Skip to main content

Full text of "My brother's wife : a life-history"

See other formats 


955 


r 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


Ctfe-jjistorg. 


AMELIA  B.  EDWARDS, 

AUTHOR  OF 

"BARBARA'S  HISTORY,"  "THE  LADDER  OF  LIFE,"  "HAND  AND  GLOVE,"  &c. 


NEW    YORK: 
HARPER    &    BROTHERS,   PUBLISHERS, 

FRANKLIN    SQUARE. 
1865. 


ALUMNUS 


NOVELS  BY  AMELIA  B.  EDWARDS. 


BARBARA'S  HISTORY.     8vo,  Paper,  75  cents. 

THE  LADDER  OF  LIFE.     A  Hear.t-Hiftory.     8vo,  Paper,  50  cents. 

MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE.     A  Life-Hiftory.     8vo,  Paper,  50  cents. 


From  the  New  York  Evening  Post. 

At  this  day,  when  so  many  indifferent  namby-pamby  novels  are  thrust  upon  the  public — 
novels  which  it  is  a  wearisome  waste  of  time  to  read — we  are  quite  sure  that  it  is  a  kindly 
act  to  direct  our  readers'  attention  to  such  beautifully-written,  and  in  many  cases  superior, 
works  of  fiction  as  are  these  by  Miss  Edwards. 

From  the  London  Times. 

"Barbara's  History"  is  a  very  graceful  and  charming  book,  with  a  well-managed  story, 
clearly-cut  characters,  and  sentiments  expressed  with  an  exquisite  elocution.  The  dialogues 
especially  sparkle  with  repartee.  It  is  a  book  which  the  world  will  like,  and  which  those 
who  commence  it  will  care  to  finish.  This  is  high  praise  of  a  work  of  art,  and  so  we  intend  it. 


Sent  by  Mail,  poflage  free,  on  receipt  of  the  price. 


PUBLISHED  BY  HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  FRANKLIN  SQUARE,  NEW  YORK. 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

HOME   CHRONICLES. 

I  CAN  scarcely  believe  that  my  task,  is  real — 
that  I  am  now  guiding  my  pen  along  the  first 
few  sentences  of  my  Life-History.  It  seems  so 
strange  a  thing  that  any  man  (and  myself  above 
all  men)  should  deliberately  receive  the  whole 
world  into  his  confidence — should  take  his  own 
heart  to  pieces,  as  one  might  a  passion-flower, 
and  pluck  it  leaf  from  leaf,  petal  from  petal,  for 
every  eye  to  gaze  upon  at  will ! 

Stranger  still  is  it  that  I  should  indite  these 
pages  in  a  foreign  tongue — that  I  should,  in  the 
first  instance,  address  myself  to  foreign  readers. 
Yet  not  so  strange,  perhaps,  when  I  reflect  upon 
all  the  long  past,  and  when  I  remember  how 
dear  and  familiar  is  the  English  language  to 
my  lips  and  to  my  ears.  It  is  the  native  tongue 
of  many  whom  I  have  best  loved  in  life.  From 
my  earliest  childhood  I  have  studied  and  spo- 
ken it.  I  could  not  write  this  book  with  satis- 
faction to  myself  in  any  other ;  and,  be  it  well  or 
ill  done,  it  must  go  thus  before  all  who  read  it. 

My  name  is  Paul  Latour.  I  was  born  upon 
our  estate  in  Burgundy,  about  two  years  after 
my  father's  marriage,  and  three  years  before  the 
birth  of  my  brother  Theophile.  I  do  not  re- 
member my  father  very  distinctly,  excepting  as 
I  saw  him  lying  in  his  coffin,  very  pale  and  still, 
when  they  carried  me  to  his  chamber,  that  I 
might  kiss  him  for  the  last  time.  His  cheek 
was  cold  and  sunken ;  he  did  not  raise  those 
heavy  eyelids  to  gazQ  fondly  upon  me  as  was 
his  wont ;  and  I  recollect  that  I  sobbed  bitterly 
without  knowing  why,  unless  it  were  in  childish 
sympathy  with  the  distress  around  me.  Some 
other  memories,  vague  and  transient  enough, 
seem  now  and  then  to  flit  before  me — memories 
of  a  cordial  voice  and  of  a  lofty  brow  —  yet, 
when  I  strive  to  realize  them,  they  fade  away, 
and  leave  me  doubting  whether  they  be  recol- 
lections or  fragments  of  old  dreams. 

My  mother  was  beautiful — nay,  is  still  beau- 
tiful, though  somewhat  faded  by  the  passage  of 
events  and  years.  According  to  my  earliest 
impressions,  she  was  tall,  fair,  and  stately  as  a 
queen ;  and,  when  she  spoke,  the  low  tones  of 
her  voice  were  grave  and  sweet,  like  the  ca- 
dence of  our  chapel  bells  down  in  the  valley. 
I  will  not  say  that  my  mother's  disposition  was 
unloving ;  but  it  was  cold — cold  toward  her  hus- 
band, toward  her  servants,  toward  me.  The 
touch  of  her  white  slender  fingers  was  ever 


brief  and  unwilling;  the  expression  of  her  large, 
calm  blue  eyes  was  serious,  but  frosty ;  her  kiss- 
es, for  me  at  least,  were  careless  and  infrequent. 
Theophile  was  ever  her  favorite  child.  She 
treated  us  in  all  respects  precisely  alike ;  she 
never  accorded  him  any  indulgence  in  which  I 
was  not  an  equal  sharer ;  and  yet  I  saw  it,  knew 
it,  felt  it  from  the  first.  That  she  thought  her 
preference  unjust,  that  she  even  resisted  it  to 
the  utmost,  I  am  fully  certain ;  for  I  saw  that 
also.  I  saw  the  effort  as  plainly  as  I  saw  the 
affection,  and  I  wept  away  many  an  hour  of  the 
night-time  thinking  of  it.  No  one  ever  knew 
how  passionately  I  then  loved  my  mother — how 
breathlessly  I  used  to  listen  to  her  gentle  speak- 
ing— how  reverently  and  admiringly  I  used  to 
look  up  to  her  beautiful,  proud  mouth,  and  to 
the  rich  folds  of  her  golden  hair !  It  was  an 
idolatry — the  idolatry  which  children  often  feel, 
and  for  which  we  are  so  little  disposed  to  give 
them  credit. 

I  once  dreamt  that  I  was  with  my  mother  in 
the  library,  and  that  she  took  me  by  the  hand, 
and,  looking  into  my  face,  said,  "Paul,  you  are 
not  my  child."  And  I  remember  now,  as  if  it 
were  yesterday,  how  I  woke  up  sobbing,  and 
crept  out  of  my  little  bed  in  the  bright  moon- 
light, and  stole  along  the  corridor ;  and  how  I 
crouched  down  at  her  chamber-door,  listening 
to  her  breathing,  and  there  dropped  asleep. 
This  it  was  which  gave  me  the  reputation  of  be- 
ing a  somnambulist ;  for,  when  they  found  mo 
in  the  morning  lying  there,  I  would  say  nothing 
of  what  brought  me. 

I  have  already  stated  that  Theophile  was  my 
mother's  favorite  ;  and  when  I  look  upward  to 
the  mirror  near  which  I  am  now  writing,  I  can 
not  help  acknowledging  that  her  preference  was 
sufficiently  natural.  My  younger  brother  was 
tall  and  fair,  like  herself;  noble-looking;  full 
of  spirit  and  enterprise  ;  and  as  proud  as  if  he 
were  heir  to  all  Burgundy.  As  regarded  study, 
he  was  indolent;  yet  his  abilities  were  great. 
He  learnt  rapidly,  easily,  brilliantly ;  and  he  re- 
lied upon  this  intellectual  facility  so  much,  that 
he  frequently  left  himself  more  to  do  than  any 
mind  could  accomplish  in  the  time.  The  con- 
sequence was,  that  his  knowledge  was  often  su- 
perficial, and,  still  oftener,  forgotten  as  soon  as 
acquired.  Besides  this,  Theophile  met  with 
universal  indulgence,  and  from  no  one  more 
than  from  our  two  instructors,  M.  le  Cure',  and 
Mr.  Walsingham,  our  English  tutor.  He  had 
so  many  excellent  equalities — he  was  so  affec- 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


tionate  —  so  affable.  Though  spoilt,  he  was 
light-hearted  and  enjoying.  Though,  perhaps, 
a  little  selfish,  he  could  be  profusely  generous. 
Every  creature  on  the  estate  loved  him,  down 
to  the  poorest  vigneron.  Such  was  his  youth, 
and  so  he  grew  to  manhood — willful,  careless,  in 
love  with  life,  with  pleasure,  and  with  himself. 
Before  he  was  twenty,  Theophile  was  weary  of 
the  country.  He  was  rich,  for  he  would  inher- 
it all  my  mother's  fortune,  and  his  yearly  allow- 
ance, even  then,  exceeded  my  modest  rental  by 
more  than  one  third.  So  he  left  us,  and  launch- 
ed himself,  with  all  the  heedless  delight  of 
youth,  upon  the  brilliant  dissipations  of  Paris- 
ian life.  He  had  introductions,  wealth,  talent, 
personal  advantages ;  and  with  many  less  rec- 
ommendations than  these  one  may  become  a 
wit,  a  man  of  fashion,  and  a  beau  garfon,  amid 
the  gay  and  glittering  circles  of  the  best  Paris- 
ian society. 

Must  I  now  speak  of  myself  ?  Alas !  the 
subject  is  an  ungrateful  one ;  for  I  have  but  lit- 
tle to  win  the  favor  of  strangers. 

I  am  decidedly  plain.  I  was  plain  from  my 
childhood.  My  reflection  in  yonder  mirror  is 
that  of  a  pale,  dark,  melancholy-looking  man 
about  eight-and-thirty  years  of  age.  I  am  not 
yet  so  old  by  more  than  six  years ;  but  I  have 
/  suffered  much  both  in  mind  and  body.  My  in- 
fancy was  sickly,  and  for  many  months  I  under- 
went constant  pain  from  an  injury  done  to  my 
hip  in  falling  frohi  a  cherry-tree,  so  that  my 
countenance  learned  to  wear  an  expression  of 
settled  discontent,  which  subsequent  health  has 
failed  to  dispel.  I  limp  slightly  when  I  walk — 
so  slightly,  I  have  been  told,  that  it  has  more 
the  effect  of  a  peculiarity  in  my  gait  than  a  per- 
ceptible lameness.  I  am  somewhat  below  the 
middle  height;  my  habits  are  silent  and  re- 
served ;  I  dislike  much  society ;  and  I  love  to 
be  alone  for  some  hours  in  every  day. 

I  carried  this  solitary  habit  almost  to  a  pas- 
sion in  our  old  Burgundian  chateau ;  and,  as 
soon  as  I  attained  my  majority,  I  proceeded  to 
gratify  it,  though  in  a  somewhat  singular  man- 
ner. Ever  since  I  was  sixteen  years  of  age,  I 
had  occupied  a  wing  of  the  chateau  overlooking 
the  garden.  I  can  scarcely  say  that  I  occupied 
the  whole  of  it,  for  only  the  ground  floor  was 
kept  furnished.  Here  I  had  the  rooms  en  suite, 
where  no  one  but  myself,  or  my  valet,  attempt- 
ed to  enter.  The  first  of  these  was  my  library, 
the  second  my  studio  (for  at  that  time  I  was 
fond  of  painting),  the  third  my  sleeping-room. 
The  library  I  determined  to  improve,  according 
to  my  own  taste ;  and  when  I  entered  upon  my 
twenty-first  year,  I  carried  my  long-contempla- 
ted projects  into  effect. 

I  caused  the  windows,  which  opened  upon  a 
terrace  leading  down  to  the  shrubberies,  to  be 
set  in  Gothic  pointed  frames,  and  fitted  with 
stained  glass  in  rich  heraldic  devices.  I  had 
the  ceiling  supported  by  arches  of  carved  oak, 
like  the  Gothic  ceiling  of  a  church ;  and  six 
spacious  alcoves,  sunk  in  the  thick  walls,  con- 
tained my  books.  Between  each  alcove  were 


panels  carved  with  fruits,  and  foliage,  and  grace- 
ful arabesques,  and  hung  with  groups  of  arms, 
and  antique  coats  of  mail.  Large  crimson  dra- 
peries fell  in  massive  folds  before  the  doors ;  a 
Turkey  carpet  of  rich  deep  hues,  like  the  wings 
of  the  peacock  butterfly,  covered  the  centre  of 
the  floor;  several  easy-chairs  stood  here  and 
there  ;  and  a  table  covered  with  books,  writing 
materials,  reading  desks,  and  spirit  lamps  of 
different  sizes  and  constructions,  occupied  the 
middle  of  the  room.  In  winter  it  was  warmed 
by  hot  pipes  concealed  within  the  walls ;  and 
at  night  I  used  to  light  a  silver  lamp  of  grace- 
ful and  antique  design,  which  was  suspended  by 
chains  from  the  middle  of  the  ceiling,  and  the 
light  from  which  streamed  down  through  a 
globe  of  amethyst  glass  as  through  a  painted 
window.  But  the  most  striking  objects  in  my 
library  were  the  twelve  pillars  which  supported 
the  roof,  and  which  were  placed  about  five  feet 
distant  from  the  walls,  down  each  side  of  the 
apartment.  These,  during  my  father's  lifetime, 
had  consisted  of  gray  marble  ;  I  replaced  them 
by  twelve  colossal  statues,  carved  in  oak  by 
a  Flemish  artist,  representing  the  Apostles. 
There  was  something  very  stately  and  solemn 
about  these  lofty  draped  figures  standing  so  si- 
lently around,  especially  by  night.  And  night 
was  the  time  I  loved  best — the  time  for  thought 
— the  time  for  study.  I  delighted  in  the  quaint 
old  literature  of  the  Middle  Ages ;  and  it  pleased 
me  to  fancy  some  analogy  between  the  dark- 
ness of  the  silent  hours  before  day-dawn,  and 
that  early  period  during  which  poetry  and  art 
groped  onward,  side  by  side,  amid  the  gloom, 
looking  with  earnestness  and  hopefulness  to  the 
far-off  rising  of  the  sun.  Then  it  was  that  I 
would  take  down  the  folios  of  long-forgotten 
writers  from  the  dusty  shelves,  and  read  on  and 
on  during  the  quiet  night,  till  I  seemed  to  live 
back  into  those  old  times  of  emperors,  and 
knights,  and  poets,  who  wandered,  singing,  from 
land  to  land,  and  whose  very  names  have  now 
almost  faded  out  of  the  pages  of  history. 

I  made  the  early  Romance  languages  my 
study ;  I  gathered  together  the  chivalric  poetry 
of  the  Troubadours  and  the  Trouveres ;  I  studied 
all  the  varieties  of  the  Proven9al  dialect,  in 
French,  Italian,  and  Spanish.  The  rude  love- 
chants  of  the  Emperor  Frederick  and  his  chan- 
cellor ;  the  songs  of  the  Jongleurs  and  the  Ger- 
man Minnesingers ;  the  old  rhymes  of  King 
Arthur  and  his  knights ;  the  Romance  of  the 
Rose ;  the  Castilian  Roman  ceros ;  the  early 
Spanish  ballads ;  the  Ossianic  legends ;  the  an- 
cient chronicles  of  Froissart  and  of  Stowe ;  the 
strange  fantastic  mysteries  and  miracle  plays 
which  preceded  the  drama  throughout  Europe  ; 
all  " Niebelungen  Lieds,"  "Ottfrieds,"  "Brevi- 
aries of  Love,"  "  Cansioneros, "  Lives  of  the 
Saints,  "  Versos  de  arte  mayor,"  legends,  ser- 
ventes,  canzones,  or  black-letter  pamphlets, 
were  my  recreation  and  delight.  The'ophile's 
tastes  were  not  mine.  He  scoffed  at  my  worm- 
aten  volumes,  at  my  old  poetic  lore,  and  at  my 
church-like  sanctuary.  I  loved  the  place  dear- 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


ly,  for  all  that.  It  accorded  with  my  taste  for 
cathedral  architecture,  and  for  all  that  is  som- 
bre, solitary,  and  impressive. 

Very  different  was  the  chamber  opening  from 
it,  which  I  could  enter  by  withdrawing  a  cur- 
tain, and  which  presented  all  the  heterogeneous 
confusion  of  easels,  draperies,  lay-figures,  casts, 
rusty  arms,  sketches,  antique  furniture,  and  col- 
or-boxes, which  may  generally  be  found  in  the 
atelier  of  an  artist.  Here  it  was  my  custom  to 
spend  several  hours  during  each  day,  excepting 
when  I  took  my  sketch-book  under  my  arm, 
and  strolled  away  for  all  the  long  summer's 
morning,  amid  the  shady  hollows  and  rocky 
heights  which  extend  for  miles  around  that 
pleasant  spot ;  or  when  I  wandered,  book  in 
hand,  along  the  banks  of  the  neighboring  river, 
or  through  the  tangled  pathways  of  the  dark, 
silent  forest. 

At  such  times  as  these,  looking  round  from 
some  elevated  point  upon  the  massy  woods ;  the 
green  valleys;  the  sunny  vineyards,  with  the 
vignerons  singing  at  their  work;  the  rivulets 
gliding  like  veins  of  silver  ore  along  the  pasture 
lands,  or  dashing  in  foamy  cascades  from  preci- 
pice to  precipice ;  the  scattered  villages  and 
spires;  the  quaint  slated  turrets  of  our  old  he- 
reditary chateau  glistening  in  the  sun,  amid 
their  environment  of  dark  chestnut  trees  and 
stately  poplars  j  the  lofty  mountains  standing 
so  solemnly  and  distantly  around  —  at  such 
times,  I  repeat,  it  surprised  me  that  The'ophile 
could  relinquish  a  scene  of  such  rare  beauty, 
and  a  home  so  peaceful,  for  the  glaring  magnifi- 
cence, the  feverish  amusements,  and  the  hollow 
society  of  Paris. 

Oh,  the  unspeakable  beauty  of  sweet  Burgun- 
dy, the  vine-garden  of  France !  Who  can  con- 
ceive of  it  without  having  beheld  it  ?  Who  can 
so  admire  and  love  it  as  those  who  have  been 
born  in  its  bosom  ?  We  Burgundian  French- 
men cherish  our  native  province  as  we  would  a 
beautiful  bride,  ever  fresh,  ever  smiling,  ever 
young  !  As  the  Swiss  of  his  snowy  Alps  and  his 
Alp-roses  —  as  the  Englishman  of  his  wavy 
corn-fields — as  the  German  of  his  broad  feudal 
Rhine-river,  so  are  we  glad  and  proud  of  our 
mountains  and  our  vine-lands.  So  do  our 
hearts  beat,  and  our  eyes  kindle,  at  the  name  of 
Burgundy ! 

It  was  my  mother's  pride  and  mine  to  keep  up 
all  the  quaint  old  customs  of  our  ancestry  —  to 
assemble  our  tenantry  round  the  yule  log,  call- 
ed in  Burgundy  Suche  —  to  sing  carols  of  the 
"Little  Jesus"  —  to  entertain  the  wandering 
piper  —  to  attend  the  midnight  mass,  and  carry 
the  midnight  tapers  —  to  distribute  the  sugar- 
plums of  Noel  among  the  poor  children — to  pre- 
side at  the  supper  of  the  Rossignon,  and  to  or- 
der the  festivities  of  the  autumnal  Vine-feast 
and  the  May  pastimes — even  as  Gui  de  la  Tour 
used  in  the  olden  time,  when  our  family  stood 
high  in  power  and  rank  at  the  court  of  Bur- 
gundy. 

My  younger  brother  cared  nothing  for  these 
old  historical  obeservances  ;  and,  save  for  a  few 


days  at  the  commencement  of  the  shooting  sea- 
son, he  seldom  came  down  to  visit  us.  He  had 
accustomed  himself  now  to  the  excitement  of  a 
great  city ;  he  found  our  home  dull,  and  our 
pleasures  triste.  He  was  not  at  any  time  very 
fond  of  study;  he  soon. became  tired  of  sport- 
ing ;  and  in  less  than  a  week  he  was  ready  to 
die  from  ennui.  So  his  visits  grew  shorter  and 
more  infrequent,  and  we  seldom  saw  him  more 
than  once  in  every  year. 

The  last  occasion  upon  which  we  all  met  to- 
gether under  the  roof  of  our  own  home  was  for 
the  celebration  of  his  twenty- fifth  birthday. 
For  this  once  he  had  consented  to  leave  Paris, 
although  it  was  in  the  gay  month  of  May,  and 
to  give  us  a  week  of  his  society,  in  honor  of  this 
quarter  of  a  century  of  life  which  he  was  just 
completing.  And  he  really  came.  So  they 
rang  the  chapel  bells  as  if  for  a  wedding,  and  I 
rode  out  to  meet  him  at  the  railway  station. 
As  we  returned  through  the  village,  Pierre  the 
blacksmith  was  nailing  a  white  flag  to  the  old 
sign-post  in  front  of  his  door ;  and  the  school- 
children were  all  shouting  at  the  road-side ;  and 
the  old  women  were  all  peering  at  us  from  their 
cottage  windows ;  and  it  was  quite  a  triumphal 
entry,  considering  the  limited  resources  of  La- 
tour-sur-Creil. 


CHAPTER  II. 

A   STAR  RISES    IN   THE    SKY. 

IT  was  during  the  first  week  in  May  that  iny 
cousin  Adrienne  arrived.  Theophile  had  been 
at  home  about  four  days  when  my  mother  re- 
ceived the  letter  from  England  which  announced 
her  coming,  and  he  made  up  his  mind  to  remain 
a  short  time  beyond  his  intended  visit,  just  for 
the  purpose  of  meeting  her;  for  we  were  all 
somewhat  curious  to  see  Adrienne,  on  account 
of  her  foreign  residence  and  education.  Per- 
haps it  will  be  as  well  if,  in  this  place,  I  briefly 
sketch  the  outlines  of  her  history. 

My  mother's  maiden  name  was  Lachapelle. 
She  was  the  daughter  of  a  gentleman  of  Arast 
landed  property,  whose  estates  joined  those  of 
my  father,  and  she  had  a  younger  brother  named 
Adrien,  an.  officer  in  the  first  regiment  of  Chas- 
seurs, under  Napoleon.  The  battle  of  Water- 
loo was  fought — the  peace  ensued — Adrien  re- 
turned home  just  in  time  to  see  my  mother  mar- 
ried, and  then  went  over  to  England  —  to  the 
very  land  against  which  his  sword  had  been 
raised  so  long  and  so  often.  He  fell  in  love 
with  an  English  lady,  married  her,  and  made 
his  home  for  life  at  a  remote  country-seat  in  the 
county  of  Devon.  He  never  returned  to  France ; 
and  my  grandfather  died  shortly  after,  without 
again  beholding  the  face  of  his  son.  Time 
passed  on,  and  my  uncle  sent  us  word  that  he 
was  the  father  of  a  little  girl,  to  be  named  after 
himself — Adrienne.  From  this  time  an  unac- 
countable apathy  seemed  to  take  possession  of 
him ;  his  letters,  never  very  frequent,  became 


8 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


fewer  and  fewer,  and  at  last  ceased  altogether. 
Then  we  heard  that  his  wife  died,  and,  shortly 
after,  that  he  also  was  no  more.  My  mother 
offered  to  receive  and  educate  their  little  orphan, 
but  her  maternal  relatives  refused,  to  part  with 
her.  She  was  adopted  by  her  great-uncle,  an 
old  Devonshire  esquire,  who  surrounded  her  with 
masters ;  lavished  upon  her  every  kind  of  indul- 
gence ;  and  placed  her,  child  as  she  was,  at  the 
head  of  his  household.  Here  she  had  remained 
until  this  very  spring-time,  when  her  guardian 
died  suddenly,  bequeathing  to  her  the  bulk  of 
his  riches  in  addition  to  her  own  fortune,  and 
leaving  her  the  entire  control  of  her  actions  and 
her  property.  It  was  in  consequence  of  this 
loss  that  Adrienne  wrote  to  my  mother,  request- 
ing permission  to  visit  her  father's  sister,  and 
saying  that  she  could  no  longer  endure  to  re- 
main in  a  country  which  was,  for  her,  the  grave 
of  all  whom  she  had  loved. 

The  letter  was  touchingly  and  charmingly 
worded,  written  in  a  large  free  hand,  and  bor- 
dered with  deep  black.  I  need  scarcely  say 
that  my  mother's  reply  was  prompt,  kind,  and 
hospitable,  or  that  we  all  awaited  the  arrival  of 
our  English  cousin  with  some  little  impatience. 
The'ophile,  who  could  find  little  else  to  while 
away  the  hours,  occupied  the  chief  part  of  every 
day  in  wondering  if  she  were  pretty,  and  in 
casting  up  complicated  rows  of  figures,  in  the 
vain  endeavor  to  calculate  the  amount  of  her 
fortune  on  both  sides  of  the  Channel — which, 
however,  he  always  threw  aside  when  about  half 
completed.  My  mother  was  very  pale  and  si- 
lent, for  she  thought  of  the  father  and  brother 
who  had  passed  away.  As  for  me,  I  fear  I  was 
hypocrite  enough  to  affect  a  total  indifference 
upon  the  subject  of  our  visitor,  and  even  to 
murmur  audibly  against  the  disturbance  of  our 
household  quiet. 

The  day  came  at  last — the  day  appointed  by 
Adrienne  in  her  second  letter.  The  Paris  and 
Strasburg  line  of  railway  does  not  traverse  our 
part  of  Burgundy,  and  the  nearest  station  is  at 
Chalons,  full  eighteen  miles  away.  We  sent  a 
carriage  to  meet  her;  and,  as  we  could  not  tell 
by  what  train  to  expect  her,  we  gave  instructions 
to  the  servants  to  remain  all  day  at  the  station 
until  Mademoiselle  Lachapelle  should  arrive. 
It  was  quite  late  in  the  evening  before  they  re- 
turned. We  were  all  sitting  together  at  a  large 
open  window  in  the  best  reception-room,  a  lofty 
paneled  chamber  set  round  with  antique  mirrors 
and  hung  with  amber  damask,  commanding  a 
view  of  the  high  road  and  all  the  surrounding 
country.  The  dusk  had  closed  in  so  thickly 
upon  the  landscape  that  we  heard  the  quick 
rolling  of  the  wheels  long  before  the  carriage 
drew  near  enough  to  be  distinguished.  On  it 
came,  faintly  at  first  and  louder  by  degrees, 
along  the  level  road.  We  saw  the  flashing 
lamps  between  the  lime-trees  that  stand  for 
miles  and  miles  on  either  side — we  heard  the 
cracking  of  the  whip,  and  the  hoarse  cry  of  the 
postillion.  Nearer  it  came  and  nearer.  There 
was  the  throwing  open  of  gates — the  clattering 


in  upon  the  pavement  of  the  court-yard— the 
sudden  stoppage  before  the  tiall  entrance. 

"Diable  I"  said  my  brother,  with  a  suppressed 
yawn ;  "  I  am  glad  that  la  petite  Anylaise  has 
come  at  last,  for  I  am  furiously  hungry!" 

In  a  moment  the  door  was  thrown  open; 
"Mademoiselle  Lachapelle!"  was  announced; 
and  my  mother,  who  had  been  striving,  ever 
since  we  first  heard  the  distant  sound  of  wheels, 
to  maintain  her  usual  calm  and  dignified  bear- 
ing, now  stepped  forward  to  the  dark  figure 
standing  at  the  threshold,  and  saying,  in  a  low 
voice,  "My  dear  niece!"  folded  her  in  her 
arms,  and  imprinted  a  stately  kiss  upon  her 
forehead. 

Then  my  mother  introduced  us  both  by  name 
to  Adrienne,  and  led  her  straight  away  to  her 
own  apartments.  All  this  took  place  so  hur- 
riedly,, and  the  room  was  so  dark,  that  we  had 
not  yet  seen  her  face,  or  distinguished  more  of 
her  voice  than  a  few  faltered  sentences. 

But,  even  then,  I  thought  the  voice  was 
sweet ! 

They  were  a  long  time  away  —  more  than 
three  quarters  of  an  hour.  The'ophile  rang  for 
lights  while  we  were  waiting,  and  looked  at  his 
image  in  the  glass,  arranging  the  thick  curls  of 
his  golden  hair,  and  whistling  dreamily  to  him- 
self; while  every  now  and  then  he  would  stride 
impatiently  to  and  fro,  murmuring  agttinst  the 
delay,  and  exclaiming  that  he  should  be  starved 
ere  long.  As  for  me,  I  drew  a  volume  of  Uh- 
land's  poetry  from  my  pocket  and  tried  to  read ; 
but  my  mind  wandered  from  it,  and  I  went  over 
and  looked  out  at  the  pale  moon  rising  behind 
the  poplars,  and  at  the  still,  dark  landscape,  as 
it  lay  beyond  the  window  like  a  framed  picture. 
And  sometimes,  as  I  stood  there,  there  came 
the  swift  whirring  of  a  bat  close  before  my  face, 
and  sometimes  the  intermitting  passionate  song 
of  the  far-off  nightingales,  amid  the  topmost 
branches  of  the  trees. 

Suddenly  the  door  opened — they  entered — 
the  servant,  who  had  been  waiting  outside  for 
the  purpose,  stepped  forward  and  announced 
that  dinner  was  served — The'ophile,  as  usual, 
gave  his  arm  to  my  mother — I,  confusedly  and 
awkwardly,  handed  down  our  visitor,  without 
even  looking  at  or  speaking  to  her — and  thus, 
preceded  by  sen-ants  and  lights,  we  descended 
the  stairs  and  entered  the  dining-room. 

But,  when  we  were  seated  at  table,  I  raised 
rny  eyes  to  her  face  and  saw  that  she  was  beau- 
tiful. And  now  let  me  observe,  if  I  were  to  de- 
scribe her  as  she  seemed  to  me  that  night,  and 
for  the  few  weeks  following,  I  should  use  terms 
little  short  of  extravagance.  I  had  seen  few 
women  then,  save  the  sunburnt  peasants  who 
labored  with  their  husbands  and  brothers  in  our 
vineyards,  and,  on  rare  occasions,  the  daughters 
of  some  few  and  distant  neighbors.  Beauty 
and  youth  were  too  unfamiliar  to  me  that  I 
should  judge  of  them  very  narrowly,  and,  to  my 
eyes,  Adrieune  Lachapelle  seemed  radiant  as  an 
angel.  In  all  my  artist-dreams,  in  all  that  I 
had  pictured  to  myself  of  the  fair  ladies  of  the 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


songs  of  old,  I  had  never  imagined  any  thing  so  | 
unspeakably  fair.  And  yet  I  find  it  difficult  to  • 
say  in  what  her  loveliness  consisted.  It  was  ' 
not  in  her  eyes,  though  they  were  large,  and 
soft,  and  blue,  like  my  mother's  ;  nor  in  her 
mouth,  though  it  was  delicately  beautiful ;  nor 
in  the  contour  of  her  head,  graceful  and  self- 
poised,  like  that  of  the  young  Diana.  It  was 
not  in  her  features,  or  her  form,  or  in  any  one 
perfection  you  might  name  ;  but  I  think  it  lay, 
rather,  in  the  sweet  gentleness— gentle,  yet  ani- 
mated— of  her  expression.  Every  thought  and 
emotion  that  passed  through  her  mind  reflected 
itself  upon  her  countenance,  as  the  under-cur- 
rent of  a  streamlet  breaks  the  sunshine  into  rip- 
ples on  the  surface.  When  she  spoke,  her  color 
came  and  went  with  every  earnest  word.  Mirth- 
ful as  a  child,  the  simplest  jest  would  light  her 
face  with  smiles — smiles  not  only  of  the  lips, 
but  of  the  eyes.  A  sweet,  mournful  poem,  read 
aloud,  would  cover  her  cheeks  with  tears.  She 
varied  every  moment,  like  an  April  day ;  and 
when  she  blushed,  the  faint  crimson  would  suf- 
fuse her  very  brow,  as  a  sunset  on  the  Alps. 
But  I  am  speaking  of  her  now  as  I  saw  her  aft- 
er some  days,  not  as  I  saw  her  on  that  brief 
evening;  and,  even  so,  how  useless  is  my  at- 
tempt to  depict  in  words  that  which  I  can  not 
make  clear  to  my  own  thoughts!  Nothing  is 
more  difficult  than  to  describe  a  really  beautiful 
countenance  (especially  if  it  be  one  we  dearly 
love) ;  for  there  is  always,  in  real  beauty,  a 
something  for  which  we  find  no  equivalent  in 
language — a  something  so  refined,  so  evanes- 
cent, that  all  written  description  seems  poor 
and  clumsy  in  the  comparison.  Such  was  the 
beauty  of  Adrienne,  and  this  it  is  which,  as  I 
first  begin  to  speak  of  her,  seems  to  embarrass 
and  defy  me. 

The  dinner  was  long  and  formal.  Adrienne, 
in  her  black  dress,  bending  down  her  head  and 
scarcely  partaking  of  any  thing  placed  before 
her,  replied  lowly  and  by  monosyllables  to  the 
few  commonplaces  which  were  from  time  to 
time  addressed  to  her.  My  mother,  still  pale 
and  sad,  looked  toward  her  at  intervals,  but 
spoke  seldom.  Even  The'ophile,  after  a  few  ef- 
forts at  conversation,  said  no  more,  and  applied 
himself  wholly  to  the  business  of  the  table.  In- 
deed, he  was  the  only  one  among  us  to  whom  it 
was  not  almost  a  mockery ;  he  enjoyed  and  par- 
took of  it  as  usual.  For  myself,  I  never  once 
broke  the  silence,  but  sat  there  at  the  head  of 
the  board  like  one  dreaming ;  mechanically  per- 
forming my  duties  of  host ;  gazing  earnestly 
on  the  downcast  face  between  me  and  my  moth- 
er ;  and  listening  with  suspended  breath  to  every 
murmured  word  that  proceeded  from  her  lips. 

This  dinner-ceremony,  so  long,  so  silent,  so 
constrained,  came  at  last  to  a  conclusion.  We 
returned  to  the  salon,  whence,  after  a  few  mo- 
ments, Adrienne,  pleading  the  fatigue  of  her 
long  journey,  retired,  accompanied  by  my  moth- 
er, and,  as  far  as  the  room  door,  by  The'ophile, 
who  sprang  forward  to  hold  it  open  for  them  as 
they  passed. 


"What  a  wretched  evening!"  he  exclaimed, 
returning  and  flinging  himself  upon  a  fauteuil 
near  the  window.  "Mais  n'est-ce-pas  qu'elle 
est  belle,  cette  petite  cousine  ?" 

What  had  he  said  that  I  should  feel  the  hot 
blood  rush  up  to  my  brow  so  angrily  ?  What 
was  there  in  his  words  that  I  could  not  answer 
them?  Was  it  that  he  had  spoken  somewhat 
lightly,  and  that  I,  already,  could  not  bear  to 
hear  it  ?  I  know  not ;  but  it  seemed,  at  all 
events,  to  jar  upon  the  pleasant  harmony  of  my 
thoughts.  I  turned  away,  and  was  silent.  Pres- 
ently I  also  left  the  room,  and  went  down  into 
my  library  to  read. 

To  read!  Ah!  no;  I  could  not  read  that 
night.  It  was  all  in  vain  that  I  took  up  volume 
after  volume  of  my  favorite  authors.  Some- 
thing seemed  to  interpose  between  their  thoughts 
and  mine — something  whereby  I  was  made  rest- 
less, but  not  unhappy — something  which  prompt- 
ed me  at  last  to  close  the  book,  to  withdraw  the 
heavy  folds  that  curtained  out  the  night,  and  to 
stand  there  at  the  open  casement,  looking  up  to 
the  sky  and  the  stars. 

The  moonlight  lay  upon  the  turrets  and  the 
trees,  and  fell  in  patches,  faintly  colored  by  the 
stained  glass,  upon  the  floor  beside  me.  The 
Apostles  stood  within,  brown,  shadowy,  and  gi- 
gantic. The  silver  lamp  burned  dimly.  There 
was  a  magical  stillness  in  the  air — a  holiness 
unutterable  in  the  night-silence.  It  seemed  to 
me  as  if  all  Nature  were  one  vast  cathedral, 
with  blue  arching  roof — with  a  starry  multitude 
of  lamps,  and  with  myself  for  a  solitary  wor- 
shiper. And  in  that  supreme  hour  an  impulse 
of  infinite  gratitude  and  awe  came  over  my 
soul,  and  I  thought  of  heaven,  of  truth,  of  life, 
of  Adrienne. 

I  felt  as  one  who  reads  the  opening  page  of  a 
strange,  sweet  poem,  or  as  one  who  sits  for  the 
first  time  in  a  brilliant  theatre.  Beauty  and 
grace  are  met  on  every  side.  The  air  is  heavy 
with  perfume.  The  orchestra  gives  forth  a  low 
intoxicating  melody,  and  the  hush  of  expecta- 
tion is  on  every  lip.  His  heart  beats ;  his 
breath  comes  and  goes ;  he  trembles ;  his  eyes 
are  fixed  upon  the  dark  curtain  which  is  so  soon 
to  rise,  and  the  skirts  of  which  are  already 
fringed  with  the  radiance  beyond. 

And  was  it  not  truly  so  ?  Was  I  not  unfold- 
ing the  poem  in  my  heart — gazing  upon  that 
curtain  ?  Was  it  not  the  first  Act  of  my  Life- 
Drama  that  was  about  to  commence  ? 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE   FOUNTAIN   OP   ROSES. 

ABOUT  eight  miles  from  Latour-sur-Creil, 
half  way  up  a  wooded  mountain  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Strasburg,  there  may  be  found  a  deli- 
cious little  spring,  quite  shut  in  and  hidden  by 
trees  and  wild  rose-bushes,  which  was  christen- 
ed by  my  mother  La  Fontaine  aux  Roses.  It  is 
somewhat  difficult  of  access ;  for,  after  leaving 


10 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


the  cultivated  fields  and  vineyards  that  extend 
for  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  up  the  ascent,  you 
find  the  road,  which  has  been  getting  narrower 
and  narrower  all  the  way,  diminish  suddenly  to 
a  steep  shingly  footpath,  wide  enough  for  only 
one  person  at  a  time.  Following  this  amid  the 
thick  green  shade,  you  arrive  at  last,  wearily 
enough,  upon  a  little  level  platform  cut  sheer 
away,  as  it  would  seem,  from  the  shelving  rock, 
which  here  rises  precipitously  at  the  back,  in 
overhanging  blocks  of  rough  dark  granite.  Fa- 
cing you  lies  the  continuation  of  your  pathway, 
narrower,  steeper,  more  unpromising  than  be- 
fore ;  at  the  edge  of  the  platform,  the  cliff  (steep 
and  bush-grown)  seems  to  sink  away  beneath 
your  very  feet ;  to  the  left  a  tiny  opening,  or  fis- 
sure in  the  rock,  seems  to  indicate  the  track  of 
some  animal,  looking  too  narrow  for  the  passage 
of  any  thing  larger  than  a  goat.  Nevertheless, 
try  it.  You  will  find  it  sufficiently  wide  to  ad- 
mit of  your  entrance.  Once  through  the  little 
straits,  you  are  in  a  sort  of  natural  vault,  hol- 
lowed out  of  this  same  granite  ;  treading  softly 
upon  a  carpet  of  thick  gray  moss ;  making  to- 
ward that  day-opening  at  the  end  of  the  rough 
corridor,  about  forty  yards  in  advance.  When 
half  way  along,  you  pause  and  listen  :  it  is  the 
gush  and  gurgle  of  water  that  you  hear  echoing 
down  the  cool  stillness  of  the  granite  walls ; 
and,  hastening  on  to  the  end  with  what  speed 
you  may,  you  there  discover  a  little  ' '  heart  of 
green, "  all  set  round  with  trees,  and  rock-cliffs, 
and  wild  wavy  ferns ;  with  a  broad  boundless 
landscape  stretched  out  far  and  wide  at  one 
side,  and,  on  the  other,  a  fount  of  fresh  bright 
water  welling  up  through  a  bower  of  wild  dog- 
roses  from  the  inner  depths  of  the  rough  mount- 
ain mass  overhead.  Springing,  foaming,  leap- 
ing forth — eddying  down  into  a  pebbly  basin — 
flowing  with  a  sudden  calmness  in  and  out  the 
trees,  and  across  the  Yew  square  yards  of  grassy 
platform — winding,  as  it  were,  unconsciously  to- 
ward the  brow  of  the  cliff — whirling  over  in 
swift  madness,  and  falling,  ever  falling,  from 
ledge  to  ledge,  from  steep  to  steep,  all  spray, 
hurry,  and  confusion,  till  at  length  it  disappears 
among  the  forest  trees  down  far  below,  and  is 
seen  no  more — unless,  indeed,  it  might  be  that 
smooth  gliding  rivulet  which  shows  so  silverly 
along  the  valley,  and  flows,  miles  away,  into  the 
current  of  yon  broad  river  setting  onward  to  the 
sea! 

Exquisite  Fontaine  aux  Roses!  Was  I  not 
the  first  to  penetrate  thy  fairy  nook ;  to  drink 
of  thy  waters;  to  press  thine  untrodden  turf; 
to  lie  in  the  shadow  of  thy  trees,  gazing  upon 
thy  wild  mountain  flowers  and  feathery  grasses, 
and  listening  dreamily  to  the  sweet  cadence  of 
thy  falling  music?  Chancing  upon  thee  in  one 
lonely  walk  some  nine  years  past,  did  I  not  be- 
come the  Columbus  of  thy  vernal  world  ?  and 
may  not  I  (as  thy  discoverer)  be  pardoned  for 
dwelling,  perchance  too  tediously,  upon  the 
praises  of  thy  beauty  ?  Hither,  then,  one  gen- 
ial afternoon  in  May,  we  came  to  show  the  view 
to  my  cousin  Adrienne,  and  to  picnic  beside 


the  fountain.  She  had  been  with  us  about  a 
week;  and  by  this  time  the  first  strangeness 
had  worn  away,  and  we  had  become,  in  all  re- 
spects, better  acquainted.  We  were  charmed 
with  Adrienne.  Already  she  had  fascinated  us, 
as  she  fascinated  every  one  through  life,  with 
her  graceful  kindness  of  manner  j  her  deep  feel- 
ing for  truth  and  beauty ;  her  airy  wit  and  play- 
ful bearing.  Susceptible  alike  to  pleasure  or 
sadness — sunny,  yet  variable  —  now  childlike, 
enjoying — now  womanly,  tender— it  was  impos- 
sible to  determine  when,  or  in  what  mood,  she 
seemed  most  winning.  Hers  was  a  nature  wild, 
beautiful,  capricious — a  soul 

"  Where  shadows  dark  and  sunlight  sheen 
Alternate  come  and  go!" 

On  this  sweet  day  of  May  how  fair  and  sea- 
sonable she  looked,  like  a  delicate  May  flower, 
and  how  her  bright  laugh  cheered  the  rugged 
mountain-path,  and  lapsed  in  with  the  water- 
song  of  the  fountain !  Theophile  was  in  high 
spirits,  looked  handsome,  flushed,  excited.  My 
mother  unbent  for  once,  and  smiled,  and  con- 
versed gayly.  Even  I,  silent,  distant,  unsocial 
as  I  am,  grew  cheerful,  even  conversational,  un- 
der the  influence  of  that  bright  sky,  that  fount- 
ain nook,  tha.t  magical  presence  ! 

We  were  very  happy.  We  admired  the  view 
— we  sat  under  the  shadow  of  a  mountain  ash — 
we  opened  the  basket  of  sandwiches  which  The- 
ophile and  I  had  carried  alternately  up  the 
mountain — we  cooled  our  Champagne  bottles 
in  the  running  stream,  and  chinked  our  glasses 
laughingly  together — we  made  a  wreath  of  oak- 
leaves,  roses,  and  green  berries,  and  placed  it 
upon  Adrienne's  golden  hair — we  poured  a  liba- 
tion of  red  wine  into  the  dancing  waters,  and 
drank  to  the  "  flowery  -  kirtled  naiad"  of  the 
fountain — we  chatted — we  jested — we  sang — in 
short,  we  yielded  up  our  whole  hearts  to  the  in- 
fluence of  the  hour  and  the  place,  "giving  no 
thought  to  the  morrow." 

"How  pleasant  it  is,"  observed  my  mother, 
looking  round  with  a  contented  smile,  "to  be 
assembled  up  here,  on  this  beautiful  day,  where 
no  one  can  interrupt  or  find  us !  Do  you  know, 
these  trees  —  this  landscape  —  this  'enameled 
sward,'  as  it  is  called  by  the  romancists — nay, 
the  very  wine-glasses  yonder,  remind  me  irre- 
sistibly of  the  Decamerone  ?" 

"  I  had  often  wondered,"  said  Adrienne,  sud- 
denly, "who  it  was  that  originated  that  hack- 
neyed simile,  'enameled  sward;'  but  the  other 
day  I  found  it  somewhere  in  the  '  Purgatorio' 
of  Dante.  He  calls  it '  la  verde  smalto.'  How 
pretty  it  is— in  Italian!" 

"How  pretty  any  thing  is  in  Italian!"  ex- 
claimed Theophile.  "Why,  a  Neapolitan  fisher- 
man might  swear  at  you  for  an  hour,  and  you 
could  almost  fancy  that  he  was  addressing  to 
you  the  choicest  compliments — if  you  did  not 
understand  the  language.  I  have  heard  them 
at  it  many  a  time  in  the  Chiaja.  Two  of  the 
fellows,  with  their  scarlet  caps  and  black  curly 
beards,  will  stand  face  to  face,  leaning  against 
the  doors  of  their  houses,  or  even  lying  lazily  on 


MY  BKOTHER'S  WIFE. 


11 


the  ground,  and  swear  at  each  other  in  the  most 
deliciously  intonated  liquid  tones  for  hours  to- 
gether. It  is  one  of  their  national  amusements. " 

"  How  horrible  !  And  perhaps  one  assassin- 
ates the  other  afterward!" 

"By  no  means.  That  is  quite  a  lady's  no- 
tion !  They  are  the  greatest  cowards  imagina- 
ble. They  quarrel,  they  glare  upon  each  other, 
they  swear  to  their  heart's  content,  but  they  nev- 
er come  to  blows.  And  these  men's  forefathers 
were  the  masters  of  the  world !  Alas!  degener- 
ate Italy,  once  the  birthplace  of  heroes  and  the 
garden  of  Europe!" 

"But  it  is  a  garden  still!"  cried  Adrienne, 
warmly.  "It  has  lost  its  Caesars,  but  not  its 
vineyards,  its  olive-groves,  its  fair  Lombardian 
plains!" 

"True,  mademoiselle,"!  said,  turning  toward 
her  and  taking  up  the  theme.  "True,  it  is  a 
garden,  but  a  garden  in  ruins — a  garden  such  as 
your  English  Shelley  describes  in  the  '  Sensitive 
Plant' — such  as  Hood  pictures  in  his  'Haunted 
House.'  Rarest  exotics  spring  up  side  by  side 
with  the  nettle  and  the  deadly  nightshade  ;  the 
fountain  is  choked  and  moss-grown;  the  very 
sun-dial  is  broken,  for  what  need  is  there  to  mark 
the  progress  of  Time  where  Time  finds  nothing 
to  record  ?  There  are  statues  also,  defaced,  neg- 
lected, lying  in  the  grass ;  the  present  genera- 
tion, plodding  idly  on,  treads  them  deeper  and 
deeper  into  the  clay;  the  traveler,  the  stranger, 
alone  reverences  and,  re-erects  them.  They  are 
the  statues  of  Dante — of  Petrarch — of  Ariosto — 
of  Tasso !" 

"Do  not  omit  my  favorite  Metastasio,"  said 
Adrienne,  who  listened  while  I  spoke  with  a 
bright,  earnest  gaze  peculiar  to  herself,  and  which 
I  have  never  seen  on  any  other  countenance. 
"I  so  delight  in  his  long  musical  periods,  and, 
for  the  sake  of  his  harmony,  pardon  the  monot- 
ony of  his  plots.  And  pray  do  not  forget  that 
noble  woman  who  lavished  such  exquisite  verses 
on  so  worthless  a  husband — I  mean  Vittoria  Co- 
lonna." 

"It  appears  to  me,"  observed  my  mother, qui- 
etly, "  that  your  remarks  are  very  partial.  Pray, 
has  Italy  no  modern  poets  and  historians,  no 
men  of  eminence  whatever  ?  Have  you  nothing 
to  say  for  Manzoni — for  Casti — for  Pellico  ?" 

' '  Not  much, ' '  replied  Adrienne,  smiling.  '"I 
Promissi  Sposi'  is  tedions,  and  as  for  '  Gli  Ani- 
mali  Parlanti, '  it  is  very  uninteresting ;  Gay's 
and  La  Fontaine's  Fables  are  worth  a  thousand 
of  it.  Pellico's  prison-narrative  is  perfection, 
and  has,  I  suppose,  become  a  classic  in  almost 
every  language.  I  have  not  read  his  poetry." 

"  His  poetry ! "  echoed  The'ophile.  "  Oh,  de- 
fend me  from  his  poetry !  I  once  attempted  to 
read  his  tragedy  of  'Francesca  de  Rimini, 'but 
I  could  get  no  farther  than  the  end  of  the  first 
act.  It  is  a  feeble  imitation  of  Alfieri ;  and  his 
long  romanza,  '  La  Pia,'  founded  on  a  passage 
in  Dante,  is  a  weary  performance,  in  I  know  not 
how  many  cantos.  The  original  is  four  lines 
long,  and  one  of  the  sweetest,  saddest,  briefest 
stories  ever  written  in  verse." 


"  I  remember  it,"  said  Adrienne.  "  It  is  the 
tale  of  Madonna  Pia.  Her  husband  took  her  to 
a  castle  in  the  marshes  of  Volterra,  and  there 
watched  her  fade  and  die  beneath  the  noxious 
influence  of  the  malaria  incidental  to  the  swamps. 
A  fearful  vengeance !" 

' '  Fearful  indeed,  and  national ;  like  the 
swearing,"  said  Theophile.  "The  Italian  is 
cruel  and  cowardly ;  or,  rather,  he  was  both,  but 
now  he  is  only  the  latter."  * 

"But  Italy  has,  within  the  last  forty  years, 
produced  several  lyric  poets  of  considerable  mer- 
it," I  said,  after  a  pause.  "Do  you  know  any 
thing  of  Rosetti,  Berchet, Leopardi  ?" 

Adrienne  shook  her  head,  and  I  went  on. 
"  Rosetti  is  a  revolutionary  poet,  full  of  fire 
and  military  ardor.  His  songs  relate  chiefly  to 
the  Neapolitan  disturbances  of  1820  and  1837. 
There  is  one  commencing  '  0  Cittadini  air  ar- 
mi!'  (Oh,  citizens,  to  arms!),  and  another 
'L'Asilo  e  I'Arpa  deW  Esilio'  (The  Home  and 
the  Harp  of  the  Exile),  both  of  which  are  ad- 
mirable, and  have  the  heart  of  a  patriot  beating 
in  every  line.  He  was  exiled  in  consequence, 
and  fled  to  England.  Berchet,  too,  is  well  wor- 
thy your  attention.  His  political  romanzas  are 
both  novel  and  affecting." 

"And  Leopardi  ?"  asked  Adrienne.  "  Is  he 
equally  clever?" 

"  He  has  not  written  so  much  as  either  of  the 
others,  and  the  little  which  we  have  is,  for  the 
most  part,  fragmentary.  But  it  is  graceful, 
fresh,  suggestive,  like  the  ballad-poetry  of  Uh- 
land  and  Miiller.  There  is  one  little  strophe 
of  his  which  pleased  me  so  much,  and  is  so  ut- 
terly Germanic  in  style  and  conception,  that  I 
translated  it  into  English.  I  think  I  can  re- 
member it,  and  you  shall  tell  me  if  you  like  it : 
"  Parted  from  thy  native  bough, 
Whither,  whither  goest  thou, 

Leaflet  frail? 
From  the  beech-tree  where  I  grew 

In  the  vale, 
From  the  woods  all  wet  with  dew, 

Lo  1  the  wind  hath  torn  me ! 
O'er  the  mountain  tops  he  blew, 
And  hither  he  hath  borne  me ! 
With  him  wandering  for  aye, 

Until  he  forsakes  me, 
I,  with  many  others,  stray, 
Heedless  where  he  takes  me. 

Where  the  leaf  of  laurel  goes, 
And  the  leaflet  of  the  rose." 

"That  is  delicious !"  said  Adrienne,  her  eyes 
filled  with  tears.  "  It  is  simple,  yet  how  sweet ! 
Without  uttering  it  in  words,  it  seems  to  suggest 
a  feeling  of  Life  and  its  shadowy  Beyond.  What 
is  its  title?" 

"I  call  it  'The  Leaf  and  the  Breeze;'  but 
the  poet  has  only  prefixed  to  it  the  inappropri- 
ate and  modest  word  '  Imitazione.'  It  would 
make  a  beautiful  song  for  music." 

"Yes ;  but  the  composer  must  also  be  a  poet. 
Mendelssohn  should  have  done  it,  with  his  pro- 
found feeling  and  picturesque  mannerism.  I 
shall  ask  you  for  a  copy  of  that  poem — the  orig- 
inal as  well  as  the  translation." 

The  sun  was  now  sinking  lower  and  lower  on 
the  horizon,  and  shining  crimsonly  through  the 
belt  of  amber  vapor  that  skirted  the  landscape 


12 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


all  around.  The  air,'  too,  grew  somewhat  chill 
upon  that  mountain  height ;  and  the  birds,  twit- 
tering softly,  came  wheeling  round  the  trees  and 
fluttering  in  among  the  leaves  to  their  nests  in 
the  branches. 

The  conversation  dropped,  and  we  sat  for 
some  time  gazing  at  the  sunset.  Then,  as  if  by 
common  consent,  we  looked  into  one  another's 
faces,  and  rose  up  fronTour  pleasant  seat  beneath 
the  mountain  ash.  It  had  been  a  happy  day ; 
but  the  sweetest  poem  must  end,  and  we  felt  that 
this  had  come  to  a  conclusion. 

So  we  bade  farewell  to  La  Fontaine  aux  Hoses, 
and  went  down  silently  into  the  brown  shadows 
•  of  the  valley. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

DREAMING. 

WE  have  an  old  French  proverb  which  says 
"  Le  bien  vient  en  dormant."  Better  had  it  been 
written  "L'amour  vient  en  dormant,"  which  it 
truly  does.  Love !  why  the  very  word  hath 
some  such  slumberous  spell  in  the  mere  sound 
of  it !  Doth  it  not  come  to  us,  for  the  most  part, 
gradually,  imperceptibly — as  a  dream  to  our 
sleeping?  Nay,  is  it  not  a  dream,  a  golden  gos- 
samer dream,  transfiguring  the  shows  of  Earth, 
and  clothing  all  Life  as  in  a  divine  garment? 

In  the  semblance  of  a  dream  it  came  to  me ; 
and  I  knew  it  not  until  the  time  arrived  when  I 
could  no  longer  deny  it,  even  to  myself.  I  loved 
her.  I  loved  her  passionately.  I  loved  her 
with  all  the  force  of  a  heart  long  silent  and  long 
solitary,  and  yet  I  did  not  discover  it  for  many 
weeks.  Be  it  not  supposed,  for  this  reason,  that 
I  loved  suddenly.  Ah !  no.  I  had  felt  the  joy 
at  my  heart,  though  I  knew  not  whence  it  came. 
I  had  seen  new  gladness  in  life — in  thought — 
in  the  world.  My  tongue  had  been  loosened  in 
speech,  so  that  I  sat  no  longer  like  a  misanthrope 
among  others,  but,  emboldened  by  her  presence, 
learned  to  pour  forth  my  thoughts,  if  not  with 
eloquence,  at  least  with  that  earnestness  which 
befits  a  true  man.  And  she  had  listened  to  me 
— listened  with  attention — with  smiles — it  might 
be,  sometimes,  with  tears.  Oh,  blessed  time 
when  I  loved  and  knew  it  not !  Oh,  still  more 
blessed  morning  of  early  June  when  I  first  in- 
terpreted the  sweet  new  secret  of  my  heart !  It 
happened  thus : 

I  had  risen  early— earlier  than  was  usual  with 
me;  for  I  awoke  soon  after  day,  and  could 
not  sleep  again.  Aimlessly,  carelessly,  with 
thoughts  elsewhere  busy,  I  strolled  into  my 
painting-room,  and,  taking  my  accustomed  seat, 
leaned  my  head  upon  my  hand,  and  gazed  va- 
cantly upon  the  half-finished  picture  that  stood 
before  me  on  the  easel. 

It  was  an  interior— how  well  I  remember  it ! 
— a  church  interior,  lofty,  pillared,  gloomy  with 
shadow  and  deep-stained  oriels;  empty,  save  a 
few  scattered  worshipers  kneeling  on  the  polish- 
ed flags  in  the  foreground;  with  vacant  altar, 


and  long  tenebrous  aisles  lighted  dimly  in  the 
distance.  An  interior  such  as  I  delighted  to 
imagine ;  for,  as  I  have  said,  I  had  a  true  love 
and  appreciation  of  cathedral  architecture,  es- 
pecially of  that  order  called  the  Flamboyant 
Gothic. 

Thus  thinking  and  looking,  I  resumed  the, 
palette  and  brushes  close  at  hand,  and  began,  as 
it  were  mechanically,  to  fill  in  the  outline  of  a 
female  figure  kneeling  before  a  confessional  in 
the  foreground.  The  confessional  itself,  with 
carved  foliage  and  cherubim,  and  florid  pedi- 
ment and  traceried  lattice,  stood,  half  hidden, 
in  a  dark  angle  of  shadow ;  but  I  had  so  con- 
trived that  a  single  thread  of  light,  falling  through 
a  partially  opened  door,  should  irradiate  the 
face  and  head  of  the  penitent  almost  like  an 
emblematic  glory. 

On  this  head  and  face  I  worked,  still  absent- 
ly, still  with  thoughts  intent  on  other  things. 
Strange,  that  the  eye  and  the  hand  should  toil 
on  without  the  master-guidance  of  the  mind ! 
Stranger  yet  that  the  eye  and  the  hand  should, 
all  unconsciously,  respond  to  that  inner  work- 
ing, and  begin  shaping  forth  the  hidden  thought 
upon  the  canvas,  visibly  realizing  the  invisible ! 

Suddenly  I  dropped  the  pencil — started — rose 
— returned,  and  looked  long  and  earnestly,  till 
the  gathering  tears  blotted  out  and  blurred  the 
picture  from  my  sight. 

In  that  face  I  had  painted  the  face  of  Adri- 
enne! 

I  can  not  tell  now  how  long  I  stood  there 
gazing — gazing,  or  in  what  vague,  unreflecting 
state  of  confused  happiness  I  was ;  but,  all  at 
once,  a  sudden  flush  overspread  my  counte- 
nance— I  trembled — I  turned  away  from  the  pic- 
ture— I  paced  rapidly  up  and  down  the  room. 

"  Yes,  Adrienne,"!  cried  aloud,  with  passion- 
ate vehemence,  "I  love  thee!  I  love  thee!" 

Oh  happy  secret,  so  welcome  and  so  beauti- 
ful !  And  yet,  even  then,  I  seemed  both  to  re- 
joice at  and  fear  it ! 

The  room  felt  close  and  oppressive.  I  could 
scarcely  breathe. 

I  threw  open  the  windows,  and  stepped  out 
into  the  morning. 

There  was  a  warm  soft  air  abroad,  heavy  to 
the  sense,  and  somewhat  obscuring  the  distant 
landscape.  The  turf  sent  up  a  pleasant  odor 
of  fresh  earth.  The  sky  was  dull  and  gray. 
Every  now  and  then  a  breath  of  fresh  breeze 
came  sweeping  over  the  fields,  bearing  with  it 
a  perfume  of  sweet  hay  and  May  blossom,  and 
shaking  the  bright  drops  from  off  the  broad 
leaves  of  the  chestnuts  and  acacias.  The  trees 
in  the  garden  looked  round  and  shadowy.  The 
grass  was  full  of  tiny  yellow  flowers,  and  stretch- 
ed out  in  one  broad  green  and  golden  sweep 
down  to  the  river  bank.  All  was  still  and  slum- 
brous in  the  dreamy  atmosphere  of  the  June 
morning. 

Forth  I  went,  restless  —  intoxicated,  with  a 
fountain  of  gladness  welling  up  from  my  heart. 
Forth  I  went,  across  the  long  wet  grass  and  into 
the  shade  of  the  tall  trees.  I  looked  back  at 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


13 


the  chateau,  with  its  steep  roof,  its  long  ranges 
of  small  glittering  windows,  and  its  quaint  point- 
ed slate-roofed  turrets.  It  was  my  chateau,  the 
chateau  of  my  fathers,  and  I  thought  in  my 
heart  how  fair  would  life  be  were  she  the  mis- 
tress of  those  gray  old  walls.  To  the  left  I  saw 
her  window,  curtained  and  closed.  I  stretched 
out  my  arms  as  if  embracing  her,  and  again  I 
said, 

"  I  love  thee,  Adrienne !  I  love  thee !" 

I  passed  out  of  the  wicket-gate  and  into  the 
forest  beyond.  The  sun  came  slowly  out,  and 
the  birds  sang  in  the  boughs.  There  were  wild 
strawberry-blossoms  and  violets  under  my  feet 
— green  leaves,  and  sunshine,  and  openings  of 
blue  sky  overhead.  A  young  lizard,  feeble, 
emerald-hued,  half-stupefied,  lay  in  my  path, 
and  I  stooped  down  and  placed  it  on  one  side 
amid  some  high  soft  grasses ;  for  my  heart  was 
full  of  love,  even  for  the  green  lizard.  Then 
the  shade  grew  deeper.  The  clouds  met,  and 
melted  into  a  shower,  and  I  uncovered  my  head 
and  looked  up,  and  let  the  warm  rain-drops 
splash  heavily  upon  my  brow.  Then  the  sun 
came  -out  again ;  and  the  birds  rejoiced  and 
shook  their  sleek  plumage,  and  sang  more  mer- 
rily than  before.  And  I  went  on,  still  on,  amid 
the  living  stillness  of  the  forest,  with  a  new  fire 
in  my  eye  and  a  new  freedom  in  my  step,  and 
with  the  same  words  of  foolish  exultation  ever 
on  my  lips, 

"I  love  thee!  I  love  thee!" 

Once  I  paused  and  asked  myself,  "Art  thou 
beloved  also?"  But  with  the  question  came  a 
doubt,  and  the  heavens  were  darkened.  Then 
I  said,  "Let  me  be  happy,  if  it  be  only  for  this 
one  day!"  And  I  dismissed  the  question  and 
the  doubt,  and  went  forward  blindly  rejoicing — 
rejoicing  that  I  had  seen,  that  I  loved  her — 
wishing  that  she  might  remain  in  Burgundy 
forever — drinking  in  hope  and  joy  from  every 
sight  and  sound  :  from  the  rustling  of  the  leaves, 
from  the  song  of  the  wood-birds,  from  the  hum 
of  the  wild  bees. 

"  Ahi  con  che  affetto  araore  e  il  del  pregai,* 
Che  fosse  eterno  si  dolce  soggiorno  ; 
Ma  fu  la  speme  al  ver  lunge  assail" 

Dreaming,  dreaming  —  consciously  dreaming, 
and  refusing  to  be  awakened ! 


CHAPTER  V. 

WAKING. 

THERE  is  a  German  tradition  respecting  a 
certain  Saint  Elizabeth  of  Marburg,  who,  in 
proof  of  her  sanctity,  hung  out  her  washing  to 
dry  on  a  sunbeam.  To  this  saint,  by  one  of 
those  strange  contradictory  impulses  of  our  na- 
ture which  sometimes  contrast  the  saddest  with 
the  most  ludicrous  things,  I  involuntarily  com- 
pared myself,  as  I  sat  silently,  apart  in  a  dark 
corner  of  the  salon  some  few  evenings  after  my 

*  TRANS. —Ah!  with  what  earnestness  did  I  pray  to 
Heaven  and  Love  that  so  sweet  a  stay  should  be  eternal; 
but  my  hopes  were  far  from  anticipating  the  truth ! 


ramble  in  the  forest.  Had  I  not  trusted  to  an 
illusion  as  glittering,  as  beautiful,  as  unsub- 
stantial ?  Had  I  not  hung  my  hopes  on  a  sun- 
beam? 

Alas !  it  needed  but  a  brief  time  to  work  this 
change — to  steal  the  brightness  from  my  dream 
and  the  hope  from  my  heart. 

The'ophile  loved  her.  I  was  convinced  that 
he  loved  her.  HaQ  I  not  seen  him  walking  be- 
side her  in  the  garden-paths  on  the  evening  of 
that  day — that  one  happy  day ;  and  had  it  not 
chilled  me  even  then,  although  I  knew  not  why  ? 
Since  that  time  had  not  his  attentions  been  re- 
doubled? Was  he  not  hovering  round  her  at 
all  hours  ?  Sitting  beside  her  at  table  ?  Rid- 
ing with  her?  Walking  with  her?  Reading 
to  her  while  she  sat  embroidering  under  the  la- 
burnums? Nay,  is  he  not  at  this  moment  hang- 
ing over  her,  as  she  looks  through  the  music 
lying  loosely  upon  the  piano,  and  allows  her 
fingers  to  wander  idly  along  the  ivory  keys? 
Is  she  not  listening,  with  head  half  turned  aside 
— listening  to  his  low  speaking,  and  thinking 
nothing  of  piano  or  music  ? 

My  mother  is  not  present,  and  I  am  affecting 
to  read  by  the  waning  twilight.  They  are  quite 
at  the  farther  end  of  the  room,  and  they  speak 
in  that  subdued  tone  which  people's  voices  are 
so  apt  to  assume  in  the  dusky  hour.  I  watch 
them  jealously  over  the  edge  of  my  book.  I 
can  not  hear  any  thing  they  say.  I  neither 
wish  nor  try  to  hear ;  but  I  can  not  help  look- 
ing at  them ;  and,  though  I  turn  resolutely  to 
the  window  every  now  and  then,  I  find  myself, 
the  very  next  minute,  falling  back  into  the  old 
posture.  I  am  very  unhappy  —  very  lonely! 
"  Ah !"  I  think  bitterly  to  myself,  "  if  she  could 
but  know  how  I  love  her !  if  she  could  but  judge 
between  us,  and  choose  the  one  who  loves  her 
best!" 

Theophile  is  still  bending  over  her — lower, 
lower!  His  yellow  curls  shine  through  the 
gloom.  How  handsome  he  is  !  There  is  a  mir- 
ror near  me  (the  room  is  paneled  with  mir- 
rors), and  I  look  up,  with  an  angry  pang,  at  my 
own  sallow,  sorrowful  countenance.  What !  am 
I  envious  already?  Envious  as  well  as  jealous? 
I  feel  the  hot  blood  flush  up  to  my  face  for  very 
shame — I  struggle  resolutely  with  my  own  heart 
— I  fix  my  eyes  upon  the  book,  but  the  letters 
waver,  and  grow  distorted,  and  swim  before 
them.  Now  I  reproach  myself.  After  all,  it 
is  I,  and  only  I,  who  am  to  blame !  Why,  I 
loved  her  from  the  first.  I  loved  her  from  that 
very  night,  five  long  weeks  ago,  when  she  first 
sat  before  my  eyes,  so  pale,  so  silent,  so  beauti- 
ful, in  that  dining  parlor  below !  Why  did  I 
not  try  to  win  her  then,  even  then,  and  every 
succeeding  day?  Why  did  I  leave  the  field 
open  to  another?  I  have  education,  I  have 
heart,  I  have  a  wild  latent  poetry  in  my  nature 
wherewith  I  might  have  won  a  woman's  love  as 
easily  as  with  perfumed  locks,  and  compliments, 
and  a  low  flattering  voice!  Pshaw!  am  I  a 
man,  that  I  should  have  sat  thus  tamely  by 
and  lost  the  treasure  without  a  single  effort  ? 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


Would  she  not  despise  me  now  if  she  knew  how 
I  loved,  how  I  loitered,  how  I  suffered  ? 

Thinking  thus,  I  lash  myself  to  fury.  I  feel 
an  impulse  upon  me  to  utter  my  rage  aloud — 
to  pace  violently  up  and  down  the  room — to  tear 
the  book  to  pieces  which  I  hold  in  my  hand ! 
But,  for  all  this,  I  sit  still  and  silent.  I  press 
my  lips  together,  and  clench  my  hands  till  the 
nails  wound  the  palm.  I  becbme  alternately  hot 
and  cold.  I  endure  a  martyrdom  of  envy,  jeal- 
ousy, and  remorse;  and  still  I  sit  watching  them 
over  the  edge  of  my  book,  and  still  The'ophile 
bends  down  to  Adrienne  till  his  yellow  curls  al- 
most meet  the  soft  braids  of  her  lustrous  hair! 

All  at  once  she  touches  the  instrument  again, 
and  plays  some  few  notes  of  a  very  simple,  but  a 
plaintive  symphony.  The'ophile  draws  back  and 
leans  against  the  wall,  listening.  I  breathe  more 
freely  now  that  the  distance  between  them  is 
greater.  Presently  the  notes  of  the  symphony 
become  fewer  and  fainter,  like  the  last  drops  of 
a  shower — there  is  a  moment  of  suspense — then 
her  delicious  voice,  modulated  to  a  low,  clear 
under-tone,  inexpressibly  pathetic  and  sweet, 
sings  this  little  ballad : 

"  Oh,  lady,  thou  art  fair  and  free 

As  are  the  heavens  above  thee ! 
A  student  I,  of  low  degree — 
What  wouldst  thou  say  if  thou  couldst  see 

This  heart,  which  dares  to  love  thee? 

"  Thou  hast  been  told  that  rank  and  state 

Are  gifts  beyond  all  prizing. 
The  poet  singing  at  thy  gate 
Were  all  too  lowly  for  thy  hate, 

Too  poor  for  thy  despising ! 
M  So  proud,  and  yet  so  angel-sweet ! 

I  fall  down  and  adore  thee  : 
And  oh !  whene'er  we  chance  to  meet, 
I  stand  back  in  the  public  street, 

And  bare  my  head  before  thee. 
"'Tis  said  that  thou  wilt  wedded  be 

To  some  more  noble  lover. 
To-day  the  bells  ring  out  for  thee, 
To-morrow  they  will  toll  for  me, 

When  all  my  tears  are  over. 

"  What  radiant  party  passes  by 

With  plumes  and  pennons  flying? 
Thy  wedding  train  ?     Nay,  then,  will  I 
Straight  in  thy  path  all  prostrate  lie — 
One  look,  love ! — I  am  dying !" 

The  song  is  a  simple  song  enough — a  transla- 
tion of  a  little  German  ballad — and  yet  it  moves 
me  deeply.  Toward  the  last  verse  her  voice 
grows  lower  and  lower,  with  breaks  and  pauses, 
and  at  last  trembles,  fails,  sobs  forth  despairing- 
ly— then  ceases  altogether. 

When  it  is  ended  The'ophile  applauds,  enrap- 
tured ;  and  I  sit  speechless,  feeling  as  if  a  sor- 
rowful hand  had  been  laid  upon  my  heart.  Per- 
haps it  is  the  revulsion  of  feeling  from  wild  rage 
to  melancholy— perhaps  it  is  that  the'little  story 
conveyed  in  those  simple  verses  touches  a  chord 
in  my  own  breast — answers  to  a  thought  in  my 
own 'mind.  At  all  events,  it  utterly  subdues  and 
saddens  me. 

Once  more  Theophile  bends  down.  By  this 
time  it  has  grown  so  dusk  that  his  yellow  locks 
are  no  longer  visible.  I  still  sit  silently  in  the 
dark  corner,  affecting  to  read,  and  my  tears  fall 
slowly  and  heavily,  one  by  one,  upon  the  open 
pages. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  END   OF   THE   FIRST  ACT. 

"WiSH  me  happiness,  monfrlre!"  said  The- 
ophile, springing  up  from  his  chair,  and  advan- 
cing toward  me  with  outstretched  hands. 

It  was  in  my  mother's  breakfast  parlor.  She 
was  sitting  near  the  window,  with  her  hands  ly- 
ing folded  together  on  her  lap,  and  some  pens 
and  paper  spread  upon  the  little  work-table  be- 
side her.  Sire  turned  her  face  slowly  toward  me 
as  I  entered.  There  was  a  faint  flush  on  her 
cheeks.  She  looked  agitated,  but  happy. 

"  Yes,  Paul,"  she  said,  with  a  voice  slightly 
tremulous,  "to-day  you  must  rejoice  with  us. 
Your  brother  is  engaged  to  Adrienne. "" 

So,  then,  it  was  over !  I  felt  myself  turn  pale ; 
but  I  was  very  calm. 

"I have  expected  this,  madame,"  I  said.  "It 
does  not  surprise  me." 

"  Indeed !  Well,  it  is  not  surprising.  They 
are  so  suited  to  each  other  in  every  respect." 
And  my  mother  looked  up  admiringly  in  my 
brother's  face.  "It  is  a  most  happy  event!" 
she  added,  with  a  sigh. 

"A  most  happy  event,  madame,"  I  echoed. 

"And  so  advantageous  with  regard  to  prop- 
erty. Adrienne  is  rich." 

"  A  clear  rent-roll  of  three  hundred  thousand 
francs  per  annum  !"  interrupted  Theophile,  joy- 
ously. "We  shall  be  very  rich.  I  mean  to  buy 
the  Hauteville  estate  for  our  country  residence. 
It  is  just  announced  for  sale.  Did  you  hear  of 
it?" 

I  shook  my  head.  I  could  not  trust  my  voice 
to  speak. 

"  Yes,  it  is  announced  at  last — for  two  hund- 
red and  fifty  thousand  francs !  It  is  a  high  price, 
but  I  am  determined  to  have  it,  for  it  was  for- 
merly one  of  the  possessions  of  our  family.  Be- 
sides, we  shall,  of  course,  live  a  great  deal  in 
Paris,  and  we  can  come  down  here  every  sum- 
mer en  retraite.  Will  it  not  be  charming  ?" 

"  Charming,  indeed." 

Strange!  the  harsh, level  tones  of  my  voice, 
so  cold,  so  mechanical,  seemed  scarcely  to  pro- 
ceed from  my  own  lips,  but  sounded  to  my  ear 
as  if  they  were  uttered  near  me  by  some  other 
speaker. 

"It  is  really  remarkable  that  the  Hauteville 
property  should  be  vacant  so  opportunely.  Noth- 
ing could  have  happened  better.  And  when  we 
come  down,  to  be  so  close  to  you  !  Why,  it  will 
be  almost  the  same  as  living  at  home !  We  can 
have  a  path  laid  down  through  the  shrubbery, 
and  a  gate  of  communication,  and  so  run  from 
one  house  to  the  other  in  a  few  moments." 

"And I  shall  see  you  for  many  weeks  in  ev- 
ery year, "  said  my  mother,  with  the  tears  stand- 
ing in  her  eyes. 

' c  Weeks  !  nay,  months,  ma  chere  mere, "  said 
The'ophile,  kissing  her  hand.  "I  have  so  many 
plans — so  many  improvements  in  my  head ;  and 
I  shall  superintend  all  the  alterations  myself. 
There  is  a  moat  there  which  I  mean  to  have 
filled  up;  timber  to  be  felled;  conservatories 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


15 


and  out-houses  to  build ;  stables  to  repair.  Oh ! 
it  will  need  an  army  of  workmen,  and  I  must 
come  down  to  see  that  every  thing  is  carried  out 
as  I  wish.  I  shall  be  here  for  a  long  time  in  the 
autumn.  Besides,  Adrienne  is  so  fond  of  Bur- 
gundy !" 

Plans — improvements — alterations  !  Alas! 
gentle  lady,  had  I  been  thy  choice,  methinks 
there  would  have  been  less  thought  of  thy 
wealth,  and  more,  far  more  of  thee  ! 

I  fancy  that  even  my  mother,  with  all  her  love 
for  The'ophile,  and  all  her  native  coldness  of  dis- 
position, felt  this,  for  she  turned  the  conversa- 
tion. 

"Adrienne  is  a  charming  demoiselle,"  she 
said.  "  I  like  the  English  system  of  education, 
it  is  so  solid.  She  is  not  only  accomplished, 
but  amiable,  polished,  and  thoroughly  well- 
read." 

"And  so  beautiful,  mother!  How  she  will 
be  admired  in  Paris !  We  must  take  a  man- 
sion in  the  Chaussee  d'Antin,  and  she  shall  have 
a  fixed  reception-evening  in  each  week." 

"The'ophile  is  very  happy,  is  he  not?"  said 
my  mother,  appealing  directly  to  me  for  a  reply. 
"It  would  have  been  impossible  for  him  to  have 
made  a  more  eligible  connection !" 

"Impossible,  madame,"!  said,  huskily. 

"Your  brother  now  receives  from  me  an  in- 
come of  one  hundred  thousand  francs  yearly; 
but  it  is  my  intention  henceforth  to  double  that 
sum.  They  must  not  be  too  unequally  matched 
in  point  of  fortune.  However,  at  my  death, 
The'ophile's  property  will  be  as  large  as  that  of 
his  wife.  But  this  is  not  to  the  purpose.  We 
wished  to  ask  you,  Paul,  if  you  would  object  to 
receive  them  here  on  their  return  from  the  wed- 
ding tour  ?  The  Hauteville  chateau  can  not  be 
got  ready  for  them  in  time ;  and  they  might 
take  the  whole  of  the  right  wing  without  incon- 
venience to  any  of  us ;  for  you,  although  mas- 
ter here,  occupy  only  a  suite  of  three  rooms." 

"Be  it  so,  madame,"!  replied,  absently. 

"Thank  you.  I  will  take  care  that  none  of 
our  arrangements  shall  disturb  you.  The  mar- 
riage, of  course,  must  take  place  here.  We 
ought  to  give  a  ball  and  fete  upon  the  occasion." 

"Certainly!"  cried  The'ophile — "that  is,  if 
Paul  permits  it.  There  are  many  whom  I 
should  wish  to  ask  from  Paris,  besides  all  the 
neighbors  here.  And  we  must  have  sports  for 
the  tenanti'y,  and — " 

"And  Adrienne  must  be  asked  if  she  would 
not  like  to  invite  some  English  friends,"  inter- 
rupted my  mother. 

"The'ophile !"  said  a  voice  from  the  garden. 
"The'ophile!" 

I  started.  My  icy  self-possession,  hitherto 
so  stoically  preserved,  threatened  to  give  way  at 
the  sound  of  that  sweet  voice  which  called  so 
familiarly  upon  his  name.  In  one  instant  the 
full  sense  of  my  desolation  rushed  upon  me. 
In  that  single  word,  revealing  so  much  of  love 
and  home,  I  seemed  to  see  all  the  extent  of 
happiness  which  I  had  lost ! . 

The'ophile  sprang  to  the  window. 


"  I  will  bring  her  here,"  he  cried,  as  he  step- 
ped out  upon  the  terrace  and  flew  to  meet  her. 
I  turned  toward  the  door.     I  could  not  stay 
to  see  them  return  together. 

"Madame,"  I  said,  articulating  the  words 
hoarsely  and  with  difficulty,  "Madame,  this 
house,  and  all  that  it  contains,  is  at  your  dis- 
posal, and — and  at  my  brother's.  Make  any 
arrangements  you  think  proper,  but  do  nut — do 
not  take  the  trouble  to  consult  me !" 

There  must  have  been  a  strange  unusual 
something  in  my  tone,  or  in  the  expression  of 
my  countenance,  for  my  mother  turned  sudden- 
ly, looked  at  me,  and  half  rose  from  her  chair. 

"Mon  Dieu!"  she  said,  hurriedly,  "what  is 
the  matter?" 

My  hand  was  on  the  lock — I  trembled  in  ev- 
ery limb — I  heard  their  voices  approaching — 
nay,  I  heard  the  very  rustle  of  Adrienne's  dress 
upon  the  terrace ! 

"Nothing,  madame,"  I  said,  and  closed  the 
door. 

Scarcely  master  of  myself,  I  ran  along  the 
corridor  and  across  the  hall.  My  favorite 
hound,  who  had  been  lying  near  the  door  of 
the  library,  came  bounding  toward  me ;  but  I 
spurned  him  with  my  foot  and  passed  on.  In 
the  library  I  paused  and  looked  around  with  a 
kind  of  angry  despair. 

"Alas  !  ye  books,"  I  cried,  "of  what  use  are 
ye  ?  Poets,  philosophers,  historians,  what  do 
you  teach  us  ?  Can  you  give  us  peace  or  wis- 
dom ?  Be  ye  accursed !  Man  in  his  savage 
state  alone  is  happy!" 

The  curtain  that  led  to  the  painting-room 
was  drawn  aside.  Pacing  up  and  down,  back- 
ward and  forward,  raging  in  my  strong  passion 
like  a  caged  panther,  I  went  in. 

These  scenes  of  my  former  occupations  seem- 
ed hateful  to  me.  What  was  art,  or  science,  or 
literature  to  me,  now  or  henceforward  ?  Tricks, 
phantasms,  accursed  phantasms,  all ! 

A  cast  of  the  Medicean  Venus  stood  in  my 
path.  I  dashed  it  down  with  one  blow  of  my 
hand,  and*  trampled  the  smiling  features  into 
dust  and  fragments.  The  last  work  of  my 
hands — the  unfinished  interior — stood  yonder 
on  the  easel.  I  advanced  toward  it  and  ex- 
tended a  destructive  hand  —  then  I  paused — 
stood  still— dropped  upon  a  seat  before  it,  and 
covering  my  face  with  my  hands,  burst  into  an 
agony  of  tears.  Adrienne's  portrait!  Adri- 
enne's portrait,  painted  there  by  me  a  few  short 
days  ago,  and  now  smiling  toward  me  from  the 
canvas !  Oh,  fair  cousin,  how  dearly  this  heart 
loved  thee ! 

I  know  not  what  burning  visions,  what  deso- 
late retrospections,  what  wild  plans  for  the  dim 
future  passed  through  my  mind  as  I  sat  there 
with  my  head  bent  down  upon  the  easel,  and  my 
whole  being  convulsed  by  strong,  deep  sobs.  I 
know  not  how  long  I  even  remained  there,  for  I 
took  no  heed  of  time,  or  of  the  broad  day  be- 
yond. I  had  arrived  at  one  of  those  terrible 
epochs  of  man's  existence,  when  the  highway 
of  life  threads  that  solemn  valley  of  the  shadow 


16 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


of  death— when  to  look  back  is  misery ;  to  look 
forward,  despair — when  the  storm-clouds  gather 
overhead,  and  thick  darkness  lies  every  where 
around;  and  the  wayfarer  pauses,  trembling, 
and  awaits  his  destiny.  He  is  bewildered,  reck- 
less, helpless  against  others,  helpless  against 
himself  and  his  own  impulses.  Evil  from  with- 
out, evil  from  within,  combine  to  torture  him. 
A  word  may  destroy,  a  word  may  save  him ! 
Alas  for  him  if,  in  that  hour,  there  be  none  at 
hand  to  guide,  to  console,  to  pray  for  him ! 

My  tears  had  ceased  to  flow  —  a  struggling 
sob  broke  now  and  then  from  my  lips — my  head 
was  still  buried  in  my  hands.  Within,  all  was 
black  misery.  Without,  the  day  bent  toward 
the  west,  and  the  shadows  lengthened  in  the 
level  sunlight. 

Hush ! 

The  outer  door  was  cautiously  opened,  and, 
after  the  lapse  of  a  few  moments,  closed  as  cau- 
tiously. I  heard  it;  but,  as  one  might  hear 
through  sleep,  without  receiving  any  impression 
from  the  sound.  Light  footsteps  crossed  the' 
library — paused  at  the  second  door — approach- 
ed nearer  and  nearer ;  and  still  I  heard  without 
heeding.  Then  there  was  the  rustling  of  silken 
garments  at  my  side,  and  a  hand  was  laid  upon 
mine — a  cold  slender  hand,  whose  touch  roused 
me  in  a  moment  like  an  elective  shock. 

I  sprang  to  my  feet,  grew  hot  and  cold  alter- 
nately, tried  to  speak,  but  could  not.  My  moth- 
er looked  marble -pale.  Her  eyes  wandered 
from  rny  face  to  the  picture,  and  back  again  to 
me,  with  a  mute  mournful  expression  of  tender- 
ness and  pity,  such  as  I  had  never  seen  in  that 
gaze  before.  There  was  no  surprise  in  her 
countenance — no  pride,  no  coldness,  no  auster- 
ity ;  but  grief — grief  only.  For  some  minutes 
we  stood  thus  face  to  face,  with  the  picture  be- 
tween us,  both  silent. 

"Paul,"  she  said  at  length,  very  softly  and 
sadly,  "why  didst  thou  conceal  this  ?"  My  lips 
moved  again,  but  uttered  no  sound. 

She  took  my  vacant  seat,  and  pointed  to"  a 
stool  beside  her.  "Come,"  she  sakl,  "come, 
Paul,  confide  in  me  !" 

My  senses  seemed  bound  up  in  ice,  though 
my  heart  beat  wildly.  I  neither  spoke  nor 
stirred. 

"  Speak  to  me,  my  son,  speak  to  me !  Thou 
sufferest — may  I  not  weep  with  thee  ?" 

She  extended  her  arms  to  me.  Her  words, 
her  look,  her  tone,  went  to  my  heart. 

"Oh,  my  mother!"  I  cried,  wildly,  falling 
upon  rny  knees  before  her,  and  hiding  my  face 
in  her  lap,  "  I  love  her!  I  love  her !" 

She  folded  her  arms  around  me — she  pressed 
her  lips  to  my  forehead,  my  burning  head  to  her 
gentle  bosom — she  mingled  her  tears  with  mine 
— she  breathed  words  of  pity  and  consolation  in 
my  ears — she  passed  her  hands  over  my  hair, 
and  called  me  her  son — her  dear  son ! 

Yes,  in  that  dark  and  bitter  moment,  I  rested 
for  the  first  time — oh,  God !  for  the  first  time  ! — 
upon  my  mother's  heart — received  the  first  out- 
pourings of  my  mother's  love !  Thanks  be  to 


Heaven,  she  saved  me— I  dare  not  think  from 
what ! 

Let  me  not  reveal  the  particulars  of  that  first 
confidence.  It  is  to  me  a  sweet,  almost  a  sa- 
cred thing.  Sufficient  if  I  say  that  the  day  de- 
clined lower  and  lower  in  the  west;  that  the 
shadows  widened  and  lengthened,  and  gradual- 
ly overspread  all  the  landscape ;  and  that  I  still 
sat  at  my  mother's  feet,  with  her  hands  clasped 
in  both  mine,  and  her  eyes  looking  down  upon 
me  with  that  light  in  them  for  which,  as  a  child, 
I  would  have  gladly  died.  At  last  I  rose  and 
looked  out  upon  the  gathering  gloom  of  even- 
ing. The  thought  which  had  been  lying  silent- 
ly at  my  heart  for  many  hours  must  sooner  or 
later  be  uttered. 

"It  is  getting  dark,"  I  said,  looking  earnestly 
at  her.  "It  is  getting  dark,  my  mother.  I 
must  go  now." 

She  turned  a  shade  paler,  and  her  lips  trem- 
bled. She  understood  me. 

"You  are  right,  my  son,"  she  said.  "But 
will  you  go  to-night?" 

I  made  a  mute  gesture  of  assent.  It  was 
enough.  She  went  into  the  library,  rang  for 
refreshments,  and  desired  the  attendance  of  a 
servant. 

"  Where  wilt  thou  go  ?"  she  said,  after  a  brief 
absence,  during  which  she  and  Jeanne  had  pre- 
pared my  valise.  "In  what  direction?" 

"I know  not — care  not." 

"Thou  wilt  write  to  me?  Good.  What 
money  hast  thou  ?" 

I  opened  my  desk.  It  contained  about  thirty 
Napoleons,  and  some  notes  to  the  value  of  eight 
hundred  francs.  These  I  placed  in  my  pocket- 
book,  saying  that  they  were  enough.  My  moth- 
er shook  her  head,  and  laid  her  own  purse  upon 
the  table  before  me. 

" Take  this,"  she  said ;  "it  contains  a  thou- 
sand francs.  Nay !  refuse  a  gift  from  thy  moth- 
er !  Take  it — I  entreat !  It  is  well.  Now  go, 
my  son,  for  it  will  soon  be  night.  Heaven  pre- 
serve and  bless  thee !" 

We  went  round  together  to  a  door  at  the  back, 
opening  on  a  dark  lane.  Two  horses  and  a 
groom  were  waiting.  Not  another  soul  was 
near,  and  all  the  bouse  was  silent.  There  we 
parted — there  I  received  one  more  embrace — 
one  last  farewell  word — and  then  I  rode  away 
into  the  gloom — into  the  unknown  Future. 

After  galloping  some  distance,  I  reined  in  my 
horse  and  looked  back.  But  it  was  too  late. 
All  was  dark ;  the  limes  stood  up  between ;  I 
could  not  even  trace  the  outline  of  my  old  tur- 
reted  home.  The  veil  had  fallen  between  her 
life  and  mine.  The  first  Act  of  the  Drama  was 
played  out,  and  ended ! 

I  put  spurs  to  the  horse — I  flew  madly  for- 
ward, with  the  groom  clattering  at  my  heels. 
The  eighteen  miles  were  soon  past ;  we  reach- 
ed the  Chalons  station ;  I  flung  the  reins  to 
Pierre,  seized  my  valise,  and,  without  even  giv- 
ing the  faithful  fellow  a  fafewell  glance,  ran  up 
the  steps  and  stopped  before  the  bureau. 

"When  does  the  next  train  go?" 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


17 


"Directly,  monsieur." 

I  threw  a  note  on  the  counter. 

"Where  to,  monsieur?" 

"  As  far  as  it  will  take  me." 

The  man  passed  me  the  change  and  the  tick- 
et ;  the  bell  rang ;  the  engine  came  panting  up, 
with  its  black  train  ;  I  ran  forward,  leaped  into 
the  first  carriage,  and  in  another  moment  was 
moving  on. 

"Pray,  monsieur,"  I  said,  turning  to  my  near- 
est neighbor,  "how  far  does  this  train  go  to- 
night?" 

"ToStrasburg." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

STRASBURG. 

A  LONG  drear  night  of  perpetual  traveling, 
broken  by  snatches  of  feverish  sleep,  which 
seemed  scarcely  sleep,  but  rather  the  distress- 
ful wanderings  of  a  mind  restless  and  over-wea- 
ried. The  oil  lamp  flickered  vaguely  overhead, 
and  cast  an  uncertain  glimmer  upon  the  forms 
and  faces  of  my  fellow-passengers,  all  of  whom 
were  profoundly  sleeping.  Without  were  clouds, 
and  moonlight,  and  an  ever-shifting  panorama 
of  the  alternating  flats,  forests,  vineyards,  and 
steep  mountains  of  South  France,  all  gliding  si- 
lently by,  and  looking  ghostly  in  the  moonshine. 
Every  now  and  then  there  came  a  steep  cutting, 
or  a  long  black  tunnel.  Sometimes  a  sudden 
blaze  of  gas ;  a  stop ;  a  hurrying  past  of  quick 
feet;  a  confusion  of  loud  voices;  passengers  get- 
ting in  and  out ;  and  the  entrance  of  a  guard, 
with  imperative  voice  and  blazing  lantern,  mark- 
ed our  arrival  and  brief  pause  at  some  station  by 
the  way.  Then  came  the  shrill  whistle,  and  we 
flew  on  again;  trees,  mountains,  villages,  flitting 
past  us  as  before,  and  ever  the  low  continuous 
bass  of  our  rushing  progress  sounding  along  the 
iron  roadway. 

Oh !  a  weary,  weary  night,  checkered  by  fan- 
tastic dreams  and  wakings  up  to  miserable  real- 
ities— by  heart-sickness — by  sullen  melancholy ! 

About  three  hours  after  midnight  I  fell  into  a 
dull,  heavy  sleep.  It  was  gray  morning  when  I 
awoke.  So  profound  had  been  my  slumber  that 
I  started ;  stared  round  at  the  sleepers ;  could 
remember  nothing  for  some  moments.  My  head 
ached ;  my  lips  were  parched ;  my  eyes  were 
burning  hot,  and  swollen  from  the  tears  of  yes- 
terday. Worse  than  all,  an  oppressive  sense  of 
misfortune  seemed  to  weigh  upon  my  chest, 
though  what  that  misfortune  was  I  could  not  at 
first  remember.  Alas !  are  there  any  who  have 
never  so  suffered,  slept,  forgotten  ? 

One  by  one  my  companions  awoke  also. 
Three  of  them  were  Germans,  and  they  kept 
talking  inaudibly  among  themselves.  I  fancied 
that  I  was  an  object  of  remark,  and  I  shrank 
back  into  a  corner  and  feigned  to  sleep.  Grief 
makes  us  suspicious. 

"How  far  are  we  from  Strasburg?"  asked 
some  one  near  me. 

B 


"Look  out,"  was  the  reply,  "and  you  will  see 
the  cathedral  spire." 

In  a  few  moments  the  guard  came  to  collect 
our  tickets,  and  before  half  an  hour  we  had  reach- 
ed the  end  of  our  journey. 

I  alighted.  The  unfinished  station  was  crowd- 
ed with  carpenters  and  masons ;  the  yellow  om- 
nibuses from  Kehl,  with  their  German  drivers, 
were  ranged  in  long  rows  outside  the  doors ; 
soldiers,  hotel  agents,  porters,  and  passengers 
crowded  the  platform,  the  waiting-rooms,  and 
the  square  beyond.  All  was  noise,  hurry,  and 
confusion.  Through  these  I  made  my  way,  as 
it  were  mechanically,  for  I  felt  nervous  and  be- 
wildered. Without,  the  gray  morning  had  dis- 
solved into  a  slow  continuous  rain,  and  dingy 
vehicles  were  rattling  swiftly  to  and  fro.  I 
emerged  upon  a  line  of  quays,  bordering  a  broad 
turbid  river  crossed  by  many  bridges.  In  every 
direction  were  high,  quaint  houses,  and  shops 
with  overhanging  stories ;  and,  straight  before 
me,  showing  dimly  through  the  driving  rain, 
one  sharp,  delicate  brown  spire  rose  up  into  the 
gray  sky,  and  I  knew  that  it  was  the  highest 
pinnacle  in  the  world — the  spire  of  Strasburg 
Cathedral. 

Keeping  my  eyes  fixed  upon  this,  and  follow- 
ing its  direction,  even  when  it  was  no  longer  in 
sight,  I  went  across  a  wooden  bridge  and  into 
the  broad  streets  of  the  town.  It  was  market- 
day,  and  the  open  places  were  all  crowded  with 
stalls  and  people.  Here  were  soldiers,  German 
and  French;  peasant -women  from  over  the 
Rhine,  with  silver-embroidered  caps  or  large 
black  bows  upon  their  heads ;  mountebanks 
vending  cosmetics  and  articles  of  mock-jewelry; 
itinerant  ballad-singers ;  fruit  and  cake  sellers ; 
purchasers  and  gazers  of  all  ages  and  of  two 
countries,  hurrying,  loitering,  hither  and  thither 
in  the  rain,  and  protected  by  umbrellas  of  every 
color  and  shade.  Past  the  Place  Gutenberg  I 
went,  where  stands  the  bronze  statue  of  the 
First  Printer,  with  his  printing-press  and  types 
beside  him — through  a  low  vaulted  passage,  or 
arcade,  with  mean  shops  and  stalls  on  either 
side — Up  a  turning  to  the  left,  at  the  top  of 
which  rose  the  dark  cathedral,  a  mountain  of 
perfect  architecture. 

Near  the  entrance  I  paused,  forgetful  for  the 
moment  of  every  thing  but  wonder  and  admira- 
tion, and  looked  up  at  the  gigantic  mass  above 
me — at  the  intricate  network  of  arcades  and 
buttresses — at  the  thin  spire,  delicate  as  an  ivo- 
ry carving,  and  towering  up  so  far  into  the  sky 
that  one  feeis  dizzy,  though  only  looking  at  it 
from  the  pavement  below — at  the  labyrinthine 
processions  of  carved  figures  over  the  arching 
doorways,  where,  as  a  French  poet  beautifully 
says, 

"  Stand  the  old  stone  saints  in  niches  hoar; 

Praying  so  softly — praying  for  the  living." 

Inside,  the  rich  golden  gloom  that  pervades 
the  pillared  aisles,  and  dims  the  lofty  roof,  awed 
and  oppressed  me.  I  felt  wearied  and  ill.  There 
was  scarcely  a  living  creature — scarcely  the  echo 
of  a  sound.  I  wandered  on,  and  seated  myself 


18 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


upon  a  stone  bench  just  in  front  of  the  singular 
organ,  which,  with  its  glowing  arabesques,  its 
gilding,  and  its  long  pendent,  terminating  in  a 
painted  carving  of  Christ  riding  upon  a  lion, 
looks  more  like  a  stupendous  clock  than  any 
thing  else,  so  fantastic  is  it,  and  perched  up,  as 
it  were,  so  perilously  in  the  very  roof  of  the 
building. 

Nowhere  in  the  world  is  there  so  much  su- 
perb stained  glass  as  in  this  Cathedral  of  Stras- 
burg.  The  whole  interior  is  dark  with  beauty, 
steeped  in  an  atmosphere  of  religious  gloom. 
Here  are  windows  dating  from  the  early  part  of 
the  thirteenth  century,  which  "blush  with  the 
blood  of  queens  and  kings" — windows  crowded 
with  mailed  champions,  and  bishops,  and  royal 
saints,  robed  in  the  most  gorgeous  contrasts  of 
color — deep  red,  azure,  and  orange.  To  read 
in  this  dusk  is  impossible ;  and  so  magical  is 
the  effect,  that  persons  standing  a  few  paces  off 
look  dim  and  transfigured. 

Leaving  the  cathedral,  I  passed  a  motley 
crowd  assembled  near  the  south  entrance — beg- 
gars, market-women,  soldiers,  peasants,  and 
fashionable  visitors,  all  grouped  together  most 
republicanly,  waiting  to  see  the  great  clock  strike 
at  noon.  Presently  the  brazen  cock  crew,  and 
the  whole  paraphernalia  of  machinery  were  put 
in  motion.  Strange  mixture  of  emblems,  Chris- 
tian and  heathen,  of  grave  science  and  puppet- 
show  puerilities!  I  wandered  into  the  street, 
with  the  rest  of  the  spectators,  as  soon  as  the 
performance  ended.  It  was  still  raining  heavily. 

"Hotel  de  Metz,  monsieur!"  said  a  dark 
man,  who  wore  a  badge  suspended  rcmnd  his 
neck.  "Hotel  de  Metz  —  quite  near — good 
breakfasts — table  d'hote  at  five — will  monsieur 
permit  me  to  conduct  him  ?" 

I  was  worn  out  mentally  and  physically,  so  I 
followed  him  to  a  large  white  hotel  near  the  sta- 
tion, and  breakfasted  alone  at  a  little  table  in  a 
window  overlooking  the  street.  I  was  weary  of 
the  noisy  life  and  bustle  of  this  frontier  town, 
and  longed  to  escape  from  it  to  some  green 
peaceful  place  farther  away — farther  away. 

'  The  surging  crowd  went  rolling  on,-  in  spite 
of  the  rain,  ever  moving,  ever  changing — the 
swell  and  hum  of  voices  ascended  from  beneath 
— a  brass  band  stationed  itself  before  the  house 
— some  German  University  students,  with  spurs 
on  their  heels,  and  little  crimson  cloth  caps  on 
their  heads,  came  clattering  into  the  room,  call- 
ing loudly  for  "bier  und  cigarren!"  and  were 
followed  by  three  or  four  others  wearing  tri-col- 
ored  caps— orange,  white,  and  blue.  Theirfrank, 
jovial  voices,  their  peals  of  laughter,  so  full  of 
young  life  and  enjoyment,  jarred  painfully  upon 
my  present  mood.  I  drew  back  into  the  cur- 
tained embrasure  of  the  window,  and  debated 
with  myself  whither  I  should  go  next.  To 
Switzerland,  by  way  of  Basle,  or  to  Germany,  by 
the  Rhine  ?  In  my  then  wearied  state  of  indif- 
ference, it  mattered  little  which.  An  accident 
decided  me. 

"Let  us  dine  together,  boys !"  said  one  of  the 
noisiest  among  the  students,  striking  his  com- 


panion on  the  shoulder.  "  Let  us  all  dine  here, 
or  at  the  Rothes  Haus,  and  then  go  to  the  thea- 
tre. There's  to  be  a  new  play  to-night ! " 

"I  can  not,"  said  one  of  the  crimson  caps, 
moodily.  "  I  must  go  back  this  afternoon  to 
the  old  mill." 

"  To  Heidelberg  ?" 

The  student  nodded. 

"Confoundedly  dull  place,  that  Heidelberg, 
is  it  not?" 

"  Oh,  confoundedly !  Nothing  going  on  from 
one  year's  end  to  another." 

4 '  No  amusements  ?  No  theatres  ?  No  gam- 
ing-rooms?" 

"Nothing  of  the  sort.  It's  so  terribly  out  of 
the  way,  you  know,  that  none  but  honeymoon- 
tourists  and  young  ladies  with  sketch-books  and 
camp-stools  come  near  the  place.  The  only  fun 
we  ever  have  is  beering,  boating,  and  dueling." 

"Abominable!"  "Intolerable!"  chimed  the 
rest,  to  the  friendly  music  of  the  clinking  glasses. 

Heidelberg ! 

Why  not  to  Heidelberg,  oh  Paul  Latour  ?  To 
that  ancient  abode  of  learning  in  the  Neckar 
Valley  —  to  that  low  ruined  fortress  on  the 
"shores  of  old  Romance,"  whence  the  tide  of 
life  hath  long  since  retreated  into  the  great 
ocean  which  is  eternal  ? 

So  to  Heidelberg  I  went. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

HEIDELBEEG  SCHLOSS. 

IT  was  already  somewhat  late  in  the  morning 
when  I  drew  aside  my  window-curtains  at  the 
Hotel  Adler,  expecting  to  look  out  upon  the  cas- 
tle ruins,  and  saw  instead  the  steep  narrow  road- 
way, with  its  high  rock-wall,  the  small  flint 
pavement,  and  the  usual  Continental  gutter,  now 
swollen  by  the  rain,  running  swiftly  and  broadly 
down  the  centre  of  the  street.  Overhead,  the  sky 
was  blue  and  sunny,  with  large  snowy  clouds 
floating  across,  one  after  another,  like  an  army 
with  white  banners.  A  party  of  laughing  girls 
went  up  toward  the  castle,  riding  upon  donkeys, 
and  then  some  pedestrian  tourists ;  so  I  also 
hastened  out,  and  proceeded  to  make  my  way 
up  the  toilsome  ascent.  The  birds  sang  and 
darted  about  in  the  air;  little  children  were 
playing  upon  door-steps ;  the  poultry  strutted 
up  and  down ;  and  I  passed  two  or  three  little 
knots  of  women  and  old  men  preparing  plates 
of  horn  for  combs — a  trade  much  followed  in. 
Heidelberg. 

Shall  I  describe  the  Castle  of  Heidelberg,  that 
red  old  ruin,  standing  midway  up  a  fir-Avooded 
mountain,  which  is  chapel,  fortress,  and  palace 
in  one  ?  Alas !  no.  It  has  been  done  too  well 
and  too  often.  For  such  word-painting,  oh 
reader,  turn  thee  to  the  pages  of  that  prose-poem 
which  ascends  from  the  shores  of  the  New  World 
like  a  steam  of  golden  incense  offered  up  to  the 
glories  of  the  Old.  Those  pages  will  tell  unto 
thee,  in  such  lordly  language  as  befits  the  theme, 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


of  the  triumphal  gateway  with  its  leaf-carved 
pillars,  which  was  erected  in  one  night  by  com- 
mand of  the  Elector  Frederick  V.,  that  his  En- 
glish bride  might  pass  through  it  on  the  morrow, 
and  which  is  still  called,  in  remembrance  of  her, 
the  Elizabethan  Pforte,  or  Elizabeth's  Portal — 
of  the  second  gate,  where  the  iron  teeth  of  the 
portcullis  yet  threaten  overhead — of  the  silver 
shield  that  was  stolen  from  its  place  above  the 
entrance  by  the  French  besiegers — of  the  two 
grotesque  gigantic  stone  figures  which  stand,  in 
the  guise  of  armed  warders,  on  either  side — of 
the  glorious  fa9ades  of  the  Friedrichsbau  and 
the  Italian  Rittersaal  of  Otto  Henry,  with  their 
statues  of  knights  and  heroes,  their  cornices,  en- 
tablatures, and  rich  mouldings,  and  blank  open 
windows  where  the  blue  sky  shines  through — 
of  the  blasted  tower  and  its  leafy  linden-trees 
waving  on  the  top — of  the  canopied  well  of  royal 
Charlemag*ne — of  the  tower  of  the  library — of 
the  deserted  chapel,  with  its  blue  marble  altar, 
and  the  paintings  spared  by  the  destroying  light- 
ning yet  suspended,  all  faded  and  blackened, 
above  the  different  shrines — of  the  armory,  and 
the  clock-tower,  and  the  great  tun,  and  of  all  the 
beauty  and  romance  of  that  rare  old  building, 
which  is,  "next  to  the  Alhambra  of  Granada, 
the  most  magnificent  ruin  of  the  Middle  Ages." 

All  these  did  I  see,  and  more  besides ;  for  I 
wandered  in  and  out  the  ruins  and  the  garden 
walks  as  I  listed,  thinking  of  many  things.  For 
the  place  was  to  me  something  more  than  a 
mere  sight — than  a  fine  ruin :  it  was  a  history 
— a  poem — a  prayer. 

In  this  mood  I  sat  for  a  long  time  upon  the 
steps  of  a  crumbling  solitary  tower,  where  a  cher- 
ry-tree grows  wild  against  the  wall,  and  droops 
its  fruit-clusters  across  the  very  path  on  which 
you  tread.  Hence  I  went  down  and  wandered 
through  the  interior  of  the  castle,  seeing  the  tun 
and  the  wooden  image  of  the  jester ;  the  dun- 
geons, and  the  collection  of  old  paintings. 

But  oh !  the  first  sight  of  that  view  from  the 
garden  wall — the  town  beneath,  with  its  slate- 
roofed  University,  its  church  spires,  and  its 
bridge  —  the  shallow  turbid  Neckar  eddying 
through  the  arches — the  broad,  level  Rhine-val- 
ley, with  its  vineyards,  and  corn-fields,  and 
flashes  of  the  river  here  and  there — the  dark 
green  Odenwald;  and  the  dim,  distant  Hartz 
Mountains  fading  on  the  horizon,  with  the 
spire  of  Strasburg  Minster  showing  up  midway 
upon  the  plain !  The  immensity  of  the  circuit 
bewildered  and  oppressed  me,  and  I  gazed  so 
long  and  so  earnestly  that  the  bright  sunlight 
dazzled  me,  and  the  near  and  the  far  were  con- 
founded together  upon  my  sight. 

"  Eine  schone  Aussicht,  mein  Herr!"  (a  fine 
prospect,  sir!)  said  a  pleasant  voice  close  beside 
me. 

I  turned.  A  tall,  fair  young  man,  with  an 
open  book  in  his  hand  and  a  long  German 
pipe  at  his  lips,  was  standing  at  my  elbow,  with 
his  arms  resting  upon  the  parapet.  An  almost 
indefinable  something  in  his  accent,  in  the  fash- 
ion of  his  dress,  in  the  free-falling  cm*ls  of  his 


light  brown  hair,  and  the  frank  cheerfulness  of 
his  address,  told  me  at  once  that  he  was  a  for- 
eigner. I  glanced  rapidly  at  the  open  book : 
it  was  Carlyle's  "History  of  the  French  Revo- 
lution." 

"Indeed,  a  most  divine  prospect,"!  replied 
in  English.  "One  that  might  drive  a  painter 
to  despair." 

The  young  man  colored. 

"  I  suppose,"  he  said,  after  a  moment's  hesi- 
tation, "that  my  countrymen  never  are  to  suc- 
ceed in  concealing  their  identity.  During  the 
two  years  that  I  have  been  here,  I  have  studied 
the  peculiarities  of  the  language  very  earnestly, 
but  I  have  not  yet  mastered  what  may  be  call- 
ed its  nationality.  How  did  you  know  me  to 
be  an  Englishman  ?" 

I  pointed  to  the  volume  in  his  hand. 

"Your  accent  told  me  something,"  said  I, 
smiling,  "and  your  book  confirmed  my  suppo- 
sitions. What  do  you  think  of  Carlyle  ?" 

"  Oh,  he  is  magnificent !"  exclaimed  the  En- 
glishman, with  some  warmth.  "A  most  orig- 
inal genius,  and  a  very  Titan  in  literature.  He 
wields  words  like  mountains,  and  hurls  them, 
not  at  Heaven,  but  at  '  idols'  and  '  mud-gods.'  " 

"  His  style  is  very  eccentric." 

"Granted;  but  is  it  not  vivid,  earnest,  pas- 
sionate? Does  he  not  carry  your  sympathies 
forcibly  along  with  him?"  • 

"That  is  true,  especially  with  regard  to  his 
history.  It  lacks,  perhaps,  the  majesty  of  Gib- 
bon and  the  lofty  grandeur  of  Macaulay,  but  it 
is  history  with  a  heart  in  it." 

"And  then,  notwithstanding  the  severity  of 
his  principles  and  his  hatred  of  'shams,'  what  a 
deep  well  of  love,  and  pity,  and  even  of  humor, 
lies  buried  down  in  the  depths  of  his  nature ! 
Besides,  what  force  and  power  in  his  language ! 
It  is  as  if  his  thoughts  were  cast  in  bronze." 

"I  perceive,  sir,"  I  said,  with  more  cordiali- 
ty than  was  usual  to  me  when  conversing  with 
strangers,  "that  you  are  an  enthusiast  for  books ; 
but  here  is  an  epic  that  passes  the  art  of  the 
poet — a  history  more  impressive  than  any  which 
can  be  related  by  man.  Surely  there  can  be 
no  second  place  on  earth  so  beautiful  as  this !" 

"If  there  be,  I  have  not  seen  it,"  said  the  En- 
glishman, "and  I  have  traveled  much.  Dear 
old  Heidelberg!"  he  continued,  facing  round  to 
the  castle,  and  leaning  against  the  wall  with  his 
back  toward  the  landscape ;  "  dear  old  Heidel- 
berg !  I  know  every  nook,  and  cranny,  and 
owl's-nest  in  its  crumbling  walls !  Some  of  the 
happiest  hours  of  my  life  have  been  spent  here, 
reading  my  favorite  books  under  the  trees  in  the 
garden  ;  dreaming  my  favorite  dreams  in  unfre- 
quented corners  of  the  ruins ;  talking  German 
metaphysics  with  my  University  friends,  beside 
that  little  fountain  bubbling  up  yonder  in  the 
sunlight.  I  believe  that,  with  the  one  excep- 
tion of  the  tun-keeper's,  those  silvered  globe- 
mirrors  in  the  court-yard  have  reflected  ho  face 
so  often  as  mine  for  the  last  two  years.  I  have 
rooms  down  in  the  town,  but  I  am  scarcely 
ever  there  unless  at  night.  I  almost  live  up 


20 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


here ;  and  a  fine  day,  a  quiet  nook  in  the  ruins, 
my  pipe,  and  a  book,  are  all  that  I  require  to 
be  perfectly  happy.  You  can't  think  how  I  love 
the  place,  or  in  what  curious  fancies  and  com- 
parisons I  delight  to  indulge  respecting  it. 
Standing  up  thus,  so  lordly  and  so  battle-worn, 
and  inclosing  within  its  shattered  walls  these 
flower-beds  and  that  fairy  fountain,  it  often  re- 
minds me  of  some  old  disabled  warrior  with  his 
grandchildren  smiling  on  his  knee.  But  night 
is  the  time  for  Heidelberg !  Have  you  been  up 
yet  by  moonlight?" 

I  said  that  I  had  only  arrived  at  a  late  hour 
the  evening  before. 

"Then  I  envy  you  the  sensations  of  that  first 
view  by  moonlight.  You  have  not  yet  an  idea 
of  the  beauty  and  poetry  of  the  spot.  The  moon 
rises  to-night  about  ten  o'clock.;  come  to  my 
rooms,  and  I  will  accompany  you.  I  know  all 
the  best  points  of  view,  and  I  shall  be  delighted 
to  witness  your  enjoyment." 

"A  thousand  thanks;  but  had  you  not  bet- 
ter call  for  me  ?  I  am  staying  at  the  Hotel  Ad- 
ler,  half  way  up  the  hill.  We  can  sup  together 
before  we  start." 

"As  you  please.  This,  too,  is  the  month 
when  the  nightingales  sing  sweetest ;  and  I 
promise  you  that  you  will  hear  such  songs 
'  shaken  from  their  little  throats'  to-night  as  you 
never  heard  before.  By  the  way,  who  knows 
but  we  may  even  see  the  spectre-mass  in  the 
chapel  of  St.  Udalrich  !" 

"What  is  that,  pray?" 

"  Oh,  one  of  our  Heidelberg  legends !  We 
have  plenty  such." 

"Delightful!  you  shall  relate  some  of  them 
to  me  by  moonlight.  How  glad  I  am  to  have 
made  your  acquaintance!" 

We  were  friends  already ;  and  the  conversa- 
tion thus  begun  lasted  for  more  than  two  hours. 
We  talked  of  paintings,  and  of  our  favorite 
books ;  of  Goethe,  and  Jean  Paul,  and  of  Uh- 
land — of  philosophy — of  history — of  the  German 
and  French  character,  and  of  many  more  things 
than  I  can  now  remember.  Our  tastes  seemed 
to  agree  in  most  respects ;  or,  when  they  differ- 
ed, differed  just  sufficiently  to  lend  an  interest 
to  discussion.  Averse  as  I  generally  am  to 
strangers,  I  was  pleased  with  this  young  En- 
glishman from  the  very  first.  His  smile,  his 
glance,  the  cheerful  tones  of  his  voice,  impressed- 
me  favorably.  He  had  read  much,  and  his 
reading  had  been  well  chosen.  That  he  was  a 
good  German,  French,  and  Italian  scholar  I  had 
already  discovered  ;  and  the  enthusiasm  with 
which  he  spoke  of  places  and  of  authors  showed 
me  that  he  possessed  a  warm  imagination,  and 
an  almost  boyish  enjoyment  of  beauty  and  talent. 
In  a  word,  he  seemed  to  be  good-natured,  unaf- 
fected, and  a  gentleman.  It  was  almost  noon 
when  we  parted,  renewing  our  engagement  for 
the  evening.  My  new  acquaintance  walked 
with  me  to  the  door  of  my  hotel,  and  as  we  pass- 
ed the  restaurateur's  in  the  castle  gardens,  we 
saw  a  party  of  English  dining  in  the  open  air, 
one  of  whom  exclaimed  as  we  went  by, 


"Capital  place,  this  Heidelberg!  Magnifi- 
cent old  ruin ;  and  the  very  best  beer  I  have 
tasted  since  I  left  home ! " 


CHAPTER  IX. 

NORMAN    SEABROOK. 

I  KNOW  not  whether  it  Avas  the  heart-suffering 
through  which  I  had  passed  that  made  me  more 
susceptible  to  every  kindly  influence,  but  I  have 
often  been  surprised  when  I  recall  how  quickly 
that  friendship  was  formed  between  Norman 
Seabrook  and  myself— that  cordial  and  manly 
friendship  which  has  ever  since  been  one  of  the 
greatest  joys  and  consolations  of  my  life ! 

He  had  so  true  and  just  a  feeling  for  poetry 
and  art — he  was  so  generous,  so  high-spirited, 
so  warm  of  heart,  so  earnest  of  soul,  that  it  would 
have  needed  a  nature  far  colder  and  more  un- 
grateful than  mine  to  reject  the  golden  gift. 

Not  that  Norman  Seabrook  was  faultless  and 
a  hero  !  Alas !  no.  Our  age,  reader,  bringeth 
forth  no  heroes.  He  was  simply  a  young  man 
with  a  good  heart,  a  liberal  education,  and  a 
somewhat  indolent  and  luxurious  disposition. 
I  never  knew  any  one  with  so  great  a  capacity 
for  enjoyment.  The  sight  of  a  pretty  child,  of 
a  good  picture,  sculpture,  or  engraving,  the  far 
sounds  of  music,  the  summer  sky,  and  the  land- 
scapes around  Heidelberg,  used  to  afford  him 
the  keenest  sense  of  delight.  He  would  dwell 
upon  a  passage  from  some  favorite  author  with 
a  gusto  that  I  used  positively  to  envy ;  tracking 
the  idea  through  every  possible  gradation  of 
meaning  ;  discovering  little  hidden  beauties  of 
accentuation  and  phrasing,  and  seeming  actual- 
ly to  taste  the  inner-sweetness  of  every  deep 
and  lovely  thought.  It  was  the  same  with  paint- 
ings— the  same  with  music — the  same  with  rid- 
ing, boating,  or  walking.  He  enjoyed  every 
occupation  to  the  uttermost,  and  with  the  care- 
less glee  of  a  school-boy.  He  seemed  to  drink 
in  contentment  with  the  very  air,  and  I  do  not 
know  that  there  was  any  one  thing  in  which  he 
took  a  greater  pleasure  than  lying  upon  his 
back  in  the  deep  grass  upon  the  river-banks, 
with  a  pipe  in  his  mouth  and  a  paper  of  choco- 
late bonbons  in  his  pocket,  looking  up  to  the  sky 
and  the  clouds,  and  suffering  his  imagination  to 
stray  unheeded  through  all  the  wild  untrodden 
ways  of  thought. 

"There  are  times,"  he  used  sometimes  to 
say,  "  when  the  heart  is  more  than  usually  open 
to  impressions  of  beauty — when  the  form  of  a 
tree,  the  rustle  of  a  leaf,  the  piping  of  a  solitary 
bird,  are  sufficient  to  fill  us  with  a  vague  and 
subtle  feeling  of  delight  which  is  more  than 
half  sadness,  and  for  which  no  expression  can 
be  found  in  language.  At  such  moments  how 
beautiful  is  the  world  —  how  divine  is  life! 
What  poetry  is  it  only  to  feel  the  warm  sun ;  to 
breathe  the  pleasant  air;  to  lie  in  the  quivering 
shadows  of  the  trees,  or  the  cool  angle  of  some 
gray  ruined  wall,  and  to  look  up  to  the  blue  sky 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


21 


overhead  with  that  unspoken  longing  of  soul 
after  the  Infinite  and  the  Far  which  our  human 
nature  loves  to  recognize  as  the  stamp  of  its 
own  strange  immortality!" 

In  all  this  there  was  something  of  the  dreamy 
mental  self-indulgence  peculiar  to  German  the- 
orists, and  to  that  school  of  poetical  philosophy 
which  possesses  so  irresistible  a  fascination  for 
those  young  men  whose  imaginations  are  warm, 
and  whose  experience  of  the  realities  of  life  has 
been  but  limited.  Norman  Seabrook  would 
perhaps  have  been  a  nobler  and  more  useful 
member  of  society  had  his  intellectual  training 
been  less  of  the  Sybarite  than  the  Spartan — had 
Bacon,  and  Newton,  and  Locke  been  studied 
rather  than  Fichte,  Swedenborg,  and  Shubert. 
He  would  have  learned  to  seek  after  difficulties, 
that  he  might  overcome  them.  As  it  was,  he 
only  searched  for  beauty,  that  he  might  worship 
it.  He  shrank  instinctively  from  all  that  was 
harsh  and  unprepossessing ;  he  attached  him- 
self, as  unconsciously,  to  every  thing  that  was 
agreeable.  No  one  could  say  a  kind  word  or 
perform  a  gracious  action  more  pleasantly  than 
he  ;  but  I  must  confess  that,  where  a  distasteful 
duty  had  to  be  accomplished,  he  would  delay, 
neglect,  and  even  avoid  it,  if  he  could.  It  was 
the  weak  point  of  his  character  —  an  amiable 
weakness,  if  you  will,  and  one  that  was  adorned 
by  a  thousand  good  and  graceful  qualities.  It 
is  often  well  for  a  man  when  he  is  either  poor 
or  proud,  for  the  desire  either  of  opulence  or 
fame  urges  him  on  to  play  his  part  as  a  laborer 
in  that  field  wherein  it  has  been  truly  said  that 
"to  work  is  to  worship."  Unfortunately  for 
Seabrook,  he  loved  knowledge  better  than  fame, 
and  he  owned  a  small  independence  which  just 
sufficed,  with  economy,  for  the  requirements  of 
a  bachelor.  • 

"I  love  books,"  he  said,  "and  I  have  where- 
withal to  purchase  such  as  I  love  best.  I  am 
fond  of  travel  and  of  Continental  life,  and  I  con- 
trive to  enjoy  it.  When  I  can  not  afford  to 
rent  rooms  on  the  first  story,  I  am  content  with 
the  attic ;  if  my  purse  be  too  low  for  the  first 
class  in  the  railway,  I  do  not  object  to  the  sec- 
ond or  the  third.  When  I  am  too  poor  for 
either,  I  take  my  knapsack  on  my  shoulders,  my 
book  in  my  hand,  and  walk.  After  all,  this  is 
the  best  traveling.  You  get  a  lift  by  the  way 
from  some  peasants  going  to  a  fair  or  a  wed- 
ding ;  you  gather  some  grapes  from  the  vine- 
yard or  some  cherries  from  the  roadside,  to  eat 
witli  the  loaf  in  your  pocket  at  noon ;  you  go  by 
the  river-banks,  and  along  the  green  meadows, 
and  at  the  foot  of  steep  precipices,  which  the 
fashionable  travelers  on  the  high  road  never 
dream  of  investigating ;  and  at  night  you  arrive 
at  some  little  hamlet,  with  bells  ringing  and 
cows  being  driven  out  to  the  pasture  after  milk- 
ing, where  you  sup  at  the  rustic  inn,  and  listen 
to  the  legends  of  the  Rhine  and  the  Black  For- 
est, as  they  are  told  by  mine  host,  over  the  pipe 
and  the  ale-jug,  when  the  dusk  gathers  round, 
and  the  neighbors  come  dropping  in  on  their 
way  home  from  the  harvest-fields." 


Such  was  my  new  friend — a  dreamer  among 
men — a  loiterer  by  the  wayside  on  the  great 
road  of  life  and  endeavor.  In  my  lonely  and 
meditative  condition  of  mind,  I  attached  my- 
self to  him  with  my  whole  soul,  and  his  very 
faults  were  almost  as  virtues  in  my  eyes.  Dis- 
appointment had  worked  some  evil  already  upon 
me ;  and,  placing  myself  but  little  value  upon 
ambition,  how  could  I  blame  his  indolence,  and 
the  carelessness  of  its  advantages  ? 

We  met  daily — we  walked  together — we  read 
each  other's  favorite  books,  and  studied  side  by 
side  in  the  University  library.  We  always 
supped  and  spent  the  evening  together,  either 
at  my  rooms  or  his  ;  and  sometimes  we  wander- 
ed up  to  the  castle,  or  crossed  the  river  to  laugh 
away  an  hour  or  two  among  the  students  who 
frequent  the  Hirschgasse — a  little,  solitary  white 
inn,  about  half  a  mile  out  of  Heidelberg,  where 
as  many  as  four  or  five  duels  take  place  daily 
among  these  riotous  children  of  philosophy. 
We  also  spent  long  afternoons  upon  the  Neck- 
ar,  taking  it  in  turn  to  row,  while  one  read  aloud 
from  the  pages  of  some  old  poet  or  historian, 
till  the  pleasant  dusk  came  gently  over  all,  and 
the  last  brightness  faded  from  the  lofty  tower 
of  the  Konigstuhl.  Then  we  would  look  up- 
ward to  the  pale  moon,  and,  resting  a  while 
upon  our  oars,  hear  only  the  falling  drops  that 
splashed  back  from  them  into  the  river — the 
surging  of  the  stream  against  the  banks  on 
either  side — the  melancholy  cry  of  the  heron 
among  the  reeds — or  the  lowing  herds  at  the 
homesteads  in  the  valley. 

Oh,  those  calm,  delicious  evenings  of  warm 
June,  when  the  stars  came  glowing  through  the 
tranquil  depths  of  sky,  and  the  sun  went  slowly 
down  behind  the  mountains  in  the  purple  dis- 
tance, like  a  monarch  to  his  grave,  clad  in  scar- 
let and  gold ! 

It  was  on  the  morning  following  some  such 
evening  ramble  that  I  lay  at  the  foot  of  a  clump 
of  trees  bordering  the  footpath  called  The  Phi- 
losopher's Walk,  about  half  way  up  the  hill 
fronting  the  town.  In  my  hand  I  carried  a 
volume  of  Lamartine's  "Meditations  Poe- 
tiques;"  the  sultry  air  hung  heavily  upon  the 
sense  ;  scarce  a  blade  of  grass  waved — scarce  a 
leaf  stirred — scarce  a  bee  hummed  near  me 
All  was  silent  above,  below,  around.  The  faint 
murmur  from  the  town  came  drowsily  and  at 
intervals.  The  very  river  lay  sluggishly  along 
the  landscape,  as  if  torpid  beneath  the  sun. 
Gradually  I  fell  into  a  dream — a  waking  dream, 
wherein  the  dim  land  of  the  past  was  wafted 
before  me,  and  the  poets  of  old  days  walked  by 
in  their  singing-robes,  serenely  glorious.  Sud- 
denly a  rapid  step  came  along  the  path — a  free, 
firm,  careless  step  that  I  well  knew,  and  my 
English  friend,  with  his  dog  at  his  heels,  had 
bounded  almost  past  me  before  he  was  aware 
of  my  presence. 

"Eureka!"  he  exclaimed,  laughing,  as  he 
stopped  short,  and  flung  himself  down  beside 
me  on  the  grass.  ' '  Found  at  last !  Why, 
man,  I  have  been  looking  for  you  in  the  ruins, 


22 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


and  down  by  the  river,  and  in  the  library,  and 
had  just  given  you  up,  when  it  struck  ihe  that 
you  might  possibly  have  strolled  in  this  direc- 
tion. See !  I  called  for  you  at  the  '  Adler,'  and 
finding  these  new  arrivals  upon  your  table,  I 
put  them  in  my  pocket,  that  you  might  have  the 
pleasure  of  reading  them  the  sooner." 

And  he  flung  a  couple  of  letters  down  before 
me. 

This  one,  so  slenderly  and  accurately  direct- 
ed, was  evidently  from  my  mother ;  that,  with 
its  rough,  dashing  superscription  all  blotted  and 
defaced,  I  recognized  for  the  handwriting  of 
Theophile. 

Alas !  the  dream-threads  were  broken,  and 
at  the  sight  of  those  letters  the  chill  remem- 
brances of  love,  and  home,  and  exile,  and  dis- 
appointment came  back  upon  me,  and  broke  the 
brief  reverie  into  which  I  had  fallen.  I  took 
the  letters  up,  laid  them  down,  took  them  up 
again,  turned  pale  and  red  by  turns,  and  re- 
mained quite  silent. 

"Are  they  from  your  family  in  Burgundy?" 
asked  my  friend. 

I  nodded. 

"  But  won't  you  read  them  ?  Pray  don't  let 
me  be  an  interruption !" 

I  dreaded  to  open  them ;  and  yet  how  strange 
it  would  seem  were  I  not  to  do  so !  My  moth- 
er's— no  !  I  could  not  read  that  one  yet !  I 
placed  it  reverently  in  my  pocket-book,  and 
broke  the  seal  of  The'ophile's  letter.  As  I  did 
so,  a  vague  shuddering  dread  ran  through  me, 
and  the  paper  fluttered  in  my  fingers. 

"Read  it  to  me,  mon  ami!"  I  said,  hoarsely, 
turning  away,  and  holding  out  the  letter  toward 
him.  "  Read  it  to  me ;  I  am  not  well  to-day." 

He  glanced  at  me,  took  it  without  a  word, 
and  read  it  aloud. 

"By  the  time  that  my  dear  Paul  receives 
this  letter,  his  brother  will  be  the  happiest  of 
men  and  of  husbands.  Yes,  monfrere,  the  con- 
tract is  to  be  signed  this  evening  by  my  dearest 
Adrienne  and  myself,  and  to-morrow  at  midday 
the  ceremony  which  unites  our  lives  forever  will 
take  place.  Every  thing  will  be  conducted  as 
quietly  as  possible.  We  shall  have  no  fete  ex- 
cept for  the  peasantry,  and  no  company  except- 
ing that  of  Adrienne's  maternal  uncle  from  En- 
gland— the  brother  to  her  late  guardian.  I  am 
very  sorry  that  you  will  not  be  here  to  share 
our  happiness.  I  would  have  written  to  you 
before  this,  to  acquaint  you  with  our  wedding 
arrangements,  had  not  our  mother  prevented 
me  from  time  to  time.  It  is  a  great  pity  that 
you  should  have  fancied  to  travel  just  at  this 
time ;  but  you  were  always  a  contrary  fellow, 
and  unlike  the  rest  of  the  world,  mon  cher,  so 
we  can  but  lament  your  sins  of  omission.  To 
tell  you  the  truth,  I  fear  lest  Adrienne  should 
imagine  that  you  are  not  favorable  to  our  mar- 
riage, or  that  you  do  not  like  her,  and  have 
gone  away  for  the  purpose.  Seriously,  it  has 
that  appearance,  and  I  am  sorry  for  it,  although 
I  know  it  can  not  be  actually  the  case.  I  have 


purchased  the  Hauteville  property.  The  price 
was  high,  and  the  house,  I  regret  to  say,  is  al- 
most a  ruin ;  but  the  repairs  will  be  commenced 
in  a  few  days.  There  is  a  kiosque  in  the  park, 
which  I  mean  to  convert  into  a  smoking-room. 
I  have  given  my  Andalusian  mare  to  Adrienne, 
and  bought  a  new  bay  riding-horse  for  my  own 
use.  Adrienne  looks  charming  on  horseback 
— quite  an  Amazon.  Besides,  the  mare  had 
not  fire  enough  in  her  to  suit  me.  Our  mother 
is  looking  well,  and  these  matrimonial  prepara- 
tions keep  her  constantly  employed.  That  good 
heart !  it  would  have  been  almost  worth  while 
to  have  married,  had  it  been  only  for  the  sake 
of  seeing  her  so  proud  and  happy.  I  wish  you 
could  be  here  to-morrow  for  the  ceremony ;  but 
I  know  that  you  are  too  firmly  wedded  to  your 
old  bookworm  habits  to  care  any  thing  for  love 
or  marriage.  Will  you  ever  fall  in  love  your- 
self, mon  cher?  The  very  question,  as  applied 
to  you, .seems  an  absurdity — unless,  indeed, 
some  fair  Olimpia  Morata  were  now  living  in 
Heidelberg  for  your  sake !  Adieu,  my  dear 
Paul.  Take  care  of  yourself,  and  let  us  see 
you  at  home  again  when  we  return  from  our 
wedding  tour. 

"  Your  attached  brother, 

"THEOPHILE  LATOUR." 

"A  letter  filled  with  good  news !"  exclaimed 
Seabrook,  gayly,  as  he  concluded  my  brother's 
epistle.  "  Come,  you  must  describe  this  fair 
bride  to  me— is  she  beautiful  ?" 

"Most  beautiful!'' 

"Amiable?" 

"As  an  angel." 

"And  rich?" 

I  nodded. 

"But  this  is  not  half  a  wold-painting.  What 
hair  has  she  ?  What  eyes  ?  Is  she  tall  or 
short  ?  brunette  or  blonde  ?  gay,  grave,  lively, 
or  severe  ?  Now  manifest  your  artist-skill,  La- 
tour,  in  enumerating  me  so  glowing  a  catalogue 
of  your  sister-in-law's  charms,  that,  as  the 
knightly  Troubadour,  Geoffrey  de  Rudel,  of  the 
fair  Countess  of  Tripoli,  I  may  become  enam- 
ored of  her  beauty,  even  without  having  once 
beheld  it!" 

His  unconscious  levity  jarred  upon  me.  I 
turned  my  head  suddenly  and  looked  him  in 
the  face. 

'•'•Mon  ami,"  I  said,  earnestly,  and  with  all 
the  firmness  I  could  muster,  "  do  not  ask  me  to 
dwell  upon  this  subject — to  speak  to  you  of  this 
lady.  I — I  can  not." 

He  started  ;  the  letter  dropped  from  his  hand, 
and  he  pressed  my  hand  silently.  We  were 
both  silent  for  a  long  time,  and  I  was  the  first 
to  speak. 

"Tell  me,  Seabrook,"  I  said,  "who  is,  or 
was,  this  fair  Olimpia  Morata  whom  my  brother 
mentions  ?  Do  you  know  any  thing  of  her  ?" 

' '  Yes ;  she  was  an  Italian  lady  of  much  beau- 
ty and  learning,  married  to  a  young  German 
doctor  named  Grunthler,  who  fell  in  love  witli 
her  at  Fcrrara,  and  fled  with  her  to  Augsburg 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


in  1548,  to  escape  the  persecutions  of  the  Italian 
Church.  Chased  from  Augsburg  to  Schwein- 
furt,  from  Schweinfurt  to  Hammelburgh,  they 
settled  at  last  in  Heidelberg,  under  the  protec- 
tion of  the  Elector  Palatine.  Here  Grunthler 
obtained  the  appointment  of  Professor  of  Phys- 
ics to  the  University,  and  his  wife  delivered  lec- 
tures upon  the  Greek,  Latin,  and  French  lan- 
guages, and  upon  the  paradoxes  of  Cicero. 
They  were  now  perfectly  happy ;  and  the  great 
beauty  of  Olimpia,  as  well  as  the  fame  of  her 
acquirements,  brought  many  listeners  and  gaz- 
ers from  far  and  near  throughout  all  Germany. 
In  1555  she  died,  at  the  age  of  twenty-nine 
years.  You  may  see  her  simple  monument 
yonder,  in  the  church-yard  of  St.  Peter.  Shall 
we  stroll  down  into  the  town  and  look  at  it?" 

"  Not  now,  Seabrook,  for  I  want  to  propose 
something  to  you.  You  have  no  particular  mo- 
tive in  remaining  at  Heidelberg,  have  you  ?" 

"You  know  that  I  am  only  loitering  about 
here  among  the  books  of  the  University  for  my 
own  amusement." 

"  Good.  Would  you  object  to  go  to  Frank- 
furt?" 

"To  Frankfurt?  Certainly  not;  but  why 
do  you  wish  to  visit  Frankfurt  ?" 

"I  only  name  Frankfurt  because  it  is  near. 
I  care  not  where  we  go,  if  we  but  go  some- 
where ;  for  I  need  change,  amusement,  relief 
from  the  monotony  of  thought.  You  are  free 
— free  as  myself — let  us  get  away,  farther  away, 
to  Frankfurt,  Darmstadt,  Wiesbaden — any  where 
you  will!" 

Once  more  he  pressed  my  hand  in  his,  for  he 
understood  me. 

"To  Frankfurt,  then,  and  with  what  speed 
we  may !  When  will  you  go  ?  To-night  ?" 

"  Not  to-night.  Let  us  spend  our  last  moon- 
light evening  together  among  the  ruins.  I  may 
never  behold  them  again." 

"And  sup  afterward  with  the  University  lads 
at  the  Hirschgasse !  We  must  be  merry  for 
the  nonce,  for  who  knows  when  we  shall  again 
share  their  '  cakes  and  ale  ?' " 

So  that  evening,  when  the  crescent  moon 
stood  over  the  clock-tower  like  a  silver  sickle  in 
a  field  of  stars,  we  went  up  to  the  ruins,  and 
heard  the  nightingales  sing  in  Heidelberg  for 
the  last  time. 

Alas !  for  the  last  time ! 

Farewell,  then,  to  thee,  thou  majestic  monu- 
ment of  many  centuries !  Though  I  behold 
thee  no  more,  yet  keepest  thou  thy  desolate 
state  on  the  steep  verge  of  the  Jettenbuhl,  and 
some  of  my  greenest  memories  cling  round  thy 
crumbling  walls,  even  as  thine  own  ivy.  This 
wintry  sun  which  gleams  in  so  coldly  through 
my  casement  as  I  write,  sleeps  now  upon  fliy 
grassy  court-yard,  thy  fountain,  and  the  maimed 
heroes  of  thy  kingly  Rittersaal ;  this  chill  air, 
which  shakes  the  gaunt  poplars  yonder  by  the 
dull  pond,  stirs  amid  the  branches  of  thy  droop- 
ing willows,  and  rustles  the  last  yellow  leaves 
upon  the  lindens  of  thy  Blasted  Tower.  The 


people  come  and  go  amid  thy  solitudes — the 
river  eddies  far  beneath — the  town  lies  at  thy 
foot.  Thou  art  the  same,  and  I  alone  am 
changed !.  Farewell  to  theel 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE   MOONLIGHT    SONATA. 

FROM  Heidelberg  to  Frankfurt  we  went  in 
the  misty  morning,  past  the  Sea  of  Rocks— past 
the  dark  leafy  Odenwald — past  the  sunny  Berg- 
strasse,  and  the  little  stagnant  capital  of  the 
duchy  of  Hesse  Darmstadt. 

The  sunny  Bergstrasse !  This  "road  of 
mountains,"  as  the  Germans  poetically  name 
it,  is  an  undulating  chain  of  hills,  cultivated  in 
fields,  orchards,  and  vineyards  up  almost  to  the 
summits,  and  crowned,  like  Indian  chiefs,  with 
solemn  plumes  of  the  fir  and  pine.  At  the  feet 
of  these  hills  lie  little  white  villages  with  heav- 
en-pointing spires,  and  yellow  corn-stacks,  and 
pillars  of  blue  smoke  rising  up  into  the  "pa- 
geantry of  mist"  which  hangs  in  fantastic  bil- 
lowy wreaths  low  down  the  sides  of  the  mount- 
ains. Here,  also,  are  fields  of  pink  poppies, 
maize,  wheat,  and  potatoes — wooded  bluffs,  and 
dark  green  hollows — steep  ravines,  and  slopes 
of  radiant  green,  and  towers,  and  streamlets 
crossed  by  rude  wooden  bridges,  and  feeding 
cattle,  and  rustic  gardens,  and  foaming  mill- 
streams  turning  busy  wheels,  and  yoked  oxen 
bending  their  proud  heads  .to  the  earth  before 
the  steady  plow.  A  fairy  fertile  region — a  land 
of  corn  and  wine !  And  past  here,  with  the 
beautiful  Bergstrasse  on  our  right,  and  the 
broad,  sandy,  flat  Rhine-valley,  with  the  river 
winding  far  away,  and  the  summits  of  Mont 
Tonnerre  and  the  Vosges  Mountains  dimly 
showing  through  the  distance  on  the  left,  we 
went  from  feudal  Heidelberg  to  the  ''ancient 
imperial  free  city"  on  the  River  Main,  where  Lu- 
ther lived,  and  where  Goethe  was  born — that 
fair  fine  city  of  Frankfurt,  where  the  houses-  are 
so  white  and  high,  and  the  public  streets  so 
broad  and  busy ;  where  the  shops  are  so  gay 
and  the  women  so  fair,  and  where  the  slates  on 
the  roofs  are  shaped  like  fishes'  scales. 

It  was  a  sultry  sunny  day,  that  first  day  of 
our  arrival  in  Frankfurt ;  and  when  we  return- 
ed to  our  hotel,  after  seeing  the  Romer,  with  its 
kingly  portrait  gallery,  the  public  library  near 
the  Ober  Main  Thor,  and  the  monument  of  the 
Emperor  Giinther  von  Schwartzburg  in  the  old 
cathedral,  we  were  too  warm  and  too  weary  to 
do  any  thing  but  sit  smoking  beside  the  open 
window  till  summoned  down  by  the  pealing  bell 
to  that  second  and  later  meal  which  is  provided 
in  most  German  hotels  for  such  foreign  visitors 
as  object  to  the  national  midday  dinner. 

Our  apartment  overlooked  the  broad  Zeil,  all 
thronged  with  carriages  and  promenaders,  and 
looking  like  a  Parisian  boulevard  without  the 
trees.  It  was  to  me  a  new  and  cheerful  scene. 
Here  were  elegant  loungers,  and  travelers  with 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


the  Guide-book  in  their  hands,  and  sun-burnt 
peasant-women  selling  cherries  by  the  roadside. 
Boyish  soldiers  of  the  town-guard,  with  their 
dull  gray  and  green  uniforms,  and  their  round 
hats  surmounted  by  bunches  of  cock's  feathers, 
went  sauntering  by,  arm  in  arm,  clanking  their 
spurs.  Luxurious  private  carriages,  belonging 
to  the  merchant-princes  of  the  city,  dashed  past, 
raising  the  dust  in  clouds.  Humble  yellow  ca- 
leches,  indicative  of  hotel-stables,  ambled  along, 
filled  with  smiling  and  admiring  tourists. '  Some- 
times a  red  railway  omnibus  went  by,  with  its 
two  gaunt  horses,  and  its  bearded  conductor, 
who  pauses  and  rings  a  bell  as  he  nears  every 
hotel  by  the  way ;  sometimes  a  dark,  keen-look- 
ing Hebrew,  from  the  neighborhood  of  the  Ju- 
dengasse,  glided  gravely  through  the  crowd; 
and  once  a  troop  of  glittering  cavalry,  with  helm 
and  breastplate  flashing  back  the  sunlight,  rode 
down  the  street  to  ringing  sounds  of  brazen 
music. 

Pleasant  to  me,  oh  Frankfurt !  are  the  rec- 
ollections of  thy  wealth,  and  thy  dignity,  and 
thy  free  stateliness,  as  thou  sittest  on  the  banks 
of  the  Main  River,  fair  and  beautiful,  like  Do- 
7  rothea  by  the  brook-side  in  the  Brown  Mount- 
,  ain. 

The  table  d'hote  of  the  Baierischer  Hof  was 
attended  chiefly  by  English  and  French  visitors, 
with  a  sprinkling  of  Germans  and  a  small  knot 
of  Polish  Jews,  who  congregated  together  at  one 
extremity  of  the  table,  and  talked  loudly  and 
unintelligibly  during  the  whole  period  of  the 
dinner.  These  gentlemen  wore  each  a  scrap 
of  red  ribbon  at  the  button-hole,  and  were  call- 
ed by  the  waiters  Lord  Baron  and  Lord  Count, 
notwithstanding  that  their  jewelry  looked  some- 
what questionable,  and  that  their  linen  might 
have  been  washed  with  considerable  advantage. 

When  the  second  course  of  that  hopelessly 
incongruous  ceremony,  a  German  dinner,  had 
just  been  removed,  a  gentleman  came  hastily 
into  the  room  and  took  a  seat  which  had  been 
left  vacant  at  the  table  just  opposite  my  own. 
I  say  a  gentleman,  because,  despite  the  poverty 
of  his  attire,  there  was  an  air  of  faded  gentility 
about  the  appearance  of  the  new-comer  that 
seemed  to  entitle  him  to  the  appellation.  He 
wore  an  old  brown  frock-coat,  buttoned  nearly 
to  the  throat,  and  trimmed  with  ragged  braid 
across  the  breast ;  and  in  his  black  stock  a  small 
pearl  brooch  inclosing  a  lock  of  dark  hair.  He 
was  very  thin,  and  stooped  much,  and  his  hands 
were  yellow  and  spare,  like  those  of  a  sick  man. 
His  hair  and  mustache  were  thick  and  quite 
gray ;  and  his  face,  as  he  looked  up,  bore  that 
peculiar  expression,  so  worn  and  so  sorrowful, 
such  as  we  see  given  to  the  martyrs  in  the  old 
paintings  by  Van  Eyck  and  Wilhelm  of  Cologne. 
It  was  a  remarkable  face  —  so  remarkable  that, 
after  gazing  upon  it  in  silence  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, I  could  not  forbear  observing  it  to  my 
friend  beside  me.  I  should  not  have  called  him 
a  plain  man ;  on  the  contrary,  his  nose  and 
mouth  were  somewhat  delicately  shaped ;  and 
yet  the  skin  seemed  drawn  so  tightly  over  every 


feature  that  the  cartilage  of  the  nose  showed 
whitely  beneath,  and  the  lips  were  shrunken  so 
as  partially  to  expose  the  teeth  within,  which 
were  irregular,  firm,  and  glittering.  His  fore- 
head was  particularly  massive,  and  projected  in 
two  knots  above  the  eyes,  causing  them  to  look 
deep-sunken  and  glowing,  like  a  lurid  fire  in 
the  depths  of  a  dark  cavern.  Added  to  this, 
his  whole  complexion  wore  one  dull,  unhealthy 
sallow  hue — his  actions  were  nervous,  trembling, 
and  eager — the  tones  of  his  voice  high  and  quer- 
ulous— his  glances  rapid,  furtive,  and  suspicious. 
I  also  noticed  that  he  devoured  the  dishes,  as 
they  were  placed  before  him,  with  a  quick  vo- 
racity that  I  felt  shocked  to  witness. 

"Look  at  our  opposite  neighbor,"!  whisper- 
ed, softly;  "can  you  not  read  a  long  story  of 
privation  and  anxiety  in  that  poor  fellow's  pal- 
lid countenance  ?" 

Seabrook  looked  up.  A  sudden  flash  of  sur- 
prise and  recognition  passed  over  his  face. 

"  I  know  him,"  he  said,  in  a  low  tone.  "His 
name  is  Fletcher.  He  is  an  Englishman  —  a 
strange,  eccentric  creature,  of  wild  and  irregular 
habits,  but  a  real  genius." 

"A  genius — in  what?" 

"  In  music.  He  plays  the  organ  and  violin 
— composes  the  wildest  and  most  wondrous  la- 
ments, fantasias,  and  capricios  that  ear  ever 
heard — lives  the  most  restless,  wretched  life  on 
earth  —  eats  opium,  and  is  killing  himself  inch 
by  inch,  day  by  day,  in  the  pursuit  of  that  fatal 
intoxication.  I  used  to  meet  him  constantly 
in  Vienna,  about  a  couple  of  years  since,  at  the 
houses  of  two  or  three  musical  friends,  and  we 
became  tolerably  well  acquainted.  I  will  speak 
to  him." 

And  he  bent  forward  and  a4dressed  to  him 
some  brief  words  of  ordinary  civility.  The  mu- 
sician looked  up  hastily.  He  seemed  startled 
and  confused. 

"I — I  beg  your  pardon, "he  said,  nervously, 
"for  not  having  observed  you  before.  I  hope 
yoi*  are  quite  well.  It  is  a  fine  day,  but  they 
say  we  shall  have  rain.  Have  you  been  to  the 
theatre  much  ?  This  is  a  very  bad  dinner — red 
currant  jelly  with  salmon — faugh !  Do  you  like 
the  German  wines  ?  Rudesheimer  is  the  best. 
Have  you  been  long  here  ?  I  have  been  here 
two  montbs ;  but  I  leave  to-morrow.  Going  to 
Ems.  How  are  our  friends  in  Paris  ?" 

My  companion  smiled  and  shook  his  head. 

"  It  was  not  in  Paris,  but  Vienna,  that  we 
used  to  meet,  Mr.  Fletcher,"  he  said.  "Don't 
you  remember  our  choral  evenings  at  Alexander 
Braun's,  and  our  quartett  parties  in  the  Freder- 
ic-strasse,  near  St.  Stephen's  church  ?" 

"True,  true ;  but  I  have  no  memory  now  ex- 
cept for  music.  I  hope  you  will  forgive  me.  I 
remember  you  perfectly.  You  play  the  violon- 
cello, and  very  well  too.  Those  were  pleasant 
meetings  at  Braun's.  Do  you  recollect  the 
evening  that  Chopin  came  in  ?  He  played  splen- 
didly that  night.  Do  you  know  many  people 
in  Frankfurt?  Plenty  of  music  always  going 
on.  I  have  been  conducting  the  band  at  the 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


25 


Main-lust ;  but  this  will  be  my  last  evening. 
Will  you  come  round  and  hear  us  ?" 

There  was  an  anxious  rapidity  and  incoher- 
ence in  this  man's  conversation  that  was  to  me 
unaccountably  distressing.  His  words  and  ideas 
came  hurrying  forth,  one  after  the  other,  without 
connection  or  pause ;  and  when  he  had  ceased 
speaking,  it  seemed  rather  that  he  relapsed  into 
some  previous  train  of  silent  thought  than  that 
he  waited  for  a  reply. 

"I  should  like  to  hear  your  music  very 
much,"  said  Seabrook,  "and  I  am  very  sure 
my  friend  would  also.  Let  me  introduce  you : 
Monsieur  Latour — Mr.  Fletcher." 

He  bowed,  almost  without  looking  at  me,  and 
went  on. 

"Do  not  expect  too  much.  The  band  is  only 
tolerable ;  but  the  Frankfurt  Choral  Society  sing 
to-night.  They  will  amuse  you.  Have  you 
ever  been  to  the  Main-lust  ?  It  is  an  odd  place. 
You  sit  under  the  trees  and  drink  coffee  while 
we  play  to  you.  Don't  touch  this  calf 's-head 
— it's  intolerable.  By  the  way,  you  have  tasted 
sour-krout  ?  Schroder  is  dead.  You  remember 
Schroder — he  used  to  take  the  tenor  in  the  quar- 
tetts.  Are  you  lodging  at  this  hotel  ?  We  can 
go  down  to  the  gardens  together  after  dinner. 
It  is  now  four,  and  at  five  we  begin." 

He  relapsed  into  a  dull  silence,  bent  over  his 
plate,  and,  when  Seabrook  again  spoke  to  him, 
seemed  not  to  hear. 

Almost  as  silently,  he  conducted  us,  when  the 
meal  was  over,  to  the  concert-gardens  called  the 
Main -lust,  just  beyond  the  town.  Here  the 
most  respectable  of  the  citizens  repair  with  their 
families,  and,  sitting  beneath  the  leafy  roof 
formed  by  the  close-planted  trees,  have  coffee 
and  ices,  and  even  suppers,  in  the  grounds. 
The  gentlemen  amuse  themselves  with  pistol 
and  rifle  shooting  in  a  gallery  set  apart  for  that 
purpose,  and  there  is  a  circular  kiosque  for  the 
band.  The  ladies  read  and  knit ;  the  children 
sit  by  demurely,  listening  to  the  music  and  eat- 
ing cakes  ;  and  the  waiters  glide  about,  silent 
and  attentive,  with  little  badges  on  their  arms. 
A  large  hulk  is  moored  beside  the  garden — for 
it  abuts  on  the  river,  just  in  view  of  the  city 
spires — and  on  this  hulk  a  sort  of  arch  is  erect- 
ed, all  hung  round  with  evergreens  and  colored 
lamps,  and  surmounted  by  a  bust  of  Mozart. 
Desks  are  placed  here  for  the  singers,  and  it  is 
all  fenced  round  by  trellis-work,  and  flowers,  and 
Chinese  lanterns,  and  gay  flags  and  streamers. 
Here  the  Choral  Society,  some  thirty  gentlemen 
in  all,  assemble  presently,  and  the  evening  pass- 
es pleasantly  away  between  alternate  vocal  and 
instrumental  pieces.  They  sing  well,  and  their 
voices  come  richly  to  us  from  the  river.  Then 
it  grows  dusk,  and  the  moon  rises.  The  colored 
lamps  are  lit,  and  the  light  from  them— blue, 
green,  and  red — falls,  with  a  curious  effect,  upon 
the  faces  of  the  singers.  Mr.  Fletcher  conducts 
in  the  orchestra,  but  we  can  not  see  him  from 
where  we  sit  beneath  the  close  avenues.  Well- 
dressed  people  promenade  through  the  garden 
walks,  and  numbers  of  tiny  pleasure-boats,  filled 


by  young  men  and  maidens,  come  stealing  soft- 
ly round  the  singers  in  the  river — some  with  a 
twinkling  lamp  suspended  at  the  prow,  which 
casts  a  light  upon  the  ripples  of  their  progress. 
The  bridge  close  by  is  likewise  crowded  with 
listeners ;  and  the  boys  from  the  town,  in  their 
blue  blouses,  come  climbing  up  the  shrubby 
banks,  with  the  true  German  love  for  that  art 
which  has  been  called  "  the  poetry  of  sound." 

Thus  the  cool  hours  glide ;  and,  by-and-by, 
the  gay  company,  the  flitting  pleasure-boats,  the 
loiterers  on  the  bridge,  disperse  their  several 
ways,  and  the  gardens  are  deserted.  The  sing- 
ers mingle  with  their  friends  in  the  departing 
crowd ;  the  musicians  in  the  kiosque  pack  away 
their  instruments ;  the  waiters  go  round,  extin- 
guishing the  lights  and  collecting  the  empty 
glasses.  Mr.  Fletcher  joins  us  where  we  are 
waiting  for  him  near  the  entrance,  and  we  all 
go  out  together  into  the  blank,  silent  streets. 
It  begins  to  rain,  and  we  hurry  on  in  silence, 
past  the  Stadel  Museum,  and  the  Allee  facing 
the  theatre,  where  stands  the  bronze  statue  of 
Goethe,  looking  shadowy  through  the  mist — 
pass  the  Rossmarkt,  and  into  a  narrow  street 
opening  on  the  Zeil,  where  our  companion  stops 
suddenly,  and,  pointing  to  a  lighted  doorway  be- 
fore which  we  have  just  arrived,  says, 

"  Let  us  go  in  for  an  hour.  It  is  early,  and 
I  always  sup  here.  We  have  music  and  goose- 
pies.  It  is  a  sort  of  private  club ;  and  nearly 
all  the  band  come.  Have  you  any  objection  ? 
Mendelssohn  came  in  one  night  with  Weigel 
andHirt!" 

We  are  only  too  delighted,  and  we  follow  him 
down  a  passage  and  to  the  door  of  an  inner 
room,  whence  come  the  sounds  of  loud  laugh- 
ter, and  chinking  glasses,  and  snatches  of  gay 
songs.  A  porter,  who  touches  his  cap  as  we 
approach,  sits  by  the  entrance,  and  throws  the 
door  open.  It  is  a  room  filled  with  tobacco- 
smoke,  and  the  odors  of  beer  and  hot  savory 
dishes.  Around  a  long  table  in  the  centre  sit 
some  sixteen  or  eighteen  dingy-looking,  beard- 
ed men,  busily  occupied  with  the  viands  before 
them.  Some  are  smoking  during  the  intervals 
between  the  courses  ;  some  are  arguing,  telling 
tales,  whispering  confidentially  together;  some 
are  reading  the  "Frankfurt  Journal"  while  they 
eat.  All  is  freedom,  and  enjoyment,  and  good- 
fellowship. 

We  sit  down,  almost  without  being  observed, 
at  the  lower  end  of  the  table ;  and.  being  sup- 
plied with  all  that  it  affords,  fall  to  work  heartily. 
Fletcher  is  more  taciturn  than  ever,  and  eats  vo- 
raciously, like  a  dog,  holding  his  head  down,  and 
helping  himself  to  every  thing  that  is  near. 

"Take  no  notice  of  him,"  whispers  Seabrook, 
observing  my  surprise.  "  He  is  very  eccentric, 
and  you  have  not  yet  seen  him  ,to  advantage. 
Wait  till  the  supper  is  removed,  and  you  will 
find  him  no  longer  the  same  man.  He  knew 
Beethoven,  and  his  conversation  is  sometimes 
most  interesting.  We  must  contrive  to  lead  to 
the  subject  in  some  way  by-and-by." 

The  smoking,  the  talking,  the  eating  still  goes 


26 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


on.  Indeed,  it  would  seem  that  the  relays  of 
dishes  are  never-ending,  especially  the  favorite 
goose-pies  of  which  we  have  been  told.  How- 
ever, the  supper  does  at  last  arrive  at  a  conclu- 
sion— the  table  is  cleared — tobacco,  beer,  wine, 
and  cigars  are  laid  before  us — the  chair  is  taken  | 
by  a  stout  dark  man  in  a  green  coat — the  read- 
ers lay  down  their  newspapers,  and  music  and 
conversation  become  the  order  of  the  night. 

"A  song!"  cries  the  president,  in  a  powerful 
bass  voice.  "A  song  4  I  call  upon  Brenner 
for  a  song!" 

Brenner,  a  fair  young  man  with  an  amber 
beard,  hereupon  rises,  amid  general  acclama- 
tion, and,  seating  himself  at  a  piano,  preludes 
cleverly  for  some  minutes,  and  then  glides,  by 
an  agreeable  transition,  into  a  graceful  tenor 
song  by  Schubert.  His  voice  is  sweet,  but  not 
powerful;  and  he  sings  remarkably  well.  I 
learn  from  a  gentleman  opposite  that  he  belongs 
to  the  summer  theatre  at  Bockenheim,  and  takes 
the  roles  of  second  tenor.  Great  applause  and 
cries  of  "encore"  prevent  him  from  resuming 
his  seat  after  he  has  concluded.  Seabrook  sug- 
gests "Adelaide"  —  it  is  repeated  by  several 
voices  —  the  singer  bows  and  smiles,  and  the 
song  is  sung. 

"I  know  no  music  like  Beethoven's,  after 
all,"  says  Seabrook,  with  a  glance  toward  me 
and  a  little  emphasis  in  his  tone.  "There  is 
a  power  and  passion  in  it  which  I  find  in  no 
other ;  a  deep,  earnest  under-current  of  poetry ; 
an  inner  meaning ;  a  universality  of  feeling  and 
perception  totally  unlike  others  of  his  craft.  I 
often  think  that  if  Beethoven  had  not  been  a 
musician,  he  would  have  been  a  great  poet. 
Look  at  his  bust — it  is  almost  Homeric  in  its 
stern  beauty.  Those  loose,  thick  locks;  that 
large,  eloquent  mouth,-  that  furrowed  brow; 
those  deep,  thoughtful  eyes  —  are  they  not  the 
very  types  and  outward  revelations  of  the  strong, 
wild  nature  of  the  man,  and  of  his  great  warm 
heart?" 

"You  are  right,  sir,"  says  Fletcher,  turning 
sudddely  toward  us  with  kindling  eyes.  "And 
he  put  that  heart  into  his  music — that  heart  that 
was  so  torn  and  rejected  by  his  fellow-men. 
What  pictures  of  life  and  emotion  are  many  of 
his  symphonies  and  sonatas !  How  character- 
istically some  of  them  are  conducted !  At  first 
wailing  and  lonely,  like  a  sorrowful  voice  in  the 
night-silence ;  then  agitated,  broken,  throbbing, 
like  the  yearnings  of  a  full  heart ;  then  stormy, 
torrent-like,  burning,  as  the  billows  of  a  tem- 
pest, which  rage  and  leap,  and  then,  all  sud- 
denly, subside  away,  while  some  aerial  melody, 
like  a  charmed  boat,  comes  gliding  over  the  sur- 
face, bringing  calm,  and  sunshine,  and  openings 
of  blue  sky,  and  airs  from  heaven ! " 

"You  knew  him  personally, Fletcher, "  says 
the  gentleman  opposite,  who  has  been  lending 
an  attentive  ear  to  all  that  passes.  * '  Can  you 
not  tell  us  something  of  himself?" 

This  speech  is  somewhat  injudicious ;  for  the 
musician  is  of  a  contrary  temper,  and  dislikes 
talking  "by  desire."  He  pauses,  looks  discon- 


certed, and,  but  for  a  well-timed  observation 
from  Seabrook,  would  probably  have  relapsed 
into  his  previous  taciturnity. 

"His  music,"  says  my  friend,  "is  his  best  bi- 
ography. In  it  we  have  a  record,  intelligible 
enough  to  those  whose  sympathies  are  with  him, 
of  his  joys,  sorrows,  and  struggles — nay,  even  of 
certain  incidents  of  his  life,  and  of  his  politics, 
as  in  the  case  of  the  pastoral  and  heroic  sympho- 
nies. From  it  we  learn  to  read  his  every  feel- 
ing ;  for,  like  himself,  it  is  all  tenderness,  and 
impulse,  and  stormful  energy." 

"It  is  beautiful  and  terrible,"  says  Fletcher, 
thoughtfully,  "  as  his  own  nature.  It  is  an  in- 
cantation—  a  poem  —  a  spiritual  philosophy. 
Did  I  ever  tell  you  how  or  why  he  composed 
the  Moonlight  Sonata?" 

"Never,"  replies  Seabrook,  giving  me  a  tri- 
umphant glance. 

"  It  happened  at  Bonn.  Of  course  you  know 
that  Bonn  was  his  native  place.  He  was  born 
in  a  house  in  the  Eheingasse  ;  but  when  I  first 
knew  him,  he  was  lodging  in  the  upper  part  of 
a  little  mean  shop  near  the  Romerplatz.  He 
was  wretchedly  poor  just  then  ;  so  poor  that  he 
never  went  out  for  a  walk  except  at  night,  on 
account  of  the  poverty  of  his  appearance.  How- 
ever, he  had  a  piano,  pens,  paper,  ink,  and  a 
few  books,  and  from  these  he  contrived  to  ex- 
tract some  little  happiness,  despite  his  priva- 
tions. At  this  time,  you  know,  he  had  not  the 
misfortune  to  be  deaf.  He  could  at  least  enjoy 
the  harmony  of  his  own  compositions.  Later 
in  life  he  had  not  even  that  consolation.  One 
winter's  evening  I  called  upon  him,  for  I  want- 
ed him  to  take  a  walk,  and  afterward  to  sup 
with  me.  I  found  him  sitting  by  the  window 
in  the  moonlight  without  fire  or  candle,  his 
head  buried  in  his  hands,  and  his  whole  frame 
trembling  with  cold ;  for  it  was  freezing  bitter- 
ly. I  roused  him,  persuaded  him  to  accompany 
me,  urged  him  to  shake  oif  his  despondency. 
He  went ;  but  he  was  very  gloomy  and  hope- 
less that  night,  and  refused  to  be  comforted. 
'I  hate  life  and  the  world,'  he  said,  passionate- 
ly. 'I  hate  myself!  No  one  understands  or 
cares  for  me.  I  have  genius,  and  I  am  treated 
as  an  outcast.  I  have  heart,  and  none  to  love. 
I  wish  it  were  all  over,  and  forever !  I  wish 
that  I  were  lying  peacefully  at  the  bottom  of 
the  river  yonder.  I  sometimes  find  it  difficult 
to  resist  the  temptation.'  And  he  pointed  to 
the  Rhine,  looking  cold  and  bright  in  the  moon- 
light. I  made  no  reply ;  for  it  was  useless  to 
argue  with  Beethoven,  so  I  allowed  him  to  go 
on  in  the  same  strain,  which  he  did,  nor  paused 
till  we  were  returning  through  the  town,  when 
he  subsided  into  a  sullen  silence.  I  did  not 
care  to  interrupt  him.  Passing  through  some 
dark,  narrow  streets  within  the  Coblentz  gate, 
he  paused  suddenly.  '  Hush !'  he  said.  '  What 
sound  is  that  ?'  I  listened,  and  heard  the  feeble 
tones  of  what  was  evidently  a  very  old  piano, 
proceeding  from  some  place  close  at  hand.  The 
performer  was  playing  a  plaintive  movement  in 
triple  time,  and,  despite  the  worthlessness  of 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


27 


the  instrument,  contrived  to  impart  to  it  consid- 
erable tenderness  of  expression.  Beethoven 
looked  at  me  with  sparkling  eyes.  '  It  is  from 
my  symphony  in  F ! '  he  said,  eagerly.  *  This 
is  the  house.  Hark!  how  well  it  is  played!' 
It  was  a  little,  mean  dwelling,  with  a  light  shin- 
:ing  through  the  chink  of  the  shutters.  We 
paused  outside  and  listened.  The  player  went 
on,  and  the  two  following  movements  were  exe- 
cuted with  the  same  fidelity — the  same  expres- 
sion. In  the  middle  of  the  finale  there  was  a 
sudden  break— a  momentary  silence — then  the 
low  sounds  of  sobbing.  '  I  can  not  go  on,'  said 
a  female  voice.  '  I  can  not  play  any  more  to- 
night, Friedrich  !'  *  Why  not,  my  sister?'  ask- 
ed her  companion,  gently.  '  I  scarcely  know 
why,  unless  that  it  is  so  beautiful,  and  that  it 
seems  so  utterly  beyond  my  power  to  do  justice 
to  its  perfection.  Oh,  what  would  I  not  give  to 
go  to-night  to  Cologne !  There  is  a  concert 
given  at  the  Kauf  haus,  and  all  kinds  of  beauti- 
ful music  to  be  performed.  It  must  be  so  nice 
to  go  to  a  concert!'  'Ah!  my  sister,'  said  the 
man,  sighing,  'none  but  the  rich  can  afford 
such  happiness.  It  is  useless  to  create  regrets 
for  ourselves  where  there  can  be  no  remedy. 
We  can  scarcely  pay  our  rent  now,  so  why  dare 
even  to  think  of  what  is  unattainable?'  'You 
are  right,  Friedrich,'  was  her  reply.  'And  yet 
sometimes,  when  I  am  playing,  I  wish  that  for 
once  in  my  life  I  might  hear  some  really  good  mu- 
sic and  fine  performance.  But  it  is  of  no  use — of 
no  use ! '  There  was  something  very  touching  in 
the  tone  of  these  last  words,  and  in  the  manner 
of  their  repetition.  Beethoven  looked  at  me. 
'Let  us  go  in,'  he  said,  hurriedly.  'Go  in!'  I 
exclaimed.  '  How  can  we  go  in  ?  what  can  we 
go  in  for  ?'  '  I  will  play  to  her,'  he  said,  in  the 
same  excited  tone.  '  Here  is  feeling — genius 
1 — understanding.  I  will  play  to  her,  and  she 
will  appreciate  it !'  And  before  I  could  pre- 
vent him,  his  hand  was  upon  the  door.  It  was 
only  latched,  and  instantly  gave  way ;  so  I  fol- 
lowed him  through  the  dark  passage  to  a  half- 
opened  door  at  the  right  of  the  entrance,  which 
he  pushed  open  and  entered.  It  was  a  bare, 
comfortless  apartment,  with  a  small  stove  at  one 
end,  and  scanty  furniture.  A  pale  young  man 
was  sitting  by  the  table,  making  shoes ;  and 
near  him,  leaning  sorrowfully  upon  an  old-fash- 
ioned harpsichord,  sat  a  young  girl,  with  a  pro- 
fusion of  light  hair  falling  over  her  bent  face. 
Both  were  cleanly  but  very  poorly  dressed,  and 
both  started  and  turned  toward  us  as  we  en- 
tered. 'Pardon  me,' said  Beethoven,  looking 
somewhat  embarrassed.  '  Pardon  me — but — 
but  I  heard  music,  and  I  was  tempted  to  enter. 
I  am  a  musician.'  The  girl  blushed,  and  the 
young  man  looked  grave — somewhat  annoyed. 
'I  —  I  also  overheard  something  of  what  you 
said,'  continued  my  friend.  '  You  wish  to  hear 
— that  is,  you  would  like — that  is — shall  I  play 
to  you  ?'  There  was  something  so  odd,  so 
whimsicalj  so  brusque  in  the  whole  affair,  and 
something  so  pleasant  and  eccentric  in  the  very 
manner  of  the  speaker,  that  the  ice  seemed  bro- 


ken in  a  moment,  and  all  smiled  involuntarily. 
'  Thank  you,'  said  the  shoemaker ;  '  but  our 
harpsichord  is  wretched,  and  we  have  no  music.' 
'No  music!'  echoed  my  friend.  'How,  then, 
does  the  fraiilein — '  He  paused  and  colored 
up,  for  the  girl  looked  round  full  at  him,  and  in 
the  dim,  melancholy  gaze  of  those  clouded  eyes 
he  saw  that  she  was  blind.  '  I — I  entreat  your 
pardon,'  he  stammered;  'but  I  had  not  per- 
ceived before.  Then  you  play  from  ear  ?'  *  En- 
tirely.' 'And  where  do  you  hear  the  music, 
since  you  frequent  no  concerts?'  'I  used  to 
hear  a  lady  practicing  near  us  when  we  lived 
at  Briihl  two  years  ago.  During  the  summer1 
evenings  her  window  was  generally  open,  and  I 
walked  to  and  fro  outside  to  listen  to  her.* 
'  And  have  you  never  heard  any  music  ? '  '  None 
— excepting  street-music.'  She  seemed  shy,  so 
Beethoven  said  no  more,  but  seated  himself 
quietly  before  the  piano,  and  began  to  play. 
He  had  no  sooner  struck  the  first  chord  than  I 
knew  what  would  follow — how  grand  he  would 
be  that  night !  And  I  was  not  mistaken.  Nev- 
er, never,  during  all  the  years  I  knew  him,  did  I 
hear  him  play  as  he  then  played  to  that  blind 
girl  and  her  brother !  Never  heard  I  such  fire, 
such  passionate  tenderness,  such  infinite  grada- 
tions of  melody  and  modulation  !  He  was  in- 
spired; and  from  the  instant  that  his  fingers 
began  to  wander  along  the  keys,  the  very  tones 
of  the  instrument  seemed  to  grow  sweeter  and 
more  equal.  Breathless  and  entranced,  we  sat 
listening.  The  brother  and  sister  were  silent 
with  wonder  and  rapture.  The  former  laid 
aside  his  work ;  the  latter,  with  her  head  bent 
slightly  forward,  and  her  hands  pressed  tightly 
over  her  breast,  crouched  down  near  the  end  of 
the  harpsichord,  as  if  fearful  lest  even  the  beat- 
ing of  her  heart  should  break  the  flow  of  those 
magical  sweet  sounds.  It  was  as  if  we  were  all 
bound  in  a  strange  dream,  and  only  feared  to 
wake.  Suddenly  the  flame  of  the  single  candle 
wavered,  sunk,  flickered,  and  went  out.  Beet- 
hoven paused,  and  I  threw  open  the  shutters, 
admitting  a  flood  of  brilliant  moonlight.  The 
room  was  almost  as  light  as  before,  and  the  illu- 
mination fell  strongest  on  the  piano  and  the 
player.  But  the  chain  of  his  ideas  seemed  to 
have  been  broken  by  the  accident.  His  head 
drooped  upon  his  breast— his  hands  rested  upon 
his  knees — he  seemed  absorbed  in  meditation. 
It  was  thus  for  some  time.  At  length  the  young 
shoemaker  rose,  and  approaching  him  eagerly, 
yet  reverently — '  Wonderful  man !'  he  said,  in  a 
low  tone,  '  who  and  what  are  you  ?'  Beethoven 
lifted  his  head  and  looked  up  at  him  vacantly, 
as  if  unconscious  of  the  meaning  of  his  words. 
He  repeated  the  question.  The  composer 
smiled,  as  he  only  could  smile,  benevolently, 
indulgently,  kingly.  'Listen!'  he  said,  and 
played  the  opening  bars  of  the  symphony  in  F. 
A  cry  of  delight  and  recognition  burst  from  the 
lips  of  both,  and  exclaiming,  'Then  you  are 
Beethoven!'  they  covered  his  hands  with'  tears 
and  kisses.  He  rose  to  go,  but  we  held  him 
back  with  entreaties.  '  Play  to  us  once  more 


28 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


— only  once  more !'  He  suffered  himself  to  be 
led  back  to  the  instrument.  The  moon  shone 
brightly  in  through  the  curtainless  window,  and 
lit  up  his  glorious  rugged  head  and  massive  fig- 
ure. '  I  will  improvise  a  sonata  to  the  moon- 
light!' said  he,  half  playfully.  He  looked  up 
thoughtfully  for  a  few  moments  to  the  sky  and 
the  stars  —  then  his  hands  dropped  upon  the 
keys,  and  he  began  playing  a  low,  sad,  and  infi- 
nitely lovely  movement,  which  crept  gently  over 
the  instrument  with  a  sweet  and  level  beau- 
ty, like  the  calm  flow  of  moonlight  over  the 
dark  earth.  This  delicious  opening  was  fol- 
lowed by  a  wild,  elfin,  capricious  passage  in 
triple  time — a  sort  of  grotesque  interlude,  like 
a  dance  of  sprites  upon  the  midnight  sward. 
Then  came  a  swift  agitato  finale — a  breathless, 
hurrying,  trembling  movement,  descriptive  of 
flight,  and  uncertainty,  and  vague  impulsive 
terror,  which  carried  us  away  upon  its  rushing 
wings,  and  left  us  at  the  last  all  emotion  and 
wonder.  'Farewell  to  you,'  said  Beethoven, 
abruptly,  pushing  back  his  chair,  and  turning 
toward  the  door ;  '  farewell  to  you.'  '  You  will 
come  again?'  asked  they  in  one  breath.  He 
paused,  and  looked  compassionately,  almost  ten- 
derly, at  the  face  of  the  blind  girl.  '  Yes,  yes,' 
he  said,  hurriedly,  '  I  will  come  again,  and  give 
the  fraiilein  some  lessons.  Farewell;  I  will 
come  soon  again !'  They  followed  us  in  a  si- 
lence more  eloquent  than  words,  and  stood  at 
their  door  till  we  were  out  of  sight  and  hearing. 
"Let  us  make  haste  back,'  said  Beethoven,  urg- 
ing me  on  at  a  rapid  pace.  'Let  us  make 
haste,  that  I  may  write  out  that  sonata  while  I 
can  yet  remember  it !'  We  did  so,  and  he  sat 
over  it  till  long  past  the  day-dawn.  And  this 
was  the  origin  of  that  '  Moonlight  Sonata'  with 
which  we  are  all  so  fondly  acquainted." 

The  musician  ceased  speaking.  There  was 
.  a  dead  silence,  for  all  had  been  intently  listen- 
ing. 

"And  did  he  afterward  teach  the  blind  girl?" 
asked  some  one,  at  length,  from  the  farther  end 
of  the  table. 

Fletcher  smiled  sadly  and  shook  his  head. 

"  He  never  went  again.  When  the  excite- 
ment was  past,  the  interest  was  gone  also ;  and 
though  doubtless  they  remembered  and  expect- 
ed him  week  after  week,  he  thought  of  them  no 
more,  excepting  as  his  eyes  chanced  now  and 
then  to  fall  upon  the  pages  of  the  'Sonata.'  Is 
not  such  the  rule  of  life?" 

Shortly  after  this  the  company  began  gradu- 
ally to  disperse,  and  by  the  time  we  rose  to 
leave,  nearly  all  were  gone  or  going,  with  the 
exception  of  a  knot  of  choice  spirits  at  the  up- 
per end,  who  had  made  up  their  minds  to  her- 
ald in  the  daylight. 

The  rain  was  over  now,  and  the  night  starry. 
As  we  passed  the  doors  of  the  theatre,  we  saw 
the  bill-stickers  busily  placarding  the  pro- 
grammes for  the  following  evening. 

"Look  here!"  cried  Seabrook.  "There  is 
to  be  a  performance  to-morrow  night !  '  Der 
Freischutz,'  by  all  that's  glorious!  We  must 


go,  Paul !  See,  THE  ENGAGEMENT  OF  MADAME 
VOGELSANG,  in  letters  half  a  foot  long !  Who 
is  Madame  Vogelsang?  Does  any  body  know?" 

We  both  turned  toward  Fletcher  for  a  reply. 
He  had  been  conversing  gayly  but  a  moment 
before,  yet  now  he  stood  still  and  silent.  The 
light  from  the  street-lamp  fell  full  upon  his 
face.  He  was  very  pale,  and  his  lips  quivered 
convulsively.  He  caught  my  arm  as  if  for  sup- 
port, and  I  felt  him  trembling. 

' '  Mon  Dieu  /"  I  cried,  involuntarily.  ' '  You 
are  ill!" 

He  shook  his  head — subdued  his  emotion  by 
a  strong  effort — relinquished  his  hold  upon  my 
arm — drew  his  hat  down  upon  his  brow — and, 
without  a  word  of  reply,  turned  abruptly  away, 
and  dashed  down  a  neighboring  street.  In  a 
moment  he  was  out  of  sight,  and  we  were  left 
standing  together  by  the  theatre  door,  in  mute 
amazement. 

"A  most  eccentric  man!"  exclaimed  Sea- 
brook,  drawing  a  long  breath,  as  we  resumed 
our  way.  "I  always  fancied  that  he  was  half- 
cracked,  and  I  do  not  suppose  that  drinking  and 
opium -eating  have  done  any  service  to  his 
brains!" 


CHAPTER  XI. 


"  I  REALLY  believe,  Norman,  that  you,  famil- 
iar as  you  are  with  the  pleasures  of  cities,  feel 
more  anticipation  and  enjoyment  this  evening 
than  I,  who  have  not  witnessed  a  theatrical  per- 
formance more  than  thrice  in  my  life !" 

I  was  tempted  to  say  this  on  seeing  the  buoy- 
ant exhilaration  of  his  manner  and  counte- 
nance as  he  surveyed  the  house  through  his 
lorgnette,  and  gazed  impatiently  toward  the 
drop-curtain. 

"  'Der  Freischutz'  is  my  favorite  opera," he 
replied,  smiling.  "  I  enjoy  the  wild  devilry  of 
the  legend ;  and,  above  all,  I  delight  in  the  pic- 
turesque music  of  Weber.  He  has  all  the 
science  of  Spohr,  and  more  than  the  sweetness 
of  Rossini." 

"  The  part  of  Caspar  is  immensely  powerful." 

"  Immensely.  I  could  listen  to  the  drinking^ 
song  for  a  whole  evening,  and  to  the  low,  fitful 
music  of  the  incantation  scene,  with  its  mutter- 
ing thunders  and  grotesque  imagery.  I  have, 
often  thought  that  the  part  of  Zamiel  might  be 
made  more  striking  by  the  performers  in  a  dra- 
matic point  of  view,  for — " 

My  friend's  criticism  was  arrested  by  the 
opening  chords  of  the  overture,  and  from  this 
moment  he  became  entirely  absorbed  in  the 
progress  of  the  performance.  We  occupied  a 
small  box  near  the  stage,  whence  we  could  see 
the  actors  closely,  but  whence,  also,  we  suffered 
under  the  disadvantage  of  witnessing  somewhat 
too  much  of  the  "business"  of  the  coulisses, 
This  was  particularly  annoying  to  Seabrook, 
who,  faithful  to  his  love  of  complete  enjoyment, 
regretted  the  lost  illusion  of  the  scenery. 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


29 


"  I  prefer,"  said  he,  "  to  be  for  the  time  utter- 
ly deceived.  1  do  not  wish  to  see  that  Zamiel's 
nose  is  false,  and  that  Caspar  wears  a  wig.  I 
would  rather  believe  that  yonder  pale  spectres 
have  just  arisen,  shuddering,  from  the  Tartarean 
gulfs,  than  watch  them  drinking  beer  at  the 
sides,  out  of  sight  of  the  audience.  There 
ought  to  be  no  side- seats  in  a  theatre.  There 
should  not  be,  were  I  the  architect." 

Accompanied  by  such  brief  remarks  on  music 
and  the  stage,  the  piece  went  on.  Like  all 
German  performances,  it  was  conscientiously 
rendered.  The  band  played  as  one  instrument ; 
the  chorus  sang  as  one  man ;  but,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  the  jmma  donna,  the  principal  per- 
formers were  little  beyond  mediocrity.  The 
scenery,  too,  was  faded  and  worn  —  the  dresses 
dingy — the  house  far  from  cleanly.  Yet  it  was 
crowded — crowded  from  pit  to  gallery  with  earn- 
est listeners — lit  by  close  rows  of  eager  upturn- 
ed faces.  Madame  Vogelsang,  it  would  seem, 
was  the  attraction  to  the  good  townspeople  of 
Frankfurt  —  Madame  Vogelsang,  whose  name 
had  been  placarded  in  letters  half  a  foot  long, 
and  of  whom  Norman  Seabrook  had  never 
heard. 

And  here  let  me  pause  for  some  moments, 
that  I  may  briefly  describe  this  woman  as  I 
then  saw  her  for  the  first  time. 

Therese  Vogelsang  was  already  past  the 
bloom  of  her  first  youth.  She  might  then  have 
been  perhaps  thirty,  or  thirty-two  years  of  age, 
and,  in  place  of  the  slight  proportions  of  early 
beauty,  her  superb  figure  had  attained  all  the 
majestic  grace  and  fullness  of  a  Juno's.  She 
was  somewhat  above  the  middle  height.  Her 
head  was  noble  ;  her  arms  were  the  whitest  and 
loveliest  I  had  ever  beheld ;  her  dark  hair  was 
gathered  in  abundant  braids  around  her  serene 
and  stately  brow.  There  was  something  very 
dignified  in  her  look,  her  bearing,  her  walk,  in 
the  very  movements  of  her  hands ;  something 
statuesque  in  her  repose,  her  action,  her  every 
attitude.  But  her  face,  her  lovely  face,  with  its 
dark,  languishing  brown  eyes,  so  soft  and  dan- 
gerous —  her  mouth,  so  full  and  so  alluring — 
her  rounded  cheeks,  her  small  straight  nose, 
her  smile,  like  the  siren-smile  of  Italian  Circe 
— of  all  these  I  have  not  yet  spoken — of  these  I 
weep  to  speak,  even  to  think. 

Woe  is  me  that  this  pen  should  have  to  trace 
the  record,  oh  songstress,  of  thy  most  fatal 
beauty ! 

Her  voice,  like  her  person,  was  full,  voluptu- 
ous, infinitely  sweet  and  powerful.  Its  luscious 
tones,  alternately  tender  and  commanding,  had 
a  thrilling  and  peculiar  accent,  which  left  what 
is  in  French  called  a  retentissement  in  the  hearts 
of  her  hearers.  Her  love-accents,  so  tremu- 
lously sustained  and  touching,  seemed  to  vi- 
brate in  one's  very  soul  —  her  tears,  stage-tears 
though  they  were,  moved  the  inmost  sympathies 
of  one's  nature.  Looking  at  her,  you  felt  your- 
self in  a  dream ;  listening  to  her,  you  fancied 
yourself  in  Elysium. 

I  do  not  exaggerate  her  fascinations.     In- 


deed, I  describe  them  almost  in  the  very  words 
of  my  friend,  and  of  many  others  who  subse- 
quently felt  them. 

"What  a  glorious  woman!"  exclaimed  Sea- 
brook  more  than  once  during  the  evening. 
"What  a  regnant  head!  There  is  something 
in  her  glance  that  seems  almost  to  take  my 
breath  away !  Did  you  ever  see  such  eyes — 
such  a  smile  ?  She  looks  just  like  some  Phid- 
ian  Venus  Avarmed  into  life  !" 

And  such,  truly,  was  the  character  of  her 
beauty ;  warm— life-like — sensual — the  perfec- 
tion of  mortality.  In  strict  accordance  with  the 
genius  of  Greek  art,  there  was  the  uttermost  re- 
finement of  personal  loveliness ;  the  luxurious 
repose  which  veils  strong  physical  energy ;  the 
outer  calm  which  half  reveals  the  inner  passion. 
One  thing  alone  was  wanting,  and  wanting  that, 
I  found  all  the  rest  blank  and  unalluring.  Need 
I  say  that  that  one  thing  was  Soul  ?  Yes,  from 
the  very  first,  that  flaw  in  the  diamond,  that 
dark  stain  upon  the  marble,  was  plain  to  me. 
I  saw  in  her  only  the  Mortal-Beautiful — per- 
haps the  Sinful-Beautiful.  I  missed  that  spir- 
itual glory  which  I  have  sought  and  worship- 
ed during  all  the  years  of  my  life — which  has 
shone  out  upon  me  from  less  beautiful,  but 
dearer  eyes — which,  in  God's  heaven,  lights  the 
foreheads  of  the  angels ! 

The  opera  progressed,  amid  the  acclamations 
of  the  audience,  to  a  conclusion,  and  at  last  the 
curtain  fell.  A  tempest  of  applause  burst  forth 
from  all  parts  of  the  house  ;  the  pit  rose  simul- 
taneously; the  name  of  "Vogelsang"  was  shout- 
ed enthusiastically  by  hundreds  of  voices — by 
none  more  rapturously  and  loudly  than  that  of 
Norman  Seabrook.  After  some  delay  the  drop- 
curtain  was  moved  aside  —  the  hurricane  re- 
doubled— the  vocalist  once  more  stepped  before 
the  audience. 

Her  stage-costume  was  thrown  aside,  and  she 
wore  a  robe  of  plain  black  velvet,  which  became 
her  beauty  and  complexion  ten  times  better  than 
the  former  dress.  Her  cheek  was  flushed  with 
pleasure — she  smiled — she  advanced  to  the  foot- 
lights— she  clasped  her  hands  upon  her  breast, 
half  deprecatingly,  half  joyfully — her  eyes  wan- 
dered round  the  house  with  an  indescribably  fas- 
cinating expression — she  bent  lower  and  lower 
— she  gathered  up  the  flowers  that  fell  around 
her  on  every  side,  and  pressed  them  alternately 
to  her  lips  and  to  her  heart. 

How  strange  it  was,  but  in  the  midst  of  that 
tumult,  while  every  eye  was  directed  to  the  stage 
— while  Norman,  flushed  and  excited,  was  lean- 
ing forward  from  the  box,  applauding  frantical- 
ly— while  the  very  players  in  the  orchestra  were 
joining  in  the  general/wrore,  I  was  tempted,  by 
some  sudden  and  inexplicable  impulse,  to  turn 
all  at  once  and  look  round  at  the  box-door  be- 
hind us. 

Not  vainly  —  not  vainly ;  for  there,  there, 
pressed  closely  against  the  little  window  in  the 
door,  and  staring  wildly  forward  at  the  smiling 
singer,  I  saw  a  ghastly  face — a  face  distorted  by 
passion  and  pale  rage — the  face  of  Fletcher! 


so 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


For  an  instant  I  could  not  speak,  so  unex- 
pected and  strange  was  the  apparition.  Then  a 
smothered  exclamation  broke  from  my  lips — I 
seized  my  friend  by  the  arm — I  pointed  to  the 
door,  and,  even  as  I  spoke,  the  face  glided  sud- 
denly away  and  disappeared. 

"Fletcher — the  musician — look!" 

It  was  all  I  could  say. 

"  Where  ?  what  do  you  mean  ?  Who  ?"  ask- 
ed Seabrook,  impatiently. 

I  made  no  reply,  but,  rushing  to  the  door, 
opened  it  and  looked  into  the  lobby.  There  was 
not  a  soul  there.  I  listened ;  but  the  noise  from 
the  house  would  have  drowned  the  sound  of  his 
footsteps,  even  had  they  then  been  echoing  along 
the  corridor. 

One  of  the  box-keepers  was  coming  up  the 
stairs.  I  ran  to  him,  and  asked  if  a  gentleman 
— a  pale,  thin  gentleman,  had  passed  him  on 
the  way  ?  No  one  had  passed  him,  he  was  con- 
vinced. Was  there  a  gentleman  answering  to 
my  description  in  any  private  box  on  this  tier  ? 
Not  one. 

"What  is  all  this?"  interrupted  my  friend, 
hastily.  "What  are  you  saying  about  Fletcher  ? 
Why  did  you  run  away  just  as  the  Vogelsang 
was  before  the  curtain  ?' 

"Fletcher  was  looking  through  our  box  door !" 

"Nonsense  !     He  is  gone  to  Ems !" 

"  I  swear  I  saw  him ;  and  looking  terrible, 
glaring,  almost  unearthly!"  Seabrook  burst 
into  a  laugh. 

"Pooh!  my  dear  Paul,"  he  said  gayly,  pass- 
ing his  arm  through  mine,  and  leading  me  back 
toward  the  box,  "you  will  next  fancy  that  you 
have  seen  a  ghost !  It  was  a  delusion,  and  noth- 
ing else.  Poor  Fletcher  is  far  enough  from 
Frankfurt  to-night,  and  at  the  dullest  place  in 
all  Germany.  I  hate  Ems — that  is  to  say,  I 
hate  the  people  who  go  there.  The  spot  itself 
is  a  paradise,  but  it  is  also  a  hospital.  You  see 
none  but  invalids  and  physicians  wherever  you 
go.  No,  no,  you  did  not  see  Fletcher,  take  my 
word  for  it.  Hark !  they  are  beginning  again. 
Let  us  go  back  and  see  the  ballet." 


CHAPTER  XII. 

AM     DEN     R  H  E  I  N. 

WE  had  not  been  longer  than  a  fortnight  in 
Frankfurt,  when  Seabrook  came  into  my  room 
one  bright  fresh  morning,  and,  sitting  down  be- 
side my  bed — for  I  had  not  yet  risen — said  ab- 
ruptly, 

' '  Why  do  we  remain  here,  Latour  ?  We  have 
seen  all  that  is  to  be  seen  in  this  place.  We  have 
been  to  Homburgh  and  to  Offenbach — we  have 
visited  all  the  stock-sights  of  the  city — we  know 
the  Ariadne  and  the  music  by  heart.  I  was  up 
and  out  this  morning  while  you  were  soundly 
sleeping,  and  in  the  fruit-market  near  the  Romer 
I  heard  a  peasant-girl  singing  a  song  that  has 
well-nigh  driven  me  frantic.  'Am  den  Rhein! 
am  den  Rhein !'  Oh,  delicious !  Get  up,  amigo, 
and  let  us  not  lose  a  day !" 


"In  the  name  of  common  sense,  Norman, 
what  do  you  mean  ?  Where  do  you  want  me  to 
go?" 

"  Where  should  I,  if  not  to  the  Rhine  ?" 

His  gay,  enterprising  nature  swayed  mine  in 
many  things  by  the  mere  force  of  its  own  joyous- 
ness-,  and  now  I  yielded  to  the  bent  of  his  hu- 
mor. Before  midday  we  had  arrived  at  Bibe- 
rich,  within  sight  of  the  turreted  city  of  Mayence 
on  the  opposite  bank,  and  in  a  few  moments  more 
had  taken  our  places  on  board  the  "Konigen," 
and  were  gliding  swiftly  and  pleasantly  over  the 
broad-flowing  waters  of  the  Rhine  River. 

Gliding,  ever  gliding,  with  the  warm  sum- 
mer's air  around  us,  and  the  bright  sunlight 
glittering  up  from  the  foaming  river,  and  the 
pleasant  sounds  of  voices,  and  of  paddle-wheels, 
beating  like  a  busy  heart,  and  of  humming  in- 
sects, and  faint  murmurs  from  the  banks  on 
either  side ! 

Now,  one  by  one,  we  pass  the  rush -grown 
river-meadows,  as  they  call  these  islands  of  the 
Rhine — Peters-meadow,  and  Ingelheimer-mead- 
ow,  and  Haller  -  meadow,  facing  the  bare  and 
lofty  chateau  of  Johannisberg,  with  its  viny 
slopes  and  its  chapel  spire.  The  cupolas  of 
Mayence  have  by  this  time  faded  and  sunk  be- 
neath the  level  distance  —  the  green  hills  ad- 
vance toward  the  stream  on  either  side,  like  the 
wings  of  an  army— the  Taunus  Mountains,  far 
away,  grow  pale  and  cloud-like — through  a  dark 
gorge  to  the  left  comes  the  gentle  tide  of  a  trib- 
utary river,  with  houses,  and  an  old  collegiate 
church,  and  a  ruired  castle,  all  clustered  at  its 
mouth.  This  is  the  little  Italian-founded  town 
of  Bingen ;  and  the  castle  bears  the  name  of 
Roman  Drusus.  Now  the  banks  grow  narrow- 
er, and  the  white  and  stately  castle  of  Rhein- 
stein,  with  its  iron  cresset  suspended  from -the 
topmost  tower,  and  its  tiny  chapel  sheltering  on 
a  narrow  ledge  of  rock  just  within  shade  of  the 
battlements,  stands  up  erect,  like  a  warden- 
knight,  guarding  the  curve  of  the  river.  This, 
says  Seabrook,  is  the  summer  -  schloss  of  the 
Prince  of  Prussia.  It  is  now  one  hour  past 
noon,  and  the  sailors  are  busily  suspending  a 
canvas  awning  overhead.  The  waiters  place 
long  tables  all  the  length  of  the  upper  deck, 
and,  covering  them  speedily  with  relays  of  snow- 
white  cloths,  silver,  and  glittering  glass,  prepare 
every  thing  for  our  alfresco  meal.  Next  comes 
the  little  ancient  town  of  Bacharach,  with  its 
Avails  and  towers,  and  its  exquisite  fragment  of 
old  red  Gothic  architecture,  St.  Werner's  Chap- 
el, lifted  high  above  the  town  upon  a  rise  of 
green  hills.  We  now  take  our  places  at  the  ta- 
ble, beside  some  merry  students,  and  opposite  to 
an  elderly  Graff  with  a  grizzly  beard,  and  his 
pretty  young  wife  by  his.  side.  The  clatter  of 
knives  and  plates  commences ;  voices  talk  loudly 
all  around  in  French,  German,  and  English ;  the 
slender-necked  amber  Rhine-bottles  start  up  in 
all  directions ;  incongruous  dishes,  eel  and  sweet 
pudding,  boiled  beef  and  preserved  cherries, 
smoked  salmon  and  cheese,  pass  backward  and 
forward,  and  succeed  each  other  with  bewilder- 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


31 


ing  rapidity;  there  is  the  noise  of  cork-drawing, 
conversation,  ai.d  laughter  ;  and  a  pale,  sickly- 
looking  youth,  about  sixteen  years  of  age,  takes 
his  place  beside  the  man  at  the  wheel,  and  be- 
gins playing  with  no  little  skill  and  taste  upon 
a  curious  instrument,  like  a  gigantic  accordion, 
which  contains  several  rows  of  keys,  and  is  so 
large  that  it  rests  upon  the  deck  between  his 
knees,  like  a  violoncello. 

Amid  all  this,  we  still  glide  on  in  the  bright 
sunshine,  amid  the  woody  hills,  the  mouldering 
ruins,  the  nestling  villages,  and  sunny  vineyards 
of  the  fair  Rhine-country. 

Now  come  heights  steeper  and  darker  —  the 
castle  of  Gutenfels,  with  the  little  hamlet  of 
Caub  low-lying  at  its  foot,  with  towers  and 
slated  roofs  —  the  gloomy  turreted  Pfalz  rising 
abruptly  from  the  middle  of  the  river,  like  a 
stone  ship  at  anchor  —  the  green  hills  beyond 
all,  the  blue  sky  overhead,  and  the  boat  flying 
on,  ever  on,  like  a  swallow  on  the  wing. 

Here  is  Oberwesel,  with  high  round  tower 
and  embattled  walls,  and  circuit  of  slate  mount- 
ains, clothed  with  vines  ;  and  yonder  black  and 
beetling  rock,  all  riven  into  crags,  and  surround- 
ed at  the  base  by  a  narrow  ledge  of  winding 
pathway  —  what  threatening  cliff  is  that  ? 

"Look!  look!"  cried  Seabrook  ,  "there 
comes  the  Lurle'yberg  —  that  bare,  stern  preci- 
pice to  the  right  !  That  spot  where  the  river 
falls  and  foams  is  the  famous  Whirlpool  ;  far- 
ther off  you  see  the  beginning  of  the  town  of 
St  Goar!  This  is  the  loveliest  spot  upon  the 
Rhine!  Listen  to  the  echo  —  it  repeats  twelve 
or  fifteen  times!" 

Whereupon  a  man  starts  out  of  a  little  straw- 
thatched  hut  upon  the  opposite  bank,  and,  just 
as  we  arrive  in  face  of  the  rock,  fires  a  sudden 
pistol-shot.  We  all  start,  and  some  of  the  la- 
dies utter  timid  exclamations,  for  it  would  seem 
that  a  regular  and  rapid  discharge  of  fire-arms 
is  taking  place  around  us,  so  loud,  so  steady,  so 
continuous  are  the  repetitions.  By  the  time 
that  the  last  faint  report  dies  away,  we  are 
threading  our  way  between  the  sister-towns  of 
Goarhausen  and  St.  Goar,  and  gazing  up  at  the 
vast  and  far-  stretching  ruins  of  the  red  fortress 
of  Rheinfels. 

The  fourteenth  course  of  our  Rhine-dinner 
has  just  been  removed  —  strawberries,  cheese, 
and  sweet  biscuits  are  placed  before  us  —  the  gen- 
tlemen begin  to  order  cigars,  and  the  ladies  rise 
from  table  and  walk  up  and  down  the  lower 
deck,  or  sit  sketching  and  conversing  in  little 
knots  at  the  farther  side  of  the  vessel.  One  of 
the  merry  students  at  my  left  volunteers  to  re- 
late a  legend.  We  order  a  fresh  bottle  of  the 
ruddy  Assmannshausen  —  all  that  are  near  gath- 
er eagerly  round  —  the  narrator  fills  his  glass, 
looks  round  with  an  air  of  satisfaction,  leans 
back  in  his  seat,  and  commences,  in  his  native 
German  tongue,  the  following 


of  tfje 

"A  very  great  many  years  ago,  when  these 
ruined  castles  were  impregnable  strong-holds  in- 


habited by  the  old  feudal  barons  —  when  every 
passing  boat  paid  a  tribute  to  the  castellan — 
when  the  gnomes  had  not  yet  fled  the  mountains, 
the  fairies  the  forest,  nor  the  Lurley  nymph  her 
caves  under  the  river,  there  lived  in  a  little  vine- 
grown  cottage,  hard  by  the  Castle  of  the  Katz, 
a  pretty  maiden  named  Ida  Miiller.  Now  Ida 
was  the  only  child  of  the  head  huntsman  to  the 
Lord  of  Katzenelnbogen,  and  would  inherit  not 
only  the  cottage  and  garden,  but  two  little  fields 
down  by  the  water ;  so,  you  see,  she  was  rich  as 
well  as  pretty ;  and,  what  was  better  than  ei- 
ther, she  was  good.  I  need  scarcely  tell  you 
that  Ida  had  many  lovers.  All  pretty  girls 
have,  especially  when  they  are  rich.  Among 
these,  the  only  two  who  seemed  to  have  a  chance 
of  success  were  Otto  Wolfsohn  and  Max  Steiger- 
wald.  Otto  was  a  small  proprietor  whose  vine- 
yards and  cottage  lay  just  at  the  opposite  side 
of  the  river,  close  by  the  whirlpool  called  the 
Gewirr ;  Max  was  nothing  but  a  poor  artist,  a 
sculptor  in  stone  and  wood,  who  lived  in  an  old 
ruined  tower,  which  has  long  since  utterly  crum- 
bled away  and  disappeared,  about  half  way  be- 
tween the  towns  of  Oberwesel  and  St.  Goar. 
Here  he  made  his  home  and  his  workshop ; 
and,  although  it  must  be  acknowledged  that  he 
was  exceedingly  poor,  he  contrived  to  lead  a 
very  happy  existence.  He  loved  Ida  and  he 
loved  art — he  was  ambitious,  light-hearted,  and 
in  love  —  life  he  found  pleasant — the  future,  he 
thought,  could  not  fail  to  be  as  golden  as  he 
wished  it  —  so  he  carved  and  sang  from  morn- 
ing till  night,  and  on  Sundays  attended  mass 
at  the  chapel  of  St.  Peter  of  Goarhausen,  less, 
it  is  to  be  feared,  through  devotion  than  love, 
for  there  he  saw  Ida  among  the  young  girls  near 
the  altar — there  he  watched  her  fair  head  bent 
over  her  missal,  and  tried  to  separate  the  tones 
of  her  voice  from  the  others  in  the  sweet-chant- 
ed responses.  Of  course  it  happened,  as  it  al- 
ways did  and  does  in  love-stories,  that  Ida,  with 
a  woman's  keen-sightedness,  read  the  heart  of 
the  young  sculptor,  and  contrived  in  some  way 
to  let  him  see  that  she  preferred  him  and  his 
poverty  to  Otto  Wolfsohn,  despite  his  lands  and 
his  riches.  This  knowledge  only  made  Max 
ten  times  more  industrious  than  before ;  and 
when,  at  length,  his  talent  and  his  perseverance 
were  rewarded  by  a  great  piece  of  good  fortune, 
he  went  straight  over  to  Muller's  cottage  at  the 
castle-foot,  and  formally  demanded  the  hand  of 
his  daughter.  A  great  piece  of  good  fortune, 
indeed !  The  Abbot  of  Kamp,  having  seen  some 
•of  his  efforts,  had  actually  bidden  him,  Max 
Steigerwald,  to  carve  an  oaken  image  of  the 
Blessed  Mary,  to  stand  over  the  great  altar  in 
the  monastery  chapel.  Nor  was  this  all ;  the 
best  part  was  that  the  abbot  had  engaged  to  pay 
him  the  sum  of  thirty  golden  ducats  on  the  very 
day  of  its  completion.  Thirty  golden  ducats  ! 
why,  what  marvelous  things  might  be  done  with 
thirty  golden  ducats !  A  cottage  might  be 
rented — a  field  might  be  bought — a  pair  of  sil- 
ver ear-rings  might  be  given  to  the  bride ! 
What  more  could  the  heart  of  man  desire  ? 


32 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


Thus  pleaded  the  lover  when  he  urged  his  suit 
in  the  ear  of  Meister  Miiller  the  huntsman. 

"  Now  Meister  Miiller  loved  Ida  dearly,  but 
he  loved  money  also,  and  it  needed  many  argu- 
ments and  persuasions  to  gain  his  consent  to 
the  beti-othal !  He  would  have  preferred  the 
wealthier  and  less  amiable  Otto  for  his  son-in- 
law  ;  and,  even  though  he  yielded,  yielded  un- 
willingly. But  Ida  cared  little  for  Otto,  and 
little  for  his  wealth ;  still  less  for  his  scowling 
glances  when  he  chanced  now  and  then  to  meet 
her  by  the  river-path,  or  the  chapel-door,  or  in 
the  market-place  of  Oberwesel.  She  loved  and 
was  loved ,  and  so  she  trusted  gayly  to  the  fu- 
ture, like  a  bird  to  the  summer-time. 

"Meanwhile  the  winter  came  and  went — the 
snow  melted  in  the  mountain  -  hollows  —  the 
spring-season  filled  the  landscape  with  green 
leaves  and  flowers  —  the  cuckoo  was  heard 
again  in  the  meadows ;  and  the  sculptor  work- 
ed on  with  ever-increasing  energy,  for  the  statue 
was  now  all  but  completed. 

' '  I  have  said  that  Max  Steigerwald  lived  in 
a  tower  by  the  river — a  gray,  dilapidated  round 
tower,  with  long  wavy  grasses  growing  at  the 
top,  and  swallows'-nests  built  in  the  crannies  of 
the  battlements.  The  upper  part  was  utterly  in 
ruin ;  so  he  made  his  home  in  the  two  lower 
rooms,  and  there,  day  after  day,  night  after 
night,  he  toiled  assiduously  at  his  task,  think- 
ing of  Ida ;  and  often,  as  he  carved  on  by  lamp- 
light in  the  silent  night-hours,  he  heard  the  si- 
ren-song of  the  Lurley  wafted  along  by  the 
wind  from  where  she  sat  in  the  moonlight  on 
the  jutting  base  of  the  Lurleyberg,  weaving  gar- 
lands of  the  forget-me-not  and  the  white  water- 
lily.  But  at  such  times  he  would  shudder,  make 
the  sign  of  the  cross,  and,  fixing  his  eyes  on  the 
holy  image,  growing  momentarily  more  and 
more  beautiful  beneath  his  busy  fingers,  breathe 
a  pious  prayer  for  protection  against  the  spells 
of  the  pale  maiden.  Sometimes,  too,  he  would 
fix  his  thoughts,  instead,  upon  the  gentle  Ida, 
and  upon  the  happy  time  that  was  daily  draw- 
ing nearer,  and  he  found  this  plan  succeed  quite 
as  well  as  the  other.  Nevertheless,  there  were 
nights  when  he  had  a  fearful  struggle  to  over- 
come the  temptation  of  obeying  the  melodious 
invitation  conveyed  in  that  unearthly  canticle ; 
for  there  is  a  sweet  and  evil  power  in  the  song 
of  the  Lurley  which  few  human  natures  are 
strong  enough  to  resist,  and  which,  if  they  but 
yield  to  it,  destroys  not  only  the  body,  but  the 
soul.  So  Max  Steigerwald  closed  his  ears  to 
the  spell,  put  his  heart  into  his  work,  and  was 
at  last  enabled  to  name  the  very  day  on  which 
it  might  be  conveyed  to  the  monastery-chapel 
amid  the  walnut-trees  of  Kamp. 

"It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  of  a  glowing 
day  in  May  when  the  sculptor  threw  down  his 
tools,  and,  gazing  joyously  upon  the  calm  and 
lovely  face  of  his  statue,  with  its  holy  brow,  its 
draped  robes,  and  the  slender  gilded  circlet  of 
glory  round  its  head,  saw  that  the  work  of  his 
hands  was  finished,  and  knew  that  it  was  beau- 
tiful. 


"'Oh  art!  oh  love!'  he  exclaimed,  'how 
happy  ye  have  made  me  !' 

"  So  happy,  poor  fellow,  that  he  felt  he  must 
enjoy  his  gladness  with  her  whose  share  in  it 
had  been  so  great !  So  he  went  forth  into  the 
evening  sunset,  and,  giving  one  last  backward 
glance  at  his  beloved  statue,  closed  and  locked 
the  door  of  his  tower,  and  went  along  by  the 
river-banks  to  the  ferry  of  Goarhausen,  by  which 
he  crossed  over  and  went  straight  to  the  vine- 
grown  cottage  at  the  foot  of  the  Katz,  where 
Ida  was  seated  spinning  by  the  door,  under  the 
boughs  of  a  yellow  laburnum. 

"They  were  so  happy  that  evening,  and  had 
so  much  to  dream  and  plan !  The  cottage  was 
chosen  ;  the  field  had  but  to  be  paid  for,  since  it 
was  already  hired ;  the  day  for  the  wedding  was 
even  fixed ;  for  would  not  Max  be  a  rich  man 
on  the  morrow,  with  his  thirty  golden  ducats  ? 

"The  moon  shone  brightly  on  river  and 
mountain  that  night  as  he  went  homeward 
along  the  meadows.  His  heart  was  full  of  love 
and  gratitude.  He  could  almost  have  danced 
for  joy.  He  never  had  been  so  happy  in  his 
life,  and  the  road  seemed  so  short  that  he  quite 
started  to  find  himself  at  the  door  of  his  own 
tower. 

"Now  to  see  my  beautiful  Virgin  again  !'  he 
said  to  himself,  as  he  took  out  the  key  and  pre- 
pared to  enter. 

"Strange!  at  the  first  touch  of  his  hand, 
even  before  he  could  fix  the  key  in  the  lock,  the 
door  gave  way  creaking,  and  rolled  back  a  little 
on  its  hinges. 

"An  evil  presentiment  came  over  the  sculp- 
tor :  he  paused — pressed  his  hand  upon  his  beat- 
ing heart  —  advanced,  drew  back,  and  finally 
flung  the  door  wide  open  and  went  in. 

"Alas  !  not  vainly  had  he  trembled  and  de- 
layed! The  moonlight  shone  in  as  a  silver 
flood,  illumining  the  interior  of  the  room.  Chair, 
table,  working-bench,  fireplace,  all  were  clearly 
defined  and  bright  as  day ;  but  the  statue  !  the 
statue !  the  oaken  Virgin,  with  her  holy  brow, 
and  her  divine  smile,  and  her  golden  glory — 
where  was  she  ? 

"Gone,  stolen,  lost,  no  one  knew  whither. 

"He  threw  himself  upon  the  ground  —  he 
wept — he  raved ;  and  at  last,  in  a  delirium  of 
grief,  ran  wildly  out  of  his  tower,  and  down  to 
the  river-bank  ;  for  why  live  when  statue,  duc- 
ats, and  bride  were  all  reft  from  him  in  one 
brief  and  bitter  moment  ? 

"  '  Farewell,  Ida  !'  he  cried,  lifting  his  hands 
to  heaven,  and  gazing  for  the  last  time  in  the 
direction  of  her  home. 

"Suddenly  he  started — his  lips  trembled — 
the  very  power  of  motion  seemed  to  desert  him  ; 
for  lo  !  a  pale  shadow — pale,  but  how  lovely ! 
glided  like  a  moonbeam  over  the  surface  of  the 
stream,  midway  between  the  two  river-banks. 
There  were  white  water-flowers  twined  in  her 
hair  and  around  her  arms  ;  her  eyes  were  lan- 
guishing and  full  of  tenderness ;  her  smile 
sweeter  than  the  breath  of  the  roses.  She 
sang,  and  he  listened : 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


33 


" v  Come  hither,  young  mortal !  come,  taste  of  the  wine 

Divine ! 

Of  the  wine  of  a  love  so  immortal  as  mine ! 
Come,  drink  from  my  lips— be  my  lover,  my  guest ! 
Lay  thy  cheek  to  my  cheek,  and  thy  breast  to  my 

breast ! 
Come  hither  to  love,  to  elysium,  to  rest  I' 

"The  sculptor  heard  the  fatal  song.  His 
breath  came  thick  and  fast — his  cheek  flushed 
— his  heart  beat  wildly.  Nearer  and  nearer 
floated  the  river-maid ;  sweeter  and  sweeter  fell 
those  liquid  tones ;  brighter  and  brighter  grew 
the  vision  of  her  beauty. 

"'Come!'  murmured  the  Lurley.  'Come, 
hither ! ' 

"  '  Ida !  Ida !'  he  cried,  with  desperate  cour- 
age. 'Ida!' 

"The  shadow  on  the  water  seemed  to  wane 
and  tremble.  The  sculptor  fell  upon  his  knees. 

"  '  Ave  Maria,'  he  began,  in  the  earnest  tones 
of  one  who  prays  for  life  or  death.  'Ave  Maria 
beatissima — ' 

' '  Dimmer  and  dimmer  grew  the  form  of  the 
Lurley ;  her  song  died  away  into  a  low  wailing 
cry ;  she  bent  her  head,  shuddering,  and  sank 
in  one  moment  beneath  the  surface  of  the  wa- 
ter. 

"Max  rose  from  his  knees,  but  he  beheld 
only  a  chaplet  of  white  lilies  drifting  on  with 
the  current. 

' '  Earnest  and  awe-struck  he  gazed  for  some 
moments  ;  and  then,  turning  slowly  away,  went 
onward  in  the  moonlight,  leaving  river,  and 
tower,  and  Ida  behind  him,  and  disappeared 
amid  the  shades  of  the  forest. 

"Many  and  strange  were  the  rumors  when  it 
was  found  that  Max  Steigervvald  had  disap- 
peared, and  that  the  oaken  Virgin  was  gone 
from  her  place  in  the  old  tower.  Very  indig- 
nant was  the  abbot  of  the  monastery  among  the 
walnut-trees  of  Kamp ;  very  sad  and  broken- 
hearted was  the  gentle  Ida  in  her  father's  cot- 
tage at  the  foot  of  the  Katz.  Otto  Wolfsohn 
alone  showed  neither  surprise,  nor  sorrow,  nor 
anger,  but  simply  hastened  to  profit  by  the  ab- 
sence of  his  rival  in  the  renewal  of  his  former 
suit.  This  time,  however,  he  addressed  him- 
self less  to  Ida  than  to  her  father,  wisely  judg- 
ing that  his  arguments  and  his  wealth  would  be 
more  favorably  received  by  him  than  by  her. 

"  '  Steigerwald  is  gone,'  he  said.  '  Either  he 
is  dead,  or  he  has  deserted  and  no  longer  de- 
serves her.  I  love  her.  I  am  rich  —  I  am 
young.  She  will  be  happy,  she  will  be  prosper- 
ous, she  will  be  respected  as  my  wife.  If  you 
command,  she  will  marry  me.' 

"And  so  Meister  Miiller  commanded,  and 
Ida,  despite  her  tears  and  her  grief,  was  forced 
to  obey;  entreating,  however,  that  she  might 
yet  be  allowed  one  year  of  tarrying.  But  the 
year  passed  away,  and  he  came  not;  and  the 
day  of  her  wedding  dawned  through  the  mists 
of  November. 

"How  pale  she  looked— how  pale  and  how 

joyless — more  like  a  victim  than  a  bride,  as  she 

sat  in  her  father's  house,  in  the  midst  of  the 

guests,  with  the  crown  on  her  head,  and  the 

C 


silver  arrow,  for  the  last  time,  in  her  hair,  await- 
ing the  bridegroom. 

"  It  was  strange  that  Otto  alone  should  be  so 
late  in  arriving!  'Let  us  go  out,  and  see  if  he 
be  coming,'  said  one  of  the  bride-maidens.  So 
they  all  went  forth  upon  the  river-bank ;  for  you 
will  remember  that  Otto  lived  on  the  opposite 
shore,  just  beyond  the  pool  of  the  Gewirr.  But 
there  was  nothing  in  sight.  Hold!  what  is 
that  ?  A  boat  putting  off  from  the  bank,  about 
half  a  mile  up  the  river  ?  Yes — at  last  ?  That 
boat  is  Otto's ;  it  is  moored  by  his  orchard-gate ; 
he  will  row  himself  down  to  the  Katz  !  Wel- 
come, bridegroom !  How  swiftly  and  featly,  for 
Ida  is  waiting. 

"Quite  silently  they  stand,  expecting  and 
watching.  Hark !  what  strange  sound  is  that  ? 
The  sound  of  music ! — of  what  music  ?  Of  a 
voice ! — of  what  voice  ?  How  unlike  any  voice 
that  we  have  ever  heard !  How  sweet,  how 
liquid,  how  enchanting ! 

"And  see!  what  white  form  is  that  which 
rises  from  the  mists  of  the  river  ? 

"A  shudder  runs  through  the  spectators. 
'The  Lurley!'  they  say,  with  tremulous  lips. 
The  young  men  grasp  each  other  by  the  hand 
— the  young  maidens  hide  their  faces  in  the  bo- 
soms of  their  mothers. 

"Row,  bridegroom !  Row  swiftly  and  featly, 
and  heed  not  the  danger. 

"  Horror !  he  drops  the  oars — he  listens — he 
extends  his  arms  to  her — he  stands  up  in  the 
boat,  and,  as  if  impelled  by  some  invisible  pow- 
er, drifts  rapidly  toward  her. 

"One  sudden,  fearful  cry  bursts  from  every  lip : 

"' The  whirlpool !  the  whirlpool!' 

"  Alas !  too  late.  The  Lurley  ever  beckons 
— the  boat  ever  follows.  It  nears  the  fatal  cir- 
cle ;  it  rocks  and  strains,  like  a  panting  steed ; 
it  flies  madly  round  and  round,  and  is  sucked 
down,  down,  down  into  the  foaming  gulf ! 

"  Who  is  this  that  bursts  through  the  crowd, 
with  flushed  cheek  and  hair  wildly  flying,  crying, 
'Make  way!  I  will  save  him!'— who  plunges 
headlong  into  the  stream — who  strikes  out  for 
the  whirlpool,  and  boldly  breasts  the  strength  of 
the  current  ? 

"Max  Steigerwald,  the  sculptor. 

"  Swim  on,  brave  sculptor— swim  swiftly  and 
featly  ;  thy  rival  is  sinking ! 

"  On  he  went,  with  his  fair  gallant  head  lifted 
above  the  waters— on  to  the  spot  where  the  Lur- 
ley had  sank,  and  where  Otto  had  followed. 

"Now  he  pauses,  as  it  were,  on  the  brink 
of  the  whirlpool ;  now  he  dashes  forward  with 
fresh  strength,  and  dives  down  to  the  depths  of 
the  Gewirr. 

"  There  was  an  interval  of  suspense — breath- 
less, agonizing  suspense.  Can  he  ever  return 
to  us  ?  Hah !  what  is  that  ?  Now  blessed  be 
Heaven  and  all  the  saints  in  the  calendar,  'tis 
the  fair  gallant  head  coming  back  once  more 
over  the  waters — and  not  alone !  See !  he  bears 
a  dark  form  in  his  arms!  Welcome,  bravo 
sculptor !  Swim  swiftly  and  featly — but  a  yard 
or  two  farther,  and  thou  art  safe  on  the  shore. 


34 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


V  Now  he  waxes  faint  and  weary — has  no  one 
a  rope  ?  No !  'tis  not  needed  ;  he  strikes  out 
once — twice — thrice  ;  he  staggers  forward,  and, 
with  his  burden,  falls  heavily  to  the  ground. 

"They  rush  toward  him — they  carry  him  up 
the  bank,  and  lay  his  head  on  Ida's  breast.  But 
Otto !  Where  is  Otto,  and  what  is  this  dark 
form  which  has  been  borne,  with  such  peril,  to 
the  shore  ? 

"By  heaven!  the  oaken  Virgin,  with  her 
holy  brow,  and  her  divine  smile,  and  the  gold- 
en circlet,  somewhat  dimmed  and  water- worn, 
around  her  meek  head. 

"The  mystery  is  great — almost  insoluble. 

"Slowly  the  sculptor  revives,  and  opens  his 
eyes  upon  the  loved  bosom  of  Ida.  He  can  ex- 
plain nothing,  save  that  he  has  traveled  and 
studied,  and  wrought  a  second  and  a  lovelier 
statue,  which  he  had  brought  this  very  day  to 
the  monastery  at  Kamp,  and  sold  for  thrice  the 
sum  before  agreed  upon — that  he  has  returned 
richer  and  wiser,  to  make  Ida  his  bride — that  he 
beheld  the  danger  of  Otto,  and  sought  only  to 
save  him — that  he  dived — that  he  clasped  a  form 
at  the  bottom  of  the  waters — that  he  seized  and 
upbore,  and  saved  it,  nor  knew  all  the  time  but 
that  he  was  saving  his  rival. 

"Two  things  only  are  certain — that  Otto  is 
drowned,  and  the  Virgin  discovered. 

"'But  how  came  she  in  the  depths  of  the 
Gewirr?'  asks  Meister  Miiller,  the  huntsman. 

"This  is  a  question  to  which  no  one  can  re- 
ply, and  Max,  going  over  to  the  image,  raises 
it  from  the  ground,  and  clasps  it  to  his  breast 
with  all  the  joy  of  a  father  who  recovers  the 
child  of  his  affection. 

"A  sudden  exclamation  escapes  the  lips  of 
the  by-standers — they  snatch  the  image  from  his 
grasp : 

"  'See!  see!  what  words  are  these  cut  on 
the  back  of  the  figure  ?' 

"  Simply  these: 

"'Giro  WOLFSOHN.  A  TOKEN  OP  RE- 
VENGE.' 

"So  it  was  thus.  Yielding  to  the  impulse 
of  a  base  vengeance,  he  had  sought  to  destroy 
the  fair  statue,  and  with  it  the  prosperity  and 
happiness  of  his  rival.  Fortunately,  all  was 
without  success ;  and  on  the  afternoon  of  that 
very  day  on  which  Otto  was  to  have  wedded  the 
fair  Ida,  Max  Steigerwald  stood  with  her  before 
the  altar  rails  of  the  little  chapel  of  St.  Peter, 
and  received  her  for  his  wife.  I  will  venture  to 
say  that  no  happier  or  fonder  pair  ever  occupied 
that  place  before  or  since. 

"  And  this  is  my  LEGEND  OF  THE  LURLEY- 
BERG." 

This  night  we  sleep  at  Coblentz ;  and,  as  the 
dusk  draws  on,  I  retire  to  my  chamber,  for  I  am 
weary,  and  long  to  be  alone. 

A  waiter  has  lit  candles  and  drawn  the  cur- 
tains closely.  The  room,  too,  is  warm  and  op- 
pressive. I  extinguish  the  lights,  draw  aside 
the  muslin  draperies,  throw  up  the  sash,  and 
lean  out  into  the  quiet  night. 


Fronting  my  window  flows  the  King-river, 
broadly  and  silently,  reflecting  the  lights  which 
shine  down  at  regular  intervals  from  the  lamps 
along  the  bridge  of  boats  which  connects  Cob- 
lentz with  the  opposite  bank.  Beyond  the  riv- 
er, standing  up  darkly  and  boldly  upon  their 
steep  rock-base,  spread  the  fortress-ranges  of  the 
citadel  of  Ehrenbreitstein.  Far  hills  and  forests 
close  in  the  landscape  round.  Every  where 
there  are  lights  gleaming — lights  on  board  the 
steamers  moored  along  the  quay — lights  in  the 
windows  of  the  hotel  of  the  Cheval  Blanc,  on 
the  other  side  of  the  river — lights  here  and  there 
along  the  shore,  which  stream  out  redly,  and 
waver  on  the  current.  A  vaporous  mist  is  now 
rising  from  the  water,  and  a  late  steam-boat 
comes  panting  up  with  a  crimson  lamp  at  her 
prow,  discharging  her  bewildered  passengers  in 
the  darkness.  Now  the  city  grows  more  silent, 
and  a  droschky  rattling  along  the  pavement 
sounds  noisily.  Presently  some  Prussian  sol- 
diers, with  their  brazen  helmets  glittering  in  the 
lamp-light,  go  singing  past  the  window,  for  they 
have  just  strolled  out  of  a  neighboring  wine- 
shop. Then  the  town  clocks  chime,  and  the 
notes  of  a  solitary  trumpet  ring  out  faintly  and 
clearly  from  the  fortress.  Soon  the  night  grows 
darker,  and  the  mist  upon  the  river  whiter  and 
heavier.  Some  rain  begins  to  fall,  and  I  close 
my  casement  with  a  sigh. 

Alas !  to-night  the  sorrow  lies  heavily  at  my 
heart,  and  I  can  not  shake  it  off.  For  many 
hours  I  toss  restlessly  upon  my  bed,  and  it  is 
gray  dawn  before  I  sleep. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

ROUGE    ET    NOIR. 

"AND  is  it  possible,  Seabrook,  that  you  do 
not  admire  this  place  ?  It  seems  to  me  almost 
a  paradise!" 

It  was  evening-time.  We  were  sitting  to- 
gether on  the  verge  of  one  of  those  precipitous 
wooded  hills  which  inclose  the  little  watering- 
place  of  Ems  on  every  side.  Far  below  us  ex- 
tended the  public  gardens ;  the  avenues  of  chest- 
nut-trees and  lindens;  the  Kurhaus,  with  its 
white  fa9ade  stretching  beside  the  water;  the 
long,  irregular  row  of  hotels  and  lodging-houses 
which  constitute  the  town.  Calmly  and  bright- 
ly, glassing  the  green  shadows  of  the  hills  and 
the  white  clouds  overhead,  flowed  the  Lahn  Riv- 
er, child  of  the  Rhine.  Crowds  of  gay  company 
were  promenading  along  the  banks,  strolling  up 
and  down  the  light-roofed  suspension  bridge, 
lingering  round  the  band  in  the  garden-pavil- 
ion, or  eating  ices  under  the  trees. 

Along  the  winding  road  at  the  foot  of  the 
mountains  there  passed  sometimes  an  open  car- 
riage ;  sometimes  a  troop  of  donkeys,  accompa- 
nied by  their  liveried  drivers  with  blue  blouses 
and  red-trimmed  caps ;  sometimes  a  little  band 
of  peasants  singing  together,  and  laden  with 
fruits  and  vegetables  for  the  market.  Now  an 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


artist  trudged  wearily  by  with  sketch-book  and 
folio,  returning  from  his  diurnal  labor.  Now  a 
single  horse  came  wading  up  the  very  middle 
of  the  shallow  river,  towing  a  barge. 

Below  was  life  and  animation  —  above  and 
around  us,  infinite  quiescence.  And  through 
all  the  landscape,  winding  and  glistening  away, 
with  villages,  and  churches,  and  raftered  farm- 
houses nestled  here  and  there  along  its  banks, 
and  boats  moored  under  willows,  and  evening 
bathers  in  among  the  rushes,  and  little  foaming 
weirs,  and  water-mills,  and  knots  of  white  and 
amber  lilies  nodding  with  its  current,  lay  the 
river,  shut  in  by  mountains  and  hills,  with  the 
soft  fleecy  haze  of  the  coming  night  spreading 
slowly  over  all. 

Seabrook  looked  up  smiling. 

"I  never  said  that  I  did  not  admire  the 
place,"  he  replied ;  "  I  only  told  you  that  it  was 
monotonous ;  that  it  was  peopled  by  pale-faced 
invalids,  and  ruined  gamblers,  and  fashionable 
physicians •;  and  that  I  detested  it  heartily.  You 
are  walking,  perhaps,  in  the  gardens ;  you  see 
an  elegant  couple  sitting  together  in  an  arbor, 
and  you  please  yourself  with  fancying  some  lit- 
tle love  -  romance.  Ten  to  one,  on  drawing 
nearer,  but  that  the  gentleman,  who  seemed  to 
you  to  be  gently  pressing  the  fair  hand  of  the 
object  of  his  affections,  is  feeling  her  pulse  all 
the  time,  and  that  she  is  just  drawing  forth  her 
purse  to  tender  him  his  fee !  The  doctors  hold 
their  stances  in  the  open  air,  and  consult  with 
their  patients  to  the  accompaniment  of  the  band. 
You  wander  in  the  vicinity  of  the  Kurhaus,  and 
every  person  you  meet  carries  a  colored  glass 
tumbler  or  a  silver  goblet  in  one  hand.  These 
are  on  their  way  to  the  springs.  All  the  world 
is  ill  or  getting  better;  drinks  the  waters  or 
bathes  in  them ;  diets  rigidly  at  the  table  d'hote ; 
takes  exercise  in  an  invalid  chair,  and  sees  a 
favorite  physician  at  least  once  in  every  day. 
Defend  me,  oh  Common  Sense,  from  all  such 
humbug!". 

"But  if  the  people  are  really  ill,  and  come 
hither  in  search  of  health  .  .  .  ."I  urged, 
gravely. 

"No  such  thing!"  interrupted  my  friend,  with 
an  impatient  gesture.  "Not  the  tenth  part  of 
them  ail  any  thing  at  all.  It  is  the  fashion  to 
be  ill  here — voila  tout !  People  make  acquaint- 
ances at  the  springs,  and  through  their  medical 
attendants.  They  condole  with  each  other,  and 
sickness  forms  the  staple  resource  of  all  their 
conversation.  Without  something  is  the  matter 
with  you,  you  can  get  no  sympathy,  no  society ; 
if  you  are  an  invalid,  you  have  every  chance  of 
spending  your  three  months  very  pleasantly.  A 
liver  complaint  is  a  sure  introduction,  and  you 
find  a  galloping  consumption  an  immediate 
passport  to  the  best  circles." 

We  went  down  by  a  winding  path,  crossed 
the  suspension  bridge,  and  mingled  with  the 
promenaders  in  the  gardens.  We  saw  Fletcher 
in  the  kiosque,  conducting  the  band;  but  he 
was  occupied  with  the  music,  and  did  not  rec- 
ognize us  among  the  by-standers.  Like  the 


rest,  he  wore  a  heavy  brass  helmet  and  a  fantas- 
tic uniform ;  and  I  know  not  whether  it  was  the 
effect  of  illness  or  of  his  unusual  costume,  but 
he  seemed  to  me  paler,  sterner,  and  more  hag- 
gard than  ever. 

They  were  playing  a  selection  from  the  ' '  Eu- 
ryanthe"  of  Weber  when  we  arrived,  and  as 
soon  as  the  last  chord  was  struck,  we  made  our 
way  up  to  his  desk  and  addressed  him. 

He  started,  held  out  his  hand,  drew  it  back, 
held  it  out  again,  and  shook  ours  nervously. 

"  How  do  you  do  ?"  said  he,  in  his  old  quick, 
incoherent  way.  "This  is  quite  a  surprise. 
Have  you  been  on  the  Rhine  ?  Ems  is  a  gay 
place.  Where  do  you  live  ?  Have  you  been 
long  here  ?  The  waters  are  very  bitter." 

"We  only  arrived  this  morning,"  replied 
Seabrook,  "  and  we  are  staying  for  the  present 
at  the  Hotel  d'Angleterre." 

"Very  dear  hotel.  What  do  you  say  to  our 
band  ?  Wretched  set  this  year.  The  King  of 
Wiirtemberg  is  in  the  gardens  to-night.  Are 
you  from  Frankfurt  direct,  or  did  you  stay  at 
Coblentz?  This  is  pretty  scenery.  Fond  of 
ruins  ?  I  am  not.  The  Rhine  is  greatly  over- 
rated. So  is  Goethe.  Have  you  been  down 
to  the  springs?  It's  like  going  into  a  vault. 
See  that  dark  man  yonder  —  Mazzini.  He's 
talking  to  the  Princess  Von  Hohenhausen. 
Plenty  of  celebrities.  Of  course  you've  seen 
the  Conversation  Haus  ?'' 

In  conversing  with  Fletcher,  I  always  made 
it  a  rule  to  reply  to  the  last  thing  said,  since  it 
was  hopeless  to  think  of  disentangling  the  parti- 
colored threads  of  his  wandering  ideas ;  so  I 
told  him  that  I  was  at  present  such  a  stranger 
as  not  to  know  where  the  Conversation  Haus 
was  to  be  found — nay,  I  was  even  ignorant  of 
what  its  purport  and  uses  might  be. 

' '  It's  a  part  of  the  Kursaal.  A  set  of  showy 
rooms — cafe,  ballroom,  and  gaming-rooms.  It 
all  belongs  to  the  Grand-Duke.  Seventy  and 
eighty  thousand  florins  are  lost  there  annually 
by  play.  We  call  the  hazard-tables  the  duke's 
treasury.  He  also  lets  lodgings  at  the  Alte 
Kurhaus.  Quite  a  commercial  prince.  Poor 
as  a  mouse.  Hush!  We  have  to  play  now. 
Last  piece.  We'll  go  to  the  rooms  when  it  is 
over." 

We  went  down  again,  and  waited  for  him  at 
the  back  of  the  kiosque  while  the  band  per- 
formed Mendelssohn's  "  Wedding  March"  from 
the  "Midsummer  Night's  Dream."  By  the 
time  that  it  was  over,  the  gay  company  had  al- 
most deserted  the  gardens ;  the  shades  of  even- 
ing had  closed  in  and  darkened  all  the  land- 
scape ;  some  stars  were  out  in  the  clear  sky ; 
and  a  flood  of  warm  light  glowed  from  the  win- 
dows of  the  Conversation  Haus.  Then  the  mu- 
sician rejoined  us,  and  we  followed  him  to  the 
rooms.  He  had  laid  aside  his  helmet  and 
braided  coat,  and  as  he  walked  along  with  his 
hat  in  his  hand,  letting  the  cool  breeze  play 
upon  his  brow,  I  fancied  that  the  thick  gray 
hair  looked  somewhat  thinned,  and  the  care- 
worn brow  more  deeply  furrowed  than  when  we 


36 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


parted  with  him  at  Frankfurt  a  few  weeks  be- 
fore. Besides  this,  his  conversation  seemed 
more  disjointed  and  wandering.  He  frequent- 
ly paused  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence— some- 
times in  the  middle  of  a  word.  Often  he  spoke 
as  if  in  reply  to  his  own  thoughts ;  and  still  oft- 
ener,  as  though  his  mind  were  occupied  on  oth- 
er matters,  and  his  tongue  a  mere  mechanical 
agent  uttering  commonplace  observations,  with 
which  his  powers  of  reflection  were  totally  un- 
connected. 

At  the  door  of  the  Kursaal  we  found  knots  of 
visitors  talking  and  smoking;  little  bands  of 
promenaders  from  the  gardens  strolling  up  and 
down  the  colonnade ;  and  in  the  empty  ball- 
room several  gentlemen  reading  the  newspapers 
of  the-  day. 

"But  where  are  the  gaming-tables?"  asked 
my  friend. 

The  musician  pointed  to  an  open  door  at  the 
farther  end  of  the  apartment,  through  which 
several  persons  were  passing  and  repassing,  and 
whence  a  busy  hum,  accompanied  by  an  occa- 
sional clicking  noise,  was  distinctly  audible. 

We  entered.  The  atmosphere  was  warm  and 
oppressive ;  the  blaze  of  gas  intolerable ;  the 
crowd  of  lookers-on  so  great  that  for  several 
minutes  we  could  get  no  farther  than  the  door. 
All  were  thronging  round  one  long  table  which 
almost  filled  the  room,  and  no  one  spoke  save  in 
low  whispers.  Presently  a  slight  movement 
arose  near  us.  A  gentleman  came  out,  and 
Fletcher  took  advantage  of  the  moment  to  make 
a  way  for  us  to  the  front  rank  next  the  table. 

The  players  only  were  sitting.  They  were 
of  all  ages  and  both  sexes.  Some  of  them  had 
pieces  of  card,  which  they  pricked  occasionally 
with  a  pin,  according  to  the  progress  of  the 
game.  Many  had  little  piles  of  .gold  and  silver, 
rouleaux  sealed  at  either  end,  and  packets  of 
yellow  Prussian  notes  lying  beside  them.  All 
looked  serious  and  interested ;  but  there  were 
none  of  those  violent  emotions  of  which  we  read 
in  books  depicted  in  their  countenances.  They 
won  and  lost  with  the  best-bred  composure,  and 
the  stakes  upon  the  table  varied  from  half  a 
dollar  to  twenty  gold  pieces  at  a  time.  Four 
elderly,  respectable  -  looking  men,  occupying 
raised  seats  at  the  centre  of  the  table,  were  the 
bank-company.  One  of  these  dealt  the  cards, 
the  others  paid  and  received  the  money.  Each 
pack  of  cards,  as  soon  as  it  had  been  once  dealt, 
was  thrown  into  a  well  sunk  in  the  table,  just  in 
front  of  the  dealer. 

The  scene  was  utterly  new  to  me.  I  looked 
round  from  face  to  face  with  untiring  curiosity, 
and  saw  the  gold  changing  hands  without  in 
the  least  comprehending  the  laws  of  the  game. 
Opposite  to  me  sat  an  old  lady,  very  highly 
rouged,  and  decked  in  artificial  flowers  and  false 
jewelry.  She  had  a  cunning  eye,  and  on  her 
lips  a  fixed  smile.  I  observed  that  she  al- 
ways won.  Next  to  her  a  sallow  boy  leaned 
forward  upon  both  elbows,  now  and  then  haz- 
arding a  ten-franc  piece  which  he  drew  from  his 
waistcoat  pocket.  Farther  on,  a  dark  handsome 


man  and  his  wife  sat  side  by  side,  drawing  their 
stakes  from  a  heap  of  money  between  them, 
and  adding  to  their  store  with  every  'venture. 
Just  at  my  elbow  I  noticed  a  young  and  Afoell- 
dressed  woman,  who  watched  the  cards  with  af- 
fected indifference,  putting  down  a  florin  every 
time,  and  losing  invariably.  Others  there  were 
whose  fortune  seemed  to  fluctuate,  but  none  in 
whom  those  fluctuations  produced  any  visible 
emotion. 

I  could  not  help  remarking  this  to  my  friend. 
He  smiled. 

"Your  observation,"  he  said,  "proves  to  me 
that  you  have  never  before  visited  a  place  of  the 
kind.  It  is  only  in  novels  that  ruined  gamblers 
rush  wildly  from  the  tables,  with  distraction  in 
their  faces.  Here  a  man  will  lose  his  last  florin 
with  a  smile  which  looks,  at  least,  sufficiently 
natural.  Your  real  habitue  is  perfect  master 
of  his  countenance,  and  would  scorn  to  betray 
himself  even  to  a  gesture.  In  fact,  lie  rather 
seeks  to  reverse  the  ordinary  course  of  matters  ; 
for  he  smiles  when  he  loses,  and  looks  indiffer- 
ent when  he  wins." 

"And  what  game  are  they  now  playing?" 

"Rouge-et-noir.  Will  you  hazard  a  thaler 
or  two?" 

"Not  I.  In  the  first  place,  gambling  pos- 
sesses no  attraction  for  me ;  and,  in  the  second, 
I  can  not  even  fathom  the  rules  by  which  they 
play.  They  all  seem  to  me  to  do  the  same 
thing,  and  yet  how  different  are  the  results  to 
each  person  !  What  is  the  reason  that — " 

"Hush!"  interrupted  Seabrook,  plucking  me 
by  the  arm  and  speaking  in -a  hurried  whisper. 
"Look  there!  My  life  on  it,  but  this  man's  a 
gambler!" 

I  turned,  and  saw  Fletcher  in  the  act  of  lift- 
ing a  couple  of  silver  dollars  from  the  table. 
His  cheek  was  flushed,  and  his  eager  eye  fixed 
upon  the  dealer.  The  old  lady  opposite  staked 
two  gold  pieces,  and  won.  A  half  smile  flitted 
over  his  lips — he  replaced  his  two  dojlars  on  the 
board — the  color  proved  favorable,  and  his  little 
capital  was  instantly  doubled.  Again  he  tried, 
and  again  he  was  successful.  The  next  time 
he  ventured  all,  and  with  the  same  result. 

Seabrook  and  I  exchanged  glances,  but  we 
were  too  much  concerned  to  speak.  We  stood 
by,  silently  observing  him ;  and  he,  evidently, 
had  lost  every  recollection  of  our  presence. 

Presently  a  seat  became  vacant  just  where  he 
stood.  He  slipped  into  it  mechanically,  as  it 
were  ;  exchanged  a  glance  of  recognition  with  a 
gentleman  sitting  on  his  left,  and  went  on  play- 
ing. 

For  a  long  time  we  remained  there,  watching 
him.     His  success  was  not  invariable,  for  he 
lost  once  or  twice ;  but  he  was,  on  the  whole, 
a  considerable  winner.     At  length  the  weary 
sameness  of  the  scene,  the  hot  glare,  the  op- 
pressive silence,  and  the  still  more  oppressive 
atmosphere,  fatigued  and  annoyed  me.     I  made 
a  sign  to  Seabrook,  and  he  followed  me  from  ;' 
the  room ;  but,  as  I  went,  I  cast  a  last  glance  ! 
at  the  musician,  and  1  saw  that  his  two  dollars 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


37 


had  by  this  time  multiplied  to  thirty  or  forty, 
among  which  gleamed  some  five  or  six  yellow 
Friedrichs-d'or. 

Quite  silently  we  went  out  arm  in  arm 
through  the  empty  ballroom,  along  the  deserted 
garden-walks,  and  out  upon  the  bridge,  where 
the  white  moonlight  slept  upon  the  river,  and 
where  one  or  two  romantic  couples  were  yet 
loitering  to  and  fro. 

Seabrook  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"Upon  my  soul,"  said  he,  gravely,  "I  am 
very  sorry  for  what  we  have  seen  to-night- — the 
more  so,  as  I  believe  this  infatuation  to  be  a  re- 
cent thing." 

"Recent!"!  echoed.  "On  the  contrary,  I 
should  say  that  it  had  been  the  practice  of  years. 
See  how  haggard,  how  nervous,  how  absent  the 
man  is ;  and  what  more  likely  to  make  him  so 
than  the  gaming-table  ?  Depend  upon  it,  he  is 
well  known  at  all  the  Brunnen  in  Germany!" 

My  companion  shook  his  head. 

"Ihave  seen  more  of  life  than  you,  Paul," 
said  he, '"and  have  studied  the  'dimensions, 
senses,  passions,  and  affections'  of  mankind 
more  attentively.  I  repeat  that  Fletcher  has 
not  long  been  a  gambler— nay,  more,  he  is  still 
in  his  novitiate.  Did  you  not  see  how  his  hand 
shook  when  he  took  up  his  first  gains  from  the 
table  ?  How  his  cheek  flushed  as  he  proceed- 
ed ?  How  terrified  he  looked  when  he  thought 
the  '  luck'  was  turning  ?  How,  when  he  was 
winning,  he  staked  all  that  he  had  previously 
won,  without  reserviug  a  single  piece  to  carry 
on  the  war  in  case  of  loss  ?  No  habitual  player 
would  do  this.  No  habitual  player  would  watch 
the  successful  competitors  as  he  does,  staking 
upon  their  colors,  and  trusting  to  their  good 
fortune  rather  than  his  own.  No,  no,  mon  ami! 
A  true  gambler  has  strong  nerve,  impassive  feat- 
ures, self-reliance,  and  a  '  theory'  of  his  own  re- 
specting chances,  numbers,  and  colors.  Fletch- 
er has  none  of  this ;  and  I  dare  wager  a  hund- 
red Napoleons  that  his  initiation  into  the  mys- 
teries of  rouge-et-noir  has  dated  solely  from  the 
period  of  his  arrival  at  Ems."  • 

"But  are  there  no  means  by  which  we  .can 
save  him?" 

Seabrook  shook  his  head  again. 

"I  fear  not,"  he  replied,  sadly.  "He  is  nerv- 
ous, excitable,  irritable  to  the  last  degree.  Be- 
sides, what  amount  of  resolution  or  self-denial 
can  you  expect  from  a  confirmed  opium-eater  ? 
His  power  of  control  over  his  own  inclinations 
is  already  gone — his  nervous  system  is  shatter- 
ed—  his  mental  and  physical  energy  utterly 
weakened  and  broken  down.  The  case,  I  fear, 
is  hopeless ;  but  we  must  see  more  of  it  before 
we  pass  judgment.  Let  us  come  here  again  to- 
morrow evening,  and  watch  the  progress  of  the 
disease  —  for  a  disease  it  unquestionably  is. 
After  all,  what  is  gaming  but  a  kind  of  opium- 
eating?  And  who  shall  say  which  of  the  two 
is  the  more  fatal  intoxication?" 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

ALSATIA. 

WE  remained  for  more  than  three  weeks 
at  Ems,  notwithstanding  the  prejudices  of  my 
friend,  and  passed  them  very  pleasantly.  We 
sketched,  rode,  read,  and  made'  long  pedestrian 
excursions  to  the  Lindenbach  Valley,  the  Cas- 
tle of  Marksburg,  and  the  Convent  of  Arnstein. 
We  also  visited  the  iron-works  of  Hohenrain, 
and  the  silver-smelting  furnace  in  the  neighbor- 
ing vale,  and  spent  many  happy  hours  following 
the  windings  of  the  Lahn,  or  boating  up  to  that 
romantic  point  where  the  little  troubled  river 
glides  peacefully  into  the  broad  embraces  of  the 
Rhine. 

During  this  time  we  had  repeatedly  entered 
the  Conversation  Haus  at  hours  when  the  music 
wUs  not  going  forward,  and  seldom  without  find- 
ing Fletcher  in  the  gaming -rooms.  It  was 
plain  that  he  had  become  a  confirmed  player. 
He  had  his  appointed  seat  at  the  table;  his 
nod  of  recognition  from  the  croupier ;  his  mute 
greeting  from  one  or  two  who,  like  himself, 
were  punctual  in  their  attendance.  He  had 
also  acquired  a  certain  command  of  feature 
which  he  did  not  at  first  possess ;  yet  such  was 
the  constitutional  nervousness  of  his  tempera- 
ment, that,  despite  all  his  care,  it  was  still  be- 
trayed now  and  then  in  the  eager  intensity  of 
his  gaze,  and  in  the  tremulous  lip  and  hand. 
An  attentive  observation  of  his  play  and  the  va- 
riations of  his  luck  assured  me  that  in  the  long 
run  he  was  no  inconsiderable  loser.  What  he 
gained  one  night  he  lost,  and  more  than  lost, 
the  next ;  and  at  those  very  moments  when 
Fortune  seemed  more  than  usually  kind  toward 
him,  the  most  signal  reverse  was  certain  to  be 
at  hand. 

I  do  not  say  that  he  ever  hazarded  largely,  or 
that  he  lost  to  any  great  amount;  but  I  saw 
enough  to  convince  me  that  his  limited  resources 
could  not  long  withstand  the  impoverishment 
consequent  upon  drains  so  exhausting  and  so 
incessant  as  these.  I  also  noticed,  with  a  feel- 
ing of  regretful  pity  which  I  can  not  express, 
that  each  day  only  added  to  the  ghastly  pallor 
of  complexion  and  the  unnatural  brilliancy  of 
eye  which  stamps  the  opium-eater — that  his 
tone  of  mind  grew  more  absent,  more  unsettled, 
more  purposeless  and  disjointed — that  his  gray 
hair,  once  so  thick,  became  thinned,  and  hung 
about  his  neck  and  brow  in  long,  uncut,  neglect- 
ed locks.  Sometimes,  when  we  met  him  in  the 
grounds,  he  would  pointedly  avoid  us ;  some- 
times maintain  an  obstinate  silence  after  the 
first  greetings  were  exchanged ;  sometimes  pour 
forth  a  string  of  wandering  phrases  with  a  kind 
of  voluble  indifference  that  was  infinitely  pain- 
ful to  witness.  Once  or  twice,  when  we  en- 
countered him  in  the  rooms  or -under  the  colon- 
nade, he  did  not  even  recognize  us ;  and  he  sel- 
dom or  never  recollected  either  of  our  names. 
I  have  stood  for  hours  together  behind  his  chair, 
and  watched  the  changes  of  his  fortune,  without 
his  ever  dreaming  that  I  was  there. 


38 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


I  found  myself  much  interested  in  the  fate 
of  this  eccentric  man  —  more  interested  than 
Seabrook,  who  had  known  him  longer.  I  knew 
that  he  was  blindly  traveling  toward  ruin,  and 
the  same  fascination  which  impels  us  to  watch 
a  rider  whose  horse  has  taken  fright,  or  a  ship- 
wreck, or  any  fatal  and  inevitable  misfortune, 
impelled  me,  as  it  were,  to  track  the  course  of 
this  infatuation.  I  felt  that  I  must  be  at  hand 
to  count  the  steps  of  his  descent — to  watch  it 
from  day  to  day,  from  depth  to  depth ;  and, 
when  matters  came  to  the  worst,  to  be  enabled, 
at  the  right  moment,  to  step  forward  and  save 
him  from  absolute  destruction. 

"It  is  his  only  chance  of  amendment,"!  re- 
plied, when  rallied  by  Seabrook  on  my  devotion 
to  the  gaming-tables.  "When  all  is  lost  I  will 
say  to  him,  'Here  is  gold  for  thy  necessities, 
but  not  for  thy  vices.  Promise  me  to  play  no 
more.'  If  he  have  a  spark  of  honor  and  good 
faith  remaining,  he  will  be  cured." 

But  my  friend  only  shook  his  head,  and 
sighed,  and  went  off  to  play  at  billiards  with 
some  young  men  whom  he  knew  in  the  town, 
and  among  whom  he  passed  away  those  hours 
which  I  spent  in  the  Conversation  Haus. 

One  evening  I  missed  him  from  his  accus- 
tomed place.  I  scarcely  knew  Avhether  to  be 
pleased  or  alarmed  at  this  unusual  absence ; 
but,  at  all  events,  I  felt  an  inward  uneasiness 
that  caused  me  to  direct  my  steps  to  the  gar- 
dens at  an  earlier  hour  the  next  night. 

The  music  of  the  band  came  pleasantly 
through  the  trees  as  I  entered  the  gate,  and  I 
made  my  way  at  once  to  the  pavilion. 

A  stranger  was  conducting  in  his  place — he 
was  not  there.  A  cold  sensation  crept  over  me. 

"He  has  lost  every  thing,"!  said  to  myself. 
"He  was  in  despair — perhaps  he  has  committed 
suicide.  And  I !  Alas !  I  had  hoped  to  save 
him !" 

This  fear  was  too  much  for  me.  I  sat  down 
upon  a  vacant  bench,  and  leaned  my  head 
against  a  tree.  Presently  the  music  ceased.  I 
rose  up  and  went  over,  with  the  intention  of 
asking  some  of  the  players ;  I  hesitated ;  and 
while  I  hesitated,  the  leader  gave  the  signal, 
and  they  recommenced.  I  returned  to  my  seat 
in  an  agitation  for  which  I  could  not  account, 
and  of  which  I  felt  ashamed,  even  to  myself. 

"What's  Hecuba  to  me,  or  I  to  Hecuba?"  I 
muttered.  "Doubtless  the  man  is  safe  ;  and, 
at  all  events,  the  fault  is  not  mine." 

Selfish  reasoning,  and  hollow  as  selfish,  for  it 
availed  me  nothing ;  and  when  I  at  last  sum- 
moned resolution,  and  asked  the  conductor  aft- 
er my  new  acquaintance,  I  felt  as  nervous  as 
before. 

"The  Herr  Fletcher,"  replied  the  young  man, 
politely,  "is  not  well.  For  some  days  he  has 
been  indisposed,  and  for  the  last  two  he  has 
been  confined  to  his  apartment." 

"Will  you  oblige  me  with  his  address?" 

He  penciled  it  on  the  back  of  an  old  letter, 
and  handed  it  to  me. 

"Thanks.     And  his  illness?" 


The  musician  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Really,  mein  Herr,  I  have  not  the  least  no- 
tion." 

I  touched  my  hat,  turned  away,  and,  glancing 
at  the  address  written  on  the  letter,  threaded 
the  garden  paths  as  rapidly  as  I  could,  and  went 
out  into  the  town. 

Hollandischer  Hof !  I  did  not  remember  to 
have  seen  any  hotel  or  lodging-house  of  that 
name  since  my  arrival  at  Ems.  I  went  up  to  a 
waiter  standing  upon  the  steps  of  the  Hotel  de 
Russie,  and  inquired  of  him  if  he  knew  it ;  but 
he  only  stared  at  the  paper  with  an  insolent  air, 
and  bade  me  ask  the  donkey-drivers  over  the 
way.  , 

Rudely  as  the  advice  was  meant,  I  acted 
upon  it,  and  was  directed  to  an  obscure  quarter 
of  the  town,  lying  down  by  the  river  side,  near 
the  bridge  of  boats,  where  the  watermen  colo- 
nized. 

It  was  a  wretched  spot — wet,  unpaven,  and 
dirty.  There  were  children,  pigs,  poultry,  and 
donkeys  wandering,  uncared  for,  through  the 
narrow  lanes.  Large  heaps  of  refuse  lay  before 
each  door.  The  voices  of  women  quarreling 
were  loud  within ;  men  leaned,  smoking,  from 
the  upper  windows;  and  all  the  atmosphere 
around  was  tainted  and  heavy.  At  the  farthest 
extremity  of  this  Alastia  I  found  the  mean  inn 
dignified  by  the  name  of  the  Hollandischer  Hof. 

He  was  crouching  over  a  small  stove  in  a 
comfortless  garret,  wrapped  in  a  blanket  taken 
from  the  bed,  and  shivering  piteously.  He 
looked  very  pale  and  ill,  and  had  not  shaved 
for  three  or  four  days.  His  hands,  too,  as  he 
held  them  toward  the  open  door  of  the  stove, 
seemed  almost  transparent.-  I  could  not  have 
believed  that  I  should  see  so  startling  a  change 
after  so  brief  an  absence. 

When  I  tapped  upon  his  door  he  made  no 
answer — when  I  entered  the  room  he  neither 
turned  nor  spoke  —  when  I  stood  beside  him, 
and  uttered  a  few  simple  words  of  apology  and 
condolence,  he  only  looked  up  with  a  listless, 
weary  air,  and  sighed  heavily. 

"I  am  indeed  sorry  to  find  you  thus,  Mr. 
Fletcher.  I  feared  that  you  were  ill  when  I 
saw  a  stranger  conducting  the  band,  and  so  I 
took  the  liberty  of  calling  to — to  inquire  if  you 
were  better." 

He  stared  dreamily  into  the  fire,  but  remain- 
ed silent. 

"You  have  some  medical  advice,  I  trust?" 

He  moaned  and  shook  his  head. 

I  looked  round  the  room  for  a  chair,  and,  see- 
ing only  an  old  deal  box  beside  the  window,  I 
dragged  it  over  to  the  fire,  and  sat  down  oppo- 
site to  him. 

"I  consider  that  it  is  absolutely  necessary 
for  you  to  have  proper  attendance,  Mr.  Fletcher. 
You  must  permit  a  friend  of  mine — a  man  high- 
ly distinguished  by  his  professional  skill  —  to 
call  upon  you.  I  know  that  he  will  gladly 
oblige  me  in  so  small  a  matter." 

Heaven  forgive  me !  I  had  not  a  friend,  or 
even  an  acquaintance,  in  all  Ems,  except  Nor- 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


man  Seabrook.  But  any  eminent  physician 
would  suit  the  character ;  and  I  consoled  my- 
self by  arguing  that  it  was,  after  all,  but  a  figure 
of  speech. 

As  the  musician  still  said  nothing,  I  went  on. 

"My  friend  shall  see  you  this  very  evening 
— and — and  I  think — that  is,  I  suppose  it  prob- 
able, that  he  will  order  you  wine — generous 
living — perhaps  expensive  medicines." 

He  looked  up  hastily. 

"No — no,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  hurried  tone, 
"no — I  am  well — better.  No  physician — no 
physician !" 

"Pardon  me,  but  it  is  necessary.  I  assure 
you  that  you  are  more  unwell  than  you  suppose. 
I  will  go  at  once  in  search  of  my  friend ;  and, 
in  the  mean  time — in  case  you  should  require 
any  thing — pray  excuse  me — I  shall  call  again 
to-morrow.  Good  evening — good  evening !" 

And  I  hastened  from  the  room,  down  the 
dark  staircase,  with  its  balustrade  of  greasy 
rope,  and  out  into  the  lanes  below,  leaving  a 
couple  of  gold  pieces  upon  the  table  at  his 
side. 

Once  more  outside  the  house,  I  shuddered, 
and  thrust  my  hand  into  the  breast  of  my  coat, 
for  I  had  touched  his  at  parting,  and  that  clam- 
my chill,  like  the  chill  of  death,  seemed  yet  to 
cling  against  the  palm. 

What  a  den!  what  a  neighborhood !  I  strode 
rapidly  along  the  slippery  lanes  in  the  direction 
of  the  Hauptstrass,  in  the  hope  of  reaching  the 
gardens  before  all  the  company  had  departed, 
and  of  finding  there  some  one  of  those  medical 
gentlemen  whom  I  had  learned  to  recognize  by 
sight  during  my  brief  sojourn.  Every  thing 
seemed  to  impede  my  way.  The  watermen 
were  returning  to  their  homes  for  the  night, 
the  donkey -drivers,  with  their  weary  beasts, 
were  thronging  along  on  their  way  to  such 
wretched  stabling  as  the  place  afforded  ;  a  bro- 
ken-down cart,  with  a  gaping  crowd  around, 
blocked  up  the  pathway.  Added  to  this,  it  was 
getting  dark,  and  some  rain  began  to  fall. 

When  I  felt  the  first  drops  of  the  shower,  I 
knew  that  my  last  chance  was  gone,  and  my 
fears  proved  to  be  correct ;  for  when  I  reached 
the  gardens,  the  gay  company  had  all  dispersed, 
and  the  musicians  were  just  in  the  act  of  hast- 
ening away  with  their  instrument-cases  in  their 
hands.  One  of  these  I  stopped. 

"Pardon,  monsieur;  but  can  you  direct  me 
to  a  physician  ?" 

"A  physician !  Indeed  no,  mein  Herr — not 
I." 

And,  shaking  my  hand  roughly  from  his 
sleeve,  the  man  endeavored  to  pass  on. 

"One  moment,  I  beseech  you," I  continued, 
nothing  daunted,  as  I  again  seized  him  by  the 
arm.  "It  is  for  Mr.  Fletcher  —  he  whom  you 
know.  He  is  very  ill.  Pray  help  me  to  find 
a  physician!" 

The  name  of  Fletcher  instantly  produced  the 
desired  effect.  He  paused  —  looked  at  me — 
hesitated  —  and,  finally,  summoning  one  of  his 
companions,  exchanged  with  him  some  sentences 


in  a  kind  of  rough  patois  German  which  I  could 
not  understand.  After  a  few  moments,  the  new- 
comer turned  to  me  with  an  air  of  respectful 
civility,  saying, 

"  If  the  Herr  Graff  will  be  so  good  as  to  fol- 
low me,  I  will  conduct  him  to  the  apartments 
of  a  famous  physician  close  at  hand." 

He  led  the  way,  I  followed,  and  the  man 
whom  I  had  first  addressed  turned  swiftly  off  in 
another  direction. 

Suffice  it  here  that  we  found  the  gentleman, 
that  I  introduced  myself  to  him,  stated  the  par- 
ticulars of  the  case,  furnished  him  with  the  ad- 
dress, and  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  him  de- 
part. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

A    MIDNIGHT    VIGIL. 

SOMETIMES  together,  sometimes  separately, 
sometimes  in  the  company  of  the  physician,  we 
visited  Fletcher  at  his  miserable  lodging  at  least 
once  in  every  day.  We  had  found  him  too 
weak  and  ill  to  be  removed ;  but  he  had  now  a 
nurse,  and  all  such  comforts  as  his  condition 
required.  He  was,  indeed,  very  ill.  Intense 
mental  anxiety  acting  upon  a  nervous  constitu- 
tion, which  was  already  sufficiently  undermined 
by  the  long  and  unremitting  use  of  opium,  had 
ended  in  a  low  fever,  which  day  by  day  was  as- 
suming a  more  malignant  character. 

One  morning  we  found  him  moaning  and 
tossing  upon  his  bed,  and  quite  delirious.  The 
nurse  said  that  he  had  been  thus  since  a  little 
past  midnight.  It  was  a  painful  spectacle  ;  and 
we  stood  silently  by  the  fire,  looking  at  him, 
till  the  physician  arrived.  This  gentleman  was 
stout  and  tall,  with  a  lion-like  face,  and  green 
eyes,  and  a  profusion  of  rings  and  chains,  and 
a  mass  of  rough,  shaggy  hair,  like  a  mane. 

He  was  late  to-day,  and  came  up  stairs  very 
quickly,  and  softly,  stopping  short  upon  the 
threshold  as  he  saw  the  condition  of  the  patient. 
He  then  took  his  place  beside  the  bed,  and  say- 
ing that  he  had  expected  this  change,  laid  his 
hand  upon  the  hot  brow,  and  counted  the  leap- 
ing pulse. 

After  a  few  moments  he  shook  the  mane  very 
gravely,  and  laid  poor  Fletcher's  hand  gently 
down  upon  the  coverlid. 

"Brain  fever,"  he  said,  very  distinctly  and 
slowly.  ' '  Brain  fe — ver ! " 

We  looked  each  other  in  the  face  without 
speaking.  The  physician  rose,  and  imparted 
some  directions  to  the  nurse — scrawled  a  hasty 
prescription  —  bowed,  and  moved  toward  the 
door. 

"But  there  is  hope?"  cried  Seabrook,  in  a 
low,  quick  voice.  "  There  is  hope?" 

The  physician  paused,  glanced  keenly  from 
me  to  the  patient,  and  back  again,  and  looked 
uncomfortable. 

"  Well— really,"  he  said,  hesitatingly,  "I— 
I —  The  gentleman  is  .your  friend,  perhaps, 
monsieur"  (turning  to  me) — "a — a  relation ?" 


40 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


I  made  a  gesture  of  dissent,  and  Seabrook 
said  impatiently, 

"Mr. Fletcher  is  comparatively  a  stranger  to 
both  of  us,  sir.  Pray  give  your  unreserved 
opinion.  Is  he  in  much  danger?" 

He  appeared  relieved  by  this,  but  still  hesi- 
tated. 

"Brain  fever,"  he  remarked,  "frequently 
proves  fatal ;  and,  again,  many  persons  recover 
from  it.  The— the  patient  is  not  strong;  but 
delicate  persons  often  go  through  sickness  better 
than  more  robust  subjects.  We  must,  however, 
remember  that  opium  is,  in  itself,  a  slow  pois- 
on." 

"But  your  reply,  sir!  your  reply!"  urged 
my  friend.  "  Is  there  hope  ?" 

The  physician  was  now  at  the  door,  with  one 
foot  down  upon  the  first  stair. 

"I — I  fear — that  is  to  say — at  least —  No, 
gentlemen.  I  regret  to  say — none." 

And  once  more  shaking  his  head,  so  that  the 
mane  swayed  like  a  pendulum  from  side  to  side, 
he  bowed,  coughed  apologetically,  and  made  his 
way  down  as  quickly  and  softly  as  he  came  up. 

It  was  quite  late  in  the  evening  when  I  next 
saw  him.  I  had  left  Seabrook  writing  letters ; 
the  night  was  dark  and  wet ;  the  low  lanes  by 
the  river  were  ankle-deep  in  mire ;  scarce  a  soul 
was  abroad ;  and  the  hungry  dogs  were  fighting 
over  the  bones  upon  the  dunghills.  There  was 
noise  of  revelry  and  loud  laughter  in  the  public 
room  of  the  Hollandischer  Hof,  and  as  I  hurried 
through  the  dark  passage  and  up  the  narrow 
stairs,  I  heard  fragments  of  a  popular  Rhine- 
wine  song  and  chorus,  and  inhaled  a  fog  of 
coarse  tobacco-smoke. 

It  was  strange ;  but,  as  I  advanced,  the  sound, 
instead  of  lessening,  became  louder.  I  paused 
at  the  foot  of  the  last  flight,  and  listened  attent- 
ively. 

Yes — beyond  a  doubt.  It  grows  more  dis- 
tinct with  every  step  I  take.  The  words  are 
those  by  Mathias  Claudius,  which  I  know  so 
well;  the  voice  —  ah!  the  voice  in  which  they 
are  chanted !  I  shudder  —  I  pause  —  I  hasten 
forward— I  push  open  the  door.  Alas ! 

"  On  the  Rhine,  on  the  Rhine, 
There  grows  the  vine ! 
Bless'd  be  the  Rhine  I" 

He  is  sitting  up  in  his  bed,  wild  and  haggard ; 
and,  as  I  enter,  chants  these  lines  with  a  ghast- 
ly mirth  more  shocking  than  tears  or  ravings. 
The  fire  has  gone  out ;  the  candle  burns  dimly ; 
the  nurse  is  absent.  All  is  gloomy,  comfortless, 
and  chill. 

Shuddering,  I  take  my  seat  beside  him ;  but 
he  never  notices  my  presence,  and  still  goes  on 
singing : 

"  From  the  banks  down  below, 
Up  the  mountains  they  grow, 
And  yield  us  the  wine! 
This  wine  of  the  Rhine!" 

He  has  thrown  off  the  covering,  and  flings  his 
arms  up  wildly  above  his  head  as  he  finishes  the 
verse.  I  twine  mine  around  him,  soothe  him 
with  gentle  words,  and  induce  him,  for  a  few 


moments,  to  lie  down.  Unfortunately,  I  have 
omitted  to  shut  the  door,  and  again  the  chorus, 
with  its  accompaniment  of  clattering  glasses, 
swells  loud  below,  and  comes  up  distinctly  to 

r  ears. 

He  starts  up,  laughing  (how  I  wish  he  would 
not  laugh  in  that  way!),  and  bursts  forth  again 
with  a  hoarse,  frantic  vehemence  that  makes 
me  shudder : 

11  With  the  leaves  of  the  vine 
Let  us  gayly  entwine 
Each  beaker  of  wine  ? 
Drink  it  merrily  dry, 
And  all  Europe  defy 
To  equal  this  wine ! 
This  wine  of  the  Rhine !" 

I  go  over  and  shut  the  door.  He  pauses 
—listens  eagerly — looks  round— and,  hearing 
nothing,  moans  softly  several  times,  and  rocks 
himself  to  and  fro,  as  if  in  pain. 

Once  more  I  induce  him  to  lie  down ;  but  he 
keeps  muttering  absently  between  his  teeth,  and 
shivers  piteously.  I  pile  bedclothes  over  him, 
and  coats,  and  a  woman's  cloak  which  hangs  be- 
side the  door.  I  chafe  his  cold  hands  in  mine ; 
I  place  the  candle  on  one  side  that  he  may  not 
see  the  light;  and,  as  he  seems  quieter,  I  hope 
that  he  may  sleep.  However,  he  still  moans 
and  mutters,  and  from  time  to  time  vague  frag- 
ments of  the  song  yet  escape  his  lips. 

"Faster!"  he  says — thinking,  perchance, 
that  he  is  conducting  the  orchestra — "faster! 
you  are  all  too  slow  —  I  tell  }?ou,  prestissimo ! 
What!  here  already!  I  thought  you  were  in 
London.  Frankfort!  Frankfort!  Ah!  I  must 
not  stay  here !  Away!  Beautiful  fiend,  I  hate 
you!  Hark!  what  is  that?  Wine!  Ha!  ha! 
Wine  and  cards !  '  So  drink,  drink  the  wine  ! 
Rejoice  in  the  vine!'  Are  you  come  again, 
Margaret  ?  Poor  Margaret !  How  pale  you 
are,  poor  Margaret!  Like  your  mother,  Mar- 
garet —  like  your  mother,  as  I  last  saw  her  — 
in  her  shroud,  poor  Margaret !  And  Frank ! 
Where  is  Frank?  Frank!  Frankfort!  The- 
resa! Ah!  I  remember  you !  Dare  you  show 
yourself  before  me  ?  Poor  Margaret  —  poor — 
poor — " 

His  voice  grew  fainter  —  the  words  came 
thickly  and  heavily — his  eyes  closed — he  start- 
ed twice  or  thrice,  and  presently  he  slept. 

His  slumber  lasted,  as  I  should  think,  three 
hours.  At  first  he  seemed  to  dream  painfully, 
and  tossed  restlessly  upon  the  pillows,  grasping 
my  hand  the  while  with  strong  energy,  as  if  as- 
sociating with  it  some  wandering  notion  of  pro- 
tection. By-and-by  he  grew  calmer;  his  hold 
relaxed ;  his  head  fell  back ;  and,  save  for  his 
quick,  moaning  respirations,  I  could  almost 
have  fancied  that  he  was  dead. 

Thus  the  dreary  night  wanes.  The  revelers 
in  the  inn-parlor  break  up  and  go  forth,  sing- 
ing, into  the  streets.  The  doors  are  barred 
loudly  below.  The  profoundest  stillness  pre- 
vails within  and  without.  The  clocks  chime 
sadly  in  this  and  the  neighboring  house ;  and 
still  the  sick  man  sleeps,  and  still  the  nurse 
comes  not. 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


41 


By-and-by  he  wakes.  I  am  not  apprised^of 
this  by  any  movement  of  his,  but,  on  turning 
round,  find  his  eyes  fixed  earnestly  upon  me. 
Something  peculiar  in  the  expression  of  his  face 
— something  strange  in  the  depths  of  his  eyes, 
causes  me  to  bend  down  suddenly  toward  him, 
and  call  him  by  his  name. 

"Is  that  you,  sir?"  he  says  faintly,  and  with 
some  difficulty  of  articulation.  "Is  that  you? 
You're  very  good  to  me,  sir. " 

The  delirium  is  gone;  but  there  is  now  a 
look  upon  his  face  which  fills  me  with  more 
dread  than  that  of  mere  insanity. 

"  Do  you  feel  better  now  ?"  I  ask  him.  "Are 
you  in  pain  ?" 

"No,  sir.  No  pain — but  a— a  numbness 
seems  to  be  taking  me.  I— I  think  I'm  going 
— this  time — sir." 

I  strive  to  reassure  him — to  smile — to  shake 
him  by  the  hand ;  but  mine  trembles  so  that 
even  he  feels  it,  and  the  words  die  away  upon 
my  lips.  He  asks  for  water,  and,  when  he  has 
it,  closes  his  eyes,  and  so  lies  for  several  min- 
utes quite  still  and  silent.  Presently  he  looks 
up  and  speaks  again,  and  this  time  I  notice  that 
his  speech  is  more  labored  than  before. 

"  I  feel  it  coming.  This — numbness— this 
.  — I — I  have  no  one  to  ask — but — but  you,  sir. 
Will — will  you — " 

"I  will  do  any  thing  for  you,"  I  exclaim, 
with  warmth.  "  I  meant  to  offer,  in— in  case — " 

He  understands  me,  and  looks  grateful,  but 
for  some  minutes  seems  unable  to  enunciate. 
The  hand  which  I  hold  in  mine  appears  mo- 
mentarily to  grow  colder,  and  large  drops  of 
perspiration  gather  upon  his  brow  and  upper 
lip.  Again  I  bid  him  speak,  for,  alas !  there  is 
no  time  to  lose  now. 

"  I — I  have  a  daughter,  sir — a  daughter — 
Margaret— in — Brussels— a  school — write — " 

"I  will  go  to  her!"  I  say,  quickly.  "  Give 
me  her  address.  What  do  you  wish  me  to  say 
to  her  ?  Have  you  any  property  ?" 

"No  —  money  —  spent  —  gambled  —  poor — 
school — Brussels. " 

"  Yes,  I  know !     But  where  ?  what  street  ?" 

"Rue  Leopold,  No.  24 —  Madame  —  Von 
Plaets — " 

"Enough.  Have  you  any  thing  else  to  tell 
me  ?  Any  message  to  Margaret  ?  Any  other 
person  you  wish  me  to  see?" 

I  speak  this  earnestly  and  loudly,  for  his 
sense  of  hearing  seems  to  grow  dull,  and  a  gray, 
gray  tint  is  stealing  down  gradually  over  his 
face. 

"  Protect — warn — protect — " 

"I  will  protect  her!"  I  say,  fervently.  "I 
will  protect  her !" 

He  stares  up  at  me  with  a  beseeching  ex- 
pression, and  strives  to  rise.  I  lift  him  in  my 
arms ;  but  he  can  scarcely  breathe,  and  his 
dumb  efforts  at  articulation  are  fearful  to  wit- 
ness. Then  the  pupils  of  his  eyes  dilate  preter- 
naturally ;  his  lips  move  ;  his  features  assume  a 
look  of  intense  anxiety,  almost  of  rage  or  ha- 
tred ;  the  gray  shadow  creeps  down,  down,  and 


overspreads  all  his  countenance ;  he  falls  heav- 
ily back,  quivers  once  all  over,  and  is  then  quite 
still. 

He  has  fallen  upon  my  arm,  and  for  some 
time  I  dread  to  move  it,  lest  I  should  disturb 
his  last  moments.  However,  he  lies  there  so 
motionless  that  I  need  not  fear  his  waking ;  so 
in  a  few  minutes  I  withdraw  it,  and,  taking  the 
candle  over  to  the  bedside,  stand  there  looking 
down  upon  the  dead  face. 

What  untold  tale  was  hidden  there  ?  What 
strange  tragedy  of  wrongs,  and  bitter  hatreds, 
and  fond  loves,  would  go  down  unrecorded  to 
the  grave,  and  be  buried  in  the  outworn  heart 
of  this  poor  human  sufferer?  What  hand  was 
destined  to  unclasp  the  Book  of  the  Past,  and 
read  therein  the  Chronicle  of  his  Life-history  ? 

I  knew  not ;  but  in  that  solemn  hour  I  felt 
a  strange  awe  and  exultation  upon  me,  as  if,  in 
the  great  duty  which  I  had  undertaken,  an  Era 
had  begun  for  me,  and  a  new  blessing  had 
dawned  upon  my  path. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

"OH   SWEET,  PALE   MARGARET!" 

"RuE  DE  LEOPOLD,  No.  24 — Madame  von 
Plaets !" 

I  had  arrived  in  Brussels  late  the  night  be- 
fore, and,  over-wearied  by  the  long  journey  from 
Cologne,  had  slept  till  the  shops  were  opened 
and  the  foot-passengers  all  stirring  in  the  busy 
streets  around  me.  I  woke  with  these  words 
upon  my  lips — could  think  of  nothing  else  dur- 
ing my  hasty  breakfast;  and,  immediately  aft- 
er, hurried  forth  in  quest  of  the  school  and  my 
young  ward,  self -constituted  guardian  that  I 
was. 

Strange,  how  this  one  event  had  changed  the 
whole  tone  and  tenor  of  my  mind  ;  how  it  had 
braced  my  weary  nerves ;  reawakened  my  in- 
terest in  things ;  occupied  my  thoughts  with 
pleasant  images,  and  given  a  purpose  and  an 
impulse  to  my  daily  life !  I  was  always  dream- 
ing of  this  child  which  the  poor  musician  had 
confided  to  me  on  his  dying  bed ;  wondering 
whether  she  was  fair  or  dark,  playful  or  sedate  ; 
hoping  that  her  eyes  might  be  blue,  like  those 
of  Adrienne  ;  and  forming  conjectures  as  to  her 
age,  size,  disposition,  and  talents ;  for  to  none 
of  these  did  I  possess  the  slightest  clew.  I 
amused  myself  by  rehearsing  in  my  own  mind 
all  that  I  should  say  to  her  when  we  met ;  I  ac- 
customed myself,  in  idea,  to  the  name  of  "Fa- 
ther," which  I  thought  would  sound  sweeter 
than  that  of  "Guardian"  from  her  infant  lips. 
I  framed  the  wildest  impossibilities.  I  was  to 
devote  myself  entirely  to  her ;  to  educate  her  in 
all  that  I  deemed  fittest  for  her  improvement, 
and  to  grow  wiser  myself  in  the  gentle  task. 
She  was  to  console  me  for  my  disappointment ; 
to  be  the  comfort  and  pride  of  my  old  age  ;  the 
inheritress  of  my  fortunes ;  the  adopted  daugh- 
|  ter  of  my  heart. 


42 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


Nay,  I  had  even  thought  of  legally  investing 
her  with  the  name  of  our  family ! 

From  the  moment  that  we  had  consigned  the 
remains  of  poor  Fletcher  to  the  little  burying- 
place  beyond  Ems,  I  had  found  it  impossible  to 
restrain  my  impatience,  and  had  hurried  along 
the  glorious  Rhine-scenery  lying  between  Cob- 
lentz  and  Bonn  without  even  a  wish  to  linger 
by  the  way.  From  Bonn  to  Cologne,  from  Co- 
logne to  Brussels,  had  been  the  rapid  journey 
of  a  day ;  and  not  even  the  persuasions  of  my 
friend,  who  remained  obstinately  at  the  City  of 
the  Three  Kings,  could  induce  me  to  defer  my 
farther  progress  for  a  few  hours.  Perhaps,  were 
I  to  search  my  own  motives  narrowly,  I  should 
be  forced  to  acknowledge  that  his  very  determ- 
ination to  explore  the  antiquities  of  Cologne 
bore  some  share  in  the  urgency  of  my  desire  to 
proceed.  I  wished  to  present  myself  alone  to 
the  little  orphan,  and  I  could  not  endure  to 
share  that  first  interview  even  with  Norman 
Seabrook.  There  was  to  me  an  importance  in 
our  newly  established  relation  to  each  other,  a 
sacredness  in  the  grief  that  I  was  to  unfold  to 
her,  which  admitted  of  no  publicity ;  besides,  I 
had  built  such  a  fairy  chateau  en  Esjjagne  upon 
the  affection  which  she  was  to  give  me,  that  I 
felt  jealous  lest  I  should  not  be  the  first  and 
only  one  whom  she  would  learn  to  love. 

"Rue  de  Leopold,  No.  24  —  Madame  von 
Plaets  ]" 

The  road  was  not  long,  although  I  thought  it 
so  in  my  impatience;  but  I  had  to  ask  my  way 
several  times;  to  traverse  streets  and  squares 
utterly  strange  to  me;  to  turn  back  twice  or 
thrice  when  I  had  taken  a  wrong  turning,  or 
been  misdirected.  Besides,  it  was  market-day, 
and  the  open  places  were  all  thronged  with 
stalls  and  country  people,  and  many  whom  I 
had  addressed  could  not  comprehend  either 
my  French  or  German,  but  had  replied  to  me  in 
their  unintelligible  Flemish  dialect.  Then  the 
novelty  o|  the  architecture,  so  different  to  any 
thing  that  I  had  previously  seen,  bewildered  and 
distracted  me.  A  regiment  of  Belgian  Chas- 
seurs, with  their  dark  uniforms,  and  curious 
round  hats  surmounted  by  plumes  of  cock's 
feathers,  defiled  along  the  very  street  which  I 
was  about  to  cross,  and  kept  me  waiting,  as  it 
seemed  to  me,  full  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  I 
was  waylaid  and  followed  by  importunate  guides 
and  commissionaires  —  in  short,  every  possible 
aggravation  and  delay  -seemed  to  combine 
against  me. 

At  length  I  found  the  Rue  de  Leopold,  a  lit- 
tle street  running  at  the  back  of  the  theatre, 
consisting  of  shops,  hotels,  and  private  houses. 
Walking  slowly  down  the  centre,  and  looking 
from  side  to  side  alternately,  I  came  to  No.  24. 
It  was  a  large  white  house  standing  back  from 
the  street,  with  an  outer  wall,  and  heavy  wood- 
en gates,  decorated  with  two  ponderous  knock- 
ers. Within  were  long  close  rows  of  jalousied 
windows ;  the  topmost  branches  of  one  or  two 
lofty  lime-trees ;  and,  on  the  coping,  in  letters 
a  foot  long,  the  words  "Pensionnat  des  De- 
moiselles." 


How  my  heart  beat  as  I  lifted  the  heavy 
knocker— as  I  asked  for  Madame  von  Plaets— 
as  I  heard  that  she  was  within,  and  followed 
the  hobbling  old  concierge  across  the  court-yard 
to  the  steps  of  the  mansion,  where  I  was  met 
by  a  staid  footman  in  a  sober  livery,  and  by  him 
preceded  to  a  spacious  drawing-room  opening 
upon  a  garden. 

"Madame  will  be  with  monsieur  directly." 

Directly !  It  seemed  an  age  to  me.  I  sat 
down —  rose  —  sat  down  again  —  examined  the 
pictures  upon  the  walls  —  the  books  lying  upon 
the  table — the  visiting-cards  in  the  filigree  bas- 
ket —  the  little  figures  of  Dresden  china  on  the 
shelves  of  the  inlaid  cabinet.  Surely  those  were 
the  sounds  of  music !  I  listened  attentively,  and 
heard  a  chorus  of  female  Voices,  supported  by 
the  deep  undertones  of  an  organ.  Doubtless 
we  were  in  the  neighborhood  of  some  church ; 
and  yet  it  was  not  the  hour  for  service. 

It  certainly  appeared  to  come  from  the  direc- 
tion of  the  garden !  I  went  over  and  opened 
the  window.  This  time  I  could  not  be  mistaken, 
for  I  heard  the  very  words  and  recognized  the 
very  notes  of  a  choral  movement  by  Marcello. 

The  garden  was  spacious,  but  gloomy  —  sur- 
rounded by  a  high  wall,  overgrown  by  ivy  and 
green  moss,  planted  here  and  there  with  tall 
dark  poplars,  and  laid  out  in  formal  walks  and 
parterres.  There  was  a  broken  statue  of  the 
Piping  Faun,  and  a  weed-grown  sun-dial  in 
among  the  trees ;  and,  at  the  farther  end,  par- 
tially screened  by  a  lofty  laurel  hedge,  a  small 
white  edifice,  apparently  of  recent  date,  pierced 
by  a  row  of  long  and  narrow  windows,  and  sur- 
mounted by  a  glazed  cupola. 

Now,  beyond  a  doubt,  it  was  from  that  very 
building  that  the  sounds  proceeded. 

Did  Madame  von  Plaets,  then,  keep  a  private 
chapel  for  her  pupils,  or  did  the  garden  com- 
municate with  some  other  house  or  street  be- 
hind the  confines  of  that  laurel  hedge  ? 

My  curiosity  Avas  powerfully  excited.  I  went 
out  upon  the  terrace,  and  down  into  the  garden, 
making  my  way  cautiously  along  the  paths  till 
I  turned  the  corner  of  the.  hedge,  and  found 
myself  before  the  entrance  to  the  building,  when 
I  stole  forward  into  the  shadow  of  the  doorway, 
and  gazed  on  the  scene  within. 

It  was  one  large  and  lofty  hall,  with  bare 
white  walls  and  matted  floor,  and  rows 'of  plain 
deal  benches  ranged  down  all  the  centre,  like 
the  seats  in  a  church  or  a  concert-room.  On 
these  benches  sat  some  fifty  or  sixty  female 
scholars,  varying  in  age  from  six  to  twenty. 
Each  held  an  open  music-book  in  her  hand, 
and  all  were  singing  to  the  accompaniment  of 
an  organ  which  stood  at  the  upper  end  of  the 
hall,  and  was  played  by  a  young  girl  dressed 
entirely  in  black.  About  half  way  down,  add- 
ing to  the  church-like  appearance  of  the  place, 
stood  a  little  pulpit-like  oaken  desk,  behind 
which  a  stout,  fair,  and  florid  lady  of  middle  age 
was  seated,  as  if  presiding  over  the  assembly. 

It  was  a  curious  scene,  and  for  me  an  inter- 
esting one ;  for  I  stood  there  scanning  those 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


43 


rows  of  fair  young  faces,  and  striving  vainly  to 
guess  which  was  the  one  I  sought. 

Suddenly  the  lady-president,  glancing  in  the 
direction  of  the  door,  fixed  her  eyes  upon  me 
with  a  startled  expression,  rose  from  behind  her 
desk  with  an  air  of  immense  dignity,  and  came 
rustling  toward  me  in  her  silken  robes. 

I  felt  that  I  was  looked  upon  as  an  intruder, 
and  as  she  advanced  I  gradually  retreated. 

"Monsieur  is  desirous  of  speaking  to  me?" 
she  asked,  with  a  stately  salutation. 

I  was  not  particularly  desirous  of  speaking  to 
her ;  but  I  knew  not  what  answer  to  make,  so 
I  bowed  profoundly. 

"Then  monsieur  will  have  the  goodness  to 
step  this  way." 

She  laid  a  pointed  emphasis  on  "this,"  and 
preceded  me  along  the  walks,  up  to  the  terrace, 
and  back  into  the  saloon  which  I  had  lately  left. 
She  then  indicated  a  chair  with  a  languid  ges- 
ture of  her  fat  white  hand,  and  sank,  as  if  ex- 
hausted, upon  a  spacious  fauteuil. 

"And  now,"  she  said,  turning  to  me  and 
bowing  somewhat  more  graciously,  "and  now, 
perhaps,  monsieur  will  have  the  politeness  to 
speak." 

"Madame  von  Plaets,  I  presume?" 

Another  bow. 

"I  am  the  bearer  of  some  painfufc  intelli- 
gence to  one  of  your  pupils,  Miss  Margaret 
Fletcher.  Her  father  is  no  more.  I  attended 
upon  him  in  his  last  moments,  at  Ems,. where 
he  intrusted  me  with  the  care  and  guardianship 
of  his  daughter." 

Madame  looked  concerned,  and  shook  her 
fair  head  gravely. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  she  said,  two  or  three 
times  over;  "I  am  very  sorry."  Then,  as  if 
suddenly  remembering  my  words,  "Mademoi- 
selle is  not  my  pupil,"  she  added.  "She  is  my 
musical  gouvernante." 

"Your  musical  gouvernante, madame !"  I  ex- 
claimed. "I — I  had  expected  to — to  find  her 
quite  a  child !" 

There  must  have  been  something  very  blank 
and  discomfited  about  the  expression  of  my 
face,  for  the  Flemish  lady  smiled  outright,  and 
saying,  "Monsieur  shall  judge  for  himself,"  rang 
a  silver  hand-bell,  and  desired  the  attendance 
of  Mademoiselle  Marguerite. 

So,  then,  all  my  predetermined  speeches,  my 
fairy  plans,  my  pleasant  dreams  of  education, 
guidance,  and  voluntary  paternity,  were  vanish- 
ed— my  chateaux  en  Espagne  had  turned  to  "airy 
nothings,"  and  I  found  myself  the  guardian  of 
a  musical  gouvernante,  as  old,  and  perhaps  old- 
er, than  myself !  But  for  the  sad  cause  of  my 
journey,  I  should  have  recognized  something  al- 
most ludicrous  in  the  situation. 

She  entered — a  pale,  slight  girl  about  seven- 
teen or  eighteen  years  of  age,  with  fair  straight 
brow  and  downcast  eyes,  and  her  hands  folded 
meekly  together,  like  the  picture  of  the  Virgin 
Mary  in  the  old  German  paintings.  Her  smooth 
brown  hair  was  banded  closely  round  her  head ; 
she  wore  a  plain  dress  of  some  black  material, 


and  a  small  white  collar  round  her  throat,  so 
that  I  recognized  her  at  once  for  the  organist 
whom  I  had  seen  from  my  ambush  in  the  gar- 
den. 

"A  gentleman  to  visit  you,  mademoiselle 
Marguerite,"  said  madame,  condescendingly. 

The  little  gouvernante  blushed  and  courte- 
sied,  and  stole  one  timid  glance  toward  me  from 
beneath  her  long  eyelashes,  but  made  no  reply. 

"You  can  be  seated,  Mademoiselle  Margue- 
rite.* 

From  the  manner  in  which  this  was  conceded, 
it  was  evident  that  madame  deemed  it  a  dis- 
tinguishing mark  of  favor." 

"This  gentleman  comes  from  abroad — from 
Germany,  mademoiselle.  He  has  seen  mon- 
sieur your  father,  and  will  himself  relate  to  you 
the  melancholy  details.  Helas !  mais  c'est  dom- 
mage,  monsieur.  Qa  me  dechire  le  coeur !"' 

And  madame  sighed,  and  pressed  her  laced 
pocket-handkerchief  to  her  eyes,  and  tried  to 
weep,  but  could  not. 

"I  beg  a  thousand  pardons,  Madame  von 
Plaets,"  I  said,  rising  hurriedly,  "but  I  should 
prefer  to  speak  with  this  young  lady  in  private  ; 
the  nature  of  my  communication  demands  it. 
Have  you  any  unoccupied  room  to  which  we 
might  be  permitted  to  retire?" 

' '  Mais — c'est  juste, — mais — les  convenances," 
stammered  the  mistress  of  the  house,  half  rising 
and  hesitating. 

"  The  customs  of  society,  madame,  suffer  a 
young  lady  to  be  alone  for  a  few  moments  with 
her  guardian." 

"Monsieur  is  a  young  guardian,"  said  ma- 
dame, looking  greatly  disappointed,  and  moving 
slowly  toward  the  door.  "But  —  since  it  is 
wished — on  this  one  occasion — /will  retire." 

She  bowed  again,  very  haughtily ;  I  returned 
the  salutation;  and,  after  lingering  for  a  min- 
ute with  her  hand  on  the  lock,  she  finally  left 
the  room. 

As  for  the  little  gouvernante,  she  had  risen 
and  sat  down  again  a  dozen  times  during  this 
brief  colloquy ;  but,  now  that  madame  was  ac- 
tually gone,  she  resumed  her  seat,  and  remain- 
ed quite  still  and  silent,  revealing  nothing  of 
her  previous  agitation  save  by  the  trembling  of 
her  hands,  which  she  strove  to  press  firmly  to- 
gether. 

I  was  troubled  how  to  begin,  and  sat  looking 
at  her  in  silence  for  some  moments.  At  last  I 
spoke. 

"I  am  the  unwilling  bearer  of  some  painful 
intelligence,  Mademoiselle  Margaret,"  I  said, 
gravely. 

A  startled  glance  from  the  downcast  eyes — a 
closer  clasping  of  the  hands — a  quickening  of 
the  fluttered  breath — that  was  all. 

"I — I  was  your  father's  friend  at  Ems.  He 
desired  me  to  visit  you — to  protect  you — to  in- 
form you  of — of  his  illness." 

"My  father  has  been  ill !" 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  spoken — the 
first  time  she  had  looked  me  steadily  in  the 
face ;  and,  despite  my  anxiety  and  pity,  I  could 


44 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


not  avoid  remarking  how  sweet  was  the  voice 
and  how  beautiful  were  the  large  brown  eyes. 

"  Very  ill.  More  ill  than  you  imagine.  Can 
you  bear  to  be  told  how  ill  he  has  been  ?" 

I  said  this  very  earnestly,  looking  at  her  sor- 
rowfully the  while,  as  in  the  hope  that  the  ex- 
pression of  my  face  and  the  tone  of  my  voice 
would  speak  my  story  for  me. 

She  turned  very  pale  —  even  her  lips  grew 
white;  but  she  answered  firmly,  "I  can  bear  it." 

The  task  was  too  painful.  I  thrust  back  my 
chair,  and  took  one  or  two  hurried  turns  about 
the  room.  Then  I  stopped  suddenly  before  her, 
and  taking  her  hand, 

''Margaret,"  I  said,  "  I  am  your  guardian — 
your  guardian  and  protector  for  life.  It  was 
your  father's  wish  that  I  should  be  so.  Do  you 
understand  me  ?"  » 

No  reply — no  glance — no  movement. 

"  I  am  your  guardian,  Margaret,  because — 
because  you  have  no  other." 

The  little  hand  that  felt  so  cold  in  mine  was 
hastily  withdrawn. 

"No  other!"  she  repeated,  in  an  inward 
shuddering  tone.  "  No  other ! " 
,  She  rose  up,  pale  and  horror-struck,  and 
moved  slowly  away,  as  if  in  dread  of  me  and 
of  my  tidings.  There  were  no  tears  upon  her 
face,  though  mine  were  falling  fast. 

"No  other!" 

Suddenly  both  voice  and  strength  seemed  to 
fail  her.  She  paused,  wavered,  caught  wildly 
at  my  outstretched  hand,  and  fell  fainting  into 
my  arms. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

CLOUD-SHADOWS. 

Norman  Seabrook  to  Paul  Latour. 

"Hotel  deJRubens,  Antwerp,  July  2d,  18—. 

"EBBENE,  amico  mio !  So  thou  hast  even 
taken  unto  thyself  apartments  at  Brussels,  and 
a  ward  of  seventeen  with  'a  face  of  saintlike 
purity!'  By  my  faith,  friend  Paul,  you  im- 
prove, /can  remember  but  a  very  short  time 
since  when  the  name  of  woman  was  never  heard 
to  escape  those  ascetic  lips,  and  when  to  remain 
longer  than  seven  days  in  any  one  locality  was 
intolerable  to  your  philosophership.  But  all  is 
changed  now,  I  perceive :  a  pair  of  *  large,  earn- 
est brown  eyes'  have  been  sufficient  to  charm 
even  you  into  the  paths  of  sentiment  and  sighs  ; 
and  you  must  allow  me  to  interpret  your  fine 
speeches  about  '  the  duties  which  you  have  tak- 
en upon  yourself,'  etc.,  etc.,  according  to  my 
own  reading.  Ha !  '  thou  blushest,  Antony !' 

"I  arrived  in  this  place  five  days  ago,  and  I 
have  not  yet  thought  about  when  I  shall  leave 
it.  'Tis  a  glorious  old  mediaeval  city,  Paul, 
and  not  a  moment  passes  that  I  do  not  wish  you 
were  here  to  enjoy  it  with  me.  The  most  glo- 
rious cathedral — a  Muse'e  of  incalculable  wealth 
— the  quaintest  old  Bourse  you  ever  saw ;  and 
a  style  of  florid  architecture  everywhere  abound- 


ing that  absolutely  feasts  the  eye  with  beauty. 
I  never  saw  any  thing  like  the  house  of  Rubens. 
It  is  one  wreath  of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and 
rarest  scroll-works — a  perfect  bower  in  stone. 
What  an  idea  of  magnificence  that  man  had ! 
What  a  princely  splendid  life  he  contrived  to 
lead — embassador,  chamberlain,  secretary  of 
the  privy  council,  knight,  and  artist !  Was  ever 
painter  so  rich  and  so  honored?  Will  ever 
painter  be  so  again  ?  They  have  his  palette, 
and  an  old  leather  chair  in  which  he  sat  while 
painting,  preserved  in  the  Muse'e. 

* '  Talking  of  the  Muse'e,  I  have  seen  a  pic- 
ture in  it  which  I  shall  never  forget,  and  which, 
if  I  could  but  describe  it  worthily,  would,  I 
think,  induce  you  to  take  the  rail  and  come 
down  for  a  day  or  two — that  is,  if  the  sight  of 
your  English  friend  would  not  be  sufficiently 
attractive.  It  is  a  small  crucifixion  by  Van 
Dyck — to  me  a  most  affecting  and  remarkable 
picture.  You  see  the  cross  standing  up,  as  it 
were,  alone  against  the  leaden  sky.  There  is 
nothing  above  or  around  but  darkness,  and  one 
or  two  points  of  flinty  rock  peep  up  from  below, 
giving  an  idea  of  the  altitude  and  loneliness  of 
the  mountain.  The  evening  shades  are  gather- 
ing; the  sun  is  retreating  behind  a  bank  of 
slaty  clouds,  and  the  Savior  of  mankind  looks 
upward^nto  that  heaven  to  which  he  seems  so 
near,  and  from  which  his  term  of  banishment  is 
almost  ended.  The  face  is  filled  with  a  divine 
yet  beautiful  agony :  the  extremities  assume  the 
blue  hues  of  death,  and  harmonize  in  a  master- 
ly manner  with  the  tones  of  the  background. 
All  is  solitary,  silent,  and  awful.  Do  come, 
Paul,  if  it  be  only  to  see  this  picture.  It  is 
worth  a  pilgrimage.  There  is  a  copy  of  it  in 
the  church  of  St.  Jacques ;  but  the  original  is 
the  gem. 

"I have  taken  an  immense  fancy  to  the  Mu- 
see.  It  is  a  noble  building,  and  is  surrounded 
by  a  quiet  bit  of  garden,  full  of  fine  old  trees, 
'  with  seats  beneath  the  shade,'  and  tablets  in- 
scribed to  the  memory  of  eminent  artists  set  in 
the  walls.  The  bust  of  Rubens  stands  over  the 
entrance.  Somehow  the  geniusrcf  a  great  man 
seems  to  reign  forever  in  the  place  of  his  birth, 
and  to  hallow  all  the  atmosphere  around  with 
something  of  his  individual  majesty.  I  have 
found  this  particularly  the  case  with  Frankfurt 
and  Antwerp.  Both  cities  appear  like  reflec- 
tions of  the  minds  of  Goethe  and  Rubens,  and 
are,  to  me,  as  inseparable  from  the  men  as  the 
men  from  their  works.  You  will  understand 
what  I  mean,  though  I  write  'words  —  mere 
words.'  Surely  there  is  a  something  about 
Stratford-upon-Avon  that  is  different  to  any  oth- 
er town  by  any  other  river  in  any  other  part  of 
England. 

"I  spent  yesterday  at  Ghent,  and  paid  a 
hasty  visit  to  the  cathedral  of  St.Bavon,  and 
the  famous  old  belfry  surmounted  by  the  Gold- 
en Dragon,  where  I  saw  the  great  bell  named 
Roland,  with  its  Flemish  inscription,  mentioned, 
as  you  must  remember,  by  the  poet  Longfel- 
low: 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


45 


"  '  Then  the  bell  of  Ghent  responded,  o'er  lagoon  and  dike 
of  sand, 

"  I  am  Roland !   I  am  Roland !  there  is  victory  in  the 
land !"  ' 

"  His  dragonship,  by  the  way,  is  delightfully 
ugly,  and  suffers  at  present  under  the  personal 
disadvantage  of  a  broken  queue.  I  could  not 
resist  the  whim  of  taking  up  a  bit  of  chalk  lying 
on  the  top  of  the  tower,  and  writing  these  words 
along  the  remains  of  that  appendage — 'This  tale 
to  be  continued.'  Forgive  the  poverty  of  the 
pun. 

"There  is  a  large  establishment  here  for  Be- 
guine  nuns  which  I  much  wished  to  see,  but 
time  forbade.  These  excellent  women  half  peo- 
ple the  dead  streets  of  the  city ;  soldiers  and 
priests  seem  to  make  up  the  rest  of  the  popula- 
tion. The  grass  grows  in  the  public  squares; 
the  sluggish .  canals,  with  their  waters  'thick 
and  slab,'  lie  like  torpid  snakes  along  the  thor- 
oughfares ;  dogs  go  by  dragging  carts,  and 
queer  wagons  rumble  past,  like  boats  upon 
wheels ;  there  are  little  images  of  the  Virgin 
and  Child  stuck  up  under  tiny  penthouses  at 
the  corners  of  all  the  streets ;  and  down  by  the 
bridges  and  the  water-stairs  you  see  women 
scrubbing  their  bright  brass  kettles  and  peeling 
vegetables.  I  never  beheld  a  more  dreary 
place.  I  hear  it  is  one  of  the  most  demoral- 
ized in  Europe. 

"Leaving  the  town  in  what  they  are  pleased 
to  call  a  'vigilante' (!)  on  my  way  to  the  rail- 
way, we  had  to  cross  several  of  the  canal  bridges. 
At  one  of  them  my  driver  stopped  while  a  barge 
passed  through ;  for  on  these  occasions  the 
bridge  ha-s  to  be  drawn  up,  so  small  a  distance 
is  there  between  the  surface  of  the  water  and 
the  planking  above.  I  was  amused  at  the  prim- 
itive manner  in  which  the  toll  was  collected 
here.  Two  men  in  red  woolen  shirts  drag  the 
boat  through  the  narrow  straits ;  another  man 
appears  at  the  window  of  the  toll-house,  which 
overhangs  the  canal.  He  holds  a  fishing-rod 
in  his  hand,  with  an  old  sabot  attached  to  the 
line.  This  he  drops  down  to  the  level  of  the 
steersman's  nose,  and  draws  it  up  again,  like 
Peter's  fish,  with  a  piece  of  money  in  its  mouth. 

"  On  the  whole,  I  like  Belgium,  it  is  so  un- 
disguisedly  stupid.  I  like  its  flat,  strange  scen- 
ery— its  mouldering  old  cities — its  population 
of  dark  priests  and  silent  nuns.  How  ugly  the 
women  are !  I  have  not  seen  a  pretty  face 
since  I  have  been  in  the  country.  '  Formosis 
Bruga  puellis,'  saith  a  very  respectable  proverb 
of  the  Middle  Ages.  It  may  be;  but  I  have 
not  yet  been  to  Bruges. 

"I  wished  you  had  remained  a  few  days  with 
me  at  Cologne.  There  is  a  private  gallery  there, 
the  property  of  Mr.  Van  der  Weyer,  which  is 
worth  half  the  national  collections  in  Europe, 
and  which  you,  as  an  artist  and  a  man  of  taste, 
should  by  no  means  have  omitted.  Some  of  the 
finest  specimens  of  the  early  German  school, 
the  works  of  Wilhelm  of  Cologne,  Stephen  his 
pupil,  Hans  Memling,  Van  Eyck,  etc.,  adorn 
these  walls  with  'riches  fineles*;'  and  as  for 
the  maturer  painters  of  a  later  age,  which  pos- 


sess for  me  far  greater  charms,  you  can  not  con- 
ceive of  a  more  exquisite  selection.  There  is  a 
Guido,  an  upturned  head  of  Christ,  full  of  the 
deepest  poetry  of  feeling ;  a  glorious  Rem- 
brandt— 'Simon  in  the  Temple;'  and  another 
equally  grand,  a  portrait  of  a  man  dressed  in  a 
sort  of  Russian  costume,  with  cloak,  and  furs, 
and  heavy  leathern  boots,  but  with  an  Oriental 
turban  on  his  head.  The  table  near  him  is 
laden  with  '  barbaric  gold  and  pearl ;'  a  rich 
gloom  hangs  over  all ;  and  points  of  brilliant 
light  falling  here  and  there  only  serve  to  height- 
en the  depths  of  shade  beyond.  I  saw  there  a 
spirited  '  Head  of  a  Cavalier,'  by  Rubens,  and  a 
group  of  his  own  family;  a  fine  Salvator,  'Cain 
after  the  Death  of  Abel;'  a  delicious  'Virgin 
and  Child,'  by  Titian,  all  life  and  sweetness; 
and  oh !  such  a  calm  and  golden  Cuyp.  It  is 
a  landscape  scene,  Paul.  A  woman  seated  on 
a  mule  is  led  over  the  brow  of  a  hill  by  a  man 
in  a  red  jacket.  The  far  country  lies  behind, 
all  liquefied  and  transparent  in  the  sunny  even- 
ing air.  The  blue  mountains  fade  upon  the 
horizon,  and  the  towers  of  a  distant  chateau  lift 
their  peaks  to  the  red  clouds  far  away.  Be- 
sides, there  is  a  '  Forest-pool'  by  Ruysdale,  with 
the  trees  standing  silently  around  in  that  light  of 

u '  Clear  obscure, 
So  softly  dark,  so  darkly  pure, 
Which  follows  the  decline  of  day, 
Ere  twilight  melts  beneath  the  moon  away.' 

And  I  must  not  forget  a  Velasquez — one  of  the 
most  effective  that  I  have  seen.  It  is  a  portrait 
of  Don  Carlos,  a  youth  whose  long  fair  hair  falls 
down  upon  his  lustrous  armor.  He  leans  on  a 
gorgeous  mace  all  blazing  with  jewels ;  a  dog 
stands  at  his  side ;  and  behind  them  are  the 
gates  of  a  palace  by  the  sea.  It  is  a  model  of 
high  art  in  portraiture,  and  one  laments  that  the 
coloring  should  be  so  faded. 

"But,  if  I  proceed  at  this  rate,  you  will  think 
that  I  am  sending  you  a  catalogue  raisomwe,  or 
else  that  I  am  qualifying  myself  to  be  an  author v 
of  guide-books. 

"  I  often  think  of  poor  Fletcher  and  his  mel- 
ancholy ending.  There  was  a  man  utterly  self- 
destroyed  —  self-sacrificed.  I  have  sometimes 
fancied  that  a  great  care  was  weighing  upon  his- 
mind,  and  was  the  secret  source  of  all  his  errors. 
It  might  have  been  anxiety  for  his  daughter. 
And  to  think  of  his  having  a  daughter!  I 
never  even  dreamt  that  he  had  had  a  wife.  By 
the  way,  do  you  remember  that  little  brooch  he 
used  to  wear  ?  I  often  wondered  whose  hair  he 
could  so  value,  and  you  would  smile  to  hear 
some  of  the  romantic  tales  which  I  was  pleased 
to  hang  thereby.  Perhaps,  after  all,  it  was  his 
wife's. 

"  You  must  come  and  see  me.  I  shall  be 
here,  I  dare  say,  for  a  fortnight  or  three  weeks 
longer,  for  I  have  still  so  much  to  see  in  the 
way  of  churches  and  private  galleries.  Really 
one  might  spend  a  year  in  Antwerp  and  still 
leave  something  unvisited.  Suppose  you  come 
next  Saturday,  and  stay  for  a  few  days  with  me 
on  the  banks  of  what  Goldsmith  calls  'the  lazy 


46 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


Schelde  ?'  I  name  Saturday,  because  there  is 
to  be  a  grand  fete  on  Sunday  at  the  cathedral, 
and  a  procession  headed  by  the  archbishop. 

"I  want  you  to  make  me  a  little  sketch  of 
Miss  Fletcher's  head,  that  I  may  know  in  what 
this  *  saintly  purity'  consists.  Is  it  in  expres- 
sion or  feature  ?  I  should  imagine  the  former, 
since  you  tell  me  that  she  is  not  beautiful.  It 
is  probable  that  I  shall  find  my  way  to  Brussels 
on  leaving  here ;  but  perhaps  I  may  go  first  to 
Bruges.  I  am  very  curious  to  visit  that  old 
city.  In  the  mean  time,  I  should  like  to  see 
what  your  fair  ward  is  like,  and  I  hope,  for  the 
'  sake  of  our  friendship,  that  I  may  be  enabled  to 
write  beneath  her  portrait  that  old  line  of  Chau- 
cer's which  you,  as  a  Frenchman,  I  dare  say, 
have  not  read — 

"  '  Si  douset  est  la  Margarete !' 
What  a  long  letter  I  have  written !  ffiimphrtc, 
I  know  that  you  will  read  it  all,  mon  aini,  and 
that,  were  it  twice  the  length,  you  would  not 
deem  it  a  trouble.  '  Farewell,  Monsieur  Trav- 
eler.' I  drink  your  health  in  a  glass  of  admi- 
rable Cura9oa.  Yours  ever, 

"  NORMAN  SEABROQK." 

From  the  Same  to  the  Same. 

"  July  4th,  18— . 

"DEAR  OLD  BOY, — This  is  good  news!  I 
did  not  really  think  that  you  would  come,  al- 
though I  asked  you.  Start  by  the  first  train  in 
the  morning,  and  I  will  meet  you  at  the  sta- 
tion. Huzza !  N.  S." 

It  was  late  in  the  evening,  and  getting  quite 
dusk,  when  I  parted  from  my  friend  upon  the 
platform  of  the  Antwerp  railway  station.  I 
had  passed  two  pleasant  days  with  him,  of 
which  the  greater  portion  had  been  spent  in 
the  Muse'e  and  the  cathedral ;  and  I  couM  not 
help  feeling  a  movement  of  regret  as  the  guard 
closed  the  door,  and  the  train  began  slowly  to 
glide  past  the  outskirts  of  the  city. 

The  carriages  were  dimly  lighted  from  the 
roof;  the  view  without  was  flat,  obscure,  and 
ghostly.  I  turned  wearily  from  the  level  marsh- 
lands, and  the  dull  lines  of  poplars  that  seemed 
to  travel  past  the  windows,  toward  my  fellow- 
passengers.  These  were  three  in  number — 
a  stout,  jovial-looking  priest,  with  broad-brim- 
med hat  and  long  black  robe,  and  a  railway  rug 
folded  comfortably  over  his  knees ;  a  young 
officer  of  Chasseurs,  sound  asleep,  with  the  frag- 
ment of  a  cigar  between  his  lips ;  and  a  lady  su- 
perbly dressed  in  a  robe  of  violet-colored  satin, 
and  a  cloak  of  velvet  and  rich  sables,  who  sat 
precisely  opposite  to  me,  and  kept  her  veil  down 
closely  over  her  face. 

There  was  something  in  the  attitude  of  this 
lady — in  the  shape  of  her  hands,  one  of  which 
was  ungloved  and  glittering  with  diamonds — 
in  the  very  style  and  splendor  of  her  attire,  that 
attracted  my  attention,  strangely.  Having  once 
looked  at  her,  I  coul;d  not  remove  my  eyes,  and 
I  sat  there  vainly  striving  to  penetrate  the  folds 
of  lace  that  concealed  her  features. 

Presently  the  evening  mists  rose  thicker  and 


the  air  grew  damp.  I  raised  the  glass  on  my 
side,  and  the  priest  raised  his  at  the  other.  The 
steam  then  gathered  slowly  on  the  panes;  the 
night  became  quite  dark,  and  the  faint  oil-lamp 
seemed  to  burn  brighter  by  the  contrast ;  the 
priest  threw  aside  his  rug ;  the  officer  muttered 
restlessly  in  his  sleep;  I  removed  my  hat  —  in 
short,  the  atmosphere  of  the  carriage  was  trop- 
ical. 

Surely  the  heat  must  soon  compel  her  to  up- 
lift that  veil ! 

She  takes  a  scent-bottle  from  her  reticule — 
she  loosens  the  cloak  around  her  throat — at  last, 
yes,  at  last,  she  throws  up  the  veil ! 

Madame  Vogelsang ! 

An  unaccountable  thrill  ran  through  me  at 
the  sight  of  her,  and  I  sank  back,  shuddering,  in 
my  seat.  What  was  she  to  me  that  I  should 
feel  this  presaging  weight  upon  my  heart? 

Nothing ;  and  yet I  drew  my 

breath  with  difficulty,  and  closed  my  eyes  that 
they  might  not  look  upon  her. 

The  train  flew  on,  and  to  me  the  journey 
seemed  to  endure  for  hours,  although  I  knew 
how  short  the  distance  was,  and  how  swift  our 
speed.  Then  came  Brussels,  and  at  the  first 
slackening  of  our  pace  I  threw  open  the  door, 
leaped  out  upon  the  platform,  and  never  once 
glanced  back. 

Who  shall  say  that  it  was  not  a  presenti- 
ment? 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 
"SUMMER  HALCYON  DAYS." 

SOME  three  or  four  weeks  went  by,  and  Brus- 
sels arrived  at  the  height  of  its  summer  glory. 
There  were  evening  concerts  in  the  park  ;  pub- 
lic balls  at  the  Cafe  Vauxhall ;  shoals  of  car- 
riages and  equestrians  on  the  Boulevards,  and 
in  the  Allee  Verte,  during  the  day ;  and,  above 
all,  operatic  performances  at  the  theatre  in  the 
Place  de  la  Monnaie,  with  Madame  Vogelsang 
as  the  star  of  the  season. 

I  partook  of  very  few  of  these  amusements, 
and  divided  my  time  between  study,  exercise, 
and  the  society  of  my  ward.  I  had  taken  a 
couple  of  rooms  in  the  neighborhood  of  the 
park,  within  sight  of  the  green  trees  and  the 
great  basin,  and  here  established  for  myself  an 
humble  imitation  of  my  beautiful  library  at 
Latour-sur-Creil.  During  the  mornings  I  wrote, 
and  read,  and  walked  if  the  weather  permitted ; 
in  the  afternoons  I  called  upon  Margaret,  and 
either  took  her  out  for  a  little  stroll,  or  read 
aloud  to  her  from  the  pages  of  some  favorite 
French  or  German  writer;  at  night  I  studied 
again  till  late,  and  sometimes  spent  an  hour  in 
the  park,  listening  to  the  band.  It  was  a  very 
quiet  life,  but  a  happy  one ;  not  the  less  happy, 
perhaps,  for  being  tinctured  here  and  there  with 
some  few  shadows  and  regrets. 

As  I  had  felt  and  conjectured  from  the  first 
— ay,  from  that  very  moment  of  that  woful  mid- 
night—  I  had  found  peace  and  consolation  in 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


the  new  and  solemn  duty  which  I  then  assumed. 
To  have  the  care  of  a  life  —  of  a  life  so  young, 
and  innocent,  and  fair! — this  was  indeed  a 
high  and  holy  trust,  and  I  grew  stronger  in  the 
mere  effort  to  fulfill  it.  There  was,  however, 
one  difficulty  ever  present  to  my  mind.  I,  who 
had  so  easily  built  up  a  pleasant  future  for  my 
child- ward  and  myself,  could  now  determine 
on  no  fitting  course  of  life  for  this  grave  and 
timid  girl  of  seventeen.  To  suffer  her  to  con- 
tinue as  I  found  her,  a  lonely  and  ill-paid  mu- 
sical gouvemante  in  a  school,  was  out  of  the 
question.  Indeed,  I  had  already  done  much  to 
soften  the  harsher  points  of  her  position.  She 
had  now  a  private  sitting-room ;  leisure  for 
study ;  and,  owing  to  a  pecuniary  arrangement 
into  which  I  entered  with  Madame  von  Plaets, 
enjoyed  a  far  greater  amount  of  respect  and 
consideration  than  any  teacher  had  ever  before 
received  at  the  hands  of  that  majestic  lady. 
For  the  present  this  answered  well  enough ;  but 
I  could  not  reside  in  Brussels  ad  infinitum,  and 
Margaret  must  not  occupy  a  subordinate  posi- 
tion for  any  longer  period  than  was  necessary 
for  the  completion  of  my  plans.  The  subject 
was  most  perplexing,  and  cost  me  many  hours 
of  reflection  every  day.  Yet  I  found  it  impos- 
sible to  arrive  at  any  definite  conclusion. 

Could  I  but  have  taken  her  to  Burgundy,  and 
placed  her  under  the  care  of  my  mother — but  I 
could  not  yet  endure  to  think  of  the  Hauteville 
grounds,  which  opened  into  mine,  and  of  the 
near  vicinity  of  Theophile  and  his  bride.  True, 
I  might  send  or  leave  her  there,  and  again  de- 
part upon  my  aimless  travels ;  but  was  she  not 
my  ward,  and  I  her  guardian  ?  Was  it  not  my 
duty  to  remain  with  her,  to  console  her,  to  guide 
her  studies,  and  watch  over  every  dawning  im- 
pulse of  her  heart  ?  How  dull  and  solitary  she 
would  be,  alone  with  my  stately  mother  in  that 
remote  chateau,  with  its  environment  of  old 
forests;  how  lonely  I  should  be  to  leave  her 
there,  and  go  forth  for  the  second  time ! 

It  was  a  step  not  to  be  thought  of —  at  least 
for  the  present.  A  time  might  arrive  when  old 
griefs  and  old  impressions  would  fade  and  wear 
away ;  when  I  might  learn  to  look  upon  Adri- 
enne  without  regret,  and  upon  The'ophile  with- 
out envy ;  when  to  return  to  Burgundy  would 
once  more  be  a  pleasure  unalloyed  by  pain,  and 
Margaret  might  rejoice  to  call  that  antique  house 
her  home. 

And  so  I  put  it  off  day  by  day,  and  the  sum- 
mer weeks  went  on.  She  was  singularly  placid 
and  silent  for  her  age— the  more  so,  perhaps,  on 
account  of  her  isolated  position,  and  the  sor- 
row which  had  lately  fallen  upon  her  — yet  she 
thought  much,  and  felt  deeply.  Her  nature 
was  so  reserved,  her  inner  world  so  far  removed 
from  all  vain  or  idle  scrutiny,  that  her  ideas  and 
feelings  became  known  to  me  only  by  chance, 
and  at  rare  intervals.  I  have  spent  hours  read- 
ing the  story  of  her  calm  eyes  and  serious  brow, 
and  striving  to  look  through  them  upon  the 
workings  of  her  heart.  She  would  often  sit  by 
with  drooping  head,  and  hands  busy  over  some 


piece  of  delicate  embroidery,  suffering  me  to 
carry  on  the  conversation  unaided,  and  seldom 
uttering  even  a  comment  or  an  interrogation. 
Then  again,  at  times,  thoughts  of  such  fresh 
purity  and  beauty  would  fall  from  her  lips  as 
caused  me  frequently  to  look  round  upon  her 
with  sudden  admiration  and  delight,  the  more 
so  because  she  was  ever  totally  unconscious  of 
the  sweetness  of  her  own  sayings. 

Every  glimpse  that  I  obtained  into  that  fair 
soul  revealed  only  grace  and  innocence,  and 
these  revelations  were  but  the  more  precious  for 
being  so  unpremeditated  and  infrequent. 

Oh,  this  pleasant  study  of  a  young  life !  I 
had  read  many  books,  and  was  learned  in  many 
philosophies  and  languages,  but  in  this  first  liv- 
ing volume  that  had  been  opened  for  me  I  read 
a  wise  and  simple  poem  such  as  I  had  never 
dreamed  before.  It  would  be  vain  for  me  to 
attempt  an  analysis  of  all  the  peace  and  conso- 
lation which  I  learned  from  the  perusal  of  that 
book's  gentle  pages.  Slowly  and  earnestly  I 
read,  and  observed,  and  commented  upon  them, 
and  day  by  day  rejoiced  more  heartily  and  grate- 
fully that  the  care  of  them  had  been  committed 
to  my  keeping.  Yes,  it  was  my  duty  now  to 
win  the  confidence  and  affection  of  this  lonely 
girl — it  was  my  duty  to  shield  her  from  sorrow, 
and  to  preserve  in  all  their  stainless  purity  the 
virgin  tablets  of  her  heart.  Father,  brother, 
friend,  all  these  must  I  be  to  her,  and  all  these, 
oh  Beneficent  Sustainer,  did  I  not  pray  to  Thee 
to  make  me  ? 

The  task,  the  responsibility,  the  anxiety  was 
overwhelming,  and  Heaven  knows  with  what 
humility  and  strong  endeavor  I  armed  myself  to 
execute  it  worthily. 

The  more  I  understood,  the  more  I  respected 
and  loved  her.  There  was  a  something  in  her 
presence  that  seemed  to  hush  my  voice,  as  in 
the  presence  of  a  superior  nature.  Frequently 
I  likened  her  mind  to  some  Parian  sanctuary 
peopled  with  pious,  and  chaste,  and  lovely  im- 
ages, and  dedicated  to  the  service  of  the  gods ; 
sometimes  I  compared  it  to  a  smooth  lake 
whose  translucent  waters  are  dark  only  because 
they  are  deep,  and  beneath  which  grow  fairest 
water-plants  and  flowers,  such  as  the  upper 
earth  can  not  match  for  sweetness. 

Scarcely  a  week  had  elapsed  since  my  arrival 
in  Brussels  when  I  recognized  the  necessity  of 
establishing  some  link  of  thought  and  action 
between  Margaret  and  myself— some  link  that 
should  induce  a  community  of  aim  and  a  reci- 
procity of  ideas  between  our  minds.  It  was 
even  necessary  to  the  acquirement  of  her  confi- 
dence ;  for  how  could  the  innocent  familiarity 
which  belonged  to  our  relative  position  ever  be 
attained  by  formal  visits  and  conversations  gov- 
erned by  restraint?  To  this  end  I  began  in- 
structing her  in  drawing.  Like  all  persons  of 
high  musical  ability,  she  showed  a  remarkable 
aptitude  for  art,  and  progressed  rapidly — so  rap- 
idly that  in  less  than  a  month  she  had  mastered 
the  difficulties  of  the  simple  outline,  and  began 
studying  from  the  round  object.  I  must  here 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


observe  that  Margaret  had  a  little  favorite  pupil 
in  the  school,  a  pale  and  sickly  child,  with  large 
dark  eyes  and  ordinary  features,  stunted  in 
'growth,  but  precocious  in  mind,  and  who  loved 
her  with  a  passionate  devotion  that  reminded 
me  of  my  own  feelings  toward  my  mother  when 
I  was  myself  a  child.  This  little  girl  was  her 
constant  companion,  the  sharer  of  her  studies, 
the  partaker  of  all  her  simple  pleasures,  her 
walks,  her  rooms,  her  books.  Little  Clemence 
was  too  shy,  and  strange,  and  silent  to  inspire 
me  at  first  with  any  great  interest ;  but  J  will- 
ingly taught  her  all  that  I  taught  to  Margaret, 
and  in  time  grew  almost  fond  of  my  earnest 
scholar.  She  was  scarcely  like  a  child  in  her 
tone  of  mind;  she  had  none  of  the  prattle 
and  ingenuous  confidence  of  youth.  Her  very 
amusements  were  odd  and  fantastic,  and  unlike 
all  those  which  are  suitable  to  childhood.  I 
have  known  her  sit  silently  in  a  corner  for  long 
hours  at  a  time,  inventing  grotesque  patterns  in 
colored  papers,  or  drawing  maps  of  imaginary 
countries  with  bays  and  promontories,  and 
strange  outlandish  names  marked  here  and 
there.  With  Clemence  for  our  companion,  we 
passed  many  a  pleasant  evening  hour,  and  en- 
joyed many  a  sunny  walk  together.  With 
what  delight  I  attended  the  sales  of  antique 
bijouterie  and  objets  (fart,  and  found  out  quaint 
shops  in  the  close  dark  streets  of  the  medieval 
quarter  of  the  city,  seeking  models  for  her  pen- 
cil! How  I  triumphed  when  I  succeeded  in 
bringing  to  her  some  graceful  vase,  or  classic 
statuette,  or  fragment  of  old  foliated  cornice, 
making  her  little  salon  into  the  semblance  of  an 
artist's  studio !  And  then  what  long  rural  wan- 
derings we  had  in  the  neighborhood  of  Laken, 
and  in  the  forest  of  Soignies,  searching  for  ferns 
and  leaves,  and  sketching  moss-grown  trunks  of 
fallen  -trees,  and  telling  fairy- stories  to  Cle- 
mence by  the  way ! 

A  happy,  happy  time,  and  calm  as  dreamless 
sleep ! 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

A    CABINET    COUNCIL. 

IT  is  a  bright  and  joyous  morning  during  the 
first  week  of  August.  The  boxes  of  mignonette 
in  my  windows  send  up  a  fragrant  odor;  the 
trees  are  nodding  in  the  sunshine  ;  my  bird  in 
his  painted  cage  is  almost  wild  with  joy,  and 
darts  from  perch  to  perch  in  the  pauses  of  his 
song ;  pleasant  sounds  of  children's  voices,  and 
cries  of  itinerant  florists  and  chocolate  vendors 
are  heard  outside,  with  now  and  then  the  pass- 
ing wheels  of  some  early  vigilantes  going  to 
meet  the  first  train  at  the  station. 

I  am  seated  beside  the  open  casement  in  my 
slippers  and  robe  de  chambre,  reading  and 
.  breakfasting.  My  book  (Thiers's  History  of  the 
Consulate  and  Empire")  lies  before  me  in  a  con- 
venient position ;  my  toast  and  coffee  stand  at 
my  right  hand ;  sometimes  I  look  out  upon  a 
troop  of  passing  cavalry,  or  a  party  of  country 


milkmaids,  with  their  graceful  cans  of  glittering 
brass  upon  their  heads.  In  short,  I  am  just 
now  exceedingly  comfortable,  very  much  inter- 
ested, and  have  made  up  my  mind  to  a  morning 
of  quiet  study. 

A  tap  at  my  chamber  door. 

I  want  no  interruptions ;  so  I  affect  not  to 
hear  it,  and  go  on  with  my  book. 
•  A  second  tap,  very  much  louder  than  the  first 
— a  tap  that  insists  upon  being  heard ! 

"  Go  to — Algeria !"  I  mutter  sulkily  between 
my  teeth,  and  then,  without  removing  my  eyes 
from  the  page — "  Come  in !" 

The  door  flies  open — a  rapid  foot  treads  the 
floor — a  friendly  hand  falls  heavily  upon  my 
shoulder,  and  a  frank  voice  cries  cheerily, 

"Hail  to  thee,  worthy  Timon!" 

"Norman  Seabrook!  dear  old  fellow,  is  it 
really  you  ?  How  glad — how  very  glad  I  am  ! 
When  did  you  come  ?  Where  have  you  put 
up  ?  Why  did  you  not  write  and  let  me  meet 
you  ?  Sit  down  and  have  some  breakfast ! 
Well,  this  is  a  pleasure!" 

And  in  an  incoherent  rapture  of  delight  and 
surprise  I  shake  him  vehemently  by  both  hands, 
force  him  into  a  chair,  ring  for  fresh  coffee,  kick 
Thiers's  "History  of  the  Consulate,"  etc.,  to  the 
farther  corner  of  the  room,  shake  hands  again, 
and  so  on  for  some  ten  minutes  at  the  least. 

Presently  we  subside  over  our  breakfast  and 
sit  talking  eagerly.  He  has  so  much  to  tell 
and  I  so  little,  that  I  soon  drop  my  share  of  the 
conversation,  and  leave  him  to  speak  of  all  that 
he  has  seen  since  we  parted,  uninterrupted  save 
now  and  then  by  an  interrogation  or  a  brief  re- 
mark. Besides,  it  is  such  a  pleasure  to  see  him 
once  again,  that  I  prefer  to  sit  listening  to  his 
voice  and  looking  at  his  cordial  face. 

More  than  five  weeks  have  elapsed  since  we 
parted,  and  during  that  time  he  has  visited  all 
that  in  Belgium  is  worthy  the  notice  of  the  his- 
torian, the  art -student,  and  the  archaeologist. 
He  has  been  to  Ghent,  Antwerp,  Bruges,  Lou- 
vain,  Mechlin,  Tournay,  etc.,  and  is  all  the 
browner  for  his  traveling.  He  has  seen  every 
thing  and  been  into  all  kinds  of  places ;  has 
journeyed  from  town  to  town  in  a  lazy  ca- 
nal-boat; has  jolted  along  the  paven  country 
roads  in  a  peasant's  wagon  ;  has  trudged  on  foot 
and  on  horseback ;  lodged  at  hotels,  and  farm- 
houses, and  roadside  inns ;  frequented  theatres, 
churches,  gaming-rooms,  picture-galleries,  mar- 
kets, guinguettes,  reviews,  law-courts,  and  relig- 
ious ceremonials.  Life  in  all  its  phases,  art  in 
all  its  stages,  he  has  observed,  studied,  and  en- 
joyed. For  five  weeks  he  has  done  wonders, 
and  nothing  has  escaped  his  quick  eye,  his  ready 
wit,  and  his  genial  temper. 

"And  so,"  I  say  at  length,  "Brussels  is  all 
that  you  have  left  to  see !  How  long  do  you 
propose  to  remain  with  me  ?" 

"  To  remain  with  you,  amico  !  Why,  you  are 
not  going  to  establish  yourself  here  for  the  term 
of  your  natural  life !  I  had  thought  to  stay 
here  for  some  three  weeks,  perhaps,  till  you 
should  have  disposed  of  your  interesting  charge 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


49 


in  some  convenient  and  appropriate  asylum, 
and  then  I  hoped,  and  hope,  that  we  shall  on 
together  'to  fresh  woods  and  pastures  new!' 
Why  not  to  Paris?  It  is  the  most  insoufiante 
and  delicious  place  on  earth,  and  I  must  fain 
confess,  with  Madame  de  Stael,  that  it  is  rny 
vulnerable  side.  Besides,  you  are  a  French- 
man, and  have  never  visited  the  fairy  capital  of 
your  native  country !  I  tell  you,  Paul,  'tis  ab- 
solutely a  duty!" 

I  shake  my  head  and  look  grave. 

"Indeed,  Seabrook,"!  say,  tracing  a  pattern 
on  the  tea-tray  with  my  spoon,  "  indeed,  I  find 
myself  in  a  very  delicate,  I  may  say,  a  very  dif- 
ficult position.  Miss  Fletcher,  you  see,  is  not 
the  child  I  had  supposed ;  she — she  is  young, 
accomplished,  interesting — Hem !  interesting  to 
me  on  account  of  her  poor  father,  and — and — " 

Here  Seabrook  bursts  out  laughing,  and  I 
pause  disconcerted. 

"  Go  on,  old  boy,"  says  my  friend,  biting  his 
lips  to  smother  his  risible  inclinations.  "  Go 
on.  You  were  speaking  of  the  difficulties  of 
your  situation,  and  of  the  charms  which  la  belle 
Marguerite  inherits  from— her  father!" 

* '  No  jesting,  I  beg.  The  subject  is  a  serious 
one,  and  I  entered  into  it  that  I  might  be  bene- 
fited by  your  advice,  not  mocked  by  your  unsea- 
sonable pleasantries." 

And  hereupon  I  am  so  very  grave  and  digni- 
fied that  Seabrook  holds  out  his  hand  and  begs 
my  pardon  earnestly.  So  I  continue. 

"That  she  shall  not  remain  in  her  present 
position  I  have  quite  determined,  and  I  have 
many  reasons  why  I  should  not  wish  to  place 
her  with  my  mother  in  Burgundy.  She  has  no 
friends  with  whom  I  could  even  leave  her  as  a 
boarder.  Were  she  a  child,  or  one  of  our  own 
sex,  the  thing  would  be  sufficiently  easy ;  as  it 
is,  I  know  not  what  on  earth  to  do !" 

"Put  her  into  a  good  school — not  as  a  teach- 
er, but  as  a  pupil.  You  can  make  as  many  ar- 
rangements for  her  comfort  and  indulgence  as 
you  please,  and  you  would  be  providing  her 
with  a  respectable  home, "says  Seabrook,  deci- 
sively. 

" Eh  lien!  that  would,  perhaps,  be  as  wise  a 
course  as  any.  Yet  I  do  not  much  fancy  pla- 
cing her  in  a  school.  I  do  not  fancy  the  re- 
straint, the  discipline,  the  want  of  friends  and 
society  to  which  she  must  be  subject ;  and — " 

"  And,  most  thoughtful  guardian,  you  do  not 
fancy  the  separation !  La  belle  Marguerite  at 
school,  Vaimable  Paul  en  voyage — quelle  idee  af- 
j reuse!" 

1 ' Really,  Seabrook,"  I  exclaim,  rising  angrily, 
and  pacing  to  and  fro  about  the  room,  "if  you 
mean  this  for  a  jest,  it  is  neither  appropriate  nor 
generous.  I  asked  your  advice  ;  and  if  you  can 
give  me  no  better  than  this,  we  had  better  drop 
the  subject." 

Seabrook  leans  back  in  his  chair  and  looks 
after  me  with  a  quiet  smile,  so  full  of  good-hu- 
mor and  friendliness  that  I  already  more  than 
half  forgive  him. 

"Now  listen  to  me,  Paul,  "he  says,  firmly, 


' '  and  I  will  give  you  the  best  piece  of  advice  in 
the  world." 

"Well?" 

"The  girl  is  virtuous,  amiable,  clever,  is  she 
not?" 

"  Eminently  so." 

"Good-looking?" 

"I  think  so.     You  might  not." 

"Bien!  Now  my  advice  is  this:  put  her 
into  a  first-rate  finishing  school,  and  there  leave 
her  for  a  couple  of  years  while  you  and  I  go  to- 
gether through  France,  and  Italy,  and  '  tawny 
Spain.'  Then  come  home  and  take  her  down 
to  Burgundy,  where  you  can  portion  her  oft'  to 
some  worthy  husband,  'an'  it  so  please  you.' 
Depend  upon  it,  I  counsel  you  wisely,  amico. 
What,  silent  ?" 

"It  needs  consideration,  Seabrook." 

"  Consider  as  long  as  you  please,  Paul.  You 
will  arrive  at  my  opinion.  And  now  let  us  talk 
of  something  else.  What  is  there  to  be  seen  in 
this  town  ?" 

"There  is  the  cathedral  of  St. Gudule  —  the 
Hotel  de  Ville — some  private  galleries — the  ar- 
cades— the  theatre,  and  the  park." 

' '  Well,  to-day  I  am  in  the  mood  for  neither 
pictures  nor  churches.  Let  us  stroll  out  for  a 
while  under  the  park  trees.  It  is  fearfully 
warm  here!" 

So,  arm  in  arm,  we  go  forth  together,  and 
mingle  with  the  tide  of  visitors  who  promenade, 
read,  embroider,  and  converse  in  that  most 
pleasant  and  fashionable  resort  of  morning  idlers. 
There  are  children  floating  their  tiny  crafts  on 
the  basin;  schools  demurely  pacing  the  less 
crowded  alleys ;  elderly  financiers  devouring  the 
morning  papers ;  aristocratic  youths,  with  elab- 
orate waistcoats,  eating  ices  within  the  precincts 
of  Velloni's ;  sentimental  couples  seated  in  the 
grottoes  down  in  the  hollows ;  groups  of  ladies 
and  gentlemen  discussing  last  evening's  soiree, 
and  soldiers  playing  dominoes  on  the  benches. 
The  spectacle  is  animated  and  amusing,  and  the 
weather  brilliant.  Seabrook  is  in  high  spirits, 
and  sees  and  enjoys  all. 

"  Voila!"  he  says.  "Do  you  see  that  lady 
with  a  face  like  the  queen  of  spades,  and  her 
three  passe  daughters  all  dressed  in  red,  like  el- 
derly flamingoes  ?  I  know  them  by  sight,  and 
have  seen  them  in  all  the  capitals  of  Europe, 
and  they  never  can  get  husbands — it's  impossi- 
ble !  Who  is  that  saffron -colored  little  man 
with  the  wooden  leg  and  the  white  mustache  ? 
But  I  forget — you  know  nobody.  What  a  pret- 
ty girl  that  is  with  the  lavender  bonnet ;  and, 
by  Jove !  there's  a  handsome  fellow — no — not 
there — here— just  in  front  of  you !  Stay,  he'll 
turn  presently.  What  a  pair  of  shoulders !  I'd 
bet  you  a  five-franc  piece  that  that  man's  En- 
glish!" 

He  points  to  a  gentleman  walking  a  few  paces 
in  advance — a  tall,  well-made  man,  about  six 
feet  in  height,  with  a  profusion  of  curling  light 
hair,  an  easy  bearing,  and  that  indescribable  air 
of  self-possession  that  stamps  good  breeding. 
His  back  is  turned  to  me  ;  Iris  head  bent  toward 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


the  ground,  as  if  in  thought ;  his  hands  buried 
in  the  pockets  of  his  paletot. 

My  heart  beats,  though  I  know  not  why. 
He  turns  aside  to  watch  some  children  at  play 
upon  the  grass,  and  for  one  instant  I  catch  sight 
of  that  beautiful  and  familiar  profile. 

"Heavens!"  I  cry,  pausing  suddenly  and 
seizing  my  companion  by  the  arm,  "it  is  my 
brother  Theophile !" 


CHAPTER  XX. 

PAGES    OLD  AND  NEW. 

"THEOPHILE!  Theophile,  monfrire!" 

I  am  close  beside  him  now,  with  my  hand 
upon  his  arm. 

"How!  Paul  in  Brussels!  I  thought  you 
still  in  Heidelberg.  But  this  is  delightful! 
Have  you  seen  much,  my  brother?  Are  you 
well?" 

"  Quite  well,  Theophile.  Quite  well  —  and 
you?" 

He  looks  so  handsome  and  florid,  and  withal 
so  happy,  that  I  have  no  need  to  ask  the  ques- 
tion. This  he  tells  me,  laughing,  and  drawing 
my  arm  through  his,  is,  in  a  few  moments,  chat- 
ting as  freely  and  carelessly  as  when  we  were 
last  together. 

Seabrook,  I  may  observe,  has  walked  away 
and  left  us  to  our  recognition  undisturbed. 

Of  course  my  brother's  first  words  are  of  the 
subject  most  distressing  to  my  ears. 

"I  am  the  happiest  husband,"  says  he,  "in 
Trance !  I  possess  in  Adrienne  the  very  model 
of  a  wife.  She  receives  visitors  with  the  best 
air  possible,  is  the  belle  of  every  soiree  to  which 
we  are  invited,  and  certainly  dresses  with  a  taste 
that  is  beyond  all  praise  !  Besides,  she  has  the 
sweetest  of  tempers.  I  assure  you,  Paul,  we 
have  not  differed  since  our  day  of  betrothal ! 
Truly  I  believe  that  we  were  destined  for  each 
other." 

"And  about  Hauteville?  Do  the  repairs 
progress  ?" 

"A  merveilk.  Do  you  remember  that  little 
wood,  scarcely  five  acres  in  extent,  that  lies  to 
the  right  of  the  chateau,  about  half  a  mile  from 
the  house  ?" 

"  Yes.  You  mean  that  copse  adjoining  your 
domain  ?" 

"  C'cst  fa.  I  have  bought  it,  mon  ami,  and 
am  about  to  inclose  it  in  my  grounds.  Laid 
out  with  winding  paths  and  planted  with  wild 
flowers,  it  will  form  a  charming  promenade.  It 
is  my  intention  to  place  rustic  seats  here  and 
there,  and  a  little  temple  in  the  centre,  dedi- 
cated to  Love.  The  idea  is  good,  is  it  not  ? 
As  for  the  chateau,  the  repairs  take  longer  than 
we  thought.  There  are  now  twenty-five  work- 
men employed  upon  it ;  but,  even  so,  we  do  not 
expect  that  it  will  be  habitable  before  Novem- 
ber, and  that  is  too  dreary  a  season  for  the 
country.  So  we  propose  to  remain  here  for  the 
sumrher,  and  then  pass  our  winter  in  Paris. 


Adrienne  has  never  been  to  Paris.  Have  you 
been  long  in  Brussels?" 

"  About  five  or  six  weeks." 

"Really !  Is  it  tolerably  full  this  year?  Do 
you  know  any  one  ?" 

"Only  my  English  friend  with  whom  I  be- 
came acquainted  in  Germany.  As  for  the  com- 
pany, I  believe  that  Brussels  is  very  gay  this 
season ;  but  I  never  go  into  society,  so  do  not 
take  me  for  an  authority." 

"  You  must  come  and  see  Adrienne." 

"  I — I  shall  be  most  happy." 

"Come  directly.  We  are  not  far  from  the 
hotel,  and  I  have  nothing  to  do.  She  will  be 
enchanted  to  see  you.  Stay !  I  forgot.  I  came 
out  to  see  after  a  carriage.  We  must  buy  or  hire 
one,  and  I  believe  there  are  very  good  carriage- 
makers  here.  Can  you  direct  me  to  one?" 

"Recollect,  The'ophile,  how  little  I  know  of 
such  things.  I  could  scarcely  tell  a  cabriolet 
from  a  barouche  if  I  saw  it.  There  stands  my 
friend  Seabrook ;  let  me  bring  him  here  and  in- 
troduce you.  He  can  aid  you,  I  dare  say,  as  to 
the  choice  and  fashion  of  your  purchase." 

"Excellent." 

So  I  signal  to  Seabrook  where  he  stands  be- 
side the  basin,  and  make  the  two  known  to  each 
other.  We  then  leave  the  park  and  stroll  along 
the  Rue  Royale,  seeking  a  coachbuilder's. 

Suddenly  The'ophile  pauses  in  front  of  a  large 
white  house,  with  the  words  "  Hotel  de  France" 
inscribed  along  the  front. 

"  This  is  where  we  are  staying,"  he  says, 
turning  to  me.  "Adrienne  is  within,  and  alone. 
Do  go  in  and  see  her ;  it  will  be  a  charity. 
Monsieur  Seabrook  will,  perhaps,  kindly  remain 
with  me.  Pray  go  up,  Paul,  if  it  be  only  for  a 
quarter  of  an  hour." 

"Not  now — not  now, "I  exclaim,  nervously. 
"As  we  return,  The'ophile." 

"And  shall  I  tell  Adrienne  that  our  brother 
passed  the  door,  and  knew  that  she  was  there 
trisie  and  alone  ?  Bah  !  enter,  Paul,  and  amuse 
her  with  some  stories  of  thy  travels." 

Thus  urged,  I  yield,  for  Theophile  is  accus- 
tomed to  rule  every  thing  just  as  he  wishes;  so 
I  enter  the  lofty  door  and  ask  for  Madame  La- 
tour. 

Madame  Latour!  How  strange  a  name  for 
Adrienne  Lachapelle ! 

"Monsieur  will  have  the  goodness  to  mount 
to  No.  5,  au premier,"  says  the  waiter,  bowing. 

Arrived  at  the  door,  I  pause  and  examine  my 
own  heart  before  I  knock.  Adrienne  is  within— 
Adrienne  whom  I  loved,  and  from  whose  beauty 
I  fled  despairing !  Does  not  my  heart  beat  or 
my  hand  tremble  ?  Is  there  no  flush  upon  my 
brow — no  fluttering  of  my  breath — no  sign  or 
evidence  of  that  love  which  exiled  and  tortured 
me,  and  cast  the  darkness  of  night  upon  the 
morning  of  my  life  ?  I  am  almost  angry  with 
myself  that  there  is  none  of  this.  I  can  not  be- 
lieve that  the  passion  has  burnt  out — that  I 
tread  the  ashes  of  a  dead  love — that  Adrienne 
is  no  more  to  me  than  a  pure,  and  lofty,  and 
admirable  woman,  and  tmj  brother's  wife!  It 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


seems,  then,  that  mine  was  a  boy's  fantasy — a — 
Hark !  a  footstep  on  the  stairs !  I  start,  knock 
hurriedly,  and,  before  she  has  time  to  answer, 
open  the  door. 

' '  Madame  Latour !"    It  is  all  that  I  can  say. 

4 'My  brother  Paul!" 

She  had  laid  her  book  aside  and  risen  as  I 
entered.  How  beautiful  —  how  radiant  —  how 
fair !  I  was  not  agitated ;  yet  a  strange  feel- 
ing, like  shame,  tied  my  tongue,  and  I  could 
scarce  articulate  the  words  of  common  compli- 
ment that  were  required  by  the  moment  as  I 
bowed  over  that  delicate  small  hand,  and  touched 
it  lightly  with  my  lips. 

"I  had  no  idea  of  meeting  you  in  Brussels, 
mon  beau  fr ere.  Are  you  here  en  route,  or  for 
the  season  ?" 

"I  scarcely  know  yet,  madame.  Circum- 
stances will  decide  for  me. " 

"Pray  be  seated.  Have  you  met  my  hus- 
band?" 

Her  husband!  The  word  jarred  upon  my 
nerves  painfully,  and  I  replied  by  a  gesture  of 
assent. 

"  How  delighted  he  must  have  been  to  meet 
you !  And  he  missed  you  so  much  when  you 
left  Burgundy." 

"I  can  scarcely  imagine  that  possible,  ma- 
dame,  since  you  remained,"  I  said,  forcing  a 
smile. 

She  looked  up  hastily  and  fixed  her  eyes  full 
upon  me.  Mine  fell  beneath  their  gaze,  but  not 
before  I  had  seen  her  color  change,  and  a  troub- 
led expression  flit  across  her  face.  Perhaps  my 
mother —  Ah,  no!  my  mother  would  never 
have  betrayed  me ! 

"Where  is  The'ophile?"  asked  Adrienne, 
changing  the  conversation,  and  affecting  to 
glance  along  the  columns  of  the  morning  paper. 

"I  left  him  with  an  English  friend  of  mine 
— Mr.  Seabrook.  They  are  gone  to  purchase  a 
carriage  in  the  town." 

"I  have  heard  of  Mr.  Seabrook — that  is,  I 
have  read  of  him  in  your  letters.  My  husband 
gives  me  all  his  letters"  (a  pause).  "Stay! 
here  is  our  arrival  published  among  the  list  of 
'distinguished  visitors.'  Listen.  'Arrived  at 
the  Hotel  de  France,  Monsieur  and  Madame 
Theophile  Latour,  of  Latour-sur-Creil  and 
Hauteville,  Burgundy.'  They  have  given  us 
the  honor  of  your  estate  in  addition  to  our  own, 
mon  beau frere.  How  amusing!" 

"I  dare  say  you  will  think  me  very  much 
hors  du  monde,  madame,  but  I  confess  that  an 
announcement  such  as  this  would  annoy  me 
very  particularly.  I  should  not  wish  all  the 
idlers  of  a  city  or  a  watering-place  to  '  know 
the  secret  of  my  whereabout ;'  and  it  seems  to 
me  that  the  half  of  a  man's  self-sovereignty  is 
gone  when  his  privacy  of  action  is  wrested  from 
him  by  a  miserable  newsmonger  in  search  of  a 
paragraph." 

"There  is  some  justice  in  what  you  say,"  re- 
plied Adrienne.  "  But,  at  the  same  time,  these 
announcements  are  useful.  They  bring  friends 
and  acquaintances  together  who  must  otherwise 


have  trusted  to  chance  for  their  meeting.  Take 
our  own  case  to-day  for  an  instance.  Had  you 
not  encountered  your  brother,  the  journal  would 
have  informed  you  not  only  of  our  presence, 
but  of  our  address.  But  who  is  this?" 

"Monsieur  le  Marquis  de  Courtrai!"  said 
the  waiter,  throwing  open  the  door,  and,  with 
great  ceremony,  ushering  in  a  little,  withered 
old  gentleman,  dressed  in  the  extreme  of  youth- 
ful fashion,  who  advanced  with  a  profusion  of 
bows  and  smiles. 

He  was  one  of  Monsieur  Theophile's  oldest 
Parisian  friends — had  known  the  cher  gargon  for 
years — had  been,  indeed,  the  cher  garcorfs  cha- 
peron on  many  occasions  when  he  first  left  Bur- 
gundy. He  had  seen  the  announcement  of 
their  arrival  in  this  morning's  journal,  and  had 
hastened  to  be  the  first  to  welcome  Monsieur 
Theophile  and  his  charming  lady  to  Brussels. 
He  was  charmed,  proud,  enchanted  to  make  the 
acquaintance  of  madame  ;  and  he  hoped  that  he 
might  become  the  happy  means  of  introducing 
her  to  the  agremens  of  the  city.  In  all  respects 
wherein  madame  would  condescend  to  make 
him  useful,  he  was  her  slave. 

All  this  was  said  with  an  air  of  antiquated 
gallantry,  and  in  a  strain  of  high-flown  compli- 
ment that  I  found  particularly  repulsive.  Adri- 
enne, however,  received  him  with  perfect  toler- 
ance and  good  breeding,  and  requested  him  to 
be  seated  and  await  the  return  of  Theophile ; 
whereat  the  marquis  pressed  his  hand  upon  his 
laced  shirt-front,  and  declared  himself  pene- 
trated. 

"Permit  me,"  said  Adrienne,  glancing  to- 
ward me  with  a  half-suppressed  smile.  "  Mon- 
sieur Latour — my  husband's  eldest  brother." 

The  marquis  bowed  again,  showed  his  false 
teeth,  ran  his  jeweled  fingers  gracefully  through 
the  ringlets  of  his  wig,  and  took  a  pinch  of  snuff 
from  the  depths  of  an  enameled  box  glittering 
with  diamonds. 

' '  What  have  we  to  see  in  Brussels,  Monsieur 
le  Marquis?"  inquired  Adrienne;  "and  what 
families  are  staying  here  at  present?" 

Monsieur  le  Marquis  begged  to  assure  ma- 
dame that  Brussels  was  just  now  in  perfection. 
The  Prince  and  Princess  of  Saxe  Hohenhausen 
had  been  here  for  more  than  three  weeks  al- 
ready ;  the  Grand-Duke  of  Zollenstrasse  was 
expected  daily  at  Laken ;  the  Baron  and  Bar- 
oness de  Montaignevert  were  at  the  Hotel  de 
Bellevue,  and  the  Comte  de  Millefleurs  at  the 
Hotel  de  la  Regence.  Besides  these,  the  Earl 
of  Silvermere  and  family  had  just  driven  up  to 
the  doors  of  the  Bellevue,  and  it  was  rumored 
that  a  venerable  and  distinguished  duke,  to 
whom  the  near  vicinity  of  Waterloo  could  be 
suggestive  only  of  the  proudest  reminiscences, 
might  shortly  be  expected  on  a  visit  to  the  royal 
palace.  As  for  amusements,  madame  might 
repose  upon  his  assurances  that  she  could  not 
be  triste  or  gente  in  Brussels.  He  would  make 
it  his  proudest  duty  to  enliven  the  leisure  hours 
of  Theophile  and  his  most  beautiful  and  accom- 
plished lady.  There  was  an  instrumental  con- 


BROTHER'S 


cert  every  evening  at  Velloni's,  in  the  park — 
exhibitions,  soirees,  fancy  and  court  balls  with- 
out number;  and  at  the  opera,  three  evenings 
in  the  week,  a  celebrated  singer — Madame  Vo- 
gelsang— with  a  ravishing  voice — a  femme  su- 
perbe — a  Juno,  in  fact,  and  quite  the  furore  at 
Brussels. 

"Monsieur  le  Marquis  is  an  enthusiast,  I 
perceive,"  said  Adrienne,  smiling. 

Monsieur  le  Marquis  ogled  himself  in  an  ad- 
joining mirror,  and  simperingly  avowed  him- 
self the  slave  of  beauty.  It  had  been  his  fai- 
blesse,  he  said,  as  long  as  he  could  remember ; 
and,  judging  from  his  general  appearance,  and 
from  the  variety  of  ingenious  fictions  to  which 
he  was  indebted  for  his  hair,  teeth,  complexion, 
and  figure,  one  might  reasonably  conjecture  that 
the  personal  recollections  of  M.  le  Marquis  ex- 
tended over  a  considerable  period  of  time. 

At  this  moment  the  door  opened,  and  The- 
ophile  entered  alone. 

"I  could  not  persuade  your  friend  to  return 
with  me,  Paul,"  he  said.  Then,  perceiving  his 
visitor — "  Monsieur  de  Courtrai,  this  is  an  honor 
which  I  had  not  expected.  I  will  not  ask  after 
your  health,  for  I  see  that  you  are  well  and 
young  as  ever." 

There  was  a  slight  shade  of  sarcasm  mingled 
with  the  respect  and  courtesy  of  my  brother's 
welcome,  which  would  have  been  observed  only 
by  those  who  knew  him  .intimately.  Adrienne 
instantly  entered  into  it. 

"  Monsieur  le  Marquis,"  said  she,  with  a  fas- 
cinating glance  and  smile,  "has  been  entertain- 
ing us  with  all  the  news  of  Brussels — the  visit- 
ors, the  society,  and  the  theatre.  The  time  has 
flown  since  his  arrival." 

"  Monsieur  le  Marquis  is  famed  for  his  judg- 
ment in  all  matters  of  fashionable  interest,  ma 
chere,"  said  Theophile,  with  another  inclination 
to  that  gentleman — "and  for  his  brilliant  pow- 
ers of  conversation." 

"Now,  positively,  it  is  too  much,"  remon- 
strated the  peer,  having1  recourse  again  to  the 
enameled  snuff-box.  "I  vow,  Latour,  that  you 
make  me  blush — absolutely  blush!"  And  he 
would  have  covered  his  face  with  his  embroi- 
dered handkerchief,  only  that  he  dared  not,  for 
private  and  important  reasons.  "I  was  speak- 
ing, "he  continued,  "of  the  Vogelsang." 

"And  who  is  'the  Vogelsang?'  "  asked  The'- 
ophile. 

"The  Vogelsang,  mon  garfon,  is  the  divinity 
of  the  Place  de  la  Monnaie — the  radiant  star  of 
the  Belgian  opera.  She  comes  to  us  from  Vi- 
enna and  Frankfurt,  where  every  one  is  ravi — 
even  as  we  are  in  Brussels.  You  must  see  her 
immediately,  and  madame  also.  I  have  a  little 
loge  which  is  entirely  at  your  disposal,  and  in 
which  I  shall  be  charmed  to  see  so  distinguish- 
ed a  lady  as  madame !" 

This  polite  oifer  is,  after  a  brief  hesitation, 
accepted  with  many  acknowledgments  for  the 
following  evening,  and  presently  the  Marquis 
de  Courtrai  takes  his  leave  as  ceremoniously  as 
an  embassador,  and  drives  away  from  the  hotel 


in  a  purple  chariot  drawn  by  four  horses,  with  a 
footman  behind  carrying  a  bouquet  in  his  but- 
ton-hole. 

"Who  is  that  absurd  little  old  gentleman?" 
asks  Adrienne,  as  soon  as  he  has  left  the  room. 

"  This  absurd  little  old  gentleman,  my  love," 
replies  Theophile,  with  an  air  of  superb  gravity, 
"is Polydore  Emmanuel  Hippolyte  de  Courtrai, 
Marquis  de  Courtrai,  Comte  de  Sauterelles,  and 
Chevalier  of  the  most  noble  Italian  order  of 
Santo  Polichinello — a  very  great  man,  I  assure 
you,  and  one  whose  genealogy  dates  from  the 
reign  of  Clovis  the  Second." 

"Not  his  genealogy,  The'ophile,"  I  exclaim. 
"You  surely  mean  himself!" 

It  is  true,  then,  that  I  love  her  no  longer! 
So  surprised,  nay,  I  might  almost  say,  so  troub- 
led am  I  by  this  discovery,  that  I  wander  away 
restlessly  out  of  the  city  and  spend  some  hours 
amid  the  lanes  and  fields  of  Ixelles.  Return- 
ing toward  evening,  I  bend  my  steps  in  the  di- 
rection of  the  Rue  de  Leopold,  where  Margaret 
has  been  expecting  me  these  four  hours  past. 

Oh,  gentle  Margaret !  why  is  it  that  my 
troubles  grow  lighter  as  I  arrive  within  sight  of 
the  roof  which  shelters  thee,  and  whence  comes 
this  sweet  and  chastened  feeling  which,  at  the 
thought  of  thy  fair  image,  streams  down  upon 
my  heart  like  the  pale  radiance  of  the  evening 
star? 


CHAPTER  XXI. 
THE  HEART'S  MISGIVINGS. 

"  MONSIEUR  will  find  Ma'm'selle  Marguerite 
in  the  little  salon,"  said  Elise,  courtesying. 

Elise  was  the  pretty  fille-de-chambre,  and  the 
"little  salon"!  have  already  mentioned  as  that 
which  had  been  assigned  to  Margaret  for  her 
private  sitting-room  and  studio. 

She  was  not  there,  however,  and  I  even  fan- 
cied that  I  had  heard  her  flying  footsteps  on  the 
stairs.  She  had  never  shunned  me  before,  and 
the  suspicion  for  one  moment  vexed  me.  Then 
I  smiled. 

"Some  woman's  vanity,"  I  murmured  to  my- 
self. "Some  ribbon  or  collar  to  be  adjusted! 
Childish  petite  Marguerite!" 

I  could  not  help  finding  something  pleasant 
in  this  explanation,  and,  musing  over  it,  sat 
down  and  looked  around  me. 

The  tokens  of  her  presence  were  scattered 
every  where  about ;  the  very  atmosphere  of  the 
room,  heavy  as  it  was  with  the  perfume  of  aca- 
cia-flowers and  verbena,  seemed  to  retain  some- 
what of  herself.  On  yonder  chair  were  laid  her 
gloves  and  shawl ;  here,  on  the  chimney-piece, 
her  open  book ;  upon  the  table,  beside  the  win- 
dow, her  pencils  and  drawing-paper,  and  that 
little  bronze  Apollo  which  I  had  given  to  her 
only  yesterday.  Her  fingers,  perhaps,  have  but 
just  left  the  ivory  keys  of  the  piano ;  this  mir- 
ror, perchance,  has  but  a  moment  since  reflected 
back  the  semblance  of  her  features  ! 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


All  this  is  soothing  to  imagine,  and  several 
minutes  glide  away  unnoticed.  Presently,  how- 
ever, I  wonder  why  she  does  not  return,  and 
then,  growing  impatient,  I  rise  and  take  one  or 
two  turns  ahout  the  room.  Her  book !  Let 
us  see  what  it  is  that  she  has  been  reading — 
Saintaine's  "Picciola."  The  most  exquisite 
and  chaste  of  prison-stories,  and  one  meet  for  a 
gentle  maiden's  studying.  Her  drawing — what 
criticisms  can  I  make  upon  it  before  her  arri- 
val? As  yet  the  outline  is  barely  sketched, 
and — 

Why,  what  is  this  ?  A  tear-drop  yet  undried 
and  blistering  on  the  paper !  Another  on  the 
table  close  beside  it !  Tears !  tears  from  my 
gentle  Margaret's  eyes — those  eyes  which  I  had 
fondly  hoped  would  never  weep  again,  unless 
for  joy ! 

This  explained  the  mystery  of  her  flight  and 
subsequent  delay.  I  paced  to  and  fro,  and  to 
and  fro,  in  my  agitation  and  dismay.  What 
could  have  occurred?  Why  had  I  not  come 
before  ?  Would  she  never  arrive  ? 

I  was  on  the  point,  at  last,  of  ringing  the  bell 
for  Elise,  when  the  door  opened  and  she  enter- 
ed, pale,  silent,  downward-looking. 

I  went  over  and  took  her  hands  in  mine. 
There  were  the  traces  of  weeping  in  her  white 
lips  and  cheeks,  and  red  eyelids.  She  trembled 
too,  and  her  hands  were  burning. 

"Margaret,"!  said,  looking  down  earnestly 
upon  her,  "  Margaret,  you  are  not  well." 

"I  am  well,"  she  answered,  in  a  low  voice. 

"Your  hands  are  feverish  —  you  tremble. 
What  is  the  matter?" 

"Nothing  is  the  matter." 

She  tried  to  move  away,  but  I  detained  her. 

"  Nay,  stand  here  in  the  light,  Margaret,  and 
let  me  look  at  you.  You  have  been  weeping!" 

She  shook  her  head,  but  I  repeated  it. 

"Yes,  Margaret,  you  have  been  weeping. 
That  forced  smile  can  not  deceive  me.  Look 
here!" 

And,  leading  her  to  the  table,  I  pointed  to 
the  tear-drop  on  the  paper.  She  turned  aside 
from  my  grave  scrutiny,  and,  looking  upon  the 
floor — 

' '  I  can  not  help  thinking  sometimes  of — of 
my  father,"  she  murmured,  hesitatingly. 

"You  are  evading  the  question,  Margaret," 
I  said,  sternly.  "Is  it  possible  that  you  can 
stoop  to  an  equivocation  ?" 

She  remained  silent,  and  kept  her  eyes  fixed 
upon  the  ground. 

"Can you  look  me  in  the  face,  Margaret,  and 
say  again  that  you  were  weeping  for  your  fa- 
ther ?  If  you  do,  I  will  believe  you." 

No  reply. 

"Tell  me  that  it  was  true,  Margaret,  and  I 
will  entreat  your  pardon!"  She  looked  up  at 
me,  paler  than  before. 

"It  was  false,"  she  said,  firmly,  but  with  a 
quivering  lip. 

I  drew  a  chair  close  beside  her,  and  once 
more  took  her  hand  between  both  of  mine. 

"Margaret,  dear  Margaret,"  I  said,  gently, 


"you  have  had  some  annoyance — suffered  some 
pain  to-day,  and  I  must  know  it.     I  have  the 
right  to  share  alj  your  pains  as  well  as  all  your 
pleasures,  and  if  I  am  not  to  possess  your  conft>'ts 
dence,  who  is  ?     Come,  tell  me  all.     Has  ma-  *" " 
dame  been  unkind  to  you?" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"Have  any  of  the  servants  or  pupils  dis- 
pleased you  ?" 

"None." 

"What  is  it,  then?  Some  one  must  have 
hurt  the  feelings  of  my  little  Margaret." 

"  Oh,  no  one !  no  one  !  Every  one  is  too 
good  to  me  —  better,  better  than  I  deserve  a 
thousand  times— you,  monsieur,  most  of  all!" 

She  says  this  with  a  burst  of  eager  vehe- 
mence, and,  snatching  her  hand*  away  from 
mine,  covers  her  face  and  falls  into  a  passion 
of  tears. 

In  doing  this^I  see  a  ring  upon  her  finger — a 
plain  hair  ring,  which  I  have  never  observed 
there  before !     A  new  and  startling  doubt  flits 
across  my  mind,  and  strikes  me  with  a  sudden . 
anguish  such  as  I  never  thought  to  feel  again. 

* '  Margaret,  look  up  ! "  I  cried,  seizing  that 
hand  arid  forcing  it  from  her  face.  "What 
ring  is  that  ?  Whence  came  it  ?  Answer  me 
truly,  for  I  will  know  !" 

She  shuddered,  glanced  upward  for  an  in- 
stavnt,  and  replied  in  a  trembling  voice,  "I  can 
not  tell  you." 

"You  shall  tell  me,  Margaret.  Remember 
who  I  am !" 

The  fury  of  my  tone,  so  far  from  intimida- 
ting, seemed  to  give  her  resolution.  She  looked 
up  calmly  and  steadily  in  my  face,  folded  her 
hands  together,  and  said, 

"I  will  not." 

The  sight  of  her  pale  courage  subdued  me — 
my  voice  faltered. 

"For  your  father's  sake,  Margaret!  for  your 
father's  sake  I" 

The  tears  gathered  in  her  beautiful  eyes,  and 
rolled  slowly  down  her  cheeks. 

"Not  for  my  father's  sake,"  she  answered, 
softly. 

" Oh,  Margaret,  what  is  this  terrible  secret 
which  you  are  concealing  ?  Tell  it  to  me,  Mar- 
garet —  if  not  for  his  sake,  tell  it  for  mine  —  for 
my  sake,  Margaret!" 

She  clasped  her  hands  imploringly,  and  laid 
her  head  down  upon  the  table,  sobbing  bitterly. 

"Oh,  forgive  me,"  she  said,  "forgive  me! 
Do  not  ask  me — give  me  time — oh,  what  shall 
I  do?  what  shall  I  do?" 

Her  sorrow  tore  my  heart.  I  went  over  to 
her,  and  laid  my  hand  upon  her  shoulder. 

"Nay,  then,  child,"  I  said,  falteringly,  "  keep 
thy  secret.  It  must  needs  be  innocent,  like  thee. 
I  will  be  content,  and  ask  no  more." 

I  took  her  head  between  my  hands,  pressed  a 
kiss  upon  her  hot  brow,  and  left  the  room  with- 
out one  backward  glance. 

I  do  not  wish  to  remember  the  agony  of  mind 
which  I  endured  that  night,  or  the  torturing  pity 
which,  in  spite  of  all,  I  could  not  help  feeling 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


for  her.  Till  many  hours  past  midnight,  I  paced 
the  opposite  side  of  the  street  in  which  she  lived, 
watching  the  pale  light  from  her  window,  and, 
when  that  was  extinguished,  finding  some  con- 
solation in  the  thought  that  she  slept  peacefully. 
Oh,  gentle  Margaret,  hadst  thou  but  heard 
the  measured  echo  of  my  steps !  Hadst  thou  but 
known  the  prayers  which  thy  silence  wrung  from 
these  lips,  as  I  passed  to  and  fro  in  the  moon- 
light, like  some  phantom  of  the  night ! 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

"UPON  A   SUNSHINY   HOLIDAY." 

THREE  days  without  seeing  her— three  weary 
solitary  days !  It  was  the  first  time  that  I  had 
so  remained  away,  and  I  could  bear  it  no  lon- 
ger. 

Perhaps  she,  too,  had  been  lonely  and  unhap- 
py. This  last  thought  decided  me,  and  I  went. 

The  day  was  resplendently  fine ;  a  cool  breath 
of  purer  air  came  from  the  westward,  and  the 
white  buildings  and  streets  of  the  town  glared 
painfully  in  the  sunlight.  The  driver  of  a  little 
open  vehicle  held  up  his  whip  invitingly  to  me 
as  I  went  along.  He  was  a  good-tempered, 
red-faced,  jovial-looking  fellow,  with  a  bunch  of 
clover-blossoms  in  his  button-hole.  The  car- 
riage, too,  appeared  clean  and  new,  and  the  horse 
wore  a  green  bough  upon  his  shaggy  head,  to 
keep  off  the  predatory  flies. 

I  paused  and  hesitated. 

"  Suppose,"!  said  to  myself,  "that  I  took  her 
and  the  little  Clemence  for  a  country  holiday, 
and  trusted  to  time  and  opportunity  for  an  ex- 
planation of  the  past !  Suppose,  if  it  be  only 
for  a  day,  that  I  endeavor  to  enjoy  the  pleasant 
Now,  and  banish  the  Hereafter!" 

The  driver  held  up  his  whip  again.  I  thought 
of  Margaret's  pale  cheeks,  of  quiet  lanes,  and 
woods,  and  wayside  flowers,  and,  replying  to  his 
signal  by  a  smile,  jumped  in,  and  directed  him 
to  drive  to  the  Rue  de  Leopold. 

To  reach  there,  to  alight,  to  make  my  way 
rapidly  across  the  court-yard,  and  up  to  the  door 
of  her  little  studio,  occupied  but  a  few  rapid 
moments ;  to  open  the  door  softly  and  by  de- 
grees, to  enter  unperceived  and  steal  up  to  the 
back  of  her  chair  as  she  bent  low  over  her  draw- 
ing, to  stand  there  silently  watching  the  touches 
of  her  pencil,  and  the  coming  and  going  of  her 
breath,  all  this  was  more  difficult  and  more  de- 
lightful, and  took  longer  to  accomplish. 

She  was  still  at  work  upon  the  bronze  Apol- 
lo, not  much  farther  advanced,  I  noticed  sadly, 
than  when  I  last  approached  that  table  and  look- 
ed down  upon  the  outline.  She  had  been,  per- 
haps, too  sorrowful  to  proceed,  and  I  fancied, 
though  I  could  see  but  a  very  small  portion  of 
her  cheek,  that  she  looked  even  paler  than  was 
usual  with  her.  Poor  Margaret !  I  felt  so 
grieved  for  her  grief,  that  I  almost  forgot  my 
own  distress  at  being  excluded  from  her  confi- 
dence. 


So !  that  arm  a  little  longer  and  more  ele- 
vated— yes !  As  if  she  had  heard  my  thought 
outspoken,  her  careful  pencil  corrected,  and  re- 
touched, and  traveled  on.  A  haughtier  curl, 
Margaret,  to  that  imperial  lip — more  freedom  in 
the  backward  falling  locks — more  power  to  the 
hand  that  grasps  the  bow !  Ah !  she  effaces  it 
with  bread,  and  tries  again.  No !  less  effect- 
ive, if  any  thing,  than  before.  One  more  trial — 
now  a  light  firm  outline,  and  a  steady  perusal 
of  the  copy !  Quietly,  my  pupil ;  no  haste— no 
excitement — no — 

"Admirable!  The  very  inspiration  of  the 
Sun-god!" 

Margaret  suppresses  a  scream,  drops  the  pen- 
cil from  her  fingers,  and  falls  back,  trembling 
and  blushing,  into  her  seat. 

"How  you  have  alarmed  me,  monsieur !"  she 
exclaims,  pressing  her  hands  upon  her  heart. 
It  leaps  so  wildly  that  I  can  almost  see  it  beat- 
ing there  against  her  side. 

"I  did  not  intend  to  startle  you,  Margaret, 
thus  suddenly.  The  words  escaped  me  una- 
wares. I  had  been  watching  you  for  many  min- 
utes, and  had  observed  the  previous  failures ;  so 
you  see,  when  the  success  was  achieved,  I  for- 
got myself,  and  could  not  control  the  expression 
of  my  pleasure.  But  I  am  not  here  to-day  to 
praise,  or  blame,  or  play  the  drawing-master; 
I  have  come  to  take  you  for  a  holiday  this  lovely 
morning — a  holiday  in  the  country." 

"  A  holiday  in  the  country — how  delicious!" 

She  looked  up  at  me  with  that  grateful  ex- 
pression of  quiet  satisfaction  to  which  I  was  ac- 
customed from  her,  and  began  hastily  to  put 
away  her  drawing.  How  her  hands  trembled 
as  she  did  so,  and  how  the  quick  blushes  kept 
rising  and  fading  at  every  word  1  Never  be- 
fore had  I  seen  her  so  fluttered  and  agitated ; 
but  then,  to  be  sure,  never  before  had  I  so  start- 
led and  surprised  her. 

"  Now,  Margaret,  depeche-toi,  call  hither  the 
little  Clemence,  and  I  will  wait  while  you  make 
ready.  I  charge  you  not  to  outwear  my  pa- 
tience with  any  '  silken  dalliance  in  the  ward- 
robe,' for  our  carriage  waits  below." 

Whether  it  were  the  unwonted  luxury  of  the 
drive  and  the  rejoicing  aspect  of  the  summer 
morning,  or  whether  it  arose  from  the  apparent 
cheerfulness  and  ease  of  my  own  manner,  I  can 
not  tell,  but  the  timidity  with  which  she  at  first 
received  me  vanished  quite  away  before  an  hour 
had  elapsed.  Indeed,  I  do  not  remember  ever 
to  have  known  Margaret  more  childishly  happy. 
The  general  placidity  and  reserve  of  her  char- 
acter seemed  to  yield  to  the  influence  of  that 
glowing  sky,  as  the  snow-drift  melts  and  dances, 
sparkling,  in  the  sunlight. 

She  rose  up  in  the  carriage  to  look  round  at 
the  level  harvest  -  fields  and  the  distant  city 
spires — she  alighted  ere  she  had  well-nigh  trav- 
ed  a  couple  of  miles,  to  fill  her  lap  Avith  honey- 
suckle and  wild  convolvuli  from  the  roadside — 
she  clapped  her  hands  with  delight  at  the  sight 
of  a  small  white  butterfly,  and  imitated  in  her 
s^Yeet  low  voice  the  prolonged  shake  of  the 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE 


nightingales  that  peopled  the  shadowy  planta- 
tions of  poplars  and  dark  pines.  As  for  Clem- 
ence,  sitting  by  silently  in  a  corner  of  the  car- 
riage, she  was  by  far  the  graver  and  sedater  of 
the  two. 

For  my  part,  I  encouraged  her  mood  by  an 
assumption  of  unembarrassed  kindness,  which 
cost  me,  at  the  first,  a  strong  effort,  but  which 
merged,  ere  long,  into  a  sentiment  of  real  satis- 
faction. Her  smiles  reassured  me.  I  felt  that 
to  be  thus  innocently  gay,  her  secret,  if  she  had 
one,  must  be  pure  and  maidenly ;  and  presently 
the  very  remembrance  of  it  seemed  fading  from 
my  mind. 

Toward  noon  we  reached  a  small  town,  and, 
staying  at  the  door  of  the  solitary  hotel,  bade 
the  driver  look  to  his  horses,  ordered  an  early 
dinner  from  the  smiling  landlady,  and  wandered 
out  on  foot  to  stroll  in  the  forest. 

It  was  not  what  I  should  understand  by  the 
name  of  a  forest,  accustomed  as  I  was  to  the 
old  umbrageous  labyrinths  of  mossy  trees  that 
skirted  the  horizon  round  about  my  fair  Bur- 
gundian  home ;  it  was  rather  a  few  level  acres, 
regularly  planted  with  the  slender  fir  and  pine, 
and  affording  a  pleasant  promenade  for  students 
and  young  lovers. 

Here  Clemence  seemed  to  wake  from  her  si- 
lent apathy,  and  ran  in  and  out  the  trees,  seek- 
ing, with  Margaret,  for  wild  strawberries  and 
"  purple  dewberries"  in  the  long  grass  and  tan- 
gled underwood.  Yet,  even  in  this  search,  the 
child  was  unlike  other  children,  and  pursued  it 
with  a  quiet  industry  and  a  grave  composed  de- 
meanor that  contrasted  oddly  with  the  innocent 
gayety  of  her  older  companion.  She  laughed 
but  seldom,  and  then  softly  to  herself,  as  if 
laughter  were  a  thing  to  be  subdued  and  con- 
quered. Even  when  she  ran,  it  was  utterly 
without  the  buoyant  precipitation  and  careless 
eagerness  ot  infancy.  She  was  a  strange  child, 
and  my  attention  became  more  and  more  drawn 
to  her  with  every  time  I  saw  her. 

Thus  they  amused  themselves  gathering  wild 
fruits  and  acorns,  and  finding  the  brown  pine- 
cones  that  lay  scattered  here  and  there  beneath 
the  trees,  while  I  wandered  near,  keeping  them 
in  sight,  and  indulging  myself  in  "fancies  wild 
and  sweet."  Growing  weary  after  a  while,  they 
sat  down  to  rest  at  the  foot  of  an  alder  that 
overhung  a  deep  clear  pool  toward  the  skirts  of 
the  forest,  and  here,  as  it  was  not  yet  time  to 
return,  the  child  besought  me  to  tell  her  a  fairy- 
story. 

"A  fairy-story,  little  one  !  but  what  if  I  know 
none  ?" 

Clemence  shook  her  little  dark  head,  and 
fixed  her  eyes  full  upon  me.  "  I  am  sure  you 
know  one,"  she  said,  seriously.  "  Margaret 
says  you  do." 

"I  never  told  Margaret  a  fairy-story,"!  re- 
joined, laughing.  "How  should  she  know  that 
I  can  do  it  ?" 

Margaret  blushed  and  laughed  too,  and  said 
she  thought  that  monsieur  could  do  it,  if  he 
liked — just  to  please  Clemence ! 


"Well,  then,  I  must  try;  but,  as  I  know  of 
none,  I  must  even  invent  one  for  the  purpose. 
You  must  give  me  some  few  minutes  to  consid- 
er, and—  stay  !  I  have  it  ;  but  it  is  not  a  fairy- 
tale, Clemence." 

"  Oh,  no  matter,  if  it  is  pretty.  What  is  its 
name  ?" 

"I  hardly  know.  Suppose  we  call  it  'The 
Angel  and  the  Wanderer!'" 

"  I  like  that  name  very  much." 

She  crept  up  closer  to  Margaret,  and  laid  her 
head  down  upon  her  shoulder.  Sitting  thus, 
with  her  pale  cheek  half  turned  away,  her  large 
dark  eyes  bent  downward  in  listening  expecta- 
tion, and  her  little  slender  figure  curled  up,  as 
it  were,  beneath  the  folds  of  Margaret's  shawl, 
she  looked  so  sallow  and  elfin  that  one  might 
almost  have  taken  her  for  Goethe's  Mignon  in 
person.  After  gazing  at  the  pair  for  a  moment 
as  they  sat  thus  in  quaint  companionship,  I  be- 
gan my  story. 


'  '  There  was  an  Angel  hovering  over  a  great 
city  by  night. 

"  It  was  so  dark,  and  the  mist  so  thick,  that 
the  church  spires  looked  like  shadowy  figures 
pointing  heavenward,  and  the  tall  masts  of  ships 
along  the  river  like  the  lances  and  pennons  of 
a  hostile  armament. 

"  Scarce  a  footstep  echoed  along  the  wet 
pavements  ;  scarce  a  shop  threw  its  broad  light 
out  into  the  deserted  streets.  It  was  late  ;  the 
cold  wind  rushed  moaning  on  its  way,  and  the 
rain  came  heavily  down,  blurring  the  pale  light 
of  the  flickering  gas-lamps. 

"Still  the  Angel  flew  on,  though  the  rain 
spared  not  his  white  wings  ;  for  he  was  a  good 
Angel,  and  it  was  his  mission  to  watch  over  the 
hearts  of  young  children  ;  to  protect  them  from 
evil  thoughts  and  angry  impulses  ;  and  to  bring 
pleasant  dreams  to  the  slumbers  of  those  who 
had  been  good,  and  truthful,  and  obedient  all 
the  day. 

"Presently  he  passed  within  sight  of  a  small 
court-yard,  at  the  end  of  which  stood  a  large 
white  house,  with  all  its  windows  lighted  ;  and 
he  paused  in  his  flight,  for  he  saw  a  figure 
crouched  up  against  the  wall,  just  within  the 
shadow  of  the  archway  that  opened  into  the 
court-yard  from  the  street. 

"It  was  a  poor  little  Italian  image-vendor, 
with  his  tray  of  plaster  figures  laid  beside  him. 
His  eyes  were  closed,  his  black  hair  fell  in  long 
damp  locks  over  his  face,  and  the  tears  with 
which  he  had  cried  himself  asleep  were  yet  wet 
upon  his  cheeks.  One  cold  hand  was  sheltered 
in  the  breast  of  his  jacket,  and  the  other  had 
fallen  listlessly  on  the  ground.  The  Angel  bent 
low  and  dropped  a  tear  upon  the  little  hand,  it 
was  so  wasted  ! 

"  He  was  weary,  and  sleepy,  and  hungry. 
He  had  not  sold  one  image  all  that  day,  and  he 
was  dreaming  of  his  cruel  master,  and  of  the 
heavy  punishment  that  awaited  him.  But  the 
Angel  pressed  his  lips  upon  the  pale  forehead, 


56 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


and  folded  his  wings  around  the  shrinking  form, 
and  the  bad  dreams  fled  away,  and  he  slept 
peacefully. 

"  Still  he  was  chilled  and  weak  for  need  of 
bread,  and  the  Angel's  heart  of  mercy  was  troub- 
led. He  looked  up  at  the  great  house ;  its 
bright  windows  were  crossed  and  recrossed  by 
the  shadows  of  the  dancers,  and  the  sounds  of 
music  and  laughter  were  loud  within. 

" '  Alas !'  said  the  Angel, '  they  are  too  happy 
to  heed  me!' 

"  Hark !  there  were  footsteps  coming  quickly 
along  the  street!  It  was  a  wealthy  old  citizen 
hastening  home  from  a  card-party.  He  had 
lost  money  at  the  game,  and  he  was  out  of  tem- 
per with  the  weather  and  with  himself.  The 
Angel  flew  out  of  the  passage  and  clung  to  him. 

"  « Help !'  he  cried.  ' Help  for  the  cold  and 
the  hungry !' 

"The  citizen  shuddered,  and  drew  the  collar 
of  his  coat  closer  round  his  neck. 

"  'How  the  wind  whistles  into  one's  ears!' 
muttered  he,  and  passed  by. 

"  So  the  Angel  flew  back,  and  strove  to  warm 
his  little  charge  by  breathing  on  his  cold  lips 
and  eyelids ;  but  in  vain.  They  grew  colder 
and  colder,  and  still  the  music  and  dancing  in 
the  great  house  went  merrily  on. 

"Another  passenger ! 

"  It  was  a  poor  needle-woman  returning  from 
her  day's  labor — a  good,  earnest  woman,  think- 
ing of  her  children  at  home,  and  never  hearing 
the  gentle  voice  of  the  appealing  Angel. 

"'Help!  help!'  he  sighed.  'Shelter  and 
food !  shelter  and  food !' 

'"What  a  thick,  raw  mist!'  said  the  poor 
needle-woman.  '  'Tis  like  a  cloud  before  one ! 
Maybe,  though,  'tis  the  long  day's  work  that 
makes  my  eyes  weak.' 

"But  it  was  the  two  white  wings  that  she 
saw  fluttering  in  her  path,  only  she  did  not 
know  it;  and  even  the  sacred  tears  that  he 
wept  down  upon  her  face  she  mistook  for  rain- 
drops borne  upon  the  wind,  and  so  passed  by. 

"  Still  the  Angel  watched  and  waited,  and 
still  the  music  and  dancing  in  the  great  house 
went  merrily  on. 

"  The  sleeper  moaned  and  feebly  murmured 
'Mother!' 

"He  was  dreaming  —  dreaming  of  his  far 
home  beside  the  blue  sea — that  home  where  the 
shadows  of  the  vine -leaves  round  the  porch 
flickered  on  the  floor  in  the  bright  sunshine — 
where  his  gentle  mother  sat  spinning  on  the 
threshold,  and  his  little  brothers  played  with 
shells  and  sea-weeds  at  her  feet,  and  all  the 
days  were  happy. 

"  Then  the  Angel  flew  up  to  the  windows  of 
the  great  house,  and  looked  in,  and  saw  a  party 
of  merry  children  dancing  gayly  together,  and 
a  group  of  elder  persons  sitting  by,  and  watch- 
ing them  with  smiles.  The  chandeliers  were 
shining  overhead ;  the  room  rang  with  young 
voices;  the  floor  echoed  the  quick  touches  of 
their  light  feet.  The  Angel  clasped  his  hands 
in  despair. 


"  '  Help !  help  !  before  it  is  too  late  !' 

"And  he  dashed  himself  against  the  window, 
and  filled  the  air  with  his  cries. 

" '  Listen  to  the  rain,'  said  an  old  white- 
headed  gentleman,  who  was  standing  close  by 
with  two  or  three  others.  '  Hear  how  it  beat's 
upon  the  panes !' 

'"Ay,  and  to  the  wind,'  replied  one  near 
him,  taking  a  pinch  of  snuff  from  a  jeweled  box. 
'  It  howls  like  a  human  voice.  Bad  weather, 
my  lord,  for  the  shipping.' 

"And  they  spoke  of  it,  and  noticed  it  no 
more. 

"  So  the  Angel  went  back,  and  took  the  out- 
cast in  his  arms,  and  pressed  him  to  his  divine 
heart.  But  the  little  cheek  still  grew  colder 
and  colder,  and  the  faint  breath  fell  more  faint- 
ly— and  an  hour  went  by. 

"  Then  a  carriage  with  bright  lamps  and  paw- 
ing horses  drove  up  and  waited  before  the  arch- 
way ;  then  another  and  another,  till  presently 
there  was  a  long  row  of  them  waiting  in  the 
street.  And  very  soon  the  door  of  the  house 
was  opened,  and,  amid  the  blaze  of  lights  and 
gleaming  of  many  faces,  a  gentleman  and  lady, 
with  three  little  children,  appeared  upon  the  steps. 

"  But  this  time  the  Angel  was  silent,  and  just 
as  they  came  forward  he  unwound  his  loving 
arms  from  round  the  boy,  and  stood  apart. 

"  'Eh!  what  is  this?'  cries  the  gentleman, 
starting  back  as  his  foot  touches  the  figure 
crouching  by  the  wall.  '  A  boy  asleep !' 

"The  servant  snatched  a  lamp  from  the  car- 
riage— more  gentlemen  came  crowding  round — 
they  tried  in  vain  to  rouse  him  as  he  lay.  The 
first  gentleman  stooped  down  and  held  the  light 
to  his  face.  It  was  very  white.  Pie  took  the 
cold  hand  in  his,  and  it  dropped  heavily  as  he 
released  it. 

"  'Great  heaven  !'  cried  he,  looking  round 
upon  the  rest,  '  the  child  is  dead!' 

"Then  the  Angel,  weeping  and  invisible, 
spread  his  white  wings,  and,  with  a  long  sad 
wail,  soared  up  into  the  night,  far  from  the  arch- 
way and  the  wondering  throng  around  it.  On- 
ward he  went,  and  onward,  till  the  lights  all 
faded  away,  and  the  site  of  the  great  city  lay 
dark  and  indistinct  beneath  his  feet.  And  pres- 
ently there  was  a  sound  of  rushing  wings  behind 
him,  and  another  Angel,  bright  and  beautiful  as 
the  morning,  overtook  him,  and  said, 

"  'Whence  comes  my  sorrowful  brother?' 

"  'I  come,'  said  the  Angel,  'from  the  great 
city.  I  have  seen  men  in  their  blind  selfishness 
reject  the  voice  of  pity,  and  I  have  seen  a  little 
child  die  from  cold  and  hunger.  Therefore  am 
I  sorrowful,  and  the  decrees  of  our  Master  are 
dark  before  me.' 

"'Dost  thou  question  the  justice  of  Provi- 
dence?' 

"'Alas!'  replied  the  Angel,  'I  question  it 
not;  but  I  can  not  understand  the  death  and 
the  suffering.' 

"  'Look  upon  me/  said  the  radiant  Stranger; 
'look  upon  me,  and  doubt  no  more.  I  was  the 
soul  of  that  little  child !' 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


57 


"  So,  hand  in  hand,  and  rejoicing  together, 
they  ascended  through  the  mists  and  clouds  of 
earth  to  that  far  space  where  the  stars  shine 
night  and  day." 

The  story  ended,  we  returned  to  the  inn. 
Some  rare  ferns,  a  tiny  oak  no  bigger  than  a 
rose-tree,  some  feathers  fallen  from  the  wing  of 
the  golden  pheasant,  and  a  profusion  of  blue 
and  yellow  field-flowers,  were  among  the  treas- 
ures with  which  Margaret  and  Clemence  re- 
turned laden  to  the  Lion  d'Or,  and  which  they 
stored  away  in  the  carriage  as  it  stood,  horseless 
and  driverless,  awaiting  us  before  the  door. 

Then  with  what  ceremony  we  sat  down  to 
our  merry  feast — how  politely  I  placed  my  ward 
at  the  head  of  the  table,  and  Clemence  at  my 
right  hand — how  gravely  I  apologized  for  my 
morning  costume,  and  for  the  absence  of  a 
white  waistcoat !  How  we  jested  and  laughed, 
and  drank  each  other's  health  in  the  frothing 
Champagne,  and  praised  the  fresh  country  fare, 
the  vegetable  soup,  the  fowls,  the  omelettes, 
the  pastry,  and  the  rosy  apples !  With  what 
reluctance  we  rose  at  last,  and  resumed  our 
homeward  journey  along  the  paven  country 
road,  just  as  the  shadows  began  to  lengthen  to- 
ward the  east,  and  the  evening  light  to  glint 
between  the  trees  on  either  side ! 

How  quaint  and  soothing  it  is,  this  monoto- 
nous and  fertile  Belgian  landscape  !  For  leagues 
and  leagues  it  lies  sleeping  all  around,  rich  in 
produce  as  a  garden,  level  as  a  desert.  Here 
and  there  nods  a  formal  plantation  of  willows 
and  beeches,  and  the  evening  breeze  flows  over 
wide  luxuriant  crops  of  barley,  flax,  and  feath- 
ery oats,  with  long  stripes  of  potatoes  and  other 
vegetables  in  between,  and  not  a  fence  or  hedge- 
row any  where  in  sight.  Sometimes  we  meet 
a  lazy  wagon  on  the  road,  or  a  group  of  market- 
women  coming  homeward  from  the  town ;  some- 
times we  arrive  at  a  broad  and  many-bridged 
canal,  whose  course,  hidden  till  this  moment  by 
the  lofty  corn,  is  revealed  to  us  only  by  the  glid- 
ing sails  of  some  boat  topping  the  yellow  grain, 
like  a  ship  sailing  upon  land.  Now  and  then 
we  pass  a  white  farm-house  with  tiled  roof  and 
trim  garden,  and  perhaps  a  bower  made  all  of 
ivy,  and  cut  into  points  or  battlements  by  the 
skillful  gardener.  Next  comes  a  quiet  town, 
with  its  high  belfry  and  red-brick  cathedral  tow- 
ering up  above  the  plain;  and  perchance  we 
hear  the  pleasant  bells  chime  sadly  and  sweetly 
from  turret  to  turret  as  we  travel  by.  On  all 
sides  are  wind-mills  and  feeding  cattle,  and 
long  paved  roads  with  never  a  curve  or  a  hill- 
rise  to  break  their  arrowy  perspective— »a  land 
of  peace  and  plenty. 

I  bade  our  coachman  drive  slowly,  for  we  en- 
joyed the  almost  conventual  stillness  of  the 
hour.  Somehow  a  change  had  fallen  upon  our 
mood  since  we  had  turned  our  faces  homeward. 
A  softer  and  more  chastened  sentiment  seemed 
to  be  inspired  by  the  scene.  Clemence  slept  wea- 
rily in  a  corner ;  Margaret  sat  beside  me  lost  in 
reverie.  Both  were  alike  absorbed  and  silent. 


Then  the  faint  far  lights  of  Brussels  drew 
nearer;  carriages  and  market -carts  became 
more  frequent  on  the  road ;  and  presently  a  few 
houses  scattered  on  either  side,  a  solitary  gas- 
lamp,  and  some  bills  placarded  on  a  hoarding, 
warned  us  that  our  holiday  was  fast  approaching 
its  conclusion. 

Just  now  we  arrived  near  a  little  bridge  cross- 
ing a  narrow  canal,  and  lit  on  one  side  by  a  sin- 
gle lamp.  Beneath  the  lamp,  with  his  arms 
resting  on  the  parapet  and  his  head  bent  down, 
a  man  stood  looking  at  the  water.  There  was 
nothing  remarkable  in  his  appearance,  yet  the 
involuntary  start  and  catching  of  the  breath 
with  Avhich  Margaret  leaned  forward  as  we  came 
in  sight  of  him  attracted  my  attention. 

We  were  moving  very  slowly  at  the  time — 
up  hill,  in  fact,  toward  the  bridge,  and  our  horse 
was  tired.  I  looked  earnestly  into  her  face,  but 
she  did  not  heed  me.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
the  stranger,  and  her  cheeks  were  pale. 

Suddenly  he  looked  up,  and  shaded  his  eyes 
with  his  hand  as  the  sound  of  our  approach 
drew  nearer.  It  was  too  dark,  and  we  were 
too  distant  from  him  to  see  any  thing  of  his  feat- 
ures ;  but,  as  if  the  action  were  convincing  and 
she  knew  him,  Margaret  sank  back  in  the  car- 
riage, and  avoided  my  gaze  by  looking  stead- 
fastly down  upon  the  floor. 

At  the  same  instant  he  turned  rapidly  away, 
and  dived  down  a  small  street  opening  to  the 
left.  When  we  had  crossed  the  bridge  and 
reached  this  opening  he  was  out  of  sight. 

"Margaret,"!  said,  sternly,  "what  man  is 
that?" 

"  I  know  not,"  she  replied,  faintly,  and  with 
averted  head. 

I  said  no  more — urged  her  no  farther— but 
leaned  back  sadly  in  my  place.  This  time  no 
reproaches  found  their  way  to  my  lips — no  tears 
betrayed  the  pressure  at  my  heart.  The  iron 
had  entered  into  my  soul,  and  I  was  silent. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

THE  DIAMOND  BRACELET. 

.  "BY  my  faith,  Seabrook,  I  can  not  help  it. 
Granted,  'tis  a  weakness,  a  folly,  yet  I  can  not 
help  it.  So  young,  so  gentle,  so  false !  Now, 
before  Heaven,  I  feel  as  if  a  star  had  fallen  from 
the  skies  when  I  remember  how  she  is  deceiv- 
ing me !" 

Seabrook  whistled  dismally — thrust  his  hands 
deep  into  his  pockets,  and  walked  over  to  the 
window. 

"And  she  looks  innocent!     Would  you  be- 
lieve that  one  could  lie  and  play  the  traitress 
with  a  face  so  fair  ?     Ah !  I  forget ;  you  have 
not  seen  how  fair — how  fair  she  is !" 
"  Be  she  fairer  than  the  day, 
Or  the  flow'ry  meads  in  May, 
If  she  be  not  so  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  fair  she  be  ?" 

sang  my  friend,  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders. 
"  Seabrook,  you  have  no  feeling !" 


58 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


"  Paul,  you  have  no  common  sense !" 

He  came  and  drew  a  seat  close  beside  mine. 

"  Confess,  now,"  said  he,  with  his  old  kindly 
manner,  half  sad,  half  sarcastic,  "  confess,  now, 
that  our  wise  and  faithful  guardian  has  played 
a  very  foolish  part !  Is  it  not  natural  enough 
to  suppose  that  a  girl  of  seventeen  has  a  lover, 
and  that  she  has  been  too  shy  to  confess  it  ? 
Was  it  not  absurd  of  the  most  potent,  grave, 
and  reverend  seignior  Paul  to  play  Dr.  Bartolo 
to  his  fair  ward,  while  some  gallant  Almaviva 
was  all  the  while  lying  perdu  in  the  inmost  re- 
cesses of  her  heart  ?  Pshaw !  man,  swallow 
the  nauseous  draught  with  as  good  a  grace  as 
you  can  muster,  and  finish  your  part  according 
to  the  good  old  stage-fashion,  by  forgiving  and 
blessing  the  young  couple  as  soon  as  you  find  it 
useless  to  do  otherwise." 

"  And  then  sing  a  trio  to  cement  our  eternal 
union  !"  I  said,  forcing  a  smile. 

He  laughed,  poured  out  a  glass  of  wine,  and 
nodded  my  health. 

"Hush!  do  you  hear?"  said  he,  suddenly, 
pointing  toward  the  window  and  listening  at- 
tentively. "What  music  is  that?" 

"  'Tis  the  band  in  the  park.  They  give  an 
instrumental  concert  every  evening  at  Vello- 
ni's." 

"A  concert  every  evening!  To  think  that 
I  have  been  a  week  in  Brussels,  and  not  have 
known  that  before  !  Let  us  go  instantly." 

' '  I  have  no  heart  for  such  amusements,  Sea- 
brook." 

"Heart!  nonsense,  mon  ami;  'tis  the  very 
'  medicine  to  minister  to  a  mind  diseased !  I 
prescribe — nay,  I  entreat  it,  Paul.  Will  you  re- 
fuse me?" 

I  yield,  as  ever,  to  his  gay  sovereignty,  and 
we  are  loitering,  ere  long,  amid  the  throng  of 
coffee-drinking  and  ice-eating  loungers  who  fre- 
quent the  space  of  sward  and  trees  surround- 
ing the  celebrated  restaurateur's.  Seabrook  is 
charmed  with  the  music,  with  the  company, 
with  the  gay  and  pleasant  scene  The  lights, 
the  voices,  the  hurrying  waiters,  all  serve  to  ex- 
hilarate him — to  depress  me.  Amusement,  to 
one  of  his  joyous  temperament,  is  food  and  life ; 
to  one  saddened  and  harassed,  like  myself,  by 
disappointment  and  doubt,  is  utterly  intolerable. 
I  take  the  opportunity,  after  some  twenty  min- 
utes of  uneasy  endurance,  to  plead  a  headache, 
and  escape  by  myself  out  into  the  public  ave- 
nues of  the  park  beyond. 

It  is  not  yet  quite  deserted  in  the  principal 
walk  and  around  the  central  basin,  so  I  turn 
aside  into  the  dark  quiet  alleys  at  the  back  of 
the  restaurant's,  where  the  music  comes  to  me 
softly  through  the  trees,  and  the  dark  night 
reigns  unbroken,  save  by  a  gas-lamp  at  rare  in- 
tervals. 

Here  the  stars  twinkle  down  between  the 
roofing  leaves,  and,  in  the  gloom  and  stillness 
of  the  place,  my  shattered  nerves  are  soothed  to 
somewhat  like  repose.  I  strive  to  think  with 
calmness  of  the  past  and  future — to  arm  myself 
for  a  dispassionate  judgment  and  a  generous  line 


of  action.  It  is  hard  to  do  this,  nevertheless  ; 
and  in  the  magnitude  of  the  effort  I  discover  the 
extent  of  the  weakness.  Whether  to  consult 
her  happiness  in  preference  to  every  other  con- 
sideration— whether  selfishly  to  use  my  power 
as  her  guardian,  and — 

Alas  !  alas !  that  our  sternest  foe  should  lie 
ambushed  in  our  own  weak  hearts,  and  that  the 
most  brilliant  of  our  victories  should  ever  be 
the  saddest  humiliation  of  our  lives ! 

The  night  deepened,  and  still  I  walked  to 
and  fro,  to  and  fro,  lost  in  a  train  of  thought 
that  absorbed  my  every  faculty,  and  from  which 
I  was  at  length  aroused  by  the  sound  of  voices 
in  a  neighboring  alley. 

I  will  scarcely  say  "aroused,"  for,  though  I 
heard  their  footsteps  on  the  gravel,  and  their 
very  words  as  they  passed  now  and  then  close 
beside  me,  with  only  the  green  hedge  between 
us,  I  gave  no  heed  to  their  vicinity,  and  attach- 
ed no  meaning  to  their  speech.  Nay,  more,  the 
words  were  English  ;  yet,  such  was  the  strange, 
abstracted  condition  of  my  mind,  I  did  not  even 
remark  that  they  were  uttered  in  a  foreign 
tongue.  They  fell  upon  my  ear,  but  without 
finding  their  way  to  my  mind;  they  were  fa- 
miliar to  my  sense,  and  my  thoughts  were  at 
the  time  so  earnestly  engaged  that  I  was  con- 
tent to  hear  them  without  asking  whence  they 
came.  It  has  frequently  occurred  to  me  since, 
how  singular  an  instance  of  preoccupation  of 
mind  was  this,  and  how  forcible  a  question  of 
inner-duality  it  might  suggest  to  the  psycholog- 
ical student. 

The  voices  were  two — a  man's  and  a  woman's. 
The  latter,  somehow,  appeared  not  wholly  un- 
familiar to  me,  and  the  murmuring  sadness  of 
their  tones  chimed  in  with  my  own  melancholy. 

Suddenly  a  something,  which  was  more  a 
shock  than  a  suspicion,  flashed  over  me.  The 
woman  was  speaking. 

"He  doubts  me,"  she  said,  and  it  seemed 
that  she  was  weeping.  "He  doubts  me.  I  am 
most  unhappy!" 

Margaret's  voice !  Oh,  heaven,  Margaret's 
voice ! 

"It  is  unfortunate,"  replied  her  companion, 
"but—" 

They  passed,  and  his  words  grew  inaudible  in 
distance.  I  was  neither  grieved  nor  enraged — 
only  powerless,  breathless,  overwhelmed. 

Presently  they  returned,  and  the  man  was  i 
still  speaking. 

"Avow  nothing,"  he  said,  as  if  in  continua-  ii 
tion ;   "  you  know  my  position,  and  the  necessi-  | 
ty  we  have  for  strict  concealment.     I  am  well  j| 
aware  how  firm  my  little  Margaret  can  be,  the 
more  especially — " 

Again  the  voice  died  away. 

The  blood  rushed  to  my  head  and  boiled  in 
every  vein ;  I  felt  as  if  an  iron  band  were  tight- 
ened round  my  brow ;  I  uttered  a  cry  like  the 
cry  of  some  fierce  animal;  I  spurned  the  dull 
earth  madly  with  my  heel,  and  struggled  for 
very  breath. 

On  all   sides   disappointment,  concealment, 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


deceit!  Had  I  not  one  friend  whom  I  could 
esteem  and  trust?  Was  there  not  one  hand 
unarmed  against  me  ?  Chilled  in  my  childish 
affections — supplanted  (and  by  ivhorn  supplant- 
ed?) in  my  manhood's  first  passion — wronged 
by  this  young  creature  whom  I  would  have  given 
fortune  and  energies  to  serve — to  whom  I  would 
have  devoted  the  cares  and  tenderness  of  a  life 
— to  whom  I  had  resolved  (Heaven  knows  with 
what  unselfish  purity  of  thought !)  to  supply  the 
lost  home-ties  and  work  out  my  trust  with  holi- 
ness of  purpose — for  whom  I  was  prepared,  even 
this  very  night,  to  relinquish  every  personal  and 
sordid  hope,  even  as  a  father  would  relinquish 
for  a  child — Say,  was  I  not  tried  almost  beyond 
the  bounds  of  patient  faith  ?  To  feel  a  mo- 
mentary resentment  was  not  surely  inexcusa- 
ble— to  doubt  all  love  and  fair  seeming  not  ut- 
terly unjustifiable? 

I  felt  that  I  must  see  this  man — this  lover — 
face  to  face.  I  must  look  into  his  eyes,  and  see 
him  quail  before  me. 

The  impulse  was  obeyed  as  soon  as  felt.  I 
ran  with  the  speed  of  a  madman  down  the  dark 
pathway.  It  branched  away  to  the  right.  I 
found  myself  getting  farther  and  farther  from 
the  outlet  which  I  sought.  I  retraced  my  steps 
— again  went  wrong — again  doubled  back,  and 
at  length  reached  the  spot  where,  but  a  few 
short  moments  before,  they  had  been  walking 
together. 

It  was  a  long  walk  quite  over-roofed  by  trees, 
and  opening  at  one  end  upon  the  Rue  Ducale — 
a  long,  straight,  open  walk,  and  not  a  soul  in 
sight ! 

They  had  taken  alarm  at  the  sound  of  my 
footsteps — perhaps  at  the  involuntary  cry  that 
had  escaped  my  lips,  and  were  gone  ! 

Baffled,  yet  calmed  by  the  disappointment,  I 
sank  exhausted  upon  a  stone  bench  under  some 
trees,  and,  after  a  brief  interval  of  rest,  rose  up 
and  went  out  at  the  gateway  which  terminated 
the  path.  The  audience  were  pouring  from 
Velloni's  as  I  passed,  and,  by  some  strange  im- 
pulse, I  stood  and  watched  for  Seabrook. 

It  was  never  my  disposition  to  seek  society 
when  grief  was  weighing  on  me,  but  this  night 
I  seemed  to  long  for  the  sight  of  a  face  in  which 
I  might  still  see  truth  and  friendship — for  the 
pressure  of  a  hand  that  had  never  played  me 
false.  The  fever  of  anguish  was  past — the  hour 
of  the  human  weakness  was  come  ;  and  though, 
probably,  I  should  not  betray  what  I  had  suffer- 
ed by  look  or  word,  I  should  not  feel  alone. 

Presently    he    came.      I   stepped    forward, 
placed  my  arm  through  his,  and  said  simply, 
"  I  was  waiting  for  you." 
"  I  would  have  left  sooner  had  I  known  that," 
said  my  friend,  with  a  smile.      "Is  your  head 
better?" 

I  nodded. 

' '  And  what  do  you  propose  doing  ?  It  is  yet 
early,  and  the  music  to  which  I  have  been  list- 
ening is  so  good  that  it  has  only  served  to  make 
me  wish  for  more.  What  say  you  to  dropping 
into  the  Opera  House  for  an  hour,  just  to  hear  a 


song  from  the  Vogelsang  ?  She  plays  to-night  in 
Norma.  We  shall  be  in  time  for  the  last  act." 

* '  Go  where  you  please — I  will  accompany 
you." 

The  theatre  was  crowded  when  we  arrived. 
We  were  warned  at  the  entrance  that  no  seats 
were  to  be  had,  and  we  took  up  our  standing  at 
the  back  amid  a  crowd  of  others  similarly  cir- 
cumstanced. 

The  act  had  begun  before  we  arrived ;  the 
Vogelsang  was  already  on  the  stage,  and  every 
breath  was  hushed  throughout  the  house. 

Great  as  she  had  been  when  first  I  saw  her, 
she  was  far  greater  now.  Through  all  the  gra- 
dations of  stormy  passion,  jealousy,  fury,  despair, 
and  agonized  humility,  she  passed  with  a  skill 
which  was  more  than  skill — which  was  reality. 

"Per  Bacco!"  whispered  Seabrook  to  me, 
"this  woman  gives  me  an  oppression  on  the 
chest !  What  power — what  instinct !" 

Instinct — ay !  that  was  the  word.  It  was  not 
intellect,  for  intellect  is  cold,  and  calm,  and 
lofty.  It  was  the  fierce  and  fearful  beauty  of 
the  panther,  grand  in  its  instincts,  terrible  in  its 
rage ! 

I  shuddered.  Strange  that,  from  the  mo- 
ment when  I  beheld  her  on  the  Frankfurt  stage, 
I  should  have  ever  felt  this  creeping  aversion, 
and  that  the  third  time  it  should  be  more 
strongly  marked  than  even  at  the  first ! 

The  last  scene — that  tremendous  scene  where 
the  despairing  priestess  wrestles  for  forgiveness 
with  her  father — came  to  an  end.  There  was  a 
dead  silence  for  a  moment ;  the  audience  drew 
a  long  breath  of  relief;  then  came  that  deafen- 
ing shout  of  unanimous  wonder  and  delight  to 
which  she  was  so  well  accustomed.  She  is 
called — she  comes ;  the  bouquets  are  showered 
round  her;  something  heavy — something  that 
glitters  as  it  falls,  is  flung  from  a  stage-box,  and 
lights  just  at  her  feet.  It  is  a  bracelet — a  gor- 
geous bracelet  scintillating  with  diamonds !  She 
lifts  it  gracefully,  and,  bending  low  in  the  direc- 
tion whence  it  came,  clasps  it  upon  her  arm. 

In  an  instant  every  eye  is  turned  upon  that 
box ;  for  a  moment  the  liberal  giver  eclipses  the 
songstress;  even  I,  who  am  occupied  with  heavy 
thoughts,  am  influenced  by  the  general  impulse, 
and  rise  in  my  place  to  look  upon — upon  whom? 

Upon  my  brother  The'ophile ! 

"Mafoi,  Paul,"  said  Seabrook,  shrugging  his 
shoulders  and  glancing  toward  me  with  a  pecul- 
iar expression,  "your  brother  must  have  a  re- 
markable appreciation  of  talent,  and  more  mon- 
ey than  he  well  knows  how  to  employ !" 

Vexed,  bewildered,  uneasy,  I  made  no  reply, 
but  hastened  nervously  through  the  crowded  lob- 
by, and  bade  farewell  to  my  companion  at  the 
doors  of  the  theatre. 

Alas  !  there  are  times  when  the  foreshadow- 
ings  of  evil,  vaporous  and  undefined,  rise  up 
over  the  soul  like  the  night-mists  over  the  mead- 
ow-land, obscuring  not  only  the  landmarks  of 
earth,  but  dimming  even  the  star-guides  of  heav- 
en. At  such  periods  we  find  our  only  safety  in 
solitude  and  prayer. 


60 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

A    PACKET    OF    LETTERS. 

Theophile  to  Paul. 
u  Hotel  de  France,  Aug.  30th,  18—. 

"WHAT  an  age  it  is  since  we  have  met,  mon 
cher  frere  !  I  vow  that  I  begin  to  forget  your 
very  features.  Twice  have  I  called  at  yom 
apartments,  and  twice .  have  I  been  told  thai 
you  were  out ;  a  statement  which,  at  the  risk 
of  offending  you,  I  must  confess  that  I  did  not, 
on  both  occasions,  entirely  credit.  Were  it  nol 
that  I  have  seen  your  friend,  Mr.  Seabrook, 
twice  or  thrice  lately,  I  should  not  even  know 
that  you  are  living  and  well.  I  am  glad  that 
you  chanced  to  introduce  me  to  this  English- 
man. I  find  him  pleasant  and  obliging,  and  an 
excellent  judge  of  all  that  relates  to  the  stable 
and  the  studio.  He  has  kindly  advised  me  in 
the  purchase  of  some  horses  and  paintings, 
which  I  think  you  will  like,  if  you  only  come 
to  see  them. 

"I  have  discovered  many  of  my  Parisian  ac- 
quaintances here  —  people  of  whom  you  have 
never  heard,  and  whose  names  would  not  inter- 
est you — and  find  myself,  agreeably  enough,  in 
the  centre  of  a  petite  societe  ires  distingnee,  of 
which  Adrienne  is  the  reigning  sovereign.  We 
have  determined  upon  giving  a  soiree  on  the 
15th  of  next  month,  and  are  now  issuing  the 
cards  of  invitation.  I  know  that  it  will  be  a 
trial  to  your  patience,  my  philosophic  brother, 
but  I  insist  that,  for  this  once,  you  make  your 
appearance  among  us.  I  request  it  as  a  mark 
of  respect  to  my  wife.  It  is  her  first  reception, 
and  I  am  sure  that  I  shall  not  find  you  obdu- 
rate. But  you  will  come  before  then,  rfest  ce 
pas?  I  inclose  Adrienne's  card  for  the  15th 
instant.  Write  a  reply  such  as  you  know  I  de- 

"  4      T  -  V 


sire.     Adieu,  vaurien !     A  toi. 


T.  L. 


P.S. — Apropos  of  horses,  I  want  to  buy 
some  at  the  great  sale  which  they  advertise  at 
Malines,  and  I  find  my  treasury  somewhat  poor- 
er than  I  had  anticipated.  Could  you  lend  me 
five  thousand  francs  for  a  day  or  two  ?" 

Norman  Seabrook  to  Paul  Latour. 

"  August  30th,  18—. 

"It  is  past  midnight.  All  is  still  in  the 
house.  I  can  not  sleep.  Thoughts  and  sensa- 
tions which  are  not,  perhaps,  wholly  strange, 
but  which  have  presented  themselves  dimly  and 
rarely  to  my  mind,  are  now  busy  within  me, 
and  I  write  to  you. 

"Your  anxiety,  your  vexation,  the  solitude 
which  you  have  maintained  for  many  days — see- 
ing no  face  but  mine — some  words  spoken  by 
you  this  morning,  have  impressed  me  with  a 
melancholy  akin  to  your  own. 

"  '  I  have  none  to  love,'  you  said,  « and  noth- 
ing to  accomplish.' 

*  *  None  to  love  and  nothing  to  accomplish.  Alas ! 
I  also,  my  friend,  I  have  none  to  love  and  noth- 
ing to  accomplish.  In  that  sentence  you  epi- 
grammati/ed  my  history. 


•/  .,  t  DV/^  J.UJDGII  iu  my   LI  ue 

I  do  not  know  that  I  have  ever  felt  so  deep- !  face  with  my  own  spirit. 


j  ly  on  this  subject  as  to-night.  It  seems  to  me 
j  that  I  am  halting  on  the  road  of  life  ;  leaning 
on  my  staff,  and  calmly  scanning  the  backward 
pastures  and  the  forward  waste.  How  fair  and 
profitless  a  Past !  how  blank  a  Future !  I  fan- 
cied myself  a  pilgrim  sans  souci  —  a.  butterfly 
tasting  the  flowers  by  the  wayside  without  a  toil 
or  a  sorrow.  I  have  shaken  off  the  dream  to- 
night, and  I  find  that  I  fill  no  place  among  men. 
I  am  a  drone  in  the  hive. 

"You  know  my  affairs  as  well  as  I  know  them 
myself.  You  know  that  it  is  my  pleasure  to  be 
a  bird  of  passage,  lighting  here  and  there,  and 
resting  nowhere.  You  know  that  I  have  a 
small  independence,  just  sufficient  to  keep  me 
out  of  debt,  and  supply  my  few  necessities. 
You  know  all  this,  Paul.  Well,  at  this  hour,  I 
feel  that  a  man  without  ties,  without  aim,  with- 
out profession,  is  morally  an  offender  against  so- 
ciety and  against  Providence.  I  have  head— I 
have  education ;  yet  of  what  avail  are  they  to 
me  ?  Will  my  knowledge  of  poetry  and  philoso- 
phy make  me  a  poet  or  a  philosopher?  Can 
Plato  teach  me  the  law,  or  Homer  qualify  me 
for  the  profession  of  arms  ?  My  travels  have 
not  elevated  me  into  a  Humboldt.  My  amateur 
chemistry  has  brought  me  no  nearer  to  the  sci- 
ence of  a  Liebig  or  a  Dalton. 

"I  have  heart.  Although  I  have,  as  yet, 
lived  without  loving,  I  am  sensible  of  a  capacity 
for  love  in  my  own  nature.  But  dare  I  think 
of  love  ?  Dare  I  dream  of  wife  and  fireside,  I 
who  am  without  resources  ?  Of  what  use  am  I 
in  the  world  ?  In  what  path  of  human  endeav- 
or could  I  hope  to  earn  bread  for  my  children, 
were  I  so  unfortunate  as  to  possess  any  ? 

"Oh,  the  life  of  a  man  without  ties,  without 
home,  without  labor,  is  a  want  and  a  bitterness. 
[  taste  it  now  for  the  first  time.  'Tis  true  that 
I  may  forget  it  to-morrow,  and  for  many  to-mor- 
rows, but  I  feel  that  it  must  come  again  and 
again,  and  that  at  last  it  will  abide  with  me 
evermore. 

Would  that  I  could  begin  to  study  even 
now !  Would  that  I  had  something  to  work  for 
and  to  love ! 

As  it  is,  I  fear  that  I  could  not  devote  my- 
self to  any  profession  without  some  powerful  in- 
centive. My  powers  of  mind  are  various,  but 
not  tenacious.  I  want  not  perseverance,  but 
constancy.  The  proposition  looks  like  a  para- 
dox, yet  it  is  not  one.  Whatever  I  attempt,  I 
attempt  earnestly,  and  with  my  whole  soul.  My 
studies  are  interrupted  by  no  self-indulgence.  I 
devote  myself  to  my  subject  night  and  day  till  I 
arrive  at  a  certain  proficiency.  There  I  stop. 
My  curiosity  is  satisfied.  Other  objects  present 
themselves,  about  which  I  am  equally  desirous 
of  knowledge.  I  throw  aside  the  palette  for  the 
crucible,  the  violin  for  the  microscope,  the  in- 
struments of  the  mathematician  for  the  wild  rev- 
eries of  the  mental  philosopher.  I  am  '  everv 
thing  by  turns,  and  nothing  long.' 

"I  despise  myself  to-night,  for  to-night,  Paul, 
I  see  myself  in  my  true  colors.     I  stand  face  to 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


Gl 


"There  is  something  awful  in  it, Paul — some- 
thing weird  and  terrible  in  thus  summoning 
one's  self  to  judgment.  I  feel  as  if  I  had  looked 
in  a  mirror  and  seen  a  strange  face  there  —  a 
face  unlike  that  to  which  mine  eyes  were  accus- 
tomed daily,  but  which  bore  a  certain  palpable 
and  dread  resemblance  that  convinced  me  of  its 
identity ! 

"Tell  me,  have  you  never  known  moments 
such  as  this,  when  the  veil  of  custom  seems  to 
be  rent  suddenly  before  your  eyes;  when  life 
and  the  world  stand  revealed  in  their  true  col- 
ors ;  and  when  the  shows  of  things  are  for  a  few 
seconds  stripped  of  the  semblance  of  realities  ? 
Have  you  never  been  aroused  by  these  brief  rev- 
elations from  the  hollow  seemings  of  every-day 
life  2  Have  you  never  indulged  them,  as  I  now 
indulge  them  —  forgotten  them,  as  I  to-morrow 
shall  forget  them  ? 

"I  have  opened  my  window  upon  the  outer 
night.  It  is  so  still  that  not  a  breath  stirs  the 
flame  of  the  candle  by  which  I  write,  and  the 
brazen  statue  of  St.  Michael  on  the  slender  spire 
of  the  Hotel  de  Ville  glitters  close  by  in  the 
moonlight.  Surely  there  is  something  in  the 
unruffled  calm  of  Nature  that  overawes  our  little 
anxieties  and  doubts  ;  the  sight  of  these  house- 
tops and  steeples,  with  the  deep  sky  and  the 
clustering  stars  above  them,  seems  to  have  im- 
parted some  quiet  to  my  mind.  Perhaps  I  could 
sleep  now.  Good-night. 

"  NORMAN  SEABROOK." 

Margaret  Fletcher  to  PaulLatour. 

"Aug.  30111,18 — 

"  So  many  days  have  elapsed  since  I  last  saw 
my  father's  friend,  that  I  no  longer  dare  to  enu- 
merate them.  Some  withered  ferns  and  grasses 
on  my  table  remind  me  of  the  time  that  has 
gone  by  since  he  gathered  them  for  me  in  the 

little  wood  of ;  my  unfinished  drawing  has 

long  awaited  the  corrections  of  the  master.  In 
vain  I  ask  myself  if  he  can  have  left  Brussels? 
if  he  be  suffering  ?  if  I  have  displeased  him  ? 
Whatever  be  the  cause,  truth  were  better  than 
this  intolerable  suspense,  and  the  truth  I  entreat 
from  him,  though  it  be  conveyed  but  in  a  single 
word.  Oh,  if  you  are  vexed  with  me,  what  shall 
I  say  or  do  to  make  you  forgive  me  ?  If  I  have 
seemed  ungrateful  to  you,  believe,  monsieur, 
that  appearances  alone  are  against  me,  and  that 
my  heart  is  unconscious  of  a  thought  that  might 
be  construed  into  a  sin  against  my  benefactor. 

' '  I  fear  that  I  do  wrong  to  write  to  you,  yet 
how  can  I  help  it  ?  You  will  not  be  angry  with 
me,  will  you,  Monsieur  Latour  ?  You  will  par- 
don the  trouble  and  annoyance  that  I  occasion 
you,  for  I  am  so  unhappy.  MARGARET." 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

A  LITTLE    SCENE   OUT   OF   THE   DRAMA. 

SCENE.— MARGARET'S  Studio.     She  is  reading 
near  the  window,  but  lays  aside  the  book  when 


I  enter,  and  seems  both  pleased  and  agitated. 
CLEMENCE  is  not  present. 

PAUL  (advancing  and  taking  her  by  the  hand). 
Well,  Margaret,  are  you  glad  to  see  me  ? 

MARG.  Oh,  very  glad,  Monsieur  Latour !  I 
— I  thought  you  had  forgotten  me. 

PAUL  (archli/').  Forgotten  you,  eh  ?  But  I 
think  you  were  determined  not  to  be  forgotten, 
petite  Marguerite ! 

MARG.  (blushing').  Do  not  speak  of  that,  mon- 
sieur, I — I  entreat  you.  I  am — I  am,  indeed, 
quite  ashamed  that — 

PAUL  (very  earnestly  and  gravely).  That  you 
should  be  sufficiently  interested  in  one  whom 
you  call  your  "father's  friend"  to  care  to  see  him 
again !  Is  that  it,  Margaret ;  and  did  you  real- 
ly wish  me  to  think  you  utterly  impenetrable 
and  hard-hearted  ? 

MARG.  Oh,  not  that !  You — I  am  sure  you 
know  what  I  mean  ? 

PAUL.  I  think  I  do,  Margaret.  Indeed,  it  is 
seldom  that  I  am  pained  or  perplexed  by  the 
ambiguity  of  words,  for  there  is  always  more 
conveyed  by  the  tone  in  which  they  are  uttered 
and  the  glance  by  which  they  are  accompanied. 
It  is  only  the  ambiguity  of  action  that  grieves 
and  troubles  me.  Concealments,  falsehoods, 
double-dealings,  preconcerted  plans  of  decep- 
tion, these  are  the  things  that  cut  me  to  the 
soul ;  and  sooner  than  be  subjected  to  them 
from  the  hands  of  those  whom  I  trust  and  love, 
I  would  go  away,  like  the  Athenian  Timon,  and 
live  in  a  desert ! 

MARG.  Monsieur! 

PAUL  (in  an  excited  tone).  I  never  loved  any 
thing  yet  that  it  did  not  bring  me  sorrow  and 
suffering — never !  And  to  think  that  you  too, 
Margaret  —  you  who  are  so  young  and  so  se- 
cluded— you  whom  I  thought  so  innocent,  so 
docile,  so  affectionate — to  think  that  you  should 
plot  and  plan  against  me,  as  if  I  were  a  blind 
puppet  to  be  bandied  about  from  hand  to  hand, 
and  thrown  aside  at  last  if  occasion  warrant ! 
It  destroys  my  faith  in  human-kind ! 

MARG.  (turning  very  pale  and  striving  to  speak 
firmly).  You  wrong  me,  sir.  I  am  no  hypo- 
crite. 

PAUL.  No  hypocrite !  Why,  did  you  not 
stand  there  and  blush,  and  smile,  and  speak  fair 
words  just  now,  and  do  I  not  know  how  false 
your  heart  is  to  me  all  the  while  ?  Do  you  not 
weep  tears  of  which  I  never  know  the  cause  ? 
Receive  gifts  (pointing  to  the  ring  upon  her  fin- 
ger) from  lovers  whose  names  I  never  learn  ? 
Make  evening  assignations  in  the  park  (she 
starts)  with  men  of  whom  I  have  never  heard  ? 
Hah !  you  are  silent,  Margaret :  you  tremble ; 
you  can  say  nothing ! 

MARG.  (with  effort).  I  could  say  much,  but  I 
dare  not. 

PAUL.  What!  do  you  fear  me? 

MARG.  Indeed,  no;  but — but  —  Alas!  what 
would  I  not  give  now  for  liberty  to  speak ! 

PAUL.  Then  you  confess  that  there  is  a  se- 
cret ? 

MARG.  (hesitatingly}.   Yes,  there  is  a  secret 


62 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


You  know  there  is,  monsieur ;  why  do  you  com- 
pel me  to  say  so  ? 

PAUL.  And  the  ring  ? 

MARG.  (bursting  into  tears  and  kissing  it  pas- 
sionately). The  ring  was  my  mother's  —  my 
dear  mother's ! 

PAUL.  Can  this  be  true,  Margaret?  Why 
not  have  said  that  long  ago,  when  I  first  asked 
you?  How  did  you  get  it?  How  long  has  it 
been  in  your  possession  ?  Why  ever  have 
made  a  mystery  about  it  ? 

MARG.  Do  not  ask  me;  I  can  not  tell  you 
more ;  I  have  said  too  much  already  —  more 
than  I  promised. 

PAUL.  Tell  me,  at  least,  who  met  you  in  the 
park? 

MARGARET  looks  down  and  shakes  her  head. 

PAUL  (trying  to  speak  calmly  and  conciliating- 
ly).  Listen  to  me,  Margaret.  I  was  in  the  park 
that  night — in  the  next  walk,  and  divided  from 
you  only  by  a  hedge.  I  heard  you  speaking — 
speaking,  I  am  convinced,  of  me.  You  agreed 
with  your  lover  to  deceive  me.  He  called  you 
his — his  little  Margaret.  I  heard  all  this. 

MARG.  (anxiously).  No  more  than  this  ? 

PAUL.  No  more.  Alas !  you  are  relieved 
that  I  did  hear  no  more !  Do  not  seek  to  evade 
me  farther ;  confide  in  me,  Margaret — acknowl- 
edge this  lover,  and  I  will  pardon  all.  Nay,  I 
will  serve  you,  I  will  serve  him,  I  will  do  what 
a  father  would  do  (what  your  father  would  have 
done)  to  make  your  happiness.  Speak ! 

MARG.  (weeping).  All  that  I  can  say  is  that 
I  do  not  deserve  your  goodness !  Only  trust 
me  for  a  little  while ;  do  not  quite  hate  me ;  I 
am  tied  by  —  by  a  fatal  promise,  and  I  can  not 
speak!  Only  trust  me,  monsieur  —  only  trust 
me! 

PAUL  (after  a  brief  silence).  Well,  I  will  trust 
you,  Margaret ;  but  beware,  beware !  Conceal- 
ment is  the  cloak  of  Wrong,  and  your  lover 
would  scarcely  impose  this  task  of  secrecy  upon 
you  save  for  some  deep  and  doubtful  reason.  I 
almost  question  whether  I  am  fulfilling  my  du- 
ties in  thus  yielding  and  trusting  to  you :  it 
should  be  my  place  to  sift  his  character  and  his 
motives ;  but  let  it  be  so,  Margaret.  Your  face 
and  voice  have  again  overcome  me.  Promise 
me,  at  least,  that  you  will  take  no  decisive  step 
— that — that  you  will  not  hear  of  marriage  with- 
out— 

MARG.  (smiling  through  her  tears).  Be  assured 
of  that,  monsieur.  I  shall  certainly  not  elope 
with  him,  or — or  marry  —  without  your  permis- 
sion. {Bell  rings.)  Hark!  that  is  madame's 
bell !  The  class  is  assembling,  and  I  must  go 
now. 

PAUL.  Trifler !  that  smile  half  reassures  me. 
Must  you  go  ? 

MARG.  Directly,  monsieur. 

PAUL.  Au  revoir,  then,  Margaret ! 

MARG.  Au  revoir  !          [Exit  different  ways. 

CLOSE   OF  THE    SCENE. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

THE  SHADOWS  DARKEN  INTO  FORM. 

I  WAS  unwilling  to  go,  but  I  went.  The 
night  was  glorious — one  of  those  dark,  warm 
September  nights,  when  the  sky  is  thick  with 
stars  and  there  is  no  moon. 

Long  before  I  reached  the  house  (for  I  should 
observe  that  my  brother  had  engaged  a  fur- 
nished mansion  for  the  season),  I  found  the 
street  blocked  up  by  vehicles  and  bright  with 
carriage-lamps.  An  awning  reached  from  the 
door  to  the  curb-stone — there  were  lights  in  ev- 
ery window — sounds  of  music  dimly  heard  from 
without — passing  shadows  on  the  blinds — pow- 
dered servants  in  the  hall,  and  pages  in  waiting 
stationed  on  the  stairs  announcing  names  and 
titles  —  statues,  and  figures  of  armed  knights, 
and  vases  of  rare  flowers  on  the  landings — 
stands  of  arms  and  trophies  of  broad  antlers  in 
the  hall — vistas  of  brilliant  rooms  and  galleries 
opening  all  around,  and  thronged  with  company. 

It  was  the  first  time  that  I  had  crossed  the 
threshold  of  my  brother's  house  since  his  re- 
moval, and  for  a  moment  I  stood  still,  gazing 
with  surprise  at  the  profuse  elegance  of  all 
around  me,  and  overpowered  by  that  old  feel- 
ing of  nervous  embarrassment  which  has  been, 
through  life,  one  of  my  most  serious  annoy- 
ances, and  which  is  the  usual  penalty  incurred 
by  the  student  for  the  luxury  of  retirement.  It 
was,  however,  too  late  to  retreat ;  my  name  had 
already  traveled  before  me,  and  as  I  reached  the 
entrance  to  the  first  drawing-room,  it  was  an- 
nounced for  the  fourth  time.  At  the  extremity 
of  the  third  apartment  I  found  Adrienne,  sur- 
rounded by  a  little  court,  receiving,  conversing, 
resplendent  with  jewels  and  beauty,  and  look- 
ing like  a  queen,  so  lofty  and  so  fair. 

"Welcome,  thrice  welcome,  mon  beaufrere" 
she  said,  with  her  bright  smile,  as  I  approached. 
"  Take  this  seat  beside  mine,  and  let  us  talk  to- 
gether for  a  while.  It  is  long  since  we  have 
met,  and  you  look  pale  to-night.  Not  ill,  li 
trust  ?  Monsieur  de  Saint  Saturnin,  will  you 
favor  me  by  relinquishing  this  seat  in  favor  of  j 
my  husband's  brother  ?  A  thousand  thanks.  ] 
You  will  pardon  me  for  troubling  you?" 

Monsieur  de  Saint  Saturnin,  a  red -faced 
youth  with  an  embroidered  shirt-front  and  a 
blue  silk  waistcoat,  bowed,  rose  with  an  affecta-  j 
tiqn  of  immense  alacrity,  and  mingled  with  the  i 
crowd. 

I  took  the  vacant  seat,  and  she  continued : 

"It  is  really  kind  of  you  to  come  to-night, 
for  I  know  that  you  take  no  pleasure  in  society. 
Have  you  seen  Theophile?  No?  Why,  he 
was  here  but  a  moment  since,  and —  Ah !  there 
he  stands,  almost  under  the  central  chandelier. 
He  is  conversing  with  two  gentlemen — one,  that 
is,  the  one  in  black,  is  M.  d'Ermenonville,  pro- 
fessor of  Oriental  languages  to  the  College  Roy- 
al of  St.  Egbert ;  the  other  is  General  Smith- 
son,  an  American  celebrity.  This  little  gentle- 
man with  a  diamond  star  upon  his  breast  is  a 
Neapolitan  prince ;  and  that  handsome  man 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


63 


with  the  long  hair,  just  passing  by,  is  Felicien 
David,  the  musician.  I  must  endeavor  to  amuse 
you,  and  tell  you  who  the  people  are,  monfrere." 

"You  are  very  good,  madame." 

"Do  not  call  me  madame,  I  entreat  of  you. 
Let  me  be  your  sister  in  name  as  well  as  in  re- 
ality. Here  we  have  a  Russian  grandee  and 
his  wife — what  a  regalia  she  wears  !  and  that 
small,  quick-featured  man  with  the  glasses  is 
Scribe  the  dramatist.  He  is  leaning  on  the 
arm  of  a  man  equally  famous  —  perhaps  you 
guess  who  he  is  by  his  complexion  and  African 
cast  of  features — Alexander  Dumas.  Do  you 
know,  monfrere,  a  large  assembly  such  as  this 
reminds  me  of  a  menagerie." 

"With  a  remarkable  show  of  lions,"  I  added. 

"Ah!"  said  she,  with  a  half  sigh,  "is  it  to 
be  compared  with  our  summer  picnic  at  the 
Fountain  of  Roses  ?" 

At  this  moment  there  was  a  universal  silence 
at  the  farther  end  of  the  apartment ;  a  few 
plaintive  notes  were  heard  upon  a  piano ;  and 
the  rich,  magical  tones  of  a  voice  that  sounded 
strangely  familiar  to  my  ears  began  the  open- 
ing movement  of  an  Italian  cavatina. 

"  Hush !"  said  Adrienne,  placing  her  finger  on 
her  lip.  "  Madame  Vogelsang  is  about  to  sing." 

"Madame  Vogelsang,  the  actress?" 

"  Yes ;  we  have  engaged  her  for  the  evening, 
and  Kiallmark  as  her  accompanyist.  Oh,  list- 
en— how  delicious  ! " 

It  was  odd  how  the  very  name  and  voice  of 
that  woman  seemed  to  overshadow  and  depress 
me.  I  fell  into  a  profound  reverie,  from  which 
I  was  roused  by  the  murmurs  of  applause,  and 
-by  a  hand  laid  suddenly  upon  my  arm.  It  was 
Norman  Seabrook. 

"I  have  spoken  to  you  twice,  Paul,"  said  he, 
"  and  have  stood  before  your  very  face  for  three 
or  four  minutes,  paying  my  respects  to  madame, 
and  you  never  observed  me.  I  was  not  aware 
that  music  produced  such  an  effect  upon  you  be- 
fore. Did  she  not  sing  gloriously?" 

"I  must  confess,"  I  replied,  smiling,  "that  I 
was  lost  in  thought,  and  heard  nothing  of  it 
whatever." 

Adrienne  was  at  this  moment  surrounded  by 
her  visitors,  and  busily  engaged  in  convei'sation. 
I  rose,  passed  my  arm  through  Seabrook's,  and 
proposed  to  make  the  tour  of  the  rooms  in 
search  of  Theophile,  with  whom  I  had  not  yet 
spoken. 

"Your  brother,"  said  he,  "has  an  absolute 
genius  for  mustering  his  forces.  He  would 
make  a  great  general.  By  the  way,  have  you 
seen  that  pair  of  Vanderveldes  which  he  bought 
the  other  day,  or  the  silver  shield  chased  by 
Benvenuto  Cellini?" 

"Neither." 

"Nor  the  case  of  fossil  zoophytes  ?" 

"No." 

"  Nor  the  Cabinet  de  Lecture  ?" 

' '  I  never  even  heard  of  all  these  things. 
What  do  you  mean?" 

' '  I  mean  that  Monsieur  Theophile  possesses 
what  you  never  will  possess — a  genius  for  soci- 


ety. He  is  desirous  of  filling  his  rooms  with 
all  available  rank  and  talent,  and  he  takes  care 
to  provide  that  which  may  render  his  house 
agreeable.  Here  are  paintings  and  articles  of 
virtu  for  the  connoisseur ;  natural  curiosities  for 
the  learned ;  books  and  engravings  for  those 
who  like  them ;  and  the  best  music,  the  best 
society,  and  the  best  ices  in  Brussels  for  each 
and  for  all." 

"You  amaze  me,  for  The'ophile  himself  is 
neither  connoisseur,  bookworm,  nor  natural 
philosopher!" 

"I  did  not  say  that  he  was ;  I  only  observed 
that  he  had  a  rare  tact  in  society.  There  are 
people  who  refine  upon  this  tact  till  it  becomes 
a  science." 

At  this  moment  our  conversation  was  inter- 
rupted by  a  tall  lady  with  a  long  waist,  a  long 
neck,  and  a  long  nose.  She  looked  like  a  stork 
with  a  turban  on,  and  had  a  young  and  some- 
what pretty  girl  upon  her  arm. 

"Ah!  Mr.  Seabrook,"  she  said,  languidly, 
"  is  it  really  you  ?  One  finds  you  every  where. 
Emma,  my  precious  love,  you  remember  Mr. 
Seabrook?" 

The  young  lady  bowed,  and  her  mamma  con- 
tinued. 

"  I  think  the  occasion  of  our  last  meeting 
was  at  Cardinal  Mezzotinto's,  during  the  Ro- 
man Carnival.  You  went  as — as — let  me  see, 
as  Robinson  Crusoe  —  such  an  odd  costume ! 
Charming  soiree,  this.  Quite  new  people,  too. 
Provincial  landowners  from  the  wilds  of  Bur- 
gundy, I  am  given  to  understand.  Really  a 
well  -  contrived  evening.  We  came  to  -  night 
with  the  Hospodar  of  Moldavia  and  his  wife. 
Delightful  family.  Greek  extraction.  His 
highness  is  the  most  fascinating  creature !  So 
talented !  So  eccentric !  Eats  a  pound  of  un- 
cooked steak  for  his  dinner  every  day,  to  keep 
up  his  stamina.  But  I  am  detaining  you  with 
my  prattle,  and  you  are,  perhaps,  engaged  in 
conversation  with  your  friend.  Addio !  My 
darling  angel,  wish  Mr.  Seabrook  good-even- 
ing !" 

"What  a  terrible  woman!"  I  exclaimed, 
when  we  were  out  of  hearing. 

"Terrible  species,  but  common,"  replied 
Seabrook,  laconically.  "Order — Aristocratic. 
Generic  character — Detestable.  Locality — Un- 
exceptionable. Ilabits  —  Gregarious.  Family 
—The  Bores." 

"  I  am  glad,  at  all  events,"  I  said,  laughing, 
"  to  find  that  the  species  is  not  dangerous." 

"Not  dangerous,  my  dear  fellow!  On  the 
contrary,  it  belongs  to  a  genus  of  the  most  un- 
paralleled ferocity,  especially  when  providing  for 
its  young.  The  heir,  indeed,  is  its  natural  prey. 
Stay,  here  is  a  man  I  know,  who  fancies  him- 
self a  poet  of  the  highest  order.  Quite  a  char- 
acter. He  once  held  a  capital  situation  in  the 
Foreign  Office,  but  found  it  too  prosaic  for  what 
he  calls  his  'wild  poetic  nature,' and  so  relin- 
quished it.  I  fear  that  his  circumstances  are 
wretched  now,  poor  fellow !  How  are  you,  Mr. 
Staines !  Been  long  in  Brussels  ?" 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


"  Scarce  three  sad,  sultry  days,  my  worthy 
friend,"  replied  the  poet,  who  wore  blue  glasses 
and  long  hair,  and  who,  as  I  presently  discov- 
ered, spoke  always  in  blank  verse. 

"Rather  a  brilliant  party  here,  is  it  not?" 
asked  Seabrook,  with  an  air  of  determined  com- 
monplace cheerfulness. 

"These  glitt'ring  halls  are  lit  for  me  in 
vain, "  rejoined  the  other,  misanthropically.  ' '  To 
ears  in  love  with  cataract  and  storm ;  to  eyes 
that  gaze  unshrinkingly  on  fate ;  to  souls  up- 
lifted o'er  the  flat  inane,  cleaving  the  realms  of 
thought  and  poet-lore,  all  revelry  is  stale — all 
music  harsh!" 

"Just  so,  just  so,"  said  my  companion,  smil- 
ing. "I  see  that  we  are  of  the  same  opinion. 
A  glass  of  brandy  and  water,  and  a  good  cigar 
at  a  friend's  fireside,  is  worth  all  this  sort  of 
display.  Exactly  my  own  idea,  Staines.  Au 
revoir /" 

The  poet  looked  after  us  with  a  lofty  pity 
that  was  utterly  ludicrous ;  and  we  made  our 
way,  as  well  as  we  could,  through  the  crowd, 
which  was  momentarily  increasing,  toward  the 
reading-room,  or,  as  Theophile  had  chosen  to 
designate  it,  the  Cabinet  de  Lecture. 

It  was  a  pretty  little  Gothic  room,  lined  with 
book- shelves,  and  furnished  with  costly  vol- 
umes, but  was,  if  possible,  even  more  crowded 
than  the  larger  apartments.  The  heat,  too,  was 
intolerable. 

"Diable!"  exclaimed  Seabrook,  "we  shall 
die  here  if  we  remain  long,  amico  mio  !  Sup- 
pose we  go  and  have  a  peep  at  the  conservato- 
ry. I  have  not  yet  seen  it,  and  your  brother 
told  me  yesterday  that  the  fittings,  flowers,  and 
tropical  plants  had  cost  a  little  fortune.  Al- 
lans .'" 

This  was  more  easily  said  than  done.  The 
Cabinet  de  Lecture  was  situated  at  the  extrem- 
ity of  the  fourth  and  last  reception-room,  and 
the  conservatory  at  the  end  of  the  entrance-hall 
down  stairs.  We  had  consequently  to  thread 
our  way  back  throughout  the  entire  suite,  and, 
as  the  apartments  were  now  quite  filled,  the  task 
was  by  no  means  one  of  great  facility.  It  gave 
us,  however,  a  better  opportunity  of  observing 
the  general  features  of  the  entertainment. 

Many  of  the  guests  were  English,  but  the 
greater  number  belonged  to  the  Continental 
nations.  Now  we  pass  a  knot  of  Parisian  wits 
and  dramatists — now  a  group  of  artists  discuss- 
ing the  merits  of  the  Vanderveldes — now  a 
clique  of  politicians  occupied  with  the  last  new 
ministry.  Here  the  swarthy  features  of  an  Ot- 
toman dignitary,  surmounted  by  the  scarlet  fez, 
contrast  with  the  delicate  beauty  of  some  reign- 
ing belle,  who  glides  along  with  her  train  of 
slaves  around  her.  There  we  see  a  handsome 
and  popular  ecclesiastic  discoursing  honeyed 
righteousness  to  a  circle  of  admiring  ladies. 
Now  and  then  we  light  upon  some  tender  couple 
whispering  together  in  the  embrasure  of  a  cur- 
tained window,  and  every  where  we  are  amused 
by  the  scraps  of  conversation  that  meet  our  ear 
in  passing. 


"A  terrible  state  of  affairs,  I  assure  yoo. 
The  quotation  of  gold  is  lower  than  it  has  been 
in  the  memory  of  any  man  living — population 
increases — the  value  of  labor  diminishes — our 
commerce  is  on  the  decline — our  coasts  unpro- 
tected— our  navy  and  army  almost  disorganized 
— in  short,  sir,  the  country  is  going  to  ruin,  and 
I  see  no  hope  for  the  government  or  the  people 
unless  the  military  are  immediately  re-enforced 
and — " 

"  Stewed  down  with  port  wine  and  sugar.  It 
is  the  finest  thing  in  the  world.  I  have  tried  it 
myself  for  the  last  four  years,  and  find  it  an  un- 
failing remedy." 

"And  did  you  really  come  on  purpose  to  see 
me,  Charles  ?" 

"You,  and  you  only,  my  angel!  You  know 
that  I  live  but  in  your  smiles,  and  that  your 
glance  alone  has  power  to  reduce  me  to — " 

"A  heavy  oily  liquid,  obtained  from  a  double 
sulpho-carbonate  of  ethyle  and  potash,  acted 
upon  by  diluted  sulphuric  or  hydrochloric  acid. 
Indeed,  a  most  interesting  experiment." 

"Possibly  so;  but  I  acknowledge  that  the 
present  cabinet  inspires  me  with  little  confi- 
dence. Russell  is  too  indolent  for  the  duties 
of  Premier,  and  Palmerston — " 

"  Has  the  loveliest  legs  and  ankles  you  ever 
beheld !  They  skim  along  the  stage,  my  boy, 
like— like— " 

"The  Ficus  Indica,  or  banyan-tree,  abound- 
ing chiefly  in  the  vicinity  of  the  Circar  Mount- 
ains. It  covers  with  its  trunks  a  sufficient  space 
to  shelter  a  regiment  of  cavalry,  and  looks,  when 
one  is  in  the  midst  of  it,  like  a  thick  grove  or 
wood.  You  find  the  best  account  in  Rumf's 
4  Herbarium  Amboinense.' " 

Through  this  Babel  we  gradually  worked  our 
way,  exchanging  a  gesture  of  recognition  with 
Adrienne  as  we  passed  by,  and  receiving  an 
elaborate  salutation  from  Polydore  Emmanuel 
Hippolyte,  Marquis  de  Courtrai,  whose  appear- 
ance did  honor  to  the  consummate  skill  of  his 
valet,  his  tailor,  his  jeweler,  and  his  wig-maker. 
He  formed  one  of  a  phalanx  of  contemporary 
exquisites  as  boyish  and  fascinating  as  him- 
self, all  of  whom  were  so  resplendent  with 
crosses,  cordons,  and  stars  as  to  elicit  from  Sea- 
brook  a  doubt  as  to  whether  the  Milky  Way  had 
not  unexpectedly  dropped  in. 

At  length  we  reached  the  stairs  (up  which 
the  fresh  arrivals  were  still  pouring,  although  it 
was  now  within  half  an  hour  of  midnight),  and 
in  a  few  moments  more  were  threading  the  cool 
dark  passage  leading  from  the  entrance-hall  to 
the  conservatories.  This  passage  was  quite  de- 
serted ;  the  hum  and  movement  of  the  world 
beyond  became  hushed,  and  involuntarily  we 
dropped  our  voices  to  a  whisper.  Then  we 
passed  through  a  doorway  of  painted  glass  that 
opened  without  a  sound,  and  entered  the  warm 
and  heavy  atmosphere  respired  by  the  cactus 
and  the  palm.  The  roof  was  garlanded  with 
creeping  plants,  whose  large  pendulous  blos- 
soms, like  fairy  pavilions,  white,  amber,  and  li- 
lac, hung  low  above  our  heads.  Fragrant  magno- 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


65 


lias,  orange-trees  with  their  round  yellow  fruits, 
delicate  orchids,  and  all  rare  exotic  plants,  were 
marshaled  on  every  side.  Deep  tanks  of  tepid 
water,  gleaming  with  gold  and  silver  fish,  and 
supporting  the  languid  leaves  and  flowers  of 
strange  aquatic  vegetation,  Avere  sunk  at  either 
extremity ;  and  marble  statues  of  stern  and  rig- 
id beauty,  holding  amethyst-hued  lamps  in  their 
cold  grasp,  stood  here  and  there,  lighting  the 
silent  scene  with  a  subdued  and  uncertain  lus- 
tre. High  and  fantastic,  like  the  grand,  shad- 
owy superstitions  of  an  Orient  clime,  rose  in  the 
midst  the  luxuriant  native  of  the  tropics— the 
bamboo ;  the  bread-tree,  with  its  dark  shining 
leaves  and  amber  fruit ;  the  sandal-wood-tree ; 
the  gigantic  rhododendron,  laden  with  white 
blossoms ;  the  slender  sugar-cane  ;  the  lofty  co- 
coa-tree ;  the  graceful  palm ;  the  royal  cactus. 

All  was  silent,  strange,  oppressive.  Our  very 
footsteps  gave  no  echo  on  the  soft  matting  where 
they  rested. 

Quite  silently  we  passed  from  end  to  end, 
indulging  our  own  thoughts.  Then  we  reached 
the  curtained  arch  that  led  to  the  next  division 
of  the  conservatories.  It  had  always  been 
Theophile's  taste,  as  well  as  mine,  to  substitute 
draperies  for  doors  wherever  it  might  be  practi- 
cable. I  did  it  in  my  own  rooms  at  home,  and 
here  it  seemed  more  than  ever  Eastern  and  ap- 
propriate. t 

I  looked  at  my  friend,  as  if  asking  silently 
whether  he  would  go  on.  He  nodded.  My 
hand  was  already  on  the  damask  folds,  when  I 
drew  back  suddenly. 

" Hush !"  I  said,  in  a  low  whisper.  "I  hear 
voices  within!" 

He  smiled.  "Some  lovers,  perhaps, "he  re- 
turned, in  the  same  tone.  "Let  us  go  back. 
It  would  be  a  pity  to  interrupt  them  !" 

And  he  passed  his  arm  through  mine.  But 
there  was  some  fascination  in  the  faint  tones 
which  I  had  heard — some  indefinable  fascina- 
tion, which  ran  through  me  like  an  electric 
touch,  and  chained  my  feet  to  the  spot. 

''Come  away,"  said  Seabrook,  impatiently, 
"  or  I  go  without  you.  I  have  no  wish  to  play 
the  eavesdropper." 

"Go,  then, "I  rejoined,  hoarsely.  "Go.  I 
must  remain  here." 

"  What  is  the  matter  ?     Are  you  ill  ?" 

"Listen!" 

The  voices  were  dulled  by  the  heavy  damask 
intervening,  yet  not  so  dulled  but  that  the  words 
came  through  distinctly. 

"All  men  are  flatterers,  and  I  believe  none 
of  them  —  not  even  you,  monsieur,  despite  that 
imploring  look !  Have  you  not  a  wife  whom 
you  adore  ?" 

"If  I  have  a  wife,  it  does  not  follow  that  I 
adore  her !  We  men  marry  for  wealth  and  po- 
sition, but  we  reserve  our  hearts  for  beauty. 
Your  logic  is  not  sound,  charming  The'rese !" 

"Madame  is  beautiful.  What  woman  could 
be  more  so  ?" 

"Yourself!  Nay,  I  swear  by  those  glorious 
eyes  that  you  are  a  million  times  more  lovely 
E 


than  the  fair,  soulless  doll  whom  I  call  wife ! 
Compare  yourself  with  her,  Siren,  and  confess 
that  it  is  so !" 

"  I  will  confess  nothing." 

" — Except  that  you  love  me!" 

"Vain  man!" 

"Not  vain,  for  I  deserve  all  that  you  can 
give  in  return  for  my  devotion.  Am  I  not  your 
slave — literally  your  slave  ?  Is  there  any  thing 
which  you  could  ask  and  I  refuse  ?  Is  it  not 
my  pride  to  deck  you  with  jewels  that  a  queen 
might  envy — with  shawls  that  a  caliph  would 
not  disdain  ?  Is  not  my  wealth,  my  heart,  my 
life  at  your  disposal  ?" 

"  And  you  really  love  me  ?" 

"  I  never  loved  till  now !" 

"  Then  I  suppose  I  must  believe  you.  But 
I  have  not  yet  thanked  you  for  the  gift  you  sent 
me  yesterday.  It  was  so  splendid,  and  chosen 
with  such  exquisite  taste !  I  do  not  know  that 
I  have  ever  seen  a  vehicle  so  elegant." 

"I  hope  to  see  you  drive  past  my  house  in 
it;  it  will  then  look  ten  times  more  elegant." 

"Not  with  my  horses !  They  are  too  large 
for  such  a  fairy  chariot.  How  exquisitely  a 
pair  of  cream-colored  ponies  would  become  it !" 

"You  shall  have  them  to-morrow." 

"  No,  no.     I  will  not  suffer  you  to — " 

"  I  shall  send  them  to  you,  and  you  will  ac- 
cept them.  Promise  me  that  you  will  accept 
them!" 

"I  can  refuse  you  nothing!" 

1 '  Loveliest,  queenliest  of  women !  Say  that 
word  once  again — just  once!  Oh,  Therese ! 
The'rese !  thy  beauty  intoxicates  me ! " 

My  hand  was  on  the  curtain,  but  Seabrook 
grasped  me  by  the  wrist  and  forcibly  detained 
me. 

"Let  me  go,"I  said,  in  a  voice  that  trembled 
with  deep  passion.  "Let  me  go ! " 

"Madman !  what  would  you  do ?" 

* '  Confront  them !" 

"To  what  end?  To  make  an  enemy  of  your 
brother  —  to  exclude  yourself  from  his  house — 
to  place  an  insuperable  barrier  between  your- 
self and  every  means  of  useful  action  that  inti- 
macy and  observation  might  afford  you  ?  De- 
sist. You  know  not  yet  what  you  may  be  ena- 
bled to  do.  The  first  person  to  be  remembered 
is  his  wife.  She  must  not  know  this." 

"  Poor  Adrienne ! " 

"  Come  away,  come  away !  We  can  best 
serve  her  by  remaining  calm  and  keeping  our 
heads  clear.  Come  away  from  this  place !" 

The  recollection  of  Adrienne  had  subdued 
me,  and  I  submitted  like  a  child  to  the  influ- 
ence of  his  graver  and  more  temperate  judg- 
ment. The  fresher  air  of  the  outer  passage 
seemed  to  cool  the  fever  in  my  blood.  We 
passed  hastily  through  the  crowded  hall,  past 
the  long  lines  of  carriages,  and  out  into  the 
quiet  streets  where  not  a  footstep  echoed  on  the 
lonely  pavement,  and  where  the  innocent  stars 
were  still  shining  out  of  the  depths  of  upper  sky 
u  Like  sweet  thoughts  in  a  dream." 

This,  then,  was  the  secret  of  that  long  aver- 


66 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


sion,  hitherto  so  inexpiable  to  myself — that 
aversion  dating  from  the  first  moment  that  I 
had  seen  her  upon  the  stage  at  Frankfurt— 
which  I  had  felt  so  strong  within  me  when  I  en- 
countered her  on  the  railway  as  I  returned  from 
Antwerp — which  had  affected  me  so  powerfully 
but  a  few  nights  since  in  the  Opera  House  of 
Brussels !  Mysterious  promptings  of  the  heart 
—  inexplicable  repulsions  and  affinities,  who 
shall  presume  to  deny  or  to  define  them  ? 

Oh,  my  brother,  my  brother,  that  thou  shouldst 
do  such  evil ! 

Absorbed  in  these  thoughts,  and  wholly  oc- 
cupied by  my  own  distress  of  mind,  I  had  taken 
no  heed  of  external  circumstances,  and  I  started 
when  Seabrook  pressed  my  arm  suddenly,  and, 
pointing  to  a  shadowy  form  gliding  along  by  the 
houses  at  the  opposite  side  of  the  street,  said,  in 
a  quick  whisper, 

"Do  you  see  that  man  yonder?  He  has 
dogged  our  steps  ever  since  we  left  your  broth- 
er's house." 

"  Pshaw !  you  fancy  it.  What  could  be  his 
motive  ?  We  are  two  to  one." 

"I  know  nothing  but  the  fact.  See  !  if  he 
approaches  a  lamp,  how  he  turns  aside  to  avoid 
the  light!" 

My  curiosity  became  roused.  We  quickened 
our  steps — we  loitered — we  made  unnecessary 
detours.  Still  his  pace  altered  with  ours,  and 
followed  us  wherever  we  went.  We  were  watch- 
ed, beyond  the  shadow  of  a  doubt. 

Suddenly  we  changed  our  tactics,  faced  round, 
and  stood  still.  The  spy  stood  still  likewise. 

Seabrook  laughed  and  rubbed  his  hands  glee- 
fully. The  affair,  in  his  eyes,  had  already  as- 
sumed the  character  of  an  adventure. 

"Let  us  turn  the  tables, "  he  whispered,  "and 
follow  him!" 

We  accordingly  advanced  rapidly  toward  our 
pursuer.  Seen  dimly  in  the  angle  where  he 
stood,  he  seemed  to  pause  irresolutely  for  a  mo- 
ment— even  to  take  one  forward  step,  as  if  with 
the  intention  of  meeting  us  —  then  turned  and 
walked  very  swiftly  down  the  street. 

It  was  our  place  to  follow  now,  and  this  we 
did  with  so  much  determination,  that  the  walk 
merged  presently  into  a  run,  and  away  we  went 
through  the  dark,  silent  thoroughfare,  pursuers 
and  pursued,  as  fast  as  our  flying  feet  would 
carry  us. 

Up  one  street,  down  another,  across  the  mark- 
et-place, in  and  out  a  labyrinth  of  narrow  wind- 
ing alleys  and  crooked  passages— it  was  evident 
that  he  knew  the  intricacies  of  the  old  town  by 
heart.  Presently  my  breath  began  to  fail,  and 
my  head  to  grow  giddy.  I  staggered  —  I  stop- 
ped suddenly— I  could  go  no  farther. 

"Keep  on',  Seabrook,"  I  gasped,  leaning  back 
heavily  in  the  shelter  of  a  doorway.  "Keep 
on.  I  will  wait  here  for  you." 

Agile  and  unwearied  as  a  greyhound,  he 
sprang  forward  even  more  rapidly  than  before. 
In  a  few  moments,  however,  he  returned  reluct- 
antly and  slowly.  The  brief  delay  occasioned 
by  my  stoppage  had  favored  the  escape  of  the 


spy.  When  Seabrook  turned  the  corner  he  was 
already  out  of  sight,  and  beyond  this  point  sev- 
eral streets  and  courts  branched  off,  amid  which 
it  would  have  been  useless  to  pursue  the  search. 
The  game,  for  once,  had  outsped  the  hunts- 
men, and  we  were  left  to  find  our  way  back  to 
the  upper  town  as  best  we  might,  wearied  out 
with  the  chase,  and  marveling  together  over  the 
events  of  the  evening. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 
"THE   ROAD   TO   RUIN." 

"  How,  Theophile !  and  thus  early  ?" 

"Myself.  Hardly  hoped  to  find  you  awake, 
monfrere.  Have  not  been  to  bed  all  night  my- 
self. Not  worth  while,  you  will  say,  when  I 
tell  you  that  I  was  out  till  past  three  o'clock  this 
morning.  Society  is  a  Maelstrom.  Once  in, 
you  can  never  get  out  of  it,  and  are  whirled  on 
faster  and  faster,  till — " 

" Till  it  swallows  you  up  altogether!" 

"Very  true — very  true.  But  I  am  not  yet 
ingulfed.  By  the  way,  you  left  us  very  early, 
Paul,  the  night  of  our  soir&." 

"Yes,  I  left  early,  and  without  having  spoken 
to  you  once.  How  did  you  leave  madame  ?" 

"I  really  do  not  know.  She  was  asleep 
when  I  left  home." 

"You  have  come  to  breakfast  with  me,  The- 
ophile ?" 

"No,  thank  you.  I  have  no  appetite  this 
morning.  The  fact  is,  I — I  came  to  ask  you  if 
you  had  another  five  thousand  which  you  don't 
particularly  want  just  now.  My  remittances 
will  arrive  to-morrow  or  next  day,  when  you' 
shall  be  repaid  instantly." 

All  this  was  spoken  rapidly  and  nervously;, 
and  I  observed  that  he  stood  before  the  glass  ar- 
ranging his  cravat,  and  avoiding  my  eyes  as 
much  as  possible. 

"Another  five  thousand  !"  I  echoed,  pushing 
back  my  chair,  and  fixing  a  searching  glance 
upon  his  face.  "Another  five  thousand!  What 
can  you  want  with  such  large  and  frequent 
sums  ?" 

"/  want  nothing,  my  dear  fellow,"  he  re- 
turned, with  a  forced  laugh.  "  The  affair  con- 
cerns my  tradesmen !  I  have  bought  largely, 
pictures,  statues,  plants — " 

"For  the  conservatory,"!  interrupted. 

"Just  so — for  the  conservatory,"  he  contin- 
ued, with  the  slightest  possible  shade  of  embar- 
rassment in  his  tone.  "  And  the  soiree  was  an 
immense  expense.  Besides,  there  have  been 
ornaments  for  my  wife,  horses,  carriages,  hotel 
bills.  Really,  I  dread  to  think  of  what  we  have 
spent  already !" 

"  It  must  cost  you  a  great  deal  for  horses, 
carriages,  and  jewelry,"  I  remarked,  dryly. 

Theophile  flushed  crimson  up  to  the  roots  of 
his  hair,  and  looked  at  me  very  earnestly.  See- 
ing, however,  that  I  maintained  a  perfect  com- 
posure, he  drew  a  long  breath  and  resumed, 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


67 


though  with  a  more  constrained  and  anxious 
manner  than  before, 

"Yes,  we  find  the  'season'  costs  money;  but 
we  are  rich,  mon  frere,  and  we  may  as  well  use 
our  wealth  in  moderation.  But,  to  return  to 
my  first  question — have  you  the  five  thousand 
francs  to  spare  me  this  morning  ?  I  could  ask 
Adrienne,  for  no  doubt  she  has  as  much  by  her ; 
but  one  doesn't  like  to  borrow  from  one's  wife." 

"Why  not?  You  but  need  to  tell  her  how 
much  you  require,  and  for  what  you  require  it, 
and  she  loves  you  so  much  that  I  am  sure  that 
she  would  give  it  on  the  instant." 

"Ah!  yes — of  course;  but  women  do  not 
understand  these  things  ;  and —  But,  if  you  do 
not  wish  to  oblige  me,  I  have  no  wish  to  press 
you.  I  should  have  thought  my  credit  good 
with  my  own  brother." 

"It  is  not  that,  The'ophile,"  I  replied,  very 
calmly.  "  You  should  be  welcome  to  the  mon- 
ey if  I  had  it ;  but  I  assure  you  I  have  not  more 
than,  if  so  much  as,  half  that  sum  in  my  desk." 

He  colored  up  again,  but  this  time  it  was 
with  disappointment. 

' '  You  shall  have  two  thousand  francs,  if  they 
be  of  any  use  to  you,"  I  said,  after  a  few  min- 
utes' pause,  during  which  he  had  been  pacing  to 
and  fro  between  the  table  and  the  window. 
"Surely  that  will  suffice  till  you  receive  mon- 
ey." 

"Thank  yQU,"  he  replied,  somewhat  stiffly. 
"I  accept  your  kindness ;  and  I  hope  to  return 
all  that  I  owe  you  before  the  week  is  out." 

"You  need  not  be  so  proud  about  it,  Theo- 
phile.  I  would  come  to  you  if  I  wanted  money 
to-morrow,  and  not  deem  myself  under  so  very 
heavy  an  obligation  when  you  had  lent  it.  How 
proceed  the  repairs  at  Hauteville  ?" 

My  brother  blushed  again.  It  was  strange 
how  often  he  blushed  this  morning ;  but  then, 
as  a  boy,  his  handsome,  ingenuous  face  had  al- 
ways betrayed  every  transient  emotion  that  flit- 
ted through  his  mind. 

"  Hauteville  ?  Oh,  tolerably,  I  believe.  That 
is,  I — I  do  not  think  they  are  doing  much  at 
present.  Burgundy  is  a  dull  place." 

"You  did  not  think  so  when  you  first  pur- 
chased the  estate." 

"True ;  but — but  Adrienne  has  seen  more  of 
the  world  since  then,  and  cares  less  for  retire- 
•  ment.     I  may  not  keep  Hauteville,  after  all." 

1 '  You  amaze  me !     And  our  mother —  ?" 

"Would,  perhaps,  be  a  little  disappointed; 
but  then  she  would  soon  be  reconciled  to  the 
change.  Besides,  although  I  have  talked  of  it, 
we  may  not  give  it  up,  you  know." 

"I  earnestly  hope  not,  The'ophile,"  I  replied, 
gravely.  "You  are  our  mother's  darling,  and 
you  hold  much  of  her  happiness  in  your  power. 
Going  already  ?  Stay,  you  must  not  forget 
your  money.  Here  are  the  notes." 

He  crushed  the  papers  into  his  pocket-book, 
wished  me  a  hasty  good-day,  and  protesting  ve- 
hemently against  the  trouble  I  took  in  seeing 
him  to  the  door,  sprang  into  his  carriage  and 
drove  away. 


Returning  slowly  and  sadly  to  my  room,  I 
find  a  paper  lying  near  the  door — a  little  open 
note,  on  which  a  few  words  are  written  in  a  del- 
icate female  hand.  So  few  are  they,  that,  as  I 
lift  it  from  the  ground,  I  read  them  at  a  glance 
— indeed,  almost  before  I  am  aware  of  it. 

"Why  have  you  not  been  to-day,  mon  cherif 
I  have  expected  you  since  noon,  and  it  is  now 
past  midnight.  Meet  me  in  the  foyer  at  eleven 
o'clock  to-morrow  evening,  and  return  with  me 
to  sup.  I  can  not  ask  you  sooner,  for  we  have 
a  rehearsal  during  the  day.  Bring  me  some 
money ;  my  modiste  wearies  me  with  importuni- 
ties. Ever  thy. THERESE." 

The  letter  bore  the  date  of  the  previous  day. 

There  were  two  entrances  to  the  foyer — the 
one  leading  from  the  public  part  of  the  theatre, 
the  other  opening  into  the  street.  Through 
this  outer  door  (which,  properly  speaking,  should 
be  called  the  stage  entrance)  the  actors,  musi- 
cians, officials,  and  certain  privileged  habitues 
passed  to  their  various  destinations  behind  the 
scenes ;  and  hither,  accordingly,  I  repaired 
about  twenty  minutes  before  the  time  appoint- 
ed, for  I  judged  that  it  was  by  this  door  my 
brother  would  come  to  the  place  of  meeting. 

It  was  a  little  side  entrance  opening  into  a 
dull  back  street,  and  lighted  by  a  powerful  jet 
of  gas.  Just  within  the  threshold  I  saw  a 
young  man  sitting  sleeping  at  a  desk,  with  some 
papers  and  the  fragments  of  a  frugal  supper  ly- 
ing before  him.  Hence  a  second  door,  which 
was  occasionally  opened  by  passers  to  and  fro, 
revealed  glimpses  of  a  whitewashed,  dreary- 
looking  bricked  passage,  also  lighted  by  gas, 
and  offering  but  few  temptations  as  a  means  of 
transit. 

Outside  this  place  I  paced  slowly  and  method- 
ically until  he  should  arrive,  only  pausing  at 
times  to  listen  anxiously  to  the  sound  of  distant 
wheels,  or  loitering  now  and  then  to  glance  at 
the  clock  above  the  head  of  the  sleeper  at  the 
desk. 

Watching  and  waiting — watching  and  wait- 
ing— what  a  weary  task  it  was,  and  how  every 
minute  seemed  the  length  often! 

Yet  I  was  not  quite  alone  in  my  promenade, 
for  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street,  sometimes 
pacing  backward  and  forward,  sometimes  paus- 
ing and  leaning  against  the  wall,  I  saw  a  sec- 
ond loiterer.  There  were  no  gas-lamps  in  the 
street,  and  the  night  was  so  intensely  dark  that 
I  could  distinguish  nothing  clearly  ;  but  his  ap- 
pearance seemed  that  of  a  man  in  the  middle 
station  of  life — perhaps  even  a  grade  poorer. 
He  was  waiting,  most  likely,  for  his  wife  or  sis- 
ter— some  ill-paid  coryphee  or  chorus-singer.  A 
wretched  life !  Somehow,  despite  my  own  cares 
and  all  that  I  had  to  make  me  anxious,  my 
thoughts,  having  been  once  diverted  into  this 
channel,  continued  to  flow  there,  and  I  found 
myself  inventing  a  sequence  of  contingent  prob- 
abilities— picturing  his  home,  his  children,  the 
meagre  furniture,  the  scanty  meal  to  which  they 


GS 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


returned  at  night  after  the  glare  and  weariness 
of  the  evening's  performance.  Thinking  thus, 
I  forgot  the  presence  of  the  very  man  of  whom 
I  was  thinking,  and  was  only  recalled  to  my 
original  purpose  by  the  sudden  driving  up  and 
stoppage  of  a  hackney-carriage  at  the  stage 
door. 

I  sprang  to  the  spot ;  a  gentleman  leaped  out 
of  the  vehicle,  and  in  an  instant  Theophile  and 
I  were  face  to  face. 

"Stay,  my  brother,  stay!  I  know  all  —  I 
found  the  letter — I  am  here  to  try  and  save 
you !  Remember  your  wife — remember  Adri- 
enne !" 

The  light  from  the  open  doorway  fell  full 
upon  his  face.  He  stood  quite  still — his  color 
came  and  went — his  lips  quivered — his  whole 
attitude  and  countenance  expressed  the  strug- 
gle of  many  feelings. 

"You  are  ruining  yourself,  Theophile!  I 
have  known  something  of  this  for  several  days, 
but  I  abstained  from  speaking  until  now.  Oh, 
that  I  may  not  be  too  late  !" 

Still  silent — still  down-looking—still  red  and 
pale  alternately. 

"Not  only  for  your  fortune,  but  for  your  rep- 
utation, your  happiness,  your  peace  of  mind, 
which  are  all  in  danger,  I  implore  you  to  re- 
flect!" 

"  I  but  act  as  others  act,"  he  said,  in  a  sup- 
pressed tone.  * '  Why  should  it  be  a  greater 
crime  in  me  than  in  them  ?" 

An  elegant  close-carriage,  with  blazing  lamps 
and  prancing  horses,  drove  up  as  he  was  speak- 
ing, and  stopped  before  the  door.  The  man  at 
the  desk  woke  up  suddenly ;  the  second  door 
leading  to  the  brick  passage  was  flung  open  ;  a 
cry  of  "Madame  Vogelsang's  carriage!"  was 
repeated  by  many  voices,  and  several  persons 
came  hastening  out,  surrounding  and  escorting 
a  lady  whose  features  were  almost  concealed  be- 
neath the  hood  of  a  velvet  opera-cloak,  and  who 
was  leaning  upon  the  arm  of  a  repulsive-look- 
ing man  with  a  profusion  of  red  whiskers  and 
mustaches. 

A  flash  of  anger  passed  over  Theophile's  feat- 
ures at  this  sight,  and  he  took  a  forward  step. 
I  caught  him  by  the  arm. 

"  Stay!  It  is  a  madness!"  I  cried.  "You 
know  not  what  you  do!" 

"It  is  a  madness,"  he  rejoined,  furiously,  as 
he  shook  off  my  grasp  like  a  roused  lion.  "It 
is  a  madness  and  my  fate.  Let  me  go !" 

In  another  moment  he  had  saluted  her,  and, 
bestowing  a  haughty  stare  upon  the  red-whis- 
kered escort,  had  offered  his  arm,  handed  her 
into  the  carriage,  stepped  in  after  her,  and  driv- 
en rapidly  away. 

As  for  me,  I  stood  like  a  statue — frozen  and 
motionless.  Then  my  eyes  fell  upon  the  gen- 
tleman whose  services  had  been  superseded,  and 
who  yet  remained  standing  upon  the  pavement 
where  she  had  left  him.  His  countenance  was 
contracted  into  an  expression  of  malignity  and 
baffled  shame,  and  his  head  was  yet  turned  in 
the  direction  by  which  the  carriage  had  disap- 


peared. Presently  the  features  relaxed  —  a 
sneering  smile  writhed  on  his  lips — he  ran  his 
jeweled  fingers  lightly  through  his  hair,  and 
sauntered  into  the  office,  whistling  softly.  Then 
the  clerk  resumed  his  seat  at  the  desk ;  the  other 
loiterers,  with  the  other  gentlemen,  retired  back 
whence  they  came,  and  in  a  few  seconds  all  was 
silent  and  empty  as  before. 

A  strange  feeling  of  curiosity  came  over  me — 
a  feeling  that  I  must  learn  the  name  of  this  man 
whose  presence  inspired  Theophile  with  such 
open  discourtesy  and  anger.  I  stepped  forward, 
entered  the  room,  and  civilly  asked  the  ques- 
tion. 

The  clerk  smiled  and  looked  surprised. 

"His  name  is  Lemaire — Monsieur  Alphonse 
Lemaire." 

"And  his  station?" 

"He  is  the  manager  of  this  theatre." 

I  thanked  him  and  turned  toward  the  door. 
There  was  a  pale  face  peering  eagerly  in  and 
suddenly  withdrawn — a  pale  face  that  gave  me 
a  sudden  shock  for  which  I  was  unable  to  ac- 
count, and  which  for  a  moment  struck  me  with 
a  sensation  like  that  of  fear,  as  if  I  had  seen  a 
wraith — or,  rather,  as  if  I  had  beheld  it  before 
under  some  strange  and  terrible  circumstances 
that  I  could  not  remember.  Perhaps  in  a  bad 
dream — who  could  tell  ? 

During  a  few  seconds  I  stood  still,  with  my 
eyes  fixed  upon  the  door,  expecting  every  in- 
stant to  see  it  return.  Suddenly  a  suspicion 
flashed  upon  me.  I  thought  of  the  loiterer  upon 
the  opposite  footway — of  the  spy  of  a  few  nights 
since !  It  was  plain  that  I  was  watched,  and 
constantly.  I  uttered  a  hasty  exclamation,  flew 
to  the  door,  and  gazed  eagerly  up  and  down  the 
street. 

The  man  whom  I  sought  was  no  longer  keep- 
ing watch  on  the  other  side.  He  had  crossed 
over,  and  was  waiting  in  the  shadow  close  against 
the  wall,  some  few  yards  from  the  spot  where  I 
stood. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

THE  ARROW  IS  FITTED  TO  THE  BOW. 

HE  made  no  attempt  to  elude  me  this  time, 
but,  to  my  surprise,  stepped  forward  to  meet  me, 
and  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,"  he  said,  quietly, 
touching  his  hat  the  while,  "  but  might  I  ask  the 
favor  of  a  few  minutes'  conversation  with  you  ?" 

"I  was  about  to  make  the  same  request. 
Pray  speak." 

"  You  will  allow  me  to  put  a  few  questions  to 
you,  sir  ?" 

"Yes,  on  condition  that  I  may  afterward  use 
the  same  privilege." 

"Agreed." 

We  had  been  standing,  half  defyingly,  face 
to  face,  but  upon  the  conclusion  of  this  brief 
treaty  we  involuntarily  dropped  side  by  side, 
and  commenced  walking  leisurely  to  and  fro  in 
the  shadow  of  the  silent  street.  It  was  so  dark 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


that  I  could  not  see  his  features  very  distinctly, 
but  they  looked  commonplace  enough,  and  I 
could  distinguish  nothing  of  the  expression  and 
character  that  had  struck  me  so  forcibly  only  a 
few  moments  since. 

He  recommenced. 

"  In  the  first  place,  then,  were  you  not  pres- 
ent at  a  soiree  given  in  the  Rue on  the  15th 

evening  of  the  present  month  ?" 

"I  was." 

"Are  you  acquainted  with  the  giver  of  that 
soiree  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Was  that  he  with  whom  you  were  speaking 
to-night,  just  as  Madame  Vogelsang  was  coming 
out?" 

"  Why  do  you  ask  me  these  questions?" 

' '  That  is  my  business.  Answer  them,  and  I 
will  answer  yours.  Such  was  our  bargain." 

"I  will  not  answer  the  last  till  I  know  your 
motive  for  inquiring." 

"  Very  well ;  then  I  will  pass  on  to  another." 

There  was  something  brief  and  matter-of-fact 
in  his  manner  that  did  not  altogether  displease 
me,  but  I  felt  disposed  to  be  equally  brief  and 
decisive  with  him.  Every  now  and  again  I 
strove  to  see  his  face  more  plainly,  and  sought, 
by  turning  Suddenly  at  times,  to  catch  any  re- 
turn of  the  expression  seen  at  first,  but  in  vain. 
I  observed,  too,  although  he  spoke  with  perfect 
fluency  and  propriety,  that  his  pronunciation  was 
slightly  grating  and  peculiar,  as  if  bearing  traces 
of  a  foreign  origin. 

He  went  on. 

"You  are  aware  that  Madame  Vogelsang 
was  present  at  that  soirge,  on  the  15th  ?" 

"Yes — I  heard  her  sing." 

"Did  it  appear  to  you  that  there  was  any 
thing  remarkable  in  her  conduct  that  evening  ?" 

"You  must  speak  more  clearly.  I  do  not 
understand  what  you  mean  by  '  any  thing  re- 
markable.'" 

"To  be  plain,  then,  any  thing  light — any 
thing  wanton  ?" 

After  a  momentary  hesitation,  I  replied  in 
the  affirmative. 

"Will  you  have  the  goodness  to  relate  the 
circumstances  to  me?" 

"Certainly  not." 

"You  are  afraid  of  implicating  yourself?" 

This  was  spoken  somewhat  harshly  and  satir- 
ically ;  but  I  took  no  notice  of  it,  and  replied 
more  calmly  than  ever. 

"  For  myself,  I  fear  nothing;  but  I  have  nei- 
ther the  right  nor  the  inclination  to  betray  the 
errors  of  others." 

' '  Good ;  I  perceive  that  you  are  cautious. 
One  more  question,  however :  Was  this  conduct 
(which  you  admit  to  have  observed)  open  and 
unconcealed — visible  to  all  eyes,  or  only  to  your 
own  ?" 

"  I  believe  it  to  be  known  only  to  myself  and 
to  a  friend  who  happened  to  be  with  me  at  the 
time." 

"The  same  Avith  whom  you  left  the  house 
that  night?" 


"  —When  you  followed  us  ?    Yes." 

"True  ;  when  I  followed  you,  and  you  hunt- 
ed me.  But  let  that  pass ;  I  want  to  know  all 
that  you  saw." 

"I  have  already  refused  to  tell  it  to  you.'* 

"At  least  tell  me  who  this  preux  chevalier 
may  be  upon  whom  the  chaste  Therese  bestows 
her  favors,  '  secret,  sweet,  and  stolen !'  Is  it  not 
he  with  whom  you  were  speaking  by  yonder 
door  some  ten  or  twenty  minutes  since  ?" 

There  was  something  more  than  harshness, 
brevity,  or  satire  in  the  voice  now.  There  was 
a  deep  inner  vibration,  as  if  of  some  vital  string. 
I  was  startled.  Might  I  not  already  have  said 
too  much  ?  Might  I  not  be  on  the  brink  of  be- 
traying Theophile  to  a  deadly  foe  ?  Suppose 
that  this  man  were  a —  I  shuddered. 

"  I  will  reply  to  no  more  of  your  questions," 
I  said,  hurriedly.  ' '  I  am  sorry  that  I  have  an- 
swered any.  Who  and  what  are  you?  By 
what  right  do  you  hang  upon  my  footsteps  ?- 
Why  do  you  waylay,  and  spy,  and  follow  after 
me  ?  You  were  watching  me  the  other  night — 
you  watched  me  to-night.  What  is  your  pur- 
pose ?  How  do  I  or  my  movements  concern 
you?  Are  you  a  mouchard?" 

The  word  mouchard,  so  offensive  in  a  French- 
man's ears,  seemed  neither  to  sting  nor  annoy 
him.  Indeed,  I  almost  doubt  whether  he  even 
observed  it,  for  he  still  sauntered  on  beside  me 
in  the  same  unmoved,  meditative  manner,  with 
his  head  a  little  bent  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  the 
ground.  He  never  once  looked  up  as  I  uttered 
this  passionate  rush  of  words,  and  was  silent  for 
several  minutes  after  I  had  ceased  speaking. 

At  length  he  replied,  yet  so  musingly  that  it 
seemed  less  a  reply  than  an  answering  to  his 
own  thoughts. 

"I  expected  this,"  he  said.  "It  is  natural 
that  you  should  feel  angry  and  suspicious.  I 
was  not  such  a  fool  as  to  think  you  would  be 
cross-questioned  in  this  fashion.  I  only  did  it 
to  try  you." 

"  To  try  me  ?" 

"Ay.  Suppose  now  that  I  knew,  if  not  all, 
at  least  the  greater  part  of  the  information  I 
have  been  asking  from  you — what  then  ?" 

"  What  then  ?  Why,  you  are  content,  I  sup- 
pose, and  can  have  no  farther  occasion  for  inter- 
rogating me, "  I  replied,  stiffly ;  for  I  saw  in  this 
supposition  only  a  trap  for  the  disclosure  of  all 
that  I  had  refused  to  tell. 

"Not  so;  I  still  require  your  aid  and  confi- 
dence. Suppose  now  —  for  the  sake  of  argu- 
ment —  that  I  know  precisely  in  what  position 
you  stand  to  the  giver  of  that  soiree?" 

I  started  and  was  silent.  My  companion 
gave  a  short  dry  chuckle,  as  if  enjoying  my 
perplexity,  and  went  on  : 

"  Suppose  I  know  that  you  and  he  are  broth- 
ers— that  you  are  both  from  Burgundy — that  he 
is  lately  married?" 

"  Supposing  that  you  do,"  I  retorted,  impa- 
tiently, "you  are  no  wiser  than  half  the  trades- 
people and  visitors  in  Brussels.  It  is  no  more 
than' you  might  have  learnt  from  servants  with 


70 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIPE. 


less  than  half  the  trouble  you  have  taken  to 
watch  me !" 

"Precisely  so,"  he  replied,  in  the  same  tone 
of  quiet  self-possession  and  authority ;  "precise- 
ly so.  It  is  just  what  I  have  learnt  from  serv- 
ants and  tradesmen,  and  it  was  not  to  ascertain 
those  facts  at  all  that  I  have  taken  upon  myself 
the  office  of  your  shadow.  What  I  require  from 
vou  is  your  confidence  and  co-operation,  and  a 
detailed  account  of  all  that  you  know  respecting 
the  liaison  between  your  brother  and  Madame 
Vogelsang  the  singer.  This  I  have  determined 
to  obtain.  I  have  waited  and  watched  for  an 
opportunity  of  speaking  alone  with  you.  The 
other  night  you  were,  as  you  just  stated,  in  the 
company  of  a  friend.  I  followed  you  in  the 
hope  that  you  would  part  with  him  somewhere, 
and  end  your  walk  alone ;  on  the  contrary,  you 
both  turned  round  and  pursued  me.  Of  course 
I  ran  for  it.  What  I  had  to  say  was  for  you 
alone,  and  I  did  not  choose  to  be  questioned. 
To-night  every  thing  has  happened  well.  I 
have  even  seen  your  meeting  with  your  brother 
—  heard  your  expostulations  —  seen  him  drive 
away  with  her  side  by  side  —  in  short,  gained 
ajnple  confirmation  of  my  suspicions  and  the 
current  rumor.  Still  I  have  occasion  for  you. 
There  has  been  much  done  with  which  I  am  un- 
acquainted, and  which  you  must  tell  me.  There 
is  much  to  be  done  wherein  you  must  assist  me. 
You  see  that  it  is  my  wish  to  be  frank  with  you. 
Be  the  same  with  me. 

Frank  indeed !  Dsspite  the  anxiety  with 
which  this  strange  dialogue  inspired  me,  I  could 
scarcely  forbear  a  smile  at  these  words.  A  pe- 
culiar sort  of  frankness,  where  he  preserved  the 
strictest  incognito  himself,  and  exacted  the  full- 
est confidence  from  me ! 

Finding  that  I  replied  not,  he  spoke  again. 

"  Tell  me  all  that  you  noted  between  them 
on  the  night  of  the  soiree." 

"Between  whom?" 

"  Your  brother  and  the  singer." 

"I never  said  that  there  was  a  liaison  between 
them.  What  right  have  you  to  suppose  it  is  he  ? 
You  know  that  he  is  married  —  married  to  a 
woman  whom  he  loves." 

' '  Of  course  you  say  so  at  first ;  but  you  for- 
get what  I  saw  and  heard  in  this  very  street  to- 
night." 

I  was  dumb. 

"Besides  which,"  he  continued,  "I  have 
watched  her,  too,  and  I  have  watched  her 
house.  I  have  seen  him  go  in  and  out  at 
strange  hours — I  have  marked  the  increasing 
splendor  in  which  she  lives — I  have  seen  the 
chariot  and  the  cream-colored  ponies  which  he 
sent  to  her,  and  I  know  from  whom  they  were 
purchased.  More  than  this,  I  know  that  he  is 
plunging  blindly  into  ruin,  and  that  he  is  al- 
ready in  debt  and  in  difficulties.  With  all  these 
things  I  am  more  fully  acquainted  than  your- 
self." 

There  was,  to  me,  something  almost  appalling 
in  this  man's  cool,  dispassionate  resume  of  all 
that  touched  me  most  nearly.  I  recoiled  from 


his  narrative  of  patient,  business-like  espial, 
which,  like  a  dissecting -knife,  laid  open  the 
anatomy  of  that  infected  spot  which  I  would 
have  given  half  my  fortune  to  keep  secret ! 

Tortured  by  an  anxiety  which  had  become 
almost  desperate,  I  suddenly  stood  quite  still, 
seized  him  forcibly  by  the  arm,  and,  stooping 
down  to  the  level  of  his  face,  for  he  was  some- 
what shorter  than  myself,  said  fiercely, 

"Who  and  what  are  you  ?  Speak,  or,  by  the 
fiend,  I  shall  do  you  some  mischief!" 

He  first  made  an  attempt  to  disengage  him- 
self from  my  grasp,  and  then,  finding  the  effort 
useless,  looked  up  at  me  composedly  and  said, 

"  What  am  I  ?  Why,  a  man  like  yourself,  to 
be  sure."' 

"Why  do  you  pry  after  my  brother,  and  what 
are  his  courses  to  you  ?  Who  are  you  ?" 

"  Let  me  go  first,  and  I  will  tell  you." 

"No,  by  heaven,  you  shall  not  escape  me  this 
time !  Till  you  speak  you  are  my  prisoner." 

"Just  as  you  please.  I  do  not  open  my  lips 
again  till  I  am  free." 

He  was  perfectly  calm  and  undismayed  as  he 
said  this,  and,  looking  steadily  forward  at  the 
angle  of  a  building  close  at  hand,  seemed  utter- 
ly unconscious  of  my  presence,  my  threats,  or 
my  hold  upon  his  arms.  For  several  minutes 
Ave  stood  thus.  Talus  himself  could  not  liave 
been  more  impassible.  I  might  as  well  have 
tried  to  intimidate  the  brazen  figure  on  the  bel- 
fry of  the  Hotel  de  Ville.  I  saw  that  it  was 
vain  for  us  to  stand  here  like  two  statues,  so  I 
released  him  sullenly,  and  waited  for  his  expla- 
nation. 

He  laughed  again — the  same  dry  chuckle  as 
before.  At  the  farthest  extremity  of  the  street, 
where  it  opened  into  the  broad  thoroughfare 
leading  to  the  front  of  the  theatre,  there  stood 
a  solitary  lamp.  To  this  he  pointed,  and  be- 
neath it  he  stopped. 

"Look  at  me,"  said  he,  removing  his  hat  and 
smiling  grimly.  "Look  at  me  well.  Now, 
who  do  you  suppose  I  am  ?" 

His  face  was  pale,  and,  though  it  gave  me  the 
impression  of  belonging  to  a  younger  man  than 
I  had  previously  supposed  him,  was  deeply  fur- 
rowed around  the  mouth  and  eyes.  The  fore- 
head was  knotted,  care -lined,  somewhat  con- 
tracted at  the  temples,  and  prominent  over  the 
eyes ;  his  hair  was  thick,  and  sprinkled  prema- 
turely with  gray.  He  wore  neither  beard  nor 
mustache,  and  stooped  in  the  shoulders  like  an 
aged  man.  At  the  utmost,  as  I  guessed,  he 
could  not  be  much  past  thirty,  and  yet  his  as- 
pect was  withered,  neglected,  trouble-worn. 

I  looked  at  him  with  a  painful  interest.  There 
was  something  in  the  face  which  I  almost  pitied 
—something  not  wholly  strange  to  me,  as  it 
seemed.  Where  had  I  seen  that  singular  ex- 
pression before  ?  I  could  not  solve  it ;  I  sighed 
— I  shook  my  head. 

"  I  cari  not  imagine  who  you  are,"  I  replied, 
"but  I  seem  to  have  seen  you  before  —  some- 
where— some  time  long  ago — in  a  dream." 

"No,  you  haven't,"  he  said,  shortly,  replacing 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


71 


his  hat  and  leaning  back  against  the  lamp-post. 
"I've  seen  and  watched  you  these  several  days 
past,  but  we  have  never  been  face  to  face  with 
each  other  before  this  minute." 

There  was  another  brief  pause.  He  seemed 
reluctant  to  speak,  and  drew  his  breath  quickly 
once  or  twice,  as  if  in  the  effort  to  say  something 
which  it  annoyed  him  to  reveal.  Then,  turning 
suddenly  toward  me  and  looking  up,  as  if  to 
mark  the  effect  of  his  words  upon  my  counte- 
nance, he  said, 

"  I  am  the  husband  of  Madame  Vogelsang.'1 

Had  a  thunderbolt  fallen  at  my  feet,  I  could 
scarcely  have  been  more  dismayed.  I  staggered 
back  a  step,  and  stared  at  him  blankly.  The 
husband  of  Madame  Vogelsang !  And  Theo- 
phile  ?  A  confused  dread  of  vengeance — expo- 
sure— shame,  swept  over  me,  and  paralyzed  my 
very  powers  of  speech  and  breathing. 

He  looked  at  me  for  some  time  in  silence ; 
then,  with  a  somewhat  gentler  mien,  "Well," 
he  said,  "does  that  surprise  you?  Have  you 
nothing  to  say  ?  Why,  who  else  should  I  be,  to 
take  so  much  trouble  about  the  matter?" 

"And  you  are  the  Herr  Vogelsang?" 

"Eh?  ah!  yes — I  am  the  Herr  Vogelsang. 
It  is  an  honorable  title  to  bear,  is  it  not  ?  Don't 
you  envy  me  my  wife  —  my  charming,  chaste, 
devoted  Therese?" 

Again  the  deep,  bitter,  vibrating  tone  that  had 
struck  mo  so  before.  It  made  me  cold  at  heart 
to  hear  it  now. 

"Alas  !  Theophile!"  I  exclaimed,  involunta- 
rily. 

He  turned  sharply  and  looked  at  me  again. 

"I  mean  no  harm  to  him, "he  said,  harshly 
and  quickly.  "  I  should  not  have  spoken  to  you, 
or  told  you  what  I  have,  if  that  were  my  inten- 
tion. I  know  the  character  of  that  woman  too 
thoroughly  to  need  any  explanation  of  how  the 
affair  began.  She  entangled  him — seduced  him 
— preys  upon  him  now,  like  a  beautiful  vampire. 
He  is  not  to  blame.  I  wish  to  save  him,  if  it 
can  be  done." 

I  could  scarcely  believe  my  ears  for  wonder 
and  joy  at  hearing  this.  An  inexpressible  sense 
of  relief  came  over  me,  and  I  breathed  again 
more  freely.  My  countenance  must  have  ex- 
pressed something  of  this,  for  my  companion's 
voice  assumed  a  less  austere  accent,  and  his 
communications  became  more  unreserved. 

"  I  married  her,"  said  he,  gloomily,  "  when  I 
was  little  more  than  a  boy.  Her  father  had  been 
my  fathers  oldest  friend,  and  although  she  was 
a  year  or  two  my  senior,  the  match  had  been 
agreed  upon  from  our  childhood  upward.  I 
never  cared  for  her;  but  the  thing  seemed  so 
certain,  so  inevitable,  and  I  had  heard  it  discuss- 
ed for  so  many  years,  that  I  never  thought  to 
oppose  it,  even  in  a  dream.  Every  year  she 
grew  more  beautiful,  yet  every  year  I  conceived 
a  greater  distaste  for  her.  I  told  my  father  this, 
and  he  entreated  me,  with  tears,  to  banish  such 
feelings  and  ideas  forever  from  my  mind.  His 
oldest  friend,  and  her  father,  he  said,  had  been 
consoled  on  his  death-bed  by  the  prospect  of  this 


union.  The  old  promises  had  been  renewed  in 
that  solemn  moment.  It  was  as  a  favor,  nay, 
as  a  right,  that  he  demanded  from  me  the  ful- 
fillment of  an  engagement  entered  upon  in  my 
name  while  I  was  yet  an  infant.  I  loved  my 
father.  I  yielded.  I  married  her.  From  that 
day  I  date  the  degradation  of  my  judgment — 
the  abnegation  of  my  manhood's  royalty.  We 
were  poor,  and  she  was  a  public  singer — an  act- 
ress— a  faithless  wife — a — well,  no  matter — we 
have  been  parted  many  years.  She,  beautiful 
and  infamous,  revels  in  luxury  and  applause.  I, 
laden  with  dishonor,  poor,  comfortless,  and  un- 
happy, lead  a  wretched,  wandering,  aimless, 
homeless  life,  without  a  hope  for  the  future  or 
a  regret  for  the  past." 

There  was  an  inexpressible  melancholy  in  the 
tone  in  which  this  was  said — a  tone  so  sad  and 
so  subdued  that  I  was  tempted  to  hazard  a  few 
words  of  sympathy  and  consolation. 

He  laughed  —  a  bitter,  sardonic  laugh  —  and 
shook  his  head  haughtily. 

"I  want  no  pity,"  he  said.  "All  I  seek  is 
justice,  and  justice  I  will  have.  How  pleasant 
it  is  when  justice  and  vengeance  are  one  !" 

"Vengeance!"  I  repeated. 

"Yes,  vengeance.  Now  listen  to  me.  When 
my  wife  (how  well  it  sounds  —  my  wife!)  first 
fled  from  my  roof,  she  robbed  me — robbed  me 
not  only  of  money  and  jewels,  but  of  the  title- 
deeds  of  a  small  property  to  which  I  had  suc- 
ceeded in  establishing  some  claim  after  a  pro- 
tracted litigation.  This  was  about  two  months 
before  the  last  and  final  hearing  of  my  cause  in 
the  laAv-courts  of  Vienna.  No  one  knew  whith- 
er she  had  fled  with  her  paramour;  every  search 
was  useless,  and  my  cause  was  lost  for  want  of 
the  necessary  documents.  For  years  I  never 
heard  even  the  echo  of  her  name.  She  was  as 
completely  lost  to  the  world  as  if  the  ground 
had  opened  beneath  her  feet  and  ingulfed  her. 
About  six  months  since  she  emerged  from  her 
seclusion,  and  reappeared  upon  the  Viennese 
stage.  I  was  in  England  at  the  time,  and  knew 
nothing  of  it.  She  created  a  furore — went  from 
Vienna  to  Munich — from  Munich  to  Berlin — , 
Dresden  —  Frankfurt.  I  heard  it  all  by  the 
merest  chance.  I  traveled  from  England  to  Vi- 
enna with  the  speed  of  an  avenger.  I  found  no 
difficulty  in  proving  her  identity,  for  there  were 
many  there  who  had  seen  and  known  her  both 
then  and  now.  My  first  step  was  to  lodge  an 
accusation  against  her  for  the  abstraction  of  pa- 
pers and  other  valuables ;  my  next  to  follow  her 
from  place  to  place  (always  finding  myself,  by 
some  luckless  chance,  a  day,  or,  perhaps,  only  a 
few  hours,  too  late),  and  at  last  to  discover  her 
here,  in  this  town  of  Brussels,  in  my  power — in 
my  power,  whenever  I  choose  to  exercise  it!" 

"  How  can  she  be  in  your  power,  even  noAv  ?" 

"I  do  not  speak  without  reason,  sir,"  said 
he,  impatiently.  Then,  as  if  correcting  himself, 
"I  have  that  with  me  which,  once  produced,  will 
compel  her  to  leave  this  place  and  return  forth- 
with to  Vienna — an  injunction  from  the  govern- 
ment— an  injunction  which  she,  as  an  Austrian 


72 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


subject,  can  not  choose  but  obey — which  can  call 
her  from  the  stage  before  the  eyes  of  the  audi- 
ence, if  I  so  please  ;  an'd  for  the  enforcement  of 
which,  if  she  resist  it,  I  can  claim  the  aid  of  the 
Belgian  authorities.  Now  do  you  comprehend 
me  ?  Now  do  you  see  how  I  can  aid  you,  and 
save  your  brother  from  utter  ruin?" 

I  held  out  my  hand  to  him  in  the  impulse  of 
my  gratitude ;  but  he  appeared  not  to  notice  it, 
and  I  allowed  it  to  drop  unheeded  by  my  side. 

"  Still  I  can  not  understand  why  you  should 
have  sought  me,  or  have  cared  to  interfere  be- 
tween my  brother  and  this  woman,"  I  said,  in- 
quiringly. 

He  looked  down  and  bit  his  lip. 

"  The  question  is  natural,"  he  said,  at  length. 
' '  But  I  scarcely  like  to  answer  it.  The  con- 
fession is  an  ugly  one.  Yet  it  must  out.  I  hated 
her,"  he  continued,  very  swiftly  and  passion- 
ately, "before  I  married  her.  But,  once  wed, 
once  surrounded  by  the  hourly  fascinations  of 
her  presence,  once  master  of  all  her  loveliness, 
I — I  was  fool  enough  to — " 

"To  love  her!"  I  exclaimed. 

"Ay,"  he  muttered,  sullenly,  changing  at 
once  from  the  excited  tone  in  which  he  had 
just  spoken,  "ay — to  love  her!  Curses  on  me 
that  I  should  have  ever  loved  a  thing  so  vile ! 
Curses  on  me  that  I  should  love  her  still,  and 
take  a  dainty  vengeance  in  wresting  her  from 
her  handsome  lover — her  handsome  lover  with 
the  white  hands  and  the  curling  hair !  Pshaw ! 
this  is  sheer  folly.  But  my  plan  and  my  mo- 
tive— yes,  this  is  what  you  seek  to  know;  that 
is  why  I  have  sought  you,  confided  in  you, 
plagued  you  with  this  dull  story.  Listen.  My 
vengeance  would  be  no  vengeance  if  it  did  not 
part  them  utterly.  I  could  not  accomplish  this 
without  your  aid,  and  to  do  it  is  your  interest  as 
well  as  mine.  Do  you  understand  me?" 

"Not  quite.  I  know  what  you  mean,  but  I 
do  not  see  how  we  can  prevent  the  continuation 
of  their  intercourse.  I  fear  that  he  would  fol- 
low her.  He  is  mad.  He  confessed  to  me  to- 
night that  it  was  his  '  fate.' " 

"Precisely.     Then  all  that  we  have  to  do  is 
to  strike  the  blow  suddenly ;  to  keep  him  in  ig- 
norance till  it  is  over,  and  never  to  let  him  know 
what  has  become  of  her." 
•  "Impossible !     He  sees  her  daily." 

"To  contrive  his  absence  for  a  day,  or  even 
two  days,  must  be  your  share  of  the  scheme.  I 
will  undertake  to  achieve  the  rest.  On  his  re- 
turn he  shall  find  her  gone.  The  manager  must 
be  bought — the  officials  must  be  bought ;  com- 
plete secrecy — secrecy  at  any  price,  must  be  se- 
cured. To  judge  from  that  manager's  face  to- 
night, I  should  say  that  it  would  not  be  difficult 
to  enlist  him  in  our  service." 

"I  see  it  all.  Nothing  could  be  better.  When 
shall  it  be  done?  Let  us  lose  no  time." 

I  was  excited,  flushed,  and  spoke  rapidly. 

"  No,  no,"  said  he,  quietly,  "  not  yet.  Let  us 
wait  a  while,  till  we  have  matured  our  scheme 
together,  and  laid  the  train  surely.  Besides,  I 
would  rather  your  mind  were  familiarized  with 


it,  and  your  nerves  steadied  to  the  task  first. 
One  false  step,  would  lose  all." 

"But,  in  the  mean  time,  this  thing  is  going 
on.  The'ophile  is  being  ruined,  and  your  wife — " 

"My  wife,  sir,"  he  interrupted,  "may  go  on 
as  she  will  till  the  moment  of  retribution  comes ; 
and  as  for  your  brother,  a  few  days  more  or  less 
can  not  either  save  or  beggar  him.  A  vengeance 
such  as  mine  can  wait — is  the  sweeter  for  delay." 

I  submitted,  but  I  sighed  as  I  submitted. 

"And  now,"  said  he,  "we  have  said  enough 
for  to-night.  It  grows  late,  and  I  already  see 
a  gray  tint  in  the  sky,  which  looks  like  coming 
day.  If  you  will  meet  me  again  to-morrow 
night,  we  can  consult  afresh.  What  say  you 
to  Le  Roi  Faineant  of  Ixelles,  at  ten  o'clock  in 
the  evening  ?  It  is  a  quiet  little  out-of-the-way 
inn  and  brasserie,  about  a  couple  of  miles  out 
of  town.  We  shall  be  safe  and  undisturbed 
enough  there!" 

"As  you  please ;  but  why  at  night,  and  so  far?" 

"  Can  you  ask  why  ?  Ah !  I  forget  that  you 
are  no  conspirator.  Well,  then,  do  you  not  see 
that  I  must  keep  myself  concealed?  That  if 
she  knew  of  my  presence  all  our  plot  would  be 
endangered  ?  I  have  not  dared  to  venture  in 
any  place  where  I  should  be  likely  to  encounter 
her.  I  have  scarcely  stirred  out,  save  at  night, 
or  dared  to  take  exercise,  save  in  the  country 
suburbs,  ever  since  my  arrival  in  Brussels.  A 
stab,  to  fulfill  its  errand,  must  fall  suddenly  and 
in  the  dark.  Good-night  to  you,  sir." 

He  touched  his  hat  as  when  he  first  spoke  to 
me,  turned  away  suddenly  from  my  side,  and, 
almost  before  I  could  tell  in  which  direction  he 
had  vanished,  plunged  into  the  shadow  and  dis- 
appeared. 

For  some  time  I  remained  standing  where  he 
had  left  me,  stupefied  by  the  crowd  of  thoughts 
and  emotions  which  his  language  and  presence 
had  aroused  within  me.  His  pale,  care-worn 
face ;  his  strange  story ;  the  espial  which  he  had 
exercised  over  me  ;  the  plot  which  he  had  un- 
folded ;  the  peculiar  influence  with  which  he  had 
swayed  me  during  the  interview,  all  combined 
to  trouble,  to  excite,  to  oppress  me.  I  felt  my- 
self, as  it  were,  a  tool  in  his  hands.  His  face 
and  voice  haunted  me.  I  could  not  forget  the 
expression  of  his  features  as  he  watched  me  from 
the  doorway  when  I  had  entered  the  little  office 
inside  the  etage  entrance  of  the  theatre.  The 
whole  thing  seemed  to  me  like  a  dream,  or  rath- 
er the  dream  of  a  dream,  for  I  could  not  rid  my- 
self of  the  impression  that  I  had  seen  him  before, 
at  some  sad  and  remote  time  or  other.  Him- 
self seemed  to  me  almost  as  a  phantom.  I  tried 
to  remember  that  I  ought  to  feel  gratitude — joy 
— relief  from  what  I  had  learnt  and  undertaken. 
I  almost  hated  myself  for  the  unutterable  mel- 
ancholy that  had  fallen  upon  me  the  instant  he 
was  gone  from  my  side,  and  for  the  hopeless, 
dreary  feeling  with  which  I  contemplated  the 
future.  It  was  as  if  I  felt  the  spell  of  some  ap- 
proaching danger ;  and  ever,  as  I  threaded  the 
solitary  streets  leading  to  my  home  in  the  gray 
morning,  I  murmured  to  myself, 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


73 


"  Oh  that  it  were  to  be  done  to-morrow !    Oh 
that  it  were  to  be  done  to-morrow!" 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

THE   SKY  DARKENS    BEFORE   THE   STORM. 

I  CALLED  on  Adrienne  the  next  morning, 
and  found  Seabrook  there  before  me.  She  was 
leaning  back  in  &fauteuil\nth  a  book  lying  open 
upon  a  small  table  close  at  hand.  He  was  bend- 
ing over  some  geraniums  in  the  window,  and 
looked  up,  as  I  entered  the  room,  with  a  troubled 
expression  upon  his  face,  such  as  I  had  seldom 
seen  there  before. 

Adrienne  observed  my  glance,  and  smiled 
somewhat  sadly. 

"I  have  been  undertaking  the  graceless  office 
of  adviser  to  your  friend,"  she  said,  after  the 
customary  salutations  Avere  over.  "I  think  it 
is  almost  his  duty  to  employ  his  education  and 
talents  in  the  exercise  of  some  honorable  pur- 
suit." 

"Then,  madame,"  I  replied,  "you  should  ad- 
vise me  likewise,  for  I  find  myself  in  precisely 
the  same  position." 

* '  Not  so  ;  you  have  estates  to  cultivate — de- 
pendents whose  happiness  must  rest,  in  a  great 
measure,  upon  your  treatment — wealth  which 
it  is  your  task  to  employ  worthily.  All  these 
things  may  be  sufficient  for  a  rich  scholar  who 
loves  his  library,  his  old  home,  and  his  'paternal 
acres'  better  than  the  civil  warfare  of  profession- 
al life.  Such  is  not  the  case  with  your  friend. 
He  confesses  that  his  resources  are  insufficient 
for  his  requirements.  He  would  fain  be  the 
possessor  of  some  few  hundred  volumes  of  poet- 
ry,  history,  and  romance.  He  enjoys  refined 
society,  and  would  wish  occasionally  to  be  the 
entertainer  as  well  as  the  entertained.  It  would 
please  him  now  and  then  to  purchase  a  painting 
by  some  favorite  artist;  and  he  could  love  a 
faithful  horse,  or  three  or  four  sagacious  dogs, 
if  it  Avere  in  his  power  to  become  their  master." 

"  A  very  pretty  picture  of  the  beau  ideal  of  a 
wealthy  connoisseur,"  I  replied.  "It  reminds 
one  of  Beckford  and  Horace  Walpole,  or  of  that 
luxurious  desire  of  Gray's,  who  wished  that  he 
could  lie  all  day  upon  a  sofa,  reading  eternal 
new  novels  of  Crebillon  and  Marivaux !" 

She  smiled  again,  and  shook  her  head  play- 
fully. 

"You  misapprehend  me,"  she  said.  "It 
would  distress  me  to  hear  Mr.  Seabrook  aspire 
only  to  the  position  of  a  'wealthy  connoisseur.' 
You  speak  of  a  life  thus  devoted — I  of  a  leisure. 
He  must  earn  the  privileges  of  taste  and  liber- 
ality before  he  can  enjoy  them." 

"Am  I  then  to  understand  that  Seabrook 
contemplates  entering  upon  the  study  of  a  pro- 
fession ?"  I  asked,  incredulously. 

He  blushed  and  laughed.  "The  die  is  not 
yet  cast,"  he  said,  with  an  assumption  of  badi- 
nage that  seemed  hardly  natural,  "but  I  really 
contemplate  such  a  step,  and  have  contemplated 


it  for  some  weeks.  When  a  man  passes  five- 
and-twenty,  he  finds  a  blank  in  his  life  that 
needs  to  be  filled  up  by  some  grim  word,  such 
as  'physician,'  'lawyer,'  or  'statesman.'  It  is 
my  turn  now,  I  suppose  ;  and  Seabrook,  the 
idler  sans  soud,  the  picture-loving,  adA-enture- 
seeking,  all-enjoying  rambler,  the  scorner  of  car- 
riage-tourists, and  the  SAvorn  foe  of  all  ciceroncs, 
guides,  and  valets  de  place,  is  about  to  subside 
into  a  respectable  member  of  society,  with  a  brass 
plate  on  his  door,  and  (if  the  gods  permit)  an  in- 
teresting little  account  at  his  banker's !" 

"Here  is  a  change,  indeed!  Have  I  not 
heard  you  say  of  poverty  that  it  Avas  the  only 
wealth — of  riches,  that  you  pitied  those  who  are 
burdened  Avith  the  care  of  them — of  books,  that 
in  the  liberty  of  reading  in  the  great  free  libra- 
ries of  Paris,  London,  and  Berlin,  you  com- 
manded the  finest  collections  in  the  Avorld — of 
picture-galleries,  that  you  enjoyed  them,  and 
that  their  owner  could  do  no  more?  Oh, 
shame !  you  are  seceding  from  your  own  te- 
nets!" 

"  An  honorable  retreat,  Paul— not  a  flight !" 

"Then  you  acknoAvledge  that  ther^has  been 
a  combat — a  combat  wherein  madame  is  the 
victress." 

"  On  the  contrary,"  retorted  Adrienne,  viva- 
ciously, "it  has,  I  fear,  too  nearly  resembled 
that  celebrated  battle  of  Bologna  of  AA-hich  Guic- 
ciardini  relates  that  it  'Avas  a  victory  obtained 
Avithout  a  combat !'  Mr.  Seabrook  Avas  the  first 
to  enter  upon  the  subject,  and  I  believe  that  the 
opinion  Avhich  I  ventured  to  express  was  pre- 
cisely that  which  he  most  Avished  to  hear." 

"Jesting  apart,"  I  replied,  "I  am  heartily 
pleased  to  knoAV  this.  To  what  profession  do 
you  think  of  turning  your  attention  ?" 

"  I  can  not  say  that  I  have  yet  arrived  at  any 
decision,"  said  he,  Avith  an  assumption  of  pro- 
found gravity.  "  It  lies  at  present  between  the 
Church,  the  laAV,  finance,  and  the  study  of  med- 
icine. Indeed,  I  am  hourly  expecting  the  arri- 
val of  deputations  from  each  of  these  professions, 
soliciting  me  to  confer  immortality  upon  their 
respective  bodies;  and  until  I  have  considered 
the  advantages  and  disadvantages  attendant 
upon  all,  I  can  not  definitively  state  Avhether  it 
is  to  be  the  Archbishopric  of  Canterbury,  the 
Woolsack,  the  Chancellorship  of  the  Exchequer, 
or  the  presidency  of  some  distinguished  medical 
society." 

Thus  conversing,  mingling  jest  with  earnest, 
some  time  passed  by,  and  I  was  just  about  to 
take  my  leave,  Avhen  the  stoppage  of  a  carriage 
beneath  the  windows,  and  a  man's  voice  on  the 
stairs,  told  us  that  Theophile  had  returned  home 
from  his  morning  drive. 

Up  he  came,  bounding  over  three  or  four 
steps  at  a  time,  and  entered  the  draAving-room 
by  storm.  His  face  Avas  flushed;  he  carried 
some  cards  in  his  hand,  and  the  very  air  with 
which  he  threAv  them  doAvn  at  Adrienne's  feet 
was  that  of  a  man  nearly  beside  himself  Avith 
excitement. 

"Void,  void,  ma  fernme /"   he    exclaimed. 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


"Here  is  some  life,  here  is  some  amusement, 
here  is  some  variety  at  last !  A  bal  masque, 
Dieu  inerci!  and  one  patronized,  authorized, 
originated  by.  all  the  best  people  in  Brussels ! 
The  king  lends  his  name — the  nobility  and  vis- 
itors subscribe— it  is  every  thing  that  is  private, 
select,  and  extravagant !  I  have  taken  a  dozen 
tickets  directly,  and  it  is  expected  that  all  will 
be  sold  before  evening.  Oh,  comme  c'est  deli- 
cieuse!" 

Involuntarily  I  glanced  at  Adrienne  to  see 
how  she  would  relish  this  proposition  and  the 
tone  in  which  it  was  conveyed;  but  her  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  the  ground,  and  I  could  not 
read  the  most  transient  emotion  in  the  com- 
posed immobility  of  her  face. 

"Here  are  tickets  for  you  both,"  continued 
Theophile,  boisterously,  as  he  forced  the  cards 
into  Seabrook's  hand  and  mine.  "We  will 
make  a  merry  party — we  will  invent  costumes — 
we  will  have  a  glorious  night  of  it !" 

He  began  walking  to  and  fro  in  his  wild 
mood,  and  his  words  came  thick  and  fast,  like 
those  of  a  man  whose  tongue  has  been  loosed 
by  wine.* 

"You,  Adrienne,  you  shall  go  as  Marie  An- 
toinette ;  she  was  blonde  and  belle,  like  you ! 
Marie  Antoinette! — no,  no  —  that  would  be  an 
evil  omen.  Let  it  be  Marie  Stuart!" 

"  Just  as  bad,"  interrupted  Seabrook.  "  She 
was  beheaded." 

"  Joan  of  Arc,  then !  '' 

"Joan  of  Arc  was  burnt,"  remarked  Adri- 
enne, forcing  a  smile.  "You  are  resolved  that 
mine  shall  be  a  tragic  part,  Theophile." 

"Diab/e!"  exclaimed  my  brother,  looking 
round  with  an  odd,  wandering  stare.  "Why 
do  these  fatal  names  come  into  my  head  ?  We 
mean  to  be  merry  —  we  mean  to  forget  every 
thing  but  pleasure  —  we  want  no  evil  omens! 
Be  Pallas,  or  Helen,  or  the  Virgin  Mary — they 
were  not  beheaded,  or  burnt,  or  guillotined,  were 
they  ?  Ha  !  ha !  Let  us  enjoy  it  in  prospect ! 
Vive  le  bal  masqu€!" 

"  But  you  have  not  yet  told  us  where  it  is  to 
take  place,"  said  I,  addressing  him  for  the  first 
time. 

"Where?  Why,  where  should  it  be  held, 
unless  in  the  ballroom  of  the  Opera  ?  We  shall 
have  the  entire  orchestra  for  our  band,  and  it 
will  be  the  best  ball  of  the  whole  season  !  What 
characters  shall  we  take?  What  will  you  be, 
Seabrook  ?  What  will  you  be,  Paul  ?"  Then, 
not  waiting  for  any  reply,  "I  have  thought  of 
hundreds  for  myself,"  he  continued,  "  but  I  can't 
decide.  What  say  you  to  Robespierre — Charles 
the  Twelfth— Philip  de  Comines— Dante— the 
Man  with  the  Iron  Mask — Shakspeare  —  the 
Count  of  Monte  Christo  —  Sir  Philip  Sidney — 
the  Knave  of  Hearts — Rob  Roy — Masaniello — 
Napoleon  Bonaparte  —  Polichinello  —  Richard 
the  Third  —  Erasmus — Bluebeard!  Ha!  ha! 
What  a  medley!  Enough  for  all  to  choose 
from!" 

"And  when  does  it  take  place !"  asked  Adri- 
enne, with  a  sigh. 


"To-morrow  week — the  16th  of  October?" 

"But  shall  we  be  in  Brussels,  The'ophile! 
Were  we  not  to  start  for  Burgundy  in  three  or 
four  days?" 

' '  What  folly !  Would  you  think  of  missing 
the  ball  for  that?  We  can  go  to  Burgundy  a 
week  later — or  we  need  not  go  at  all !" 

"Not  go  at  all,  Theophile?"  cried  Adrienne, 
rising  and  fixing  a  searching  glance  upon  his 
face.  "  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"Bah,  Adrienne !  How  you  take  every  thing 
seriously !  Let  us  be  happy  while  we  can  !  I 
will  go  to  the  ball  —  I  swear  it !  And  so  will 
you,  ma  femme :  I  shall  insist  —  mon  Dieu !  I 
shall  insist.  Courtrai  is  to  be  a  steward,"  he 
continued,  falling  back  into  the  reckless  strain 
he  had  pursued  before,  "  and  De  1'Orme  master 
of  the  ceremonies.  They  wanted  me  to  be  a 
steward,  but  I  would  not;  no,  no,  I  was  resolved 
to  be  merry — to  be  free !  free !  free !" 

And  again  he  laughed  aloud,  and  still  he  kept 
striding  backward  and  forward — backward  and 
forward — like  a  prisoner  in  a  dungeon. 

Quite  silently  I  rose  and  left  the  room. .  I 
could  not  bear  to  see  it.  There  was  something 
ghastly  in  his  wild  mirth,  and  I  dared  not  give 
way  to  the  displeasure  which  it  roused  within  me. 

As  I  passed  down  the  staircase,  a  hand  falling 
lightly  on  my  arm  caused  me  to  turn.  It  was 
Adrienne. 

Pale  as  marble — breathless — with  one  finger 
pressed  on  her  lips,  she  opened  a  door  upon  the 
landing,  and,  with  her  hand  still  resting  on  my 
sleeve,  led  me  in  and  closed  it  softly. 

For  some  moments  we  were  both  silent ;  then, 
in  a  voice  that  went  to  my  heart,  so  measured, 
so  low,  so  unnaturally  calm  it  was,  she  spoke  to 
me. 

"You  are  his  brother,  Monsieur  Paul.  You 
have  known  him  longer  and  better  than  I.  You 
know  all  his  faults.  Tell  me  what  this  is." 

I  looked  down  and  shook  my  head  in  silence. 

"  Strange  things  have  taken  place  of  late, 
Monsieur  Paul,"  she  continued,  still  firmly. 
"He  has  not  been  the  same  man  since  we  ar- 
rived in  Brussels.  He  has  anxieties,  debts,  as- 
sociates of  whom  I  know  nothing.  Immense 
expenses  have  been  incurred— timber,  and  even 
land,  has  been  parted  with.  Do  you  know  any 
thing  of  this  ?" 

Again  the  same  mute  reply.  WThat  other 
could  I  give  her  ? 

"  He — he  has  sold  some  farms  of  mine  in  En- 
gland," she  said,  and  her  voice  wavered  slightly. 
j  "His  lawyer  was  with  him  every  day  last  week. 
'  There  is  some  fatal  propensity — some — some  in- 
fatuation at  work,  I  am  convinced.  The  other 
night  he  came  home  as  day  was  dawning,  and 
in  the  morning  I  found  a  pack  of  cards  scatter- 
ed upon  the  floor  of  his  dressing-closet.  He — 
he  gambles." 

"  No,  no,"  I  exclaimed,  eagerly,  "  there  I  am 
certain  you  do  him  an  injustice.  However  weak 
and  thoughtless  he  may  be,  Theophile,  I  am  as- 
sured, could  never  be  a  gambler  !" 

"He  is  a  gambler,"  she  said,  in  a  rapid  and 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


75 


more  excited  tone,  "he  is  a  gambler.  I  know 
it,  for  I  heard  him  call  the  names  of  the  cards 
and  colors  in  his  sleep.  But  let  that  pass ;  let 
him  gamble — let  him  ruin  himself  and  me — let 
us  be  beggars,  pensioners,  outcasts — every  thing, 
in  the  name  of  heaven,  so  that  our  hearts  be  not 
estranged  from  each  other !  I  could  endure 
every  thing  but  neglect ;  I  could  be  happy  un- 
der every  privation  save  that  of  my  husband's 
confidence!  Why  did  we  ever  come  here? 
Why  was  I  ever  born  ?  He  loves  me  no  lon- 
ger !  he  loves  me  no  longer !" 

All  her  pride  and  strength  was  broken  now, 
and,  bending  her  face  down  upon  her  hands, 
she  sobbed  convulsively. 

"Alas!  madame,"!  said,  sorrowfully,  "  what 
can  I  do  ?  This  is  a  sad  sight  for  me.  I  know 
that  he  loves  you  still  —  I  would  stake  my  life 
upon  it!  Shall  I  speak  to  him?" 

She  dashed  her  tears  aside  with  a  haughty 
gesture  of  the  hand,  rose  to  her  full  height,  and 
looked  at  me  with  a  sort  of  proud  anger  in  her 
eyes  that  blinded  mine,  as  if  I  had  been  guilty 
of  some  deep  offense,  and  could  not  lift  them  in 
her  presence. 

"Speak  to  him,  sir!"  she  cried;  "speak  to 
him  !  Have  I  fallen  so  low  that  even  you  insult 
me  now  ?  Think  you  that  I  need  an  interces- 
sor? that  I  must  plead  for  mercy?  that  I  am 
about  to  kneel  down  at  my  husband's  feet,  and 
pray  for  his  kind  glances?  No  —  it  is  too 
much!" 

Standing  there  in  her  lofty  scorn,  upbraiding 
me  with  her  flashing  eyes,  and  curling  lip,  and 
flushed,  disdainful  brow,  she  looks  almost  more 
than  woman ;  then  suddenly  gives  way  and 
weeps  again,  and  entreats  my  pardon,  sobbingly 
and  through  her  tears. 

It  is  her  grief,  she  says,  that  makes  her  un- 
just ;  she  has  been  thinking  of  it,  and  fretting 
over  it,  by  day  and  night,  for  many  weeks,  till 
her  brain  and  her  heart  ache,  and  her  very  voice 
grows  strange  to  her  own  ears.  I  must  forgive 
her !  I  will — will  I  not  ?  She  is  but  a  weak 
girl ;  she  knows  not  what  to  do,  or  where  to 
turn  ;  she  wdnts  help — advice — comfort.  She 
is  broken-hearted,  and  she  longs  to  die ! 

All  this  is  said  at  intervals,  with  a  face  buried 
in  the  cushions  of  a  sofa,  and  a  form  trembling 
from  head  to  foot. 

How  am  I  to  help — comfort — advise  a  grief 
like  this !  What  can  I  say  or  do,  with  the  solu- 
tion of  the  dark  secret  hidden  in  my  breast,  and 
the  knowledge  of  a  blacker  sin  than  even  she 
dreams  of  pressing  down,  like  the  weight  of  an 
iron  hand,  upon  my  heart?  My  only  resource 
is  in  vague,  general  terms  of  sympathy  —  in  re- 
iterated assurances  of  her  husband's  affections 
— in  suggestions  that  his  new  pursuit,  far  from 
being  a  fixed  passion,  could  only  be  considered 
in  the  light  of  a  passing  folly — in  promises  that 
I  would  endeavor  to  keep  him  in  my  sight  as 
much  as  possible,  and,  by  every  indirect  means 
in  my  power,  hasten  his  return  to  Burgundy. 

Uncertain  and  unsatisfactory  as  they  are, 
these  assurances  serve  in  some  degree  to  calm 


the  impetuosity  of  her  mood.  Presently  the 
excess  of  agitation  subsides,  and  by-and-by  a 
low  occasional  sob  is  all  that  I  hear. 

Thus  at  length  I  leave  her,  and,  pausing  with 
suspended  breath  outside  the  door,  hear  the 
voices  of  Theophile  and  Norman  Seabrook  yet 
conversing  in  the  drawing-room.  It  seems  that 
they  are  still  discussing  the  subject  of  the  ball, 
for  the  words  "costume — feathers— grotesque, " 
accompanied  by  a  prolonged  peal  of  laughter, 
come  distinctly  to  my  ear,  and  jar  upon  it  pain- 
fully. 

And  so  I  turn  away,  and  hasten  down  into 
the  street  unnoticed. 

I  am  to  meet  Vogelsang  to-night  at  the  little 
inn  of  Ixelles,  and  I  hope  much  from  the  inter- 
view. It  must  be  done  quickly  —  it  must  be 
done  quickly ! 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

THE   EVENTS    OF    A    WEEK. 

A  FEW  words  will  suffice  to  relate  all  that 
took  place  during  the  week  which  intervened 
between  the  last  chapter  and  the  next.  It  was 
a  weary  time,  occupied  by  delays — disappoint- 
ments— doubts — daily-increasing  apprehensions. 

Adrienne  was  in  the  right — Theophile  gam- 
bled. Vogelsang  had  discovered  it  long  since, 
and  on  the  evening  of  the  very  day  that  Adri- 
enne confided  her  fears  to  me,  the  intelligence 
received  its  final  confirmation  from  the  lips  of 
my  associate.  Nay,  worse  even  than  this, 
Hauteville  —  Hauteville,  which  had  been  pur- 
chased in  the  morning-time  of  his  happiness, 
and  which  was  to  have  descended  as  an  integral 
portion  of  the  Latour  property  from  generation 
to  generation,  was  publicly  advertised  for  sale 
in  all  the  Belgian  and  French  newspapers ! 

He  might  have  been  saved — he  might  have 
been  saved  even  now,  had  I  but  succeeded  in 
rousing  Vogelsang  to  immediate  action.  Alas ! 
some  unaccountable  torpor  seemed  to  possess 
him.  Whether  from  the  fear  of  failure,  the  re- 
luctance to  face  his  wife,  or  a  refinement  upon 
his  vengeance  which  delighted  in  holding  the 
sword  suspended  above  her  head,  I  can  not  tell, 
but  every  day  he  deferred  the  execution  of  our 
project — every  day  I  lost  hope  and  courage — 
every  day  plunged  The'ophile  deeper  and  deeper 
into  ruin. 

Twice  I  saw  Adrienne,  but  only  upon  the  last 
occasion  did  I  find  myself  alone  with  her.  I 
had  no  favorable  intelligence  for  her — no  con- 
solation which  could  afford  her  the  faintest  hope 
for  the  future.  She  had  read  the  announce- 
ment respecting  Hauteville,  and  was  even  more 
unhappy  than  before.  Theophile  had  refused 
to  give  her  any  explanation  of  his  affairs — had 
spoken  to  her  with  harshness  and  impetuosity 
— had  absented  himself  as  much  as  possible 
from  home,  and  now  seldom  met  her,  even  at 
meals.  In  society  alone  they  appeared  togeth- 
er as  before,  and  in  the  face  of  the  world  main- 


76 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


tained  the  semblance  of  that  sacred  confidence 
which  existed  no  longer. 

All  this  Adrienne  told  me  with  a  heart-an- 
guish which  only  made  my  own  trouble  too 
heavy  for  endurance.  I  could  do  nothing  to 
alleviate  her  misery,  and  I  found  the  interview 
so  painful  that  I  had  not  the  courage  to  repeat  it. 

As  for  my  other  friends,  I  saw  Margaret  twice 
or  thrice,  and  Seabrook  even  less  frequently. 
He  was  much  occupied  now  in  making  arrange- 
ments for  commencing  the  study  of  the  law,  and 
was  frequently  absent  upon  visits  to  Antwerp, 
where  he  had  consultations  upon  the  subject 
with  an  English  solicitor  resident  in  that  city. 
Somehow  a  check  had  fallen  upon  our  inter- 
course of  late — a  check,  but  not  a  coolness.  We 
loved  each  other  as  heartily  as  ever,  but  we  met 
less  frequently,  and  our  traveling  projects  were 
all  given  up  and  forgotten.  Perhaps  the  fault 
lay  with  myself,  after  all.  I  think  it  did. 
There  were  events  and  anxieties  which  I  dared 
not  reveal  to  him ;  I  had  appointments  which  I 
could  not  explain — schemes  in  which  he  could 
be  admitted  to  no  part.  Perfect  friendship  and 
perfect  confidence  are  one.  Where  there  is  a 
lack  of  the  one,  the  other  droops  like  a  flower  in 
the  shade. 

Thus  matters  stood  till  within  two  days  of 
the  bid  masque  from  which  Theophile  anticipa- 
ted so  much  enjoyment.  Then  Vogelsang  told 
me  that  he  had  opened  his  negotiations  with 
the  manager  of  the  theatre,  and  had  purchased 
his  promise  of  silence  with  a  fee  of  two  thou- 
sand francs,  which  I  was  to  pay.  Lemaire 
agreed  to  conduct  a  similar  treaty  with  the  sub- 
ordinates, and  all  was  at  last  en  train  for  the 
speedy  accomplishment  of  our  plot.  Still  no 
day  was  absolutely  fixed,  and  though  I  felt  that 
the  first  step  was  taken,  I  yet  chafed  impatient- 
ly at  the  delay,  and  urged  for  speed — speed — 
speed ! 

So  the  16th  of  October  came  round,  and  noth- 
ing decisive  had  been  done. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

THE    MASKED    BALL. 

MORE  from  the  desire  of  affording  an  escort 
to  Adrienne  during  the  evening  than  from  any 
curiosity  with  which  the  scene  itself  could  in-  j 
spire  me,  I  consented  to  accompany  my  brother  i 
and  his  wife  to  the  masked  ball.  She  went  j 
with  the  vague  hope  that  her  presence  might 
preserve  him  from  the  temptations  of  the  card- 
tables,  which,  as  the  announcements  told,  were 
to  be  prepared  in  the  king's  retiring-rooms.  I, 
because  I  felt  convinced  that  Theophile  would 
take  his  own  course,  and  leave  her  to  the  com- 
panionship of  whatever  acquaintance  he  might 
chance  to  meet.  Seabrook,  too,  was  absent 
upon  one  of  his  Antwerp  excursions.  Proba- 
bly, had  he  been  near  at  hand,  I  might  have  ex- 
cused myself,  for  I  felt  but  little  in  the  mood  for 
this  carnival  folly. 


From  Theophile's  residence  to  the  Opera 
House  we  traveled  in  unbroken  silence.  Two 
hearts  out  of  three,  at  least,  were  too  heaw  for 
speech ;  and  even  my  brother,  leaning  back 
moodily  in  a  corner  of  the  carriage,  was  grave 
and  absorbed. 

It  was  a  dark,  windy  night,  and  sudden  gusts 
of  rain  came  dashing  against  the  windoAvs.  The 
street  was  full  of  vehicles  moving  along  in  two 
lines,  and  all  toward  the  same  spot.  Going  on- 
ward thus  slowly,  with  the  lights  from  the  shops 
and  the  glare  of  the  surrounding  carriage-lamps 
flashing  in  upon  us  every  now  and  then,  reveal- 
ing our  pale,  sad  faces  and  fantastic  dresses  to 
each  others'  eyes,  we  seemed  more  like  a  party 
of  mourners  than  a  company  of  masks  on  their 
way  to  a  ball,  and  I  could  scarcely  divest  my- 
self of  the  idea  that  we  formed  part  of  some 
grotesque,  yet  awful  funereal  procession. 

As  we  neared  the  theatre  door,  our  progress 
became  more  and  more  difficult,  and  at  last  we 
stopped  altogether.  The  carriages  were  "set- 
ting down,"  it  appeared,  about  a  hundred  yards 
in  advance,  and  we  were  not  likely  to  reach  our 
destination  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  or  twenty 
minutes  at  the  least.  Theophile  muttered  an 
impatient  curse,  and,  after  looking  angrily  from 
the  window  for  several  minutes,  flung  himself 
back,  as  before,  and  played  with  his  sword-knot. 

He  wore  the  rich  and  elaborate  costume  of 
Prince  Charles  Edward  the  Pretender,  and 
looked,  in  his  ruffles  and  velvets,  the  very  type 
of  Scotland's  chivalric  darling.  Sitting  there, 
with  his  plumed  hat  resting  on  his  knees,  his 
fair  hair  hanging  in  natural  curls  almost  to  his 
collar,  his  breast  covered  with  jewels,  and  his 
hands  with  rings,  I  thought  I  had  never  seen 
him  so  handsome.  Adrienne  could  be  per- 
suaded to  wear  nothing  more  conspicuous  than 
a  white  satin  domino,  embroidered  with  silver 
flowers ;  and  a  similar  costume  made  in  plain 
black  silk  furnished  me  with  the  only  incognito 
I  cared  to  assume. 

Gradually  wre  advanced,  a  few  steps  at  a 
time,  and  soon  there  remained  but  one  carriage 
between  ourselves  and  the  doof,  Adrienne 
sighed.  Theophile  stirred  uneasily  in  his  corner. 

"Why  do  you  sigh,  Adrienne ?"  he  asked, 
roughly.  "We  shall  be  released  in  another 
minute." 

"That  is  why  I  sigh,  Theophile,"  answered 
his  wife.  They  were  the  first  words  that  had 
been  spoken  since  we  started. 

"How!  Do  you  not  like  the  ball?  Are 
you  dissatisfied  with  your  dress — which,  I  con- 
fess, might  have  been  more  elegant?" 

"I  like  the  dress  as  well  as  any  other,  The'o- 
phile,  but  I  care  nothing  for  the  ball." 

"  She  cares  nothing  for  the  ball !  Bah !  all 
women  are  contrary.  If  you  care  nothing  for 
the  ball,  madame,  pray  why  have  you  taken  the 
trouble  to  come  to  it?" 

This  was  spoken  even  more  harshly  than  be- 
fore, but  with  an  effort,  as  if  he  were  endeavor- 
ing to  be  out  of  temper.  Finding  that  she  re- 
mained silent,  he  repeated  the  question. 


MY  BKOTHER'S  WIFE. 


77 


"Why  have  you  taken  the  trouble  to  come?" 

"Because  you  are  here,  Theophile." 

He  coughed,  and  looked  aside  out  of  the  win- 
dow. Presently  he  began  again. 

"If  one  goes  to  a  masked  ball,  it  should,  at 
least,  be  with  the  intention  of  enjoyment.  I  in- 
sist upon  your  trying  to  be  amused  to-night." 

"I  will  try,"  she  replied,  and  her  voice  fal- 
tered. 

At  this  moment  the  carriage  in  advance  of 
us  drove  away,  and  we  moved  on  opposite  the 
lighted  entrance  with  awning  and  carpeted  pave- 
ment, and  crowds  of  maskers  thronging  in  the 
hall. 

Theophile  suddenly  flung  off  his  assumption 
of  ill-humor. 

"Adrienne!"  he  exclaimed,  with  emotion, 
"you  are  an  angel!" 

He  seized  her  hand  and  kissed  it  warmly. 
At  that  instant  the  servant  flung  open  the  door ; 
my  brother  leaped  out  and  assisted  his  wife  from 
the  carriage ;  we  passed  rapidly  through  a  double 
row  of  eager,  curious  faces,  and  in  another  mo- 
ment had  entered  the  hall,  presented  our  cards, 
and  made  our  way  up  the  broad  staircase  to  the 
ballroom  beyond. 

A  strange  scene,  truly,  but  more  confused  and 
less  imposing  than  I  had  anticipated.  Only  a 
dense  crowd  of  richly-costumed  persons  walk- 
ing, standing,  conversing,  and  scarce  any  space 
to  spare  for  those  who  were  disposed  for  danc- 
ing. Many  characters  held  their  masks  in  their 
hands,  or  wore  them  hanging  loosely  from  the 
belt  or  wrist ;  and  the  whole  assemblage  seemed 
to  me  more  a  vehicle  for  the  display  of  taste, 
and  an  opportunity  of  conversation,  than  a  bat 
masque,  such  as  I  had  often  read  and  heard 
about  in  history  and  romance. 

A  stream  of  promenaders  was  circulating 
slowly  round  the  room,  and  into  this  train  we 
involuntarily  fell ;  Theophile  and  Adrienne  in 
advance,  I  following  in  their  wake.  One  of  the 
first  persons  we  encountered  was  M.  le  Marquis  I 
de  Courtrai,  laboriously  scented,  powdered,  and 
rouged,  and  carefully  made  into  the  likeness  of 
Louis  Quatorze,  "to  whom,"  as  he  smilingly 
averred,  "  he  flattered  himself  that  he  bore  some 
humble  resemblance." 

Finding  Adrienne  retain  the  arm  of  Theo- 
phile, M.  le  Marquis  fell  presently  into  the  rear, 
and  honored  me  with  his  conversation. 

He  began  by  assuring  me  that  the  first  requi- 
site in  society  was  the  possession  of  the  grand 
air,  and  that  the  grand  air  was  precisely  the 
point  upon  which  the  youths  of  the  present  day 
were  most  deficient.  He  next  proceeded  to  in- 
form me  that  there  were  many  fine  women  in 
that  very  ballroom  who  were  languishing,  abso- 
lutely languishing  for  him  (M.  le  Marquis);  and 
he  accompanied  that  interesting  announcement 
with  a  variety  of  piquante  and  alluring  details. 
From  thence  he  diverged  into  a  resume'  of  his 
bonnes  fortunes,  past  and  present,  and  (as  I  made 
a  good  listener,  and  never  opened  my  lips  in 
reply,  which  would,  indeed,  have  been  rather  dif- 
ficult, seeing  that  I  heard  without  comprehend- 


ing one  half  of  what  he  said)  he  enlarged  upon 
this  theme  with  considerable  complacency  and 
eloquence.  Finding,  however,  that  my  attention 
was  neuter  rather  than  passive,  and  becoming, 
perhaps,  dimly  aware  that  my  mind  was  occu- 
pied with  other  thoughts,  M.  le  Marquis  at 
length  thought  fit  to  drop  the  subject  of  his  con- 
quests, and  to  indulge  in  a  few  observations  on 
the  persons  and  things  around  him. 

"  The  Hospodar  is  looking  remarkably  well 
to-night.  You  did  not  see  him?  Heavens, 
how  droll !  He  passed  us  on  the  instant  in  the 
costume  of  a  bashaw,  with  his  eldest  son  carrying 
the  tails  before  him.  A  pretty  girl  to  the  left, 
in  that  Circassian  dress.  Charming  back  and 
shoulders — charming !  A  good  arm,  too,  and  a 
nicely-turned  ankle.  Scarcely  plump  enough,  I 
think.  Eh  ?  A  nice  girl,  though — a  very  nice 
girl. "  (M.  le  Marquis  had  an  agreeable  way  of 
dissecting  the  perfections  of  a  lady,  as  if  he  were 
a  butcher,  and  of  commending  them  afterward, 
as  if  he  were  a  cook.)  "Here  is  Madame  la 
Baronne  de  Vallonvert,  looking  hideous  in  the 
cost«me  of  la  Reine  Elizabeth !  Mon  Dieu  !  that 
woman  is  positively  too  fat !  Ah  !  Madame  la 
Baronne,  this  is  a  veritable  pleasure !  Always 
charming,  always  recherche,  Madame  laBaronne. 
I  find  your  costume  delicious.  By  the  way,  M. 
Latour,  I  think  that  we  have  the  history  of  per- 
fide  Albion  at  the  ball  to-night.  I  myself  have 
seen  three  Henry  the  Eighths,  four  Eichard  the 
Thirds,  two  Princes  Noirs,  and  more  than  one 
Oliver  Cromwell.  Ah !  ah !  Do  you  see  that 
woman  yonder  in  the  costume  of  Norma,  with 
the  wreath  and  sickle,  and  the  classic  drapery  ? 
Mark  her  fine  figure — her  graceful  head — her 
neck  —  her  arms  —  her  pose  I  She  wears  her 
mask,  yet  can  you  not  tell  who  she  is  ?" 

I  looked,  started,  doubted,  shook  my  head. 

"Mon  Dieu!  Not  know  the  Vogelsang, 
even  though  her  face  be  masked !  My  good 
gargon,  have  you  no  eyes — no  senses  ?  There  is 
not  such  another  woman  in  Brussels.  She  is 
glorious — magnificent — superb !  Your  brother, 
I  fancy,  would  not  need  to  look  twice — eh? 
Comment !  do  you  not  comprehend  ?  Why,  the 
world  does  say — " 

And  Monsieur  le  Marquis  elevated  his  eye- 
brows, shrugged  his  shoulders,  took  a  pinch  of 
snuff  with  the  grand  air  of  Louis  Quatorze,  and 
subsided  into  a  significant  silence. 

Just  at  this  juncture  The'ophile  conducted 
Adrienne  to  a  seat.  Monsieur  le  Marquis  ab- 
ruptly quitted  my  side,  and  flew  to  the  back  of 
her  chair,  where  he  took  up  his  stand  in  the  at- 
titude of  her  devoted  slave.  The'ophile  dived 
away  into  the  crowd  and  disappeared ;  and  I, 
in  compliance  with  my  sister-in-law's  request/ 
strolled  on  idly  amid  the  throng,  silent  and  ob- 
serving, feeling  my  mind  agreeably  diverted,  for 
a  brief  space,  by  the  novelty  and  richness  of  the 
scene  around  me. 

There  was  a  band  playing  at  the  farther  end 
of  the  room,  where  an  area  had  been  cleared 
for  dancing.  Hither  I  made  my  way  by  slow 
degrees,  and  found  the  space  surrounded  by  ad- 


78 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


miring  spectators.  A  party  of  twelve  persons, 
habited  in  the  picturesque  fashion  of  the  reign 
of  Louis  XL,  were  going  through  the  stately 
and  solemn  figures  of  certain  antique  tradition- 
ary dances  of  that  early  period,  to  the  accompa- 
niment of  quaint  music,  as  intricate  and  grave 
as  the  windings  of  the  dances  themselves.  Be- 
coming interested  in  these  obsolete  measures,  I 
stood  gazing  for  a  considerable  time,  till  I  found 
that  a  vast  crowd  had  gathered  behind  me,  and 
that  I  was  standing  in  the  front  rank  of  a  phal- 
anx of  spectators,  many  of  whom  had  mounted 
upon  benches  and  seats,  and  even  upon  the  ped- 
estals of  the  columns  which  skirted  the  room. 

It  was  a  matter  of  no  little  difficulty  to  re- 
treat from  this  position  ;  but,  on  consulting  my 
watch,  I  found  that  I  had  left  Adrienne  more 
than  two  hours,  and  I  doubted  not  that  she  was 
by  this  time  completely  wearied  of  the  convei*- 
sation  of  Monsieur  de  Courtrai.  I  therefore 
worked  myself  gradually  out  of  the  press,  and 
had  just  emerged  into  a  part  of  the  room  which 
was  comparatively  clear,  when  I  came  suddenly 
face  to  face  with  the  masked  Norma,  and  re- 
ceived a  smart  blow  on  the  ankle  from  the  sword 
of  her  companion,  a  tall  man  wrapped  in  a  long 
Spanish  cloak  reaching  almost  to  his  feet,  and 
whose  head  and  face  were  shrouded  in  a  broad 
sombrero,  with  heavy  black  plumes. 

They  seemed  to  be  in  haste ;  but  the  gentle- 
man, though  nearly  past,  turned  to  apologize. 

"A thousand  pardons,  monsieur," he  said.  "I 
did  not  observe  that  my  rapier  was  in  your  way." 

It  was  the  voice  of  Theophile ! 

For  a  moment  I  stood  still — then  sighed  heav- 
ily, and  went  upon  my  way.  Of  course  it  would 
be  so.  I  might  have  guessed  it  before.  He 
came  to  this  ball  for  the  purpose  of  meeting 
her — had  most  probably  presented  her  with  the 
admission ! 

Yet  I  was  pleased  that  he  should  have  as- 
sumed a  second  disguise.  That,  at  least,  testi- 
fied to  some  little  regard  for  the  opinions  of  the 
world — averted  somewhat  of  the  notoriety  of  his 
intrigue — argued  some  lingering  respect  for  his 
wife. 

I  found  Adrienne  where  I  had  left  her,  and 
the  marquis  was  so  obliging  as  to  relinquish  his 
post  on  my  return.  She  was  less  sad  than  usu- 
al, and  the  gay  scene  amused  her.  The  kiss, 
too,  which  The'ophile  had  imprinted  upon  her 
hand  in  the  carriage,  had  revived  her  drooping 
spirits. 

"Perhaps,"  she  said,  hopefully,  "his  mania 
for  extravagance  is  on  the  wane.  You  were  the 
good  prophet  who  foretold  it,  won  beau  frere  ! 
It  was,  after  all,  but  a  whim  ;  and  if  it  be  over, 
and  that  he  was  pleased  by  the  indulgence  of  it, 
I  shall  not  remember  whether  it  were  or  were 
not  an  expensive  or  a  dangerous  one. " 

"  Indeed,  madame,  I  hope  that  it  may  be  so." 

"Do  not  say  it  with  such  a  grave  air,  M.  Paul. 
I  feel  assured  that  it  is  so ;  and  the  assurance 
makes  me,  ah!  so  happy.  To-morrow  I  will 
persuade  him  to  withdraw  Hauteville  from  the 
market,  and  we  will  go  down  together  to  dear 


old  Burgundy  before  a  week  be  over.  How 
pleased  your  mother  will  be  to  see  us,  will  she 
not,  M.  Paul  ?  And  the  servants,  and  the  dogs 
—  ah!  yes,  even  the  dogs.  Poor  Hector!  he 
will  not  forget  me." 

Fond  child !  how  slender  an  act  of  grace  suf- 
ficed to  fill  that  trusting  little  heart  with  grati- 
tude, forgiveness,  love — ay,  even  to  overflowing. 

Conversing  thus  —  she  full  of  garrulous  hope 
and  anticipation,  I  silent  and  dispirited  —  two 
moi'e  hours  passed  away,  and  the  rooms  began, 
though  almost  imperceptibly  as  yet,  to  grow 
thinned  of  their  brilliant  company.  It  was  ten 
o'clock  when  we  first  arrived,  and  it  is  now  two. 
Adrienne  suggests  that  we  should  look  for  The'- 
ophile, and  return  home  as  speedily  as  may  be, 
for  the  hour  grows  late ;  so  we  rise  and  make 
the  tour  of  the  salons. 

Abundance  of  princes,  kings,  knights,  cav- 
aliers, Highlanders,  historical  celebrities,  Ro- 
mans, Hamlets,  Mephistopheles,  Polichinellos, 
harlequins,  debardeurs,  jesters,  peasants,  offi- 
cers, Persians,  and  Spanish  noblemen  we  met, 
but  never  the  beautiful  and  glittering  Charles 
Edward  whom  we  seek,  or  that  dark  Hidalgo 
with  the  sable  plumes,  for  whom  I  keep  an  ea- 
ger watch  by  the  way. 

Adrienne  grows  nervous. 

"Perhaps,"  she  whispers,  falteringly,  "per- 
haps he — he  may  be  in  the  card-rooms!" 

I  pity  the  little  hand  lying  upon  my  arm,  for 
I  see  it  contract,  as  if  with  a  sudden  spasm,  at 
this  thought.  But  we  go. 

The  card-rooms  are  almost  deserted.  Only 
two  tables  are  occupied,  and  .those  by  some  eld- 
erly gentlemen  in  plain  dominoes,  whose  masks 
are  laid  aside,  and  whose  faces  look  earnest  and 
business-like  over  whist  and  picquet. 

It  is  a  relief  to  find  that  he  is  not  here.  "We 
must  have  overlooked  or  missed  him  down  stairs, 
after  all.  Let  us  go  back  and  search  again. 

So  we  go  back  and  search  again,  threading 
our  way  through  all  parts  of  the  ballroom,  pass- 
ing in  and  out  the  pillars,  peering  eagerly  into 
the  recesses  of  the  windows  and  behind  the  dra- 
peries of  the  curtains.  Thus  another  hour  passes. 
It  is  three  o'clock,  and  Theophile  is  not  found ! 

Poor  Adrienne !  Every  limb  is  trembling 
now.  She  takes  off  her  mask ;  the  room,  she 
says,  is  so  warm  she  can  scarcely  breathe ;  yet 
she  stands  at  this  moment  in  the  current  of  cool 
air  from  the  door !  Her  face  is  deadly  white, 
and  I  can  feel  her  heart  beat  against  my  arm. 

He  must  have  gone  home.  Can  he  be  ill? 
Has  any  accident  happened  ?  That  idea  is  ter- 
rible, and  I  can  not  prevent  her  from  asking  one 
or  two  persons  near  whom  we  are  standing  if 
they  have  seen  her  husband,  or  if  any  gentleman 
has  been  taken  ill.  They  only  stare,  smile,  or 
remain  silent,  and  one  shrugs  his  shoulders  and 
mutters,  ' '  Poor  thing ! "  half  pityingly,  from  be- 
hind his  visor. 

I  now  suggest  that  the  best  thing  she  can  do 
is  to  return  home.  If  he  be  unwell  she  will  find 
him  there.  At  all  events,  it  is  plain  that  he  is 
no  longer  here.  He  may  have  sought  her,  all 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


79 


this  time,  as  anxiously  as  we  have  sought  him, 
and  is,  perhaps,  now  waiting  for  her  at  home. 

"To  be  sure  !  Why  did  I  not  think  of  that 
before?  Oh,  that  is  it,  I  feel  convinced !  Thank 
you,  thank  you,  brother  Paul !  Do  not  let  us 
lose  a  moment.  Where  is  my  carriage  ?  Oh, 
let  us  go — pray  let  us  go  directly !" 

So  we  go  down  hastily,  and  Madame  Latour's 
carriage  is  called.  I  have  some  difficulty  in  find- 
ing her  cloak,  which  we  had  left  in  the  care  of 
an  attendant,  and  there  are  so  many  carriages 
filed  along  the  pavement  that  it  is  a  long  time 
before  ours  can  reach  the  door. 

All  these  delays  are  torture  to  Adrienne,  and 
she  stamps  her  white  -  slippered  foot  upon  the 
marble  flooring  in  the  impetuosity  of  her  haste. 

At  last  the  vehicle  draws  up.  "  Madame 
Latour's  carriage  stops  the  way !"  is  shouted  by 
three  or  four  voices  at  once.  We  rush  forward ; 
the  door  is  opened,  and  I  hand  her  in. 

"Pray  come  with  me,  Paul,"  she  entreats, 
forgetting,  in  her  anxiety,  the  forms  of  address 
which  we  have  always  so  scrupulously  observed. 

I  obey.  My  foot  is  on  the  step,  my  hand 
upon  the  door,  when  I  am  seized  roughly  by  the 
arm  and  dragged  forcibly  back. 

"  Stop !"  whispers  a  hoarse  voice  in  my  ear — 
"  stop !  All  is  lost ;  we  are  betrayed ;  they  are 
gone ! " 

The  form  is  that  of  a  gray  friar— the  face  is 
masked — the  voice  is  the  voice  of  Vogelsang ! 

"Lost — gone  !     What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  They  have  eloped  together — from  this  very 
spot — two  hours  ago.  We  must  follow  them  at 
any  risk.  Oh,  I  will  have  blood  for  this  before 
I  have  done  with  her !" 

There  is  a  savage  energy  in  the  tone  with 
which  he  utters  these  words  that  appalls  me. 
Adrienne  calls  to  me  from  the  carriage;  I  plead 
a  flurried  excuse,  shut  the  door,  direct  the  coach- 
man to  drive  home,  and  so  the  vehicle  rolls 
away,  with  her  pale  face  looking  back  at  me 
from  the  window. 

"Well,"  I  exclarm,  turning  round  upon  my 
associate,  "what  is  to  be  done?  What  next?" 

"What  next?"  he  says,  fiercely.  "What 
next?  VENGEANCE  AND  PURSUIT  " 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

THE   FIRST    CLEW. 

I  FOLLOWED  him  to  a  little  dingy  cabaret  in 
the  next  street — a  place  of  mean  resort,  with 
every  shutter  closed,  and  a  pale  light  streaming 
from  the  open  door  upon  the  wet  pavement.  A 
man  and  woman  were  drinking  at  the  counter, 
and  a  sleepy  gar$on  in  shirt  sleeves  and  slippers 
ushered  us  into  the  parlor  at  the  back,  now  de- 
serted, but  bearing  evidence  of  recent  company. 
The  sanded  floor  was  strewn  with  fragments  of 
broken  glasses,  corks,  and  ends  of  cigars ;  the  ta- 
bles were  smeared  with  wine ;  a  hazy  atmosphere 
of  tobacco  hung  about  the  room  like  a  fog;  and 
the  clock  pointed  to  half  past  three. 


Vogelsang  called  for  a  half  bottle  of 'eau-de-vie, 
poured  it  out  into  a  tumbler,  and  drank  half  at 
a  draught.  In  doing  so,  he  threw  back  his 
friar's  hood,  and  I  saw  that  his  brow  was  cover- 
ed with  blood,  and  that  his  face  and  lips  were 
deathly  pallid. 

"  You  are  wounded ! "  I  exclaimed.  ' '  Let  me 
go  for  a  surgeon !" 

"No — no,"  he  replied ;  "it  is  nothing.  I 
fell.  I  am  a  little  faint.  In  a  few  minutes  I 
shall  be  the  same  as  ever." 

He  sat  down  and  leaned  his  head  back  against 
the  wall,  looking  ghastly.  Trembling  with  ea- 
gerness to  know  more,  I  yet  abstained  from 
speech  or  movement,  and  stood  watching  him. 
I  could  hear  my  own  heart  beating  as  1  did  so, 
and  I  remember  noticing  at  the  time  (with  a 
sort  of  painfully  acute  susceptibility  to  every 
sound,  however  trifling)  that  it  went  so  much 
faster  than  the  ticking  of  the  clock. 

Presently  he  seemed  to  revive,  and  came  over 
feebly  to  the  fireplace.  His  hands  shook  like 
those  of  an  aged  man  as  he  held  them  to  the 
blaze,  and  he  stared  vacantly  before  him. 

"Now  tell  me,"  I  cried,  impatiently,  "tell 
me  all!  Where  are  they  ?  Quick — quick!" 

"Gone,"  he  said,  moodily,  and  without 
changing  his  position.  "  Gone !" 

"  I  know  it ;  but  where  ?" 

»Ay  — where?"  he  repeated.  "Where? 
That's  the  question." 

There  was  a  strange,  dead  apathy  in  his  man- 
ner, totally  different  to  the  furious  impetuosity 
with  which  he  had  stopped  me  at  the  doors  of 
the  theatre  a  few  minutes  previously. 

"  And  have  you  no  idea  of  the  route  they 
have  taken  ?" 

He  shook  his  head  silently. 

"Nor  of  the  way  in  which  they  travel?" 

The  same  reply. 

"But  we  must  pursue  them — we  must  dis- 
cover them — we  must  part  them  !" 

"Ay,"  he  replied,  "  we  must — we  must." 

"Instantly." 

He  stared  up  at  me  for  a  moment,  then 
dropped  his  head  again,  and  seemed  to  watch 
the  embers,  moaning  softly  to  himself. 

I  resolved  to  rouse  him. 

"Up!"  I  said,  authoritatively,  "up  and  be 
doing !  The  hours  are  going  fast,  and  every 
minute  sees  them  a  mile  farther.  We  have  to 
discover  every  thing  for  ourselves.  I  will  bring 
a  cab,  and  we  will  go  round  to  both  railway  sta- 
tions. Perhaps  something  may  be  done  that 
way.  I  trust  to  energy  for  every  thing." 

My  voice,  my  gestures  seemed  to  animate 
him.  He  sat  erect,  and  made  an  effort  as  if  to 
collect  his  wandering  thoughts. 

"  You  are  right,"  he  said,  at  length,  and  more 
firmly — "  you  are  right.  Let  me  have  a  basin 
of  water  and  a  towel,  and  bid  them  bring  me 
some  bread,  for  I  am  faint.  I  have  lost  blood, 
and  have  eaten  nothing  since  noonday." 

I  did  as  he  desired,  and  assisted  him  to  wash 
the  stains  from  his  face  and  clothing,  and  to 
throw  aside  the  friar's  mantle  which  he  wore 


80 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


outside  his  dress.  He  then  ate  a  small  crust, 
and  both  looked  and  felt  better. 

"  Now  I  am  ready,"  he  said.     "  Let  us  go." 

There  was  not  a  vehicle  in  sight.  I  went 
round  to  the  theatre,  and  the  few  that  stood 
there  were  engaged  by  maskers ;  for  the  ball 
was  not  yet  over,  and  I  could  hear  the  music 
going  on  merrily  as  I  passed  by. 

Down  two  more  streets  in  the  rain  and  dark- 
ness, and  still  without  success — back  again  past 
the  theatre  a  second  time,  and  on  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  old  town,  where  I  met  an  empty  vigi- 
lante rolling  slowly  along,  and  hired  it  with  dif- 
ficulty, for  the  driver  was  tired,  and  his  hours  of 
work  were  over. 

I  found  Vogelsang  better  than  when  I  left 
him ;  but  he  had  bound  a  red  scarf  round  his 
head,  which  made  him  look  whiter  than  ever  by 
the  contrast,  and  he  leaned  heavily  upon  my 
arm  as  he  got  in.  • 

"To  the  Antwerp  line,  cocker,  and  as  fast  as 
you  can  make  your  horses  go !" 

On,  still  on,  but  very  slowly,  for  the  weary 
beasts  are  scarcely  equal  to  even  that  short  jour- 
ney, and  the  driver  is  nearly  asleep  on  the  box. 
On — on — till  it  seems  that  we  shall  never  arrive 
there. 

Again  I  urge  my  companion  to  tell  me  more. 

"How  did  you  learn  their  flight?  Where 
did  you  get  that  blow  ?" 

' '  One  question  at  a  time.  As  to  their  flight, 
I  saw  them  leave  the  rooms  together.  I  had 
been  at  their  heels  the  whole  evening  in  my 
friar's  cowl ;  I  followed  them  to  the  cloak-room, 
and  saw  him  hurry  her  into  the  carriage ;  she 
dropped  this  note  as  she  went :  listen :  '  To- 
niyht  you  will  be  prepared  for  escape.  I  will 
have  all  in  readiness.  We  can  leave  the  rooms 
about  midnight,  and  before  suspicion  is  roused  we 
shall  be  beyond  the  reach  of  discovery. — T.  LS 
I  only  paused  to  pick  this  paper  up — to  read  it 
once,  and  then  I  followed  the  sound  of  their 
carriage-wheels  with  the  speed  of  an  Indian. 
Suddenly  my  foot  slipped ;  I  fell ;  my  head 
came  sharply  against  the  curbstone  :  I  remem- 
ber no  more  till  I  recovered  my  senses  about 
half  an  hour  since,  lying  on  my  face  in  a  dark, 
solitary  street,  with  not  a  soul  in  sight.  On 
striving  to  rise  and  walk,  I  found  myself  giddy 
and  confused,  and  my  face  wet,  but  whether 
with  rain  or  blood  I  knew  not.  Then  I  re- 
membered what  had  happened,  and  my  first  im- 
pulse was  to  find  you,  to  pursue  them,  to  be  re- 
venged !  I  did  find  you,  for  just  as  I  came  up 
you  were  leading  the  lady  to  her  carriage.  You 
know  the  rest." 

"And  do  you  still  feel  equal  to  the  pursuit? 
Had  you  not  better  see  a  surgeon,  and  take  some 
brief  rest  before  we  go  farther?" 

' '  Rest !     No — not  if  I  die  upon  the  journey ! " 

His  old  courage  and  determination  speaks  out 
again  now  in  voice  and  bearing,  and  when  we 
reach  the  station  he  is  the  first  to  alight. 

The  doors  are  all  fast  closed,  but  there  is  a 
light  burning  in  the  windows  of  one  of  the  low- 
er rooms,  and  we  knock  lustily  and  repeatedly. 


We  are  not  heard ;  all  is  perfectly  still  within  ; 
the  station  seems  deserted. 

Again  we  knock,  and  are  just  going  away  dis- 
appointed, when  a  door  is  opened  suddenly,  and 
a  man  in  a  dressing-gown  and  slippers  looks 
out,  and  asks  us  angrily  what  we  do  there  at 
such  an  hour. 

"We  want  to  know  when  the  last  train  left? 
Has  there  been  one  since  midnight  ?  Does 
monsieur  remember  to  have  seen  a  fair  gentle- 
man and  a  dark  lady  (both  very  handsome)  to- 
gether on  the  platform  ?  Did  they  take  tickets, 
and  can  he  remember  for  what  place?" 

The  station-master  thunders  forth  an  artillery 
of  abuse.  There  has  not  been  a  departure  since 
ten  minutes  before  eleven.  We  must  know  that. 
We  are  mauvais  sujets.  To  the  devil  with  the 
dark  gentleman  and  the  fair  lady,  and  with  all 
impertinents ! 

Thus  rebuffed,  we  turn  away  and  resume  our 
places  in  the  cab,  desiring  the  coachman  to  drive 
to  the  Ligne  du  Midi,  or  South  Railway.  To 
this  he  gives  at  first  a  positive  refusal ;  but,  being 
bribed  by  promise  of  a  triple  fare,  consents  at  last 
to  go  on,  though  at  a  slower  pace  than  ever. 

At  the  South  Railway  the  outer  gates  are 
closed ;  not  a  light  is  any  where  visible — not  a 
sound  is  audible.  The  coachman  thinks  that 
there  is  no  train  between  midnight  and  six 
o'clock  P.M.,  and  declines  to  drive  us  any  far- 
ther. In  vain  I  expostulate — entreat — threaten 
— urge  the  importance  of  our  business  and  the 
illness  of  my  companion.  Jehu  is  inflexible. 
His  horses  are  of  more  importance  to  him  than 
any  man's  business,  and  to  knock  them  up  would 
grieve  him  more  than  any  man's  illness.  He 
has  driven  us  as  far  as  he  had  agreed ;  he  must 
be  paid  and  dismissed.  In  short,  he  dismisses 
himself. 

So  we  are  compelled  to  alight  in  the  thick 
close  mist  of  the  early  morning,  and,  taking 
shelter  under  an  archway,,  hear  the  vigilante 
rumble  lazily  away. 

"  What  shall  we  do  now  ?"  asks  Vogelsang, 
peevishly.  ' '  I  feel  as  if  I  had  no  power  to 
think  or  act;  it  is  this  cursed  blow  that  has 
done  it.  What  shall  we  do  ?" 

"  The  first  thing  is,  obviously,  to  get  another 
coach,"  I  replied.  "The  second,  to  find  by 
which  road  they  have  left  Brussels." 

"But  how?     How?" 

"There  are  thirteen  gates  to  the  city,  are 
there  not?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  we  must  go  from  gate  to  gate  till  we 
find  through  which  they  passed.  And  now  for 
the  coach!" 

I  set  off  upon  the  same  search  as  before,  and 
this  time  with  readier  success,  for  in  a  few  mo- 
ments we  are  once  more  seated  side  by  side,  and 
driving  in  the  direction  of  the  Porte  de  Halle. 

At  the  Porte  de  Halle  we  meet  only  with  dis- 
appointment. No  carriages  have  passed  that 
way  since  midnight;  but  there  have  been  four 
market-carts,  which  came  from  the  country,  and 
one  traveler  on  horseback. 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


81 


11  Which,  then,  is  the  nearest  gate  from  this?" 

"I  hardly  know,  monsieur;  I  should  think 
the  Porte  d'Anderlecht." 

"Allans!  to  the  Porte  d'Anderlecht." 

Again  the  blinds  are  drawn  up,  and  we  dash 
forward  between  the  gray  lines  of  trees  that  skirt 
the  Boulevai'd.  It  still  rains,  and  the  morning 
dawns  slowly.  Vogelsang  leans  back  with  a 
groan,  and  presses  his  hands  upon  his  aching 
brow. 

"You  must  take  the  lead  now  in  every 
thing,"  he  says,  moodily.  "I  am  as  helpless 
as  a  child." 

At  the  Porte  d'Anderlecht  we  find  the  gates 
shut,  and  have  to  wait  for  several  minutes  be- 
fore any  one  makes  his  appearance.  Then  a 
soldier  comes  out  yawning,  and  proceeds  to  un- 
lock them.  We  put  the  same  questions  to  him. 
Has  a  carriage  passed  this  gate  since  midnight — 
a  carriage  with  a  lady  and  gentleman  inside  ?" 

He  knows  nothing  of  any  carriage.  He  is 
only  just  come  on  duty.  Shall  he  call  Jean- 
Simon  ?  Jean-Simon,  it  appears,  is  his  com- 
rade yonder,  sitting  sleeping  heavily  by  the  fire. 
We  see  him  through  the  open  doorway,  and  we 
see  how  hard  it  is  to  rouse  him.  At  length  he 
stumbles  forward  not  half  awakened,  and  listens 
to  my  interrogations  with  a  glazed,  heavy  eye, 
and  a  half-opened  mouth. 

"Has  a  carriage  passed  through  this  gate 
since  midnight?" 
' "  A  carriage,  monsieur  ?" 

"Yes,  yes  —  a  carriage.  You  know  what  a 
carriage  means  ?" 

"Yes,  monsieur.  I— I  think  a  carnage  did 
go  through.  But  I'm  not  sure.  It  might  have 
been  a  chaise — or  a  wagon.  I  was  very  sleepy 
at  the  time." 

"Nay,  nay,  Jean-Simon,"  cries  a  shrill  voice 
from  within,  "a  carriage  did  go  by  about — let 
me  see,  about  one  o'clock  of  the  morning." 

"Ay — she  knows,"  says  Jean-Simon,  pointing 
over  his  shoulder  toward  the  gate-house.  "It 
was  a  carriage,  of  course.  She  knows." 

"And  in  which  direction  did  it  go?  To  or 
from  the  town?" 

"From  town,  I  think,  monsieur.  At  least, 
I'm  not  certain ;  but  I  think  it  was  from  town." 

"From  town,  Jean-Simon,"  says  the  shrill 
voice,  confirmatively. 

"Did  you  see  who  was  in  it?" 

"No,  monsieur  —  that  is,  I  won't  be  sure. 
There  was  a  gentleman,  I  think." 

"And  a  lady?  Try  to  recollect — was  there 
not  a  lady  also  ?" 

"  Truly,  monsieur,  I  can't  tell.  I  don't  think 
there  was  a  lady.  I  was  very  sleepy  just 
then." 

"Holy  Virgin,  Jean -Simon!"  screams  the 
shrill  voice,  impatiently,  "there  was  a  lady — a 
lady  with  a  velvet  cloak  and  a  veil,  leaning  back 
as  if  she  did  not  wish  us  to  see  her.  You  must 
recollect  the  lady!" 

"Ay,  she  knows,"  says  Jean-Simon,  content- 
edly.     "There  was  a  lady,  of  course — and  a 
gentleman — and  a  carriage.     I  saw  them  all. 
F, 


Of  course  I  did.  It's  all  true,  messieurs.  She 
knows." 

"  Where  does  this  road  lead  to  ?" 

"To  Halle— Enghien — Tournay." 

"And  the  nearest poste  aux  chevaux?" 

"Plait-il?" 

"  Where  is  the  nearest  place  that  I  can  hire  a 
carriage  and  post-horses  to  follow  after  them  ?" 

Here  our  driver  interposes.  He  knows  of  a 
post-master's  close  at  hand,  whose  horses  are 
excellent.  I  direct  him  to  take  us  there  forth 
with,  and  away  we  go  again  between  the  lines 
of  gray  trees,  growing  distincter  now  in  the  in- 
creasing daylight. 

All  were  asleep  at  the  post-house,  and  ten 
minutes  more,  at  the  least,  were  lost  in  knock- 
ing before  we  succeeded  in  rousing  a  soul. 
Then  a  half-dressed  ostler  came  down  —  then 
two  more,  and  presently  they  were  putting  the 
horses  to  a  post-chaise  in  the  yard. 

And  now,  for  the  first  time  since  we  started, 
I  remember  Adrienne  and  her  distress.  What 
must  she  be  suffering  ?  What  thinks  she  of  my 
sudden  refusal  to  accompany  her — of  my  subse- 
quent absence  ? 

But  this  is  not  the  time  for  reflection.  I 
must  act,  and  that  quickly,  for  the  carriage  is 
being  prepared,  and  I  am  going  on  what  may 
prove  a  long  journey.  I  tear  a  couple  of  leaves 
from  my  pocket-book,  and  scrawl  a  hasty  note 
on  each.  One  is  to  Seabrook,  entreating  him 
to  break  this  matter  kindly  to  Adrienne,  and 
telling  him,  in  three  words,  the  cause  and  ob- 
ject of  my  departure.  The  other  is  to  Adri- 
enne, commending  Margaret  to  her  care  during 
my  absence,  and  referring  her  to  Seabrook  for 
all  other  information.  This  done,  I  fold  and 
address  them. 

"  Is  there  any  man  here  who  will  faithfully 
deliver  these  letters  for  ten  francs  ?" 

The  three  ostlers  each  start  forward  and  offer 
themselves. 

"Nay,  I  can  choose  but  one.  Do  any  of  you 
know  how  to  read?" 

There  is  but  one  out  of  the  three  who  can  do 
this,  so  him  I  choose,  and  have  the  satisfaction 
of  seeing  him  go,  with  the  letters  in  his  hand, 
just  as  we  step  into  the  chaise  and  drive  off. 

Once  more  away!  Away  through  the  nar- 
row streets — along  the  Boulevard — out  through 
the  Porte  d'Anderlecht — now  giving  passage  to 
a  succession  of  market -carts  and  pedestrian 
peasants,  bound  for  the  markets  of  the  city. 
Away  through  the  scattered  villas,  and  brick- 
fields, and  market-gardens  that  sprinkle  the  out- 
skirts, and  on  to  the  flat  green  country,  all  dim 
and  faded  through  the  falling  rain ! 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

THE    CHASE    GOES    ON. 

THE  gray  dawn  gives  place  to  the  dull  day. 
The  travelers  are  few,  and  go  trudging  through 
the  rain  and  mud,  with  discontented  faces. 


82 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


Now  and  then  we  whirl  past  some  little  cart  or 
wagon,  spattering  the  horses,  and  sometimes 
the  driver,  with  our  rapid  wheels,  and  dash  on 
before  he  has  time  to  utter  the  indignant  remon- 
strance which  rises  to  his  lips. 

Always  on — on— on,  and  so  fast!  The  for- 
mal lines  of  poplars  and  pollards  seem  to  rise 
up  beside  the  windows  as  we  go,  and  to  glide 
out  of  sight,  like  ghostly  sentinels  going  through 
an  exercise.  Now  a  gate — now  a  fallow-field, 
with  the  idle  plows  lying  in  the  furrows — now  a 
little  farm-house — a  bridge— a  canal,  all  dim- 
pled with  the  rain — a  plantation— a  party  of 
country-girls  in  cloaks  and  hoods,  all  become 
for  a  moment  visible,  and  the  next  are  left  far 
behind. 

See  !  yonder  lamp-post  by  the  roadside  marks 
the  first  toll-barrier,  and  tells  us  that  we  have 
journeyed  one  league.  Only  one  league !  Why, 
we  seem  to  have  been  two  hours  at  least  upon 
the  road ;  yet,  on  consulting  the  watch,  we  find 
it  scarcely  twenty  minutes.  We  might  pay  the 
tolls  to  the  post-boy  to  avoid  delay,  but  we  must 
stop  and  speak  with  the  toll-keeper. 

"Ho!  Has  there  been  a  carriage  past  here 
this  morning  before  dawn — a  carriage  contain- 
ing a  gentleman  and  lady?" 

The  gate-keeper  is  an  old  man.  He  shades 
his  eyes  with  his  hand,  peers  up  at  us  from  be- 
neath his  shaggy  brows,  and  says,  tremulously, 

"You  must  speak  louder.  I  am  rather  hard 
of  hearing." 

I  repeat  the  question  like  a  stentor,  and  a 
flash  of  intelligence  crosses  his  face. 

"Oh,  ay — ay.  There  was  a  carriage,  to  be 
sure.  A  dark  green  chariot,  with  four  bays. 
You  must  ride  fast  if  ye  would  catch  'em ! " 

On  again — faster  and  faster !  The  post-boy 
shall  have  a  double  fee  for  his  speed.  The 
trees  seem  to  fly — the  people  on  the  road  stand 
still,  and  look  after  us  in  wonder. 

" Cheer  up,"  I  say  to  my  companion,  " cheer 
up !  we  are  on  their  track  most  surely,  and  we 
will  take  four  horses  at  the  next  post-house. 
We  shall  overtake  them  after  all!" 

Vogelsang  groans  and  points  to  his  head. 

"  You  are  in  great  pain  ?  Well,  we  can  stop 
at  the  first  town,  and  have  the  wound  dressed." 

"No,  not  for  a  second.  They  will  pause 
somewhere  to  rest.  Our  only  chance  is  in  per- 
petual traveling." 

He  is  so  resolute  on  this  point,  and  there  is 
so  much  reason  in  his  argument,  that  I  know 
not  how  to  refute  it.  So,  after  a  brief  expostu- 
lation, I  yield,  and  we  are  again  silent. 

Another  lamp -post  marks  another  league. 
Here  toll-house  and  post-house  are  one,  and 
while  we  change  horses,  I  put  the  usual  ques- 
tions, and  receive  the  same  answers.  A  car- 
riage has  been  up  about  five  hours  ago  (it  is 
now  nearly  eight  o'clock  A.M.),  and  took  a  re- 
lay of  four  horses.  "The  four  horses,  indeed," 
says  the  groom,  "are  now  in  the  stable,  feed- 
ing." 

"And  the  post-boys  who  drove  them — where 
are  they  ?" 


The  groom  points  to  two  men  who  are  hast- 
ily donning  their  jackets  and  buckling  on  their 
spurs  inside  the.  stable  door. 

"They  are  now  preparing  to  drive,  mon- 
sieur." 

They  are  instantly  called  and  questioned, 
and  their  replies  confirm  every  thing.  The  car- 
riage contained  a  lady  and  a  gentleman.  The 
lady  kept  her  veil  down,  and  leaned  far  back  all 
the  time  ;  but  they  saw  her  hands  and  her  fine 
rings.  The  gentleman  had  light  hair,  and  paid 
them  with  gold,  as  if  the  ten-franc  pieces  were 
nothing  but  cents.  They  went  like  lightning. 
Holy  St.  Francis,  what  a  hurry  they  were  in  ! 

"Eh  lien!  To  your  saddles!  Five  francs 
apiece  for  you  if  we  clear  the  next  two  leagues 
in  twenty  minutes !"  My  urgent  tones  and  ges- 
tures seemed  to  lend  some  meaning  to  the 
chase,  for  the  grinning  ostlers  look  and  laugh 
among  themselves,  and  I  overhear  one  of  them 
mutter,  "C'est  safenune,  pent-etre  /" 

Useless  to  chafe  at  the  boorish  jest !  I  affect 
not  to  observe  it,  and  again  we  are  on  the  road 
— faster  and  faster ! 

Thus  on  and  on  for  hour  after  hour,  till  mind 
and  limbs  grow  weary  from  the  lack  of  sleep. 
At  noon  the  sky  clears,  and  the  sun  comes  out, 
and  we  reach  the  old  fortified  city  of  Mons, 
with  its  grand  steeple  and  surrounding  ditches. 
Here  we  purchase  bread  and  wine,  and  partake 
of  it  as  we  go ;  and  presently  we  have  left  the 
busy  streets  and  squares,  and  are  traveling  along 
by  the  bleaching-grounds  and  coal-districts  that 
lie  beyond. 

Were  farther  traces  needed,  we  gather  plenty 
on  our  way.  Every  where  they  are  about  five 
hours  before  us;  sometimes  a  little  more  or 
less.  They  are  remembered  at  toll-house  and 
post-house  all  along  the  road.  In  many  instances 
we  are  driven  by  their  very  post-boys,  and  these 
we  examine  eagerly.  It  is  curious  how  all  their 
stories  tally.  The  lady  was  always  veiled  and 
leaning  back  ;  the  gentleman  always  scattering 
gold  with  a  careless  hand.  At  one  town  the 
lady  had  a  glass  of  milk.  The  gentleman  some- 
times smoked.  The  carriage  was  their  own. 
They  seemed  to  care  nothing  for  money,  but 
every  thing  for  speed. 

On  and  on !  Vogelsang,  despite  his  suffering, 
sustains  the  fatigue  better  than  I  had  expected, 
and  sleeps  at  intervals. 

In  the  afternoon,  at  a  small  post-house,  we 
find  their  carriage.  The  rough,  paved  Belgian 
roads  have  split  the  wheels  in  every  direction, 
and  hence  they  were  compelled  to  travel  in  a 
hired  vehicle.  In  a  moment  I  spring  out  and 
search  it  eagerly.  Here  is  Theophile's  morocco 
cigar-case  under  one  of  the  cushions,  and  a  bag 
containing  a  few  biscuits.  The  cigar-case  i.s  a 
prize,  and  I  secure  it. 

Now  the  town  of  St.  Ghislain,  black,  flat, 
dreaiy.  The  roads  are  thick  with  coal-dust ; 
the  cottages  mean  and  many ;  the  tall  chimneys 
casting  forth  clouds  of  smoke.  Then  come 
hamlets,  trees,  and  canals  again,  gliding  like  a 
phantasmagoria — then  Quievrain. 


MY  BROTHEK'S  WIFE. 


83 


At  Quievrain  we  reach  the  limits  of  Belgium, 
and  are  vexatiously  hindered  by  the  authorities 
of  the  customs.  Our  passports  are  not  quite  en 
regie — we  are  subjected  to  a  tedious  interroga- 
tory—  are  compelled  to  procure  visas  in  the 
town,  and  are  not  suffered  to  pass  the  frontier 
till  after  a  delay  of  nearly  three  hours.  At  the 
custom-house  we  still  pursue  our  inquiries,  and 
are  referred  to  the  chefde  bureau's  office,  where 
an  old  gentleman  with  a  white  beard  and  an 
eyeglass  asks  our  business. 

"  We  are  anxious  to  overtake  a  lady  and 
gentleman  who  passed  the  frontier  this  morn- 
ing. We  have  reason  to  believe  that  it  was  by 
this  road  they  went,  and  we  want  to  know  for 
what  place  they  are  bound." 

The  old  gentleman  mends  a  pen  slowly,  and 
coughs  twice  or  thrice,  as  if  to  gain  time. 

"And  what  may  be  your  object  in  following 
these  persons?  Have  they  committed  any  of- 
fense?" 

"None  for  which  I  am  bound  to  account  to 
you.  It  is  enough  that  we  are  in  the  utmost 
haste,  and  that  we  beg  you  to  be  quick,  as  we 
have  already  been  delayed  three  hours." 

"  What  are  the  names  of  the  parties  ?" 

"  Therese  Vogelsang  and  The'ophile  Latour." 

"And  yours?" 

We  hand  him  our  passports  in  reply,  which 
he  examines  carefully. 

"Which  of  you  is  Heinrich  Vogelsang?" 

My  companion  steps  forward  and  says  it  is 
he. 

"Are  you  the  husband  of  Therese  Vogel- 
sang?" 

"I  am." 

Here  the  old  gentleman  smiles  cunningly  to 
himself,  and  tries  the  nib  of  his  pen  upon  his 
thumb  nail.  He  then  turns  to  me. 

"And  you  are  Paul  Latour,  of  Burgundy, 
French  subject  ?" 

"Yes." 

"What  relation  are  you  to  The'ophile  La- 
tour?" 

"  His  elder  brother." 

"Hum!  And  your  elder  brother,  sir,  and 
your  wife,  sir,  passed  this  barrier  this  morn- 
ing?" 

"So  we  believe." 

The  old  gentleman  opens  a  large  book,  wipes 
his  eyeglass  carefully,  and,  pointing  with  a  fat 
fore  finger,  begins  carefully  examining  the  pages 
from  bottom  to  top,  as  if  he  were  reading  He- 
brew. This  goes  on  for  so  long  that  we  begin 
to  despair.  At  last  he  stops  suddenly. 

"Hem!"  (he  has  a  bad  cough,  this  old  gen- 
tleman.) "Hem!  'Passed  this  day,  between 
the  hours  of  one  and  two  P.M.,  Therese  Vogel- 
sang— vocalist — Austrian  subject.  Going  to  Par- 
is from  Brussels.1  Is  that  the  lady,  sir?" 

' '  Yes — yes,"  says  Vogelsang,  hurriedly.  ' '  It 
is  she !  Let  us  go  directly ;  we  have  no  time 
to  lose ! " 

"Stay,"  says  the  old  gentleman,  calmly,  "you 
have  not  heard  all.  What  did  you  say  was  the 
name  of  the  other  party  ?" 


'The'ophile  Latour." 
'  No,  that  is  not  the  name." 
'  Not  the  name  ?" 
'No." 

'What  is  it,  then?" 

'  Alphonse  Lemaire  — proprietaire  —  French 
subject." 

Vogelsang  and  I  look  involuntarily  at  each 
other.  The  old  gentleman  is  watching  us,  and 
reads  the  meaning  of  the  glance  as  plainly  as  if 
the  thought  had  been  spoken.  • 

"  Then  it  is  an  assumed  name,"  he  says,  with 
a  keen  look.  "Alphonse  Lemaire  is  really 
The'ophile  Latour !  Itien." 

And  he  makes  an  entry  beside  the  former 
name,  with  a  gleam  of  the  old  cunning  smile 
hovering  round  the  corners  of  his  mouth  ;  then 
shuts  the  large  book  with  a  sudden  bang  ;  bows 
politely,  and  asks  if  he  can  be  of  any  farther 
service.  Of  course  not ;  we  have  heard  enough, 
and  may  pursue  our  journey  as  we  will. 

So  we  pass  out  into  a  sort  of  waiting-room 
beyond,  and  consult  together.  We  have  now 
lost  four  hours.  When  we  first  started  we  were 
five  behind.  Five  and  four  make  nine.  What 
chance  have  we  of  overtaking  them  upon  the 
road  now,  being  nine  hours  after  them  ?  The 
swiftest  horses  that  ever  ran  could  not  accom- 
plish it.  Better  take  the  rail,  and  push  on  for 
Paris  direct.  Most  probably  it  is  the  very  thing 
they  did  themselves ! 

So  we  decide  upon  this  course,  and  dismiss 
the  post-chaise. 

Fortunately,  there  will  be  a  train  in  about 
half  an  hour.  We  spend  the  intervening  time 
in  accomplishing  a  hasty  ablution  and  in  pro- 
curing a  little  refreshment,  for  we  shall  be  trav- 
eling all  night. 

Then  the  train  comes  up ;  we  take  our  places, 
and  are  once  more  forward  in  pursuit. 

We  are  in  France  now — on  the  Great  North 
Railway — on  the  road  to  Paris ;  and  so  the  fe- 
verish day  passes  to  its  close. 

It  is  night  —  dark,  lonely  night,  with  the 
misting  rain  beginning  to  fall  again,  and  the 
wearisome  rushing  sound  of  our  progress  din- 
ning in  our  ears. 

Utterly  overcome  by  long  watching  and  ex- 
citement, I  find  my  ideas  wander  and  my  eye- 
lids grow  heavy.  Troubled  dreams,  which  mock 
reality,  weave  themselves  in  with  the  web  of  my 
thoughts,  and  I  wake  with  a  start  from  visions 
wherein  The'ophile,  Vogelsang,  Adrienne,  Sea- 
brook,  and  Therese  are  mingled  in  hideous  con- 
fusion. 

Every  now  and  then  a  sudden  stoppage  —  a 
flashing  light — a  passing  view  of  a  station  and 
passengers — the  entrance  of  fresh  travelers  and 
the  departure  of  others,  or  the  abrupt  voice  of  a 
guard  calling  upon  us  to  show  our  tickets — the 
starting  off  again  —  the  monotonous  rushing 
sound-^-the  blurred  picture  of  a  dark  wet  night 
— dreams — waking  up — complete  forgetfulness 
once  more — this  over  and  over,  with  alternate 
slumberings  and  meanings  from  my  restless 
fellow-traveler,  who  tosses  his  arms  wildly  in  his 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


sleep,  and,  dreaming  or  waking,  is  ever  mutter- 
ing to  himself. 

Once  in  the  dark  night  I  wake  up  entirely, 
and  fall  to  thinking  over  all  this  strange  adven- 
ture. The'ophile  eloped  with  Therese — The'rese 
the  wife  of  this  man  beside  me — Adrienne  de- 
eerted !  Strangest  of  all  that  The'ophile  should 
take  the  name  of  the  man  Lemaire  for  his  in- 
cognito !  Done  to  mislead  us,  of  course.  But 
we  are  not  to  be  so  misled.  From  this  theme 
my  thoughts,  somehow  or  another,  revert  to 
Burger's  "Leonora."  The  wild  midnight  jour- 
ney—  the  flying  scenery — these  combine,  and 
strike  me  with  an  odd  sense  of  similarity ;  and 
so  I  drop  off  to  sleep  again,  murmuring, 
"  Hurra  !  the  dead  can  swiftly  ride  !" 

Then  I  dream  that  Theophile  and  the  singer 
are  on  before.  Theophile  is  not  only  Theophile, 
but  Wilhelm.  Wilhelm  is  not  only  Wilhelm, 
but  Death.  He  rides  upon  a  shadowy  steed, 
and  she  clings  to  his  waist  in  the  likeness  of 
Leonora.  This  ghastly  confusion  of  persons 
fills  me  with  inexplicable  terror.  I  watch  them 
from  the  window  (for  it  seems  that  I  am  fol- 
lowing them  in  the  post-chaise  again).  They 
ride  like  the  wind.  Theophile  looks  round  at 
me ;  his  face  is  that  of  a  grinning  skeleton,  and 
he  points  to  Vogelsang  sitting  at  my  side.  Hor- 
ror! not  Vogelsang  now,  but  the  livid  corpse 
of  Fletcher  is  my  companion  in  this  frightful 
chase ! 

I  shriek  for  aid,  and  wake  with  the  cry  on  my 
lips — wake  and  find  it  gray  dawn  again,  and 
the  towers  of  St.  Denis  showing  dimly  through 
the  mist.  Beyond  them,  faint  and  yet  distant, 
lies  the  shadowy  outline  of  a  great  city.  Stee- 
ples, and  house-tops,  and  shining  cupolas  grow 
plainer  with  every  instant  of  our  progress — with 
every  fresh  beam  of  early  sunrise.  Then  glimps- 
es of  the  broad  bright  Seine — of  some  grassy 
earthworks  stretching  round  the  city  —  of  the 
hill,  valley,  and  forest  of  Montmorency — of  nest- 
ling country  houses  —  of  scattered  suburbs — 
streets — the  walls  of  a  station.  We  are  arrived 
at  last,  and  it  is  a  bright,  fresh,  sunny  morning, 
more  like  May  than  October. 

Vogelsang  is  refreshed  by  a  long  sleep  and 
feels  better,  and  we  hire  a  voiture  de  place,  de- 
siring the  driver  to  take  us  to  the  Hotel  des 
Etrangers  in  the  Rue  Duphot ;  for  my  compan- 
ion lias  been  here  before,  and  knows  where  to  go. 

Oh,  beautiful  Paris !  how  fair  and  strange  it 
looks  to  me  in  the  early  morning !  There  are 
no  shops  open,  and  but  few  people  on  foot. 
The  broad  streets  are  silent  and  sunny ;  the 
trees  of  the  Boulevards  have  not  yet  lost  all 
their  leaves;  -the  gilded  balconies  of  the  hotels 
and  the  white  shutters  of  the  lofty  houses  re- 
mind me  of  the  City  of  the  Caliph  and  the  pal- 
aces of  Granada.  Now  comes  a  graceful  little 
theatre — now  a  vista  of  glittering  arcades— now 
a  glimpse  of  a  broad  street  and  a  lofty  iron  col- 
umn, with  the  statue  of  Napoleon  crowning  it 
worthily — now  a  wide  space  planted  round  with 
trees,  and  a  white  glorious  temple  in  the  midst 
— a  second  Parthenon,  classic,  pillared,  vast — 


the  church  of  the  Madeleine.  Far  down  toward 
the  left  flits  a  vision  of  obelisk,  and  fountain,  and 
far  palaces ;  but  it  is  gone  in  an  instant,  and 
we  have  turned  aside  into  a  narrow  street,  and 
are  pausing  before  the  door  of  the  Hotel  des 
Etrangers. 

Now  for  an  hour  or  two  of  rest  and  quiet  ere 
we  search  farther.  We  are  shown  to  our  rooms, 
ordering  breakfast  in  three  hours,  and  desiring 
the  waiter  to  awake  us  at  the  time. 

There  is  a  sofa  in  my  chamber,  and  I  lie  down 
upon  it  in  my  clothes,  preferring  it  to  the  bed, 
and  am  soon  sound  asleep.  The  three  liours 
thus  glide  away  like  ten  minutes,  and  it  seems 
to  me  that  I  have  scarcely  closed  my  eyes,  when 
the  voice  of  the  attendant  outside  my  door  in- 
forms me  that  it  is  already  half  past  nine 
o'clock,  and  that  the  breakfast  is  ready. 

Can  it  all  be  true,  or  am  I  still  dreaming? 
Have  I  been  pursuing  Theophile  and  The'rese, 
with  Vogelsang  for  my  fellow-traveler?  Have 
I  left  Margaret  and  Belgium  far  away?  Am  I 
in  France,  and  is  this  really  Paris  ? 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

THE    SHADOW    OF    DEATH. 

"THE  first  thing  to  be  done,"  says  Vogel- 
sang, "is  to  go  to  the  prefecture  of  police,  and 
ascertain  when  they  arrived." 

To  the  prefecture  of  police  we  go  according- 
ly, crossing  the  Seine,  with  a  far  prospect  of  the 
stately  river-palaces,  and  driving  up  a  gloomy 
court  branching  off  from  the  Quai  des  Orfevres. 
The  court  is  full  of  carnages,  the  dark  passages 
full  of  soldiers.  In  a  long  room  surrounded  by 
clerks  we  next  make  our  inquiries,  and,  after 
meeting  with  many  delays,  and  being  referred 
from  desk  to  desk,  are  told  at  length  that  no 
persons  bearing  such  names  have  arrived  in 
Paris. 

This  is  disappointing;  yet  we  might  almost 
have  expected  it.  It  is  hardly  probable,  after 
all,  that  they  would  have  traveled  so  unflag- 
gingly  as  ourselves ;  and,  in  taking  to  the  vail- 
way,  it  may  be  that  we  have  even  passed  them 
on  the  road.  Well,  it  is  but  to  wait  another 
day.  They  must  be  here  to-morrow. 

The  morrow  comes,  and  with  the  same  result. 
In  the  morning  we  are  first  at  the  prefecture. 
In  the  afternoon  we  linger  last.  The  officials 
are  very  polite.  They  regret  to  disappoint 
"messieurs"  so  often.  " Messieurs' "  friends 
will  be  here  to-onorrow,  sans  doute. 

And  so  the  19th  of  October  passes,  and  they 
have  not  yet  been  recorded.  Oh,  how  dreary 
and  irritating  is  the  rest  of  this  second  day! 
How  annoying  to  the  heavy  heart  are  these  ev- 
idences of  mirth  nnd  life — these  open  theatres 
—these  brilliant  carnages— these  pleasure-seek- 
ers who  crowd  the  dusk  alleys  of  the  Champs 
Elyse'es,  the  booths,  cafe's,  and  concert-gardens! 
How  harsh  is  this  music,  and  how  hollow  seems 
the  merriment  of  the  gay  city! 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


85 


It  is  gorgeous — it  is  startling — it*is  utterly 
new  and  surprising  to  me  ;  but  its  very  splendor 
jars  upon  me  now,  and  I  could  hate  the  people 
for  being  so  happy ! 

Vogelsang,  too,  is  a  depressing  companion — 
gloomy,  reserved,  abrupt ;  seldom  speaking,  and 
always  absorbed  in  the  one  stern  thought — re- 
venge. He  is  much  better  now,  but  still  very 
pale,  and  the  livid  mark  upon  his  brow  looks 
ghastly  to  the  eye. 

Night  comes  at  last — night,  and  sleep,  and 
troubled  dreams,  till  the  next  day  dawns. 

Back  then  over  the  Seine — back  in  the  early 
morning  to  the  prefecture  of  police.  The  bu- 
reau is  not  yet  opened — will  not  be  opened  for 
two  hours  more.  Two  dreary  hours!  What 
can  we  do  for  two  hours  ? 

"The  Morgue  is  close  at  hand,"  says  Vogel- 
sang. "Let  us  go  there." 

The  Morgue!  I  shuddered.  I  had  often 
heard  of  the  place.  At  any  other  time  I  should 
have  refused  to  enter  its  dark  precincts ;  but  to- 
day it  was  in  accordance  with  my  morbid  con- 
dition of  mind,  and  I  consented. 

The  morning  was  cold  and  bright,  and  the 
yellow  Seine  rushed  in  swift  circling  eddies 
through  the  arches  of  the  Pont  St.  Michel,  and 
rocked  the  floating  baths  beside  the  quays.  I 
geem  to  remember  every  event  of  that  hasty 
walk.  There  was  a  mountebank  in  a  cart, 
dressed  in  motley,  and  vending  his  wares  to  the 
harsh  music  of  a  hand-organ.  He  had  taken 
his  stand  where  the  carriage-way  was  broadest, 
and  the  surrounding  crowd  were  laughing  loud- 
ly at  his  jests.  A  troop  of  soldiers  marched  by, 
with  ensign  and  band.  Some  children  ran  after 
me  with  cakes  and  chocolate  for  sale.  All  was 
hurry — gayety — life,  and  in  the  midst  of  it  rose 
that  one  dark,  melancholy  building  of  the  Mar- 
ehe'  Neuf.  That  low  square  pile,  like  a  huge 
tomb,  built  with  great  blocks  of  stone,  green  and 
discolored  from  abutting  on  the  water.  Win- 
dowless,  deathlike,  dreary.  There  was  a  crowd 
of  ouvriers,  soldiers,  women,  and  children  gath- 
ered round  the  entrance.  Many  were  going  in, 
others  coming  out. 

"What  a  pity!"  said  a  young  girl  to  her 
mother,  as  they  passed  close  beside  us,  on  leav- 
ing the  place ;  "  such  a  child,  and  so  pretty !" 

I  looked  at  my  companion,  and  drew  back. 

"  I  don't  think  I  will  go  in,  after  all,"  I  said. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  made  no  re- 
ply, but  walked  straight  in,  and  so  I  followed 
him. 

A  fearful  place  indeed !  There,  on  a  black 
marble  slab,  exposed  to  the  idle  gaze  of  every 
eye,  lay  the  body  of  a  young  fair  boy,  a  mere 
child.  His  long  bright  hair  fell  in  wet  masses 
on  the  stone  couch ;  his  eyes  and  mouth  were 
closed,  and  his  pale  lips  were  contracted  into 
an  expression  of  determined  agony. 

' '  Suicide !"  murmured  the  people  at  the  grat- 
ing. "Suicide!" 

I  turned  to  a  soldier  standing  by  the  door. 

"Is  it  possible," I  asked,  "  that  this  child  can 
have  purposely  destroyed  himself?" 


"We  can  not  tell,  monsieur;  but  it  is  most 
likely.  They  often  do." 

I  went  back  again,  as  if  fascinated,  and  stood 
for  a  long  time  looking  at  him.  There  was  an- 
other body  lying  at  a  little  distance  from  him, 
but  changed  and  frightful  to  look  upon.  I  seem 
still  to  see  that  picture  before  me,  with  the  long 
grating  —  the  crowd  of  eager  faces  —  the  sad 
property  of  the  dead,  the  wet  and  faded  clothing 
hanging  round  the  walls — the  dim  light  coming 
from  the  roof — the  trickling  water  flowing  over 
the  features  of  the  drowned. 

I  could  bear  it  no  longer.  I  turned  suddenly 
away,  and  hurried  out  into  the  street.  I  felt 
oppressed  and  shocked,  and  the  blazing  sun- 
light seemed  unnaturally  bold,  and  bright,  and 
painful  by  the  contrast. 

Vogelsang  follows  me  with  a  gloomy  smile 
upon  his  harsh  lips. 

"You  are  not  used  to  the  sight  of  death, 
Monsieur  Latour,"  he  says,  with  a  sarcastic  ac- 
cent. 

"I  have  seen  it  but  twice  in  my  life  before. 
Once  when  I  was  an  infant,  and  my  father  died. 
Once  again  some  few  months  since,  while  I  was 
in  Germany.  Upon  a  battle-field  it  would  not 
affect  me  thus ;  but  upon  the  face  of  a  young 
child—" 

' '  Humph !  Here  we  are  in  front  of  the  pre- 
fecture of  police.  The  two  hours  are  nearly 
past." 

Presently  we  go  in  again.     Still  the  same  re- 

pty. 

"No  strangers  bearing  such  names  upon 
their  passports  have  yet  been  registered.  We 
would  recommend  monsieur  to  call  again  in  the 
afternoon,  about  four  o'clock.  By  that  time, 
perhaps,  we  may  be  able  to  afford  him  some  in- 
formation." 

Will  delays  and  disappointments  never  cease? 

It  were  vain  to  think  of  pleasure  at  a  mo- 
ment like  this ;  yet  how  is  the  time  to  be'  em- 
ployed ?  I  have  written  to  Seabrook,  but  it 
would  be  useless  to  seek  letters  at  the  post-office 
till  to-morrow.  Shall  we  go  to  the  Louvre — to 
the  Luxembourg — to  Notre  Dame — to  Pere  la 
Chaise  ? 

To  the  latter  be  it,  then,  for  I  am  still  sad 
and  dispirited,  and  the  face  of  that  dead  child  is 
vividly  present  to  my  eyes. 

How  calm,  and  still,  and  melancholy  it  is 
here  in  the  cemetery!  The  sunlight  comes 
creeping  through  the  leaves,  and  lying  gently 
down  along  the  graves,  like  a  fond  mourner ; 
and  we  walk  silently  between  the  monuments, 
as  in  the  streets  of  a  dead  city.  Here  are 
tombs  like  little  chapels,  with  altar,  and  cross^ 
and  painted  window;  others  like  pyramids,  or 
temples,  or  sharp  granite  obelisks.  Some  are 
carved  into  the  semblance  of  a  broken  pillar — a 
draperied  urn — an  open  volume  lying  on  a  desk, 
inscribed  with  holy  and  consoling  words.  A 
pleasant,  tranquil  place,  dark  with  the  pine  and 
yew,  planted  by  pious  hands  with  every  autumn 
flower,  sacred  to  the  Past  and  to  the  Future ! 

I  am  thinking  of  Margaret  now,  and  I  long 


86 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


to  be  alone.  Vogelsang  has  thrown  himself 
upon  the  grass  at  the  foot  of  a  great  tree,  and  is 
jotting  some  memoranda  in  his  pocket-book; 
so  I  stroll  away,  and,  finding  a  solitary  high 
spot,  with  a  view  of  the  distant  country  and  of 
the  cemetery,  sit  down  upon  an  humble  grave, 
and  suffer  my  thoughts  to  wander  back  to  Brus- 
sels. 

The  dead  are  sleeping  very  peacefully  at  my 
feet  and  all  around  me,  Margaret,  and  I  am 
watching  here  among  them  with  my  human 
love  beating  at  my  heart,  the  only  living  thing 
in  sight.  It  is  very  awful  to  think  this ;  yet  it 
fills  me  with  a  strange  sort  of  gladness,  and  I 
feel  that  to  have  you  sitting  here  beside  me  with 
your  hand  in  mine,  to  lay  my  over-throbbing 
temples  on  your  breast,  and  there  die,  would  be 
a  blessed  rounding  of  my  life,  and  happiness 
complete.  Not  in  sorrow,  Margaret,  not  even 
in  weariness  do  I  say  it ;  but  at  this  moment  it 
seems  to  me  that  such  a  fate  would  be  the  ful- 
fillment of  love  and  life.  My  heart  is  heavy  at 
the  remembrance  of  all  the  miles  that  lie  be- 
tween us,  and  I  can  scarcely  believe  that  you 
are  so  far  distant  from  me.  We  are  parted,  and 
every  parting  is  a  form  of  death,  as  every  reun- 
ion is  a  type  of  heaven. 

It  is  well  for  me  that  I  came  hither  to- 
day. The  aspect  of  this  garden  grave-yard  has 
soothed  me — restored  the  balance  of  my  mind. 
I  was  shocked  erewhile  by  the  sight  of  that  fair 
child  and  his  manner  of  death.  Gloomy  and 
terrible  thoughts  tormented  and  mocked  me,  as 
the  pale  Furies,  Prometheus ;  but  they  are  gone 
now,  and  to  die  seems  beautiful.  Death  is  not" 
truly  that  brief  pang  with  which  we  cease  to 
live"  It  dates  from  the  dark  hour  in  which  we 
first  find  that  life  has  lost  its  charm;  when 
fades  the  "glory  from  the  grass,  the  splendor 
from  the  flower;"  when  all  smiles  are  sad  to  us, 
and  all  tears  indifferent ;  when,  as  with  Ham- 
let,- "man  delights  not  us,  nor  woman  either," 
and  the  very  clouds  and  sunshine  overhead  look 
old  and  sorrowful. 

But  I  did  not  intend  to  chant  a  requiem  to 
thee,  Margaret.  I  meant  it  for  a  love-song ; 
and  lo !  my  words  are  traitors  to  me — and  mine 
eyes  too,  by  this  mist  before  them. 

There  is  a  little  blue-eyed  flower  (a  sickly, 
slender  thing,  that  shivers  in  the  cold  autumnal 
breeze  like  a  star  in  a  frosty  night)  growing  up 
beside  the  pathway  at  my  feet.  Stray  child  of 
the  summer-time,  I  will  gather  thee  in  memory 
of  this  hour  and  its  poetry ! 

And  so  I  rise  up  and  return  to  Vogelsang. 
My  shadow  has  lengthened  since  I  left  him,  and 
only  the  tree- tops  catch  the  red  sunlight  now. 
His  watch  is  in  his  hand.  It  is  nearly  four 
o'clock,  and  he  is  impatient  to  be  gone. 

Back,  then,  once  more,  to  the  prefecture  of 
police.  Out  through  the  broad  semicircular 
entrance,  out  into  the  stream  of  busy,  careless 
life  again,  and  on  toward  the  accomplishment 
of  our  anxious  task. 

The  clerk  looks  up  and  smiles  as  we  approach 
his  desk,  in  the  long  gloomy  room,  all  lit  with 


gas  and  crowded  with  people.  He  knows  the 
errand  on  which  we  come,  and  begins  rapidly 
turning  over  the  leaves  of  a  large  volume.  Pres- 
ently he  stops — reads  some  passages  attentively 
then,  turning  toward  us, 
"  I  am  rejoiced  to  inform  you,  messieurs,"  he 
says,  politely,  "  that  your  friends  have  arrived. 
Have  the  goodness  to  listen.  '  On  the  evening 
of  the  19th  inst.,  Madame  Therese  Vogelsang; 
vocalist ;  Austrian  subject ;  from  Brussels. 
Also,  Monsieur  Alphonse  Lemaire ;  proprie- 
taire ;  French  subject  ;  from  Brussels.  De- 
scription of  person  :  Tall ;  eyes,  blue  ;  nose, 
short;  hair  and  beard,  reddish-yellow.  Resi- 
dence, No.  30  Avenue  .,  Champs  Elysees.' 

Those,  I  believe,  are  the  parties  for  whom  you 
inquired?" 

This  is  sufficient !  The  fiacre  in  which  we 
came  waits  for  us  outside.  We  leap  in,  desire 
the  driver  to  take  us  to  the  Champs  Elysees, 
and  are  directly  on  the  way. 

Swiftly,  swiftly  along  the  quays  and  over  the 
Pont  Neuf— swiftly  past  the  Louvre,  and  up  to 
the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  till  we  reach  the  cen- 
tral avenue  leading  to  the  Arc  de  1'Etoile. 
Here,  although  it  is  now  almost  dusk,  the  road 
is  filled  with  carriages  and  the  footways  with 
promenaders.  The  long  rows  of  bright  lamps 
on  either  side  look  like  illuminated  chains 
stretching  from  end  to  end,  and  in  among  the 
trees  is  the  gay  perpetual  fair  of  shows  and 
mountebanks,  and  cafes  concerts. 

We  move  but  slowly  here,  and  as  the  Avenue 

lies  up  near  the  Jardin  d'Hiver,  it  is  long 

before  we  turn  aside  from  the  principal  road  to 
the  quiet,  retired  spot,  which,  as  our  driver  tells 
us,  is  the  locality  we  named. 

The  houses  are  built  as  villas,  and  each  is 
surrounded  by  a  spacious  garden.  Many  of 
them,  says  the  cocker,  are  schools,  boarding- 
houses,  and  maisons  de  sante.  Within  a  few 
doors  of  No.  30  we  pause  and  alight,  for  we  are 
anxious  not  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  in- 
mates, and  so  walk  on  and  stop  before  the 
house. 

It  is  built  in  the  Italian  style,  surrounded  by 
a  wall  and  garden,  and  set  round  with  lofty 
trees,  on  which  few  leaves  remain.  There  are 
lights  gleaming  from  some  of  the  windows,  and 
sometimes  a  passing  shadow  from  within  dark- 
ens on  the  blinds.  By-and-by  the  sound  of  a 
piano  is  heard,  and  the  tones  of  an  enchanting 
voice  linger,  and  rise,  and  fade  upon  the  air. 
Then  they  cease — the  outline  of  a  woman's  form 
flits  along  the  curtain — all  is  still. 

Observing  thus,  we  wait  and  watch  for  full 
three  quarters  of  an  hour,  and  then  turn  silent- 
ly away. 

They  are  found  now,  and  to-morrow  shall  see 
the  work  begun ! 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


87 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

STRENGTH  MEETS  STRENGTH,  AND  CRAFT  WITH 
CRAFT  IS  MATCHED. 

IT  is  bright  morning  again,  and  again  I  stand 
looking  up  at  the  house  where  ray  misguded 
brother  and  his  mistress  are  dwelling.  The  air 
is  chill ;  the  blessed  sun  is  shining  as  if  there 
were  nor  sin  nor  sorrow  in  the  world ;  the  red 
and  yellow  leaves  strew  all  the  ground,  and 
shower  down  with  every  gust  of  wind;  the 
workmen  are  going  to  their  daily  labor ;  the  lit- 
tle children  are  playing  in  the  streets ;  all  toil 
and  pleasure  is  going  on  as  usual,  and  I  am 
standing  there  with  a  stern  duty  upon  my  hands, 
and  a  heart  full  of  perplexity  and  trouble. 

Looking  down  toward  that  point  where  the 
road  branches  off  from  the  main  avenue  of  the 
Champs  Elysees,  I  see  the  figure  of  a  man  walk- 
ing slowly  to  and  fro.  He  pauses  —  he  waves 
his  hand  impatiently.  It  is  Vogelsang,  and  he 
is  urging  me  to  action.  We  judged  it  best  that 
I  should  go  in  alone,  and  see  my  brother  first, 
and  he  is  waiting  yonder  till  I  return.  Nay,  I 
do  not  need  urging ;  and  in  proof  of  it,  I  ring 
the  bell  beside  the  garden  gate.  It  is  answered 
by  a  servant  in  livery. 

"Is  Monsieur  Lemaire  at  home?" 

"  He  is  breakfasting,  monsieur." 

"No  matter.     I  will  wait." 

With  these  words  I  am  shown  in  ;  and,  fol- 
lowing the  man  through  the  garden,  am  ushered 
up  a  broad  flight  of  stairs,  and  into  a  small  but 
elegant  drawing-room. 

"What  name  shall  I  say,  monsieur?"  asks 
the  servant,  lingering  at  the  door. 

"It  is  of  no  consequence.  I  am  a  stranger, 
and  I  come  upon  business." 

Left  alone  in  the  room,  I  observe  every  thing 
with  that  peculiar  susceptibility  to  trifles,  that 
painfully  acute  power  of  seeing  and  reasoning, 
which,  at  times  of  great  excitement  or  anxie- 
ty, seems  to  endue  the  senses  with  a  twofold 
power. 

The  furniture  of  the  salon  is  rich,  but  not  new. 
One  or  two  valuable  paintings  adorn  the  walls, 
and  suspended  in  the  most  conspicuous  situa- 
tion hangs  a  superb  full-length  portrait  of  an 
officer  under  Napoleon.  His  breast  is  covered 
with  orders ;  his  weather-beaten  face  and  white 
mustache  tell  of  long  service ;  he  leans  upon 
the  neck  of  a  bay  charger,  and  a  distant  view 
of  the  sands  and  Pyramids  of  Egypt  points  to 
the  scene  of  at  least  one  of  his  campaigns. 
Crossing  over  to  examine  it  more  nearly,  I  see 
the  name  of  DAVID  in  the  corner. 

The  induction  is  easy.  Theophile  has  hired 
the  house  for  the  season,  while  the  owners  are 
absent  at  their  country  seat  or  on  their  travels. 

Some  books  lie  on  the  table,  and  I  examine 
one.  It  is  the  "History  of  the  Consulate  and 
the  Empire,"  by  Thiers ;  and  under  an  en- 
graved coat  of  arms  pasted  in  the  first  fly-leaf, 
I  see  the  name  of  De  Montreuil — the  name  of 
the  owners  of  the  place,  of  course. 

A  grand  piano-forte  is  placed  close  under  the 


portrait.  .  It  is  open,  and  the  candles  which 
were  used  the  night  before  are  yet  standing, 
half  burnt  down,  on  either  side  of  the  music- 
book.  Near  it,  two  chairs  drawn  close  together 
seem  to  show  me  where  they  have  been  sitting 
side  by  side ;  and  a  man's  hat  is  thrown  care- 
lessly upon  a  couch  beside  the  window. 

Strange  that  the  veriest  trifles  should  find  a 
place  in  my  attention  at  this  moment  j  but  I 
remember  noticing  that  it  was  a  white  hat,  and 
that  I  had  never  known  Theophile  wear  a  white 
hat  before ! 

As  I  am  thinking  this,  the  door  opens,  the 
same  servant  appears,  and  I  am  requested  to 
follow  him. 

Down  stairs  this  time,  through  a  broad  hall 
and  a  spacious  library,  and  into  a  pleasant  par- 
lor opening  upon  a  conservatory  and  garden. 
There  is  breakfast  on  the  table  —  a  lady  in  a 
white  morning  robe  leaning  back  in  an  easy- 
chair  by  the  fireside,  reading  the  newspaper — a 
gentleman  with  his  back  turned  toward  me, 
stooping  over  some  flowers  in  the  conservatory 
beyond. 

She  lays  aside  the  paper  as  I  enter,  with  an 
anxious  glance  at  my  face,  and  half  rises  from 
her  chair. 

She  is  most  lovely  to-day  in  that  white  robe. 
Her  dark  lustrous  hair  is  gathered  in  massive 
rolls  at  the  back  of  her  head,  and  fastened  by  a 
single  golden  arrow ;  her  beautiful  arms  are 
half  hidden  by  the  white  lace  sleeves:  her  atti- 
tude is  that  of  a  queen,  graceful,  indolent,  dig- 
nified— like  Cleopatra's  in  the  golden  galley. 

"You  wish  to  see  Monsieur  Lemaire,"  she 
says,  courteously,  and  with  the  slightest  foreign 
accent  in  the  world.  "He  will  be  here  imme- 
diately. Pray  take  a  seat." 

I  bow  profoundly,  but  remain  standing,  hat 
in  hand. 

"Laurent,  request  your  master  to  step  this 
way.  A  gentleman  is  waiting  to  speak  with 
him." 

The  servant  passes  into  the  conservatory, 
and  inadame  resumes  the  newspaper,  but  I  can 
see  that  she  does  not  read  a  single  line. 

Now  the  servant  has  reached  his  side  —  he 
pauses  —  turns  —  enters  the  room,  and  I  recog- 
nize—  not  my  brother  —  not  Theophile,  but  a 
harsh,  unprepossessing  countenance,  which  I  cer- 
tainly remember  to  have  seen  and  noticed  late- 
ly, but  where  I  can  not  tell ! 

"You  have  asked  for  me,  monsieur?  I  am 
entirely  at  your  service." 

That  sneering  smile,  that  glance  from  be- 
neath the  drooping  eyelids,  that  peculiar  ges- 
ture, I  could  swear  that  I  have— yes,  by  heaven  ! 
it  is  the  man  Lemaire  himself — the  real  owner 
of  the  name — the  lessee  of  the  Brussels  theatre  ! 

"You  have  business  with  me,  I  believe. 
Pray,  is  it  respecting  theatrical  matters  ?" 

Still  breathless,  bewildered,  utterly  taken  by 
surprise,  I  can  only  look  at  him.  A  crowd  of 
ideas  are  flitting  like  lightning  through  my 
mind.  Where  is  Theophile?  Shnll  I  ask  for 
him  ?  Shall  I  tell  them  who  I  am  ?" 


88 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


I  am 


"You  have  but  to  speak,  monsieur, 
waiting." 

This  is  said  somewhat  impatiently,  and  with 
a  surprised,  suspicious  glance  from  beneath  the 
red  eyelashes,  which  fills  me  with  aversion,  so 
foxlike  is  it,  and  so  stealthy. 

Madame  drops  the  paper  now,  and  fixes  her 
dark  eyes  full  upon  my  face. 

" Perhaps, "  she  observes  haughtily,  "if  the 
gentleman  will  not  state  the  purport  of  his  visit, 
he  will,  at  least,  be  so  obliging  as  to  inform  us 
of  his  name." 

My  course  is  taken  now.  I  return  her  gaze 
steadily,  and  the  tone  of  my  voice,  as  I  reply,  is 
measured,  resonant,  penetrating. 

"My  name,  madame,  could  be  of  little  im- 
portance to  this  gentleman.  I  came  here  this 
morning  to  meet  a  very  different  person.  You, 
most  probably,  can  guess  whom  I  mean,  and 
will,  perhaps,  favor  me  with  some  address  by 
which  I  can  find  him." 

She  still  looks  at  me  fixedly,  as  before,  for  a 
few  seconds,  and  the  pupils  of  her  eyes  seem  to 
dilate  as  if  from  some  inner  passion  of  anger, 
suspicion,  or  defiance.  Then,  finding  that  I 
sustain  her  scrutiny  unwaveringly,  she  sudden- 
ly drops  the  lids,  and  leaning  back  with  an  af- 
fectation of  proud  indifference,  turns  to  Mon- 
sieur Lemaire  and  says  languidly, 

"You  see,  Alphonse,  it  is  a  mistake  altogeth- 
er. This — this  person  is  inquiring  for  the  peo- 
ple to  whom  the  house  belongs.  I  think  we  can 
oblige  him ;  for,  if  you  remember,  they  left  us  a 
card  by  which  we  were  to  direct  any  letters  that 
might  arrive  for  Monsieur  (what  is  his  name  ?) 
— Monsieur  de — de  Montreuil.  Will  you  have 
the  kindness  to  pass  me  the  paper-case  ?  I  am 
almost  sure  that  the  card  is  inside.  We  will 
not  detain  you,  monsieur,  many  minutes.  Ah  ! 
here  it  is — 'Monsieur  le  Comte  de  Montreuil, 
Poste  Restante,  Baden-Baden,  Germany.' " 

"  I  thank  you,  madame,"  I  reply,  in  the  same 
tone,  and  without  having  once  removed  my  eyes 
from  her  face,  "but  it  was  not  to  meet  M.  le 
Comte  de  Montreuil  that  I  came  here  to-day." 

"Indeed!"  she  exclaims  quickly,  looking  up 
at  me  again  with  a  sharp  unquiet  glance. 
"  Pray  whom  else  could  you  have  thought  to 
see  here,  in  my  house  ?" 

"Monsieur  Theophile  Latour." 

I  have  expected  something  of  a  start,  an  ex- 
clamation, a  passing  expression  of  surprise  or 
shame  ;  but  no  —  she  is  calm,  impassable,  un- 
moved as  a  statue;  only,  on  looking  more  close- 
ly, I  fancy  that  the  rich  brunette  tint  upon  her 
cheek  is  a  shade  paler,  and  that  the  delicate 
nostril  quivers  twice  or  thrice,  but  almost  im- 
perceptibly. 

"You  are  in  error,  sir,"  she  says,  clearly  and 
deliberately.  "Monsieur  Theophile  Latour  is 
not  here.  You  had  better  direct  your  letters  to 
Brussels.  He  is  residing  there,  and  they  will 
be  sure  to  find  him." 

"To  Brussels,  madame!  But  he  has  left 
Brussels!" 

"  Indeed  ?     I  was  not  aware  of  that." 


So  calm,  so  collected,  so  natural !  I  am  al- 
most thrown  off  my  guard,  and  begin  to  doubt 
the  evidences  of  the  ball  and  the  journey. 

"  Not  aware  of  it,  madame  ?" 

"You  echo  my  words  strangely,  sir.  I  re- 
peat that  I  was  '  not  aware  of  it.'  Are  you  con- 
tented?" 

"But  he  traveled  with  you  from  Brussels!" 

"Monsieur!" 

She  rises  from  her  seat  and  draws  herself  to 
her  full  stature  as  she  utters  this  one  word  so  full 
of  pride,  anger,  offended  modesty.  The  flash- 
ing eyes — the  indignant  gesture — the  imperious 
tone,  baffle  and  confuse  me.  I  hesitate  —  I 
pause. 

"  Have  the  goodness  to  repeat  that  assertion, 
monsieur." 

"I  —  that  is — Monsieur  Latour — did  he  not 
travel  from  Brussels  in  your  company  ?" 

"Monsieur  Lemaire  was  so  obliging,  sir,  as 
to  favor  me  with  his  escort  from  Brussels  to 
Paris — Monsieur  Lemaire,  the  impressario  of  the 
theatre  in  that  city.  I  am  but  very  slightly  ac- 
quainted with  Monsieur  Latour,  and  though  I 
do  not  feel  myself  called  upon  to  account  for  my 
actions  to  any  person  (more  particularly  to  an 
entire  stranger),  yet,  rather  than  suffer  such  a 
report  to  become  current,  I  must  beg  leave  to 
observe  that  a  step  such  as  you  have  just  named 
— a  step  so  unusual,  so  equivocal,  so  open  to  ob- 
servation and  censure,  would  be  utterly  opposed 
to  my  principles,  my  inclinations,  and  the  strict-!- 
ly  reserved  line  of  conduct  to  which  I  have  ad- 
hered throughout  the  course  of  my  professional 
life.  Monsieur  Lemaire,  will  you  have  the  kind- 
ness to  corroborate  my  words,  and  to  show  your 
passport  to  this — this  very  inquisitive  and  sin- 
gular gentleman  ?" 

I  came  here  with  the  resolution  of  not  ex- 
changing one  syllable,  if  possible,  with  this 
woman,  and  behold,  she  alone  had  taken  upon 
herself  the  entire  conversation  !  Her  looks,  her 
words,  her  very  gestures  were  all -convincing, 
and  wrought  upon  me  with  an  irresistible  power. 
Yet  how  reconcile  this  with  Vogelsang's  narra- 
tive— with  my  brother's  disappearance — with  the 
testimony  of  his  note,  now  in  my  possession — 
with  the  cigar-case  found  in  the  carriage  ? 

Monsieur  Lemaire  drew  a  folded  paper  from 
his  pocket-book  and  handed  it  to  me  with  his 
false  smile. 

"Monsieur  may  inspect  my  passport  if  he 
pleases,"  he  said^  shrugging  his  shoulders,  "but 
really  one  might  almost  think  that  we  were  in  a 
court  of  justice,  or,  at  the  least,  passing  through 
a  frontier  town!" 

Yes.  Here  is  the  passport,  and  perfectly  cor- 
rect. ii Monsieur  Alphonse  Lemaire;  French 
subject.  Tall;  eyes,  blue  ;  nose,  short ;  hair  and 
beard,  reddish-yellow."  The  same  from  which 
the  entry  was  made  in  the  books  at  the  prefect- 
ure of  police.  I  have  nothing  to  say  to  this.  I 
am  almost  ashamed  of  my  own  suspicions,  and 
feel  my  situation  more  than  embarrassing. 

Happening  to  look  up  suddenly  from  the  pa- 
per, I  see  a  triumphant  glance  pass  between 


MY  BKOTHER'S  WIFE. 


89 


them,  which  awakens  all  my  former  doubts. 
At  the  same  moment  madame  turns  to  me, 
and,  pointing  toward  a  small  velvet  case  lying 
on  the  mantel-piece,  says,  even  more  haughtily 
than  before, 

"My  passport  lies  there,  sir,  if  you  choose  to 
look  at  it :  and  then,  when  your  curiosity  is  sat- 
isfied, I  trust  this  interview  may  l>e  considered 
at  a  close.  I  have  endured  your  intrusion  and 
replied  to  your  questions,  not  because  I  felt 
bound  to  do  so  through  any  law  of  politeness, 
but  because  I  considered  it  my  duty  to  defend 
my  reputation  against  the  scandalous  report 
which  you  had  the  audacity  to  repeat  to  my 
very  face,  and  which,  as  I  can  not  imagine  it  to 
have  originated  with  yourself,  I  fear  must  have 
circulated  to  the  detriment  of  my  honor.  It  is 
now  in  your  power  to  contradict  that  rumor,  and 
I  trust  that,  in  common  justice,  you  will  not  fail 
to  do  so.  I  hope,  monsieur,  we  fully  understand 
each  other." 

Had  it  not  been  for  that  glance  which  I  sur- 
prised just  now,  I  would  not  have  looked  at  her 
passport ;  nay,  I  believe  that  I  should  even  have 
gone  so  far  as  to  apologize  for  all  that  I  had 
said,  such  truth,  and  fire,  and  dignity  is  there  in 
her  speech  and  bearing.  As  it  is,  however,  I 
only  bow  in  silence,  take  the  case  from  the  inan- 
tel-piece,  and  run  my  eye  along  the  document. 

"Madame  Therese  Vogelsang;  vocalist;  Aus- 
trian subject;  from  Brussels." 

I  have  nothing  to  say  to  this  either.  Every 
thing  is  perfectly  en  regie.  I  am  defeated,  but 
not  convinced,  and  all  that  I  can  do  now  is  to 
bow  and  retire.- 

I  am  about  to  do  this — -I  have  even  begun  to 
refold  the  paper,  when  a  sudden  thought  flashes 
through  me  like  a  revelation,  and,  taking  the 
other  passport  from  where  Iliad  laid  it  upon  the 
table,  I  compare  them  together. 

"Seen  at  Quievrain,  for  Paris,  October  17 th, 
18 — .  Chefde  Bureau,  E.  LECROIX." 

"  Seen  at  Quievrain,  for  Paris,  October  18thj 
18 — .  Chefde  Bureau,  E.  LECROIX." 

This  discovery  smites  upon  my  heart  like  a 
•  death-blow.  I  feel  myself  grow  pale,  and  the 
papers  flutter  in  my  hand  as  I  hold  them  up  be- 
fore his  face,  and,  striking  upon  the  two  sen- 
tences with  my  finger,  exclaim  hoarsely, 

"  See,  sir,  will  you  explain  this?  How  could 
you  have  traveled  with  madame,  and  yet  pass 
the  frontier  a  day  later?" 

Ha!  blenched  cheek,  and  downcast  eye,  and 
quivering  lip — what  does  that  mean?  Is  the 
man  stricken  dumb  ? 

"/can  explain  it,  monsieur,"  interposes  the 
singer,  with  a  glance  of  contempt  at  her  silent 
companion  and  a  dauntless  energy  upon  her 
face;  "/can  explain  it.  Monsieur  Lemaire, 
although  we  left  Brussels  at  the  same  time, 
found  himself  compelled  to  return  when  we 
were  about  half  way  to  the  frontier.  He  had 
forgotten  an  engagement  which  demanded  his 
personal  attendance,  and  he  only  rejoined  me 
toward  the  afternoon  of  the  second  day." 


"Yes,  yes,"  stammered  the  manager,  "that 
was  it!  MonDieu,  that  was  it,  upon  my  honor!" 

"And  may  I  take  the  liberty  of  inquiring, 
madame,  where  you  stopped  to  wait  for  the  ar- 
rival of  this  gentleman  ?" 

"It  is  a  liberty,  sir,  yet  I  will  answer  you. 
It  was  at  Douai." 

At  Douai — -and  we  took  the  railway  from 
Quievrain  !  Had  we  but  pursued  the  journey 
as  we  began  it  for  a  few  hours  more,  we  should 
have  overtaken  her  and  known  the  truth  of  this 
story !  Well,  after  all,  it  is  useless  to  question 
or  irritate  her  farther,  and  I  feel  that,  as  far  as 
evidence  goes,  I  am  powerless.  Best,  then,  to 
appear  satisfied — to  lull  suspicion — to  meet  craft 
by  craft — to  prove  all  before  I  say  more. 

My  face  expresses,  perhaps,  something  of  the 
deliberations  and  doubts  that  are  passing  through 
my  mind,  for  I  find  them  both  watching  me  nar- 
rowly. I  make  a  strong  effort  to  control  voice 
and  countenance,  and,  after  a  few  moments'  ap- 
parent reflection,  assume  a  look  of  melancholy 
conviction,  and  sigh  heavily. 

"Then,  madame,  you  can  tell  me  positively 
nothing  respecting  M.  Theophile,  excepting  that 
he  has  been  in  Brussels  ?" 

"Excepting  that  he  is  in  Brussels.  I  last 
saw  him  there,  and  I  believe  him  to  be  still  resi- 
dent there.  How  do  you  know  that  he  is  gone  ?" 

I  meet  her  searching  glance,  and  say  quietly, 
"A  friend  of  mine  called  at  his  house,  madame, 
to  endeavor  to  procure  from  him  some  money 
which  I  had  lent  to  him  not  long  since.  They 
told  my  friend  that  he  was  gone  nobody  knew 
whither;  but  it  was  supposed  (you  will  excuse 
me  for  repeating  it) — it  was  supposed  that  he 
had  accompanied  you  to  Paris." 

It  is  now  her  turn  to  suspect,  to  interrogate 
me.  How  stern  and  piercing  is  the  steady,  pro- 
longed gaze  of  those  dilating  eyes  ! 

"Then  you  have  lent  money  to  M.  Latour?" 
she  says,  inquiringly. 

I  bow  without  speaking. 

"How  did  you  know  my  address?" 

"I  applied  for  it  at  the  prefecture  of  police." 

"And  why  did  you  ask  for  Monsieur  Le- 
maire when  it  was  Monsieur  Latour  you  wished 
to  see?". 

"The  entry  stated  that  you  were  accompa- 
nied by  Monsieur  Lemaire.  The  description 
of  his  person  tallied  sufficiently  with  that  of  my 
— my  debtor.  I  thought  it  possible  that  he 
might  have  assumed  an  incognito  while  travel- 
ing, especially  if  he  be  as  deeply  in  debt  to  oth- 
ers as  he  is  to  me,  and  seeks  to  escape  his  cred- 
itors." 

This  explanation,  and  the  manner  in  which  I 
gave  it,  seems  to  satisfy  her.  She  draws  a  long 
breath,  and,  for  the  first  time  since  she  rose 
\  from  it  in  anger,  sinks  back  into  her  chair. 

"It  appears  to  me,  sir,"  she  says,  with  her 
fascinating  smile,  "  that  we  have  misunderstood 
each  other  from  beginning  to  end  of  this  con- 
versation. Had  you  told  me  at  first  that  you 
were  Monsieur  Latour's  creditor,  and  confided 
,  to  me  the  motive  of  your  visit,  we  need  not  have 


90 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


wasted  so  much  time  in  useless  discussion.  I 
really  regret  that  I  can  be  of  no  service  to  you, 
and  I  hope  that  you  may  recover  your  money. 
I  would  advise  you  to  send  your  letters  to  Brus- 
sels without  delay,  for  if  he  were  absent  he  has 
doubtless  returned  before  this.  I  wish  you  a 
good-morning.  Laurent,  attend  this  gentleman 
to  the  door." 

Thus  saying,  she  inclines  her  head  gracious- 
ly, and  resumes  the  newspaper.  Lemaire  stands 
scowling  after  me  near  the  conservatory  door, 
and  I  follow  the  servant  back  through  the  libra- 
ry and  hall,  across  the  garden,  and  out  into  the 
road. 

"What  news?"  cries  Vogelsang,  eagerly,  as 
I  rejoin  him  in  the  Champs  Ely  sees.  "What 
news?" 

And  so  I  tell  him  all  that  has  passed,  word 
for  word,  as  I  have  told  it  here,  and  when  I 
conclude  I  ask  him  what  he  thinks  of  it. 

But  he  shakes  his  head,  and,  looking  down- 
ward with  a  troubled  face,  says, 

"I  don't  know.  Don't  ask  me.  I  don't 
know  what  to  think  —  I  don't  know  what  to 
think!" 

Then,  silent  and  gloomy  both,  we  walk  on 
side  by  side  till  we  reach  the  great  post-office  in 
the  Rue  Jean  Jacques  Rousseau,  a  long  way 
from  the  Champs  Elyse'es.  Here  I  find  one  let- 
ter awaiting  me,  and  the  bold,  careless  super- 
scription tells  me  that  it  is  from  Norman  Sea- 
brook.  It  is  brief  enough — scarce  half  a  page 
in  length — and  I  read  it  almost  at  a  glance : 

"Oct.  20,13— . 

"I  have  only  bad  news  for  you,  my  dear 
friend.  Hauteville  is  sold.  The  purchase-mon- 
ey was  all  paid  in  on  the  evening  of  the  15th, 
and  we  have  every  reason  for  believing  that 
your  brother  has  the  entire  sum  in  his  posses- 
sion .  We  know,  of  course,  how  and  upon  whom 
it  will  be  spent!  I  have  this  from  Monsieur 
Pascal,  his  lawyer.  The  amount  was  500,000 
francs.  Madame  L.  bears  it  better  than  one 
could  expect.  I  have  no  time  for  more  at  pres- 
ent, but  will  write  again  to-morrow. 

"Yours  ever,  N.  S." 

"Read  this,"  I  cry,  thrusting  the  letter  into 
Vogelsang's  hand.  "Read  this!  Mon  Dieu! 
what  is  to  be  done  ?  What  has  become  of  him  ? 
My  dear,  dear  brother !" 

Vogelsang  reads  it,  and  grows  paler  as  he 
reads.  Coming  to  the  end,  he  crushes  it  in  his 
hand  and  looks  gloomily  into  my  face. 

"Foul  play!"  he  says,  in  a  low,  deep  voice. 
"  Foul  play  somewhere !  We  must  fathom  this 
abyss :  there  is  crime  at  the  bottom  of  it,  and 
my  vengeance  will  be  deeper  yet — and  sweeter!" 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

REVELATIONS. 

WE  are  on  the  road  again !     It  is  the  even- 
ing of  the  21st  of  October,  about  six  or  seven 


hours  since  I  left  the  Avenue  ;  and  au- 
tumn's early  sunset  tints  all  the  fields  and 
house-tops  of  St.  Denis  with  a  red  glow,  as  if 
we  saw  the  landscape  through  a  painted  window. 

On  the  road  by  which  we  came  four  days  ago 
— that  iron  road  which  intersects  France  in  a 
northward  line  from  Paris  to  Brussels — flving 
forward,  ever  forward,  while  sunset  fades  into 
dusk,  and  dusk  thickens  into  night ! 

We  have  a  railway  carriage  to  ourselves  this 
time,  for  the  sake  of  privacy  and  liberty  of 
speech — this,  chiefly,  because  we  are  no  longer 
alone,  and  need  to  talk  with  our  companion. 
He  whom  I  style  "our  companion"  is  a  small 
pale  man,  with  green  spectacles,  and  a  particu- 
larly vacant  countenance.  He  is  dressed  in  a 
suit  of  threadbare  black,  wears  a  hat  too  large 
for  his  head,  and  a  crumpled  white  neckcloth 
tied  loosely  round  his  throat.  He  looks  more 
like  a  petty  schoolmaster  or  peripatetic  preacher 
than  any  thing  else,  and  carries  a  large  cotton 
umbrella  between  his  knees.  Neither  beard 
nor  mustache  adorn  his  countenance.  He  looks 
not  to  the  right  nor  to  the  left,  and,  when 
spoken  to,  turns  upon  you  a  large,  dull,  mean- 
ingless gray  eye,  in  which  no  spark  of  intelli- 
gence is  ever  seen  to  quicken. 

Certainly  a  more  insignificant  and  utterly  un- 
promising person  could  scarcely  have  been  se- 
lected for  a  traveling  associate ;  yet  in  that 
man's  pocket  are  the  only  proofs  we  possess — 
the  note  and  the  cigar-case ;  and  into  his  ear 
we  are  pouring  all  our  doubts,  adventures,  dis- 
coveries, suspicions,  and  fears.  Already  he  is 
in  possession  of  all  the  leading  facts,  from  the 
conversation  which  I  overheard  in  the  conserv- 
atory on  the  night  of  the  soiree,  down  to  my  in- 
terview with  Madame  Vogelsang  this  morning, 
and  to  all  this  he  listened  with  a  face  as  absent 
and  passionless  as  if  he  were  counting  the  bricks 
in  a  dead  wall. 

Only  now  and  then  he  asks  some  trifling 
question,  or  enters  a  brief  note  very  slowly  and 
methodically  upon  the  leaves  of  a  greasy  pock- 
et-book, and  but  for  this  we  might  almost  fancy 
that  he  neither  heard  nor  heeded  a  syllable  of 
all  that  has  been  said. 

His  name  is  Pierre  Corneille  Barthelet.  He 
is  an  agent  of  police,  and  one  of  the  most  saga- 
cious of  Parisian  detectives. 

Fonvard,  always  forward  in  the  deep  night- 
past  the  lighted  stations  with  never  a  stop — past 
the  up-train  with  a  shock  of  vision,  like  the  sen- 
sation of  a  sudden  fall  from  some  giddy  height 
— forward,  forward  like  the  wind !  It  is  an  ex- 
press train,  bound  for  Brussels,  and  stopping 
only  at  Quievrain  and  Valenciennes  by  the  way. 

The  whole  scene,  police  agent  and  all,  seems 
like  some  rushing  terrible  dream,  and  the  tale 
we  tell  him  a  fantastic  fiction. 

"And  now  are  you  sure  that  I  know  all  the 
circumstances?"  he  asks,  carelessly,  "because 
that  is  important." 

"I  believe  that  we  have  forgotten  nothing." 

"  Humph !  You  made  one  very  false  move, 
gentlemen." 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


91 


"When,  and  how?" 

"In  going  to  the  house  as  you  did.  It  must 
have  put  them  on  their  guard." 

"And  they  will  escape  us  again!"  cries  Vo- 
gelsang, with  a  fierce  oath.  "Oh, I  must  go 
back — I  must  go  back  by  the  next  train !" 

"Indeed,  they  suspect  nothing,"  I  interpose. 
"Have  I  not  already  told  you  how  I  replied  to 
her  questions,  how  I  satisfied  her  that  I  was  but 
a  creditor  of  The'ophile's  ?" 

"Yes,  yes;  but  it  is  not  enough!  She  only 
affects  to  believe  you ;  she  will  escape  before  I 
can  get  back!" 

"Be  tranquil,  monsieur,"  observes  Barthelet, 
with  calm  indifference.  "  They  are  safe  enough. 
I  have  provided  for  that,  and  set  a  watch  upon 
the  house.  As  it  happens,  no  mischief  has 
been  done ;  but  I  objected  to  the  way  in  which 
you  entered.  It  was  unprofessional." 

So  saying,  Monsieur  Barthelet  looks  at  his 
watch  by  the  light  of  the  dim  lamp  above ;  ob- 
serves that  we  have  just  three  hours  left;  takes 
off  his  hat  (brushing  it  carefully  with  his  sleeve 
before  he  hangs  it  up),  and,  tying  his  pocket- 
handkerchief  over  his  head,  composes  himself 
for  a  nap. 

This  nap  lasts  till  we  reach  Quievrain,  when 
he  awakes,  as  if  by  magic,  and  follows  us  out  of 
the  carriage  to  the  passport-office,  where  the  el- 
derly gentleman  with  the  white  head  and  the 
eye-glass  is  still  sitting,  as  if  he  had  never  left 
his  place  since  we  last  saw  him. 

He  recognizes  us  the  moment  we  enter,  and 
the  cunning  smile  hovers  round  his  lips  and  in 
the  corners  of  his  eyes. 

"Well,  sir,"  he  says,  peering  at  Vogelsang 
from  behind  the  top  rails  of  his  desk,  "well, 
sir,  have  you  found  your  wife  ?" 

But,  before  my  companion  can  frame  a  reply, 
Monsieur  Barthelet  has  glided  from  behind  us, 
and  is  standing  beside  the  old  gentleman's  el- 
bow. A  whispered  word — the  sight  of  a  writ- 
ten paper  drawn  from  the  greasy  pocket-book, 
has  worked  wonders.  The  face  of  the  chef  de 
bureau  has  become  suddenly  grave  and  atten- 
tive. He  requests  us  to  be  seated.  He  listens 
deferentially  to  the  agent's  hurried  statement. 
He  takes  down  the  same  great  book,  and  again 
reads  up  every  page,  in  the  Hebrew  fashion, 
only  more  quickly. 

Suddenly  the  fore  finger  pauses  in  its  course  ; 
the  page  is  compared  with  one  a  little  way  be-r 
fore  it ;  they  look  significantly  into  each  other's 
faces,  and  we  are  called  over  to  inspect  the  en- 
tries. 

They  stand  thus : 

"Passed  this  day,  Oct.  17th,  18 — ,  between  the 
hours  of  one  and  two  P.M.,  Madame  Therese  Vo- 
gelsang ;  vocalist ;  Austrian  subject.  Going  to 
Paris  from  Brussels.  Seen  at  Quievrain,  for 
Paris,  Oct.  17,  18—. 

' '  Chef  de  Bureau.  E.  LECROIX." 

"Passed  this  day,  Oct.  17 th,  18—,  between  the 
hours  of  one  and  two  P.M.,  Monsieur  Alphonse 
Lemaire;  French  subject;  proprietaire.  Going 


to  Paris  from  Brussels.  Description  of  person : 
Tall;  blue  eyes;  auburn  hair.  Seen  at  Quie- 
vrain, for  Paris,  Oct.  17 'th,  18 — . 

"Chefde  Bureau.  E.  LECROIX." 

Then,  a  little  farther  on, 

"Passed  this  day,  Oct.  18th,  18—,  between  the 
hours  of  four  and  Jive  P.M.,  Monsieur  Alphonse 
Lemaire;  French  subject.  Tall;  eyes  blue;  nose 
short ;  hair  and  beard  reddish-yellow.  Going  to 
Paris  from  Brussels.  Seen  at  Quievrain,  for 
Paris,  Oct.  18th,  18—. 

' « Chefde  Bureau.  E.  LECROIX.  " 

Two  Monsieur  Lemaires  have  passed  the 
frontier ! 


CHAPTER  XXXVH. 

THE     CHAIN    IS    BROKEN. 

"AND  it  was  from  this  point,  gentlemen," 
says  Barthelet,  "that  you  took  the  rail  in  pref- 
erence to  the  road  ?" 

* '  From  this  point." 

"Then,  clearly,  we  must  first  find  the  post- 
house  from  which  they  had  their  next  relay  of 
horses.  Thence  we  shall  easily  discover  the 
road  by  which  they  traveled.  Tenez." 

And  Monsieur  Barthelet  takes  a  small  vol- 
ume from  his  pocket,  and  after  referring  back- 
ward and  forward  three  or  four  times  from  the 
map  to  the  letter-press,  from  the  letter-press  to 
the  map,  observes  dryly  that  Quievrain  has  four 
posies  aux  chevaux,  and  that  we  must  go  from 
one  to  the  other  till  we  meet  with  the  right. 

This  is  dismal  work,  traversing  the  streets  of 
Quievrain  in  the  dark,  three  hours  after  mid- 
night. It  reminds  me  of  the  first  step  which 
we  took  upon  the  journey  on  leaving  Brussels, 
only  that  it  is  infinitely  more  wretched;  and 
over  all  we  do,  or  think,  or  say,  there  hangs  the 
"shadow  of  a  fear" — sombre,  chilling,  unde- 
fined. 

At  the  first  post-house  we  have  to  wake  the 
people  from  their  sleep,  and  they  reply  to  our 
questions  surlily  enough.  They  have  no  remem- 
brance of  any  such  carriage  or  travelers.  What 
right  have  we  to  disturb  folks  for  nothing  ?  It 
is  their  business  to  furnish  horses,  not  informa- 
tion. They  have  a  great  mind  to  give  us  over 
to  the  police ;  but  they  content  themselves  with 
slamming  the  door  in  our  faces.  At  all  of 
which  Monsieur  Barthelet  smiles  grimly,  and, 
tapping  the  breast-pocket  of  his  coat,  says,  with 
a  tone  of  quiet  power,  that  he  has  "  a  little  pa- 
per there  by  which  he  could  exact  their  civility 
— ay,  and  the  civility  of  the  gendarmes  too,  if 
he  thought  fit  to  produce  it !" 

At  the  second  we  fare  no  better ;  and  at  the 
third  we  find  all  hands  busy,  and  every  body  up 
and  stirring.  It  is  now  nearly  half  past  four ; 
the  great  lumbering  diligence,  swaying  to  and 
fro  like  a  sleepy  giant  with  a  hood  on,  fills  all 
the  yard ;  horses  are  being  harnessed ;  postil- 
lions are  getting  ready  ;  luggage  is  being  heaped 


92 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


on  the  roof;  some  early  passengers  are  darting 
here  and  there,  and  getting  in  every  body's  way  ; 
and  all  this  confusion  by  the  light  of  glancing 
lanterns,  with  the  black  sky  overhead. 

Of  course  we  can  not  get  attended  to  in  the 
hurry  and  bustle  of  the  moment,  so  we  wait  till 
the  diligence  has  departed,  lurching  and  pitch- 
ing, and  still  very  sleepy,  out  of  the  yard,  when 
Barthelet  makes  the  old  inquiry. 

No  one  can  remember  any  thing,  whether  of 
the  carriage,  the  travelers,  or  their  destination. 
This  is  the  largest  post-house  in  Quievrain ; 
they  keep  the  greatest  number  of  horses — supply 
the  most  extensive  circle  of  customers.  It  is 
hardly  probable  that  they  would  recollect  it, 
without  something  had  occurred  to  render  the 
journey  remarkable.  They  are,  however,  very 
civil,  and  offer  no  objection  when  we  request 
permission  to  interrogate  the  servants  of  the  es- 
tablishment. But  from  these  we  can  obtain 
nothing,  and  are  about  to  turn  away  in  quest  of 
the  fourth  and  last  post-house,  when  some  one 
recollects  that  we  have  not  yet  spoken  to  the 
postillion,  Van  Comp,  who,  it  appears,  has  not 
long  come  off  a  journey,  and  is  now  in  bed. 

Unwilling  to  lose  any  chance  of  success,  we 
wait  till  Van  Comp  is  awakened,  and  pass  the 
time,  weary  as  we  are,  in  pacing  up  and  down 
the  yard,  for  the  morning  is  bitterly  cold,  and 
there  has  been  a  frost. 

At  length  Van  Comp,  a  little,  shrewd-look- 
ing man,  with  quick  black  eyes,  makes  his  ap- 
pearance, half  dressed  and  shivering.  So  small, 
so  puckered,  so  elfin  is  his  tout  ensemble,  that  I 
find  myself  at  a  loss  to  decide  whether  he  be 
an  active  old  man  or  a  withered  boy,  which 
perplexity  is  increased  when  I  hear  the  shrill 
treble  of  his  voice  replying  to  Barthelet's  ques- 
tions. 

He  speaks  only  Flemish,  of  which  neither 
Vogelsang  nor  myself  comprehend  a  syllable, 
and  we  watch  the  conference  in  silence.  Bar- 
thelet, as  usual,  looks  entirely  unconcerned,  and 
speaks  occasionally  in  a  low,  drawling  tone,  to 
which  the  other  responds  with  a  torrent  of  vol- 
ubility and  a  variety  of  lively  gesticulations. 
This  goes  on  for  several  minutes,  when  Barthe- 
let seems  to  give  some  order — the  ostlers  run  to 
the  stables — a  heavy  post-chaise  is  brought  out 
of  a  coach-house,  and  Van  Comp,  rushing  over 
to  a  pump  in  a  distant  corner  of  the  yard,  pro- 
ceeds to  plunge  his  head  and  face  twice  or  thrice 
into  a  bucket  full  of  water,  apparently  as  the 
first  step  toward  completing  his  toilet. 

"What  now?"  I  exclaim,  eagerly.  "What 
does  he  say  ?" 

"He  remembers  to  have  driven  a  lady  and 
gentleman  from  here  to  Valenciennes  about  five 
or  six  days  ago.  All  that  he  can  be  sure  of  is 
that  the  lady  was  very  handsome,  that  her  com- 
panion paid  him  in  gold,  and  that  it  was  about 
two  or  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  At  Va- 
lenciennes they  took  fresh  horses,  and  went  on 
without  delay.  He  can  not  tell  where  they 
went,  but  he  knows  the  post-house  to  which  he 
drove  them,  and  he  supposes  that  from  the  peo- 


ple there  we  shall  learn  all  we  require.  I  have 
ordered  a  chaise  to  be  got  ready  immediately, 
and  he  will  drive  us." 

Monsieur  Barthelet  delivers  this  important 
news  with  about  as  much  energy  and  emphasis 
as  one  might  remark  upon  the  state  of  the 
weather,  or  any  other  equally  exciting  subject, 
and  then  falls  to  consulting  the  map  and  the 
pocket-book. 

And  now  we  are  on  the  road  again. 

It  is  still  dark,  and  the  bright  carriage-lamps, 
illumining  a  narrow  patch  on  either  side,  reveal 
brief  glimpses  of  trees  and  gates,  and  show  our 
little  postillion  jerking  up  and  down  before  the 
front  windows.  Thus,  in  silence  and  gloom, 
we  journey  on  to  Valenciennes,  where,  with  lit- 
tle difficulty,  we  recover  the  next  clew,  and  so 
on,  post  by  post,  in  the  direction  of  Douai,  which 
we  enter  between  nine  and  ten  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  with  the  sun  shining  coldly  overhead, 
and  the  white  frost  glittering  like  diamond  dust 
on  the  ramparts  and  church  towers. 

We  are  driven  to  the  Hotel  de  Flandres, 
where  we  order  breakfast,  and  request  a  few  mo- 
ments' conversation  with  the  landlord — a  lofty 
gentleman  adorned  with  rings,  pins,  and  chains, 
who  listens  to  our  inquiries  with  an  indulgent 
air,  and  replies  in  an  infinitely  condescending 
manner. 

Truly  he  has  some  recollection  of  the  travel- 
ers to  whom  we  allude,  and  he  imagines  that 
their  stay  at  his  honse  was  not  prolonged  be- 
yond a  few  hours.  But  madame  keeps  the 
books,  and  attends  to  all  these  little  matters, 
and  he  thinks,  upon  the  whole,  that  we  had  bet- 
ter mention  the  subject  to  her.  Madame's  lit- 
tle bureau  lies  to  the  right  of  the  salle  a  manger. 
She  is  always  there,  and  we  may  seek  her  when 
we  are  disposed. 

And  monsieur  strolls  out  of  the  room,  clink- 
ing'the  Napoleons  in  his  pockets  as  he  walks,  as 
if  to  show  us  that  he  has  plenty  of  them,  and 
rather  likes  the  sound. 

To  madame's  room  we  repair  accordingly. 
She  is  very  gracious  and  has  been  handsome. 
She  consults  a  large  ledger,  and  presently  dig- 
covers  the  following  entry,  which  she  permits  us 
to  read,  and  which  Barthelet  copies  forthwith 
into  the  greasy  pocket-book : 

Monsieur  and  Madame— arrived  October  17th,  18 — 

,         Dinner  for  two 1.4 

Vin  de  Champagne 30 

Cafe  for  two 4 

Apartments  and  service 16 

Breakfast  for  two 10 

Vin  de  Champagne  at  ditto 10 

84 

"And  in  what  manner  did  this  lady  and  gen- 
tleman  leave?"  I  asked,  eagerly.  "Did  they 
take  a  post-chaise  from  here  ?" 

Madame  shakes  her  head.  Had  they  done 
so,  there  would  be  an  entry  of  it  in  the  ledger, 
which  there  certainly  is  not. 

"Can  madame  remember  at  what  hour  they 
left  the  house  ?" 

Madame  thinks  that  it  was  immediately  after 


breakfast  —  about  eleven  o'clock;  but  perhaps 
the  waiters  can  tell  me  this. 

The  waiters  are  called  and  questioned.  They 
remember  the  lady  and  gentleman  perfectly. 
"They  arrived  quite  late  the  first  day,  and 
dined  about  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening.  They 
went  away  the  next  morning  after  breakfast, 
about  twelve  or  one  in  the  day.  They  paid  the 
bill,  and  walked  out  arm  in  arm.  They  never 
came  back  again." 

"But  their  luggage ?" 
"  They  had  no  luggage,  m'sieur." 
"No  luggage!" 

"Not  a  single  bag  or  box  of  any  description. 
The  gentleman  had  his  great-coat  upon  his  arm, 
and  the  lady  carried  a  small  velvet  reticule." 
They  were  positive  of  this,  because  "  down  there 
in  the  cuisine,  la  has,  they  had  talked  of  it  to- 
gether, and,  mon  Dieu!  whatfun  the  cook  made 
of  it!" 

And  the  waiters  glanced  at  each  other,  and 
grinned  behind  their  hands  at  the  remembrance 
of  this  irresistible  joke. 

"  Can  you  describe  the  lady  ?" 
"  No,  m'sieur.  They  had  the  two  rooms  yon- 
der on  the  premier  etaye,  where  the  bedchamber 
opens  off  the  salon,  and  there  the  lady  retired 
whenever  we  were  in  attendance.  At  the  din- 
ner they  would  not  suffer  us  to  wait,  but  rang 
whenever  they  wished  the  courses  removed ; 
and  then  the  lady  sat  with  her  veil  down  and 
her  bonnet  on.  It  was  quite  plain  that  she  did 
not  wish  to  be  seen,  and  that  made  us  try  all 
the  more  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  her  face.  But 
it  was  impossible,  m'sieur  —  quite  impossible. 
HGYjinesse  was  perfect." 

"Eh  bien!  but  the  gentleman— what  was  he 
like?" 

"The  gentleman  !  Oh,  he  was  tall  and  fair. 
Jeannette  thought  him  handsome ;  but,  at  all 
events,  he  was  very  liberal — paid  like  a  prince." 
And  this,  question  them  as  we  will,  is  all  the 
news  that  we  can  obtain.  Barthelet,  for  the 
first  time  since  we  have  been  together,  exhibits 
a  faint  emotion  in  his  face,  and  looks  less  blank 
than  usual.  The  emotion,  unfortunately,  is  vex- 
ation. 

He  then  dismisses  the  waiters,  asks  madame 
for  our  bill,  and,  when  it  is  paid,  strolls  out  into 
the  street,  whither  we  follow  him. 

"This  matter  grows  difficult,"  he  says  mood- 
ily, as  if  thinking  aloud.  "We  are  thrown  off' 
the  scent  entirely  now." 

"Then  all  that  we  have  to  do  is  to  find  it 
again,"  interrupts  Vogelsang,  with  a  look  of 
dogged  resolution.  "We  must  beat  every  bush 
in  the  neighborhood  —  try  every  petty  village, 
inn,  and  farm-house  all  around,  till  we  find  the 
evidences  of  their  track.  Why,  it  must  have 
been  some  time  in  the  evening  of  the  day  they 
left  this  place  when  Lemaire  joined  them." 

"Of  course  it  was,"  replies  Barthelet,  refer- 
ring to  the  pocket-book.  "  He  passed  the  front- 
ier Between  four  and  five.  It  takes  about  five 
hours  by  posting,  and  about  one  hour  and  forty 
minutes  by  rail,  to  travel  from  Quievrain  to 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE.  93 

Douai.     By  whichever  route,  he  would  meet 
them  that  night.     The  time  and  place  of  that 


meeting  once  found,  the  object  of  our  journey 
will  be  accomplished,  or  I  am  much  mistaken." 
And  now,  guided  in  every  respect  by  our 
professional"  ally,  we  proceed  upon  the  search. 
The  first  step,  says  he,  is  to  make  inquiry  at  ev- 
ery livery-stable  in  the  town,  though  it  should 
take  us  a  week  to  do  it.  However,  there  are 
but  three  or  four,  and  to  these  he  pilots  us 
through  street,  and  market-place,  and  square, 
after  a  peculiar  fashion  of  his  own,  wherein  he 
leads  without  seeming  to  lead  us,  and  by  point- 
ing out  the  road,  gliding  now  before  and  now 
behind  us,  loitering,  hastening,  and  doubling 
back  upon  his  own  footsteps,  he  dexterously 
contrives  to  make  us  always  appear  like  the 
party  in  advance,  while  himself  is  strolling  on 
carelessly  in  the  rear,  looking  in  at  the  shop- 
windows,  or  walking  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
way  with  an  utterly  unconscious  face,  as  if  he 
had  no  acquaintances  and  no  business  in  the 
world. 

At  no  livery-stable  or  post-house  in  Douai 
had  they  been  heard  of  or  seen.  The  chain  of 
evidence  is  completely  broken,  and  to  find  the 
lost  links  seems  now  to  be  an  almost  hopeless 
task. 

However,  we  hire  a  vehicle,  and,  taking  the 
first  road  that  presents  itself,  travel  in  a  norther- 
ly direction,  and  after  turning  aside  to  many  a 
little  village,  farm-house,  and  hamlet  by  the 
way,  arrive  toward  dusk  at  the  town  of  Orchies, 
where  we  dine  and  spend  the  night. 

Alas !  the  seeking  and  waiting — 

"  All  the  hope,  and  the  fear,  and  the  sorrow — 
All  the  aching  of  heart,  the  restless  unsatisfied  longing, 
All  the  dull,  deep  pain,  and  constant  anguish  of  pa- 
tience !" 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

THE    LOST   LINKS. 

NORTH,  south,  east,  and  west,  in  every  direc- 
tion for  twenty  miles  round  Douai,  we  sought 
them  in  vain.  Had  the  earth  opened  benenth 
their  feet  when  they  went  out  arm  in  arm  from 
the  Hotel  de  Flandres  that  morning  of  the  18th 
of  October,  they  could  not  have  disappeared 
more  entirely  till  the  period  of  their  arrival  in 
Paris.  Northward  as  far  as  Lille  and  Tournay ; 
southward  to  Cambray  and  Arras ;  eastward  to 
Bethune,  and  westward  over  all  the  ground  ly- 
ing between  Douai  and  Valenciennes,  we  search- 
ed diligently,  and  so  passed  four  days  more. 

We  begun  to  despair.  Even  Monsieur  Pierre 
Corneille  Barthelet  was  heard  to  murmur  occa- 
sionally, and  Vogelsang  became  more  morose 
and  silent  than  ever. 

It  seemed  really  as  if  they  must  have  taken 
the  rail  from  Douai  to  Paris ;  yet,  in  that  case, 
what  had  become  of  Theophile,  and  where  had 
Therese  been  overtaken  by  Lemaire?  The 
whole  transaction  remained  a  mystery,  and  sus- 
pense became  torture. 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


Matters  were  in  this  position,  and  we  were 
driving  slowly  along  toward  the  evening  of  the 
fourth  day,  the  26th  of  October,  when  Vogel- 
sang proposed  suddenly  that  we  should  return 
to  Paris. 

"This  hopeless  wandering  about  is  worse 
than  useless,"  he  said.  "It  will  result  in  noth- 
ing. If  you  do  not  choose  to  go  back,  I  will." 

"I  do  not  choose  to  go  back,"  I  replied  warm- 
ly. "  I  will  not  be  so  easily  baffled.  I  am  de- 
termined to  find  my  brother  before  I  set  foot  in 
Paris  again." 

"Very  well.     I  go  to-morrow  morning." 

"You  may  do  as  you  please,  Herr  Vogelsang. 
I  remain." 

"  And  what  does  Monsieur  Barthelet  intend 
doing?"  asked  Vogelsang,  with  a  bitter  smile. 
"Is  he  not  yet  weary  of  exploring  this  pictur- 
esque neighborhood?" 

Monsieur  Barthelet  was  looking  out  of  the 
window,  and  appeared  not  to  hear  the  question. 

Vogelsang  repeated  it  with  emphasis. 

"  Sir, "replied  the  police  agent,  still  looking 
out  of  the  window,  "I  have  undertaken  this 
case,  and  I  have  no  intention  of  leaving  it  un- 
finished. My  professional  reputation  is  con- 
cerned in  it.  Hollo,  you  gar$on,  where  does 
that  lane  lead  to?" 

He  had  let  down  the  glasses  now,  and  was 
addressing  the  post-boy. 

"Over  the  fields  somewhere,  monsieur." 

"Is  there  any  village?" 

"  I  don't  know,  monsieur.  I  think  there  are 
a  few  cottages." 

"Well,  drive  up  there." 

"I  can't,  monsieur.  The  road  is  not  wide 
enough  for  the  wheels,  and  up  yonder  it  gets 
•narrower  still." 

"Then  we  will  walk,  and  you  may  go  back 
with  the  horses." 

"But,  monsieur  —  it  is  such  a  mean  place — 
it  is  absolutely  au  bout  du  monde"  remonstrates 
the  post-boy.  "Nobody  ever  goes  there." 

"No  matter,  /choose  to  go  there;  and  if 
I  can  not  be  driven,  I  will  walk." 

So  saying,  Monsieur  Barthelet  alights  and 
bids  us  discharge  the  carriage,  wherein,  as  usual, 
we  obey  him  implicitly ;  and  so  we  set  off  on 
foot. 

The  first  lane  merges  into  a  second,  the  sec- 
ond into  a  third,  the  third  into  a  fourth,  and  so 
on,  as  if  they  would  never  end  —  long,  green 
quiet  lanes,  all  grass  under  foot,  with  holly  and 
thorn  bushes  on  either  side,  and  long  trailing 
boughs  laden  with  blackberries  lying  across  the 
path,  and  scant  trees  standing  here  and  there, 
like  lonely  sentinels,  at  irregular  distances. 

The  farther  we  go  the  farther  we  seem  to 
wander  from  all  human  habitation.  Before  us 
stretch  the  lanes  green  and  straight ;  behind  us 
the  sun  is  setting  broad  and  red,  on  the  very 
verge  of  the  horizon.  There  is  not  a  cottage 
or  shed  any  where  in  sight. 

Now  we  come  upon  two  little  children  gath- 
ing  wild  berries  under  the  hedge,  but  they  can 
scarcely  comprehend  us,  and  the  only  reply  we 


get  is  that  the  houses  are  farther  on,  "  tout 
droit." 

So  straight  forward  we  go,  and  the  night 
comes  creeping  up. 

Suddenly  the  lane  takes  a  curve  —we  see  a 
column  of  white  smoke  above  the  trees— a  faint 
light  glimmering  through  the  dusk  —  an  open 
space  of  common,  and  a  cluster  of  small  cot- 
tages, with  a  wind-mill  and  a  little  mean  au- 
berge  in  the  midst.  The  auberge  is  a  wretch- 
ed whitewashed  building,  with  a  dunghill  be- 
fore the  door,  and  the  words 

HOTEL   DE   NAMUR, 

Id  on  loye  a  pied  et  a  chevaf, 
painted  in  large  red  letters  across  the  front  of 
the  house. 

Hotel,  indeed !  Miserable  as  it  is,  however, 
we  must  put  up  there  for  the  night,  for  there  is 
no  other,  and  we  have  been  on  the  road  all  day 
since  dawn. 

Tired,  dusty,  travel-worn  as  we  are,  it  would 
seem  that  customers  so  well-dressed  are  seldom 
entertained  at  the  Hotel  de  Namur,  for  the  land- 
lady courtesies,  and  the  landlord  bows,  and  hov- 
ers round  us,  and  dusts  the  chairs  before  he  will 
suffer  us  to  be  seated,  and  is  in  an  agony  of 
bustling  civility. 

"Will  messieurs  please  to  dine  or  sup?  Do 
messieurs  intend  to  pass  the  night  here  ?  Shall 
a  fire  be  lighted  in  one  of  the  chambers,  since 
we  have  not,  I  grieve  to  say,  another  salon  ?" 

The  "salon"  in  which  we  find  ourselves  is  a 
long  low  apartment,  with  whitewashed  walls  and 
sanded  floor,  and  the  words  Salle  a  Manger 
painted  up  over  the  door.  A  deal  table,  some 
benches  and  wooden  chairs,  and  a  stove,  are  all 
the  furniture ;  and  two  peasants,  with  a  jug  of 
red  wine  between  them,  are  sitting  staring  at  us 
with  open  eyes  and  mouths  in  a  far  corner,  near 
the  window. 

We  decide  upon  dining  tip  stairs,  order  the 
best  dinner  they  can  muster,  and  sit  down  by 
the  stove  in  the  public  room  till  ours  is  pre- 
pared ;  whereupon  landlord  and  landlady  both 
disappear  suddenly,  before  we  can  put  a  single 
question  to  either,  and  an  immense  confusion 
of  heavy  feet  overhead  and  sharp  voices  in  the 
kitchen  is  immediately  begun.  Presently  the 
two  rustics  finish  their  wine  and  withdraw  in 
bashful  silence,  and  we  are  left  with  the  place 
to  ourselves. 

Thus  more  than  an  hour  passes  away  without 
interruption,  save  once,  when  a  party  of  three 
or  four  men  and  women  enter  and  call  for  the 
landlord  ;  but,  finding  their  custom  unheeded 
and  three  gentlemen  sitting  round  the  stove  in 
the  dark  room,  they  retire  discontentedly,  and 
return  no  more. 

At  length  the  door  opens,  and  our  host,  with 
a  napkin  thrown  over  his  arm  and  a  candle  in 
his  hand,  informs  us  that  the  chamber  is  ready 
and  the  table  served.  And  really  every  thing 
is  far  more  comfortable  than  we  had  anticipated. 
The  bed  has  been  wheeled  on  one  side ;  the 
table-cloth  and  dishes  are  plain,  but  clean ;  a 
j  blazing  wood  fire  is  crackling  on  the  hearth,  and 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


95 


to  travelers  so  weary  matters  wear  a  cheerful 
appearance. 

The  landlord  will  wait  upon  us  himself,  and 
the  landlady  too.  They  have  provided  soup 
for  us,  and  omelettes,  and  fowls,  and  bouilli,  and 
a  dessert  of  cheese  and  apples,  and  three  bottles 
of  Macon  wine,  and  a  flask  of  eau-de-vie,  which 
we  are  assured  is  "  '  vielle  de  cognac' — superb — 
equal  to  any  we  could  procure  in  Douai,  or  even 
in  Paris !" 

So  faint  are  we,  and  so  tired,  that  for  several 
minutes  we  can  do  nothing  but  eat  in  silence. 
At  length  Barthelet  speaks. 

"You  have  not  many  travelers  come  here,  I 
suppose.  Your  chief  custom  is  from  those  in 
the  village,  n'est-ce-pas  f 

"Our  chief  custom,  certainly,  is  in  the  vil- 
lage," says  the  landlord,  with  an  emphasis  on 
"chief;"  "but  we  do  entertain  travelers  some- 
times— gentlemen,  like  yourselves,  and  even  la- 
dies." 

"Yes,  yes,  even  ladies,"  adds  the  hostess, 
with  some  pride.  "For  instance,  messieurs,  it 
is  not  many  days  since  we  lodged  two  gentle- 
men and  a  lady — people  of  the  highest  rank, 
messieurs,  who  did  not  care  what  they  paid 
us!" 

Ha  !  We  all  paused  and  involuntarily  look- 
ed at  each  other.  For  some  seconds  nobody 
spoke,  and  then  Barthelet  resumed  : 

' '  Two  gentlemen  and  a  lady,  you  say,  who 
did  not  care  what  they  paid !  They  must  have 
been  rich,  then !" 

"Rich,  indeed — yes !  Monsieur  should  have 
seen  the  lady's  beautiful  ring  and  chains,  and 
her  cloak  all  of  velvet  and  lace,  fit  for  an  em- 
press !  Ah  !  they  were  rich,  and  we  should  not 
care  how  many  such  guests  came  to  the  Hotel 
de  Namur !" 

Barthelet  was  silent  for  some  time,  and  went 
on  with  his  dinner  as  if  nothing  had  taken  place. 
As  for  me,  I  could  not  eat  another  morsel,  and 
even  Vogelsang  seemed  perturbed  and  restless. 
Our  hosts  were  in  despair.  Did  not  monsieur 
like  the  soup?  Would  monsieur  try  an  ome- 
lette? The  fowls  were  delicious— just  a  little 
wing?  They  were  afraid  that  monsieur  must 
be  unwell ! 

I  replied  that  I  was  too  much  fatigued  to  en- 
joy any  thing,  and  finding  that  I  could  touch 
nothing  else,  I  drank  a  glass  of  brandy,  and 
tried  to  swallow  a  crust  of  bread  that  almost 
choked  me. 

So  the  meal  draws  to  a  close ;  the  dessert  is 
placed  before  us,  and  Barthelet,  while  leisurely 
peeling  an  apple,  pursues  his  inquiries. 

"I  fancy,  Monsieur  Callot"  (our  host's  name 
is  Callot),  "that  your  rich  customers  were 
friends  of  ours  —  friends  of  whom  we  are  even 
now  in  search.  Was  not  the  lady  very  hand- 
some, and  the  gentleman  fair?" 

"  Mon  Dicu,  yes !  The  lady  was  beautiful  as 
an  angel,  and  the  gentleman  was  fair.  Both 
gentlemen,  indeed,  were  fair,  but  the  first  was 
the  handsomest.  How  astonishing  that  mes- 
sieurs should  know  them !  But  it  is  charming ! " 


And  both  landlord  and  landlady  rub  their 
hands  with  delight,  and  then,  finding  that  we 
do  not  respond  to  their  congratulations,  look 
surprised  and  uncomfortable,  and  full  of  curios- 
ity. 

"  So,  the  first  gentleman  was  the  hand- 
somest," says  Barthelet,  still  occupied  upon  the 
apple.  "Let  me  see:  they  must  have  arrived 
here  about — about  three  o'clock  in  the  day,  did 
they  not?" 

"  About  four,  I  think,  monsieur — about  four." 

"Just  so — about  four.    And  they  dined  here  ?" 

"Yes,  they  dined  here,  but  not  till  nearly 
eight  o'clock  in  the  evening.  They  waited,  do 
you  see,  for  the  other  gentleman ! " 

"Ah!  true.  They  waited,  of  course.  And 
he  arrived  in  time?" 

"Oh  yes,  he  arrived  by  a  little  after  seven." 

"  And  they  were  delighted  to  see  him  ?" 

"Why,  monsieur,  really — I — that  is,  I  don't 
think  the  handsome  gentleman  seemed  very 
well  pleased.  He  did  not  seem  to  be  good 
friends  with  him  at  first ;  and,  to  tell  the  truth, 
my  wife  did  overhear  (quite  by  chance)  a  little 
conversation  between  the  first  gentleman  and 
his  lady  that  led  us  to  think — Marie,  tell  the 
gentlemen  what  you  heard  them  saying." 

"Why,  gentlemen,  you  see  I  was  getting  ready 
the  table  in  this  very  apartment,  and  they  were 
in  there,  in  the  second  chamber,  and  I  heard  the 
lady  say, '  He  will  soon  be  here  now. '  To  which 
the  gentleman  replied,  'I  am  sorry  for  it.  I 
did  not  want  his  company.  I  never  liked  him.' 
And  then  the  lady  said,  'But  you  know  how 
necessary  it  is  for  us  to  be  friends  with  him. 
And  as  matters  are  with  us,  it  is  very  fortunate 
for  us  that  he  happens  to  be  traveling  our  way. 
If  there  be  any  inquiries  made,  his  absence  will 
confirm  every  thing,  and  nobody  will  suspect 
your  identity.  Pray  be  civil  to  him,  for  my 
sake.'  And  the  gentleman  said,  'I  would  do 
any  thing  for  your  sake.'  And  that  was  all 
I  heard." 

"And  then,  I  suppose,  he  did  arrive.  Had 
they  any  quarrel,  these  two  gentlemen  ?" 

"Quarrel!  oh  dear  no,  they  got  quite  pleas- 
ant after  the  dinner,  and  when  they  parted  at 
night  they  shook  hands.  They  even  took  a  lit- 
tle walk  together  in  the  morning  before  break- 
fast." 

"Hum!  that  looked  well,  certainly.  And 
after  breakfast  they  all  went  away  together?" 

"The  lady  and  the  red-haired  gentleman 
went  away  together,  monsieur,  and  followed  the 
handsome  gentleman." 

"Followed  him !  Do  you  mean  to  say  that 
he  started  first,  and  without  madame  ?" 

"Yes,  monsieur.  He  went  on  farther,  when 
they  took  the  little  promenade  be^Jre  breakfast." 

"And  the  other  one  came  back  alone?" 

"  Yes,  monsieur." 

"And  what  did  he  say  when  he  came  back 
alone?" 

"He  said  that  the  gentleman  had  taken  a 
fancy  to  go  on  in  advance,  and  that  he  had  de- 
sired madame  to  follow  as  soon  as  she  had  break- 


96 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


fasted  and  felt  disposed  to  continue,  del! 
messieurs,  what  is  the  matter — you  look  so 
strange  at  me — what  is  the  matter?" 

"Murder  is  the  matter,"  says  Barthelet,  ris- 
ing from  his  seat,  and  suddenly  casting  off  all 
his  assumed  indifference.  "Murder  is  the  mat- 
ter. My  name  is  Pierre  Corneille  Barthelet. 
I  am  a  detective  government  agent,  and  I  call 
upon  all  here  present,  in  the  name  of  the  king 
and  the  state,  to  assist  me  in  the  discovery  of 
this  crime." 

The  hmdlady  falls  upon  her  knees  with  terror 
— the  landlord  trembles  and  turns  pale — we  have 
all  risen,  and  are  all  agitated. 

"Who  saw  them  go  out  together?"  asks  Bar- 
thelet, taking  pen,  ink,  and  paper  from  a  small 
case  which  he  draws  from  his  pocket.  "Who 
saw  them  go  out  ?  I  must  take  your  deposition 
upon  every  circumstance." 

"Oh,  dear  Virgin  !"  sobs  the  landlady.  "I 
saw  them  go  out." 

"And  what  direction  did  they  take  ?" 

"  I  don't  know,  indeed,  monsieur.  I  did  not 
look  after  them." 

"Did  you,  Monsieur  Callot ?" 

"No,  monsieur.  I  was  in  the  kitchen  at  the 
time ;  but — but  I  think  the  gargon  was  outside, 
feeding  the  poultry.  He  might  have  seen  them 
go." 

"Let  the  garfon  be  called." 

Barthelet  is  now  writing  briskly.  The  vacant 
look  vanished  from  his  face  ;  he  speaks  with  au- 
thority; and  I  am  sitting,  dumb  and  stupefied 
with  horror,  and  my  head  leaning  against  the 
wall. 

The  garfon,  a  shambling,  awkward  fellow  in 
sabots,  comes  into  the  room  and  is  interrogated. 

"  What  is  your  name  ?" 

"Jean." 

"Jean — and  what  else?  You  have  some 
other  name." 

"No,  m'sieur.  I  never  remember  to  have 
had  any  other." 

"It  is  true,"  interposes  the  landlord.  "He 
is  an  enfant  trouve.  We  call  him  Jean." 

"  Good.  Now,  Jean,  do  you  remember  to 
have  seen  two  gentlemen  leave  this  house  to- 
gether early  in  the  morning  on  the  19th  day  of 
this  month  ?" 

"I  remember  that  the  gentlemen  went  out 
together  before  breakfast,  but  I  don't  know  what 
day  of  the  month  it  was. " 

"Can  you  recollect  in  which  direction  they 
went  ?" 

"PMt-il?" 

"  Can  you  recollect  which  road  they  went  by 
— whether  they  turned  off  to  the  right  or  the 
left  after  they  got  outside  ?" 

"  They  watt  right  over  across  the  common, 
toward  the  wrod  yonder." 

"Then  there  is  a  wood  yonder!  Is  it  a 
large  wood?" 

"Oh  no,  m'sieur,  quite  a  little  place — about 
three  or  four  times  as  big  as  the  common." 

"Can  you  show  us  the  way  there  ?" 

"Yes,  m'sieur — by  daylight.     One  could  not 


find  one's  way  there  in  the  night,  it  is  such  a  de- 
ceitful kind  of  place." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  '  deceitful  ?' " 

"He  means,  gentlemen,"  says  the  landlord, 
"that  it  is  a  troublesome  place;  and  so  it  is, 
even  in  the  daytime — full  of  bushes  and  holes, 
and  scarcely  passable  in  many  parts." 

"And  is  there  no  pathway  through  it?" 

"There  is  a  pathway,  but  it  is  very  little 
used.  All  of  us  about  these  parts  would  rather 
go  round  than  through  it." 

"And  you  think  it  would  be  dangerous  to 
venture  there  to-night,  even  if  we  carried  lan- 
terns or  torches?" 

"I  am  sure,  sir,  that  if  you  went,  you  could 
not  take  four  steps  without  some  accident." 

"Did  the  gentlemen  go  into  the  wood  to- 
gether, Jean?" 

"I  can't  tell,  m'sieur.  I  did  not  watch  them 
across  the  common ;  but  they  certainly  crossed 
over  that  way." 

"  Do  you  think  that  either  of  them  knew  there 
was  a  wood  over  there?" 

"One  of  them  seemed  as  if  he  knew  his  way 
all  about  here,  m'sieur,  but  I  think  he  said,  '  I've 
been  in  this  place  before,  many  years  ago,  and 
if  you'll  trust  to  my  experience,  I  will  lead  the 
way.' " 

"And  which  of  the  gentlemen  said  this?" 

"The  ugly  one,  m'sieur." 

"  And  he  led  the  way  to  the  wood  ?" 

"Yes,  m'sieur.  I  would  have  warned  him 
of  the  holes  and  bogs  in  it,  only  that  he  seemed 
so  confident,  and  they  walked  away  so  fast." 

"Is  this  all  you  know  ?" 

"Yes,  m'sieur." 

"Enough,  Jean,  you  may  go." 

And  so  Barthelet  proceeds  to  record  the  testi- 
mony of  the  Callots,  and  defers  all  farther  search 
to  the  morrow.  The  dreary  night  passes  thus, 
in  questioning  and  writing,  and  suspicions  too 
dark  for  words,  which  merge  rapidly  into  deso- 
late certainties. 

A  dreary  night  indeed ! 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

THE   DELL   IN   THE   WOOD. 

THE  sad  day  dawns  through  tears,  and  a 
white  fog  hangs  over  the  landscape  as  I  look 
forth  in  the  early  morning.  Barthelet  and 
Vogelsang  are  sleeping  in  their  chairs,  worn  out 
by  excitement  and  long  watching,  and  I  alone 
have  been  unable  to  forget  the  terrible  present. 

"Oh,  if  it  were  but  a  dream!"  I  exclaim  to 
myself,  as  I  watch  their  closed  eyelids — "oh, 
if  it  were  but  a  dream,  and  there  were  no  wood 
lying  out  there  in  the  mist!" 

The  wood !  I  shuddered  at  the  mere  word, 
and  roused  them  hastily.  "Up!  up  and  be 
doing!  It  is  day." 

Barthelet  is  awake  and  on  his  feet  directly. 
He  never  seems  to  require  a  moment  to  regain 
his  senses,  but  passes  instantaneously  from  deep 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


97 


posite  directions,  the  one  tending  toward  the 
right,  the  other  sloping  downward  by  a  deep 
curve,  and  leading  to  a  dark  dell,  where  the 
trees  would  seem  to  grow  larger  and  thicker 
than  elsewhere. 

At  this  point  the  police  agent  pauses,  and 
scans  the  ground  narrowly ;  then,  stooping  low, 
proceeds  to  gather  up  the  fallen  leaves,  and  cast 
them  on  one  side. 

"  See !"  he  says  eagerly,  but  with  an  evident 
effort  to  maintain  his  old  cool,  indifferent  man- 
ner, "  see !  there  have  been  feet  along  this  path 
lately.  Here  are  the  .marks,  half  filled  with 
water;  the  leaves  lie  deep  above  them,  and 
have  been  falling  for  many  days  since  the  prints 
were  made.  They  go  down,  you  see,  into  the 
hollow ;  and  here  is  a  broken  bough,  where  they 
forced  a  passage  through  the  brambles.  We 
have  it  now,  sir!  we  have  it  now!" 

Down,  then,  down  the  slippery  steep  path, 
and  into  the  hollow  all  overgrown  with  bushes, 
and  marshy  as  the  basin  of  an  empty  pond — 
down  to  a  spot  where  the  mire  is  trampled  over 
strangely. 

"Don't  stir  a  foot,  sir,"  cries  Barthelet, 
flushed  and  vehement,  ' '  don't  stir  a  foot,  or  you 
will  efface  the  trail !  Look,  look !  here — where 
I  stand :  don't  you  see  that  dragging  mark  along 
the  ground  ?  Something  heavy  has  been  hauled 
all  across !  It  goes  right  over  to  the  foot  of  this 
alder,  and  is  lost  in  the  bushes !  Now  we  must 
turn  up  every  foot  of  ground  in  among  these 
bushes,  if  we  have  to  go  back  to  the  village  for 
hatchets  and  cut  them  even  with  the  earth." 

Impelled  by  a  feverish  dreadful  haste,  trem- 
bling with  anguish,  yet  conscious  of  a  wild 
strength  which  I  never  possessed  before,  I  seize 
the  thorny  bushes  in  my  desperate  grasp,  and — 
Heavens !  the  first  I  touch  comes  away  in  my 
hand  without  an  effort ! 

The  next  does  the  same,  and  the  next,  and 
that  which  Barthelet  holds  likewise.  They  have 
no  root  in  the  soil ;  their  leaves  are  all  yellow 
and  drooping;  they  have  been  thrust  in  there 
as  a  blind — a  screen — a  mask ! 

And  beyond  them? 

Beyond  them,  heaped  over  with  more  branch- 
es and  brambles,  lies  something  —  something 
whereat  I  shudder  and  stand  still,  and  from  be- 
side which  a  small  black  snake  writhes  away  at 
our  approach,  and  glides  swiftly  in  among  the 
gnarled  roots  of  the  surrounding  trees. 

Barthelet  removes  the  branches  in  silence. 

And  there  —  yes  there,  with  strength,  and 
beauty,  and  desire  struck  into  the  dust,  with  his 
face  pressed  to  the  earth,  and  his  yellow  locks 
all  dabbled  in  the  mire — there,  meaner  in  his 
abasement,  oh  God  of  mercy  !  than  the  meanest 
of  Thy  living  creatures,  lies  the  body  of  my 
brother  Theophile ! 


98 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


CHAPTEK  XL. 


THE   WORK   OF  RETRIBUTION  BEGINS. 

IT  is  night  again — night  for  the  second  time 
since  we  discovered  the  body— the  night  of  the 
28th  of  October. 

Our  sorrowful  duty  to  the  dead  has  been  ac- 
complished as  far  as  the  law  permits ;  the  vic- 
tim lies  in  his  coffin  at  Douai,  awaiting  the  in- 
quest ;  and  Vogelsang,  Barthelet,  and  myself 
are  traversing  one  of  the  least  frequented  ave- 
nues of  the  Champs  Elyse'es  in  Paris,  bound  on 
an  avenging  errand. 

Behind  us,  in  silence  and  shadow,  marches  a 
company  of  gendarmes,  with  their  officer  at  their 
head  —  breathless,  statue-like,  moving  as  one 
man,  and  heard  only  by  the  dull  fall  of  their 
tread  and  the  occasional  clank  of  their  swords. 

Thus  we  move  on  in  the  darkness,  and  the 
distant  clocks  strike  twelve. 

Hush !  we  pause  before  the  gate  of  that  Ital- 
ian villa  where  I  entered  some  few  days  past, 
and  the  soldiers  draw  back  out  of  sight,  leaving 
me  alone  to  summon  the  attendance  of  a  serv- 
ant. I  ring — the  gate  is  partially  opened — the 
same  footman  looks  out. 

"Who  is  there?" 

"  The  gentleman  who  called  the  other  morn- 
ing. I  want  to  see  Monsieur  Lemaire  on  urg- 
ent business." 

' '  Monsieur  and  madame  are  at  supper.  You 
can  not  see  them  to-night,  sir.  They  receive 
no  visitors  so  late  in  the  evening." 

"But  my  business,  I  tell  you,  is  important." 

"  Well,  sir,  if  you  will  give  me  your  name 
and  state  your  business,  I  will  tell  my  master, 
but  I  am  sure  it  will  be  useless." 

"I  do  not  choose  to  do  either;  I  must  see 
him." 

"  Then,  monsieur,  it  is  impossible.  You  must 
return  in  the  morning." 

So  saying,  the  servant  firmly,  but  respectfully, 
is  about  to  close  the  gate,  when  it  is  wrenched 
suddenly  back,  and  a  gauntleted  hand  is  closed 
upon  his  mouth. 

"Not  a  word,  or  you  are  a  dead  man, "says 
the  officer,  in  a  low,  stern  voice.  "Your  em- 
ployers are  charged  with  willful  murder,  and  I 
call  upon  you  to  aid  us  in  the  discharge  of  our 
duty.  Do  you  obey  ?" 

The  trembling  varlet  made  a  gesture  of  sub- 
mission, and  the  officer,  holding  a  pistol  to  his 
head,  continues : 

"Are  they  alone  together?" 

"Yes,  mon  capitaine." 

"How  many  servants  are  there  about  the 
place?" 

"Only  myself  and  the  cook,  mon  capitaine. 
The  rest  are  all  in  bed." 

"Where  is  the  cook?" 

"Down  in  the  kitchen,  mon  capitaine.'11 

11  Can  he  give  the  alarm  if  he  sees  us  ?" 

"Impossible,  mon  capitaine.  The  kitchen  is 
at  the  back  of  the  house,  far  enough  from  the 
salons." 

"Lead  the  way,  then — and  mind !     One  syl- 


lable of  betrayal,  and  you  have  a  couple  of  bul4 
lets  through  your  brains." 

Scarce  able  to  support  himself  for  terror,  the 
footman  proceeds  once  again  up  the  broad  stair- 
case and  into  the  drawing-room,  where  hangs 
the  portrait  by  David.  Barthelet,  Vogelsang, 
and  the  soldiers  have  all  followed  noiselessly. 
The  room  is  but  half  lighted,  and  empty. 

"They  are  at  supper,  messieurs,"  falters  our 
guide,  withdrawing  a  rich  curtain  which  serves 
the  purpose  of  a  door  at  the  farthest  end  of  the 
apartment.  "You  will  find  them  in  the  little 
salon  at  the  end  of  the  suite.  Don't,  messieurs, 
don't  compel  me  to  go  any  farther ;  I  dare  not !" 

"  Leave  the  fellow  in  charge  of  a  gendarme, 
and  go  on,"  says  Barthelet,  decisively.  "But 
make  no  noise,  for  your  lives." 

"Stay!"  I  exclaim,  in  a  hurried  whisper; 

let  me  go  first.  Let  me  speak  to  them,  and 
while  I  speak,  come  up.  The  sound  of  my 
voice  will  drown  your  steps ;  let  me  go  first !" 

"And  me  with  you!"  interposes  Vogelsang. 

Oh,  how  I  long  to  face  her!" 

Barthelet  shakes  his  head,  and  Jays  his  hand 
on  Vogelsang's  arm. 

"No,  no,"  he  says,  "not  two  gentlemen. 
Monsieur  Latour  can  go  first,  if  he  likes,  though 
I  don't  recommend  it ;  but  two  are  too  many." 

With  this  I  pass  the  curtain — find  myself  in 
a  second  room  and  facing  a  second  curtain  ;  be- 
yond this  lies  a  third,  and  beyond  the  third — 

The  sound  of  voices  talking  loudly — three  or 
four  lines  of  a  wild  obscene  song  chanted  in  the 
loveliest  of  voices  and  followed  by  a  burst  of 
laughter  —  the  chinking  of  glass  and  silver— 
these  arrest  my  steps,  and  warn  me  that  thej 
whom  I  seek  are  separated  from  me  only  by  a 
few  folds  of  drapery. 

Looking  back  earnestly  to  the  farthest  salon, 
I  see  some  dark  shadows  creeping  through  the 
curtain  one  after  another,  like  the  pictures  cast 
by  a  magic  lantern.  There  is  no  time  to  be 
lost ;  I  draw  the  hangings  suddenly  back,  and 
surprise  them — surprise  them  at  their  guilty  or- 
gies— surprise  them  feasting  in  their  boudoir] 
reveling  in  their  bloodstained  wealth,  quaffing 
that  pleasure-cup  whose  dregs  are  poison ! 

The  room  blazes  with  light ;  the  table  is 
laden  with  wines,  and  fruits,  and  heaped-up  del- 
icacies served  in  glittering  silver ;  her  head  re- 
clines upon  his  breast ;  the  very  glass  is  at  hh 
lips — 

I  stand  before  them  in  stern  silence,  and  foi 
a  moment  they  are  dumb — paralyzed — motion- 
less. Therese  is  the  first  to  recover  courage : 
she  springs  to  her  feet ;  her  eyes  flame  with  an- 
ger ;  she  draws  herself  to  all  her  queenly  height 
and  confronts  me. 

"Who  are  you,  sir?  How  dare  you  intrude 
upon  my  privacy  ?  What  do  you  want  ?" 

' '  I  am  Paul  Latour,  and  I  come  to  you  foi 
my  brother.  Where  is  Theophile  ?" 

She  quails  before  my  words  as  if  they  were 
blows,  and  catches  at  the  shoulder  of  her  para- 
mour for  support.  He,  too,  shrinks  back  at  thai 
name,  and  turns  a  livid  face  upon  me. 


*/  n_    _     t 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


"  Speak,  woman.     Where  is  my  brother  ?" 

Death-pale  as  she  is,  she  bears  a  dauntless 
brow,  and  can  reply  haughtily. 

"I  know  nothing  of  him  nor  of  you.  I  have 
told  you  this  before,  and  you  have  presumed  to 
intrude  here  a  second  time.  Be  gone,  sir,  or  my 
servants  shall  expel  you." 

"  Summon  your  servants,  if  you  choose  ;  they 
will  not  come." 

"Not  come  !" 

She  glares  upon  me  like  a  tigress  as  she  re- 
peats these  words,  and  Lemaire,  stealing  his 
hand  along  the  edge  of  the  table,  strives  to  reach 
at  a  knife  unperceived  by  me. 

"Your  anger  can  not  move,  or  your  words 
convince  me.  I  stand  here  demanding  from 
you  news  of  the  man  who  loved  you  —  of  the 
man  who  squandered  his  gold  for  your  smiles 
—  who  staked  his  honor  against  your  blandish- 
ments —  whose  gifts  adorn  your  person  —  whose 
kisses  are  yet  warm  upon  your  lips  !  Speak, 
Delilah  !  Where  is  he  ?  What  have  you  done 
with  him  ?" 

"I  know  nothing  of  him  —  care  nothing  for 
him  —  nrfr  for  your  threats  either!" 

Lemaire  has  grasped  the  knife  now  and  got 
it  down  by  his  side,  and  all  this  time  there  are 
faint  gleams,  as  of  steel,  crossing  the  gloom  be- 
yond the  curtain,  and  ever  drawing  nearer. 

"And  if  I  have  no  need  to  ask  —  if  I  know 
all  your  depravity,  all  your  falseness,  all  your 
crime  —  if  I  know  how  you  fled  with  him,  robbed 
him,  connived  at,  planned,  aided  —  ay  !  aided  in 
his  murder  —  " 

The  word  is  yet  on  my  tongue  when  Lemaire 
springs  at  my  throat  ! 

There  is  a  fierce  struggle  —  a  rush  of  many 
feet  —  a  confusion  of  cries  !  The  knife  is  wrench- 
ed from  his  hand  ;  the  deadly  grasp  torn  forci- 
bly away,  and  the  miscreant  lies  felled  and 
groveling  on  the  floor,  with  half  a  dozen  mus- 
kets at  his  breast  ! 

The  officer  has  his  warrant  in  his  hand. 

"Are  both  prisoners  arrested?"  he  asks,  look- 
ing round  at  the  faces  that  fill  the  room.  "  My 
orders  are  to  secure  the  persons  of  Alphonse 
Lemaire  and  Therese  Vogelsang.  Where  is 
the  woman?" 

"Where  is  she?     Let  me  look  at  her—  let 


me  come  near  her!" 
—  a  voice    trembling 


cries  a  voice  at  the  door 
with   suppressed  hatred. 


"Where  is  this  murderess—  this  adultress  —  this 
robber?" 

We  look  in  one  another's  faces  and  make  no 
reply,  while  Vogelsang,  forcing  his  way  to  where 
Lemaire  lies  prisoner,  keeps  repeating  his  sav- 
age questions. 

No  one  can  answer  them.  She  was  here  but 
a  moment  since  ;  I  was  speaking  to  her,  stand- 
ing within  three  feet  of  her,  when  Lemaire 
sprang  at  me  with  his  knife!  Has  she  sunk 
through  the  floor  ? 

"  Search  the  house  !"  says  the  officer,  after  a 
momentary  pause  of  wondering  silence.  "She 
has  slipped  away  in  the  scuffle.  Search  the 
house  from  top  to  bottom  till  you  find  her." 


In  vain.  The  house  is  ransacked  thorough- 
ly from  attic  to  cellar;  no  cupboard,  recess, 
.vardrobe,  or  curtain  is  left  untried;  but  The- 
rese Vogelsang  has  utterly  and  mysteriously 
disappeared. 

Her  husband,  balked  of  his  vengeance,  rages 
hither  and  thither  like  one  frantic.  He  foams 
at  the  mouth ;  he  offers  unheard  of  rewards, 
which  it  is  not  in  his  power  to  redeem ;  he 
raves,  curses,  entreats,  but  all  in  vain — in  vain ! 
Search  as  we  will  from  midnight  to  dawn,  the 
task  is  hopeless,  the  fugitive  not  to  be  found. 

And  so,  when  three  or  four  hours  have  been 
spent  in  useless  investigations,  we  are  fain  to 
give  it  up.  The  officer  then  proceeds  to  affix 
his  seal  upon  the  furniture ;  the  servants  are 
compelled  to  leave  the  place  in  our  custody; 
windows  and  doors  are  all  fast  closed  and  lock- 
ed ;  the  prisoner  is  placed  in  a  coach,  and  re- 
moved to  the  Con9iergerie  in  the  Palais  de  Jus- 
tice ;  and  the  house,  as  we  look  up  at  it  from 
the  road  in  the  faint  morning  light,  looks  blank, 
melancholy,  and  deserted. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

OBITER   DICTUM. 

BEAUTIFUL  and  true  is  that  passage  in  the 
Prose  Edda  of  the  wild  Icelandic  bard,  Snorri 
Sturlason,  wherein  Har  the  Lofty  relates  how, 
after  the  Twilight  of  the  Gods  and  the  Destruc- 
tion of  the  Universe,  "there  will  arise  out  of 
the  ocean  another  earth  most  lovely  and  ver- 
dant, with  pleasant  fields  where  the  grain  shall 
grow  unsown."  Thus  it  was  when  the  Deluge 
swept  over  the  world,  and  left  it  greener  and 
holier ;  and  thus  it  is  that  we  stand  in  the  pleas- 
ant fields  of  after-life,  amid  the  harvest-plenty 
of  our  spring  labors,  looking  back  upon  the 
anxieties  and  tribulations  of  the  past. 

How  strange  it  is,  this  turning  back  to  the 
contemplation  of  a  great  sorrow!  Time  has 
taken  us  by  the  hand  and  led  us  gently  on  since 
then.  The  dark  shores  of  the  dread  land  have 
faded  in  the  distance.  Ambitions,  occupations, 
friends,  all  are  changed  with  us.  We  feel 
ashamed  that  we  can  still  be  so  happy,  and 
would  fain  persuade  ourselves  that  the  golden 
sunbeams  are  less  lovely  in  our  eyes  than  the 
pale  radiance  of  the  lamp  that  lights  the  tomb. 
Vain  self-reproaches  and  self-doubts !  It  was 
night,  and  the  morning,  according  to  Nature's 
inevitable  succession,  has  followed  on  its  path. 
Not  always,  perhaps,  dawns  so  fair  a  day  as  the 
preceding.  Some  roses  may  have  faded,  some 
trees  have  fallen  in  the  tempest  that  came  and 
went  with  the  stars.  Yet,  when  the  rain  de- 
scended, it  nurtured  seeds  that  might  elsewise 
have  perished ;  and  so,  watered  by  the  tears  of 
our  anguish,  blossom  the  autumn  flowers  of  life. 

Writing  thus,  in  the  seclusion  of  my  home, 
at  peace  with  all  men,  surrounded  by  those  who 
are  nearest  and  dearest  to  my  heart,  and  dwell- 
ing, moreover,  in  a  gentle  world  of  dreams  and 


100 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


books,  I  recall  with  awe  and  shuddering  the 
great  tragedy  of  my  youth. 

Opposite  the  table  where  I  sit  in  my  quiet 
study  hangs  the  portrait  of  a  young  man,  of 
whom  it  might  be  said,  as  of  Baldur  the  Beau- 
tiful, "so  fair  and  dazzling  is  he  in  form  and 
features  that  rays  of  light  seem  to  issue  from 
him."  His  lips  are  parted  in  a  half  smile  ;  he 
leans  indolently  against  the  pedestal  of  a  sculp- 
tured figure;  his  eye  is  bright  and  careless ;  his 
brow  untouched  by  sorrow  or  study.  Gazing 
up  at  him  thus,  his  golden  locks  seem  but  to 
need  the  classic  chaplet  and  the  dropping  per- 
fumes of  luxurious  Greece.  He  might  be  Al- 
cibiades — he  was  The'ophile  Latour. 

Let  me  pause — let  me  pause  for  a  moment 
amid  the  dark  details  of  his  errors  and  their 
punishment.  Let  me  recall  him  in  his  beauty, 
irradiated  as  it  now  is  by  the  light  which  streams 
down  upon  him  tln-ough  the  brazen  gates  of 
eternity!  He  offended — he  expiated.  It  is 
the  old  stern  tale  of  heavenly  compensation — 
the  moral  of  the  antique  legend.  Condemn  him 
not,  blame  him  not,  judge  him  not  too  harshly, 
oh  thou  kind  reader!  This  fair  portrait  is  all 
that  now  remains  of  him — this  checkered  chron- 
icle all  the  record  of  his  deeds.  Past  art  thou, 
my  brother,  like  an  errant  and  glowing  meteor 
— past,  and  remembered  only  by  the  few  who 
dare  still  to  love  and  pity  thee,  although  thou 
standest  before  the  jasper  throne,  and  we  are 
"distant  in  humanity."  The  myrtles  have 
blossomed  and  the  daisies  been  mown  down 
many  times  above  thy  grave  since  thou  wert 
laid  in  the  shadow  of  that  old  belfry-tower  at 
Douai,  sleeping,  sleeping.  Ever  and  anon,  from 
the  ways  of  busy  life  and  the  silent  paths  of 
thought,  I  turn  aside  and  visit  thy  place  of  sep- 
ulture. Oftener  still,  as  at  this  moment,  I  seem 
to  hear  the  bells  ringing  solemnly,  and  the  or- 
gan pealing,  and  the  priests  chanting  their  mis- 
erere, as  once  long  since ;  and  then  I,  too,  lift 
up  my  voice  in  prayer  and  lamentation,  and 

"Bid  thee  rest, 
And  drink  thy  fill  of  pure  immortal  streams !" 

One  other  thing  have  I  to  say.  We  all  know 
that  story  of  the  painter  of  old,  who,  in  repre- 
senting the  sacrifice  of  Iphigenia,  depicted  her 
father  in  an  attitude  of  profound  dejection,  with 
his  face  buried  in  the  folds  of  his  mantle. 

And  he  was  right.  There  are  griefs  which 
transcend  the  skillfullest  touches  of  the  pencil 
or  pen ;  and  so,  in  imitation  of  a  wise  precedent, 
will  I  also  draw  a  veil  before  the  tearful  coun- 
tenances of  some  of  the  personages  of  this  his- 
tory. Too  sacred — too  sacred  are  thy  sorrows, 
wife  and  mother!  Enough  if  it  be  said  that 
the  writer  of  these  pages  took  upon  himself  the 
heavy  task  of  acquainting  them  with  their  be- 
reavement ;  that  he  journeyed  into  Brussels,  and 
thence  on  to  the  old  chateau  in  pleasant  Bur- 
gundy ;  that  he  wept  with  those  who  were  deso- 
late; that  he  returned,  after  an  absence  of  little 
more  than  two  days,  compelled,  by  the  stern  call 
of  the  law,  to  be  present  at  the  examinations 
find  trial ;  and,  finally,  that  he  passed  through 


the  city  where  dwelt  the  gentle  Margaret,  with- 
out having  it  in  his  power  to  tarry  by  the  way, 
though  never  so  briefly. 

This  en  passant,  reader,  as  an  entre  acte  in  the 
pauses  of  the  drama,  while  the  scene  is  shifted 
and  the  players  make  ready  with  the  mask  and 
cothurnus ;  or,  if  thou  likest  it  better,  as  the 
fragment  of  a  requiem,  played  while  the  priests 
change  their  broidered  vestments,  and  the  con- 
gregation sit  with  their  missals  in  their  hands, 
listening  dreamily  to  the  music  which  breathes 
out  from  the  golden  organ-pipes,  like  the  sigh- 
ing of  the  evening  air  through  the  strings  of  an 
JEolian  harp,  sad,  and  whispering,  and  "softer 
than  sleep." 

But  methinks  I  hear  thee  say,  with  Christo- 
fero  Sly,  "'Tis  a  very  excellent  piece  of  work — 
would  'twere  done  !"  Patience,  I  beseech  thee, 
during  a  few  more  pages.  My  story  draws  near 
to  an  end,  and  the  curtain  will  fall  and  the  lights 
be  extinguished  ere  long. 

"  And  therefore  herkeneth  what  I  shall  say, 
And  let  me  tellen  all  my  tale  I  pray." 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

GUILTY   OR  NOT  GUILTY. 

IT  is  in  the  old  justice  hall  of  that  antique 
city  of  Lille  which  Julius  Caesar  founded.  The 
morning  is  dark  and  raw.  The  privileged  spec- 
tators are  few,  and  there  are  some  ladies  in  the 
galleries.  The  Procureur  du  Roi  has  not  yet 
arrived ;  the  president  is  deep  in  the  pages  of 
his  note-book  ;  the  avocats  are  sorting  their  pa- 
pers, and  the  jury  shuffling  their  feet,  and  whis- 
pering together,  and  looking  impatiently  toward 
the  clock  over  the  president's  chair.  All  is  silent 
and  heavy,  and  every  now  and  then  the  opening 
of  some  outer  door  admits  that  uneasy,  continu- 
ous, indescribable  sound  which  proceeds  from  a 
multitude  of  persons. 

Presently  the  clock  strikes ;  the  Procureur  du 
Roi  enters  and  takes  his  seat ;  there  is  a  faint 
commotion  at  the  farther  end  of  the  hall ;  every 
head  is  instantly  turned,  and  a  pale,  cadaverous- 
looking  man,  scarce  able  to  support  himself,  is 
brought  forward  by  gendarmes  and  placed  at 
the  bar. 

Strange  alteration  effected  in  so  few  days ! 
Lemaire — that  Lemaire  whom  I  had  surprised 
amid  the  lustiest  enjoyments  of  life,  with  whom 
I  had  struggled,  and  whose  strength  I  had  but 
so  lately  experienced — is  now  humble  as  a  beat- 
en cur,  and  so  weak  as  to  be  permitted  to  sit 
during  his  trial.  His  red  hair  and  beard,  un- 
shorn and  neglected,  hang  upon  his  face  and 
downcast  eyes ;  his  shoulders  are  bent ;  his  head 
droops  on  his  breast ;  his  hands  hang  listlessly 
on  either  side;  his  whole  attitude  and  aspect 
speak  dejection,  cowardice,  guilt. 

The  Procureur  du  Roi  rises  and  reads  the  ac- 
cusation. 

The  paper  is  long  and  formal ;  but  the  chief 
facts  are  these : 


MY  BROTHER'S 


101 


THE   ASSASSINATION   OF   THEOPHILE   LATOUR. 

It  is  now  some  months  since  Theophile  La- 
tour  became  intimate  with  a  vocalist  named 
Therese,  or  The'resa  Vogelsang,  an  Austrian 
subject,  then  performing  at  Brussels.  She  is 
known  to  have  encouraged  his  attentions,  and 
to  have  carried  on,  at  the  same  time,  an  intrigue 
with  Alphonse  Lemaire,  a  Frenchman,  native 
of  Paris,  resident  at  Brussels,  and  then  lessee 
of  the  Brussels  theatre.  The  liberality  of  the 
deceased  toward  this  woman  was  unbounded, 
and  became  the  talk  of  all  the  city.  Money 
and  gifts  were  squandered  hourly  upon  her,  and 
the  wealth  thus  obtained  was  shared  between 
the  receiver  and  her  lover.  At  this  stage  of  the 
affair,  Heinrich  Vogelsang,  husband  of  Therese, 
made  his  appearance  with  an  injunction  granted 
by  the  Austrian  government,  which  gave  him 
full  powers  to  remove,  and,  if  necessary,  arrest 
his  wife  above-named.  To  this  end  he  con- 
sulted and  entered  into  negotiations  with  Le- 
maire the  manager,  who,  for  his  part,  is  sup- 
posed to  have  informed  Madame  Vogelsang 
upon  every  particular.  The  result  was  obvious, 
and  the  only  remedy  flight.  Still  acting  the 
same  double  game,  and  interweaving  it  now 
with  a  darker  purpose,  she  induced  the  deceased 
Theophile  Latour  to  dispose  of  a  valuable  estate 
in  Burgundy,  to  fly  with  her  to  Paris,  and  there 
to  spend  the  proceeds  of  the  sale  in  pleasures 
and  excesses.  They  eloped  accordingly  on  the 
evening  of  the  16th  of  October  last— chose  for 
their  starting-point  the  masked  ball  held  at  the 
Opera  House,  and  traveled  unceasingly  till  they 
arrived  at  Douai  on  the  evening  of  the  17th  in- 
stant, where  they  rested  for  the  night.  They 
left  their  hotel  the  next  morning,  and  when  at 
a  sufficient  distance  from  the  house,  hired  a  fia- 
cre which  conveyed  them  as  far  as  the  opening 
of  a  certain  narrow  lane,  on  the  western  high 
road,  where  they  alighted,  and  along  which  they 
proceeded.  Toward  three  or  four  o'clock  they 
reached  a  mean  hamlet  lying  among  the  fields 
and  lanes  about  seven  miles  west  of  the  town, 
where  they  established  themselves  at  an  inn 
called  the  Hotel  de  Namur,  and  were  met  some 
few  hours  later  by  the  prisoner.  The  pretense 
on  which  this  meeting  was  arranged  concealed 
a  deep  and  artful  plot.  Both  deceased  and  pris- 
oner had  traveled  under  the  name  of  Alphonse 
Lemaire,  and,  averse  as  the  deceased  appears 
always  to  have  shown  himself  to  the  company 
of  the  prisoner,  it  seems  that  he  submitted  to  it 
on  this  occasion  for  the  purpose  of  a  more  skill- 
ful concealment.  The  ostensible  plan  was  that 
Lemaire  and  Therese  Vogelsang  should,  from 
this  point,  travel  together  into  Paris,  and  be 
joined  afterward  by  Latour,  in  order  that,  if  in- 
quiries were  made,  it  might  be  established  that 
they  journeyed  and  arrived  together,  which  de- 
ception would  have  been  favored  by  the  pass- 
ports. The  remote  village  was  also  chosen  as 
affording  a  convenient  place  for  the  exchange 
of  persons.  All  these,  seen  from  this  point  of 
view,  are  clumsily  contrived  plans  enough ;  fea- 


sible, however,  to  a  man  blinded  by  passion 
and  hurried  on  by  a  will  superior  to  his  own. 
Viewed  from  the  other  side,  unfortunately,  its 
clumsiness  vanishes,  and  gives  place  to  a  pro- 
foundly calculated  scheme.  The  spot  was  known 
to  the  prisoner,  eminently  fitted  for  an  assas- 
sination, and  far  removed  from  high  road  and 
town.  All  was  preconcerted,  down  to  the  very 
copse  where  the  murder  was  to  be  committed 
and  the  body  concealed.  All  succeeded  as  it 
had  been  ordered.  On  the  morning  of  the  19th 
instant  the  deceased  and  prisoner  left  the  inn  to 
take  a  walk  before  breakfast.  The  former  nev- 
er returned.  A  plausible  excuse  accounted  for 
all,  and  in  a  few  hours  more  the  vocalist  and 
the  manager  were  on  the  road  to  Paris,  where 
they  arrived  toward  evening.  A  lengthened, 
tedious,  and  careful  search,  conducted  by  the 
detective  agent,  Pierre  Corneille  Barthelet,  ac- 
companied by  the  brother  of  the  deceased  and 
the  before-mentioned  husband  of  Therese  Vogel- 
sang, has  been  successful  in  bringing  to  light  all 
the  circumstances  of  this  crime.  The  body  they 
discovered  concealed  in  a  deep  hollow  toward 
the  centre  of  a  little  wood  bordering  the  ham- 
let. The  deceased  had  been  shot  from  behind, 
the  ball  having  passed  under  the  left  shoulder- 
blade  and  penetrated  to  the  heart.  He  must 
have  expired  instantaneously  and  without  a 
struggle.  The  pistol  with  which  the  deed  was 
effected  has  been  discovered  in  a  ditch  not  far 
from  the  spot. 

Such  are  the  leading  facts  which  preceded  and 
followed  the  crime  imputed  to  Alphonse  Le- 
maire and  The'rese  Vogelsang,  the  latter  of 
whom  has  escaped  and  not  yet  been  apprehend- 
ed. The  accusation,  therefore,  impeaches  both 
parties,  namely,  Alphonse  Lemaire  for  having 
assassinated  and  murdered  Theophile  Latour, 
and  Therese  Vogelsang  for  aiding  and  abetting 
in  the  same. 

Monsieur  le  President  then  proceeded  to  in- 
terrogate the  prisoner. 

M.  le  President.  "Alphonse  Lemaire,  rise; 
state  your  age  and  profession." 

He  rose  with  difficulty,  and  almost  immedi- 
ately fell  back  in  his  chair,  with  an  appearance 
of  great  weakness. 

"  He  can  not  stand,  so  please  you,  M.  le  Pres- 
ident," said  a  soldier,  stepping  forward.      "He 
has  been  very  ill  since  his  apprehension,  and  • 
was  brought  up  from  Paris  with  difficulty." 

The  president  appeared  satisfied  with  this  ex- 
planation, and  the  examination  was  resumed. 

' '  Alphonse  Lemaire,  state  your  age  and  pro- 
fession." 

The  prisoner  continued  to  hang  his  head  for- 
ward on  his  breast,  and  replied  with  a  collected 
manner,  and  in  a  low  but  audible  voice,  that  his 
age  was  thirty-seven,  and  his  profession  histri- 
onic. 

M.  le  President.  "How  long  have  you  held 
the  management  of  the  Opera  House  at  Brus- 
sels ?" 

Prisoner.  "About  three  years  and  a  half." 


102 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


M.  k  President.  "  You  are  a  native  of  Paris?" 

Prisoner.  l '  I  was  born  in  the  Rue  St.  Honore, 
No.  85.  My  father  was  a  manufacturer  of  bronze 
ornaments." 

M.  le  President.  "At  what  time  did  you  en- 
gage the  services  of  Therese  Vogelsang  for  your 
theatre  ?" 

Prisoner.  "The  negotiations  were  conducted 
by  letter.  She  arrived  in  Brussels  July  5th,  and 
commenced  her  performances  the  next  evening." 

M.  le  President.  "Were  you  cognizant  of  her 
connection  with  Monsieur  Theophile  Latour  ?" 

Prisoner.  "  I  knew  that  he  admired  her,  and 
that  she  accepted  gifts  from  him  ;  but  the  world 
is  so  censorious,  especially  to  ladies  of  her  pro- 
fession, that  I  attached  no  importance  to  the 
scandal  of  the  green-room." 

M.  le  President.  "What  were  the  propositions 
made  to  you  by  the  Herr  Vogelsang?" 

Prisoner.  "  The  Herr  Vogelsang  showed  me 
a  paper  purporting  to  emanate  from  the  Aus- 
trian authorities,  by  which  he  was  empowered 
to  remove  his  wife  from  the  Brussels  stage.  He 
then  proposed  to  me  to  suppress  all  knowledge 
of  this  paper  from  the  lady  and  from  Monsieur 
Latour,  alleging  as  his  reason  that  the  family 
of  that  gentleman  were  anxious  to  separate  him 
from  her  society,  and  to  conceal  from  him  where 
and  by  what  means  she  had  disappeared.  To 
insure  this  the  more  effectually,  I  was  to  pur- 
chase the  silence  of  all  parties  concerned  in  the 
affair,  and  to  receive  two  thousand  francs  for  my 
own  co-operation." 

M.  le  President.  "And  you  agreed  to  this?" 

Prisoner.  "  I  agreed  to  it,  M.  le  President,  but 
"only  to  lull  their  suspicions ;  for  Madame  Vo- 
gelsang had  honored  me  with  much  of  her  con- 
fidence, and  I  was  disposed  to  save  her  if  I 
could." 

M.  le  President.   "And  you  betrayed  all?" 

Prisoner.  "Yes,  M.  le  President." 

M.  le  President.   "  State  the  result." 

Prisoner.  « '  The  communication  was  made  to 
me  only  three  days  before  the  bal  masque,  which 
I  had  fixed  for  the  16th  of  October.  It  was  evi- 
dent to  us  both  that  flight  was  the  only  resource, 
and  equally  evident  that  a  better  opportunity 
than  the  fete  could  not  be  chosen.  We  arranged, 
therefore,  to  leave  Brussels  on  the  evening  of  the 
16th,  and  we  did  so,  between  twelve  and  one 
o'clock." 

M.  le  President.  "Do  you  mean  to  say  that 
you  accompanied  Therese  Vogelsang  from  Brus- 
sels?" 

Prisoner.  "I  do.  Though  we  had  less  than 
three  days  to  prepare  for  the  journey,  I  contrived 
to  put  all  my  affairs  in  order,  to  provide  pass- 
ports, and  leave  every  thing  under  the  manage- 
ment of  a  confidential  secretary." 

M.  le  President.  "  And  in  what  manner  did 
you  travel?" 

Prisoner.  "We  posted  part  of  the  way,  and 
part  we  traveled  by  railway." 

M.  le  President.  "Do  you  deny  that  Mon- 
sieur Latour  accompanied  Therese  Vogelsang  to 
Douai  ?" 


Prisoner.  "I  traveled  with  her  all  the  way." 

M.  le  President.  "Did  you  spend  one  night 
at  a  little  hamlet  near  Douai,  and  there  meet 
M.  Latour?" 

Prisoner.  "  No,  M.  le  President.  We  trav- 
eled without  stopping  any  where.  I  never  saw 
Monsieur  Latour  more  than  twice  or  thrice  in 
my  life." 

M.  le  President.  "This  cigar-case,  marked 
with  the  initials  T.  L.,  was  found  in  the  car- 
riage abandoned  on  the  road  by  Madame  Vogel- 
sang. How  do  you  account  for  its  discovery  ?" 

Prisoner  (hesitating).  "That  —  that  cigar- 
case,  M.  le  President  ?  It  was  left,  I  believe, 
by  M.  Latour  at  the  house  of  madame.  She 
gave  it  to  me  as  a  present." 

M.  le  President.  "And  this  note,  directed  to 
M.  Latour,  and  dropped  by  Madame  Vogelsang 
on  leaving  the  ball,  what  do  you  say  to  that  ?" 

The  prisoner  here  asked  to  see  the  note,  and 
read  it  attentively. 

Prisoner.  "  I  know  nothing  of  it.  I  believe 
it  to  be  a  forgery." 

M.  le  President.  "Here  is  a  fragment  of  blue 
cloth  discovered  clinging  to  a  bramble  in  the 
wood  where  the  body  lay  concealed.  This  frag- 
ment corresponds  with  a  torn  place  in  one  of 
your  coats  found  in  Paris.  Have  you  any  thing 
to  say  respecting  it  ?" 

The  prisoner  shook  his  head,  and  declined 
making  any  farther  replies. 

M.  le  President.  "Enough.  Let  the  witness- 
es be  called." 

The  first  witness  examined  was  Barthelet ; 
the  second,  Heinrich  Vogelsang ;  the  third,  my- 
self. All  that  we  knew  is  known  already  to  the 
reader.  Our  statements  coincided  with  each 
other  word  for  word.  Barthelet  delivered  his 
testimony  concisely  and  unpretendingly ;  Vogel- 
sang, with  a  sullen  and  subdued  resentment 
breaking  forth  every  now  and  then  against  his 
wife,  sternly,  briefly,  comprehensively. 

Ever  since  the  night  on  which  Lemaire  had 
been  apprehended  and  Therese  had  escaped,  Vo- 
gelsang was  an  altered  man.  He  spoke  less 
than  ever ;  wandered  out  for  hours  at  a  time, 
and  returned  to  our  hotel  without  saying  where 
he  had  been ;  was  frequently  so  absorbed  in 
thought  as  to  hear,  see,  and  notice  nothing ; 
seemed  to  eat,  even,  as  it  were,  mechanically, 
and  more  for  the  purpose  of  recruiting  his  phys- 
ical strength  than  from  any  impulse  of  hunger 
or  enjoyment.  One  would  have  said,  on  ob- 
serving his  settled  gaze,  the  abstraction  of  his 
speech  and  attitudes,  and  the-  self-withdrawn  in- 
ner look  of  his  countenance,  that  he  had  some 
fixed  idea  upon  which  his  thoughts  fed  contin- 
ually—from which  he  could  be  roused  only  by 
an  effort,  and  to  which  he  returned  the  moment 
that  his  attention  was  released. 

Yet  there  were  occasions  upon  which  a  single 
inadvertent  word,  such  as  "  flight,"  or  "  discov- 
ery," would  rouse  him  as  from  a  deep  sleep,  and 
then  he  was  keen  and  watchful  as  a  hare  —  all 
eye,  and  ear,  and  eager  investigation.  Some- 
times I  used  to  think  that  his  dominant  purpose 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


103 


was  the  patient  searching  after  the  missing  crim- 
nal,  and  that  he  had  resolved  to  devote  life  and 
energies  to  the  working  out  of  his  darling  venge- 
ance. In  this  suspicion  I  was  strengthened  by 
the  evident  impatience  with  which  he  obeyed 
the  business  of  the  trial ;  the  restless  way  in 
which  he  counted  every  day,  and  hour,  and  min- 
ute of  his  absence ;  the  strong  reluctance  with 
which  he  left  Paris,  and  the  eager  rapidity  with 
which  he  hastened  from  Lille  as  soon  as  his 
share  in  the  trial  was  concluded. 

And  this  reminds  me  that  I  have  wandered 
from  my  subject  too  long. 

The  examination  of  witnesses  was  tedious  and 
minute.  They  were  nearly  a  hundred  in  num- 
ber, and  comprised  toll  and  post-house  keepers, 
postillions,  ostlers,  inn-keepers,  custom-house  of- 
ficers, and  servants  without  end.  This  part  of 
the  trial  lasted  two  days  and  a  half. 

I  believe  that  I  have  not  forgotten  a  syllable 
of  the  evidence,  a  glance  or  movement  of  the 
prisoner,  or  the  merest  incident  of  that  terrible 
event.  Yet,  thank  Heaven !  I  seldom  think  of 
it.  When  my  attention  is  drawn  to  it,  as  in 
transcribing  this  narrative,  it  comes  back  to  me 
clearly,  circumstantially,  and  sharply  defined,  as 
if  all  had  happened  yesterday.  Still,  upon 
subject  so  important,  I  will  not  trust  the  tablets 
of  my  memory.  The  subjoined  resume  of  some 
of  the  evidence  elicited  from  the  witnesses  ] 
copy  from  the  leading  journal  of  the  day,  pre. 
served  by  my  friend  Seabrook,  and  by  him  len 
to  me  for  this  purpose. 

'THE  TRAGEDY  NEAR  DOTJAI — SECOND  DAY. 

"The  most  remarkable  testimony,  viz.,  tha 
of  Barthelet,  Vogelsang,  and  Latour  (frere),  hav 
ing  been  gone  through  yesterday,  and  given  in 
our  evening  edition,  we  proceed  to  relate  a  por 
tion  of  the  facts  obtained  this  morning  from  a 
host  of  minor  witnesses,  of  whom  there  were  toe 
many  called  to  be  fully  reported  in  our  pages. 
"  Jean  -  Simon  Carpeaux,  and  Antoinette  hi 
wife,  depose  that  on  the  morning  of  the  17th 
inst.  a  carriage  corresponding  to  the  descrip 
tion  previously  given  passed  through  the  Porte 
d'Anderlecht,  Brussels.  Believe  it  to  have  beer 
about  one  o'clock  in  the  morning.  Are  sur< 
that  the  carriage  contained  a  lady  and  gentle 
man,  and  that  they  drove  fast.  On  being  aske 
if  the  gentleman  in  question  and  the  prisone 
were  the  same  individual,  Antoinette  declare 
herself  positive  that  they  were  not.  Said  tha 
the  gentleman  whom  she  saw  was  fair  and  hanc 
some.  Husband  not  so  certain. 

"  Durand  Stumph,  toll-keeper,  deposes  that 
dark  green  chariot  drove  swiftly  past  befor 
dawn.     Is  very  deaf  and  old,  and  does  not  re 
member  whether  there  was  more  than  one  per 
son  inside,  or  if  it  were  a  gentleman  or  lady. 

"  Jerome  Daumet  and  Amedee  Coquart,  posti 
lions,  depose  to  having  driven  the  fugitive; 
Are  certain  that  prisoner  is  not  the  same  man 
The  other  was  much  better  looking,  and  a  gen 
tleman  every  inch.  The  lady  was  very  han 
some.  They  talked  some  language,  when  speak 


ng  to  each  other,  which  witnesses  could  not  un- 
erstand.  Are  sure  that  it  was  neither  French 
or  Flemish.  Thought  it  might  be  German, 
y  the  sound.  The  gentleman,  however,  spoke 
Trench  like  a  native. 

"Jacques  Chappuy,  milk -salesman,  deposes 
hat  he  is  in  the  habit  of  selling  milk  in  the  vil- 
age  of  Jemappes.  Was  serving  the  post-mas- 
er's  wife  while  the  dark  green  chariot  was  stand- 
ig  before  the  door.  The  lady  expressed  a  wish 
or  some  of  the  milk,  and  on  a  glass  being  hand- 
id  out  to  him  from  the  house,  he  served  it  him- 
elf  to  her  at  the  carriage-window.  She  was 
he  handsomest  woman  he  had  ever  seen.  Lift- 
ed her  veil  to  drink,  and  her  hands  were  all  over 
rings.  Did  not  observe  the  gentleman  particu- 
arly.  Could  not  take  his  eyes  off  the  lady,  she 
,vas  so  beautiful.  Can  not  be  sure  if  prisoner  be 
or  be  not  the  same  person  as  her  companion. 

"  Felix  Pradier,  post-master,  deposes  that  the 
dark  green  chariot,  now  lying  in  his  yard,  was 
[eft  there  by  a  gentleman  and  lady  a  little  after 
noon  on  the  17th  of  October.  The  wheels  were 
torn  to  pieces  by  the  roads.  It  often  happens 
so  •with  private  carriages  on  the  roads  in  Bel- 
gium. They  seemed,  both  of  them,  very  much 
annoyed,  especially  the  lady.  Were  forced  to 
take  one  of  his  (Felix  Pradier's)  post-carriages. 
They  had  no  luggage  with  them.  Witness 
searched  the  carriage  carefully  after  they  were 
gone,  but  found  nothing  in  it  except  a  bag  with 
some  biscuits,  which  he  left  there.  Was  sur- 
prised when  the  other  gentleman  found  the  ci- 
gar-case. Could  not  see  the  lady's  face  very 
plainly  through  her  veil,  but  thought  the  gentle- 
man handsome.  The  prisoner  was  certainly  not 
the  same  man — nothing  like  him.  The  lady  and 
gentleman,  when  conversing  together,  talked 
German.  On  being  asked  how  he  knew  that  it. 
was  German,  he  (Pradier)  replied  that  his  wife 
was  a  native  of  Kehl,  and  had  taught  him  a  lit- 
tle of  the  language — sufficient  to  convince  him 
that  they  spoke  it,  but  not  sufficient  to  enable 
him  to  comprehend  the  sense  of  what  they  said. 

"Camille  Dumont,  clerk  in  the  passport  office, 
Quievrain,  deposes  to  having  inspected  both  pass- 
ports now  produced.  Did  not  remark  that  they 
bore  the  same  name  till  his  attention  was  drawn 
to  the  fact.  Remembers  nothing  of  the  parties 
themselves.  All  was  perfectly  en  regie,  or  he 
should  remember  something  about  it. 

"Edouard  Lecroix,  chefde  bureau,  passport  of- 
fice, Quievrain,  deposes  that  he  inspected  both 
passports,  and  countersigned  the  same.  Took 
no  notice  of  the  first,  or  of  the  parties  them- 
selves. Grew  interested,  however,  in  the  mat- 
ter after  his  interview  with  Vogelsang  and  La- 
tour  (frere).  Observed,  and  was  surprised, 
when,  on  the  afternoon  of  the  second  day,  an- 
other passport  bearing  the  name  of  Alphonse 
Lemaire  was  submitted  to  him  for  examination. 
Took  particular  notice -of  bearer.  Is  certain 
that  the  prisoner  is  the  same  person.  Could 
identify  him  any  where.  Did  not  put  any  ques- 
tions to  prisoner.  Thought  it  best,  should  there 
be  any  thing  wrong,  not  to  put  him  on  his  guard. 


104 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


Had  made  an  especial  entry  of  the  circumstance 
in  his  private  note-book.  (Witness  here  handed 
his  note-book  to  the  president.) 

"  Philip  van  Comp,  post-boy,  deposes  that  he 
drove  a  lady  and  gentleman  from  Quievrain  to 
Valenciennes  between  two  and  three  o'clock  in 
the  afternoon  of  the  17th  of  October.  Is  a  na- 
tive of  Flanders.  Not  speaking  French,  was 
examined  through  an  interpreter.  The  lady 
was  very  handsome,  and  the  gentleman  paid 
him  in  gold.  Could  not  remember  the  latter 
with  any  distinctness,  but  is  certain  that  prison- 
er is  not  the  same. 

"  Jacques  T/iayer,  Henri  Rude,  Hippolyte 
Cogniet,  Baptiste  Frette,  and  several  others,  all 
postillions  or  post-masters,  were  next  examined. 
They  all  deposed  to  having  driven  the  fugitives, 
or  supplied  them  with  horses,  from  Valenciennes 
to  Douai.  No  matters  of  especial  interest  distin- 
guished this  part  of  the  proves,  saving  the  com- 
plete establishment  of  every  link  in  the  chain 
of  evidence.  The  case  was  then  adjourned  till 
the  following  day." 

"  THE  TRAGEDY  NEAR  DODAI — THIRD  DAT. 

"  The  examination  of  witnesses  resumed. 

li  Francois  Roger,  hotel-keeper,  Douai,  de- 
poses that  two  persons  answering  to  the  general 
description  arrived  at  his  establishment  between 
six  and  seven  o'clock  on  the  evening  of  October 
17th,  dined  and  slept  there,  and  left  the  next 
morning.  Has  very  little  recollection  of  the 
parties  in  question.  Thinks  the  gentleman  was 
fair.  Is  sure  he  never  saw  the  prisoner  before. 
Believes  that  the  lady  wore  a  veil.  Remembers 
nothing  farther,  except  that  they  drank  a  good 
deal  of  Champagne  and  paid  liberally. 

"  Claudine  Roger,  wife  of  the  above,  deposes 
that  the  gentleman  was  very  handsome — not  in 
the  least  like  the  prisoner.  In  all  respects  cor- 
roborates the  testimony  of  her  husband. 

"  Jeannette  Thouret,  chambermaid,  deposes 
that  she  conducted  the  said  travelers  to  their 
apartments.  Is  a  servant  in  the  Hotel  de  Flan- 
dres,  kept  by  the  couple  Roger.  Could  not  see 
the  lady's  face  through  her  veil,  which'was  very 
thick.  She  kept  it  down  always.  The  gentle- 
man was  very  handsome.  She  (Jeannette 
Thouret)  had  never  seen  a  man  so  handsome. 
Could  have  looked  at  him  for  hours.  Is  cer- 
tain that  prisoner  is  not  the  man.  Thinks  the 
supposition  absurd.  This  man  is  hideous  in 
comparison.  Only  saw  them  twice,  namely,  on 
their  arrival  and  departure.  They  left  the 
house  arm  in  arm  together,  and  the  gentleman 
gave  her  (Jeannette  Thouret)  a  five-franc  piece 
on  the  staircase. 

"  Alexandre  TJiomas  and  Napoleon  Barlet, 
waiters,  depose  to  having  waited  upon  the  trav- 
elers during  their  breakfast  and  dinner.  The 
lady  kept  her  veil  always  down ;  but  her  hands 
were  covered  with  jewels.  They  tried  to  see 
her  face,  but  could  not.  They  (the  travelers) 
would  not  suffer  them  (the  waiters)  to  remain 
long  in  attendance,  but  rang  when  they  wished 
the  courses  removed.  Are  sure  that  prisoner  is 


not  the  same  person.  The  lady  and  gentleman 
spoke  a  foreign  language  to  each  other.  Thought 
it  was  English  from  the  intonation,  or  perhaps 
German.  Are  not  acquainted  with  either  lan- 
guage. 

"  Etienne  Blanchet,  hackney-coach-driver,  de- 
poses that  he  drove  a  lady  and  gentleman  an- 
swering to  the  general  description  from  close  to 
the  University  as  far  as  the  opening  of  a  narrow 
lane  about  two  miles  west  of  the  town.  They 
paid  him  more  than  his  fare,  and  he  saw  them 
walk  up  the  lane  very  slowly  arm  in  arm.  Is 
sure  that  prisoner  is  not  the  gentleman.  The 
lady  was  very  beautiful,  and  threw  her  veil  up 
after  they  were  clear  of  the  town.  Was  sur- 
prised at  the  time  to  see  them  go  by  such  a  de- 
serted path,  but  thought  they  might  be  lovers 
and  liked  to  be  alone.  Asked  them,  under  this 
persuasion,  if  he  should  wait  to  take  them  back; 
but  the  gentleman  only  shook  his  head  and 
bade  him  (Etienne  Blanchet)  drive  back  again 
to  Douai." 

Here  follows  a  detailed  account  of  the  exam- 
ination of  the  host  and  hostess  of  the  little  Ho- 
tel de  Namur,  and  also  of  the  boy  Jean,  all  of 
which  I  omit,  having  already  related  it  in  my 
narrative.  I  resume  the  thread  of  the  trial  at 
the  testimony  of  Achille  Gaudin,  the  driver  of 
&  fiacre,  whose  vehicle  they  seem  to  have  met 
on  leaving  the  hamlet  next  day,  and  re-emerg- 
ing upon  the  public  road. 

"Achille  Gaudin,  hackney-coach-driver,  de- 
poses that,  as  he  was  returning  from  Douai  to 
Vitry,  where  he  resides,  he  overtook  a  lady  and 
gentleman  upon  the  road,  walking.  They 
turned  round  and  engaged  him  instantly.  He 
drove  them  to  the  railway  station  at  Vitry, 
where  they  entered,  and  where  he  saw  them 
waiting  before  the  ticket  bureau.  Can  not  be 
sure  of  the  date,  but  thinks  it  must  have  been 
about  the  time  stated.  Is  perfectly  certain  that 
prisoner  is  the  same  person.  Knew  him  at  once, 
and  could  have  sworn  to  him  any  where.  Can't 
say  much  for  his  liberality.  He  (the  prisoner) 
bargained  closely  enough  about  the  fare ;  and 
he  (Achille  Gaudin)  afterward  found  that  one 
of  the  francs  in  which  he  was  paid  was  a  coun- 
terfeit. The  lady  was  handsome,  but  looked 
pale  and  ill.  They  scarcely  spoke  to  each  other 
at  all,  and  when  they  did  it  was  always  in 
French.  Does  not  remember  to  have  heard 
them  say  any  thing  in  particular. 

"Here  the  examination  of  witnesses  termin- 
ated. Monsieur  Lebas,  Procureur  du  Roi,  sup- 
ported the  accusation.  Messieurs  Rebout  and 
Fayot  pleaded  for  the  defense. 

"After  a  long  and  able  debate,  sustained 
with  equal  learning  and  vigor  on  both  sides,  M. 
le  President  summed  up  an  impartial  and  elo- 
quent resume  of  the  entire  case.  The  jury  then 
retired  into  the  salle  des  deliberations.  •  The  fol- 
lowing question  was  submitted  to  their  judg- 
ment on  retiring  from  the  hall : 

"'Alphonse  Lemaire,  ci-devant 'manager  of 
the  Brussels  Opera,  is  he  or  is  he  not  guilty  of 
having,  on  the  19th  morning  of  October  last, 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


105 


18 — ,  purposely  and  voluntarily  murdered  The- 
ophile  Latour,  of  Latour-sur-Creil,  Burgundy?" 

"  At  this  exciting  moment,  the  crowd  out- 
side, which  had  been  gathering  and  increasing 
during  the  whole  morning,  poured  suddenly  and 
irresistibly  into  the  hall.  A  great  number  of 
ladies  (many  more  than  had  been  present  upon 
the  two  previous  clays)  filled  the  galleries.  The 
mass  of  expectants  who  had  been  prevented  in 
time  from  following  the  rest,  gave  forth  an  im- 
patient murmur,  like  the  roaring  of  the  sea ; 
and  the  armed  force,  impossible  as  they  had 
found  it  to  exclude  the  public,  were  scarcely 
able  to  maintain  any  degree  of  order. 

"The  jury  returned  at  a  quarter  past  four 
o'clock  P.M.  and  resumed  their  seats,  when  the 
foreman,  on  request  of  M.  le  President,  rose, 
and  placing  his  hands,  according  to  custom, 
upon  his  heart,  replied, 

"  '  Upon  my  honor  and  my  conscience,  before 
God  and  before  men,  the  declaration  of  the  jury 
is — Yes;  the  accused  is  guilty.' 

"The  prisoner  was  then  brought  in,  pale,  al- 
most insensible,  his  whole  form  drooping,  mo- 
tionless, and  dejected,  like  that  of  a  man  with- 
out hope  or  fortitude. 

"The  decision  of  the  jury  was  then  read  to 
him,  and  he  was  asked  if  he  had  any  thing  to 
say.  He  seemed  neither  to  hear  nor  compre- 
hend, and  after  a  silence  of  several  minutes  the 
sentence  of  condemnation  was  passed,  and  this 
terrible  sentence  read  aloud  from  the  pages  of 
the  Code  Penal : 

"  'All  condemned  to  death  are  to  be  beheaded.' 

"  The  commotion  at  this  point  was  immense. 
A  simultaneous  cry,  which  might  almost  be  des- 
ignated as  a  yell  of  exultation,  filled  the  hall, 
and,  communicating  itself  to  the  mass  beyond, 
effectually  stopped  the  proceedings  for  several 
minutes. 

"The  wretched  criminal  heard  all  with  the 
same  apparent  listlessness  and  indifference,  bnt, 
on  being  removed  from  the  dock,  was  found  to 
have  fainted,  and  was  carried  away  by  the 
guards  in  a  condition  of  insensibility. 

"And  thus  terminated  one  of  the  most  re- 
markable trials  which  we  remember  to  have  re- 
corded in  our  columns.  Seldom  has  a  crime 
b3cn  planned  with  more  sagacity,  or  executed 
more  craftily  and  remorselessly.  No  precaution 
that  could  have  availed  was  omitted ;  and  as  it 
was  conceived,  so  was  this  hideous  drama  en- 
acted. The  impression  upon  the  public  mind 
has  been  terrible  and  profound,  and  it  is  only  to 
be  regretted  that  the  murderer's  accomplice  (a 
demon  of  beauty  and  sin,  to  the  full  as  culpable 
as  himself)  should  have  escaped.  We  will  trust, 
however,  that  the  place  of  her  retreat  may  be 
ere  long  discovered.  The  police  are  on  the 
search  in  all  directions,  and  it  is  confidently 
hoped  that  the  ends  of  justice  may  not  long  be 
eluded. 

"The  execution,  it  is  understood,  will  take 
place  in  about  a  fortnight,  this  crime  having 
been  the  first  upon  the  Assize-lists  for  the  pres- 
ent session." 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

MISTS    DISPERSING. 

I  MUST  go  back  to  the  evening  of  the  first  day 
of  the  trial. 

It  was  dark,  and  I  sat,  sadly  enough,  beside 
a  blazing  fire  in  a  small  sitting-room  in  the  Ho- 
tel de  1'Europe,  at  Lille.  A  dull  lamp  stood 
by  my  elbow,  and  some  untouched  coffee  upon 
the  table.  My  thoughts  were  very  gloomy — 
"deepe,  darke,  uneasy,  dolefull,  comfortlesse." 
The  past  was  terrible  and  tragic ;  the  future 
crossed  and  perplexed  by  many  doubts. 

To  escape  from  the  remembrance  of.  all  that 
had  filled  my  mind  for  the  last  few  weeks,  I 
found  myself  turning  with  an  irresistible  ten- 
derness toward  the  image  of  my  gentle  Marga- 
ret : 

u  O  sweet  pale  Margaret, 

O  rare  pale  Margaret, 
What  lit  your  eyes  with  tearful  power, 
Like  moonlight  on  a  falling  shower? 
Who  lent  you,  love,  your  mortal  dower 
Of  pensive  thought  and  aspect  pale, 
Youj-  melancholy  sweet  and  frail, 
As  perfume  of  the  cuckoo-flower?" 

I  dwelt,  with  a  satisfaction  the  more  exquisite 
since  it  contrasted  so  strongly  with  the  suffering 
through  which  I  had  lately  passed,  upon  that 
singularly  calm  and  lovely  nature — that  capaci- 
ty of  endurance  and  enjoyment — that  patient 
courage — that  love  of  knowledge — that  rapidity 
and  tenacity  of  apprehension  —  that  childish 
self-abandonment  to  the  full  luxury  of  simple 
pleasures,  all  and  each  of  which  unfolded  them- 
selves by  slow  degrees  from  the  outward  reserve 
of  her  disposition. 

It  was  as  if  her  mind  were  some  charmed 
volume,  whose  silver  clasps  resist  the  merely 
curious  hand,  but  yield  to  the  touch  of  lover  or 
friend !  Fair  and  pleasant  are  its  pages  with- 
in; inscribed  with  gracious  thoughts  and  im- 
ages, and  pious  hymns,  and  fragments  of  stories 
beautiful  and  wise  ;  illuminated,  moreover,  with 
borderings  of  flowers,  and  pictures  of  the  knight- 
ly Gothic  times,  and  forms  of  saints  and  angels 
with  folded  hands  and  crowns  of  golden  glory. 

DrSaming  thus,  and  watching  the  pictures  in 
the  fire,  I  suffered  time  to  pass  on  unnoticed. 
It  was  so  pleasant  to  think  of  her — to  recall  her 
words  and  gestures,  and  the  memory  of  her  face. 
Yet 

"How,  in  thy  twilight,  Doubt,  at  each  unknown 
Dim  shape,  the  superstitious  Love  will  start ; 
How  Hope  itself  will  tremble  at  its  own 
Light  shadow  on  the  heart ! 

Ah !  if  she  love  me  not ! 
"  Well,  I  will  know  the  worst,  and  leave  the  wind 

To  drift  or  drown  the  venture  on  the  wave  ; 
Life  has  two  friends  in  grief  itself  most  kind- 
Remembrance  and  the  Grave — 
Mine,  if  she  love  me  not !" 

Alas !  these  doubts  and  weary  changes,  they 
overshadow  life  like  a  dark  dream. 

Suddenly  a  slow  footfall  on  the  stairs,  and  a 
hand  upon  the  door,  roused  me  sharply  from  my 
reverie.  It  was  Vogelsang. 

He  looked  more  wretched  and  haggard  than 
ever,  and,  walking  up  to  the  other  side  of  the 
fireplace,  sat  down  moodily  without  speech  or 


106 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


greeting.  He  did  not  even  remove  his  hat,  but 
stared  into  the  fire  with  a  stern,  sullen  counte- 
nance, and  sighed  heavily. 

I  found  myself  in  no  humor  to  interrupt  his 
strange  mood  or  open  the  conversation,  so  I 
leaned  back  and  looked  at  him. 

What  a  singular  face  it  was !  Seen  by  the 
dim  conflicting  lights  of  fire  and  lamp,  how  pale, 
and  worn,  and  prematurely  old !  There  was  a 
delicacy,  too,  in  the  outline  of  the  features,  and 
a  certain  stamp  of  youth  yet  lingering  round 
the  eyes  and  forehead  that  interested  me — a  set- 
tled purpose  in  the  furrowed  brow,  the  massive 
jaw,  the  square  short  chin,  that  riveted  my  at- 
tention, and  told  of  strong  will  and  passions.  I 
wondered  what  might  be  the  story  of  his  past 
life — a  remarkable  story  it  must  be,  a  story  of 
storms,  and  trials,  and  endeavors,  by  the  ravage 
of  its  progress  through  the  years ! 

"I  return  to  Paris  to-morrow  morning,"  he 
said  at  length,  but  musingly  and  to  himself,  as 
it  were,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  fire. 

"So  soon?  Will  you  not  remain  till  this 
business  is  concluded?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"Cui  bonof  My  evidence  is  given.  I  can 
be  of  no  use.  I  must  go  back  to  —  to  my 
task." 

' '  Uselessly.  Where  the  police  fail,  how  can 
you  hope  to  succeed?" 

He  looked  round  sharply  and  suddenly;  then, 
resuming  his  former  ^attitude,  but  speaking  in  a 
slower  and  more  resolute  tone, 

" I  must  find  her," he  said.  "I  have  sworn 
it.  It  is  all  I  live  for  now,  and  though  I  perish 
for  it,  body  and  soul,  I  will  have  my  vengeance." 

"Retribution  is  already  at  work,"  I  replied, 
"and  punishment  is  for  the  law." 

He  appeared  not  to  hear  me,  and,  after  a 
pause,  resumed  his  former  subject. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  return  to-morrow;  and 
in  the  fulfillment  of  one  task,  I  leave  others  un- 
accomplished. How  soon  will  this  trial  end?" 

"  In  a  few  days,  I  suppose — perhaps  three  or 
four." 

"And  then  what  shall  you  do  ?" 

"What  shall  I  do?  I — I  can  scarcely  tell. 
Why  do  you  ask  me  ?" 

"  Shall  you  go  back  to  Brussels?" 

"Yes,  I  suppose  so  —  on  my  way  to  Bur- 
gundy." 

"Then  you  mean  to  live  upon  your  estates 
again?" 

"Perhaps." 

Another  long  silence,  which  I  interrupt  by 
saying, 

"It  is  strange,  Herr  Vogelsang,  that  you 
should  make  these  inquiries.  I  never  knew 
you  interested  in  my  proceedings  before." 

"True.  So  you  will  return  through  Bel- 
gium?" 

I  nodded. 

Vogelsang  rose  abruptly,  and  took  three  or 
four  turns  up  and  down  the  room,  like  a  man 
who  weighs  some  subject  in  his  mind  and  can 
arrive  at  no  decision.  Presently  he  stopped ; 


his  features  assumed  a  look  of  resolve,  and  he 
turned  toward  me. 

"I  have  a  sister  in  Brussels,"  he  said. 

"Indeed!" 

"  The  only  creature  I  have  to  care  for  in  the 
world — the  only  one  who  cares  for  me." 

I  became  interested. 

"I  never  heard  that  you  had  a  sister,"  I  said, 
kindly.  ' '  Tell  me  something  about  her.  Can 
I  do  any  thing  for  you  in  Brussels  ?" 

"That  is  what  I.  was  about  to  ask  you.  I 
should  wish  some  things  told  to  her — something 
of  this — this  bad  business.  I  could  not  write  it 
down  on  paper,  and  she  ought  to  know.  And 
there  is  a  portrait  which  I  should  like  her  to 
have."  Here  he  took  a  small  morocco  case 
from  his  pocket  and  laid  it  down  gently  on  the 
table.  "It — it  is  eur  mother's." 

There  was  a  softness  in  his  voice,  a  moisture 
in  his  eyes,  that  I  had  never  seen  there  before. 
I  felt  touched. 

"It  shall  be  done  as  you  desire,"  I  said. 
"Tell  me  all  that  I  have  to  say." 

He  sighed  heavily,  and  covered  his  eyes  with 
his  hand. 

"Tell  her  how  all  has  ended.  Something 
of  the  past  she  knows,  but  not  all.  I  could  not 
bring  myself  to  relate  to  her  the  details  of  that 
degrading  story.  Do  it  as  delicately  as  you 
can,  and — and  say  that  I  don't  think — I  fear — 
that  is,  she  may  never  see  me  again." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

' '  No  matter.     Will  you  do  it  ?" 

"I  have  promised." 

"  But  I  have  not  said  all.  There  is  some- 
thing more  —  something  which  —  which  I  can 
scarcely  take  the  liberty  of  asking  from  you." 

"Proceed." 

He  hesitated,  seemed  about  to  speak,  yet 
checked  himself  more  than  once,  and  at  length 
continued : 

"  My  sister  is  younger  than  myself.  We 
have  been  very  much  apart  ever  since  our  child- 
hood. If  I  tell  you  something  of  our  story,  you 
will  be  better  able  to  help  me ;  at  all  events,  you 
may  be  less  likely  to  refuse  what  I  am  going  to 
request." 

' '  Pray  do  so.  It  is  exactly  what  I  would  have 
asked  you,  if  I  had  dared." 

He  passed  his  hand  fondly  over  the  portrait- 
case,  turned  toward  the  fire,  and,  resuming  his 
former  musing  attitude,  began : 

"I  will  presume  that  you  remember  all  I  told 
you  once  before — on  the  night  I  first  addressed 
you  in  Brussels.  How  I  married  in  compliance 
with  an  old  family  agreement,  being,  at  the 
time,  little  more  than  a  boy.  How  I  yielded  to 
my  father's  entreaties  —  married,  and,  at  last, 
loved  her.  How  she  wronged,  robbed,  fled  me 
— left  me  poor,  broken-hearted,  and  dishonored ! 
Yes,  you  know  all  this — no  use  to  dwell  upon 
it.  My  mother  was — was  living  at  the  time  of 
my  marriage,  and,  thank  Heaven !  she  died  be- 
fore a  year  had  passed  (before  I  was  made  reck- 
less and  a  wanderer),  leaving  my  father  broken- 
hearted for  her  loss,  and  one  little  girl  just  six 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


107 


years  old.    That  was  eleven  years  ago.     She  is  |  deep  flush  crossed  his  sallow  cheek ;   he  rose 


now  seventeen,  and  I  am  thirty.  Thirty !  Alas ! 
I  both  feel  and  look  many  years  older.  When 
— when  Therese  became  infamous,  I  left  Vienna 
and  my  accursed  home.  I  roamed  from  city  to 
city,  from  land  to  land,  in  the  vain  search  for  a 
peace  that  was  fled.  From  Germany  to  Italy, 
Switzerland,  France,  I  wandered,  and  at  last 
reached  England,  where  I  spent  the  last  two 
years  and  a  half.  I  procured  a  mean  employ- 
ment in  a  solicitor's  office,  and  so  contrived  to 
eke  out  a  subsistence,  which,  wretched  though  it 
was,  occupied  my  time  and  thoughts,  and  ren- 
dered me  a  trifle  less  miserable  than  I  had  been 
since  my — my  voluntary  separation  from  father, 
sister,  and  home.  Besides,  though  I  had  no  rel- 
atives there,  and  should  not  have  known  them 
if  I  had,  England  was  my  native  country,  and  I 
liked—" 

"Your  native  country,  Herr  Vogelsang!"  I 
exclaimed.  "Are  you  not  a  Viennese  —  an 
Austrian  subject?" 

He  shook  his  head. 

"  She  was  Austrian,  but  my  family  is  English." 

"Yet  your  name?" 

"The  name,"  he  said,  "is  one  which  she 
chose  to  assume  on  returning  to  the  stage  seven 
or  eight  months  ago.  It  is  not  mine  or  hers." 

"And,  pardon  me,  she  acted  before  you  mar- 
ried her?" 

*  "It  washer  profession — her  innate  vocation 
from  childhood.  My  father  and  I  were  violin- 
players  in  the  orchestra  at  the  Royal  Opera. 
We  left  England  when  I  was  scarcely  ten  years 
of  age,  before  Margaret  was  born — " 

"Margaret!" 

I  had  sprang  to  my  feet  at  the  sound  of  that 
name :  my  heart  beat  wildly ;  I  trembled  from 
head  to  foot.  Margaret ! 

He  looked  up,  amazed  at  my  agitation,  and 
replied, 

"Yes,  Margaret — my  sister." 

It  was  all  clear  to  me  now ;  there  could  be 
no  mistake  about  it ;  the  mist  was  dissolving  be- 
fore my  eyes,  and  I  dared  not  trust  myself  to 
follow  the  chain  of  hopes  and  guesses  that  ran, 
like  an  electric  current,  through  my  mind. 

"Your  name  is  Fletcher!"  I  cried,  scarce 
able  to  articulate.  "Your  name  is  Fletcher !" 

He  started. 

"  How  did  you  know  that?" 

"Tell  me— in  pity  tell  me !" 

"  Yes,  my  name  is  Fletcher — Frank  Fletcher." 

"Thank  God !  thank  God !"  It  was  all  that 
I  could  say. 

I  sank  back,  in  my  agitation,  into  the  chair 
from  whence  I  had  risen.  The  tears  thronged 
to  my  eyes.  Oh,  dear,  dear  Margaret ! 

My  companion  was  almost  dumb  with  sur- 
prise. 

"What  do  you  know  of  me — or  of  Margaret?" 
he  asked. 

I  answered  his  question  with  another. 

"Did  not  your  father  die  at  Ems— in  the  sum- 
mer-time— of  brain  fever  ?" 

Now  he,  too,  was  suddenly  enlightened ;   a 


and  extended  his  hand  to  me,  for  the  first  time. 

"I  know  you  now,"  he  said,  warmly.  "I 
wish  that  I  had  known  you  from  the  first.  You 
were  my  father's  friend  —  you  are  Margaret's 
protector.  I  thank' you." 

He  seemed  quite  overcome.  Then,  taking  the 
portrait  from  the  table,  he  opened  and  placed  it 
in  my  hands. 

"My  mother  and  hers,"  he  said,  falteringlv. 
"  Do  you  think  it  like  her  ?" 

I  could  scarcely  refrain  from  pressing  it  to  my 
lips ;  but  the  presence  of  her  brother,  and  a  cer- 
tain awe  which  I  am  unable  to  define,  restrained 
me.  It  was  Margaret  herself,  only  a  shade  fair- 
er and  more  blooming,  and  dressed  in  the  fash- 
ion of  some  twenty  years  ago.  The  same  calm 
forehead  —  the  same  sweet  mouth  —  the  same 
dark,  thoughtful,  earnest  eyes ! 

There  was  a  question  trembling  on  my  lips — 
a  question  which  I  longed,  yet  dared  not  to  ask. 
At  length,  after  many  eiforts,  I  ventured. 

"You  saw  Margaret,  of  course,  when  you 
were  in  Brussels  ?" 

"  Only  twice." 

"  Once  at  night — in  the  park?" 

"Yes,  once  in  the  park,  and  once  at  the 
school.  You  know  I  kept  out  of  sight,  as  much 
as  possible,  during  the  daytime." 

' '  And  in  the  park,  that  night,  Margaret  was 
speaking  to  you  of  me — you  were  urging  her  to 
concealment.  Was  it  not  so  ?" 

"Yes — yes.     How  do  you  know  this  ?'? 

"I  overheard  you.  I  was  in  the  next  walk, 
and  only  separated  from  you  by  a  hedge.  Oh  ! 
had  I  but  known  all  this  before,  what  a  weight 
of  grief  it  would  have  spared  me !" 

He  looked  up  at  me  sharply  and  inquiringly, 
but  made  no  reply. 

"And  you  gave  her  a  ring,  did  you  not?" 
(I  was  determined  to  have  it  all  cleared  now.) 

"Yes,"  he  said,  very  gravely,  "I  gave  her  a 
hair  ring  which  had  been  our  mother's.  That 
and  the  portrait  were  both  mine,  and  I  had  al- 
ways intended  to  give  one  of  them  to  Margaret, 
when  she  was  of  an  age  to  value  the  relic.  I 
left  her  an  infant — I  found  her  a  woman ;  and 
I  performed  my  promise.  She  had  but  to  look 
in  her  mirror  for  our  mother's  portrait ;  so  I 
gave  her  the  ring,  and  kept  the  miniature.  She 
will  have  both  now." 

"But  why  do  you  part  with  the  likeness?" 

A  dark  shade  passed  over  his  countenance — 
his  very  voice  changed. 

"I  have  devoted  myself,"  he  said,  gloomily, 
"to  the  execution  of  a  task.  I  will  have  an 
eye  for  an  eye,  and  a  tooth  for  a  tooth— justice, 
even  justice,  dispassionately  weighed  and  meas- 
ured. I  shall  not  suffer  vengeance  to  mislead 
me ;  but,  once  get  her  into  my  power,  I  will  let 
her  taste  a  cup  to  the  full  as  bitter  as  that  which 
she  forced  upon  me.  It  shall  be  meted  her,  drop 
for  drop,  as  it  was  meted  to  me.  I  will  see  her 
sufferings — I  will  be  inflexible,  pitiless,  unwaver- 
ing as  time  itself.  In  the  working  out  of  my 
plan,  I  bid  adieu  to  the  past  and  to  the  future. 


108 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


Neither  the  pleasures  nor  pains  that  have  been 
shall  sway  me  one  hair's  breadth.  I  detach  my- 
self from  life— from  its  ties— from  its  remem- 
brances— from  its  hopes ;  and  I  go  forth  alone 
in  the  wide  world,  seeking  but  one  living  being, 
and  seeking  that  one  with  a  deep  and  deadly 
hate — which  is  all  the  more  a  hate,  and  a  bitter 
one,  in  so  far  as  it  is  yet  leavened  by  an  inerad- 
icable wild  passion  of  jealousy  and  love." 

"And  what,  in  mercy's  name,  do  you  purpose 
doing  ?" 

"I  know  not.  I  have  not  fashioned  it  out 
yet  myself.  Be  it,  however,  when  and, what  it 
may,  I  feel  that  I  shall  not  long  survive  it,  if 
at  all.  For  years  I  have  borne  within  me  the 
seeds  of  a  disease  which  knows  no  cure  ;  a  sud- 
den and  violent  excitement  would  probably  be, 
at  any  moment,  my  death-warrant ;  and  I  know 
that  the  fulfillment  of  my  revenge  will  herald  in 
my  closing  scene  of  life.  Till  then  I  am  re- 
solved to  live.  But  enough  of  this.  I  return 
to  Paris  by  dawn  to-morrow,  and  you  will  un- 
dertake to  deliver  this  portrait  (the  only  wealth 
that  I  possess)  to  my  little  Margaret  in  Brus- 
sels." 

"  Most  faithfully.  But  there  was  something 
else  which  you  were  about  to  request  from  me, 
and  of  which  we  have  since  lost  sight.  What 
was  it  ?" 

A  grim  smile  flitted  over  his  face. 

' '  It  related,"  said  he,  ' '  to  yourself.  I  had  no 
opportunity  of  seeing  Margaret's  unknown  pro- 
tector, and  I  felt  desirous  to  know  something 
more  of  his  character  and  position.  In  fact,  I 
was  going  to  ask  you  to  discover  all  this  for  me 
— to  ascertain  the  particulars  of  his  family  con- 
nections, his  age  and  prospects,  and  to  sift  his 
reputation  to  the  bottom.  I  met  Margaret,  as 
I  have  told  you,  but  twice,  and  both  interviews 
were  so  brief,  so  anxious,  so  agitated,  that  I 
learned  nothing  more  than  that  a  Monsieur 
Paul  had  been  a  friend  to  our  father,  and  had 
attended  his  death-bed ;  that  Margaret  had  been 
recommended  to  his  care ;  that  he  was  very  rich, 
and  benevolent,  and  good ;  that  he  had  made 
her  position  in  the  school  more  comfortable  and 
independent ;  and  that  he  was  teaching  her  to 
draw.  All  this  I  heard  in  fewer  words  than  I 
have  repeated,  and  no  more.  To  me  you  were 
Monsieur  Paul,  and  I  even  believed  that  to  be 
your  surname.  You  see,  I  was  about  to  request 
from  you  a  troublesome  and  an  important  serv- 
ice." 

"Nothing  more  than  I  would  have  done  for 
you,  Mr.  Fletcher,  were  it  not,  fortunately,  un- 
necessary. Of  my  family  and  rank  you  have 
heard  sufficient  upon  the  trial  this  day,  and  I 
rejoice  to  have  it  in  my  power  to  ask  her  broth- 
er's sanction  before  removing  Margaret  from  the 
school  where  she  is  now  placed,  to  my  own  res- 
idence in  Burgundy.  It  is  a  step  which  I  have 
long  wished  to  take.  My  mother  will  receive 
her  as  if  she  were  her  own  child ;  and  I  promise 
you,  in  her  name  and  my  own,  that  nothing 
which  can  add  to  her  happiness,  or  her  mental 
culture,  shall  be  neglected." 


Fletcher  colored  up  again,  and  hesitated  for 
several  minutes  before  he  made  any  reply. 

"I  appreciate  your  generosity,  sir,"  he  said, 
at  length,  "and  I  thank  you  for  it.  I  could 
wish  that  my  sister  were — were  less  dependent 
on  your  bounty ;  but  I  have  nothing,  and  my 
path  lies  far  from  her.  It  must  be  as  you  wish 
— it  is  to  her  advantage.  I  have,  God  knows ! 
no  right  to  mar  her  fortunes  by  my  pride.  I 
thank  you,  sir." 

Hereupon  he  relapsed  into  his  old  stern,  si- 
lent mood,  and  stared,  as  before,  into  the  fire. 
Observing  this,  I  hazarded  one  or  two  remarks, 
which  he  appeared  not  to  hear  or  notice,  but 
moved  his  lips  now  and  then,  as  if  speaking 
dumbly  to  himself,  and  shook  his  head  mourn- 
fully in  reply. 

Thus  a  long  time  passed  by,  and  the  time- 
piece in  the  room  struck  ten  o'clock.  He  start- 
ed, rose  hurriedly,  and  with  the  words  "  Good- 
night, farewell,"  moved  abruptly  toward  the 
door. 

I  seized  him  by  the  arm. 

"You  are  not  going  thus?"  I  exclaimed. 
"Leave  me,  at  least,  some  address  by  which  a 
letter  might  find  you,  if  necessary." 

He  looked  at  me  with  a  sort  of  dreamy  sur- 
prise. 

"An  address!"  he  replied.  "An  address! 
I  am  homeless.  I  shall  wander  till  I  find  her, 
though  it  be  to  the  ends  of  the  earth.  How 
can  I  give  you  an  address  ?" 

"Then,  at  least,  you  will  promise  to  write?" 

He  sighed  and  looked  down  irresolutely. 

"For  Margaret's  sake!  Stay!  here  is  my 
card.  I  will  write  my  own  direction  upon  it — 
'  Chateau  de  Latour,  Latour-sur-Creil,  Burgun- 
dy.' This  will  always  find  me,  and  Margaret 
also.  See,  how  easily  you  can  do  this !  Sure- 
ly, for  "your  sister's  sake,  you  will  promise  so 
small  a  thing." 

He  stretched  out  his  hand  for  the  card,  but 
made  no  reply. 

I  glanced  at  his  threadbare  coat,  his  worn  and 
haggard  countenance,  his  thin,  yellow  hand — a 
rapid  thought  flashed  across  my  mind — I  turned 
aside  and  wrapped  the  card  in  a  couple  of  bank- 
notes before  I  gave  it  to  him. 

A  peculiar  expression  passed  over  his  face ; 
he  closed  his  hand  over  the  card,  and  placed  it 
in  his  waistcoat  pocket ;  turned  to  leave  the 
room — hesitated  again — lingered — looked  back 
—  went  out  suddenly,  and  so  parted  from  me 
without  another  word. 

It  struck  me  at  the  moment,  and  I  have  often 
wondered  since,  that  he  was  aware  of  what  I 
had  done,  and  yet  was  too  poor  to  refuse,  and 
too  proud  to  acknowledge  the  gift. 

Poor  Fletcher !  I  never  saw  him  again. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

COSMORAMAS. 

As  I  left  it  in  the  gentle  spring-time,  so  I 
find  it  in  the  still,  bleak,  sad  November  season. 
I  stand  in  my  own  Gothic  library  again — stand 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


109 


with  the  lifted  curtain  in  my  hand,  looking  upon 
the  shadowy  Apostles  ranged  on  either  side — 
upon  the  recesses  filled  with  books  of  poetry  and 
learning — upon  the  silver  lamp  with  its  ame- 
thyst globe,  swinging  softly  to  and  fro  in  the 
gloom,  like  a  censer  in  an  unseen  hand. 

There  stands  my  chair,  as  though  I  had  risen 
from  it  but  an  hour  since — there  my  reading- 
desk  and  paper-case.  The  pen  lies  in  the  stand, 
but  the  ink  has  dried  away,  and  the  peri  has 
rusted. 

Slowly,  almost  doubtfully,  I  pass  along  be- 
tween those  colossal  forms  to  the  farthest  end 
of  the  room,  where  I  withdraw  the  heavy  cur- 
tains, and  look  out  into  the  night. 

I  have  done  this  almost  mechanically;  yet, 
in  one  brief  instant,  a  torrent  of  recollections 
rush  over  me — strange  recollections  of  a  warm 
passion,  now  cold  and  past — of  a  still,  starry 
night  in  May,  when  the  yellow  moon  hung  low 
above  the  trees,  and  the  nightingales  recorded 
in  the  forest — of  that  almost  forgotten  moment 
when  I  first  saw  and  loved  AdrienneLachapelle ! 

And  now,  how  great  the  change  !  The  moon 
is  there,  but  her  light  is  blue  and  cold  ;  yonder 
black  shadow  is  the  leafless  forest ;  the  nightin- 
gales have  fled  long  since;  all  is  bare,  and 
blank,  and  stern  in  the  wide  landscape. 

And  within  ?  Ah  me !  the  change  within  is 
yet  greater. 

Sighing,  I  drop  the  curtains  and  exclude  the 
sullen  view.  Yonder  lies  my  neglected  atelier. 
Shall  I  enter?  A  feeling  which  is  almost  that 
of  shame  restrains  me.  I  hesitate.  At  last  I 
overcome  it  and  go  in. 

There  has  been  a  gentle  hand  at  work  here 
also.  I  had  half  expected  to  find  every  thing 
as  I  had  left  it  on  the  last  terrible  day,  and  it  is 
a  relief  to  me  to  see  all  traces  of  my  fury  dis- 
appeared. Easels,  furniture,  lay-figures,  all  are 
ranged  about  the  room  in  unartistic  order.  My 
sketches  have  been  pinned  against  the  wall. 
Some  of  my  finished  paintings  are  framed,  and 
hang  in  the  best  situations.  Even  the  Medicean 
Venus,  which  I  ruthlessly  shattered  in  my  un- 
reasoning passion,  has  been  replaced. 

On  yonder  easel,  however,  a  picture  has  been 
left,  as  if  awaiting  the  last  touches  of  my  pen- 
cil. Half  suspecting,  half  dreading  what  it  may 
be,  I  compel  myself  to  cross  over  and  examine 
it.  As  I  thought!  Cathedral,  and  penitent, 
and  shadowy  aisles — the  last  and  most  signifi- 
cant of  my  labors!  I  gaze  upon  it  long  and 
very  earnestly,  and  then,  almost  sadly,  I  turn 
the  canvas  to  the  wall  and  leave  the  room. 

'Tis  a  dead  past  and  a  dead  love ;  peace  be  to 
them !  Forward,  forward  into  the  pleasant  fu- 
ture, made  beautiful  by  the  vision  of  another 
and  a  dearer  face. 

I  loved  Adrienne — I  love  Margaret.  How 
like  the  words,  yet  how  unlike  the  feeling !  My 
love  for  Adrienne  was  a  trance,  an  intoxication, 
a  delirium.  Her  wondrous  beauty  dazzled  and 
subdued  me.  It  haunted  my  sleep;  it  went 
beside  me  in  forest  and  field ;  it  glided  betwixt 
me  and  the  sunlight ;  it  rose  out  from  the  pages 


of  philosopher  and  poet ;  it  usurped  the  place 
of  reason  and  thought — I  had  almost  said,  of 
religion  !  It  passed  over  my  soul  like  a  sum- 
mer tempest,  with  lightning  and  thunder.  In 
a  word,  it  was  the  first  deep,  wild  love  of  pas- 
sionate manhood.  Like  a  burning  dream  it 
came  and  went,  and  left,  what  such  dreams 
leave — ashes  and  dust. 

Not  so,  not  so,  my  pale  and  patient  Marga- 
ret, is  this  gentle  affection  which  fills  and  satis- 
fies my  heart,  and  makes  life  holy.  Thy  fair 
calm  face  is  ever  with  me,  'tis  true,  but  it  seems 
to  read  me  a  divine  commentary  on  all  that  I  do 
or  think ;  it  guides  me,  as  the  spirit  of  Beatrice 
guided  the  poet  of  old,  from  sphere  to  sphere  of 
heavenly  adoration.  If  in  my  sleep  thou  com- 
est  to  me,  it  is  in  the  likeness  of  a  protecting 
angel,  and  only  to  think  of  thee  is  a  prayer ! 

I  can  not  remain  apart  from  thee.  An  irre- 
sistible attraction  draws  me  to  thy  side.  Fare- 
well solitary  library  !  There  is  another  book, 
more  enthralling  in  its  pages  than  any  volume 
here,  which  I  must  read  to-night. 

Three  ladies  are  sitting  silently  together  in 
the  upper  drawing-room.  A  blazing  fire  crack- 
les and  sparkles  in  the  vast  old-fashioned  grate ; 
the  amber-damask  draperies  and  antique  mir- 
rors throw  back  the  bright  reflection,  and  all, 
save  the  inmates,  looks  glowing  and  cheerful. 

Pale  and  statue-like,  Avith  her  deep  mourning 
dress,  sits  my  mother  in  her  high-backed  chair. 
The  embroidery  lies  neglected  on  her  lap ;  her 
thin  white  hands  are  pressed  firmly  together ; 
her  blue  eyes,  once  so  cold  and  frosty,  are  fixed 
upon  the  fire  with  a  softened  and  melancholy 
expression  that  is  infinitely  touching.  Her 
thoughts  are  with  her  youngest-born,  wander- 
ing away,  perhaps,  to  the  time  when  he  was  an 
infant  in  her  arms,  or  a  bold  and  beautiful  boy, 
reckless  in  the  pursuit  of  pleasure  and  danger, 
foremost  in  the  chase,  and  merriest  at  the  vine- 
feast  or  the  village  fete. 

Close  beside  her,  with  one  hand  resting  on 
the  arm  of  the  high-backed  chair,  sits  Adrienne, 
beautiful  in  her  young  widowhood,  and  clothed 
likewise  in  deepest  sables.  She  too  is  thinking, 
and  her  eyes,  bent  toward  the  ground,  are  sha- 
ded by  the  drooping  lids  and  long  fringed  lashes. 

Farther  back,  shrinking  into- the  shade  like  a 
little  violet,  sits  my  quiet  Margaret.  She  holds 
a  book  in  her  hand,  yet  she  is  not  reading.  It 
is  almost  too  dark  in  this  recess  to  see  her  feat- 
ures distinctly,  but  her  cheek  rests  on  her  palm, 
and  her  deep  brown  eyes  glow  through  the  dusk 
with  an  inner  light  of  soul  and  earnest  thought. 
She  is  lost  in  an  absorbing  reverie,  and,  from 
that  musing  smile  that  seems  to  hover  round 
the  delicate  mouth,  I  should  say  the  day-dream 
is  far  from  sorrowful. 

Hitherto  my  entrance  has  been  unperceived, 
but,  as  I  advance  nearer  to  their  circle,  my 
mother  looks  up  and  extends  her  hand  lovingly 
toward  me ;  Margaret  glances  round  with  a 
pleased,  shy  smile;  Adrienne  alone  remains 
motionless  and  unobserving. 

Thus  I  glide  into  the  shadow  and  take  my 


110 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


place  by  Margaret.  We  speak  seldom,  and  then 
only  in  whispers ;  but  our  hearts  are  eloquent, 
and  full  of  unuttered  poetry. 

By-and-by  I  imprison  one  little  hand  in  mine, 
and  draw  still  nearer  toward  those  downcast 
eyes.  Now  I  can  hear  the  subdued  fluttering 
of  her  breath ;  mine  stirs  the  silken  curl  beside 
her  cheek ;  the  hand  is  not  withdrawn ;  we  are 
both  happy — both  silent. 

"Les  anges  amoureux  se  parlent  sans  paroles, 
Comme  les  yeux  aux  yeux  !" 

It  is  winter,  and  the  snow  lies  three  feet  deep 
in  the  court-yard.  The  trees  look  like  great 
branches  of  white  coral ;  the  windows  are  cov- 
ered with  glittering  traceries  of  feathers  and 
frosted  palm-trees;  the  vine-dressers'  children 
have  built  up  a  colossal  snow-man  just  outside 
the  gate ;  the  roads  are  blocked  up  from  here  to 
Chalons,  and  the  post  has  not  been  in  for  near- 
ly a  week. 

"Ah!  bitter  chill  it  was ! 

The  owl,  for  all  his  feathers,  was  a-cold ; 

The  hare  limp'd  trembling  through  the  frozen  grass, 

And  silent  was  the  flock  in  woolly  fold." 

We  have  done  all  that  can  be  done  to  en- 
liven the  wintry  solitude  of  Burgundy.  Books, 
drawing,  music,  chess,  and  all  indoor  amuse- 
ments are  put  in  requisition.  Sometimes  I 
drive  the  ladies  in  my  Russian  sledge,  and  then 
we  go  flying  over  plains,  and  along  the  frozen 
rivers  and  snowy  valleys,  to  the  silver  music  of 
the  jingling  bells  hung  to  the  collars  of  the 
horses ;  sometimes  we  skate  by  torchlight  on 
the  little  lake  beyond  the  village  ;  sometimes  I 
sit  apart  in  the  recess  of  a  bay  window  with  my 
little  Margaret,  and  give  a  drawing  or  Italian 
lesson. 

Adrienne  keeps  much  apart,  and  spends  the 
greater  part  of  every  day  writing  or  reading  in 
her  own  apartment.  One  of  her  habits  is  to 
walk  up  and  down  the  great  oaken  hall  at  the 
end  of  the  north  gallery,  book  in  hand.  This 
she  will  do  for  hours  at  a  time,  and  we  are  care- 
ful not  to  interrupt  these  solitary  moods.  This 
hall  was  formerly  the  armory.  Old  helmets, 
and  shields,  and  rusted  falchions  are  yet  sus- 
pended here  and  there  against  the  wall,  and  the 
tattered  banner  at  the  upper  end  was  taken  from 
the  English  at' the. battle  of  Agincourt  by  our 
ancestor  Louis  Montmorency  de  la  Tour,  sur- 
named  the  Strong. 

I  have  written  to  Seabrook  entreating  him  to 
stay  with  us  for  a  few  weeks,  but  in  vain.  He 
is  now  resident  in  Antwerp,  and  studies  severe- 
ly. In  a  couple  of  months  he  will  be  prepared 
to  pass  his  examination  in  England.  He  does 
not  even  say  whether  he  shall  be  able  to  spare 
time  for  a  flying  farewell  visit.  His  tone  is  af- 
fectionate and  kindly  as  ever,  but  less  frank. 
Of  his  ambition,  of  his  prospects,  he  says  noth- 
ing. An  ill-concealed  reserve  clouds  all  his 
letter.  I  feel  that  there  is  more  in  this  than  he 
chooses  to  confide  in  me,  and  I  am  grieved  by  it. 

And  thus  the  winter  passes. 


Sitting  alone  in  the  library  one  bleak  dull 


day  in  early  April,  when  the  sky,  and  trees,  and 
earth  look  all  one  heavy  gray,  and  even  the  fire 
loses  half  its  glow,  I  find  myself  reviewing  many 
things,  revolving  many  plans  in  my  own  mind, 
and  neglecting  the  open  page  before  my  eyes. 

Not  that  the  book  lacks  interest. ,  Far  from 
it ;  for  it  is  Roger  of  Wendover's  quaint  old 
Chronicle,  and  I  take  all  the  delight  of  a  true 
antiquary  in  the  flavor  of  dust  and  vellum  that 
hangs  over  the  narrative.  No,  it  is  not  this ;  it 
is  a  purely  indolent,  fanciful,  dreaming  reverie 
that  wins  me  from  it. 

Yonder,  too,  lies  the  letter-bag,  and  here  the 
key.  I  have  not  yet  had  the  curiosity  to  open 
it,  though  it  has  been  lying  there  for  more  than 
an  hour.  Come  !  I  will  rouse  myself.  Let  us 
see  what  are  the  contents  of  the  bag ! 

Three  letters  to-day — no  more.  Two  of  them 
are  for  Adrienne,  and  bear  the  English  post- 
mark. The  third  is  for  myself.  I  do  not  know 
this  writing !  I  never  saw  it  before,  or  I  should 
remember  it,  so  irregular,  so  blotted,  so  hasty 
and  yet  so  tremulous  is  the  superscription.  The 
paper  is  of  the  coarsest  and  bluest  description  ; 
the  postmark  is  Philadelphia,  U.  S.  America  ; 
it  is  fastened  by  a  wafer,  and  is  soiled  by  the 
transmission  through  many  hands. 

I  know  no  one  in  America !  How  strange 
this  is !  I  almost  dread  to  read  it ;  a  presenti- 
ment of  something  unpleasant  seems  to  stay  my 
hand ;  at  length  I  tear  it  open.  It  is  this : 

* '  I  thought  to  live  till  my  task  was  accom- 
plished. I  believed  that  hate  was  stronger  than 
disease,  and  will  stronger  than  destiny.  It  is 
not  so ;  and,  in  compliance  with  your  wish,  I 
write  these  lines  to  tell  you.  I  have  sought  her 
in  many  cities.  I  have  followed  the  faint  ru- 
mors of  her  flight  even  to  the  shores  of  the  New 
World,  and  all  vainly.  I  am  dying.  Before 
this  can  reach  your  hands  I  shall  be  at  rest. 
They  tell  me  that  some  six  or  eight  days  are  all 
that  remain  to  me  in  life.  Be  it  so.  Perhaps 
it  is  best.  Vengeance  is  not  to  be  mine,  and  I 
must  prepare  for  eternity.  My  consolation  is 
that  the  punishment  must  fall  sooner  or  later, 
and  that  it  passes,  henceforward,  into  some  other 
and  surer  hands.  Break  this  gently  to  Marga- 
ret, and  do  not  let  her  grieve  for  one  who 
grieves  not  for  himself.  I  have  suffered  but 
little.  Farewell.  F.  FLETCHEK." 

The  rich  autumn  has  come  again.  It  is  our 
holiday  season  in  fair  Burgundy — the  merry 
vintage  time.  The  purple  grapes  hang  in  heavy 
clusters  toward  the  earth ;  the  sunburnt  laborers 
wade  along  the  furrows,  and  bear  away  the  fruit 
in  long  baskets ;  the  wine-press  is  at  work  in 
the  out-houses ;  and  the  peasant-girls  sing  like 
birds  to  the  measured  clicking  of  their  shears. 
At  dusk  they  have  a  supper  spread  for  them  in 
the  hall,  and  afterward  a  dance  under  the  lime- 
trees,  to  the  droning  music  of  a  rustic  musette, 
upon  which  the  young  men  perform  in  turn. 
Then  the  stars  come  out,  and  the  lovers,  walk- 
ing homeward  by  the  light  of  the  harvest  moon, 
take  the  longest  way,  and  go  round  by  the  riv- 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


Ill 


er-side  or  the  burnt  mill.  Truly  a  pleasant 
season  is  the  vintage-time  in  Burgundy ! 

Pleasanter  now  than  ever,  for  a  dear  friend 
has  come  down  among  us  to  witness  the  harvest 
of  the  grape,  and  to  gladden  our  little  circle  with 
his  genial  face  and  joyous  voice.  Yes,  it  is 
Norman  Seabrook  whom  I  welcome  to  my  old 
home — whose  honest  hand  grasps  mine — whose 
eyes  beam  with  friendship,  and  whose-  cheery 
laughter  rings  along  our  shady  silent  rooms 
like  a  peal  of  wedding  bells.  He  is  paler  and 
thinner,  methinks,  than  when  we  first  met  in 
Heidelberg.  London  air  and  the  study  of  the 
law  hath  left  some  traces — stolen  some  of  the 
brightness  from  his  smile  and  the  roundness 
from  his  cheek.  No  matter !  The  soft  air  of 
our  valleys  and  the  breeze  from  our  mountains, 
though  his  holiday  last  but  six  short  weeks, 
shall  work  wonders,  I  promise  him. 

Now  for  excursions  to  the  Fountain  of  Roses 
— now  for  long  days  of  sporting  in  the  forest — 
now  for  picnics  and  boating-parties,  and  drives 
to  Chalons  and  Dijon,  and  railway  trips  even  as 
far  as  Strasburg,  for  Seabrook  must  be  shown 
all  the  beauties  of  our  Eden ! 

My  mother  goes  but  little  from  home  now. 
She  takes  no  pleasure  in  it ;  but  she  welcomes 
us  back  at  evening,  and  her  chief  delight  is  in 
preparing  delicacies  for  our  surprise  at  table. 
Hence  all  the  exquisite  creams,  iced  fruits,  pre- 
serves, and  quaint  confectionery  which,  infinite- 
ly varied,  succeed  each  other  at  our  evening 
meals ;  hence  the  vases  of  fresh  flowers  in  our 
sleeping-rooms ;  hence  the  boxes  of  chocolate 
bonbons  which  appear,  as  if  by  magic,  on  our 
dressing-tables.  Her  solicitous  kindness  meets 
us  at  every  turn,  and  all  her  pleasure  consists 
in  making  the  happiness  of  others. 

Thus  we  go  out  and  revel,  like  children,  by 
meadow-brook,  and  mountain  torrent,  and  wild 
forest-path ;  and,  somehow  or  another,  Seabrook 
and  Adrienne  walk  as  slowly,  and 'whisper  as 
softly,  and  wander  away  together  among  the 
arching  boughs  after  as  pleasant  and  lover-like 
a  fashion  as  Margaret  and  Paul ! 

"  So  turtles  pair 
That  never  mean  to  part !" 

Winter  came  and  went  a  second  time,  and 
then  the  Spring  laughed  out.  Oh,  beautiful 
Spring!  Especial  property  of  the  lover  and 
the  poet !  Fief,  manor,  and  hereditary  wealth 
of  romancist  and  story-teller !  Listen,  most  ex- 
quisite Spring,  to  the  praises  spoken  of  thee  in 
the  olden  time  by  the  worshipful  and  discerning 
author  of  that  almost-forgotten  volume,  'yclept 
"La  Plaisante  Histoire  de  Guerin  de  Mon- 
glave:" 

"  A  Tissue  de  1'yver  que  le  joly  temps  de  pri- 
mavere  commence,  et  qu'on  voit  arbres  verdo- 
yer,  flours  espanouir,  et  qu'on  oit  les  oisillons 
chanter  en  toute  joie  et  doulceur,  tant  que  les 
verts  bocages  retentissent  de  leur  sons  et  que 
coeurs  tristes,  pensifs,  y  dolens  s'en  esjouissent, 
s'e'meuvent  a  delaisser  deuil  et  toute  tristesse,  et 
se  parforcent  &  valoir  mieux." 


And  it  would  seem  that  we  mean  to  follow  his 
advice  down  in  this  remote  village  of  Latour- 
sur-Creil,  for  the  bells  of  the  chapel  in  the  val- 
ley are  ringing  out  peal  after  peal  most  "sil- 
ver-sweet ;"  the  servants  and  villagers  are  crowd- 
ing to  the  porch  in  their  holiday  dresses ;  the 
church  is  one  bower  of  roses  and  myrtle-boughs 
within ;  the  rustic  band  of  pipes,  tabors,  and 
musettes  is  waiting  under  the  trees  at  a  little 
distance,  each  performer  carrying  a  gigantic 
bouquet  in  his  button-hole  and  a  bunch  of  rib- 
bons in  his  hat ;  the  good  priest  honors  the  day 
with  a  new  gown,  and  two  bridegrooms  and  two 
brides  are  standing  at  the  altar! 

Yes,  the  secret  of  Seabrook's  industry  is  all 
told  now.  At  first  it  was  a  panacea  for  a  hope- 
less love ;  secondly,  it  was  the  window  through 
which  stole  the  first  ray  of  sunlight ;  thirdly,  it 
has  become  a  means  of  great  and  perfect  felici- 
ty. He  has  purchased  a  partnership,  and  can 
ask  a  wealthy  lady's  hand  without  shame.  The 
saddest  passage  in  this  love-story  is,  to  me,  at 
least,  that  he  and  Adrienne  must  henceforth 
dwell  in  the  great  far  city  on  the  banks  of  the 
masted  Thames ! 

I  can  not  help  sighing  sometimes  when  I 
think  of  this ;  but  then  Margaret  steals  to  my 
side,  and,  resting  her  cheek  against  my  shoulder, 
whispers  gently,  "  Shall  I  not  be  here,  dearest  ?" 

Even  thus,  reader.  'Tis  a  double  wedding — 
"  Bid  the  merry  bells  ring  to  thine  ear  1" 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

THE    CURTAIN    FALLS. 

IT  is  not  now  many  weeks  since  I  visited  En- 
gland, being  called  thither  by  important  business 
respecting  the  wine-produce  of  my  estates,  and 
being  likewise  desirous  of  passing  a  few  days 
with  the  Seabrooks  in  London.  I  found  them 
entirely  happy,  and  surrounded  by  a  little  cir- 
cle of  intellectual  and  pleasant  friends,  artists, 
authors,  musicians,  and  scientific  men.  Love 
has  given  to  Seabrook's  character  all  that  it  re- 
quired of  strength,  and  the  influence  of  a  pro- 
fessional career  has  added  weight  and  practica- 
bility to  his  mind.  With  all  his  love  of  beauty, 
he  is  no  longer  a  dreamer ;  with  all  his  taste  for 
enjoyment,  he  has  learned  to  extract  a  higher 
pleasure  from  industry  and  honorable  success. 
As  for  Adrienne,  she  adores  him,  and  they 
quarrel  on  one  point  only,  viz.,  as  to  which 
loves  the  other  best.  This,  by  the  way,  reminds 
me  of  Margaret  and  myself;  but  if  I  say  that 
Norman  and  Adrienne  are  as  happy  as  ourselves, 
I  think  that  I  have  affirmed  all,  and  more  than 
all,  that  language  can  express. 

But  this  is  foreign  to  the  purpose  with  which 
I  have  commenced  this  last  chapter  of  my  his- 
tory. Loveless  and  joyless  is  what  I  must  now 
relate,  and  the  bell  which  gives  the  signal  for 
the  fall  of  the  curtain  is  the  passing  bell  of  a 
guilty  soul. 

Returning  one  evening  from  a  late  interview 


112 


MY  BROTHER'S  WIFE. 


with  some  wine-merchants  on  the  Soutlrvvark 
side  of  London  Bridge,  an  adventure  happened 
to  me— an  adventure  so  strange,  that  I  have 
often  wondered  whether  a  presiding  hand  had 
not  led  me  to  that  eventful  spot  at  that  event- 
ful moment. 

It  was  a  wet  wintry  night,  rent  by  stormful 
bursts  of  wind  and  rain,  and  pitch-dark  over- 
head. The  angry  river,  swollen  by  the  tide, 
rocked  the  barges  by  the  wharves ;  the  furnaces 
along  the  banks  shot  up  a  hot  fierce  glare  upon 
the  sky;  the  dome  of  St.  Paul's  seemed,  as  it 
were,  flickering  in  the  blurred,  uncertain  dis- 
tance, and  the  cabs  and  omnibuses  rattled  nois- 
ily past,  splashing  the  foot-passengers  as  they 
went,  arid  crowded  within  and  without. 

I  was  almost  wet  through,  for  I  had  forgotten 
to  bring  an  umbrella,  and  I  was  shivering  dis- 
mally. Cab  after  cab,  omnibus  after  omnibus, 
had  I  hailed  in  vain.  All  were  full,  and  not 
till  I  reached  the  Bank  could  I  even  hope  to 
find  any  conveyance.  The  Bank  was  just  half 
a  mile  distant,  and  I  had  the  dreary  bridge  be- 
fore me.  After  all,  though,  I  could  scarcely  be 
more  drenched,  so  I  made  up  my  mind  to  the 
evil,  and  took  my  fate  leisurely. 

Singularly  strange,  and  cold,  and  dreary  is  the 
aspect  of  the  city  on  a  wet  night  from  London 
Bridge !  The  shadowy  steeples  look  warnful 
and  ghostly,  like  tombs  in  a  grave-yard,  and  the 
sleeping  barges  and  steamers  like  river-hearses 
and  mourning-coaches  assembled  for  a  funeral. 
How  black  the  water  looks  down  below,  stream- 
ing through  the  arches — how  black  and  deep, 
like  the  river  of  Lethe  ! 

Musing  thus  as  I  go,  my  chain  of  thought  is 
broken  by  the  quavering  tones  of  a  woman's 
voice  chanting  the  burden  of  a  mournful  ballad. 
Tremulous  and  shrill  as  the  notes  are,  there  is  a 
something  in  them  that  arrests  my  attention  ir- 
resistibly— a  vibration,  a  fluency  altogether  su- 
perior to  the  style  of  the  street  ballad-singers 
of  London.  And  surely — yes,  the  air  is  that 
sweet  sad  cavatina  of  the  hapless  Desdemona, 
"seated  at  the  foot  of  a  willow !" 

Yonder  stands  the  singer,  a  thin,  pallid  wom- 
an, wretchedly  clad,  and  trembling  with  cold — a 
pitiable  object.  I  place  a  shilling  in  her  hand 
— it  is  all  the  change  I  have — and  her  large  dark 
eyes,  lifted  suddenly  to  my  face,  look  wild  and 
hungry,  and  fill  me  with  a  kind  of  shuddering 
compassion. 

Strange !  though  I  have  passed  her,  I  can  not 
refrain  from  looking  back.  Something  in  the 
glitter  of  those  eyes  has  struck  me  with  a  feel- 
ing for  which  I  can  not  account.  It  seems  to 
me  that  I  recognize,  and  yet  am  unfamiliar  with 
their  expression.  Like  the  reflection  of  a  face 
in  water,  broken,  distorted,  and  uncertain,  it 
hovers  before  me,  and  I  strive  in  vain  to  analyze 
whether  this  be  memory,  or  the  vague  prompt- 
ings of  some  forgotten  dream. 

She  is  not  singing  now.  She  stands  beneath 
the  lamp  where  I  left  her,  looking  down  at  the 
coin  in  her  hand,  and  shaking  her  head  with  a 

THE 


sad,  despairing  action,  as  though  she  would  say, 
"It  is  not  sufficient." 

Not  sufficient !  for  so  I  interpret  the  gesture. 
Not  sufficient  ?  Poor  creature !  she  may  have 
children  and  husband  sick  or  starving  at  home 
— home !  perhaps  she  has  no  home ! 

The  thought  is  terrible.  I  stand  back  in  the 
shadow,  and  take  a  sovereign  from  my  purse. 
I  will  go  back  to  her — I  will  question  her — I 
will—  But  where  is  she  ?  A  moment  since, 
and  she  was  standing  yonder  by  the  lamp.  Has 
she  sunk  into  the  earth,  or,  more  probably,  bro- 
ken down  by  fatigue,  stopped  to  rest  upon  one 
of  the  wet  stone  benches  in  the  recesses  on  either 
side  of  the  bridge  ? 

Yes ;  as  I  thought,  she  is  leaning  against  the 
wall  yonder,  and  removing  her  bonnet.  She 
must  surely  be  ill.  I  hasten  to  her  aid;  she 
turns  at  the  sound  of  my  rapid  steps — mounts 
suddenly  upon  the  dizzy  parapet  —  utters  one 
piercing,  wailing  cry  —  wavers  —  leaps  wildly 
forward  —  disappears,  oh  heaven,  in  the  gulf 
below ! 

I  have,  even  now,  but  an  indistinct  remem- 
brance of  what  followed,  save  that  with  loud 
cries  I  summoned  help  ;  that,  borne  downward 
by  a  sudden  crowd,  I  found  myself  standing 
presently  upon  a  floating  wharf,  and  watching 
with  eager  eyes  the  progress  of  a  boat  upon  the 
murky  river ;  that,  amid  a  confusion  of  voices 
and  lights,  and  terror-stricken  faces,  a  wet  and 
heavy  burden  was  borne  ashore,  and  carried,  by 
the  light  of  many  lanterns,  through  the  blank 
streets,  stretched  on  a  narrow  plank,  and  cov- 
ered by  a  fragment  of  sail-cloth. 

Now  we  arrive  at  a  building  whence  the  cu- 
rious by-standers  are  excluded,  and  which  I 
alone,  with  the  two  boatmen,  am  permitted  to 
enter.  This  is  the  police  station ;  and  here 
upon  the  narrow  tressels  she  is  laid,  while  the 
unmoved  official  at  the  desk  questions  me  re- 
spectfully on  what  I  have  seen,  and  enters  my 
replies  in  his  ledger. 

"Poor  creetur!"  says  one  of  the  boatmen, 
taking  the  dead  hand  pityingly  in  his  own,  and 
then  laying  it  down  gently  by  her  side,  "poor 
creetur !  She  warn't  a  bad  looking  one,  neither, 
in  her  time.  She  have  a  forring  look  about  her, 
too.  Maybe  she  come  from  over  sea,  Jim!" 

"Maybe,"  replied  the  other.  "And  she 
ain't  old  neither ;  but  she  looks  half  starved — 
she  ain't  nothing  but  skin  and  bone." 

"It's  a  horrid  death,  poor  creetur!  but  its 
surprisin'  how  they  all  seem  to  take  to  it.  Poor 
creetur!  Lord  ha'  mercy  on  her  and  on  we, 
Jim!" 

Their  rough  compassion  touches  me.  I  feel 
myself  compelled  to  go  back  once  more  and  look 
at  her. 

Her  bonnet  off—  her  long,  wet  hair,  black  as 
ebony,  lying  in  clammy  masses  over  her  neck 
and  arms — her  white  face  so  hushed,  and  still, 
and  awful — Mysterious  Providence,  I  recognize 
her  now ! 

The'rese  Vogelsang ! 
END. 


RETURN  TO:      CIRCULATION  DEPARTMENT 
198  Main  Stacks 


LOAN  PERIOD     1 
Home  Use 

2 

3 

4 

5 

6 

ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS. 

Renewals  and  Recharges  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  the  due 
date.  Books  may  be  renewed  by  calling  642-3405. 

DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW. 


Alin   ft  a  onnr 

MUU  £  8  2006 

orp    1  7  M06 

ot-r     J.  • 

FORM  NO.  DD  6                         UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  BERKELEY 
50  M    1-06                                                  Berkeley,  California  94720-6000 

YB  73381