took a voyage to reëstablish my health; and, when I returned, I spent
a week in the same house with General Dusantoy and his wife. It was
heroic on my part; but I could stay no longer, and I have never seen
them since. And now you understand, _chère contesse_, why I have never
married."
"I understand for the past? Yes," said Mathilde, rising from her seat;
"but the future"--her sentence terminated in a shrug.
The last rays of sunlight were gilding the head of the statue on the
lawn; the priest had closed his book, and, with the swift, noiseless
tread of his order, had glided from the garden; the melancholy soldier
had girded his sword about him, after leaving its dimensions gracefully
reproduced on the bench where he sat, and had followed the priest; the
evening air was damp and chill, and Victor drew Mathilde's shawl around
her with tender care.
"You are tired, dear Mathilde," said Victor. "You are pale; I have
wearied you with my long stories, _Appuyez vous bien sur moi_," and he
drew her arm through his, as they turned their steps homeward.
"You have made me so happy to-day!" said Victor, as they approached
the house of the countess. "Will you give me some souvenir of this
afternoon,--the ribbon that you wear?"
"We will make an exchange then," said Mathilde, laughingly, as she
handed the ribbon. "I will give a ribbon for the flowers in your
button-hole; and we will see who is most true to their colors."
A passionate pressure of the hand and a lingering kiss on Mathilde's
primrose gloves were the only reply, and they parted. The delicate odor
of the primrose gloves lingered with Victor, as he sauntered homeward
in the dim twilight. The earnest, almost appealing, look of Mathilde,
as he parted from her, haunted him.
"Could I ever forget and be happy?" he asked of himself. The very idea
seemed to him an unpardonable infidelity,--a culpable forgetfulness of
past memories, which lowered him in his own estimation. At the corner
of the Rue Arc en Ciel he encountered Mlle. Lisa, hanging contentedly
on the arm of Ulysse. Poor François and his flowers were forgotten at
that moment, and Lisa had abandoned herself to the delights of allaying
a jealousy successfully roused in the heart of the gallant Ulysse by
her recent tactics.
"_Mon colonel_," said Ulysse, "a lady has called twice to see you in
your absence. The last time she waited a long while in your room, and
finally left a note, which she said was important and must be handed to
you at once."
"A lady! Who can it be? My venerable maiden aunt, I suppose," said
Victor, shrugging his shoulders, "who has lost her vicious, snarling
poodle,--a wretched brute that always bites my legs, when I dare to
venture them in my aunt's snuff-colored saloon, and that I am expected
to find for her now, by virtue of my name of Villefort."
"The lady is young, handsome, and in widow's weeds," said Ulysse, half
in reply to his colonel's muttered soliloquy, as he ran before him and
vanished into the court-yard of No. 29, in search of the note.
The twilight deepened and thickened on the silent little street. The
oil lamp, hanging from the rope at the corner, was lighted, but its
feeble rays only penetrated a short distance, leaving the rest wrapt
in mystery and gloom, and the gate opening from the Contesse d'Hivry's
garden, François' portal of happiness, through which he passed into the
blissful presence of his Lisa, was scarcely discernible. The evening
was clear and fine, however, the stars were beginning to glimmer in the
sky, and a faint band of light in the east was growing every moment
into glistening silver, under the rays of the coming moon.
After parting with Victor, Mathilde entered the _salon_, and, throwing
herself languidly into a chair, recalled with feminine minuteness the
events and conversation of the afternoon, until oppressed with the
light and warmth of the house, she sought refuge in the cool air of the
_balcon_, and, leaning on the balustrade, looked dreamily through the
honeysuckle vines at the parterres and lawn beyond. The meditations of
the countess, however, were not exclusively romantic, in spite of the
languid grace of her attitude, and the poetic abstraction of her gaze.
She was fortifying herself against an attack of imprudent tenderness,
by sternly picturing to herself all the practical disadvantages of
a marriage of inclination. Could she incur the lasting displeasure
of her aunt and uncle by marrying any one save her cousin Armand?
Could she sacrifice the half of her fortune, which was the penalty of
such a caprice of the heart, and sink into comparative poverty? The
souvenir of a single phrase, however, in the tender inflection of a
manly voice,--"_Appuyez vous bien sur moi_," was ever present to her
memory quickening the beatings of her heart, and bringing the warm
blood to her cheeks. The moon had risen, pouring a flood of silver
light over François' roses, and the pots of cactus on the garden-wall.
The countess strolled into the garden, and, fancying that she heard a
whispered conversation proceeding from the little gate leading into the
Rue Arc en Ciel, she turned her footsteps in that direction.
"Is that you, Lisa?" asked the countess, rightly suspecting that the
muslin dress, fluttering in the moonlight, could belong to none other
than the daughter of the worthy Mme. Ledru, and that she was about to
surprise a _tête-à-tête_ between the coquettish Lisa, and her gardener,
the enamored François.
"Yes, madame," said Lisa, "can I be of any service?"
The countess shared poor François' partiality for Lisa. Her bright
eyes and shining hair were pleasant to look at, and her quick wit
and cheerful voice made her a nice companion, and then she enjoyed
the inestimable privilege of living in the same house with Victor de
Villefort. Perhaps some bit of intelligence concerning him would escape
her,--whatever it might be, Mathilde knew that it would be of thrilling
interest to her. If there was to be a morning-parade the following
day, Mathilde would go to the _Terrain de Manoeuvre_, to see her hero
"_en grande tenue_," in the staff of the General.
"What a beautiful moonlight, Lisa! Will you walk with me towards the
lake? Fetch my shawl first from the house."
"Here it is, madame," said Lisa, quite breathless, as she returned with
the shawl, and wrapped it around Mathilde. François unbarred the gate
and they stepped into the street.
"I should like to know, madame, what has befallen the Colonel de
Villefort this evening," said Lisa, divining with tact the role she was
destined to play.
"What has happened?" asked Mathilde, with ill-feigned unconcern.
"We cannot imagine, madame. But this afternoon, during the absence of
Colonel de Villefort, a lady in deep mourning, young and handsome,
called to see him. Finding that he was not at home, she left a note
for him, and when the colonel read it, he was wild with excitement,
and called to Ulysse for his horse. The horse was lame, and not fit
for use, and the colonel swore, for the first time, I think since he
has been in our house. That is saying a great deal for a _militaire_,
madame. Ulysse has never seen the lady before. The colonel never
receives any lady but his aunt the Marquise de Villefort, and that is
also saying a great deal for a _militaire_,--is it not, madame?"
"Well, did he get a horse?" asked Mathilde, with a severity which
astonished Lisa, in the unconsciousness of her childish babble.
"Yes, madame; there is the horse of a queer baron, who lives with us,
who often puts his horse at the disposal of Monsieur le Colonel. The
horse stumbles too, but the colonel mounted him and rode off in furious
haste."
"Who can she be?" asked the countess with an anxiety impossible to
repress. "Did he take this direction when he rode away?"
"Yes, madame, he rode toward the lake. But take care, take care,
madame!" shrieked Lisa, as the furious clatter of a horse's hoofs on
the pavement warned her of danger. They had barely time to take refuge
in an open door-way, before a riderless horse dashed past them.
"'Tis the baron's horse,--and the colonel, madame. _Mon Dieu! Mon
Dieu!_ What has become of him? Let me run for Ulysse."
"And I will go on to the lake," said the countess; "perhaps."
"Not alone, madame," exclaimed Lisa.
But the countess had already disappeared under the shadow of the
houses, and Lisa, equally fleet of foot, vanished in the opposite
direction, in search of Ulysse. Mathilde hurried on,--whither she knew
not. A blind instinct stronger than reason warned her that delay would
be fatal, and that the life, grown to be so precious in her eyes, was
awaiting her coming, flickering and failing, perhaps, as it hovered
near death, which was for her to avert. She redoubled her pace, and
flew through the silent street, where she had passed but a few hours
before leaning on Victor's arm. She saw the lake before her, calm and
silvery. There was a hill to descend, and at the foot, by the side of
the lake, was a loose pile of stones. She sprang forward to pick up
something in the road. It was a riding-whip which she knew well and had
handled a hundred times. For an instant she was motionless, her head
swam, and her eyes closed to shut out the sight of a prostrate form,
lying at her feet so still and calm in the white moonlight. She knew
that, too. She knew well the blonde hair stained with blood, trickling
from a wound near the temple; and with a wild cry for help, Mathilde
raised the head, half-buried in mud and water, and gazed despairingly
at the closed eyes and rigid features of Victor de Villefort.
III.
The autumn days had come again, and the sun shone on heaps of dried
brown leaves, which went whirling about in the Rue Arc en Ciel, with
every gust of wind. Mlle. Lisa was in her accustomed seat in the
door-way, No. 29, with shining hair and rosy cheeks, absorbed in the
customary knitting, but still capable of casting sly glances in the
direction whence François or Ulysse might finally appear. She was not
fated to languish long in solitude, for the faithful François, never
sufficiently confident of his personal attractions to present himself
empty-handed before the object of his admiration, was soon standing by
her side, fortified with a propitiatory offering of grapes.
"O François," exclaimed Lisa, "how glad I am to see you! Has Mme. la
Contesse really gone?"
"Yes, she has gone," replied François. "Monsieur Armand and the aunt of
madame have accompanied her. But you should have seen her pale face,
all covered with tears. It would have made you weep, too, Mlle. Lisa,
for it made me. Just think, mademoiselle, she never once tasted of the
grapes that I picked for her this morning, and placed so neatly in a
little basket."
And poor François groaned audibly over this conclusive proof of the
countess's changed and melancholy condition.
"Ah, poor madame, she has been so ill! But why did she go, then?" asked
Lisa.
"Monsieur Armand and her aunt told her that she would never get well
here, and that she needed change of air, and so they hurried her
away,--only giving her time to write a few lines to your colonel, whose
life is not worth saving, if he cannot love Mme. la Contesse. Here is
the packet for Colonel de Villefort."
"Yes, it was very brave and good of madame," said Lisa, "to find
the colonel, and to pull his head out of the water. He must have
suffocated, so says the doctor, if madame had not found him when
she did. But there is some mystery about the handsome lady in deep
mourning. I know who she is. She is the widow of General Dusantoy, who
lately died in Algiers; and she came every day to inquire for Colonel
de Villefort, when he was not expected to live; but since he is better,
I have seen no more of her."
"Well, I will say again," said François, "that if your colonel finds
the lady handsomer and better than Mme. la Contesse, then madame had
better left his head in the water."
Whilst Victor and his affairs were thus discussed below-stairs with
the intelligence and fairness usually developed in such discussions,
he sat in his room above, pale and thin, the shadow of his former
self,--twisting his blonde mustache, and gazing moodily through the
window at distant hills, all brown and yellow with autumn leaves
and autumn sunlight. His meditations were far from cheerful. People
were perpetually saving his life. Here was a new dilemma: Pauline
free once more,--free and true to her early love. Happiness once
more in his grasp; but Mathilde--was not his honor half-engaged, as
were his feelings a few weeks since? Could he so readily forget all
that had passed between them, and all that he owed her? Could he
repay the debt of his life by vapid excuses or by cold desertion? He
gazed mechanically at colored prints of Abelard and Heloise, hanging
side by side on the wall, and hoped that inspiration, or at least
consolation, might descend on him from these victims of unhappy
passion. But in Abelard's face he looked in vain for anything beyond
conceited pedantry, and Heloise was too much absorbed in her own mighty
resignation to trouble herself concerning the woes of others. A tap at
the door roused him at last from this unprofitable contemplation, and
in reply to his "_entrez_," the bright face of Mlle. Lisa appeared at
the open door.
"_Bon jour_, monsieur; here is a letter from Mme. la Contesse d'Hivry,
who has gone this morning with her aunt and Monsieur Armand," and Lisa
paused to notice the effect of her abrupt announcement.
"Gone!" said Victor, with unfeigned astonishment. "Where has she gone?"
But Lisa observed that the hand of the colonel, as he opened the
packet, was, in spite of recent illness, ominously steady, and that the
surprise naturally occasioned by the news of the countess's departure
was quite unmingled with the grief and despair which mademoiselle had
kindly hoped to evoke. If she had dared, however, to remain until the
opening of the packet, her curiosity and interest would have been
rewarded by observing Victor's start of pained surprise as a faded
flower fell from the open letter, and his sigh of genuine regret as
the memory of the last happy day passed with Mathilde d'Hivry came to
him in full force, effacing, for the moment, all trace of his recent
reflections, and investing the image of Mathilde with all the poetical
charm of an unattainable dream of happiness. She was no longer an
obstacle in the fulfilment of his life-long hopes,--hopes persistently
cherished, yet cruelly baffled. He looked wistfully at the faded
flower as he crushed it in his hand, and recalled their last parting,
and though the souvenirs of the day--the flower from his button-hole,
and the ribbon which she had worn--had been lightly exchanged and
laughingly given, he knew well that the worthless relic, which he now
crumbled into dust and threw from the window, would have been tenderly
kept and treasured in good faith, had his destiny so willed it. Victor
turned sadly to the letter which lay before him, in Mathilde's delicate
writing. It began cheerfully enough, however, as her letters were wont
to do.
"I cannot leave you, dear Victor, without a word of parting, and I fear
that a personal interview between invalids, like ourselves, might not
conduce to our mutual recovery. In my own case, absolute change of air
and scene are ordered, together with perfect quiet and rest. The one is
easily gained by going to Italy; but do we ever attain the other? or
would we attain it, if we could? When we next meet, for we must meet
some day, _mon ami_, we shall know, by looking in each other's eyes,
how obedient we have been to our physician's advice, and how great
has been its efficacy. The climate of Paris will heal in your case,
dear Victor, all that time has left unhealed, and I shall prepare for
your coming, by making a visit of explanations as well as of adieus.
Lest you find this enigmatical, I must explain, that certain rumors
concerning us, so rife in our little town, have reached the ears of
one who daily awaits you in Paris. I shall see Pauline Dusantoy, and
dissipate all doubts, by announcing my immediate departure for Italy. I
send you a faded rose-bud, which you may remember in all its freshness,
and which I have no heart to throw away. But you know how jealous
Armand is. Adieu, dear Victor, my hope in the future is, that the life
which I have just seen trembling on the brink of eternity, may be
crowned with full and perfect happiness. Adieu."
* * * * *
Colonel de Villefort was still weak and easily moved, and a choking
sensation in the throat made him quite uncomfortable, as he placed
carefully in a little drawer the letter which he had just read. He was
still haunted by a wistful look of soft and winning eyes, and he seemed
to hear the whispered adieu of a silvery voice, whose pure tones had so
often charmed and soothed him. Is the adieu eternal? he asked himself.
I think not, for I want no nobler and truer friend for my Pauline
than the Contesse d'Hivry, and Pauline will hold sacred as myself the
debt of gratitude due to the woman who has saved my life. But the
idea of marrying Monsieur Armand! To be sure he is handsome, rich,
well-connected, and has a certain charm in conversation, but quite
incapable of appreciating so noble a being as Mathilde; and then what
want of taste on her part! Victor's impatience was changing rapidly
into indignation, at the thought of the Contesse d'Hivry presuming to
marry, or trying to be happy, when another knock at the door changed
the current of his thoughts. This time it was Ulysse and not Lisa
who was the bearer of a letter, covered with armorial bearings, and
addressed with many flourishes to Colonel de Villefort.
"What does the German baron want now?" said Victor, with an impatient
shrug as he glanced at the writing, "after breaking my neck with his
wretched brute of a horse? He sends many compliments of congratulation
to Monsieur le Colonel for his rapid recovery after the deplorable
accident, etc., etc., etc. And as he understands that Monsieur le
Colonel contemplates a visit to Paris, the moment that his health
permits, may Monsieur le Baron hope for his gracious intercession
in his behalf, that he may at last receive the reward of merit, the
much-desired cross of the Legion of Honor. Just as I supposed," said
Victor, laughing. "It would save me much trouble and mental agony to
give him mine, only I remember that Pauline has a weakness for these
baubles."
"_Mon colonel_, may I say a word?" asked Ulysse, awkwardly, turning the
door-knob to keep himself in countenance. "Mlle. Lisa"--
"Is that the word, my good Ulysse?" said Victor, waiting in vain for
Ulysse to complete his sentence. "I understand that you should think
it the only word worth uttering, and I think you quite right. There is
only poor François, who may object to have his heart broken. Lisa is a
nice girl, and I have promised her that you should not leave me."
"Thank you, _Mon colonel_," said Ulysse, glowing with exultation and
triumphant pride.
"Now pack my portmanteau. I shall go to Paris to-morrow in the early
train."
THE ROMANCE OF A WESTERN TRIP.
THE ROMANCE OF A WESTERN TRIP.
[Illustration]
The two following letters, received by me in the year 1852, will
explain themselves.
"MY DEAR W----: When I left you at the depot in Boston, and was
whirled away westward, I knew not from what point I should address
you. I promised you, on the last evening that we passed together, that
from time to time I would, for your delectation, give you an account
of any adventure I might chance to meet with in my wanderings; as,
also, to try my hand at pen-and-ink sketches of men and manners.
"Could you appreciate my surroundings, you would give me credit for
a truthful adherence to my word. As to where I am at this present
writing, I cannot say. In order to understand why I make so strange
a statement, I must begin my story some weeks back, and narrate an
incident that befell me, and led to the penning of this epistle.
"The month of May, in our northern climate, needs no laudation as to
its charms; and, after a sojourn of many years in your crowded city,
I was fully prepared to appreciate all the beauty of this spring-time
among the wilds of Michigan. Therefore, after leaving Detroit for
the interior, I soon found (as the days were growing much warmer)
that it would be wisdom for me to discard most of the luggage with
which I had encumbered myself; as, by so doing, I could, as it were,
cut loose from dependence upon vehicles of all descriptions; and,
when my desires pointed that way, or a necessity arose, I could make
use of those powers of locomotion with which nature has endowed me.
Therefore, at the termination of the stage-route at H----, I selected
a few indispensable articles, and, transferring them to a knapsack,
sent back my trunk to an acquaintance at Detroit, with a request to
hold it subject to my order, and prepared myself for rough travelling
in the interior, or, as a New Englander would denominate it, 'the
backwoods.'