HOME PLEASURES.
Several days have passed since the traveller fell into the trap Captain
Russell and his companion had set for him, and we must beg the reader to
accompany us to a pretty cottage in the little village of Lionville,
about four miles from Havre.
A bracing and salubrious climate, a country which is at the same time
fertile and picturesque, fine trees, luxuriant turf, and a superb view
of the ocean, make Lionville a veritable paradise to persons who love
peace and quiet and opportunities for solitary meditation.
At that time, as in many other towns and villages, great and small, the
absence of young men was particularly noticeable, the last wars of the
Empire having summoned to the defence of the flag nearly all who were
young and able-bodied, until a young man of twenty-five who had remained
a civilian, unless he was a hunchback, or crippled, was almost as rare a
phenomenon as the phoenix or a white crow.
Lionville possessed one of these rarities in the shape of a handsome
young man not over twenty-four years of age, but we must make haste to
say that he did not seem in the least inclined to take advantage of his
position, for he led a very retired life, quite as much from preference
as from any other reason.
This young man was one of the inmates of the pleasant, cheerful home to
which we have already alluded, and several days after the traveller had
been victimised by the pretended postilion a middle-aged woman, a young
girl, and this young man (the phoenix referred to) were assembled one
evening in a pretty, comfortably furnished drawing-room. A good fire was
blazing on the hearth, for the evenings were still cool, and a shaded
lamp diffused a soft light through the apartment, while the tea-kettle,
standing in front of the fire, bubbled softly.
A close observer would perhaps have noticed that most of the ornaments
and articles of luxury were of English origin, in spite of the stern
prohibition against the importation of English goods which then
prevailed on the continent. The same might be said of the handsome
silver tea-service, no two pieces of which were alike, however, a ducal
coronet surmounting the massive hot-water urn and a knight's crest
adorning the teapot, while an unpretending initial was engraved upon the
sugar-bowl, though it was none the less brilliant on that account.
The middle-aged woman had a frank, intelligent, cheerful face. She was
at least forty-two years old, but her hair was still black, her
complexion fresh, her teeth white, and her eyes bright; in short, this
worthy dame still attracted plenty of admiring glances when, arrayed in
a handsome bonnet of English lace, a gown of English tissue, and a
Paisley shawl of the finest texture, she accompanied her youthful charge
to the village church.
The young girl in question was seventeen, tall, slender, extremely
delicate in appearance, and endowed or rather afflicted with an
extremely nervous and impressionable temperament. This extreme
sensibility or susceptibility was at least partially due to, or perhaps
we should say, had been greatly aggravated by a terrible event which
occurred many years before, and which had had the effect of rendering
her excessively timid. It would be difficult to find a more pleasing and
attractive face than hers, however, and when, yielding to the
uncontrollable fear which the most trivial incident sometimes excited,
she arched her slender neck, and listened pantingly, breathlessly, with
her graceful attitude and large wondering, frightened eyes, she reminded
one of a startled gazelle. By reason of this nervous and extremely
sensitive temperament, probably, the young girl had not the brilliant
colouring of sturdy health, but was usually very pale, though every
passing emotion brought a delicate rose tint to her cheek, and then her
charming face, framed in a wealth of bright chestnut hair, seemed
radiant with the glowing beauty of youth. True, with a more vivid
colouring and fuller contour, she might have been much more attractive
to many persons, but much of the charm of her expressive features and
delicate loveliness would have been lost.
The last of the three persons assembled in the cosy parlour was the
phoenix to whom allusion has been made, that is to say, a handsome
young man who had not been summoned to the defence of the flag.
This phoenix was twenty-five years old, of medium height, slender, but
admirably formed, with a frank expression and regular features, though a
tinge of slightly deprecating embarrassment was apparent both in his
face and manner, the result of the infirmity which had exempted him from
military service. In short, the young man's sight was very poor, so
poor, indeed, that he could scarcely see to move about; besides, by
reason of some organic peculiarity, he could derive no assistance from
glasses, and though his large brown eyes were clear and well-shaped,
there was something vague and uncertain in their gaze, and sometimes
when the poor myope, after having turned quickly, as if to look at you,
remembered, alas! with bitter sadness, that three yards from him every
person and object became unrecognisable, the expression of his face was
almost heartrending.
Still, it must be admitted that the consequences of the young man's
infirmity were sometimes so amusing as to excite mirth rather than
compassion; and it is needless to say that the middle-aged lady was
keenly alive to all that was ludicrous in her youthful relative's
blunders--for the relationship existing between them was that of nephew
and aunt,--while the young girl, on the contrary, seemed to sympathise
deeply with the oftentimes painful position of the half-blind man.
The young girl was embroidering, and her governess or housekeeper
knitting, while the young man, with the last issue of the _Journal of
the Empire_ held close to his eyes, was reading the latest news aloud,
and informing his readers of the Duc de Reggio's departure to take
command of the army.
The housekeeper, hearing a brisk bubbling sound accompanied with several
little jets of steam from the kettle, said to her nephew:
"The water is boiling, Onésime. Pour some into the urn, but pray be
careful."
Onésime laid his paper on the table, rose, and started toward the hearth
with dire misgivings which were more than justified. He knew, alas! that
his path was full of snares and pitfalls, for there was an armchair
standing on his left to be avoided, then a small round table to the
right of him, and this Scylla and Charybdis avoided, he had to step over
a small footstool near the hearth before he could seize the boiling
kettle. Consequently, one can easily understand the extreme prudence
with which Onésime started on his mission. One outstretched hand warning
him of the close proximity of the armchair on his left, he avoided that
obstacle, but he was almost on the point of running against the table
before his other hand discovered danger of a second shipwreck, and he
was inwardly rejoicing at having reached the fireplace without mishap,
when he stumbled over the footstool. In his efforts to regain his
equilibrium he took a step or two backwards, and, coming in violent
contact with the table, overturned it with a loud crash.
For several minutes the young girl had been absorbed in a profound
reverie. Rudely awakened from it by the noise made by the falling table,
ignorant of the cause of the commotion, and unable to overcome her fear,
she uttered a cry of terror and sank back in her chair, trembling like a
leaf.
"Don't be frightened, my dear," cried the housekeeper. "It is another of
Onésime's escapades, that is all. Calm yourself, my child."
The young girl, on discovering the cause of the commotion, deeply
regretted having increased her unfortunate friend's embarrassment, so,
striving to overcome the nervous trembling that had seized her, she
said:
"Forgive me, my dear friend. How silly I am, but you know I never seem
to be able to conquer this absurd nervousness."
"Poor child, it is no fault of yours! Are you not the one who suffers
most from it? Surely there is no necessity for apologising to us,
especially as but for my nephew's awkwardness--"
"No, no, I am the culprit," interrupted the young girl. "To be so
childish at my age is disgraceful."
The unfortunate young man, distressed beyond measure at his mishap,
stammered a few incoherent words of apology, then set the table on its
feet again, shoved the footstool aside, and, seizing the tea-kettle,
started to pour the water into the urn, when his aunt exclaimed:
"Don't attempt that, for Heaven's sake! You are so awkward, you will be
sure to make a mess of it."
Onésime, deeply mortified and anxious to atone for his former blunder,
persisted, nevertheless, and, lifting the cover of the urn, began to
pour the water from the kettle with his right hand, while his left
rested on the edge of the table. But unfortunately his eyes played him
false as usual, and he began pouring the contents of the tea-kettle
down one side of the urn, instead of into the opening, covering his left
hand with boiling water and burning it frightfully.
He manifested a truly heroic stoicism, however. But for the slight start
caused by the sudden and intense suffering, he gave no sign, and,
conscious now of the mistake he had made, finally managed to fill the
urn, after which he said, gently:
"The urn is filled, aunt. Shall I make the tea? Mademoiselle will take a
cup, perhaps."
"What! you have actually filled the urn without any fresh catastrophe?
You really ought to have a leather medal, my dear," laughed his aunt.
"Don't pay any attention to what she says, M. Onésime," interposed the
young girl. "Your aunt takes such delight in teasing you that I feel it
my duty to come to your assistance. And now will you be kind enough to
give me a cup of tea?"
"No, no, don't you dare to think of such a thing!" exclaimed the
housekeeper, laughing. "You will be sure to break one of these pretty
pink and white cups monsieur brought us the last time he came home."
But Onésime gave the lie to his aunt's gloomy prognostications, by
bringing the cup of tea to the young girl without spilling a drop, and
was rewarded by a gentle "Thank you, M. Onésime," accompanied with her
sweetest smile. But the sad, almost imploring expression in the young
man's eyes, as he turned toward her, touched her deeply.
"Alas!" she said to herself, "he does not even see that I am smiling at
him. He always seems to be asking you to have patience with his
infirmity."
This thought grieved her so much that the older woman noticed the fact,
and asked:
"What is the matter, my child? You look sad."
Hearing his aunt's words, Onésime turned anxiously to the young girl, as
if trying to read the expression of her face, while she, embarrassed by
the housekeeper's remark, answered:
"You are mistaken, I am not in the least sad; but just now when you
spoke of my father it reminded me that he ought to have reached home
several days ago."
"Surely you are not going to torment yourself about that, my child. Is
this the first time your father has failed to arrive at the appointed
time?"
"It worries me, nevertheless."
"Dear me! There isn't the slightest doubt that business has detained
him. Do you suppose that a man who acts as the business agent of a
number of big factories can tell the exact hour at which he will be able
to return home? An opportunity to make a large sale sometimes presents
itself just as he is about to start, and he is obliged to remain. Only a
couple of months ago, just before he went away, he said to me: 'I am
determined my daughter shall be rich. A couple more trips like the last,
and I will never leave the dear child again.'"
"Heaven grant that time may soon come," sighed the girl. "I should be
tranquil and happy if my kind and loving father were always with me. You
are tormented by so many fears when one you love is absent from you."
"Fears! fears about what, I should like to know! What risk can a quiet
merchant like monsieur run? A merchant who doesn't meddle with other
people's affairs, but travels about from town to town in a post-chaise,
to sell his goods. What risk does a man like that run? Besides, he
travels only in the daytime, and always has his clerk with him, and you
know he would go through fire and water for your father, though he
really does seem to be the most unfortunate of mortals."
"That is true. Poor man! some accident seems to befall him every time he
travels with my father."
"Yes, and why? Simply because he is the most meddlesome old creature
that ever lived, and the awkwardest. Still, that doesn't prevent him
from being a great protection to monsieur if any one should attempt to
molest him. So what have you to fear, my child?"
"Nothing."
"Think how you would feel if you had a father in the army as so many
girls have."
"I could never stand such a terrible strain as that. Why, to be always
thinking that my father was exposed to danger, to death,--why, the mere
idea of such a thing is appalling."
"Yes, my poor child, the mere idea of such a thing makes you as pale as
a ghost, and sets you to trembling like a leaf. It does not surprise me,
though, for I know how devoted you are to your father. But drive these
dreadful thoughts from your mind, and, by the way, suppose Onésime
finishes reading the paper to us."
"Certainly, if M. Onésime is not too tired."
"No, mademoiselle," replied the young man, making almost superhuman
efforts to conceal his suffering, which was becoming more and more
intolerable.
And getting the paper as close to his eyes as possible, he was preparing
to resume the reading, when he remarked:
"I think this is an article which is likely to interest mademoiselle."
"What is it about?"
"It describes the exploits of that famous Dieppe privateer, of whom
everybody is talking."
"I fear the article will be too exciting for you to-day, my dear, you
seem to be so nervous," remarked the housekeeper.
"Is it such a very blood-curdling story, M. Onésime?" inquired the girl,
smiling.
"I think not, mademoiselle, judging from the title. The article is
headed: 'Remarkable Escape of the Brave Captain l'Endurci, Who Was
Abducted from French Soil by English Emissaries.'"
"It must be very interesting. Pray read it, monsieur."
So the young man at once began to read the following account of the
brave captain's escape.