LA DONNA E MOBILE.
The announcement of her engagement to Robert Grierson was received with
great pleasure both by Mr. and Mrs. ----, the latter from reasons
already mentioned, and by the former because it was accompanied with the
assurance that the young man had been once more brought within the ranks
of the United Society. But although this was so, and that he attended
their meetings, he hardly displayed his former zeal, and there were
some who thought that his broken promise to his dead father weighed on
his mind. Perhaps it did. But it is not unlikely that love was also
responsible. And it happened that Rosette, who had been so fervent
in the cause of liberty, and so eager to talk of it, since she had
acknowledged her love for Robert and promised to be his bride, began to
find other and more tender subjects for conversation, and as these two
young lovers, all in all to each other, strolled down the green laneways
or by the banks of the winding stream under the blue skies of April, he
as well as she were fain to forget that already the conflict had begun
which was to decide whether the United Irish Society or the English
Government were to be masters in Ireland. But at last the time arrived
which brought them face to face with the fact that a rising was soon to
take place in Ulster, and that Robert Grierson would have to take his
part in it.
And now the lovers were in the sweet month of May, when, under other
circumstances, their hearts would rejoice with the joyous month of
flowers. When they had plighted their troth only such a short time
before they knew that the effort to throw off the British yoke was soon
to be made, and they had seriously desired that the marriage was not to
take place until it was over. The issue then did not seem doubtful, for
were not the French coming to render assistance? and in a few weeks
Ireland would be free from the centre to the sea.
But now not a day passed without rumours of arrests of popular leaders,
and the daily court-martials in Belfast and elsewhere. These, it must
be confessed, had little or no effect on Grierson, but they had a most
unexpected effect on Rosette. A gloom seemed to settle on her spirits,
for at night she had fearful visions of gallowses, and of strangled
men, and in nearly every case the face of the victim bore a grotesque
resemblance to that of her lover.
She endeavoured to conceal the apprehensions that preyed on her. But
Robert coaxed her to tell him the cause of her unhappiness. It chanced
that they were standing together on the spot where they had plighted
their mutual vows, and which naturally had become dear to both of them.
Again the sun was setting gloriously, and the stream shone and flashed,
and from the green hedgerows there were some sweet, small voices singing
a farewell to the setting sun. But there was no longer the radiant face
of Rosette. The sunset light only served to expose its unutterable
sadness.
Grierson had his arm round her waist.
"Tell me, darling, tell me, my own little Rosy, what is the trouble on
you?"
"Oh, Robbie, Robbie!" the tears came to her eyes, "what brought me here?
What brought me and you together?"
"Why, darling, what do you mean? What brought you here except to make me
the happiest man in Ulster, or out of it."
"No, no, Robbie, love, you were happy till I came. You might be happy
now and always, but I--I have changed the current of your life. It might
have run on calmly as the stream below, flowing in an accustomed course,
but now----"
"But no, darling, whatever be its course, it will run brighter than the
stream runs on there so long as I have you with me, my own dear, darling
little Rosette."
And he drew her towards him and kissed her.
"But Robbie, don't you understand, dear. I have had such dreams, and of
you--oh, they have frightened my very soul!"
"You silly darling. Do you not know that dreams go by contraries!"
"Oh, but they come again and again."
"Then what were they, dearest? They will lose all their terror if you
tell me," and thus he coaxed her story from her, and he kissed her and
laughed away her fears for the time, but it was only for the time. The
dreams recurred--not always the same, however, for sometimes instead
of the scaffold she appeared to see a battlefield heaped with dead,
the faces of most of the corpses gashed, and amongst them, always
recognisable by her, and she felt it was gashed almost out of
recognition--was that of Robert Grierson.
The result of these dismal dreams was that Rosette became thoroughly
convinced that her lover was destined to a fatal end unless, for she
could see no other alternative, he were to quit the country, and day
after day her spirits sank, and, do what he could, Robbie was unable to
cheer her.
And now the news arrived that the rising was determined on, and a few
days later it was followed by the news that Leinster was up.
Grierson had to confess to himself that Rosette's forebodings had deeply
affected him, and, moreover, as the moment for action approached, the
scene at the deathbed of his father intruded itself frequently. His
conscience seemed to goad him for having broken the promise so solemnly
given, and at the next moment he felt that it never should have been
exacted, and at all costs he knew he would have given it up a dozen
times for Rosette's sake.
But here was Rosette now sorry that she had made him break it. But
without doing so could he have won her? And then his memory summoned
her up as she stood next him on that fateful evening.
At last Grierson received orders to join the forces under Munroe, and he
and Rosette were once more going down by the stream. "Would it be the
last time?" his heart kept asking him, yet he strove to be cheerful, and
he talked of returning in a few months at the outside, and making his
Rosette his own bonny bride.
Rosette had, on her side, endeavoured to bear up bravely, but at last
she completely broke down.
"Oh, darling, darling, I've led you to your ruin--to your death.
Yes--yes, it is I who will have killed you. I would give my eyes out
for you, dearest!"
"Keep them for me, darling! that will be better," Robbie answered, with
affected gaiety, and he kissed the tears away.
"But Robbie, if you love me, if you love me, dearest, there is yet time
to save yourself. I was wrong, Robbie, it was sinful of me to get you to
violate your solemn pledge to your dying father. I saw him in my dreams
last night, and his face was full of anger. Oh, Robbie, I've done wrong,
and you--you are the victim."
He pressed her towards him, patted her cheek, remaining silent, thinking
it better to let her speak without interruption.
At last, withdrawing herself from his arms, she returned a step or two
and then fell on her knees. She stretched out her hands. "Oh, Robbie,
if you love me fly--fly to-night while there is yet time, when you are
safe beckon me to come to you, and I'll follow you if need be around the
world."
Robbie bent down and tenderly lifted her up.
"Dearest, you will crush my heart if you talk in that way. But what you
ask is impossible. Be my own brave girl and banish these silly fears.
You would not have them brand me a coward or a traitor. I should be one,
if not both, if I faltered or fled now when the summons has come. If I
could do so, dear, I know that when you and I would meet again I should
be ashamed to look into your eyes, counting myself, as I would be, a
renegade. No, dearest, I'll never bring that disgrace upon myself or on
the woman who has given me her love."
And so till the night came he strove to soothe her and to cheer her
heart--his own sad enough--but after the final adieu he set out for home
for the last time he was ever to visit it, with face set and conscious
that he was taking the only course that was open to him, but his heart
was dark with forebodings.
The next day he joined Munroe. Poor Rosette remained at home praying and
weeping, anticipating always the worst, and unable to shake off the
conviction that the day of her happiness had come to a close.
At last the terrible news arrived of the defeat of Munroe at
Ballinahinch and the dispersal of his forces. There was at first no
word of Robert Grierson, and, of course, Rosette concluded that he was
left amongst the slain.
The following day, towards nightfall, a labourer who had been in
Robert's employment, brought her the news that Robert was concealed in
his cabin a few miles away. Thither she sped that night to find Robert
lying on a heap of clean straw rather badly wounded, but in fairly
cheerful spirits.
There he remained for several days, and was rapidly gaining health, and
Rosette's hopes were reviving, and she again indulged the dream that she
and Robert would be happy, for she had secured a promise from him which
he was now free to give--that, as soon as he was well enough, he would
endeavour to escape to France, whither she would follow him.
But alas, it was only a dream. The bloodhounds were on his track. One
morning, just in the grey of dawn, Rosette was making her way close to
the cabin in which Robbie lay, when suddenly she was confronted by a
small party of yeos. She turned and fled, pursued by a volley of oaths
and villainous jests. Worse still, she was followed by one or two of the
party, and although she flew like a deer she was quickly overtaken, for
her foot having caught in a briar she stumbled and fell.
The yeo picked her up, and then swore out: "By ----, it's the
Frenchwoman, and her lover cannot be far off."
In the meantime the approach of the yeos to the house had been
discovered, and the owner had taken out Grierson to the haggard, and
concealed him effectually in a heap of turf which stood by the house.
Within a few minutes the yeos came, bringing Rosette along, her face
aflame with indignation.
"Search the house," cried the leader of the band. They did so. There was
no one in it. "Come, my man tell us at your peril where the traitor
Grierson is?"
"That's more than I know" replied the owner of the house, to whom the
question had been addressed.
"Well this wench can tell us, and shall tell us," cried one of the most
ruffianly of the gang, and he seized Rosette in such a manner as to
cause her to scream out.
Suddenly the clump of turf came tumbling about the yard, and with
flashing eyes and white face Robert Grierson staggered out and made for
the ruffian.
"Unhand her, you coward," and he struck at his face. Weak as he was the
blow was not without effect, and Rosette was free from the polluted
grasp.
There was something in the passion of Grierson that seemed to win the
sympathy of the yeoman captain, who had been acquainted with Grierson.
"Come," he said, "submit quietly to be bound and I pledge myself the
girl shall go away unmolested."
"Oh, Robbie, Robbie!" was all poor Rosette could say, her whole frame
shaking with sobs.
When the yeos were ready to march with Grierson they first had a look
round for the man of the house. But he fled when Robbie discovered
himself, and had run where he could not be found. The yeos, by way
of revenge, set fire to the thatch. Rosette begged to be allowed to
accompany the prisoner. Ordering the yeos to fall back from the latter,
the captain brought Rosette up to him.
"I would grant your request," he said kindly, "but if you take my advice
you will go to your home. I might be able to protect you from insult,
but we shall transfer our prisoner to other hands."
Robbie urged her to act on this suggestion--and she, promising that she
would visit him in prison, bringing Mr. ---- with her, on the following
day, took a heartbroken farewell, striving to appear strong so as not to
give sport to the yeos.
She went to a little hill that commanded the road for nearly a mile,
down which the yeos and their prisoner went. As she watched him further
and further away, the life-blood seemed to ebb from her heart, and when
at last they rounded a curve that shut them out from view, poor Rosette
utterly broke down and fell fainting to the ground.
A week later the scaffold found a fresh victim in Robert Grierson. Poor
Rosette's love story was over. Her darkest dream had proved true.
THE RUSE OF MADAME MARTIN.
Nature was a little unkind to Danton Martin when it encased a great soul
in a small body; and Love, which can also play fantastic tricks, had
mated him with a wife fully a head over him and otherwise of ample
proportions, of whom, not without reason, he was very proud. She was
uncommonly handsome, had a fine figure, and knew how to make the most of
it; and if at times he felt rebuked by Madame's superior size, there
was, by way of compensation, their only child, Lucille, who was just
home from the convent, and who was no taller than her father, and was a
perfect copy of her mother's beauty. Her little face was as bright as a
summer day without its sameness, and its sparkling vivacity had turned
the heads of all the young fellows of Merploer; and when Monsieur Martin
was seated with his little Lucille beside him on the Place, on the days
on which the band played, and saw the many admiring glances cast in her
direction, he felt as proud as a king on his throne.
Not, indeed, that he was a respector of kings, quite the contrary. He
was, as he asserted, a republican of the republicans. Did not, he would
ask, did not one of his ancestors take part in the storming of the
Bastille? Did not another dip his handkerchief in the blood of Monsieur
Veto, and coming to later times, did not Martin père fall wounded in the
fusilade of the _coup d'état_ of "Napoleon the Little," and did he not
quit France rather than live under a hated Empire, and return to it only
when the Republic was once more built on the ruins of a throne? Alas,
there were not wanting some to hint that the wound was a myth, and that
he went to England solely to better himself, and came back only when he
had secured a competence, if not a fortune. Be this as it may, Martin
père married the daughter of a rich shipowner in Merploer, and as a
proof of his republican faith he gave to his only son the name of
Danton.
Danton Martin did his best to live up to the great name, but it was no
easy task in quiet times of peace and slow reform, and the republican
sentiment of Merploer was sluggish if not almost stagnant.
Danton Martin had his hours of despondency, and at times he would, in
the solitude of his dressing-room, but not always unperceived by Madame,
stand before the mirror and, endeavouring to assume a leonine aspect,
strike his chest and recall the famous words which had been uttered at
the foot of the scaffold, "Danton, no weakness!"
Inspired by the great name and example, Danton Martin founded a
political club in Merploer at "Le Vieux Corsaire." Its object was to
disseminate true republican principles. Its motto "The Republic One and
Indivisible."
Every member of the club who saluted a fellow member was bound to follow
up the salute with the aspiration "Long live the Republic," to which the
invariable rejoinder was "One and Indivisible."
This phrase had a special virtue in Danton Martin's eyes. By a Republic
One and Indivisible he meant one that should be supreme over the minds
of all true Frenchmen, and that should brook no rival to its influence.
Therefore what he styled the pretensions of the Church were to be beaten
down. Again and again he proclaimed these views at "Le Vieux Corsaire,"
and as a public proof of his faith he caused the phrase to be inscribed
round a head of Liberty carved in relief on a plaque over the front
entrance to his villa, called after his little daughter "Villa Lucille."
But, alas, there were not wanting some envious tongues to assert
that Danton Martin's republican principles went no further than his
hall-door, and that inside the Villa Lucille the loud-voiced orator of
"Le Vieux Corsaire" was as quiet as the proverbial church mouse.
There was something more than a grain of truth in this. Madame had not
troubled herself with her husband's views in politics until the laws
suppressing the religious congregations were set in motion. When,
however, matters had proceeded so far that the good Sisters, by whom
she, and, subsequently, Lucille, had been educated, were turned out upon
the street, Madame's indignation knew no bounds.
"A nice kind of Republic your Republic is," she cried to Danton; "it
abandoned the provinces to Germany without striking a single blow to
recover them; and the only employment it can find for its army (which,
we are told, is the one hope of France) is to break into convents,
and fling defenceless women into the street. Your Republic, one and
indivisible, is splitting France in two. Never speak to me of it again!"
Danton winced, but was silent; he was weak enough to find extenuating
circumstances for Madame's indignation. Had she not been brought up, he
said, by the Sisters, and what else could be expected from her?
The Martin marriage had been one of affection on both sides, and this
was the first dark cloud which had lowered over Villa Lucille, and it
was destined to become darker.
Lucille had a very dear school friend--Yolande de Lauvens--whose
brother, Henri, was a lieutenant in the Engineers; and Yolande having
been on a long visit to Lucille, Henri had, thanks to Madame, who had a
very high opinion of the young lieutenant, many opportunities of seeing
Lucille, of course always in her mother's presence. The result was that
the young people fell in love. Monsieur Martin had perceived nothing of
this, and it was with genuine astonishment that he learned from Madame
that the lieutenant only waited his assent to become a suitor for his
daughter's hand. He had never even suspected such a thing. More than
once he had stated to his friends that he would take care that Lucille
should become the wife of a true Republican, and on several occasions at
the meetings at "Le Vieux Corsaire" he had declared that the Republic
could not thoroughly rely upon the army until the aristocrats among the
officers had been weeded out, and he would recall with glowing words the
achievements of the armies of the First Republic, when the aristocrats
had fled and turned their arms against their country. Lieutenant de
Lauvens was an aristocrat, and on this matter Danton felt that he could
not give way. His reply to Madame's pleadings was summed up in the final
sentence:
"Madame, the thing is impossible, and in this at least you shall find
that Danton Martin will show no weakness!"
Danton meant to be firm, but although Madame appeared to have accepted
his position as final, and Lucille said nothing, he was very unhappy,
and day after day his unhappiness increased. For the first time,
something had come between him and those whom he loved best in all the
world.
It was, perhaps, as well for him that he was able to find some
distraction in the preparations, which were being made on a grand scale,
for the reception of the Minister of Marine, who was coming to Merploer
on an approaching _fête_, and whose visit was to be the occasion of a
demonstration in force of true republicanism.
One of the features of the demonstration was a procession which should
pass twice along the boulevard, at the top of which stood a most
conspicuous object--Villa Lucille, and Danton tried to encourage the
hope that on the day of the procession the balcony would be graced by
the presence of Madame and Lucille. Once or twice he hinted as much to
Madame, but she received the hint in chilling silence. Danton, however,
still hopeful gave orders that the balcony should be gaily decorated
with evergreens and trophies of tricolour flags.
At length the night preceding the great day arrived. Danton came home
very late, as he had been detained helping to perfect the arrangements
for the morrow.
Assuming that all were asleep, he crept upstairs. At Lucille's room he
paused, and, leaving his candle on the landing, he gently pushed open
the door that he might go in, as usual, to whisper good-night to her, as
she lay asleep in her little nest, under the guardianship of a Madonna,
before whose shrine a small red lamp was always burning. To-night he was
surprised to find the room in utter darkness. The lamp must have gone
out, he thought. He brought in his candle, and when by its light he saw
the room he was hardly able to suppress an exclamation of amazement. It
had undergone a complete metamorphosis. The dainty curtains had gone
from the bed; the shrine had been removed, and also the pictures of the
saints from the walls. Instead of these were portraits of Danton and
other Titans of the great Revolution, and over Lucille's bed was a lurid
picture of the execution of Louis XVI.
Bending over the sleeping Lucille, he thought he noticed the trace of
tears on her cheek. Utterly perplexed, he stole out of the room hoping
to find some explanation from his wife, but she was snoring the snore of
the just; and on the bedroom wall facing the door was the legend
"Liberty, Fraternity, Equality--or Death."
Danton did not dare to rouse Madame; and desirous of blotting out the
words that seemed to mock him, he blew out the candle and went to bed in
the dark.
After about an hour he woke with a scream.
"What is the matter, Danton?"
"Oh, nothing, chérie, I've had a nightmare."
"No weakness, Danton."
"No, chérie."
Madame in a second or two was again snoring rhythmically, but to Danton
sleep did not return so speedily. He had been dreaming of processions;
then he thought he was in a tumbrel on the way to execution, and that
the angry crowd with threatening gestures were hurling fierce oaths at
him, and turning to escape the sight he found himself face to face with
a fellow victim--it was Lucille! Although he knew now that it was only a
nightmare, the horrible vision kept renewing itself, but merciful sleep
came to him at last, and, when he awoke again, it was the cheery voice
of the bonne offering her usual good morning to Monsieur and Madame, as
she entered the bedroom with the _petit déjeuner_.
"Good-morning, Julie," replied Madame; "long live the Republic!"
"One and indivisible," replied Julie, in a solemn voice.
Danton rubbed his eyes, and he could hardly trust his ears. Julie was in
the costume of a drummer boy of the First Republic!
"Good-morning, mamma!" sang a voice in the next room.
"Our birdie is awake," said Madame; and then, in a louder tone,
"Good-morning, dearest! Long live the Republic!"
"One and indivisible," replied Lucille, and then, "Good-morning, papa!"
"Good-morning, chérie!"
"Long live the Republic," said Lucille, gaily.
For the first time in his life the reply seemed to stick in Danton's
throat; but he got it out, "One and indivisible!" and he coughed as if
his coffee had gone against his breath. When he recovered he addressed
his wife, who had risen and pulled back the curtains of the balcony.
"Pray, Madame, will you be good enough to explain?"
"The explanation is as simple as I hope it will be gratifying," said
Madame, in the tone of a tragedy queen. "The 'Republic, one and
indivisible' has entered our house and taken possession of it. It has
entered my bosom and taken possession of it. It has entered the bosom of
Lucille and taken possession of it, and never again shall it be said
that the Villa Lucille is divided against itself. Never again shall the
scoffer say that the republicanism of Danton Martin stops outside his
hall-door. We shall silence him to-day, Danton; we shall silence the
scoffer to-day! You have asked that Lucille and I should appear on the
balcony when the procession passes. We shall be there--I, as the genius
of Liberty and Lucille as a daughter of the Republic. See," continued
Madame, as she moved towards a wardrobe, "here are my helmet, lance, and
shield, and I have also pink tights."
"Tights!" Danton was hardly able to gasp out the word. The idea of
Madame's ample figure in tights nearly took away his breath.
"Yes," Madame went on, as if she had not noticed his surprise; "but I
shall, of course, wear a little classic drapery out of respect for the
prejudices of Lucille. But see how the helmet becomes me."
She opened the wardrobe, and Danton saw the gleam of polished armour.
She donned a helmet, slipped her left arm through a shield, and, taking
a lance in her right hand, stood with her back against the wall, under
the legend of "Liberty, Fraternity, Equality--or Death."
Danton could only look; he was speechless.
"Listen, Danton, listen; do you hear the cry? 'Vive le Drapeau Rouge!'
It is the workmen who are passing. You see I have arranged the tricolour
on the balcony, so that only the red shows."
"But, my God, Madame, the Drapeau Rouge!"
"No weakness, Danton! No weakness!"
"Rub-a-dub-a-dub!"
"What is that?" demanded Danton, as he heard the sound of a drum
downstairs.
"It is Julie practising the Carmagnole."
"The what? Are you all mad?"
"There, the baker is ringing," said Madame, and passing by Danton, she
went towards the door and called out, "Two loaves, Julie; two loaves."
"And is Julie going to the baker in that costume?" shrieked Danton, and,
attired in his pyjamas, he rushed downstairs.
"Mille diables!" he yelled, as he pulled back Julie from the hall-door.
"To the kitchen, hussy."
But Julie, lightly tapping the drum, sped upstairs to her mistress.
"Good-morning, Monsieur," said the baker, "long live the Republic."
"Two loaves," replied Danton. "I am busy to-day, Monsieur," he added, to
explain his brusqueness and stop further conversation.
"Ah, yes, Monsieur Danton, you will soon have to go to the Mairie. I
shall go up there myself when I shall have delivered my bread. It will
be a great day for the procession. 'Vive le Drapeau Rouge!'" And the
baker waved his hand towards the balcony as Danton almost shut the door
in his face.
Danton flung the loaves on the table in the hall, and again hearing the
tap of a drum, this time from above, he bounded upstairs and rushed into
the bedroom. There was Julie beating the drum, Lucille standing beside
her in a white linen costume, sash a little below her knees, and wearing
a Phrygian cap. Next her, and towering over her, was majestic Madame.
Danton was beside himself. Forgetting that he had no slippers on, he
kicked viciously at the drum, as he yelled to Julie to leave the room.
"To your bedroom, mademoiselle," he cried to Lucille, who was only too
glad to slip away. He confronted Madame, "It is time to put an end to
this pantomime, Madame."
"Pantomime! They are quite in earnest in the street, Monsieur. Listen,
there is no mistaking the sincerity of that cry. Hear the workmen as
they pass, 'Vive le Drapeau Rouge.'"
"And you have really folded the tricolour!" exclaimed Danton, who,
extreme as he was, was not yet prepared to substitute the red flag for
the tricolour.
"And why not," replied Madame; "I think of your ancestors, Danton; of
him who dipped his handkerchief in the blood of Monsieur Veto; think of
him who----"
"My ancestors be hanged!" cried Danton.
"They richly deserved it, I have no doubt," replied Madame; "but what
would they say at 'Le Vieux Corsaire' if they heard you speak in that
fashion?"
"But, Madame, you cannot mean to be present in that guise on the
balcony?"
"Of course not, this is my robe de nuit. I have not yet put on the
tights."
"But it is impossible for me to believe it, Madame."
"If seeing is believing, you will believe it, Monsieur, this costume
will do for the present," and Madame, without more ado, proceeded to
unlock the glass door opening on the balcony, and was apparently in the
act of stepping out when Danton managed to get between her and it.
"Madame! Madame! you cannot mean this! Augustine! Augustine! Chérie!"
There was no mistaking the tenderness of his tone.
Madame took her hand from the lock.
"Ah, Danton, Danton, why did you ever allow 'Le Vieux Corsaire' to come
between you and me--married these twenty years. I, proud of my husband
always, and he, I think, had no reason to be ashamed of me."
"My love! My pride! My noble Augustine! Nothing shall come between us."
"But it has, Danton. Your 'Vieux Corsaire,' and your 'Drapeau Rouge,'
and your 'mangeurs de prêtres'--you have brought it all between you and
me and between our child and her happiness."
"Down with the 'Drapeau Rouge!' Augustine, let me disarrange that fatal
flag," and he ran to the balcony, and, with a few deft and rapid tugs,
drew out the blue folds and the white folds from the festoon of bunting
until the balcony was gay at every point with the hues of the orthodox
and veritable tricolour. Then he rushed back into the room, his arms
outspread, his eyes streaming, his breast panting, a little geyser and
volcano of emotion.
"Come to my bosom, my Augustine! Lucille, where art thou?"
Lucille ran to him.
"Thy father is an ogre. Oh, no, no; no more! Thou shalt have thy
lieutenant, the choice of thine own heart, my child, and thy father's
blessing a thousand thousand times. Nothing shall come between us again,
Augustine. Thy Danton is thine, and thine only--thine and Lucille's."
"Thou wilt not mind what they will say at the 'Vieux Corsaire,'"
murmured Madame between her sobs.
"Vieux diable! Vieux sac-à-papier. No more cares thy Danton what
they say. Que mon nom soit flétri--là bas--que mes chéries soient
heureuses!"
"That's my good Danton," said Madame, wiping her eyes with her
handkerchief and disengaging her ample form from the little man's fond
embrace.
"Then Madame will wear to-day the black passementerie instead of the
costume Ninth Thermidor," said Julie, the bonne, discreetly at the door.
"Yes, Julie, we will witness the procession this morning, clothed in our
right clothes--and in our right mind, eh, my Danton."
"Mon chou!"
* * * * *
There was a wedding shortly afterwards at the Church of Notre Dame de
Merploer which gave great scandal at the Vieux Corsaire. The ceremony
even included a nuptial sermon from the curé. But Danton Martin never
turned up afterwards--then or ever again--to be scourged with the
merited scorn of his fellow philosophers. They agreed that he had fallen
under the tyranny of the "jupon."
SEALY, BRYERS & WALKER'S
Newest Publications.
=Legends and Poems.= By John Keegan. Now First Collected. Edited by
the late Very Rev. J. Canon O'Hanlon, M.R.I.A. With Memoir by D. J.
O'Donoghue. Crown 8vo, cloth. 586 pages. 3s. 6d.
=By the Barrow River and other Stories.= By Edmund Leamy. With a
Foreword by Katharine Tynan. Portrait of Author. Crown 8vo, cloth.
3s. 6d.
=A Celtic Fireside.= Stories of Rural Irish Life. By Thomas M.
Flynn. Crown 8vo, paper cover. 1s.
=The Story of Our Lord for Children.= By Katharine Tynan. With
commendatory letter of His Eminence Cardinal Logue. Eight full page
illustrations. Small 8vo, cloth, extra gilt. 1s.
=SEALY, BRYERS & WALKER=,
94, 95 & 96 Middle Abbey Street,
DUBLIN.
THE IRISH
LIBRARY OF FICTION.
PRICE SIXPENCE EACH.
By
Told in the Twilight. ROBERT CROMIE.
When Strong Wills Clash. ANNIE COLLINS.
By the Stream of Killmeen. SEUMAS O'KELLY.
The Doctor's Locum-Tenens. LIZZIE C. REID
Sweet Nelly O'Flaherty. T. A. BREWSTER.
Stormy Hall. M. L. THOMPSON.
The Humours of a Blue Devil in the Isle of
Saints. ALAN WARRANER.
The Gaels of Moondharrig. Rev. J. B. DOLLARD.
The Enchanted Portal. MARY LOWRY.
As the Mist Resembles the Rain. RUBY M. DUGGAN.
Bully Hayes, Blackbirder. JOHN G. ROWE.
The Machinations of Cissy. MRS. B. PATTISSON.
Some Famous Stories. For Seaside or Fireside;
For Land or Sea.
Cathair Conroi, and Other Tales. J. J. DOYLE.
The Surprising Adventures of My Friend
Patrick Dempsey. R. H. WRIGHT.
SEALY, BRYERS & WALKER,
94, 95 & 96 Middle Abbey Street,
DUBLIN.
Books Relating to Ireland.
=Ireland's Ancient Schools and Scholars.= By the Most Rev. Dr.
Healy, Archbishop of Tuam. Royal 8vo. 7s. 6d.
=Ireland under Elizabeth.= By Don Philip O'Sullivan Beare. Demy 8vo.
7s. 6d.
=History of Ireland.= From the earliest times, to 1782. By Rev. E.
A. D'Alton, M.R.I.A. With Maps and Plans. 2 Volumes, 8vo. 24s. net.
=The Irish before the Conquest.= By Lady Ferguson. Crown 8vo. 5s.
=Types of Celtic Life and Art.= By F. R. Montgomery Hitchcock, M.A.
Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d.
=Elizabethan Ireland, Native and English.= By G. B. O'Connor. With
Coloured Map of Ireland, made by John Norden, between 1609 and 1611.
Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d.
=The Foundation of the Hospital and Free School of Charles II.,
Oxmantown, Dublin, commonly called the Blue Coat School.= By Sir F.
R. Falkiner, K.C. With Portraits and Illustrations. Royal 8vo. 7s.
6d.
=The History and Antiquities of the Diocese of Ossory.= By Rev.
William Carrigan, M.R.I.A. 4 Volumes, 4to. With Illustrations,
Portraits and Maps. 42s. net.
=The Lays of the Western Gael.= By Sir Samuel Ferguson. With
Portrait. Crown 8vo. 1s.
=Art and Ireland.= By Robert Elliott. With Preface by Edward Martyn.
Illustrated. Crown 8vo. 5s.
=Notable Irishwomen.= By C. J. Hamilton. Illustrated with Portraits.
Crown 8vo. 3s. 6d.
=A History of the County Dublin.= The People, Parishes, and
Antiquities, from the Earliest Time to the Close of the Eighteenth
Century. By Francis Elrington Ball. With Illustrations and Maps.
Parts I., II., III., IV. Demy 8vo. 5s. each.
=Early Haunts of Oliver Goldsmith.= By Very Rev. Dean Kelly,
M.R.I.A. Illustrated. Crown 8vo. 2s. 6d.
=Dromana--The Memoirs of an Irish Family.= By Thérèse Muir
MacKenzie. Illustrated. Crown 8vo. 5s. net.
=Hibernian Nights' Entertainment.= By Sir Samuel Ferguson. In three
Volumes. Crown 8vo. 3s.
SEALY, BRYERS & WALKER,
94, 95 & 96 Middle Abbey Street, DUBLIN.
Transcriber's note
Text in italics has been surrounded with _underscores_, and in bold with
=signs=. Small capitals have been changed to all capitals.
Errors in punctuation and spacing have been corrected silently,
but in stories with a narrator where the quotation marks are partly or
entirely missing, they have not been added. Also the following changes
have been made, on page
19 "heartstone" changed to "hearthstone" (the crackling fire upon
the hearthstone lighting the faces)
27 "occured" changed to "occurred" (It occurred to me to turn into)
69 "tho" changed to "the" (he should excite the curiosity of the
maiden)
70 "tho" and "tbe" changed to "the" (overcome by the weary journey
and the hospitality)
72 "exclamed" changed to "exclaimed" (suddenly exclaimed the last
come guest)
122 "O'More" changed to "O'Moore" (and Rory O'Moore,' was his reply.)
211 "Glasson" changed to "Jephson" (very strong affection for Ralph
Jephson)
239 "Willaim" changed to "William" (that he, William, should get
sick of jail fever).
Otherwise the original has been preserved, including inconsistencies in
spelling and hyphenation.