"I'll lay a wager you never got that journal from old Plon-Plon?"

"He had not finished with it."

"Of course not. Then I shall go to sleep, for there is nothing else for

me to do."

He flung a handkerchief over his eyes as he spoke, put his feet on

Périne's stool, and his elbow on the table. Marie moved quietly about,

set the saucepan again on the stove, and taking some needlework from a

box, sat down near her husband, stitching rapidly. Every now and then

she glanced at him, and her mind was tenderly busy over his concerns all

the while, so that tears would have stood in her eyes if they had not

had other work to do.

"How sad the poor fellow looks!" she thought. "I'm glad he's asleep,

after that unfortunate affair with the pipe. When I remember how hard it

is to get tobacco for him, for I am dreadfully afraid that some one will

suspect me when I ask for it, I must own that Périne is an unlucky

child. But as for her not coming again, he doesn't mean that, no,

no--he's so kind hearted that he would be the last to keep her away;

besides, I know very well that while he grumbles he feels an interest in

hearing her do those wonderful sums. Anything is better for him than

seeing no one but stupid me from year's end to year's end--my poor Jean!

Three years! I declare it quite hurts me to go out and about, though to

be sure I must. But it seems so selfish."

There is no knowing to what depths of accusing wickedness Madame

Didier's meditations would have led her, but that presently she heard a

heavy creaking step upon the stairs; and flew to awake her husband and

to hustle him into his refuge. M. Plon's visits were rare, and she

discouraged them with all her might, yet when he arrived panting and

puffing at the door, she was standing by the stove working, with a

little coquettish air of greeting about her.

"You don't mean to say that you have brought the journal yourself, M.

Plon! Now that is kind of you, but it is disarranging yourself too much

to climb up those steep stairs, when I could have fetched it with

pleasure."

"Ugh, ugh, they are steep, there's no denying it," said Plon, sinking

into the rickety chair. "But what would you have? Up here on the sixth,

you can't expect all the luxuries of the first or second."

"Heavens, no!"

"You should cultivate a contented frame of mind. Madame Didier, and

beware of grumbling."

"Was I grumbling?"

"You were complaining--complaining of the stairs, and it is a pernicious

habit. Don't encourage it."

"But, indeed--" Marie was beginning with a smile, when he interrupted

her with a majestic wave of his hand.

"_Halte là_! Now you are contradicting, and that is another bad habit,

particularly for a woman. But nobody knows when they are well off in

these days. I often say to my friends: 'There is Madame Didier, she

lives in that nice airy attic of ours; she has no one to think of but

herself, no cares, no responsibilities; she ought to be as happy as a

bird.' Look at me, I entreat you; what a contrast! At everybody's beck

and call, cooped up in a draughty little den, making shoes with a

thousand interruptions. I ask you what sort of a life is that for a man

of my stamp? If you were to try it for a week, you'd find out whether

you were not a lucky woman! But, there, as I said before, nobody ever

knows when they are well off--not even widows. I say all this because I

take a real interest in you."

"I know you do, M. Plon, if only for the sake of my poor husband," said

Marie demurely. To say the truth she was often in a state of

uncomfortable doubt as to whether M. Plon's interest might not be going

to take a warmer form, in which case it might be more difficult than

ever for Jean to forget that he was no longer in the land of the living.

"But I must say I don't think you are the best of managers," said M.

Plon with a magisterial sweep of his hand which took in all the poor

surroundings. "With your earnings you might do better than you do,

Madame Didier. One mouth to feed, one person to dress--"

"There is Périne," faltered poor Marie.

"Yes, there is Périne, and it is true those imbeciles have appetites

like wolves. Still--well, well, you must not suppose that I am blaming

you; on the contrary, it might surprise you to hear--"

M. Plon was edging his chair a little nearer to Madame Didier, and she

thought it was time to interrupt his explanation, so she said briskly:

"Ah, by the way, what news is there to-day in _Le Petit Journal?_"

"There is the great robbery."

"The great robbery! Where?"

"In the Rue Vivienne. The paper is full of it--jewellery, diamonds,

plate, treasures of all kinds carried off, chest and all, that's the

wonderful part of it, for a chest is not a thing to hide in your

pocket."

"And have they no clue?" asked Marie, much interested.

"Not yet, but there must have been a cart or a cab, or some vehicle in

the affair. It is clear enough that this belongs to the _haute pègre_,

none of your common burglars would have attempted such a daring stroke;

and I would lay a wager, too, that they're not so far off from here, if

they're in Paris, that is. I shall keep a sharp look-out, for the reward

is fabulous."

"Really!" said Madame Didier with a sigh.

"One would suppose you wanted it yourself," said Plon angrily. "Now what

possible good could it do to you? It is extraordinary that people--women

especially--can't be contented, but must always be wishing for what they

haven't got."

"I was only thinking," Marie answered apologetically.

"Then don't think. Women should leave that to others," Having delivered

which sententious maxim, M. Plon rose with some difficulty from his

chair, and gazed round the room. It was a habit of his, but it always

frightened Marie, and it frightened her yet more when he turned towards

the recess and stood contemplating the curtains. "You keep those so

tightly drawn one would--Eh! what's the matter!"

For Madame Didier, stooping over the stove, had uttered a sharp feminine

shriek.

"I have burnt my finger?" she exclaimed, wringing her hand.

"That comes of thinking. Does it hurt?"

"Hurt! Of course it does."

"Let me see," he said coming over.

But Marie hastily bound a bit of rag round her hand.

"The great thing is to exclude the air," she said quickly. "Then you

mean to be on the lookout for these grand robbers, M. Plon?"

"Yes, instead of idling away my time up here," he said, rolling towards

the door. "But you women dearly love a little gossip, don't you? And

though you are not the best of managers, Madame Didier, no one can say

you don't work with industry. So keep a good heart. You shall hear if I

get the reward."

As the sound of his heavy footsteps creaked down the stairs, Jean came

out and flung himself on the chair which M. Plon had occupied.

"Now that that old idiot has taken himself off, let's see what he was

talking about."

"Is it true about the robbery?" asked Marie, leaning over his shoulder.

"So it seems."

"And the reward?"

"Twelve thousand francs."

"Twelve thousand francs!" repeated his wife in amazement. "Oh, you must

be mistaken!"

"There are the figures at any rate, see for yourself."

"Yes, I see. I suppose it must be so, as it is in the paper;

but--but--if we could only have a little part of it!"

"Ah, if!" said Jean with a shrug. "But how will you manage? Stand about

the corners of the Streets and ask every _escarpe_ that passes?"

"I could almost do that," his wife answered stoutly, "when I reflect

that with money we might have an advocate, and you might be free. My

store grows so slowly, Jean!"

Jean dashed the paper to the ground, and thrust his hands through his

hair.

"Don't talk of it, if you wouldn't madden me!" he exclaimed.

"Might--might--I am sick of mights! Cooped up here I can do nothing, but

if I had only common luck I might get the end of a clue as well as any

other poor devil. I tell you, Marie, I have half a mind to give myself

up, and end everything."

She clung to him, pale as death.

"No, no!"

"You'd get on better without me."

"No, no!"

Jean's tragic air vanished in a rush of real emotion. He put his wife

from him and looked at her sorrowfully.

"Poor soul!" he said slowly. "And you really mean that I haven't tired

you out yet with all my moods and cross words? No? Then, decidedly, we

must rub on a little longer still."

She embraced him with all the gratitude a woman feels when her good

offices are accepted.

"To-morrow," she said cheerfully, "to-morrow will bring you some

tobacco."

"To-morrow will also, I imagine, bring Périne," he replied, with a

laugh, and when he laughed it was possible to see what a handsome young

fellow the haggard man had been. "Well, I am not sure that Périne isn't

preferable to old Plon-Plon. When I hear him prosing away to you on the

duty of being contented, it's all I can do not to knock him down. You a

bad manager, indeed!"

"Do not talk of anything so imprudent."

"He would roll like a ball," said Jean longingly.

"Jean!"

"Bah, you need not fear. To do things sometimes in imagination is the

only way of keeping my muscles in exercise. Oh, if I could only get a

little fresh air, or drop in at the _brasserie_ and hear what is doing!"

"See, here," said Marie, true to her mission of comforter, "to-night we

shall have a luxury, for this work must be finished and carried home

to-morrow morning, and so I shall allow myself a candle. Sometimes I am

afraid that I want more light than in old days, but I daresay that is a

foolish fancy. The cabbage will be ready in a few minutes; meanwhile,

tell me what more news you have got there in the paper. M. Plon has a

great respect for my scholarship, but he is afraid I waste my time over

his journals--aha, M. Plon, you little know that I have got my reader!"

"Plon is an ass," said Jean gruffly, for he did not like any one to find

a flaw in the wife whom he often scolded himself.

"Perhaps," said Marie happily. "But now, find me something horribly

delightful to-night, something to make me shudder."

"Capture of a wolf in Auvergne."

"Of a wolf! Is it possible!" demanded Madame Didier, much interested.

"And how many people did he eat?"

"Only one."

"Only one! What a stupid wolf! Go on, my friend."

"Suicide of a husband."

"Not that, I do not like anything so sad," she said in a changed voice.

"And where was his wife all the time, that she could not prevent it, I

should like to know? No, let me hear a little more about this robbery,

and then we will have our dinner."

PART III.

The hours passed, the light faded in the little garret where Marie's

busy fingers toiled day after day to add to the little hoard so slowly

accumulating, and Marie's cheerful heart brought out greater treasures

of unselfish devotion, if her husband had only known it. Perhaps he did

know it--in a fashion. Through the night, when it came, she thought

often uneasily of Périne out in the heart of the great wicked city. But

Périne had a haunt or two of her own, and Marie said prayers for her,

and slept, hoping the girl would be safe.

She got up early the next morning while Jean was yet asleep, and cheered

herself as she looked at her scanty supply of poor coffee with the

thought that she would be paid for her work in the course of the day.

Meanwhile the breakfast would not be a very rich affair, and she was

pondering whether she could be so extravagant as to run to a _crêmerie_

near at hand for two _sous_-worth of milk, when an unexpected sound

filled her with dismay. It was Périne's shuffling steps upon the stairs,

and she was by no means sure how Jean would receive such an early

visitor. Moreover, she did not care that he should be disturbed, and she

went hastily to the door to moderate the noise of the girl's awkward

entry. For a wonder no word or look of hers could do this. Périne, who

generally was obedient to her smallest sign, was in a state of

uncontrollable excitement; she fled to Marie's arms, buried her rough

head there, sobbed her loudest, and presently, in the thick of

incoherent lamentations, pulled down her dress, and showed a heavy

bruise on her shoulder. Then she sobbed again, and implored Madame

Didier not to let them beat her.

"Come, come, come!" said Marie reassuringly, "tell me a little more

about this, and don't be a baby, Périne. Remember that you are a big

girl. No one will come here to beat you; if they did, good M. Plon would

not let them come up the stairs. Tell me who did it?"

She sat down on the stool as she spoke, and let the poor clumsy creature

rest on her knee.

"The man, the bad man!" howled Périne.

"That I hear; but what were you doing to make any one so cruel?"

"Périne only looking at pretty bright figures, mother; so pretty with

the light on them. 7639."

"What is she talking about?" said Madame Didier, puzzled, "7639?"

"Yes, yes," said the girl eagerly, and then she broke off again into her

lamentations, which lasted until Marie had bathed her hurt, and soothed

her by degrees. But when she proposed to take her to the _crêmerie_,

Périne began to wail again, and it was evident that something had so

terrified her, that it would be cruelty to force her out into the

streets. Every now and then she let drop another word or two on the

subject of her fright; her poor disconnected brain seemed unable to

grasp anything as a whole; something would float across it and be lost.

Marie had grown apt at gathering together these cobweb strands, and

disentangling them, but now even her ingenuity was at fault, and the

number was the only point which stood out clearly from wavering words

about a man and a box. She gathered at last that somewhere or other this

number with the light shining on it had attracted Périne's attention,

that she went to look, and that a man pushed her away with a blow, and

with threats which had been strong enough to send her terrified from the

spot. Evidently she scarcely felt secure in her present quarters, and

piteously implored Marie not to suffer him to come. Marie soothed her,

and hoped that Jean's compassion might be as strong as her own. Had she

not been taken up with Périne, she would have more quickly caught the

impatient scratching like a mouse in the wainscot, with which he

summoned her.

He made signs that he must speak, and with some difficulty she got

Périne into the landing, thrusting into her hands the bread which would

have been her own portion. Then she locked her door and went back to

Jean, who was eagerly waiting.

"Marie, I have a thought," he began. "What do you make out of all she

says?"

"Next to nothing," said his wife, shrugging her shoulders.

"No?" said Jean, feverishly and a little contemptuously. "Suppose I

suggested that she saw the figures on the lamp of a cab, what then?"

"What then?" repeated she, puzzled.

"And a box, and a man angry with her for looking. What then?"

"Oh, I don't understand!" said Marie, shaking her head.

"Heavens, that any one should be so dense! Have you forgotten the

robbery?"

"In the Rue Vivienne--oh, do you mean--do you think it possible! Jean,

how clever you are! I wonder whether--shall I run to the place and see?"

"To the place, and even if they were still there, get yourself knocked

on the head!"

"I should not mind," cried Marie eagerly. "I should mind nothing with

such a hope before me."

"No, my good Marie," Jean returned grandly; "you have excellent

intentions, but it is well you have some one to guide you. The first

thing is to find a _commissaire_ of police."

The name seemed terrible; she turned pale, but he hurried on, losing

himself again in his excitement, and with all his haggard features

working:

"Yes, yes, I know what you will say, but do you not understand that if

this is what I believe, anything will be forgiven to the man who can put

the _sergent de ville_ on the track?"

"_If!_ At any rate I will do what you bid me," the young wife said,

trembling. "There is a _bureau_ not so far away. Only promise me you

will be prudent, for I must leave Périne here, though I will lock the

door. Remember, M. Plon has his own keys."

Nor would she relax one of her precautions in spite of his heated

impatience. But she had spoken truly, for after the daily fear of years,

the personal danger of encountering the robbers assuredly seemed nothing

in comparison with having to do with the police. She told Périne where

she was to sit, and tried to extract more coherent details, but only as

to the figures was Périne clear. These she repeated again and again,

while more than once Jean's sharp whisper reached his wife's ears. "Make

haste, make haste!" and she signed caution in return.

When she had gone there was for some time absolute silence in the

garret, Jean having flung himself on his bed, and given himself up to a

wild delirium of hope. By-and-by this took the form of restlessness. He

tossed and tumbled on his bed, and, his ear full of sounds which

expectation and imagination brought there, sometimes started up, keen to

listen, and the next moment pressed his fingers into his ears, to try to

shut out these delusive sounds. Then he became almost as reckless as to

Périne; what did her seeing him matter when so soon he would be a free

man? Once or twice the bed creaked and groaned under his tossings, so

that he imagined she would surely look round. But no, the girl was blind

and deaf to everything but Marie's orders, she sat squarely on the

wooden stool with her elbows on her knees, and her chin on her hands,

every now and then uttering a disjointed sob, until fatigue and tears

brought about their natural consequence, and it became evident that she

was asleep.

Jean got up and shook himself and looked out at her, his head in a

whirl. He began to think that Marie was long absent, and to lay the

blame on the back which was always ready to bear his burdens.

"She will not know where to go, she will stand gossipping with any fool

who asks her a question, and in this time I would wager a piece of

twenty _sous_ the police or some other busy-body will have got on the

track. What more likely? And there's an end to our luck. Why did I let

her waste all these moments? Why didn't I go myself? Women always muddle

things. There would have been a scene, beyond doubt. '_Holà!_--thunder

and lightning, who may this be?'" Jean planted himself in an attitude,

and struck his chest violently. "Then I should have drawn myself up,

always with dignity--thus--'This, gentlemen, is none other than Jean

Didier!'--'Who? What!'--'Jean Didier, at your service, gentlemen,

falsely denounced as Communist, executed and reported dead, but, as you

see alive, and able to render an important service to an ungrateful

country.'--That sounds sublime! I flatter myself it would have produced

an impression. Why didn't I go? Women, with all their good intentions,

haven't an idea of the value of a stroke like that! It requires genius.

And I foresee my excellent Marie will muddle the whole affair, very

likely allow them to pick her brains and cajole the number out of her,

then one of these _messieurs_ will slip off and secure the reward."

Excitement got a strong hold upon Jean as this idea presented itself,

and his castles toppled over. "That's it, that's how it will go! And I

deserve it for having left such a delicate affair in the hands of a

woman. I could have managed it to a turn, and here I have let her go

off, and the whole thing will slip through her fingers. I could beat

myself with vexation."

In effect, he stamped his foot with such violence that Périne jumped up

and, looking round, saw him vanishing behind the curtains. She shrieked

with terror, "The man! Oh, it's the man!"

White as death, Jean rushed out and tried to calm her.

"Hush, child, hush! it's only me!"

But Périne was past all control, she screamed for "Mother!" for "M.

Plon!" until it seemed to Jean that not only the house but the whole

neighbourhood would presently be on him. He tried coaxing, he tried

menace, but Périne shrieked the more.

"Will you hold your tongue!" he cried, with a wild thought of strangling

her. "I'm a friend, I'm not the man; I won't touch you. Périne, Périne,

don't cry out so, look at me!"

At this appeal she hid her eyes with her hands.

"The man! the man! Mother! Help!" Nevertheless, though it seemed to poor

Jean that the very streets must tingle with her cries, it is possible,

for the upper-stories of the house had early risers for their dwellers,

that the deaf old woman left on the fifth floor might have heard

nothing; but unfortunately M. Plon had taken it into his head to make a

visitation to those uninhabited rooms of his in which some one had

housed his furniture, and at this moment was on his way. He knew that

Madame Didier was out, and Périne's screams seemed to point to fire or

something equally disastrous. The door was locked, but he had all his

keys about him, and soon succeeded in opening it, when Périne in a

transport of terror rushed at him, and flung herself into his arms with

a force which might have knocked over a less ponderous rescuer, and

effectually blocked the door at which Jean glanced longingly.

"_Holà!_" cried the astonished landlord. "_Que diable!_ A man in

Madame Didier's room! What's the meaning of all this? Police!"

Jean advanced with a threatening gesture, and the valiant Plon quickly

retreated. For one wild moment his lodger contemplated the chances which

lay in knocking him down, and taking refuge in flight, but he reflected

that if the house were alarmed he would not get off, and if not, it

might be possible to enlist M. Plon on his side. He therefore went

quietly back into the room, saying, "Do not fear, M. Plon.... I give

you my word, I am not going to fight."

"You had better not," said the other blusteringly. "You had better not!"

"Oh, as to that ..." said Jean with anger.

M. Plon retreated a second time before this demonstration, and again

lifted his voice for the police.

"They'll be here fast enough, no doubt," said Jean quietly, though there

was a bitter feeling of downfall in his heart. "Meanwhile, perhaps it

might be as well for me to tell you who I am."

"Who you are?" repeated M. Plon indignantly. "It's easy enough to see

that, my fine fellow, though what you could expect to steal here is not

so clear. You've got the air of a gallows bird, and it's well this poor

child has me--the brave Plon--to protect her."

"Come, come, M. Plon--listen to reason. I'm the husband of Madame

Didier."

"The husband of Madame Didier? What, when she hasn't got one!" cried the

other, now fairly enraged.

"Nevertheless, you might remember Jean Didier--if only you would," said

Jean imploringly, for he began to think there was yet a chance for him

if he could conciliate his landlord, and he made a few steps towards him

holding out his hands. But Périne screamed and Plon waved him

energetically back. Finding his prisoner cowed he launched some strong

invectives at him.

"You're a thief and a cut-throat, that's what you are!" he said,

shivering. "Keep off, keep off! You could no more stand in Jean Didier's

shoes than you could in mine, for he was a decent, peaceable young

fellow, and more than that, he was shot. So you've got hold of the wrong

story here, Monsieur Blacklegs, and one that won't serve you much in the

_violon_."

"It's true, I give you my word," said Jean.

"They did their best to shoot me, but I was only wounded. Marie got me

up here, and here I have been ever since."

"Was there ever such a cool hand!" cried Plon wrathfully. "And you

absolutely think to persuade me of this when not a soul comes in and out

of this house without my knowing. A pretty tale!"

Jean muttered "Blockhead!" under his breath. Aloud he said, "But--M.

Plon--am I not here now?"

"No, you are not!" Plon retorted,--"or if you are, you shall soon be out

of it again. Police! Help, help!"

"If only Marie were here!" groaned Jean. "M. Plon, I implore you to have

pity! wait until my wife arrives; you will believe her if you can't

believe your own eyes. Lock me into the room, do whatever you like--only

wait!"

If M. Plon had indeed had sufficient calmness to contemplate the figure

before him, it is probable that in spite of alteration he would have

found something to recognise. But he was in a state of perturbed

excitement which altogether confused his judgment, and only inclined him

to refuse all his prisoner's suggestions. He therefore set himself more

vigorously than ever to bawl for help, and Périne seconded him with all

her might. The next moment Jean went back to the table, seated himself

upon it and crossed his arms. He had recognised Marie's step.

She came into the room pale as death, and even as she came, hesitated,

and held up her hand, as if she would have prevented a man who was with

her from following. But seeing that she was too late, and that Jean was

already discovered, she rushed into his arms, crying out:

"What has happened?"

M. Plon took up the parable, quite regardless of her action.

"What has happened, Madame Didier? There is no saying what might not

have happened if I had not been on the spot. Here is a rascally,

black-guardly, good-for-nothing!" and as he uttered these bold

invectives, he advanced and shook his fist in Jean's face. "You see him,

_M. le Commissaire_, you behold what a villain, what a desperate villain

he looks? Listen, then, I hear screams, I meet this poor imbecile flying

out in terror, I rush--I seize--I overpower--I make him my prisoner--"

At this point the police officer interposed a question:

"You used force, M. Plon?"

"I used--but certainly--moral force. He had made his way into this room

through the window, Monsieur--Monsieur--?"

"Leblanc, at your service," said the commissioner carelessly. "Did you

say through the window? That seems scarcely probable."

But Plon was positive there was no other way by which he could have

entered unseen by him. And now he would give _M. le Commissaire_ a dozen

guesses to find out what this rascal had the villainy to pretend. To

look at him, would any one suppose now that he could be the husband of

madame?

"Apparently," said the other, glancing at them, "Madame herself is not

averse from that opinion."

"Her husband--hee, hee!" said M. Plon, getting red. "Poor Jean, who was

shot in _émeute_ three years ago! See there, monsieur, it is ridiculous!

If any one should know anything about those times, it is I. I was myself

on the very point of becoming a martyr for my country; and as for Jean

Didier, whether rightly or wrongly, he was shot, and there was an end of

him. To pretend that he turns up three years later...."

Marie was crying, and M. Plon thought his eloquence had provoked her

tears, but she put aside his hand, walked to the commissioner, and

dropped on her knees before him.

"Monsieur, if you have a wife--"

"I have not," said the man roughly.

"But your mother! If her son--"

"I have my duty, that is enough," he said in the same tone, "Get up,

Madame Didier, and let me know the truth of all this matter. This

explains your unwillingness that I should return with you. Who's the

man?"

"My husband, monsieur," sobbed Marie, springing up and putting her hand

in Jean's.

"How came he here?"

"Monsieur, he escaped and crawled here."

"And how has he been supported?"

"By me," said the wife simply.

Plon had recoiled during this explanation, and gazed helplessly from one

to the other.

"Go on," said Leblanc, taking out a note-book.

"He has not been out of this room for three years--three years! That is

a long time for a man to be shut up," pleaded Marie, with her heart in

her eyes. "And, _M. le Commissaire_, you must understand it was all a

mistake. He tried to stop them, but they dragged him along, the

Communists, and then one of them turns round and denounces him. There

are very wicked people in the world, _M. le Commissaire_."

"His name?"

Jean answered for her:

"The name of that man was Fort."

Leblanc turned the pages of his note-book more quickly."

Dumont--Court--ah, here it is, 'Jean Didier, glazier, with insurgents;

pointed out as Communist by one Fort; executed on spot.' Is that

correct?"

"He was innocent," said Marie, nervously twisting her fingers.

"But am I to understand that you deny his identity?" said the officer,

turning sharply on Plon. "Speak up, man!"

M. Plon looked round, bewildered. "How could he have got into the

house?"

"Never mind that. What we want is 'yes' or 'no' Is it Jean Didier? Come

close and see for yourself."

"It is like him," said the landlord, examining him from head to foot,

"certainly it is like him; I could almost believe it was he, only--how

could he have got into the house?"

"As to that--where there's a woman--" said Leblanc, turning away. They

were all watching him, except Périne, who was sobbing stormily on the

wooden stool, and he said shortly, "There is something more in my

note-book."

"More!" repeated Jean with alarm.

"Would you rather not have it?"

Marie, who had not taken her eyes from him, advanced with her hands

pressed upon her heart.

"Courage, my friend," she said breathlessly. "Yes, _M. le

Commissaire_, we will hear."

It had struck her that he was smiling.

He began to read in his sing-song voice, "Fort, convicted of forgery,

died last month in the Grande Roquette. Before his death he confessed

his denunciation of Jean Didier to have been false."

Jean Didier's wife turned round, opened her arms and fell upon her

husband's neck, speechless.

* * * * *

So this was the end of that affair. As for No. 7639, which had brought

Leblanc in pursuit of Périne, it did not turn out so romantically as

might have been desired, having nothing to do with the great robbery of

the Rue Vivienne, which remains a mystery--to most people--to this day.

But oddly enough, it set the police on the track of a smaller crime; a

certain reward was handed over to the Didiers for the use of the poor

girl, and no one will deny that it was her unconscious instrumentality

which brought their change of fortune. Jean is almost always kind to

her, but Marie treats her with a sort of reverence.

You may see them sometimes, of a summer evening, walking along the

quays. The great river sweeps slowly down, the busy lights which flit

about the houses or point the span of the bridges with golden dots,

fling long reflections on its surface. Overhead, more peaceful lights

are shining. All about us is the rush of tumult and change, men drifting

here and there, struggling, weeping, jesting, passing away; but over all

God watches, and His world goes on.

FRANCES MARY PEARD

GONERIL

A STORY IN FOUR CHAPTERS.

CHAPTER 1.

THE TWO OLD LADIES.

On one of the pleasant hills round Florence, a little beyond Camerata,

there stands a house, so small that an Englishman would probably take it

for a lodge of the great villa behind, whose garden trees at sunset cast

their shadow over the cottage and its terrace on to the steep white

road. But any of the country people could tell him that this, too, is

Casa Signorile, spite of its smallness. It stands somewhat high above

the road, a square, white house with a projecting roof, and with four

green-shuttered windows overlooking the gay but narrow terrace. The beds

under the windows would have fulfilled the fancy of that French poet who

desired that in his garden one might, in gathering a nosegay, cull a

salad, for they boasted little else than sweet basil, small and white,

and some tall grey rosemary bushes. Nearer to the door an unusually

large oleander faced a strong and sturdy magnolia-tree, and these, with

their profusion of red and white sweetness, made amends for the dearth

of garden flowers. At either end of the terrace flourished a thicket of

gum-cistus, syringa, stephanotis, and geranium bushes, and the wall

itself, dropping sheer down to the road, was bordered with the customary

Florentine hedge of China roses and irises, now out of bloom. Great

terra-cotta flower-pots, covered with devices, were placed at intervals

along the wall; as it was summer, the oranges and lemons, full of

wonderfully sweet white blossoms and young green fruit, were set there

in the sun to ripen.

It was the 17th of June. Although it was after four o'clock, the olives

on the steep hill that went down to Florence looked blindingly white,

shadeless, and sharp. The air trembled round the bright green cypresses

behind the house. The roof steamed. All the windows were shut, all the

jalousies shut, yet it was so hot that no one could stir within. The

maid slept in the kitchen; the two elderly mistresses of the house dozed

upon their beds. Not a movement; not a sound.

Gradually, along the steep road from Camerata there came a roll of

distant carriage-wheels. The sound came nearer and nearer, till one

could see the carriage, and see the driver leading the tired, thin,

cab-horse, his bones starting under the shaggy hide. Inside the carriage

reclined a handsome middle-aged lady, with a stern profile turned

towards the road; a young girl in pale pink cotton and a broad hat

trudged up the hill at the side.

"Goneril," said Miss Hamelyn, "let me beg you again to come inside the

carriage."

"Oh, no, Aunt Margaret; I'm not a bit tired."

"But I have asked you; that is reason enough."

"It's so hot!" cried Goneril.

"That is why I object to your walking."

"But if it's so hot for me, just think how hot it must be for the

horse."

Goneril cast a commiserating glance at the poor halting, wheezing nag.

"The horse, probably," rejoined Miss Hamelyn, "does not suffer from

malaria, neither has he kept his aunt in Florence nursing him till the

middle heat of the summer."

"True!" said Goneril. Then, after a few minutes, "I'll get in, Aunt

Margaret, on one condition."

"In my time young people did not make conditions."

"Very well, auntie; I'll get in, and you shall answer all my questions

when you feel inclined."

The carriage stopped. The poor horse panted at his ease, while the girl

seated herself beside Miss Hamelyn. Then for a few minutes they drove on

in silence past the orchards, past the olive-yards, yellow underneath

with ripening corn; past the sudden wide views of the mountains, faintly

crimson in the midst of heat, and, on the other side, of Florence, the

towers and domes steaming beside the hazy river.

"How hot it looks down there!" cried Goneril.

"How hot it _feels_!" echoed Miss Hamelyn rather grimly.

"Yes, I am so glad you can get away at last, dear, poor old auntie."

Then, a little later. "Won't you tell me something about the old ladies

with whom you are going to leave me?"

Miss Hamelyn was mollified by Goneril's obedience.

"They are very nice old ladies, I met them at Mrs. Gorthrup's." But this

was not at all what the young girl wanted.

"Only think, Aunt Margaret," she cried impatiently, "I am to stay there

for at least six weeks, and I know nothing about them, not what age they

are, nor if they are tall or short, jolly or prim, pretty or ugly; not

even if they speak English!"

"They speak English," said Miss Hamelyn, beginning at the end. "One of

them is English, or at least Irish: Miss Prunty."

"And the other?"

"She is an Italian, Signora Petrucci; she used to be very handsome."

"Oh," said Goneril, looking pleased. "I'm glad she's handsome, and that

they speak English. But they are not relations?"

"No, they are not connected; they are friends."

"And have they always lived together?"

"Ever since Madame Lilli died," and Miss Hamelyn named a very celebrated

singer.

"Why?" cried Goneril, quite excited; "were they singers too?"

"Madame Petrucci; nevertheless a lady of the highest respectability.

Miss Prunty was Madame Lilli's secretary."

"How nice!" cried the young girl, "how interesting! Oh, auntie, I'm so

glad you found them out."

"So am I, child; but please remember it is not an ordinary pension. They

only take you, Goneril, till you are strong enough to travel, as an

especial favour to me and to their old friend, Mrs. Gorthrup."

"I'll remember, auntie."

By this time they were driving under the terrace in front of the little

house.

"Goneril," said the elder lady, "I shall leave you outside; you can play

in the garden or the orchard."

"Very well."

Miss Hamelyn left the carriage and ascended the steep little flight of

steps that leads from the road to the cottage garden.

In the porch a singular figure was awaiting her.

"Good afternoon, Madame Petrucci," said Miss Hamelyn.

A slender old lady, over sixty, rather tall, in a brown silk skirt, and

a white burnouse that showed the shrunken slimness of her arms, came

eagerly forward. She was still rather pretty, with small refined

features, large expressionless blue eyes, and long whitish-yellow

ringlets down her cheeks, in the fashion of forty years ago.

"Oh, _dear_ Miss Hamelyn," she cried, "how _glad_ I am to see you.

And have you brought your _charming_ young relation?"

She spoke with a languid foreign accent, and with an emphatic and

bountiful use of adjectives, that gave to our severer generation an

impression of insincerity. Yet it was said with truth that Giulia

Petrucci had never forgotten a friend nor an enemy.

"Goneril is outside" said Miss Hamelyn. "How is Miss Prunty?"

"Brigida? Oh, you must come inside and see my invaluable Brigida. She is

as usual fatiguing herself with our accounts." The old lady led the way

into the darkened parlour. It was small and rather stiff. As one's eyes

became accustomed to the dim green light one noticed the incongruity of

the furniture; the horsehair chairs and sofa, and large accountant's

desk with ledgers; the large Pleyel grand piano, a bookcase, in which

all the books were rare copies or priceless MSS. of old-fashioned

operas; hanging against the wall an inlaid guitar and some faded laurel

crowns; moreover, a fine engraving of a composer, twenty years ago the

most popular man in Italy; lastly, an oil-colour portrait, by Winterman,

of a fascinating blonde, with very bare white shoulders, holding in her

hands a scroll, on which were inscribed some notes of music, under the

title Giulia Petrucci. In short, the private parlour of an elderly and

respectable Diva of the year '40.

"Brigida!" cried Madame Petrucci, going to the door. "Brigida! our

charming English friend is arrived!"

"All right!" answered a strong hearty voice from upstairs. "I'm coming."

"You must excuse me, dear Miss Hamelyn," went on Madame Petrucci. "You

must excuse me for shouting in your presence, but we have only one

little servant, and during this suffocating weather I find that any

movement reminds me of approaching age." The old lady smiled, as if that

time were still far ahead.

"I am sure you ought to take care of yourself," said Miss Hamelyn. "I

hope you will not allow Goneril to fatigue you."

"Gonerilla! What a pretty name! Charming! I suppose it is in your

family?" asked the old lady.

Miss Hamelyn blushed a little, for her niece's name was a sore point

with her.

"It's an awful name for any Christian woman," said a deep voice at the

door. "And pray who's called Goneril?"

Miss Prunty came forward; a short, thick-set woman of fifty, with fine

dark eyes, and, even in a Florentine summer, with something stiff and

masculine in the fashion of her dress.

"And have you brought your niece?" she said, turning to Miss Hamelyn.

"Yes, she is in the garden."

"Well; I hope she understands that she'll have to rough it here."

"Goneril is a very simple girl," said Miss Hamelyn.

"So it's she that's called Goneril?"

"Yes," said the aunt, making an effort. "Of course I am aware of the

strangeness of the name, but--but in fact my brother was devotedly

attached to his wife, who died at Goneril's birth."

"Whew!" whistled Miss Prunty. "The parson must have been a fool who

christened her!"

"He did, in fact, refuse; but my brother would have no baptism saving

with that name, which, unfortunately, it is impossible to shorten."

"I think it is a charming name!" said Madame Petrucci, coming to the

rescue. "Goneril: it dies on one's lips like music! And if you do not

like it, Brigida, what's in a name? as your charming Byron said."

"I hope we shall make her happy," said Miss Prunty.

"Of course we shall!" cried the elder lady.

"Goneril is easily made happy," asserted Miss Hamelyn.

"That's a good thing," snapped Miss Prunty; "for there's not much here

to make her so!"

"Oh, Brigida! I am sure there are many attractions. The air! the view!

the historic association! and, more than all, you know there is always a

chance of the Signorino!"

"Of whom?" said Miss Hamelyn, rather anxiously.

"Of him!" cried Madame Petrucci, pointing to the engraving opposite.

"He lives, of course, in the capital; but he rents the villa behind our

house--the Medici Villa; and when he is tired of Rome he runs down here

for a week or so; and so your Gonerilla may have the benefit of _his_

society!"

"Very nice, I'm sure!" said Miss Hamelyn, greatly relieved; for she knew

that Signor Graziano must be fifty.

"We have known him," went on the old lady, "very nearly thirty years. He

used to largely frequent the _salon_ of our dear, our cherished Madame

Lilli."

The tears came into the old lady's eyes. No doubt those days seemed near

and dear to her; she did not see the dust on those faded triumphs.

"That's all stale news!" cried Miss Prunty, jumping up. "And Gon'ril

(since I'll have to call her so) must be tired of waiting in the

garden."

They walked out on the terrace. The girl was not there; but by the gate

into the olive-yard, where there was a lean-to shed for tools, they

found her sitting on a cask, whittling a piece of wood and talking to a

curly-headed little contadino.

Hearing steps, Goneril turned round. "He was asleep," she said. "Fancy,

in such beautiful weather!"

Then, remembering that two of the ladies were strangers, she made an

old-fashioned little curtsey.

"I hope you won't find me a trouble, ladies," she said.

"She is charming!" said Madame Petrucci, throwing up her hands.

Goneril blushed; her hat had slipped back and showed her short brown

curls of hair, strong, regular, features, and flexile scarlet mouth,

laughing upwards like a faun's. She had sweet dark eyes, a little too

small and narrow.

"I mean to be very happy," she exclaimed.

"Always mean that, my dear," said Miss Prunty.

"And now, since Gonerilla is no longer a stranger," added Madame

Petrucci, "we will leave her to the rustic society of Angiolino, while

we show Miss Hamelyn our orangery."

"And conclude our business!" said Bridget Prunty.

CHAPTER II.

THE SIGNORINO.

One day when Goneril, much browner and rosier for a week among the

mountains, came in to lunch at noon, she found no signs of that usually

regular repast. The little maid was on her knees, polishing the floor;

Miss Prunty was scolding, dusting, ordering dinner, arranging vases, all

at once; strangest of all, Madame Petrucci had taken the oil-cloth cover

from her grand piano, and, seated before it, was practising her sweet

and faded notes, unheedful of the surrounding din and business.

"What's the matter!" cried Goneril.

"We expect the signorino," said Miss Prunty.

"And is he going to stay here?"

"Don't be a fool!" snapped that lady; and then she added--"Go into the

kitchen and get some of the pastry and some bread and cheese, there's a

good girl."

"All right!" said Goneril.

Madame Petrucci stopped her vocalising. "You shall have all the better a

dinner to compensate you, my Gonerilla!" She smiled sweetly, and then

again became Zerlina.

Goneril cut her lunch, and took it out of doors to share with her

companion, Angiolino. He was harvesting the first corn under the olives,

but at noon it was too hot to work. Sitting still there was, however, a

cool breeze that gently stirred the sharp-edged olive-leaves.

Angiolino lay down at full length and munched his bread and cheese in

perfect happiness. Goneril kept shifting about to get herself into the

narrow shadow cast by the split and writhen trunk.

"How aggravating it is!" she cried. "In England, where there's no sun,

there's plenty of shade--and here, where the sun is like a

mustard-plaster on one's back, the leaves are all set edgewise on

purpose that they shan't cast any shadow!"

Angiolino made no answer to this intelligent remark.

"He is going to sleep again!" cried Goneril, stopping her lunch in

despair. "He is going to sleep, and there are no end of things I want to

know. Angiolino!"

"Sissignora," murmured the boy.

"Tell me about Signor Graziano."

"He is our padrone; he is never here."

"But he is coming to-day. Wake up, Angiolino. I tell you he is on the

way!"

"Between life and death there are so many combinations," drawled the

boy, with Tuscan incredulity and sententiousness.

"Ah!" cried the girl, with a little shiver of impatience. "Is he young?"

"Chè!"

"Is he old, then?"

"Neppure!"

"What is he like? He must be _something_."

"He's our padrone," repeated Angiolino, in whose imagination Signor

Graziano could occupy no other place.

"How stupid you are!" exclaimed the young English girl.

"May be," said Angiolino stolidly.

"Is he a good padrone? do you like him?"

"Rather!" The boy smiled, and raised himself on one elbow; his eyes

twinkled with good-humored malice.

"My Babbo has much better wine than _quel signore_," he said.

"But that is wrong!" cried Goneril, quite shocked.

"Who knows?"

After this, conversation flagged. Goneril tried to imagine what a great

musician could be like: long hair, of course; her imagination did not

get much beyond the hair. He would, of course, be much older now than

his portrait. Then she watched Angiolino cutting the corn, and learned

how to tie the swathes together. She was occupied in this useful

employment when the noise of wheels made them both stop and look over

the wall.

"Here's the padrone!" cried the boy.

"Oh, he is old!" said Goneril; "he is old and brown, like a

coffee-bean."

"To be old and good is better than youth with malice," suggested

Angiolino, by way of consolation.

"I suppose so," acquiesced Goneril.

Nevertheless she went in to dinner a little disappointed.

The signorino was not in the house; he had gone up to the villa. But he

had sent a message that later in the evening he intended to pay his

respects to old friends. Madame Petrucci was beautifully dressed in soft

black silk, old lace, and a white Indian shawl. Miss Prunty had on her

starchiest collar and most formal tie. Goneril saw it was necessary that

she, likewise, should deck herself in her best. She was too young and

impressionable not to be influenced by the flutter of excitement and

interest which filled the whole of the little cottage. Goneril, too, was

excited and anxious, although Signor Graziano had seemed so old and

like a coffee-bean. She made no progress in the piece of embroidery she

was working as a present for the two old ladies; jumping up and down to

look out of the window. When, about eight o'clock, the door-bell rang,

Goneril blushed, Madame Petrucci gave a pretty little shriek, Miss

Prunty jumped up and rang for the coffee. A moment afterwards the

signorino entered. While he was greeting her hostesses, Goneril cast a

rapid glance at him. He was tall for an Italian; rather bent and rather

grey; fifty at least, therefore very old. He certainly was brown, but

his features were fine and good, and he had a distinguished and

benevolent air that somehow made her think of an abbé, a French abbé of

the last century. She could quite imagine him saying "Enfant de St.

Louis; montez au ciel!"

Thus far had she got in her meditations, when she felt herself addressed

in clear, half-mocking tones--

"And how, this evening, is Madamigella Ruth?"

So he had seen her this evening, binding his corn.

"I am quite well, padrone," she said, smiling shyly.

The two old ladies looked on amazed, for of course they were not in the

secret.

"Signor Graziano, Miss Goneril Hamelyn," said Miss Prunty, rather

severely.

Goneril felt that the time was come for silence and good manners. She

sat quite quiet over her embroidery, listening to the talk of Sontag,

of Clementi, of musicians and singers dead and gone. She noticed that

the ladies treated Signor Graziano with the utmost reverence; even the

positive Miss Prunty furling her opinions in deference to his gayest

hint. They talked, too, of Madame Lilli; and always as if she were still

young and fair, as if she had died yesterday, leaving the echo of her

triumph loud behind her. And yet all this had happened years before

Goneril had ever seen the light.

"Mees Goneril is feeling very young!" said the signorino, suddenly

turning his sharp kind eyes upon her.

"Yes," said Goneril, all confusion.

Madame Petrucci looked almost annoyed; the gay serene little lady that

nothing ever annoyed.

"It is she that is young!" she cried, in answer to an unspoken thought.

"She is a baby!"

"Oh, I am seventeen!" said Goneril.

They all laughed, and seemed at ease again.

"Yes, yes; she is very young," said the signorino.

But a little shadow had fallen across their placid entertainment. The

spirit had left their memories; they seemed to have grown shapeless,

dusty, as the fresh and comely faces of dead Etruscan kings crumble into

mould at the touch of the pitiless sunshine.

"Signorino," said Madame Petrucci, presently, "if you will accompany me,

we will perform one of your charming melodies."

Signor Graziano rose, a little stiffly, and led the pretty withered

little Diva to the piano.

Goneril looked on, wondering, admiring. The signorino's thin white hands

made a delicate fluent melody, reminding her of running water under the

rippled shade of trees, and, like a high, sweet bird, the thin,

penetrating notes of the singer rose, swelled, and died away, admirably

true and just, even in this latter weakness. At the end, Signor Graziano

stopped his playing to give time for an elaborate cadenza. Suddenly

Madame Petrucci gasped, a sharp, discordant sound cracked the delicate

finish of her singing. She put her handkerchief to her mouth.

"Bah!" she said, "this evening I am abominably husky."

The tears rose to Goneril's eyes. Was it so hard to grow old? This doubt

made her voice loudest of all in the chorus of mutual praise and thanks

which covered the song's abrupt finale.

And then there came a terrible ordeal. Miss Prunty, anxious to divert

the current of her friend's ideas, suggested that the girl should sing.

Signor Graziano and madame insisted; they would take no refusal.

"Sing, sing, little bird!" cried the old lady.

"But, madame, how can one--after you?"

The homage in the young girl's voice made the little Diva more

good-humouredly insistant than before, and Goneril was too well-bred to

make a fuss. She stood by the piano wondering which to choose, the

Handels that she always drawled, or the Pinsuti that she always

galloped. Suddenly she came by an inspiration.

"Madame," she pleaded, "may I sing one of Angiolino's songs?"

"Whatever you like, cara mia."

And standing by the piano, her arms hanging loose, she began a chant

such as the peasants use working under the olives. Her voice was small

and deep, with a peculiar thick sweetness that suited the song,

half-humorous, half-pathetic. These were the words she sang:--

Vorrei morir di morte piccinina,

Morta la sera e viva la mattina.

Vorrei morire, e non vorrei morire,

Vorrei veder, chi mi piange e chi lide;

Vorrei morir, e star sulle finestre,

Vorrei veder chi mi cuce la veste;

Vorrei morir, e stare sulla scala,

Vorrei veder chi mi porta la bara;

Vorrei morir, e vorre' alzar la voce,

Vorrei veder chi mi parta la croce.

"Very well chosen, my dear," said Miss Prunty, when the song was

finished.

"And very well sung, my Gonerilla!" cried the old lady.

But the signorino went up to the piano and shook hands with her.

"Little Mees Goneril," he said, "you have the makings of an artist."

The two old ladies stared, for after all Goneril's performance had been

very simple. You see they were better versed in music than in human

nature.

CHAPTER III.

SI VIEILLESSE POUVAIT!

Signor Graziano's usual week of holiday passed and lengthened into

almost two months, and still he stayed on at the villa. The two old

ladies were highly delighted.

"At last he has taken my advice!" cried Miss Prunty. "I always told him

those premature grey hairs came from late hours and Roman air."

Madame Petrucci shook her head and gave a meaning smile. Her friendship

with the signorino had begun when he was a lad and she a charming

married woman; like many another friendship, it had begun with a

flirtation, and perhaps (who knows?) she thought the flirtation had

revived.

As for Goneril, she considered him the most charming old man she had

ever known, and liked nothing so much as to go out a walk with him.

That, indeed, was one of the signorino's pleasures; he loved to take the

young girl all over his gardens and vineyards, talking to her in the

amiable, half-petting, half-mocking manner that he had adopted from the

first. And twice a week he gave her a music lesson.

"She has a splendid organ!" he would say.

"Vous croyez?" fluted Madame Petrucci with the vilest accent and the

most aggravating smile imaginable.

It was the one hobby of the signorino's that she regarded with

disrespect.

Goneril, too, was a little bored by the music lesson; but, on the other

hand, the walks delighted her.

One day Goneril was out with her friend.

"Are the peasants very much afraid of you, signore?" she asked.

"Am I such a tyrant?" counter-questioned the signorino.

"No; but they are always begging me to ask you things. Angiolino wants

to know if he may go for three days to see his uncle at Fiesole."

"Of course"

"But why, then, don't they ask you themselves? Is it they think me so

cheeky?"

"Perhaps they think I can refuse you nothing."

"Chè! In that case they would ask Madame Petrucci."

Goneril ran on to pick some china roses. The signorino stopped

confounded.

"It is impossible!" he cried; "she cannot think I am in love with

Giulia! She cannot think I am so old as that!"

The idea seemed horrible to him. He walked on very quickly till he came

to Goneril, who was busy plucking roses in a hedge.

"For whom are those flowers?" he asked.

"Some are for you, and some are for Madame Petrucci."

"She is a charming woman, Madame Petrucci."

"A dear old lady," murmured Goneril, much interested in her posy.

"Old do you call her?" said the signorino rather anxiously. "I should

scarcely call her that, though of course she is a good deal older than

either of us."

"Either of us!" Goneril looked up astounded. Could the signorino have

suddenly gone mad?

He blushed a little under his brown skin, that had reminded her of a

coffee-bean.

"She is a good ten years older than I am," he explained.

"Ah well, ten years isn't much."

"You don't think so?" he cried delighted. Who knows, she might not think

even thirty too much.

"Not at that age," said Goneril blandly.

Signor Graziano could think of no reply.

But from that day one might have dated a certain assumption of

youthfulness in his manners. At cards it was always the signorino and

Goneril against the two elder ladies; in his conversation, too, it was

to the young girl that he constantly appealed, as if she were his

natural companion--she, and not his friends of thirty years. Madame

Petrucci, always serene and kind, took no notice of these little

changes, but they were particularly irritating to Miss Prunty, who was,

after all, only four years older than the signorino. That lady had,

indeed, become more than usually sharp and foreboding. She received the

signorino's gay effusions in ominous silence, and would frown darkly

while Madame Petrucci petted her "little bird," as she called Goneril.

Once indeed Miss Prunty was heard to remark it was tempting Providence

to have dealings with a creature whose very name was a synonym for

ingratitude. But the elder lady only smiled, and declared that her

Gonerilla was charming, delicious, a real sunshine in the house.

"Now I call on you to support me, signorino," she cried one evening,

when the three elders sat together in the room while Goneril watered the

roses on the terrace. "Is not my Goneril a charming little bébé?"

Signor Graziano withdrew his eyes from the window.

"Most charming, certainly; but scarcely such a child. She is seventeen,

you know, my dear signora."

"Seventeen! Santo Dio! And what is one at seventeen but an innocent,

playful, charming little kitten?"

"You are always right, madame," agreed the signorino; but he looked as

if he thought she were very wrong.

"Of course I am right," laughed the little lady. "Come here my

Gonerilla, and hold my skein for me. Signor Graziano is going to charm

us with one of his delightful airs."

"I hoped she would sing," faltered the signorino.

"Who? Gonerilla? Nonsense, my friend. She winds silk much better than

she sings."

Goneril laughed. She was not at all offended. But Signor Graziano made

several mistakes in his playing. At last he left the piano. "I cannot

play tonight," he cried. "I am not in the humour. Goneril, will you come

and walk with me on the terrace?"

Before the girl could reply Miss Prunty had darted an angry glance at

Signor Graziano.

"Good Lord, what fools men are!" she ejaculated. "And do you think, now,

I'm going to let that girl, who's but just getting rid of her malaria,

go star-gazing with any old idiot while all the mists are curling out of

the valleys?"

"Brigida, my love, you forget yourself," said Madame Petrucci.

"Bah!" cried the signorino. He was evidently out of temper.

The little lady hastened to smooth the troubled waters. "Talking of

malaria," she began in her serenest manner, "I always remember what my

dearest Madame Lilli told me. It was at one of Prince Teano's concerts.

You remember, signorino?"

"Chè! How should I remember," he exclaimed. "It is a lifetime ago, dead

and forgotten."

The old lady shrank, as if a glass of water had been rudely thrown in

her face. She said nothing, staring blindly.

"Go to bed, Goneril!" cried Miss Prunty in a voice of thunder.

* * * * *

CHAPTER IV.

BIRDS OF A FEATHER.

A few mornings after these events the postman brought a letter for

Goneril. This was such a rare occurrence that she blushed rose red at

the very sight of it, and had to walk up and down the terrace several

times before she felt calm enough to read it. Then she went upstairs and

knocked at the door of Madame Petrucci's room.

"Come in, little bird."

The old lady, in pink merino and curl-papers, opened the door. Goneril

held up her letter.

"My cousin Jack is coming to Florence, and he is going to walk over to

see me this afternoon. And may he stay to dinner, cara signora?"

"Why, of course, Gonerilla. I am charmed!"

Goneril kissed the old lady, and danced downstairs brimming over with

delight.

Later in the morning Signor Graziano called.

"Will you come out with me, Mees Goneril," he said; "on my land the

earliest vintage begins to-day."

"Oh, how nice!" she cried.

"Come, then," said the signorino, smiling.

"Oh, I can't come to-day, because of Jack."

"Jack?"

"My cousin: he may come any time."

"Your cousin?" the signorino frowned a little. "Ah, you English," he

said, "you consider all your cousins brothers and sisters!"

Goneril laughed.

"Is it not so?" he asked a little anxiously.

"Jack is much nicer than my brothers," said the young girl.

"And who is he, this Jack?"

"He's a dear boy," said Goneril, "and very clever; he is going home for

the Indian Civil Service Exam; he has been out to Calcutta to see my

father."

The signorino did not pay any attention to the latter part of this

description, but he appeared to find the beginning very satisfactory.

"So he is only a boy," he muttered to himself, and went away

comparatively satisfied.

Goneril spent most of the day watching the road from Florence. She might

not walk on the highway, but a steep short-cut that joined the main road

at the bottom of the hill was quite at her disposal She walked up and

down for more than an hour. At last she saw some one on the Florence

road. She walked on quickly. It was the telegraph-boy.

She tore open the envelope and read: "Venice.--Exam. on Wednesday.

Start at once. _A rivederci._"

It was with very red eyes that Goneril went in to dinner.

"So the cousin hasn't come," said Miss Prunty kindly.

"No; he had to go home at once for his examination."

"I dare say he'll come over again soon, my dear," said that

discriminating lady. She had quite taken Goneril back into her good

graces.

They all sat together in the little parlour after dinner. At eight

o'clock the door-bell rang. It was now seven weeks since Goneril had

blushed with excitement when first she heard that ring; and now she did

not blush.

The signorino entered. He walked very straight, and his lips were set.

He came in with the air of one prepared to encounter opposition.

"Mees Goneril," he said, "will you come out on the terrace?--before it

is too late," he added, with a savage glance at Miss Prunty.

"Yes," said Goneril, and they went out together.

"So the cousin did not come?" said the signorino.

"No."

They went on a little way in silence together. The night was moonlit and

clear; not a wind stirred the leaves; the sky was like a sapphire,

containing but not shedding light. The late oleanders smelt very sweet;

the moon was so full that one could distinguish the peculiar

greyish-pink of the blossoms.

"It is a lovely night!" said Goneril.

"And a lovely place."

"Yes."

Then a bird sang.

"You have been here just eight weeks," said the signorino.

"I have been very happy."

He did not speak for a minute or two, and then he said:--

"Would you like to live here always?"

"Ah, yes! But that is impossible."

He took her hand and turned her gently so that her face was in the

light.

"Dear Mees Goneril, why is it impossible?"

For a moment the young girl did not answer. She blushed very red and

looked brave.

"Because of Jack!" she said.

"Ah!"

"Nothing is settled," added the young girl, "but it is no use pretending

not to know!"

"It is no use," he repeated very sadly.

And then for a little while they listened to the bird.

"Mees Goneril," said the signorino at last, "do you know why I brought

you out here?"

"Not at all," she answered.

It was a minute before he spoke again.

"I am going to Rome to-morrow," he said, "and I wanted to bid you

good-bye. You will sing to me to-night, as it will be the last time?"

"Oh, I hope not the last time!"

"Yes, yes," he said a little testily; "unless--and I pray it may not be

so--unless you ever need the help of an old friend."

"Dear Signor Graziano!"

"And now you will sing me my 'Nobil Amore'?"

"I will do anything you like!"

The signorino sighed and looked at her for a minute. Then he led her

into the little parlour where Madame Petrucci was singing shrilly in the

twilight.

A. MARY F. ROBINSON.

OUT OF THE SEASON.

"But why not? There isn't a soul in London--who's to see? What harm is

there in it?"

"Oh, none of course--a cup of tea is a cup of tea, and whether you drink

it here or there, what matter!--only--well, the thing I think of is,

would Rowley mind?"

"Mind his own business, I should say, rather I That's what they have to

swear to do in the marriage service, haven't they?"

The lady to whom this question was addressed, Mrs. Rowley Dacres, shook

her head reprovingly. She was young and very pretty; and Teddy

Vere--known among certain of his friends as the Fledgeling--was not

averse to seeing her make a pretence of being angry.

"Don't let me hear you speak so flippantly of matrimony," she began

severely; "and for your future edification, it is not the man but the

_woman_ who swears to obey."

"Then why in Heaven's name don't you do as I bid you?"

"As _you_ bid me! Come, that's rather strong form, I must say! You're

not Rowley, are you?"

"No, worse luck for me, I'm not," and the good-looking fair face put on

such an intensely woebegone expression that the resolution of the

beholder gave way.

Poor boy! it really was dreadfully unlucky that be should be so

desperately in love with her, more especially since Rowley had taken to

be absurdly jealous of him, as if--now that she was married--she could

ever think seriously of anybody. Only after you'd been brought up--to

cut your teeth, as one might say--flirting, well, it was just a little

bit hard to give it up at twenty-three. Besides, it wasn't as if she

meant anything--except in Rowley's case she never had; and as far as

Teddy went, scores of mothers had said before her, dozens of times, that

they were only too delighted to see their sons attach themselves to a

married lady--it kept them out of harm's way; so that instead of

mischief, it was a service she was doing Teddy. The two had been of the

same party during Goodwood week. Teddy had joined them after on board

Lord Datchett's yacht at Cowes; and, his leave up, and he forced to stop

in London during the end of August, what more natural than that when she

came up to town for a few days' shopping, Teddy should offer to act

escort to her?--it was such a pleasure to him, poor fellow! And as there

wasn't a single soul left to see them, what harm could there be!

Notwithstanding, the little lady never lost sight of propriety--Garden

was always near enough for her to be able to say, "I've my maid with

me;" and added to this, "Bella Chetwode was in town, very much occupied

it's true, but still that same staunch friend, always good at a pinch,

who, if told that you had been met going to see her, invariably answered

that she expected you. Life is full of surprises, and if one is armed at

all points matters go on so much more smoothly."

Now it happened that on the previous evening Teddy had shown visible

signs of becoming unruly. He didn't see why he should be sent away. Why

could he not stop--stop and have dinner with her?

"Why? Because, in the first place, it wouldn't do; and in the second--I

forgot though," she said; "being a man, I ought to have reversed the

order--there's nothing to give you."

"That don't matter," said Teddy heroically--"I don't care what I eat."

"Oh, don't you; but I do--you might be wanting to eat me."

Teddy threw a look intended to convey that he could conceive no more

delicious morsel.

"There there, say good-bye and go away, do!" she cried. "I declare

you're beginning to get cannibalish already."

And in spite of all further entreaties and a goodly show of ill-humour,

which experience had taught him to keep handy for display, Teddy was

forced to obey her command that he should take his departure.

"I must take care not to let that boy go too far," Nina reflected when

he had gone. "He wants his paces pulled up now and then, or else he'll

get trying to kick over. However, it's only for a day or two, and then I

shall be off; and by next season--Oh, he'll have forgotten me, I

daresay."

She did not "daresay" anything of the sort--there was a deal too much

vanity in her composition to willingly give up any homage that had once

been offered to her; but the supposition served as a salve for her

conscience, which in the matter was not altogether easy, for in her

letters to Rowley, and she wrote to him every day, she had never said a

single syllable of having seen Teddy. It was not that she had any wish

to be sly with him; but, reasoning in her own way--what good was there

in telling any one things which would make them uneasy, and Rowley was

such a good fellow, so wrapt up in and devoted to her,--he'd be wretched

if she told him that Teddy was in town and came to see her every day.

No; where ignorance was bliss it was folly to let it interfere with

fishing; much better let Rowley continue in peace and tranquillity; and

on Saturday he and she were to join each other at the Twyford Junction,

on their way to Scotland to pay a heap of visits together, some new

gowns for which had brought her to London; and her face softened with a

smile that flitted across it as she assured herself that ten minutes

with Rowley would make her forget the existence of Teddy. Poor

infatuated boy!

Possibly Mrs. Dacres' velvety brown eyes would have opened a trifle

wider could she have followed the footsteps of her devoted admirer.

Teddy, wise in his generation, made the provision of a consolation a

matter of principle; therefore when the door closed behind him at one

house, he quickly hailed a hansom which should take him to another,

where he would not only be welcomed, but instead of having to beg for a

dinner he would be begged to eat one. Matters turned out as he premised,

and he only picked up his grievance against Nina the next day when he

was urging her that they should go to his rooms and have tea.

When this proposition was started Teddy wasn't particularly keen as to

whether she came or whether she did not; but, ill luck would have it,

Nina chose that very opportunity for asserting her dignity--and after

that the question of the tea became a question of who should be

conqueror.

"If I give in again, I'll be hanged," said Teddy to himself, and he

brought to bear the various resources he was master of with such effect

that Nina, driven into a corner, was fairly beaten and confessed to

herself that it served her right--"he's been allowed to go too far, and

this is the upshot of it."

She made these reflections however with a face that told no tales,

stepped into a hansom with a pretty air of being overruled by a will

stronger than her own, and only insisted on keeping up her ungainly

sized parasol because "the sun in one's eyes is so disagreeable."

Now, as chance would have it, instead of fishing in the country,

Captain Rowley Dacres was spending that day in London. Circumstances had

brought him to town early in the morning; but, to his discredit do I

tell it, he hated shopping, and hadn't Nina told him in every letter she

sent that she was with the dressmaker every hour of the day? If he went

home he should have to go with her there, or to some other confounded

place, for so long as a shop was near, Nina would be safe to have

something to buy in it. During those few months they were engaged, what

a purgatory he had gone trough. He was a lover then--he was a husband

now, and he whistled the air of a popular tune known by the name of "Not

for Joe."

The first few bars had but just escaped him, when who should he stumble

across but an old chum, Nick Walcot, who, hearing that up to seven

o'clock--when he was going to pop in upon Nina--Rowley had nothing to

do, gave a mysterious wink of his eye saying, "All right, old fellow;

I'm going somewhere, and I'll take you."

The somewhere proved to be a small bijou residence in the neighbourhood

of Thurloe Square; and, arrived at the door, it suddenly struck Rowley

who lived there.

"Oh come, I say," he began, drawing back a step or two. "I don't half

think this'll do. I'm married now, you see, and I've given up this sort

of society.".

Nick looked at him with an air of injured surprise.

"What do you mean?" he asked. "There's nothing against Miss Fisher that

I know of; it's simply that I've been asked to lunch with her, and as I

know she'll have a friend, I take ditto because I'd rather sit down four

than three." Rowley hastened to disabuse any prejudice against Miss

Fisher, whom he felt sure was the very soul of propriety, "Only, don't

you know, women get an idea, and though my little wife's the best sort

in the world, if she got scent that I'd been lunching with an actress

instead of going straight to her, there'd be the very deuce to pay."

"Fiddle de dee! besides, how is she to know? who's to tell her?" and

before there was time to answer, a vigorous pull was given to the bell.

"Confound this fellow; I wish I'd gone straight off to Nina. What a fool

I am!" These were the reflections of Captain Dacres as he followed his

friend into the presence of Miss Fisher, who received him with easy

cordiality.

"Good gracious on me! Captain Dacres," she said, "what a time it is

since I've seen you, to be sure; I took it for granted you were dead."

"Dead!" repeated Nick Walcot. "Why he's married; didn't you know?"

"Oh, it's about the same to me," laughed the lady, and then tilting

herself back in her chair so that her voice might reach the further room

more easily, she called, "Doady I say, come in here--there's a surprise

for you."

And in answer to the summons a young lady appeared, who threw herself

into a dramatic attitude exclaiming, "What! Captain Dacres? Well I

never! Why--who'd a thought of seeing you?"

Certainly it was not Captain Dacres who had anticipated that pleasure,

for while responding with the best grace he could command to the chaff

and banter which began to be darted at him, he was consigning Miss

Fisher, and more especially the effusive Doady, to every depth between

this world and the one below.

The announcement of luncheon opened a more cheerful vista. "Here I am,

and I must make the best of it," thought Rowley following, in company

with Doady, Nick Walcot and Miss Fisher. "But if ever anything of the

sort happens again may I be tarred and feathered. To think I ever

thought this woman pretty, and to fancy that to this day Nina is jealous

of her."

The luncheon, commenced at an unusually late hour, took a long time

getting through; the two ladies were excellent company, and

notwithstanding the invectives he had indulged in, five o'clock struck

very quickly. Then it was discovered that everybody was going the same

way, and it ended with two hansoms being called. Miss Fisher and Nick

Walcot got into one, Captain Rowley and Doady Donne occupied the other.

"How tiresome the sun is, let me put up your parasol?" said our friend

Rowley, with evident anxiety to screen her; but Doady begged he wouldn't

trouble.

"I don't mind the sun a bit," she said. "And I'm not in the least

afraid of any one seeing me, since you've married you've grown so very

respectable."

"Confound her," ejaculated Rowley mentally, and he congratulated himself

on the emptiness of London, resolving to keep his head well back and sit

a little on one side as they went through Piccadilly. Doady asked a

question about some friend in whom she had formerly felt an interest;

this led to past reminiscences and the telling of some good story, over

which Rowley was still laughing when there came a crash, followed by a

bump and a swaying forward and back. "Hang the fellow, he's run into

another hansom!"

In an instant Rowley had dexterously jumped out on to the pavement; the

occupant of the other hansom, whose wheel was locked into theirs,

obeying the same instinct, had done the same.

"Why, if ain't Teddy Vere. Oh my!" ejaculated one feminine voice

shrilly, while from under a red parasol, still open, another groaned,

"Rowley! it can't be! Oh, what will become of me?"

Self-preservation is the first law of nature; the woman who hesitates is

lost. Before another minute had passed Nina was out of one cab and into

another close by.

"Drive off as fast as you can--never mind where! I'll tell you when we

get further on," and five minutes later she gave the cabman the address

of Mrs. Chetwode's house.

Bursting into the room she cried, "Oh, Bella, such a horrible thing has

occurred! Do help me." And she told her the whole story, ending by

saying, "I left word at home, when I went out, that I was going to see

you."

Mrs. Chetwode said something by way of calming her, and then she rang

the bell.

"Tell Martin to go to Mrs. Dacres', and say she will not return to

dinner, I've prevailed on her to stop with me. Now, my dear, try and

keep calm and put on the best face you can, and we must trust to

Providence to help us through."

"But suppose he saw me"

"Oh, no, we'll suppose he didn't see you; and I think you may trust to

Teddy--he's got his head screwed on the right way."

Nina wiped away the tears which had flowed over. "Nothing can excuse me

for being so imprudent," she said with a half sob; "all the time I knew

how wrong it was of me; and the worst is, Bella, I didn't care."

"Didn't care! How?"

"I mean I didn't care for Teddy. What could a boy like that possibly be

to me? Why, of course I love Rowley dearly--more than I could tell you;

and to think I should risk it all in this stupid way. Oh! it's my

abominable vanity; that's what it is. Aunt Jane always said it would be

my ruin, and so it will be--after this, you see, Rowley will believe

anything of me? Oh, Bella, what shall I do? I shall die."

"Well, my dear, it's the best thing that could happen to you if you are

going to behave in this absurd manner." Mrs. Chetwode saw that strong

measures must be resorted to; she quite intended reading Nina a lecture;

but the time to do so was not now. "There's no doubt but that you _have_

been imprudent, _very_; but if I am to help you it's not by letting you

sit there and cry."

"Wh--at do you wish me to do?"

"To dry your eyes and come down with me to dinner and chat away as we

always do. If your husband was going home Martin will bring back word

that he is there, or else he will come here and fetch you."

"You took the message?" Mrs. Chetwode asked as the two ladies descended

to dinner.

"Yes, ma'am."

"Really, Nina, I ought to have ordered a better dinner for you."

"Oh, I'm not a bit hungry."

"But you ought to be after going about so much as we have to-day.

By-the-by, how did you decide about that hat I saw; do you think it will

suit you? Describe it to me."

Forced to answer, Nina was trotted by her friend from one subject of

toilette to the other, until in the midst of a got-up argument

concerning trimmings, there came a thundering knock at the door.

"Dear bless me! What a late visitor! Who can it be? Martin, just go out

and look--never mind the door," and Mrs. Chetwode jumped up and stood

so that she could hear the inquiry: "Is Mrs. Dacres here?"

"Yes, sir, the ladies are at dinner."

"Oh! Ah!"

"Captain Dacres, is that you?" Bella had run out to meet him. "Why, what

a surprise--Nina, fancy, here's your husband, dear," and she preceded

Rowley back into the dining-room.

"Rowley!" For her life Nina couldn't say more--every atom of colour had

forsaken her.

"My dear child, have I frightened you? I'm so sorry, but I found after

all I had to come to town. Carne has made such an awful mess about the

gun he was to get for me, and so I didn't write. I thought I'd surprise

you."

Nina laughed out like a boisterous child. "What a silly thing I am," she

said, "I was afraid something had happened."

Rowley put his arm round her, for though she was laughing, her voice

sounded like crying all the time.

Under other circumstances he might have been more struck with the little

embarrassment which she could not perfectly control, but at the moment

he was not quite himself either. That impudent Doady Donne had played a

shameful hoax on him, had actually had the audacity to declare that she

had seen his wife--Nina, Mrs. Dacres--in Teddy Vere's hansom! He hadn't

taken what she said very pleasantly, for the bare notion made him

furious, and--though telling himself all the while that he didn't

believe it--until he had found Nina seated with her friend, it was

impossible to feel any security.

"'Pon my life, it's too bad!" he was saying mentally. "I don't know what

things are coming to; there ought to be a stop put to it, a line must be

drawn somewhere; and such women oughtn't to be permitted to speak of a

lady in that chaify way."

While these reflections occupied his mind he was giving scraps of news

to Nina, and answering Mrs. Chetwode, who was frankly saying that she

hadn't a morsel of dinner to give him.

"But I don't want any, I've only just had a most enormous luncheon."

"Luncheon! Where?"

"Why, my dear, at the station--ham, beef, beer--you know--veal pie--that

sort o' thing."

"Rowley! how could you! You'll be awfully ill, you know."

"Not a bit of it, not I. I--" but at this moment rat-tat-a-tat-tat went

the knocker.

Oh! agony--there wasn't a doubt this was Teddy!

"I say, what a game--here's another visitor!" remarked Captain Dacres

cheerily.

"One who is expected, I shouldn't wonder." Mrs. Chetwode, as usual, rose

equal to the emergency. "We may as well let the cat out of the bag,

Nina, and tell him.--We've got a young man coming to take us to the

play," and turning to Martin she said, "Show him into the boudoir if

that's Mr. Vere."

"Mr. Vere! What, Teddy! Here, stop, I'll open the door!" exclaimed

Rowley hastily "Don't you go"

"But why?" interposed Mrs. Chetwode amazedly.

"Because it's interrupting you so awfully in your dinner. No, no, we'll

go up stairs together--it'll be all right you'll see"

He was already in the hall, had opened the door--their voices, laughing

it seemed--sounded together.

"What can it mean?" said Nina anxiously

"Never mind, one thing is certain--he didn't see you"

"Perhaps it's the beer--he seems a little excited, don't you think?"

"I'm not going to leave them together Teddy," called out Mrs. Chetwode,

"come in here. Have you brought tickets for the comedy?"

"Tickets, eh?"

"Oh, it's no use disguising; we've--"

"No, no!" broke in Rowley, "not a bit, I know all about it, old fellow;

they've told me what you've come to do--I'll go with you. By Jove,

capital idea! Ha, ha."

"Oh, it must be the beer," thought Nina, and watching Bella's eye she

tapped her forehead with her finger to indicate that there was no doubt

that Rowley's head was slightly affected.

"Mrs. Chetwode, I'm awfully sorry," began Teddy, "but do you know, I've

made such a mess about the comedy; they aint playing that piece at all

there now. I hope you'll both forgive me."

"How tiresome! What a naughty boy you are!" said Bella. "Now there's

nothing for us to do."

"Nothing to do," said Rowley. "Not a bit of it; we ain't going to be

stumped for one failure; we'll go somewhere--where shall it be, Nina,

eh?"

"Any place you like, dear," so long as I am with you, the big brown eyes

seemed to say; and Rowley, looking back again, thought, "And I could

doubt her--bless her heart, the darling!" while Nina kept repeating,

"This will be a lesson for me as long as I live. Never again, no more

flirtation--never, never, never!"

Later in the evening when it was decided that they should all go to the

Fisheries, without hesitation as to the other two, Nina and Rowley went

off together.

"Are we to follow the turtle doves?" said Teddy with sarcasm.

"As you please," said Bella, "but it doesn't in the least matter--you

know I've a scolding in store for you, Teddy?"

"No, not now," and he held up his hands pleadingly.

"Yes, but you've been most imprudent, and it's by the very greatest luck

in the world that Rowley didn't see you. If he had, it would have been

anything but pleasant for Nina."

"Hm!" and Teddy gave his nose a screw. He was terribly tempted to tell what

he looked on as the very best joke in the world--only--well--no--perhaps

better not--if you once let a thing slip out it often gets spoken of,

nobody knows how; and as Rowley had whispered at the door, "Teddy, I say,

not a word about having seen me before," and he had answered "Honour

bright, old chap; you may trust me," he'd keep the matter dark; only there

was one to score against Miss Doady Donne for telling him last night at

dinner that she was going to play propriety to a friend that day. He hated

a lie without a reason; and as it seemed to him he'd gone quite far enough

in that direction, this would serve as a capital peg to hang a quarrel on.

"Shall we say good-night?" said Bella.

"Do you want to get rid of me?"

"N--no."

"Oh, I see you do," and he held out his hand to her.

"Good-night," she began, trying to hold herself very severely, "and let

this little adventure be a lesson to you. All's well that ends well, but

remember _all_ doesn't always end so."

"Quite true," he said, feigning to have listened penitently."

By-the-way, would you mind repeating that same little sermon to our

friend Rowley?--it might be of service to him. What do I mean?--oh

nothing--only that one good turn deserves another."