man-i.a2;c was 
 a jjrcat tie hetwoon them. So inueh 
 that, seiin^jj how imieh she looked up 
 to Haynal, the doctor said one (hiy to 
 tlie harouess : " If I know anythinji^ 
 of human nature, tliey will marry 
 a^ain, provided none of you give her 
 a hint which way her heart is turu- 
 infj." 
 
 They who have habituated them- 
 selves to live for others can suffer as 
 well as do great things. Josephine 
 kept alive. A passion such as hers, 
 in a sellish nature, must have killed 
 her. 
 
 Even as it was, she often said, 
 " It is hard to live." 
 
 Then they used to talk to her of her 
 boy. "Would she leave him — Ca- 
 mille's boy — without a mother ? 
 And these words were never spoken 
 to her quite in vain. 
 
 Her mother forgave her, and loved 
 her as before. Who could be angry 
 witii her long ? The air was no lon- 
 ger heavy with lies. Wretched as she 
 was, she breathed lighter. Joy and 
 hope were gone. Sorrowful peace 
 was coming. When tlie heart comes 
 to this, nothing but Time can cure ; 
 but what will not Time do ? O, 
 what wounds he has healed ! His 
 cures are incredible. 
 
 Yet are there a few hearts in nature 
 so faithful that they carry their early 
 wound to their late graves. 
 
 Who then can yjredict the fate of 
 Josephine Dujardin ? the woman of 
 women, — the disingenuous, the true- 
 hearted ? 
 
 It was about a fortnight later. The 
 little party sat one day, peaceful but 
 silent and sad, in the Pleasance, under 
 the great oak. 
 
 Two soldiers came in at the gate. 
 They walked feebly, for one was lame, 
 and leaned upon the other, who was 
 pale and weak, and leaned upon a 
 stick. 
 
 " Soldiers," said Ilaynal, "and in- 
 valided." 
 
 " Give them food and wine," said 
 Josephine. 
 
 Laurc went towards them, but she 
 had scarcely taken three steps ere she 
 cries out : — 
 
 "It is Dard ! it is poor Dard ! 
 Come here, Dard : go to my sister." 
 
 Dard limped towards them, leaning 
 upon Sergeant La Croix. A bit of 
 Dard's heel had been sliot away. 
 
 Laure ran to tlic kitchen. 
 
 "Jacintha, bring out a table into 
 the Pleasance, and something for two 
 guests to cat." 
 
 The soldiers came slowly to the 
 Pleasance, and were welcomed and 
 invited to sit down, and received with 
 respect: for France is not like Eng- 
 land, — she honors the humblest of 
 her brave. 
 
 Soon Jacintha came out with a lit- 
 tle round table in her hands. She 
 dropped it at sight of Dard, and ut- 
 tered a cry of joy, then affected a 
 composure which was belied by her 
 shaking hands and her glowing cheek. 
 
 After a few words of homely wel- 
 come, — not eloquent, but very sin- 
 cere, — she went off with her apron 
 to her cA'cs. She reappeared with 
 the good cheer, and served the poor 
 fellows with radiant zeal. 
 
 " What regiment ? " asked Raynal. 
 
 Dard was about to answer, but his 
 superior stopped him severely ; then, 
 rising with his hand to his forehead, he 
 replied, with pride : — 
 
 " Twenty-fourth Brigade, second 
 company. We were cut up at Phil- 
 ipsburg, and incorporated with the 
 twelfth. 
 
 Kaynal regretted his question : for 
 Josephine's eye was instantly fixed 
 on Sergeant La Croix, with an ex- 
 pression words cannot i)aint. Yet 
 she showed more composure, real or 
 forced, than he expected. 
 
 " Heaven sends him," said she. 
 " My friend, tell me, were you — ah ! " 
 
 Colonel Raynal interfered hastily. 
 
 " Tiiink Avhat you do, my ])Oor 
 friend. He can tell you nothing but 
 what we know : not so much, in fact,, 
 as we know, for now I louk at him I 
 think this is the very sergeant we 
 found lying insensible under the bas- 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 277 
 
 tion. He must have been struck be- 
 fore the bastion was taken even." 
 
 " I was, colonel, I was. I remember 
 nothing but losing my senses, and 
 feeling the colors go out of my hand." 
 
 " There, you see, he knows noth- 
 ing." 
 
 " It was hot w.ork, colonel, under 
 that bastion, but it was hotter to the 
 poor fellows that got in. I heard all 
 about it from Private Dard here." 
 
 " So, then, it Avas you who carried 
 the colors ? " 
 
 " Yes, I was struck down with the 
 colors of the brigade in my hand," 
 cried La Croix. 
 
 " See how people lie about every- 
 thing, — they told me the colonel car- 
 ried the colors." 
 
 " Why, of course he did. You 
 don't think our colonel, the fighting 
 colonel, would let me hold the colors 
 of the brigade so long as he was alive. 
 No ! he was struck by a Prussian bul- 
 let, and he had just time to hand the 
 colors to me, and point with his sword 
 to the bastion, and down he went. 
 It was hot work, I can tell you. I 
 did not hold them long, not thirty sec- 
 onds, and, if we could know their 
 history, they passed through more 
 hands' than that, before they got to 
 the Prussian flag-staff." 
 
 Raynal suddenly rose, and walked 
 rapidly to and fro, with his hands be- 
 hind him. 
 
 " Poor colonel," continued La 
 Croix, " well, I love to think he died 
 like a soldier, and not like some of my 
 poor comrades, hashed to atoms, and 
 not a volley fired over him. I hope 
 they put a stone over him, for he was 
 the best soldier and the best general 
 in the army." 
 
 " sir ! " cried Josephine, " there is 
 no stone even to mark the spot where 
 he fell " ; and she sobbed despairingly. 
 
 " Why, how is this, Private Dard 1 " 
 inquired La Croix, sternly. 
 
 Uard apologized for the sergeant. 
 Since his wound, his memory comes 
 and goes. 
 
 "Now, sergeant, didn't I tell you 
 the colonel must have got the better 
 
 of his wound, and got into the bat- 
 tery ? " 
 
 " It 's false. Private Dard, don't I 
 know our colonel better than that ? 
 Would ever he have let those colors 
 out of his hand, if there had been an 
 ounce of life left in him 1 " 
 
 " He died at the foot of the battery, 
 I tell you." 
 
 " Then why did n't you find him ? " 
 
 Here Jacintha put in a word with the 
 quiet, subdued meaningof her class : — 
 
 " I can't find that anybody ever 
 saw the colonel dead." 
 
 " They did not find him, because 
 they did not look for him," said Ser- 
 geant La Croix. 
 
 " God forgive you, sergeant," said 
 Dard, with some feeling. " Not look 
 for our colonel ! We turned over every 
 body that lay there, — full thirty there 
 were, — and you were one of them." 
 
 " Only thii ty ! why, we settled more 
 Prussians than that, I '11 swear. O, 
 the enemy had carried them oflP." 
 
 " Ay ! but I don't see why they 
 should carry our colonel off. His 
 epaulets were all the thieves could do 
 any good with. Stop ! yes, I do. Pri- 
 vate Dard ; I have a horrible suspi- 
 cion. No ! I have not, — it is a cer- 
 tainty. What, don't you see, ye 
 muff? thunder and thousands of dev- 
 ils, here 's a disgrace. Dogs of Prus- 
 sians, they have got our colonel, — 
 thev have taken him prisoner." 
 
 '' God bless them ! O God bless 
 the mouth that tells me so. O sir, I 
 am his wife, his poor, heart-broken 
 wife. You would not be so cruel as 
 to mock my despair. Say again 
 that he may be alive, — pray say it 
 again ! " 
 
 "His wife! Private Dard, why 
 did n't you tell me ? Yes, my pretty 
 lady, I 'II say it again, and I '11 prove 
 it. Here is an enemy in full retreat, 
 — would they encumber themselves 
 with the colonel ? — if he was dead, 
 they 'd have whipped oflf his epaulets, 
 and left him there. Alive ?^ why 
 not ? Look at me : I am alive, and 
 I was worse wounded than he was. 
 They took me for dead, you see. 
 
278 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 Couragre, madamc ! you will see him 
 ajrain, — take an old soldier's word 
 for it. Dard, attention ! this is the 
 colonel's wife." 
 
 She <razed on the speaker like one 
 in a trance. 
 
 Every eye and every sonl had been 
 so bent on SerL^eant La Croix, that 
 it was only now Raynal was observed 
 to be niissinij. The next minute he 
 came ridinfr out of tlie stal)lc-yard, 
 and went full fiallop down the road. 
 
 "Ah! "cried Laure, with a burst 
 of hope. " He thinks so too : he 
 has hopes. He has o:one somewhere 
 for information. rerlia])s to Paris." 
 
 Josephine's excitement, and alter- 
 nations of hope and fear, were now 
 alarming;. Laure held her hand, and 
 implored her to try and be calm till 
 they could see Raynal. 
 
 Just before dark he came ridinj; 
 fiercely home. Josephine flew down 
 the stairs. Raynal at sijjht of her 
 foro-ot all his caution. He waved his 
 cocked hat in the air. She fell on 
 her knees and thanked God, He 
 gapped out : — 
 
 " Prisoner, — exchanged for two 
 Prussian lieutenants, — sent home, — 
 they say he is in France ! " 
 
 The tears of joy gushed in streams 
 from her. 
 
 Some days passed in hope and joy 
 inexpressible ; but the good doctor 
 was uneasy for Josephine. She was 
 always listening with supernatural 
 keenness, and starting from her 
 chair : and every fibre of her love- 
 ly person seemed to be on the quiv- 
 er. 
 
 Nor was Laure without a serious 
 misgiving. Would husband and wife 
 ever meet? He evidently looked on 
 her as Madame Raynal, and made It 
 a point of honor to keep away from 
 lieaurepaire. They had recourse to 
 that ever-soothing influence, — her 
 child. Thrice a week she went to 
 Frcjus, and used to come away bright- 
 er and calmer. 
 
 One day Laure and she went on 
 foot to Aiadame Jouvenel, and, en- 
 tering the house without ceremony, 
 
 found the nurse out, and no one 
 watching the child. 
 
 " How careless ! " said Laure. 
 
 Josephine stooped eagerly to kiss 
 him. J5ut, instead of kissing him, 
 she uttered a loud cry. There was 
 a locket lianging round his neck. 
 
 It was a locket containing some of 
 Josephine's hair and Camille's. She 
 had given it him in the ha])py days 
 that followed their marriaLa*. She 
 stood gasping in the middle of the 
 room. Madame Jouvenel came run- 
 ning in just at that moment. Jose- 
 phine, by a wonderful effort over 
 herself, asked her calmly and cun- 
 ningly : — 
 
 " Where is the gentleman who put 
 this locket round my child's neck ? 
 I want to speak with him." 
 
 Madame Jouvenel stammered and 
 looked confused. 
 
 " A soldier, — an officer ? — come, 
 tell me." 
 
 " Woman," cried Laure, " why do 
 you hesitate ? — it is her husband ! " 
 
 "I guessed as much; but my or- 
 ders are — and if madame does not 
 love the poor gentleman — " 
 
 " Not love him ! " cried Laure. 
 " She loves him as no woman ever 
 loved before. She pines for him. 
 She dies for him." 
 
 The door of a little back room 
 opened at these words of Laure, and 
 there stood Camille, with his arm in 
 a sling, pale and astounded, but great 
 joy working in his foce. 
 
 Josephine gave a cr}^ of love that 
 made the other two women weep, and 
 in a moment they were sobbing for 
 joy upon each other's neck. 
 
 CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 A^VAT went sorrow, doubt, despair, 
 and all they had suffered. That one 
 moment jiaid for all. And in that 
 moment of joy and surprise, so great 
 as to be almost terrible, perhaps it 
 was well for Josephine that Camille, 
 Aveakened by his wound, was quite 
 
WHITE LIES. 
 
 279 
 
 overcome, and nearly fainted. She 
 was lierself just going into hysterics, 
 but, seeing him quite overcome, she 
 conquered them directly, and mused 
 and soothed, and pitied, and encour- 
 aged him instead. 
 
 Then they sat hand in hand. Their 
 happiness stopped their very breath. 
 They could not speak. So Laure told 
 him all. He never owned why he 
 had slipped away when he saw them 
 coming. He forgot it. He forgot all 
 his hard thoughts of her. They took 
 him home in the carriage. His wife 
 would not let him out of her sight. 
 For years and years after this she could 
 hardly bear to let him be an hour out 
 of her sight. The world is wide ; there 
 may be a man in it who can paint the 
 sudden bliss that fell on these two 
 much-suffering hearts, but I am not 
 that man. This is beyond me. It was 
 not only heaven, but heaven after hell. 
 
 Leave we the indescribable and the 
 unspeakable for a moment, and go to 
 a lighter theme. 
 
 The day Laure's character was so 
 unexpectedly cleared, Edouard had 
 no opportunity of speaking to her, or 
 a reconciliation would have taken 
 place. As it was, he went home in- 
 tensely happy. But he did not re- 
 sume his visits to the chateau. When 
 he came to think calmly over it, his 
 vanity was cruelly mortified. She 
 Avas innocent of the greater offence ; 
 but how insolently she had sacrificed 
 him, his love, and his respect, to 
 another's interest. 
 
 More generous thoughts prevailed 
 by degrees. And one day that her 
 pale face, her tears, and her remorse 
 got the better of his offended pride, 
 he found he coiild forgive her. And 
 he was sure he could not be happy if 
 he did not. 
 
 He called, she received him, — 
 how 1 not on her knees as he expect- 
 ed, but with a stateliness and frozen 
 reserve that gave him a new light as 
 to tlie ins and outs of female charac- 
 ter. In the middle of a grave re- 
 monstrance, which he intended to 
 end by forgiving her, she told him 
 
 that she had been debathig pro and 
 con, whether she could forgive him, 
 and she found she could ; but not to 
 such an extent as ever to become his 
 wife. 
 
 "Forgive me ? " cried he, in great 
 heat. He went into a passion, and 
 could hardly articulate. This gave 
 her an advantage. She remained 
 cold and collected. She told him he 
 had wounded her too deeply by his 
 jealous, suspicious nature. 
 
 " AVas I not to believe your own 
 lips ? Am I the only one who be- 
 lieved you ? was I to sav, ' She is a 
 liar ' ? " 
 
 " I forgive Colonel Eaynal for be- 
 lieving me ! He did not know me : 
 but you ought to have known me. 
 It is not as if we had been alone. 
 You were my lover. You should 
 have seen I was forced to deceive 
 poor Raynal : and you had no right 
 to believe your eyes, much less your 
 ears, against ray truth ! " 
 
 Edouard was staggered. 
 
 " I did not see it in that light," 
 said he. 
 
 " But that is the light I see it in." 
 
 " And do you make no excuse for 
 me, Laure 1 I have been making 
 many for you," said Edouard, hum- 
 bly. 
 
 " I don't know what excuses to 
 make for you, but if you are humble, 
 and ask ray pardon, I will try and 
 forgive you, — in time." 
 
 " Forgive me, Laure ! Your sex 
 are hard to understand. Forgive 
 me ! " 
 
 " Oh ! oh ! oh ! " 
 
 " What is the matter, dear ? Why 
 do you cry ? " 
 
 " What a f — f — fool you are not to 
 see that it is I who am without excuse. 
 You are my betrothed. It was to 
 you I owed my duty, — not to my 
 sister. To you, — the best friend I 
 ever had. O Edouard ! I am wick- 
 ed, — unhappy, No wonder you 
 can't forgive me." 
 
 "I do forgive you." He caught 
 her in his arras. " There, no more 
 about forgiveness, my betrothed, — 
 
280 
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 my wife ; lot our contention be wliich 
 shall love the other best." 
 
 " O, I know bow that will be ! " 
 said Laure, smiling with joy, and 
 swallowinLT a f:;reat sob ; " you will 
 love me best till you have got me, 
 and then I shall love you best," said 
 the discerning toad. 
 
 These two were a happy pair. 
 This wayward, but generous heart 
 never forgot her olience, and his for- 
 giveness. She gave herself to him, 
 heart and soul, at the altar, and well 
 she redeemed her vow. He rose high 
 in political life : and jiaid the penalty 
 of that sort of ambition. His heart 
 was often sore. But by his own 
 hearth sat comfort and ever-ready 
 sympathy. Ay, and patient industry 
 to read blue books, and a ready hand 
 and brain to write diplomatic notes 
 for hitn, off which the mind glided as 
 from a ball of ice. 
 
 In thirty years she never once 
 mentioned the servants to him ! 
 
 O let eternal honor crowa her name ! 
 
 It was only a little bit of heel that 
 Dard had left in Prussia. More for- 
 tunate than his predecessor (Achilles), 
 he got otf with a slight but enduring 
 limp. And so the army lost him. 
 
 He married Jacintha, and Jose- 
 phine set them up in Byot's (de- 
 ceased) aubenje. Jacintha shone as a 
 landlady, and custom flowed in. For 
 all that", a hankering after Beaure- 
 paire was observable in her. Her 
 I'avorite stroll was into the Beaure- 
 p;iirc kitchen, and on all felcs and 
 grand occasions she was prominent in 
 gay attire as a retainer of the house. 
 The last specimen of her homely sa- 
 gacity I shall have the honor to lay 
 before you is a critique upon her 
 husband, which she vented six years 
 after marriage. 
 
 " My Dard," said she, " is very 
 good as far as he goes. What he has 
 felt himself, that he can feel for : no- 
 body l)eiter. You come to him with 
 au empty belly, or a broken head, or 
 
 all bleeding with a cut, or black and 
 blue, and you shall find a friend. But 
 if it is a sore heart, or trouble, and 
 sorrow, and no hole in your carcass to 
 show for it, you had better come to 
 me, for you might as well tell your 
 grief to a stone wall as to my man." 
 
 The baroness took her son Kaynal 
 to Paris, and there, with keen eye, 
 selected him a wife. She proved an 
 excellent one. It would have been 
 hard if she had not, for the baroness, 
 with the severe sagacity of her age 
 and sex, had set aside as naught a 
 score of seeming angels, before she 
 could suit herself with a daughter-in- 
 law. At first IJaynal very properly 
 kept clear of the Dujardins, but when 
 both had been married some years, 
 the recollection of that fleeting and 
 nominal connection Avaxed faint, 
 while the memory of great benefits 
 conferred on both sides remained 
 lively as ever in hearts so great, and 
 there was a warm, a sacred friendship 
 between the two houses, — a friend- 
 ship of the ancient Greeks, not of the 
 modern club-house. 
 
 Camille and Josephine were blessed 
 almost beyond the lot of humanity: 
 none can really appreciate sunshine 
 but those who come out of the cold 
 dark. And so with happiness. For 
 years they could hardly be said to 
 live like mortals : they basked in bliss. 
 But it was a near thing. They but 
 just scraped clear of life-long misery, 
 and death's cold touch grazed them 
 both as they went. 
 
 Yet they had heroic virtues to bal- 
 ance White Lies in the great Judge's 
 eye. 
 
 Have you great heroic virtues ? — 
 no ? — then remember Ananias and 
 Sapphira. They died for a single 
 White Lie, — a White Lie as com- 
 mon as dirt. 
 
 Have you great heroic virtues ? — 
 yes? — then do not nullify or defile 
 them by White Lies, but "gild them 
 brijrht as the sua with Truth. 
 
 THE END.