CHAPTER XXXIV

FRIENDSHIP

Henry owed his life to me!

I cannot tell with what pride I continually repeated these words:

"I have saved Henry's life."

How I blessed the fortunate chance that permitted me to prove to

Falmouth that my friendship was warm and true.

Until then, though I was entirely absorbed in my affection for him, I

felt that there was wanting some great sacrifice, which would be a

solemn consecration of my devotedness.

If my act had any value in my own eyes, it was because I should stand

higher in his. It showed me that I was capable of a generous resolution,

and reassured me on the firmness of my attachment to Falmouth.

Now, with a nature like mine, to believe in myself was to believe in

him; to think of myself as a true, warm, and devoted friend, was to

believe myself capable of inspiring true, ardent, and devoted

friendship.

I felt that intrepid confidence of the soldier who, being perfectly sure

of his conduct under fire, waits impatiently and securely for another

occasion to show his courage. The reaction of this self-reliance was so

great that it influenced even my former sentiments.

Proud of my conduct towards Falmouth, I understood that Hélène and

Marguerite had loved me for qualities they saw in me, and which I had

never discovered until now. For the first time I knew real happiness. I

at last was able to understand all the devotion these two noble beings

had bestowed on me.

An hour after the doctor left me, the door of my chamber opened, and I

saw Falmouth, who was carried in by two of his servants.

His armchair was scarcely at my bedside, before Henry threw himself in

my arms.

In this mute embrace, his head was leaning on my shoulder, and I could

feel his tears and his trembling hands; he was only able to say these

words: "Arthur,--Arthur,--my friend, my friend!"

Although this was so long ago, and black care has dimmed the radiance of

that happy day, nothing has ever wiped out the remembrance of it, which

is still vivid enough to quicken my heart's pulses and thrill me with

delight.

It would be impossible to tell with what delicacy and effusion Falmouth

expressed his gratitude. Words can never describe his accent, his look,

nor his voice.

The head winds lasted for several days longer, and prevented our

reaching Malta as soon as we had hoped.

Lord Falmouth's wound was healing rapidly, but mine was making very slow

progress towards improvement.

Henry, in the meantime, tended me with the most affectionate solicitude.

With what sad anxiety would he watch the doctor's face, when my wound

was dressed every morning! How many eager questions he would ask as to

the probable time of my recovery! How much impatience he showed when the

doctor would shorten or prolong the date.

Shall I speak of the many trifling, but charming ways in which he

revealed his affectionate thoughtfulness for my comfort, all of which I

appreciated and enjoyed?

Falmouth told me the whole story of his life, and I hid nothing from him

in relation to mine.

He was twelve years older than I; he spoke eloquently and convincingly.

He had seen much of the world, and his words began to have great weight

with me, as he spoke with singular authority.

Nothing could be more elevated or liberal than his moral or political

convictions.

I was overwhelmed with astonishment and admiration, in thus discovering,

every day, some new jewel of exquisite feeling, lofty reason, or deep

learning, under the cold and sarcastic exterior that Falmouth usually

affected.

What a surprise it was to find, under the sceptic and mocking mask of a

Byronic Don Juan, the warm and valiant heart of Schiller's Posa, with

its ardent and holy love of humanity, its sincere faith in the good. He

had the same generous faith in men, the same splendid plans for the good

of humanity.

If Falmouth now appeared to me in this new light, it was because, during

our long voyage, we had touched on all these subjects.

Until this period of my life, I had been totally indifferent to all

political questions. I now began to feel the vibration of a new chord in

my being, as, transported with indignation, Henry told me of the long

arguments he, a peer of England, had sustained in Parliament, against

the Tory party, which he considered the disgrace of his country.

It was impossible to remain unmoved before such eloquent emotion, such

keen regret as Falmouth's. He deplored the futility of his efforts, but

most of all his culpable weakness in having abandoned the contest before

his party had given up all hope of obtaining a victory.

I enter into all these details because they lead to one of the most

painful episodes in my life.

For two days Falmouth appeared to be lost in thought. Several times I

besought him to confide the subject of his preoccupation to me. He

always answered with a smile, that I was not to worry, as he was working

for both of us, and that I should very soon know the result of his

ponderings.

In fact, one morning Henry entered my room with a solemn air, gave me a

sealed letter, and said, with emotion: "Read this, my friend,--it

concerns your future, our future."

Then he pressed my hand and went out.

Here is his letter.

Here are the few simple pages, where Falmouth's noble soul revealed

itself in all its greatness.

What was my answer?

Alas! it is the most abominable of my souvenirs.

END OF VOLUME I.

ARTHUR

CONTINUED

[Illustration]

CONTENTS

LORD FALMOUTH--_Continued_

CHAPTER

I. The Letter

II. Distrust

III. The Duel

IV. The Pilot

DAPHNÉ--NOÉMI--ANATHASIA

V. The Island of Khios

VI. Days of Sunshine--The Palace

VII. Days of Sunshine--The Greek National Dance

VIII. Belief

IX. Recognition

X. Comparisons

XI. The Departure

THE PRINCESSE DE FERSEN

XII. The Alexina

XIII. The Princesse de Fersen

XIV. The Tradition

XV. The Adieux

XVI. A Minister in Love

XVII. The Tuileries

XVIII. The Bear and the Pacha

XIX. The Interview

XX. A Mission

XXI. Diplomacy

XXII. Irene

XXIII. The Grove

XXIV. Days of Sunshine

XXV. A Woman in Politics

XXVI. Society Gossip

XXVII. The Last Evening

MARIE BELMONT

XXVIII. Marie Belmont

XXIX. The Portrait

XXX. The Flight

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

"He landed me on the shore in a dying condition"

"This is a letter from the princess"

Arthur, Vol. II.

LORD FALMOUTH--Continued

ARTHUR

CHAPTER I

THE LETTER

_Lord Falmouth to Arthur._

"ON BOARD THE YACHT _Gazelle._"

13 June, 18--.

"I might have told you all that I now mean to write, dear friend, but

that I desire you to keep this letter.

"If the projects that I now propose are ever realised, we will read this

with pleasure some future day and remember that it was the

starting-point of the glorious career that I have imagined for both of

us.

"If, on the contrary, fate should separate us, these pages will remain

as the true story of the circumstances that inspired the sincere

attachment I have for you.

"The first time I met you was at a breakfast given by M. de Cernay. Your

agreeable conversation pleased me at first; then, from a peculiar habit

of thought I noticed in you, I saw that, with all your charm and

cordiality, you would remain for ever separated from your fellow men by

an unsurmountable barrier.

"From that moment I began to take a lively interest in you.

"I knew from experience that eccentric characters such as yours suffer

cruelly from the isolation to which they condemn themselves; for these

proud, sensitive, and easily offended natures can not readily assimilate

themselves with the rest of mankind,--they are constantly being wounded

or taking offence, and they instinctively create for themselves a

solitude in the midst of society.

"I left for England under the domination of such thoughts as these.

"In London I met several of your friends, who spoke in such a way as to

confirm the opinion I had formed of you.

"I found you some months after in the house of Madame de Pënâfiel, in

whom you seemed much interested.

"As at that time I shared the ill-feeling that was manifested in society

towards her, and you had not yet told me of her real worth, I was

astonished to see you, of all men, seeking happiness in a liaison with a

woman who was recognised as a flirt, for I thought that your great

susceptibility must of necessity be continually wounded in such a

relation with Madame de Pënâfiel.

"Men like you, my friend, are endowed with such extraordinary tact,

finesse, and clear-sightedness, that they are very seldom mistaken in

the women on whom they choose to bestow their affections. Is not this

true? Were not Hélène and Marguerite both worthy of your love?

Therefore, let me advise you in this much, always trust blindly in your

first impressions.

"I tell you this because I feel how much I love you, and it must be that

you instinctively love me, too.

"Pardon me this digression; let us return to the marquise.

"As long as I saw that you were happy I was only interested in you

because so much evil was said about you.

"But very soon this war that was being waged against you became so

general and violent, the calumnies were so fierce, that I began to

believe Madame de Pënâfiel was worthy of your love and that you

deserved hers. Later, you told me everything and I recognised my first

error; then came your cruel rupture.

"You have been cruelly punished for your doubts! May Heaven forgive you!

"When you asked me to assist you in helping the husband of your cousin

Hélène, the delicacy of your conduct towards him was so touching that

you took a higher place in my estimation, a profound admiration; yes, my

friend, I admired your disinterestedness more than your manner of

acting, because I had discovered that through a fatal quality in your

nature you would always find some means of belittling in your own eyes

all the merit of this generous act, and that you would not even have the

satisfaction of your own conscience.

"For a long time I have been contemplating a voyage to Greece; I saw

that you were unhappy and I believed the moment favourable to propose

that you should join me in this journey. I shrouded it in mystery in

order to excite your curiosity, and when you finally decided to

accompany me I was very happy.

"Why was I so happy, my friend? Because, without at all resembling you,

bad luck, or my own exigencies, had until now deprived me of tasting the

joys of friendship, and I felt myself drawn towards you by a great

similarity of character and mind; because I believed that this voyage

would be a useful distraction for you; and because I found in it a

precious means of binding you to me in fast and enduring bonds of

affection.

"I knew that I should have great difficulty in overcoming your distrust,

that I would have deep-rooted doubts to conquer, but that did not

discourage me, for I had great faith in the persistence of my attachment

and the sagacity of your heart; it had chosen Hélène and Marguerite

for you to love, why should not I be chosen as your bosom friend?

"However, when I saw what slow progress I was making in your affections,

I was afraid that you did not see through the coldness and indifference

that I habitually affected.

"Little by little, though, you began to trust me, and a few days after

our departure from France we were like brothers.

"The rapid growth of our friendship did not surprise me; there was

between us such an affinity, our souls were so magnetised by sympathy,

that at the first contact they were joined for ever.

"Once sure of your affection, I began to examine my treasure at my

leisure.

"I was like those antiquaries who, when they finally come into

possession of a long-coveted rarity, spend hours in examining and

admiring its beauty. It was thus that I learned to appreciate your

learning and good sense. It was then that I undertook to awaken the good

instincts that I believed existed in your nature.

"I was not mistaken. When I had once made this discovery, you were no

longer in my eyes a poor, nervous, and irritable child, that we love

because it is weak and suffering, but a proud and venturesome young man,

with a strong mind, great intelligence, and persuasiveness, who had all

defects that were the natural opposites of his virtues.

"The Sardinian mystic attacked us. I had a fearful presentiment, and

wished to avoid the combat. That was impossible, and I now thank the

fates, for you are almost well again, and I owe my life to you.

"Yes, Arthur, I owe you the life of my body in that I exist; I owe you

the life of my soul, because you have become my friend.

"Do you know that unless I felt the strength of my gratitude I should be

alarmed.

"For a long time I have been seeking a way to increase your happiness,

you have done so much for mine.

"My task has been difficult, for you are possessed of every

advantage,--youth, intelligence, name, fortune, and a generous and noble

disposition. But I had perceived a fatal tendency which would annihilate

all these rare gifts.

"There was the source of all your misfortunes. That was the stream I

must ascend to its source, and turn in another direction. If I can only

deliver him from this spirit of doubt, I said to myself, would he not

then be indebted to me for the enjoyment of all those advantages which

doubt now renders useless?

"You have often told me that your fits of defiance and misanthropy were

the sole real misfortunes of your life; but do you know what causes

these spells of moroseness? The moral inaction in which you live.

"You have a lively, ardent imagination, and, as you give it no aliment,

it feeds on you as its victim.

"From this continual reaction of your mind on your heart, from this

insatiable need of occupying your thoughts, is born the fatal habit of

self-examination, that entices you to such horrid study of your own

conduct, and the spirit of analysis that leads you to the discovery of

such unworthy motives in others.

"Believe me, my friend, for during many nights I have reflected deeply

on your character, and I think I say the truth; believe me, from the

moment you give some noble and glorious object to this devouring

activity that possesses you, it will be with delight, with ineffable

confidence that you will indulge yourself in the tenderest of

sentiments. You will then believe blindly, for you will have no time to

spend in doubt.

"Before knowing your real value, this voyage to Greece seemed a

sufficient occupation for you; but now that I understand you better, I

feel that this journey is no more in proportion with the powers of

conception I recognise in you. Now that I can count on you as on myself,

new horizons are open to my view. It is not in sterile enterprises that

I would employ our courage and our intelligence. I have a higher mark,

perhaps you will call it a chimera; but reflect awhile, and you will

recognise that there are many chances of its proving successful.

"The problem I set myself to solve was this: To render you happy without

harm to myself, that is to say, without having to give you up; to give

occupation to your fine mind, so that it should not stand between our

friendship, and to put to some useful employment those precious gifts

which, left idle, change their nature and become hurtful like some

generous substances that fermentation changes into poisons. When I spoke

to you about England, of her future, of the part I took in the struggle

that was to decide the fate of nations, I noticed that you were

attentive, curious, moved; noble and eloquent words escaped your lips;

you suggested new ideas, which had all the simple boldness of

inspiration. I studied your actions, your features, your accent, and all

convinced me that if you wished, my friend, you could have a powerful

influence on men. Your learning is great, you have studied well, you

have an ardent and proud nature, an independent position, and a worthy

name. Listen to my project.

"We will go first to Malta, and there we will wait until your recovery,

and take the rest that you need. We will give up the fire-ship of

Canaris, and will return to England.

"When you were travelling in my country, you were not interested in any

serious study; this time, under my guidance, you will study the workings

of the English government, her interests, her economics, etc. Then we

will go and continue the same studies in Germany, in Russia, and the

United States, in order to finish your political education.

"If I had not confidence in your precociousness, my friend, I might tell

you not to be alarmed at this serious programme. As we are both young,

rich, gay, intelligent, healthy, and bold, we will go, like two brothers

who can rely on each other, advancing steadily to our goal, enjoying, in

turn, study and pleasure.

"Our social position, and the studies we propose to take up, will oblige

us to come in contact with persons of every degree in the social scale,

and will force us to meet in each country that we visit all that is best

in rank, intellect, and fortune. Can you imagine what is to be the

far-off horizon of this brilliant existence, of this ambitious use of

all your faculties, the lowest as well as the highest? Do you know what

is to be your recompense for such persistent occupation, which is to be

mingled with worldly pleasures, and constantly shared by the most

affectionate of friends? Do you know? Perhaps the destinies of a great

people may be entrusted to your care; you may become a cabinet minister,

a premier.

"As to the means we are to employ to attain this end, which may appear

to you unattainable, we will talk about it, and you will find that with

your name, your fortune, your long political studies, the experience of

men and things that we will have gained in our travels, will open every

door to you, whether you wish to present yourself in the Chamber of

Deputies, or wish to enter a diplomatic career by accepting some

important post.

"In any case, my friend, your decision shall be mine. If you remain at

Paris as a member of the government, I will accept, at the court of

France, a mission that I have heretofore refused; if you desire to be

attached to some foreign court, I can confidently rely upon having

sufficient influence to be sent to join you there.

"I know that our position is such that neither you nor I have need of

these places in order to meet again, and continue the intimacy that we

have enjoyed; but, as I have already told you, we must fight with all

our strength against your mortal enemy, which is idleness, and fight in

a manner worthy of your intellect. Now, my friend, can we have a nobler

ambition than the interests of our own two countries, to see our

friendship serve as a bond of union for their interests, and make them

but as one, as it has served to unite our hearts.

"And say not that this is a dream, a chimera. Men of but mediocre

ability have reached the end I propose to you. Even though the success

of the journey is uncertain, is not the route a delightful one? How full

of future enjoyment will your attempts have been, even admitting that

they have failed in their object.

"Come, come, Arthur, take courage; make a noble use of the gifts that

have been so liberally bestowed on you; and, above all, my friend, fly

from that deadly inaction, which has such a fatal influence on your

peace of mind and your heart.

"Oh, yes! Escape from it; for now I assure you your friendship is so

dear to me, your happiness so precious, that there is nothing in the

world I would not attempt to see them both secured to you, and sheltered

by a noble ambition.

"These are my projects,--these are my hopes. What do you think of them,

my friend? I have written all this to you because I fear that, should I

speak thus, a jest, a doubt on your part, would dull my eloquence, and,

as my first aim is to convince you, I have taken this means of being the

only speaker.

"By way of being peculiar until the very end, I beg that you will send

me a written answer.

"According to your acceptance or refusal of this offer of my sincere

friendship, your letter will mark one of the happiest or most

unfortunate days of my life.

"H. F."

CHAPTER II

DISTRUST

Before receiving this letter I was perfectly happy; I was filled with

confidence and a sense of security in Falmouth's affection for me; I had

perfect faith in my love for him; why should these simple and touching

pages have turned such a brilliant day into the gloomiest night?

I read over the letter twice.

What struck me at first was the sublime and inexplicable devotion of

Lord Falmouth, who, to save me from the idleness he considered fatal to

my happiness, invited me to share his voyages, his studies, and even the

career that he hoped I would be successful in.

What astonished me very much (indeed, it almost offended me), was the

derisive exaggeration in which he spoke of my merits, which, according

to him, were quite sufficient to make a cabinet minister of me, or an

ambassador, at least.

Unfortunately, I was not born to comprehend such magnificent exaltation

of friendship; for Falmouth's offer was so exorbitant, so out of

proportion and above any proof I had been able to give him of my

affection, that several times I said: "Can it really be to me that he

makes such an offer? What have I ever done to deserve it?"

If what I had done for him was quite unworthy such devotion, what motive

could he have in making me such an offer,--so much for so little?

It was not without a hard struggle that I gave myself up to such

questions, for I could foresee a terrible access of suspicion.

Several times I attempted to turn my thoughts away from the fatal

declivity towards which they were dragging me, but I felt myself

approaching nearer and nearer the fatal abyss of doubt.

Overcome with alarm, I was on the point of going to Henry, and begging

him to save me from myself. I would ask him to explain all that was

beyond my comprehension in his admirable devotion, to lift me to his own

level, for I was so unused to this radiant and all-powerful friendship,

which I could not gaze on without becoming dizzy. But a false and

miserable shame held me back. I thought it weak and cowardly, and a

humiliating proof of inferiority, when it would have been a touching

proof of my confidence and reliance.

In spite of myself, I had the horrible feeling that my affection for

Falmouth would share the same fate of all my former affections. This

friendship had attained its greatest development, it was about to fill

my life with delight, enlarge my future. It was fated that I should

destroy it.

I was possessed by a strange sensation,--it was as if my spirit were

falling rapidly from an ideal sphere, peopled by the most enchanting

beings, towards a dark and boundless desert.

A physical comparison will explain this moral impression. The wings that

had so long sustained me in the region of divine faith suddenly failed

me, and I fell on the arid and desolate soil of analysis in the midst of

the ruins of my first hopes. The faith I had until now preserved of the

purity and holiness of friendship was to augment these melancholy ruins.

The more I pondered on Falmouth's admirable proposition, the more I

admired its careful, almost paternal solicitude, the less worthy of it I

found myself.

I could neither understand nor believe that the service I had rendered

him in saving him from threatened danger was worth so much

self-sacrifice on his part. This train of thought very soon led me to

denying that there was anything really deserving in my conduct towards

Henry.

Strange monomania! Contrary to those men who commit base acts, and then

employ every means of proving that their conduct was honourable, I

succeeded, by dint of sophisms, in vilifying in my own sight an action

for which I should have been proud.

After all, said I to myself, what enormous service was it, that Falmouth

should make me such a magnificent offer? I saved his life, true; but I

would have saved Williams, or the meanest sailor on his yacht, had he

been in the same danger.

It was, then, simply an instinctive movement on my part, and not the

result of any fixed purpose.

And then had that action been any sacrifice on my part? No, I had not

hesitated an instant. Then there was very little merit in it, because

value of an action can only be judged by the sacrifice it involves.

A millionaire, giving a gold piece to a beggar, does nothing that

appeals to our sympathy; but the beggar, dividing his louis with one who

is more unfortunate than himself, appears sublime.

When I once began to consider the truth of such paradoxes, I never could

stop.

My bravery was none the less belittled in my eyes.

When I behaved with so much bravery in my struggle with the pirates, did

I for an instant think of sustaining the name of Frenchman or the honour

of my country before those Englishmen, of chasing from the sea those

pirates that infest it, of showing Falmouth that, in spite of the moral

weakness of my nature, I at least possessed the courage of action? No; I

had simply obeyed the instinct of self-preservation; I had struck blow

for blow. I wished to kill, in order not to be killed. Therefore, there

was no more greatness nor bravery in my conduct than in the desperate

rage of the animal that is brought to bay, and turns ferociously on its

enemy.

Then as a last argument against myself, I said: Why is my heart filled

with bitterness and sadness? Had my action been really grand, the high

sentiments it aroused in me would not already have vanished, to give

place to such doubts about Falmouth and myself.

Alas! the terrible conclusion of all these accursed doubts was not far

off.

Now that I can reflect on my cruel blindness, I think that I must have

been urged on to this pitiless analysis by a miserable jealousy that I

dared not admit.

Not being capable of such devotion as that of Falmouth, I doubtless

wished to account for it by some vile motive.

Perhaps I wished to escape from his influence that I was beginning to

dread.

I made a sort of inventory of what Falmouth offered me, and what he owed

me. It was almost like the catalogue of articles left by a dead man.

This was very evident, that the price Falmouth set on the service I had

rendered was exorbitant.

Why did he offer me such an exorbitant price?

I had so reviled myself, I felt so ignoble and debased, that I could not

believe a word of what he said about the sympathy he felt for me. Had he

not told me that, by a delicate sense, he had always been able to select

the choice souls for whom he felt an affinity?

How, then, should such a generous nature feel any attraction towards me,

so unworthy, so incapable of inspiring affection?

What interest had he to feign this exaggerated affinity?

His name is much more illustrious than mine, his fortune is enormous,

his position is of the highest. It is not vanity, then, that draws him

towards me.

His courage is well known, he needs no one to defend him.

His mind is lively and original, and for years he has lived alone. He

does not want me to amuse him by my conversation.

I was a long time, I admit, trying to discover what was Lord Falmouth's

motive.

Suddenly, by dint of plunging into the abyss of hideous instincts, an

infernal idea came into my mind.

I had a moment of execrable triumph: I had guessed it.

I thought all could be explained, all could be understood by this

abominable interpretation.

I was seized with a horrible vertigo.

CHAPTER III

THE DUEL

I wrote the following hasty lines in answer to Lord Falmouth's admirable

letter.

I rang the bell and sent him the note.[4]

Just as it has always happened, no sooner was the letter gone than I

came to my senses, and when I was able to think of the infamous outrage

I had committed, I was overcome with horror.

What if I were mistaken?

I would have given my very life to have been able to recall those

dreadful lines.

It was too late.

My cabin was only separated from Lord Falmouth's by a slight partition.

Seized by the most frightful anxiety, I listened. When the servant who

had taken my letter to Falmouth closed the door, there was a dead

silence. Then suddenly an impetuous movement upset a chair, and I heard

Falmouth start towards the door with heavy and uncertain steps, for he

could scarcely walk as yet.

He was coming.

My heart beat as though it was going to break.

His heavy steps came nearer.

I felt that I was breaking into a cold perspiration.

I was afraid!

My door was suddenly opened. He entered holding himself up on his cane.

In all my life--no, never in all my life shall I forget the look of

fiery rage that gleamed in his eyes. His face was like a marble mask lit

up by two blazing eyeballs.

"Defend yourself!" cried he, in a voice that shook with indignation, and

holding out my letter in his hand; "where is your weapon?"

A frightful remorse seized me, so violent was it that a cowardly

retraction of my infamy was on my lips.

"Henry!" said I, in despair, pointing to my letter, "pardon!"

"Pardon! You don't mean to fight?" cried Falmouth, in a fury.

The blood rushed to my face, the shame of being thought a coward

exasperated me, and I answered, "Monsieur, I will fight with whatever

weapon you choose."

"Thanks for such extreme politeness. What weapon do you fight with? I

have had enough of this," repeated he, savagely.

I was almost bursting with rage, but remembering that Falmouth was on

his own yacht, I controlled myself.

"Both you and I," said I, "are too badly wounded to use our

swords,--pistols would be the most suitable arm."

"That is quite true," said Falmouth, as he sank into an armchair.

He rang the bell.

One of his servants entered.

"Beg Mr. Williams to come below," said Falmouth. The _valet_ went out.

"Williams and Geordy will be our seconds," said Falmouth, imperiously.

I gave a mechanical sign of assent,--I was annihilated.

Williams came down into the cabin.

"Where are we, Williams? What is the nearest land?"

"The wind has been from the north all the morning, my lord, and we are

well on our way to Malta. If it keeps on at this rate, we will get there

to-morrow evening."

"Try, then, my brave fellow, to get us there as soon as possible,--and

give me your arm to help me back to my own cabin."

I was alone.

There is no need to say that I was plunged in despair.

Revived by a burning fever, my wound began to give me terrible pain.

Tossing every moment on the great waves that the north wind had raised

up, and which were growing higher momentarily, the schooner leaped

wildly forward.

This ploughing the sea caused me such agony that I could scarcely help

screaming aloud. The doctor came to see how I was getting on, and from

childish obstinacy I hid my suffering.

The man was paid for his services by Falmouth. I was determined to

accept his services no longer.

What hours I passed! Great God, it was horrible!

The excitement that I had undergone, added to the fever, had raised my

nervous sensibility to such a degree that, doubled up in bed, I hid my

face in my hands, for the light was intolerable to me, and I wept

bitterly. Usually tears were a relief to me, but these were bitter and

scalding.

Then, when my despair was at its height, I contrasted it, in my usual

way, with my sensations of only a few hours before. I compared that

which was with that which had been,--that which might have been,--had I

not with my own hand crushed, blighted, deliberately destroyed so many

new opportunities for happiness!

Instead of hiding my shame in solitude and darkness, instead of these

dreary and sad thoughts and this isolation which my own outrageous

conduct had brought upon me, I should be tranquilly seated by my

friend,--my heart filled with grateful affection.

This man who now hated and despised me, who eagerly awaited the hour

when he should wipe out with my blood the insult he had received, would

be still there at my side, kind and solicitous for my comfort. These

groans, wrung from me by physical suffering and which I tried so hard to

stifle, would have been answered by the pitying voice of a brother in

his attempt to comfort me.

And to think, great God! I cried out, that the reality of my dream of

friendship was so near! To think that once again in my life, by the most

unheard-of combination of circumstances, I had only to accept the

happiness that was offered to me!

To think that once again a fatal monomania had forced me to exchange all

these promises of felicity for the most fearful and lifelong remorse!

Then seeing that my grief was incurable, ideas of suicide came into my

mind.

I reproached myself for being only a burden to myself and every one

else. I asked myself, Of what use am I, and what have I done with the

advantages that fortune had bestowed on me,--youth, health, strength,

wealth, intelligence, and courage?

To what use had I put these precious gifts so far? To ruin all those who

had loved me.

Thus I resolved that in this duel with Falmouth I would blindly expose

my life and respect his.

I felt that in firing on him I should commit fratricide.

By a strange caprice I wished to read his letter once more.

Inexplicable fatality! for the first time I understood its

greatness,--its imposing generosity.

Then it was that I finally understood the irreparable, tremendous loss I

had sustained. But alas, alas! it was now too late, all was over, the

end had come.

[Footnote 4: The whole of this letter is carefully erased in the Journal

of an Unknown.]

CHAPTER IV

THE PILOT

For the last few moments, the plunging of the yacht had become worse and

worse. I could hear a continuous roaring, which became constantly more

violent. Very soon there were flashes of lightning, followed by the deep

rolling of distant thunder.

Sometimes I heard the hurried steps of the sailors overhead, then again

the sound was hushed, and I heard the loud voice of Williams, giving

orders.

I could no longer doubt of it; we were overtaken by a tempest. I could

no longer remain inactive.

Feeble as I was, I tried to get up, hoping that the fresh air would do

me good. I rang the bell, and, with the aid of my _valet de chambre_,

succeeded in dressing.

I had almost completely lost the use of my left arm.

I went up on deck. Falmouth was not there.

The waves were furious.

Though it was only four o'clock, it was so dark that I could scarcely

see.

On the horizon, the immense undulations of the waves were outlined

against a band of gleaming light, the colour of red-hot iron.

Above this strip of blazing sky, the clouds were piled in heavy masses

of ochre and black; the vault of the firmament was reflected in the sea,

and the waves seemed to have lost their azure or emerald transparency,

and looked like solid mountains streaked with foam.

The wind whistled through the ropes loudly and furiously. Though blowing

a gale, the wind was hot, and the water that it raised up in solid

sheets, and dashed over the deck of the yacht, was warm.

Very soon the doctor came up on deck. "You are very imprudent," said he

to me, "to leave your cabin."

"I was stifling down there, doctor, the motion of the ship made me

almost crazy. I feel better up here."

"What frightful weather!" said the doctor. "If we can only get to Malta

to anchor before night!"

"Are we not some distance off yet from that island?"

"We are very near, but that heavy cloud prevents our seeing land. In

about an hour the yacht will put up a signal for a pilot, provided that

in such a storm they can hear our cannon and see our signal."

An hour afterwards the sky became more clear.

We saw ahead of us, on the horizon, high hills, which were still covered

with clouds; Williams said this was Cape Harrach, the northern point of

the island of Malta, on the height of which was built the tower of

Espinasse, which was used as a lookout. Williams then brought the yacht

to, and fired several shots to call for a pilot.

"The wind is so strong," said the doctor, "that the pilots of Harrach

don't dare to put out to sea."

In spite of which, after several salvos from the ship, we saw appear and

disappear on the crest and in the trough of the waves a little lateen

sail which was skilfully managed.

"Those Maltese must be intrepid sailors," said the doctor, "for, in

spite of this tremendous sea, they are coming right out in the teeth of

the wind."

The pilot-boat approached nearer and nearer, but as it was sometimes

hidden by the high waves, and only reappeared after a long interval, at

each one of its progressive appearances on the wave's crest it would

seem to become unaccountably larger. This was a very natural

circumstance, but it struck me as unnatural and ominous. At length the

boat was only about a gunshot off from the yacht.

By Williams's orders, a rope was thrown to it.

I leaned over the rail to get a better view of these hardy mariners.

There were five of them; four were busy managing the sails, while one

held the rudder. After having very cleverly run alongside the yacht to

catch the rope that had been thrown to them, the man who was steering,

profiting by the moment when a great wave lifted up his boat almost to

the deck of the yacht, leaped on board and clung to the shrouds.

The pilot, after saluting Williams, walked along the deck with a

perfectly sure footing, in spite of the plunging of the yacht. One could

see that he was an experienced navigator. Very soon he stopped, raised

his head, and gave a connoisseur's look at the appointments of the

yacht; they seemed to please him, for he gave a mute sign of

approbation.

In spite of the tempest, and the dangers that the yacht was in, for

night was coming on and the wind showed no signs of going down, this man

was so calm and secure that the sailors of the yacht, who were beginning

to show signs of anxiety, brightened up and were quite cheerful again.

It was as if the pilot had brought with him this sudden sense of

security, as the arrival of the family physician brings confidence and

hope to an anxious mother.

As I stood near the bulwarks on which I had been leaning so as not to be

thrown down by the plunging of the ship, I had not yet had a good look

at the pilot, but he soon came near me.

The man was apparently about forty. He was tall, thin, and bony; his

face very sunburnt, his cheeks hollow; his eyes were green, and his hair

black and very thick. He wore a Scotch cap of red and blue plaid woollen

stuff, which was pulled down to his eyebrows. A cape of heavy brown

cloth, dripping with salt water, hung down to the tops of his great

fisherman's boots, and completed his costume.

It seemed to me that I had met this man before. I had a vague

remembrance of just such a sinister face, though I found it impossible

to recall the circumstances or place of our meeting; but there came over

me an uncomfortable feeling which I attributed to my feverish condition.

"Can we get in to anchor at Malta to-night, pilot?" said Williams to

him.

After having looked at the compass and questioned the state of the sky,

the sea, and the wind, the pilot answered in very good English: "We

might get to an island to-night, but not to the island of Malta, sir."

"No!" cried Williams; "and why not?"

"Because you can't, it is impossible," said the pilot, carelessly.

"But," continued Williams, "though the wind is very strong, and blowing

from the north, it is not strong enough to send us ashore. The yacht

sails beautifully, she rises with every wave."

"Could she resist a current that runs seven or eight knots an hour, sir,

and that driving us right ashore the same way the wind is doing?"

"I tell you, pilot," replied Williams, "that two years ago I ran into

the harbour of Malta in a worse storm than this."

"But not worse than what we are to have to-night," said the pilot.

"To-night?" replied Williams, incredulously.

"Yes, to-night," replied the pilot, firmly.

"How do you know that we will have a bad night, pilot?"

"The point of Tamea and the rocks of Kamich are all under water at

sundown, and that is the sign of a terrible storm."

"That is all superstition and old women's tales!" exclaimed Williams.

The pilot gave him a look out of his piercing green eyes, shrugged his

shoulders, and smiled. When the man smiled, I felt as though I had the

nightmare, or an oppressive dream, for I recognised the sharp, white,

pointed teeth of the pirate with whom I had struggled hand to hand when

the yacht had been attacked.

My astonishment was so great, that I strode forward and stared at the

pilot in a state of stupefaction; but he withstood my gaze with perfect

indifference, and it was I who lowered my eyes, all abashed by the calm,

unconcerned look he gave me.

Williams, who was impatient at the pilot's silence, and had noticed my

astonishment, said to him, "But then, what do you propose to do?"

"If the weather continues to grow heavier, which I have no doubt of,

sir, instead of running the risk of having your yacht driven ashore by

the wind and the currents before it gets into the port of Malta, I

advise you to double Point Harrach, and, instead of going ashore on the

northern side of the island, to land on the southern coast in the little

harbour of Marsa-Siroco, where you will find good anchorage. If, as you

say, your yacht rises well to the wind, there will be nothing to prevent

her manœuvring when she is once under shelter of the island, and, in

case the storm grows worse, she will run no risk of being dashed ashore,

because she will have before her the hundred leagues that separate Malta

from the north coast of Africa."

"That proposition is a cowardly one, pilot," cried out Williams; "a

Flemish tub would do better than that. My lord wishes positively to

anchor in the port of Malta to-night, and I say it can be done."

"Then you must take the wheel yourself, sir," replied the pilot, with

his independent air; then going astern, he called in English to the

sailors who had remained in his sailboat, "Hello! Hello, there; get

ready to cast off, we are going back to Harrach."

When I heard the clear and penetrating voice of the pilot, except the

different language, it surely sounded like the voice and accent of the

man in the black hood, who, a moment before the boarding of the yacht,

cried out to his pirate crew, "Don't fire! Board her!"

Williams, seeing that the pilot was really getting ready to leave, told

him to wait a moment, and he would go and consult with my lord; then he

disappeared.

I remained on deck in a state of the greatest perplexity.

I was almost sure that I recognised the voice and the peculiar teeth of

this man, but could not this be a remarkable case of similarity? What

chance was there that a man who had been wounded and thrown into the

sea, barely eight days ago, should be this Maltese pilot, so vigorous

and strong?

I continued to watch the pilot steadily; he never changed countenance.

Tired, no doubt, of being so fixedly stared at, he advanced towards me,

and said, boldly:

"What have you got to say to me, monsieur?"

"Have you been a pilot at Malta any length of time?" I asked him.

"For the last seven years, monsieur," and he showed me his large silver

medal, hung on a long chain of the same metal, which he wore under his

cape.

On the medal I read the name Joseph Belmont, royal pilot, No. 18. On the

other side of the medal were the royal arms of England.

"But you are a Frenchman," said I to him, speaking French.

"_Oui_, monsieur," he replied.

I was more astonished even than before.

Williams now appeared on deck, and, addressing the pilot, said:

"Go ahead, do as you think best. My lord has given his consent."

"The sea is getting so rough," said the pilot to Williams, "that I am

going to tell my sailors to heave off the tow-rope, and follow us a

little ways off." So the sailboat, abandoning the tow-rope, continued to

follow in our wake.

Night was coming on.

According to the usual custom, Williams handed his speaking-trumpet, the

sign of command, to the pilot.

The predictions of the latter as to the weather were soon realised, for

though the new direction we had taken put us, in a short time, under the

lee of the island, and in a sheltered position, the tempest augmented in

violence.

The pilot, standing at the helm, gave his orders with perfect calmness,

and Williams admitted that he managed the ship with rare ability and

coolness.

While waiting for the moon to rise, which would facilitate our coming to

anchor, we were skirting along the coast, parallel to the southern shore

of the island of Malta.

The night was very dark.

The lamps of the compasses, shut up in their copper boxes, shone in a

pale circle on the deck, at the foot of the mainmast.

This light shone only on the pilot and the helmsman, while the rest of

the yacht remained plunged in an obscurity that the contrasting luminous

circle only made darker. Lit up from below, as actors are by the

footlights of the theatre, the features of the pilot had a peculiar

expression of audacity, deceit, and wickedness.

Although the sea was tremendous, so that the prow of the yacht was

almost constantly covered by the furious waves, from time to time I

could see the pilot rub his hands with savage satisfaction, and laugh in

a way that showed his white, sharp, and wide apart teeth.

In these moments I believed thoroughly that I recognised the pirate with

whom I had fought. This idea became so fixed in my mind that, in spite

of my resolve to say nothing on the subject, I could not help asking

Williams if he was perfectly sure of the man.

"As sure as one can be of anything! Our marine council of the port of

Malta never gives a pilot's commission except to reliable and

experienced men. This man showed me his patent, it is according to the

regulations. Besides, you can see for yourself what a skilful sailor he

is, and I begin to believe he was right. Though we are sheltered by the

land, you see how the ship is straining under the violence of the wind.

Such a storm, with a strong current setting in towards the coast, would

have easily wrecked the yacht."

"You may think I am out of my mind," said I to Williams, after some

hesitation, "but I am sure I know who this pilot is."

"Who is he, monsieur?"

"The pirate captain that I fought with, and that I thought was at the

bottom of the sea."

"It is so dark that I can't see your face, monsieur," said Williams,

"but I am sure you are laughing at me."

"No; I swear I am speaking very seriously."

"But, monsieur, remember that is quite impossible. I tell you that the

position of a pilot is only given to trustworthy men; they cannot leave

their posts except to pilot ships that wish to enter the harbour.

Remember that the mysterious pirate had already been anchored for more

than a month off Porquerolles before my lord's yacht got to the island

of Hyères. Remember that--but," said Williams, interrupting himself,

and leaving me, "there is the moon rising, and the clouds are clearing

away; the moonlight will help us to get to the anchorage. Excuse me,

monsieur, but I am going to get out the anchors."

The reasons Williams gave me were not at all convincing, though they

seemed sensible. However, seeing that the hour of debarkation was

approaching, and that experienced sailors considered that the pilot had

managed the ship very skilfully and prudently, I was forced to suspend

my judgment, for, so far, no one had a word of reproach for the man I

suspected.

The doctor came up on deck, gave me the news of Falmouth, and asked how

I was feeling.

"The fresh air has done me good," said I, "and my wound pains me less."

"Thanks be to God for that," said he. "My lord is feeling better also;

his contusion was a bad one, but the effect will soon go off. Just now

he was able to walk by himself. The pilot was right," added the doctor,

as he pointed to the waves; "see how calm the sea is growing, now that

we are getting near the shore of the island."

In fact, sheltered from the violence of the wind by the circle of high

rocky hills that form the southern shore of Malta, the waves were going

down more and more. Soon the moon, coming entirely out from the clouds

that had hidden her until now, shone brightly on an immense wall of

rocks which was stretched out before us, the waves dashing against their

base.

The yacht was then a cannon's shot distant from the shore we were

sailing past; the pilot-boat was a little way behind us.

"Are we almost to the harbour of Marsa-Siroco?" said Williams, who knew

the different anchorages of the island.

"We will very soon be there; but, as we have to pass between the Black

Rocks and the Point de la Wardi, and as the passage is very dangerous on

account of the breakers, I will, if you please, monsieur, take the

rudder," said the pilot to Williams. On a sign from the latter, the

helmsman left the bar.

I remember all this as though it happened yesterday.

I was seated on the bulwarks.

Before me stood Williams, very near the pilot who had taken the helm,

looking attentively at the compass, the shore, and the sails of the

yacht.

The doctor, leaning over the stern, watched the sea in our wake. At some

distance we could see the pilot-boat; she did not appear to be following

us any more, but was going in another direction. This was very singular,

I thought.

In front of us, and very close at hand, rose an enormous mass of

perpendicular rocks.

Though the sea had become much more calm, it was still raised by a

tremendous swell whose waves crashed against the shore with a formidable

noise.

The pilot had ordered another sail to be put up, no doubt to augment the

speed of the yacht. This was scarcely done when a frightful cry was

heard from the bow, "Helm aport! We are on the breakers!"

I never knew how the pilot obeyed this order, or how he managed the

yacht; for, at the instant the cry of warning was heard, a horrible

crash, followed by a loud, cracking sound, stopped the yacht short.

The shock was so violent that I, Williams, and two of the sailors, were

thrown on the deck.

"The yacht is ashore!" cried Williams, as he got up. "Damn the pilot!"

My wound prevented me from rising as quickly as Williams. I was still

lying on the deck, when some one rushed past me rapidly, a heavy body

fell into the sea, and the pilot was no longer to be seen at the helm or

on the deck.

Remembering my suspicion of the man, and forgetting the danger we were

in, I rose up, and saw, at a gunshot's distance from us, the pilot-boat;

its sailors were rowing hard towards a black spot, surrounded by foam,

that I could easily see in the moonlight.

It was the pilot, who was swimming to get back to his boat.

"A gun! Give me a gun!" I cried out. "I knew it was he!"

At this moment the yacht struck for the second time on the rocks, and

the mainmast fell, with a terrific crash.

Following the crash, there was a moment of silence and stupefaction, in

which I heard these words in French, "Remember the mystic of

Porquerolles!"

It was the pirate,--the yacht was a wreck.

The last scene of this drama was so confused, so hurried that I can

scarcely recall it. Everything was confusion and chaos, frightful scenes

followed one another, as thunder-claps succeed one another in a storm.

At the third shock the yacht was raised up by an immense wave, and fell

with all its weight on a ledge of sharp rocks. Already split in two, the

keel went to pieces. I heard the water rushing into the ship's hold with

a horrible sound.

The ship had filled with water!

In spite of my wound, which kept one of my hands bound to my side, I was

about to jump into the sea, when I saw Falmouth come up from below; he

was assisted by Williams.

At this moment another great wave took the ship sideways, and completely

engulfed it.

I felt myself rolling to the edge of the ship, then I was lifted up and

stunned by a crushing weight of water which passed over me roaring like

thunder.

From that moment I lost all perception of what was happening to me.

All that I can remember is that I felt a frightful weight. I stifled

when I opened my mouth for breath. I swallowed great mouthfuls of warm

salt water, my ears were bursting with pain, a great weight prevented me

from seeing. I felt that I was drowning. With all this, I continued my

desperate efforts to swim. Then I seemed to breathe more freely. I saw

the sky, and near me a mass of reddish rocks. I felt a strong hand raise

me by my hair, and I heard the voice of Falmouth, who said, "Now we are

quits! Good-bye."

I remembered nothing more, for I very soon fell into a painful numbness,

and then became insensible.

DAPHNÉ--NOÉMI--ANATHASIA

CHAPTER V

THE ISLAND OF KHIOS

I find this fragment of memoirs written a year after the wreck of Lord

Falmouth's yacht off the coast of Malta.

If I had the least literary pretension, I would not dare to say that

these pages, written on the spur of the moment, depict very accurately

the enchanting scenes in the midst of which I had been living for the

last year in the sweetest of _far-nientes._

In truth, the paradise I had created for myself seems to come again

before my eyes, with its luxury of antique beauty, its palace of white

marble gilded by the sunshine, its intoxicating perfumes coming from the

orange groves that stand off against the blue sky that frames so

magnificently the dark waters of the coast of Asiatic Europe.

That year should have been the happiest year of my life; for those few

charmed days never caused me the least moral suffering. Not once did I

feel any remorse, not once did I feel my heart.

But, alas! why was not the soul killed in such scenes of happiness? Why

was not the mind overpowered by the senses? Why did thought survive the

struggle?

Thought! that power of man! Man's true power, in fact; for it is fatal,

like all powers.

Thought, that blazing crown, that burns and consumes the forehead that

wears it!

According to my custom of classifying pleasant memories, I had entitled

this fragment, "Days of Sunshine."

The light and careless tone that frequently appears in this souvenir

offers a singular contrast to the sombre and heart-breaking events of

the former chapters in this journal.

_Days of Sunshine._

ISLE OF KHIOS, 20 June, 18--.

I know not what the future has in store for me, but, as I often said in

my days of sadness and desolation, "one must distrust one's self more

than one's destiny." I hope one day, as I read these pages, to be able

to see again the smiling scenes amidst which I am now living so happily.

I write this the 20th of June, 18--, in the palace of Carina, situated

on the eastern coast of the island of Khios, about a year after the loss

of the yacht.

In that great peril, poor Henry saved my life. In spite of his wound, he

was swimming vigorously towards shore, when, seeing me about to drown,

for I could scarcely use my left arm, he seized me with one hand, and,

fighting the waves with the other, he landed me on the shore in a dying

condition.

[ILLUSTRATION]

My strength was quite exhausted by the excitement of the combat, by my

wound, and by my desperate efforts at the time of the wreck; for I was

for many long days a prey to burning fever and wild delirium from which

I was restored to health by the excellent care of the doctor whom

Falmouth had left behind.

I was so dangerously ill that I had to be carried to Marsa-Siroco, a

little Maltese suburb, near the coast where the yacht had gone ashore. I

remained in that village until my complete recovery, when the fever left

me, and I was able to converse; the doctor told me the circumstances I

have just recorded, and handed me a letter from Falmouth, which I copy

in this journal.

"After all, my dear count, I prefer having saved you from drowning, to

having put a bullet in your head, or perhaps having received from you a

similar proof of friendship.

"I hope that the vigorous _douche_ that you have received will have a

good effect on you, and save you from another fit of insanity.

"My plans are changed, or rather become what they were at first. I

desire more than ever to satisfy my fancy about that incendiary,

Canaris; but as that diabolical piratical pilot (May he come to the

gallows!) has wrecked my poor yacht, I have chartered a vessel at Malta,

and am off for Hydra.

"Good-bye. If we ever meet again we will laugh at all this.

H. FALMOUTH."

"P. S. I leave you the doctor, for the Maltese doctors are said to be

detestable. He will hand you a letter of recommendation to the lord

governor of the island.

"Send me the doctor when you have no further need of his services."

I have become so stupid from the life of pleasure I have been leading,

that I scarcely remember the effect this sarcastic letter had on me.

When I arrived at Malta I called on Lord P----, who showed me great

courtesy. He caused active search to be made for the pretended pilot.

That wretch had actually been at one time a member of the Royal Navy,

but, for two years past, he had given up his position as pilot in the

island of Malta.

A description of him was sent throughout the whole Archipelago, where he

was supposed to be engaged in piracy.

At Lord P----'s I met a certain Marquis Justiniani, a descendant of that

ancient and illustrious family, the Justiniani of Genoa, which had given

dukes to Venice and sovereigns to some of the Grecian islands. The

marquis owned many country places in the island of Khios, which had just

been ravaged by the Turks. He spoke to me about a palace called the

Carina Palace, built towards the end of the sixteenth century by the

Cardinal Angelo Justiniani. The marquis had for a long time rented the

palace to an aga. The description of the palace and the climate seduced

me, so I proposed to go to Khios, to visit the palace and the park, and

to rent or buy the place if it suited me.

We left together, and disembarked here after a three days' voyage. The

Turks had left bloody traces of their passage everywhere; they were in

garrison in the castle of Khios.

As I was a Frenchman, thanks to the firm attitude of our navy and our

consuls in the Orient, I would be in perfect security in case of my

deciding to dwell in Khios.

I inspected the palace, it suited me, and the business was settled.

The next day my interpreter brought to me a renegade Jew, who proposed

that I should purchase a dozen beautiful Grecian slave girls, the spoils

of the last Turkish raid in the islands of Samos and Lesbos.

Of these twelve girls, the eldest of whom was only twenty, there were

three who were too refined and delicate to be put to work, and were

therefore suitable for companionship.

The nine others, tall, robust, and very beautiful, could work either in

the garden or in the house. He only demanded two thousand piastres

apiece, about five hundred francs of our money.

In order to induce me to buy them, the renegade told me, confidentially,

that a Tunisian officer, purveyor of the Bey's harem, had made him an

offer; but that he liked to see his slaves well treated and so preferred

selling them to me, knowing what harsh treatment the poor creatures

would receive on board the Barbary _chebek_ that was to take them to

Tunis.

I expressed a desire to see the slaves.

The marvellous type of Grecian beauty has been so well preserved in this

favoured clime, that, out of these twelve girls of every sort and

condition, there was not one who was not really pretty, and three of

them were perfectly beautiful women.

The bargain concluded, I sent the twelve women to the Carina Palace with

two negro dwarfs, who were so deformed as to be positively picturesque,

that the renegade presented me with by way of a contrast. They were all

under the surveillance of an old Cypriote, that the Jew recommended as a

housekeeper.

This sudden resolution to go to the Isle of Khios, and there to live at

leisure, forgetting all things and every one, had been suggested to me a

year ago, by the torturing remembrance of the great sorrow that

overwhelmed me.

After my quarrel with Falmouth, whom I had so basely provoked, fully

aware that I was unworthy of all generous affection, since I was

constantly seeking the meanest motives, I believed that a perfectly

sensual life would admit of neither these fears nor doubts.

What had made me so unhappy until now? Was it not from a dread of being

deceived by my feelings? The dread of being mistaken should I allow

myself to love? What, then, should I risk in devoting the remainder of

my life to material love?

Nature is so rich, so fecund, so inexhaustible, that I can never weary

of admiring her marvels, from henceforth I would doubt of nothing.

The perfume of a beautiful flower is not imaginary, the splendours of a

magnificent landscape are real, beautiful forms are not deceptive. What

interested motive could I impute to the flower that perfumes the air,

the bird that sings, the wind murmuring softly through the leaves, the

sea breaking on the beach, to nature, that unfolds so many treasures,

colours, melodies, and fragrances?

It is true I will be all alone to enjoy these marvels, but solitude

pleases me. I possess a deep sense of material beauty, which will be

sufficient to make up for my want of faith in moral beauty.

The sight of luxuriant nature, of a fine horse or dog, a flower or a

beautiful woman, or even a lovely sunset, has always given me exquisite

pleasure, and though religious faith is unfortunately lacking in me,

when I behold the splendours of creation I always feel transports of

heartfelt gratitude towards the unknown power that heaps such treasures

on us.

Regretting the faculties of which I am deprived, I will at least make

the most of those I possess; and since I can not be happy through the

mind, let me be so through the senses.

This I said to myself, and I was not mistaken, for never have I enjoyed

such perfect happiness.

Falmouth was the best, the noblest of men. I know it. But when I compare

my present life of felicity with the life of study and politics that

Henry depicted in such glowing colours, the only thing I regret is the

friendship that I destroyed by my awful suspicions.

Henry was quite right when he said that idleness was the source of all

my miseries; so I have spent my time in the making of living pictures on

which I can at all times gaze. It has taken much toil, and even study,

to surround myself with all these marvels of creation, to get together

all the scattered riches of this Garden of Eden.

Sages may tell us that these are but childish pleasures, but it is their

simplicity that constitutes their pleasantness.

Serious immaterial joys are but perishable, while the thousand little

pleasures a youthful nature can always discover in his reveries, though

trifling and momentary, are constantly being renewed, for the

imagination that produces them is inexhaustible.

Now that I have lived in such adorable independence, the life of

society, with its exigencies, appears to me as a sort of order whose

rules are as strict as those of the "Trappists."

I do not know which I would prefer, to be comfortably clothed in a serge

gown, or cramped up in a tight coat; to breathe the pure fresh air of

the garden I cultivated or the stifling atmosphere of a crowded salon;

to kneel through the service of matins, or to stand all evening at some

reception. In fact, I think I should as willingly choose the meditative

silence of the cloister as the chatter of the salon; and say with about

as much interest, "Brother, we must die," of the religious order, as

"Brother, we must amuse ourselves," of the social order.

One thing only astonishes me, it is that I have been so long without

knowing where true happiness lies.

When I think of the burdensome, obscure, and narrow life that most men

impose upon themselves, through routine, in unhealthy cities, in damp

climates, with hardly a ray of sunshine, without flowers, without

perfume, surrounded by a degenerate, ugly, and sickly race, when they

could live as I do without a care, as a monarch among the exquisite

beauties of nature in a marvellous climate, I sometimes fear that my

paradise will suddenly be invaded.

Thus I congratulate myself every day on my determination, my cup runs

over with pleasure, my most painful remembrances fade away from my mind,

and my soul has become so dulled from intoxicating joys, that the past

has become a mere dream of misery.

Hélène, Marguerite, Falmouth, the remembrance of you is growing dim,

far away, hidden under a beautiful cloud. I sometimes wonder how we

could have caused each other so much suffering.

But what do I hear under my windows? It is the sound of the Albanian

harp. It is Daphné, who invites Noémi and Anathasia to dance the

national dance, the Romaïque.

May this description of all that surrounds me, the smiling scene that I

gaze on while writing these lines, here in Khios, in the Carina Palace,

remain on these unseen pages as a faithful picture of a charming

reality.

No doubt these details would seem childish to any other than myself, but

it is a portrait I wish to paint, and a portrait by Holbein, seen and

painted with scrupulous fidelity; for, if ever I should happen to regret

this happy period of my life, every stroke of the brush would be of

inestimable value to me.

CHAPTER VI

DAYS OF SUNSHINE--THE PALACE

Like all palaces of modern Italy, the Palace of Carina, built by the

Genoese when the island of Khios was one of their possessions, the

Palace of Carina is immense. The apartments are splendid, but

unfurnished. The Mussulman who occupied it before me had furnished one

wing of the vast building after the Oriental fashion.

It is that wing that I live in. It is there that I retire during the

burning heat of the day, for the windows open towards the north, and

there is a delightful breeze.

Window-screens of fragrant bamboo half close the windows and permit me

to enjoy the view while remaining in a soft obscurity.

The walls are covered with a silvery stucco, which glimmers like white

satin, and are divided into panels of alternate lilac and green, where

can be read in golden letters several verses of the Koran. The ceiling

is richly painted, and divided into panels of lilac and green, with

borders of golden arabesques.

A thick Persian carpet covers the floor. At the end of this room, a

fountain of limpid water gushes from a basin of Oriental jasper, and

falls in cascades with a gentle murmur. Great blue and gold vases,

filled with flowers on which some tame doves come and perch, surround

the fountain, and the aromatic perfume of the flowers reaches me in a

fragrant mist.

Must I admit this fact? The pleasures of the senses are dear to me, and

I delight in their satisfaction.

Thus, near me on a table, that is covered with a thick Turkish

table-cloth of a yellow shade, embroidered with blue flowers that

glitter with silver threads, are sorbets of oranges and the wild cherry,

in porous vases that are covered with an icy moisture; golden

pineapples, slices of watermelon, with their green rind and red

pulp,--all these are shining through pieces of ice that fill great

Japanese bowls; on another dish is a pyramid of exquisite fruit, that

the dark-eyed Daphné has intermingled with flowers.

In a few moments the sprightly Noémi will fill my crystal cup with the

generous wine of Cyprus or Scyros or Madeira, which have been standing

in their Venetian decanters exposed to a tepid atmosphere.

If I wish to indulge in soft reverie, to fill my idle brain with

delightful dreams, Anathasia, the blonde, will smilingly offer me my

narghile filled with jasmine water, or my long pipe with the amber

mouthpiece, whose bowl she will fill with the fragrant tobacco of

Latakia.

And finally, should I wish to abandon my day-dreams, and give myself up

to the thoughts of others, I have them near at hand, the works of the

poets I love: Shakespeare, Goethe, Schiller, Scott; the great, the

divine, the modern Homer,--Byron, whose black yacht I saw pass on the

horizon yesterday.

Although the air is cool, it is saturated with perfume; the vapours of

aloes and myrrh, burning in small ruby jars, mingle their odour with

that of the flowers, for since I mean to live for the senses, let me not

forget the sense of smelling.

I have given myself up enthusiastically to my enjoyment of delightful

smells, a sense so misunderstood or so blamed. I have realised my dream

of arranging a scale of perfumes, beginning at the faintest, and

gradually ascending to the most powerful odours, the inhaling of which

causes a sort of intoxication, which adds a new ecstasy to

voluptuousness.

Besides, one could almost live on perfumes on the island of Khios, for

it is the island which furnished all the perfumes to the harems, the

essences of rose, jasmin, and tuberose, which are used in the seraglio

of the sultanas.

Khios alone produces the precious lentisk, whose gum the dreamy and

indolent odalisk chews between her ivory teeth; Khios, whose commerce

even has a charming suggestion of elegance, for her exports are silks,

tapestries, flowers, fruits, birds, and honey. And it is young girls and

beautiful women of the purest antique type who gather the treasures of

the island, the most favoured of all the islands of Ionia.

From the windows of the apartment I occupy, in one of the wings of this

immense dwelling, I gaze on a beautiful scene.

May its remembrance be an everlasting regret, if ever I leave this

adorable retreat for some dark and noisy city, with a horizon of high

walls, filthy streets, and close atmosphere.

On my left is the front of the palace, whose carved porticos, arcades,

and white marble staircases seem endless.

From its porphyry inlaid basement, to its roof, adorned with

balustrades, statues, and great vases filled with myrtle and oleanders,

the whole building is bathed in sunshine, and its golden silhouette

stands out against a sky of that sapphire blue which is only seen in the

East.

In the distance the azure of the sky would blend with the azure of the

sea, were it not for a wavy line of purplish red. This is the chain of

the mountains of Roumania, whose summits are bathed in brilliant clouds.

On the right hand, as a contrast to that dazzling mass of marble and of

sunshine, there is a lawn of clover, where some of the large Syrian

sheep, with their heavy tails, are grazing, also a few gazelles with

silvery coats. Beyond the lawn, and extending in a parallel direction

with the palace, I see a deep, damp, and shady wood.

The gigantic tops of the oak-trees, the cedars, and the secular platanes

form an ocean of dark verdure. The sun is setting, and, with its glowing

rays, throws a golden light on those masses of foliage.

On that waving curtain of dark and opaque green, a thousand other shades

of green are visible, which become more faint and transparent as they

approach the banks of the River Belophano, which, widening in front of

the palace, forms a sort of lake.

The banks are planted with bladdernut-trees, umbrella pines with their

reddish trunks, satin-leaved poplars, arbutus, and buckthorn. On these,

once in awhile, shines a ray of sunlight, which slips beneath the great

domes of verdure whenever the sea breeze lifts their branches.

Near the shore, there are fan-leaved latanias, whose trunks are hidden

beneath vines that bear orange-coloured bell-flowers, and hydrangeas,

whose flowers are rose-coloured.

Then there are wide green avenues, where the sun's rays scarcely ever

penetrate, which are carpeted by soft grass, and lead to a hemicycle of

foliage, quite near the palace.

These paths are so long and shady that I cannot see their end, through

the bluish vapour that veils them.

Lastly, in the foreground, and on a level with my window, is a terrace

of white marble, adorned with vases and statues. From this, you can

descend to the banks of the canal.

Protected by the palace, one half of the staircase is in the shade, the

other is bathed in the sunlight. On one of the lower steps a black

dwarf, that I have dressed in a scarlet doublet in Venetian style, is

sleeping beside two greyhounds of great size and beautiful form.

By a caprice of the sunlight, the dwarf is in the dazzling zone of its

rays, which seem to cover each step with gold dust, while the greyhounds

are in the shadow, which is unequally traced on the staircase, and

throws its cool, blue, transparent shadows on the white coats of the

sleeping dogs.

A little farther on, a peacock sits perched on the balustrade in the

bright sun. His feathers flash like a rain of rubies, topazes, and

emeralds, glittering against a background of ultramarine.

Swans swim slowly in the canal, and seem to drag behind them thousands

of silvery ribbons; tall, rose-coloured flamingoes walk solemnly along

the shore, while, farther off, two crimson parrots quarrel for the fruit

of the latania-trees. When they unfold their turquoise wings, they

display their long wing-feathers, tinted with gold and purple.

On a tuft of amaryllis, a beautiful yellow popinjay, whose neck reflects

the tints of the rainbow, opens out his long white tail-feathers, while

the swallows and kingfishers lightly skim over the waters of the canal.

I have just read over these pages, which give a perfect description of

the marvellous scene that I look on. All is mentioned. But how feebly

words can depict such a spectacle! The relation they bear to the reality

is only such as the dry nomenclature of the naturalist to the beautiful

object he describes.

CHAPTER VII

DAYS OF SUNSHINE--THE GREEK NATIONAL DANCE

I hear peals of silvery laughter, and beyond the last steps of the

staircase, which half conceals them, the playful figures of some of my

slave girls appear. They are bathing in the river.

Some of them, holding their beautiful arms above their heads, twist

their long brown hair, from which a rain of liquid pearls rolls down on

to their bosoms and their bare backs. Others, holding each other's

hands, advance timidly on the sandy shore of the lake; they bow their

heads, and pretend to be afraid.

Nothing could be more beautiful than their pure and delicate profiles,

which stand out like alabaster against the luminous horizon, like white

cameos on a transparent stone.

Their hair is twisted in a knot low on the back of their heads, and

leaves their little ears exposed; their necks are round and white, and

all the lines of their bodies are as elegant as those of the ancient

Greeks.

Not far from this charming group, skipping on the close-cut grass that

extends from the wood to the banks of the canal, Noémi and Anathasia,

wearing the beautiful costume of the island of Khios, are dancing the

"Romaïque," to the music of the Albanian harp which Daphné plays.

The verdant hemicycle protects them from the oblique rays of the sun.

Great beds of roses, wallflowers, Persian lilacs, and tuberoses surround

their leafy parlour.

These flower beds are constantly plundered by thousands of gaudy

butterflies: the "Ulysses," whose wings are bright green with amethyst

spots, the "Marsyas" of a deep blue, or the "Danaë," which is a velvety

brown, striped with mother-of-pearl.

Happy girls! How well they love to dance to the sound of Daphné's lyre!

Daphné is one of three girls the renegade told me were only fit for

amusement.

Daphné was carried off from Lesbos by the Turks. Her noble proportions

and severely beautiful face remind one of the grand type of the Venus de

Milo.

She is seated on a mossy bank. Her complexion is of a rosy white; her

eyes, her eyebrows, her eyelashes, and her hair are as black as ebony; a

string of gold coins passes over her forehead, and is fastened in the

thick braid of hair behind her head.

Daphné wears a straw-coloured tunic and a white robe; she bends

slightly forward, and curves her white naked arms around the Albanian

lyre that rests on her knees. One leg stretched forward reveals a

charming ankle, covered with a bright pink silk stocking, such as they

weave here in the island, and a little black Turkish slipper embroidered

with silver is on her foot.

According to the custom of modern Greeks, Daphné sings as she plays,

while the two girls who dance repeat the refrain.

This is a translation of their words; there is nothing very remarkable

about them, and yet they fill one with passionate languor when sung as

Daphné can sing them. A young bridegroom is speaking to his bride:

"I am wounded by thy love, alas!

Ah, young maiden! I am consumed by thy love.

I am stricken to the heart.

Let me possess your charms and the flames devour your dower.

Oh, young maiden, I love thee with all my soul,

And thou hast abandoned me,

Like a withered plant."

Noémi and Anathasia seem to act the words by their expressive

pantomime.

Noémi, the brunette, who takes the part of the lover, is manly and

resolute, while the poses of the blonde Anathasia are timid,

supplicating, and chaste, like those of a young girl who shuns or fears

the caresses of her lover.

Noémi is tall and slender. Her hair is a golden auburn; her eyebrows

and lashes are thick and black, and her eyes are dark gray.

Nothing is more voluptuous than those large, liquid eyes. Her brown skin

is perhaps rather too dark, and her mocking, sensual lips too

brilliantly scarlet, so violently do they contrast with her white teeth;

her smile almost too passionate. Her upper lip is shaded by the

slightest possible streak of brown, and her pink nostrils dilate at each

movement of her breast, which rises and falls, as she dances, under her

close-fitting "yellak," or jacket of cherry-coloured satin. Two long

tresses, tied with red satin ribbon, fall from under her scarlet "fez"

and reach below her round, flexible waist, that seems smaller by

contrast with her broad hips, under their orange-coloured skirt. Nothing

was ever more nimble than her little feet, shod in red morocco slippers

embroidered with gold.

Anathasia, on the contrary, is petite. Her beautiful fair hair falls in

plaits on each side of her cheeks, which are as fresh and rosy as a

baby's. Her complexion is dazzlingly fair, and her sweet blue eyes,

under their long lashes, seem to reflect all the azure of the Ionian

skies.

When the ardent Noémi, singing the words of the despairing lover,

approaches her with supplicating and passionate gestures, Anathasia's

little mouth, as scarlet as a cherry, becomes quite serious, and she

assumes a candid and adorable expression of alarmed innocence. She

recoils with a frightened look, and clasps her pretty hands, that are as

white as ivory.

Anathasia is all in white.

I had often dreamed of a sylph lightly touching the grass with the tips

of its slender feet. Such a fairy is Anathasia, whose tiny proportions

are of exquisite refinement.

Never was there such a combination of beauty. My fancy had dictated this

arrangement, which included all that was lovely in nature.

I was young; all this beauty belonged to me; my life was divided between

sensual ravishments and the delights of the intellect.

What further happiness could I imagine than to live for ever in this

enchanting land, forgetful of the past, and hopeful for the future,

which must always be as happy; for would not gold ensure me the

possession of such wealth as was now before me?

I am so completely happy that I feel an imperative need of giving thanks

to the power that bestows on me so many blessings.

CHAPTER VIII

BELIEF

ISLE OF KHIOS, October, 18--.

I take up my journal again after three months of interruption. I left

off at the description of the Carina Palace and its inhabitants,--such a

minute description that it was like an architect's working drawing, or a

slave merchant's inventory.

I consult my moral thermometer. I find myself very well, my head is

perfectly clear, and I am cheerful and gay.

I feel as though I were dreaming when I look over the pages of my

journal that I brought with me from France, and find that I used to be

sad, dreamy, and melancholy.

September has just come to an end; the rainy weather which precedes the

equinox has cooled the atmosphere. The west wind whistles through the

long galleries of the palace. I have left the ground floor for a more

cosy and comfortable apartment. I am almost deafened with noise.

Awhile ago the parrots, the peacocks, and the popinjays, showing their

sagacity, and, no doubt, feeling the approaching change in temperature,

all began to shriek at once in the most atrocious manner. Such a proof

of their intelligence made me terribly nervous.

Why is Nature so inconsistent in her gifts? Dazzling plumage, discordant

voice!

This is not all; frightened by the racket, the greyhounds began to bark

furiously. Then the dwarfs came with whips and yells, and augmented the

noise while trying to stop it.

I have taken refuge here, but can still hear the infernal screaming of

the parrots. All these charming accessories of the scenes that surround

me are lovely to look at when they are in their proper place, but I do

not care for "tableaux" that shriek.

From animals let us pass to human beings; the transition will not be

difficult, for the minds of my beautiful girls are not much more

developed than the brains of the parrots and popinjays, and though

sometimes they are as noisy as the latter, their screams have not the

advantage of foretelling rainy or clear weather.

Speaking of screams, I am sorry that Noémi and Daphné have had a

quarrel, but the excessive violence of those good creatures is the

result of their want of education. Nevertheless, and although I am

tolerant, it seems to me that stabbing one's comrade in the arm is

carrying things too far, so I have given Noémi a serious scolding.

I strongly suspect Anathasia, the blonde, with her childish and innocent

air, to be the cause of the quarrel, and to have slyly excited those two

brave girls to fight each other like two fighting-cocks. To be sure,

this was suggested to me by the wicked old Cypriote, and she detests

everything that is young or pretty.

Noémi, in fact, is growing more and more ill-tempered. The other day

she slapped Chloë, my gardener, violently, Chloë, who has such white

teeth and such black eyes. She beat her because she brought in the fruit

too late, and so my dessert was behindhand.

After all, Noémi has some good points, but she is deucedly irascible

and fierce.

One thing that astonishes me is the fact that these girls are completely

insensible to the beauties of nature.

Thanks to the Greek I learned at college, I am able to understand and

speak modern Greek passably well, and I have often tried to awaken in

these girls some poetic sentiment. All was in vain; nothing was ever

more barbaric or uncultivated than their minds.

With the exception of some Greek national songs, they know nothing at

all.

They can neither read nor write. Their rivalries, their jealousies,

their calumnies, and a few exaggerated tales of Turkish cruelty, furnish

the subjects of their usual conversation.

In other ways they are the best of girls. I remember a scene, which

shows marvellously well the characters of my three favourites.

I was mounting a Syrian horse I had purchased, for the first time. He

became excited, reared, and fell on me. Noémi flew at the horse, caught

him by the bridle, and beat him with a whip. Daphné ran to help me up.

Anathasia never moved, but burst into tears and then fainted away.

Some time ago I tried to awaken the souls of these poor girls to some

remembrances of their Fatherland,--a sentiment that is so strong in

half-civilised natures.

It was not without some hesitation that I made the attempt. I felt a

certain remorse at the idea of awakening sad recollections.

Poor girls! They lived in slavery, and their melancholy thoughts must

often turn with regret to the land of their youth. Poor caged swallows!

they only awaited an opportunity of flying home to their nests.

I feared it would be cruel to raise false hopes in their breasts; still,

I assembled my household, and told them that I was going to leave the

island, and send them all back to their respective homes.

I must declare, and with a certain amount of satisfaction, that they

immediately broke into lamentations that would have done honour to the

funeral of Achilles, or the dirge of some illustrious Albanian

chieftain.

Daphné wrapped her head in her veil, and sat silent and motionless on

the ground, like an antique statue of grief. Noémi manifested her rage

by beating one of the black dwarfs, while the fair Anathasia, falling on

her knees, took my hand and kissed it; then raising her beautiful

tearful eyes to mine, said, in her soft Ionian tongue:

"Oh, master! master! When you have gone, what will become of your poor

Grecian girls?"

"But your aged fathers! Your poor old mothers! Your brave brothers and

your handsome lovers!" I exclaimed. "Do you never think of them,

forgetful creatures that you are?"

Feeling sure that such magical words would have an effect, I drew my

cloak around me with a majestic air.

But the crying and sobbing only grew the louder, and they all cried out,

in what I thought a threatening way:

"We will never leave the roof of the good Frank; we are happy at Khios;

we will stay at Khios with the good Frank."

Though I was their "good Frank," I could not help having but a poor idea

of their patriotism; the preference they gave me over their native soil

and its accessories was certainly flattering.

I resolved to make another attempt, and told them that I would give each

of them two thousand piastres and their clothes, and let them go

wherever they wished, for I meant to leave the island.

The screams and curses that were the result of my innocent proposition

so alarmed me, that for a moment I feared I should share the fate of

Orpheus.

Letting go of her dwarf, Noémi sprang towards me like a tigress, seized

my yellak, for I wore the Albanian costume, and said to me, her eyes

blazing with anger:

"If you try to go away, and leave us here, we will set the palace on

fire, and, holding you in our arms, we will all be burned together."

The majority of the rebels seemed to be delighted with such an idea, for

they screamed out louder than ever:

"Yes, yes, let us take the good Frank in our arms, and all perish with

him in the flames of his palace."

I observed a trait that was worthy of La Bruyère. The gentle Anathasia

was one of the most ferocious of the incendiary party.

Although this threatened mode of death was worthy of Sardanapalus, I

preferred to live as I was, and being now quite convinced that I was

adored by my household, I told them that I renounced my projects of

departure.

My modesty forbids me saying with what effusion, what transports of joy,

my decision was welcomed by those good girls.

The whole twelve of them took hold of each other's hands, and formed a

circle. Noémi, as the antique theorist, improvised these simple words,

which her companions repeated to the air of their national hymn, "The

Swallows."

"At Khios we remain,

Dance, sisters, dance,

At Khios we remain,

We stay with the good Frank.

"He never beats us, he treats us well,

Dance, sisters, dance,

We will always have beautiful fezzes,

Beautiful embroidered yellaks,

Beautiful silk sashes.

"We will eat tender roasted kids,

Fat partridges and quails,

Honey from Hymettus, wine from Scyros.

Dance, sisters, dance,

The good Frank lets us stay.

"Dance, sisters, dance,

We till the soil no more,

No more we mend the roads,

Dance, sisters, dance.

"We will bathe beneath the sycamores,

We will not work at all,

Only pluck fruit and flowers for him,

The good Frank who keeps us."

If I had been blinded by any conceit, I should have had my self-respect

somewhat wounded on learning that the roast kid, fat partridges, Scyros

wine, beautiful clothes, and idleness, were prominent features in the

intense affection these simple creatures bore me.

But, fortunately, I am wiser than that, and can see through their

devotion. Formerly I had some doubts as to my powers of attraction, but

now, how can I help believing in the charm with which I was invested if

it can attach these slaves to me so devotedly?

My charms are easily understood, they are the fat partridges, the

roasted kids, the golden belts, and embroidered yellaks.

Oh, happy future! As long as there are any embroiderers and silk weavers

in the Isle of Khios, I will be sure of admiration.

I, who until now could never believe in disinterested affection, am

obliged to have blind faith in the love I inspire.

It is surely easy to believe these truthful creatures, when they tell me

that they love to be elegantly clothed, well fed, and not beaten. I

cannot accuse them of duplicity when they say that they like to do

nothing harder than pick fruit and flowers, or bathe in the marble pool,

in the shade of the plane-trees.

In order to create doubt in my mind, they would have to tell me that

they preferred to give up an indolent life for one of hardship, to

abandon the sensual life they live here, and return to their household

avocations.

Have they ever told me that it would be a joy to them to go back to

their homes, and till the soil, or mend the roads?--manly occupations

that the women of Albania perform admirably.

No, they have energetically declared their willingness to be burnt alive

with me in my palace, at the first proposal I made them to give up silk

for homespun, the _far-niente_ of idleness for hard work, a life of

pleasure for household duties.

They have innocently expressed their preference for remaining with the

good Frank, and I believe them. When we consider their reasons for

staying here, how can we doubt their truth?

This time selfish motives are so apparent, that I shall have no occasion

to torment myself with doubts.

But what do I hear? It is a salute from a ship, the sound of a cannon!

What does it mean?

CHAPTER IX

RECOGNITION

There is nothing very remarkable about the incident I am about to

relate, but I am very curious and excited.

A Russian frigate has just come in from Constantinople; fearing bad

weather, she has put into Khios, instead of going on to Smyrna, or the

Oulach Islands.

That frigate fired a cannon-shot for a pilot, and that was the salute I

heard this morning.

Who is that lady who, in spite of the high wind, came on shore as soon

as the vessel was anchored? The sight of that simple little blue bonnet,

the cashmere shawl drawn snugly over the shoulders, that little foot so

well shod, that little hand so well gloved, has operated a retrograde

movement in regard to my ideas of beauty.

From the antique Greek I have passed to the Parisian type. I would now

give all the Noémis, the Anathasias, and the Daphnés in the world,

with all their fezzes, their yellaks, and embroidered belts, to be able

to offer my arm to that pretty stranger; for she is pretty, I could see

that much from the trellis of my kiosk. She is tall and slender, and has

beautiful blue eyes, which is something very charming in a fair-skinned

brunette.

The gentleman whose arm she leans on is middle-aged, and has a fine,

intelligent face.

Who can these strangers be?

KHIOS, October, 18--.

What a strange meeting! Events are so strange that it is well worth

while to continue my journal.

Yesterday I sent my old Cypriote to find a Calabrian, who fills the

position of port-warden, and attends to the Marquis Justiniani's

business, and ask him who were the travellers on the frigate.

That ship is commanded by the Duke of Fersen, ex-ambassador of Russia to

the Sublime Porte; he is on his way to Toulon, with the princess, his

wife, and several distinguished persons. It was Madame de Fersen that I

saw yesterday on the landing.

This morning, about one o'clock, I was lazily stretched on my divan,

smoking my Turkish pipe, whose bowl Noémi held, while Anathasia was

burning some perfumes in a silver pan, when the curtains of my

apartments were suddenly thrust aside, and Daphné entered triumphantly,

leading a party of strangers, among whom were M. and Madame de Fersen.

I could have strangled Daphné, for I was furious to be caught in my

Oriental costume.

My hair and beard had grown quite long, and my neck was bare. I wore the

long, white skirt of the Albanians, a cherry-coloured jacket embroidered

with orange silk, red morocco gaiters, embroidered with silver, and an

orange-coloured sash.

It was probably very picturesque, but it seemed terribly ridiculous, and

so like a masquerade, that I grew red with shame, as a young lady might

do if she were caught playing with a doll. (The comparison is silly, but

it expresses how I felt.)

Hoping to be mistaken for a real Albanian, I remained very serious, to

complete the deception.

The prince, accompanied by his Greek interpreter, stepped forward and

excused himself for his indiscretion, asking me to pardon his wife's

curiosity, but that she had found the palace so beautiful, and the

gardens so enchanting, that she asked permission to visit them, while

the ship waited for a favourable wind.

I replied by a low bow, putting my left hand on my breast, and my right

hand on my forehead, as the Albanians do; then I bowed my head to the

princess, without getting up from the divan.

I was about to say a few polite words to the interpreter, when I heard a

shrill voice, and at the same time I saw,--whom do you suppose?--Du

Pluvier!

I was stunned.

It was he, as ridiculous as ever, decked out in gold chains and an

embroidered waistcoat, noisy, talkative, and never still for a moment.

The little man was redder and fatter than ever. He was evidently a

member of the French legation at Constantinople, for he wore a blue coat

with buttons bearing the king's initials.

That infernal bore held one of my dwarfs by the ear, and, showing him to

Madame de Fersen, said, "Here, madame, is one of the monsters of the

Middle Ages."

Then, on a sign from the prince that the master of the house was

present, Du Pluvier turned around, and looked at me.

I trembled, for I knew that he recognised me.

It would be impossible to depict Du Pluvier's astonishment; his eyes

rolled in his head, he stretched forward his arms, and, stepping towards

me, cried out:

"What! are you here, my dear Arthur? You! disguised as a Mamamouchi!

This is a strange meeting! Why, I have not seen you since the first

representation of 'The Comte d'Ory' at the Opéra. You were there with

Madame de Pënâfiel."

The prince, his wife, the interpreter, and some Russian officers who

accompanied the ambassador, all of whom understood French perfectly

well, were quite as much surprised as Du Pluvier. Madame de Fersen

looked at me curiously, but could not refrain from smiling.

I bit my lips, cursing my costume, Daphné, and, above all, Du Pluvier,

whom I wished the devil might take. He kept on with his protestations of

friendship, while all eyes were fixed on us.

I had either to stick to my rôle of Albanian, and let Du Pluvier pass

for a fool, or to admit my foolish disguisement.

I bravely chose the latter course.

I rose, and went respectfully to bow to Madame de Fersen, and beg her

pardon for having for an instant deceived her. I frankly admitted that,

caught in the act of playing the Oriental, I had preferred to be taken

for an Albanian, than for a silly Frenchman.

She received my excuses with charming grace, which was, however, a

little sarcastic, when she expressed her astonishment at finding a man

of the world under the garb of an Oriental.

It is useless to say that Madame de Fersen speaks French like a Russian,

that is to say, perfectly.

CHAPTER X

COMPARISONS