“What art thou writing, my brother?” asked Julie from among her pillows
one day; “something for the journals?”
“Oui, cherie.”
“Oh, dear Julien, take care! do not say that the Emperor of America is
not a good Emperor!”
“Fear not, mon enfant: we are in a free country where one says what one
pleases.”
Julien brought a basin which had been heating on the stove.
“Here is something for thee, little one.”
“Wilt thou not have of it also, brother? Let us dine together. I never
see thee eat.”
“The beef tea is not for strong men: it is for the little invalids.”
“Ah, but thou art not strong! I remember when thy cheeks were like the
rose. Now thou art so pale and thin! and I saw thy hand tremble while
thou wast writing. Oh, my brother, if thou shouldst be sick, I fear I
could not be to thee the good angel thou art to me. Come, take of this a
little: it is excellent.”
“I have already dined, cherie.”
“When?”
“While thou wast sleeping.”
“I bet thy dinner was not so good as mine! n’est ce pas?”
No, truly it was not. It was of stale bread, as wee a morsel as ever kept
body and soul together. But the little one must never know.
“Tell me, Julie, who is oncle le capitaine?”
“Oh, that is the monsieur charming who gave me a ride in his ship. He
promised to find thee for me. But who hast thou heard to speak of him?”
“A little fairy. And so he gave thee the ride?”
“Yes, Julien, was he not good? He would not take the cross—thou
rememberest?—our poor mamma’s beautiful cross. It was yesterday, was it
not, that I was telling thee how she gave it to me? Madame locked it in
the drawer. I wonder if she would not let thee have it if thou wert to
ask her? for thou art a man, and thou canst speak English, and she will
comprehend. Oh, dear Julien, what is the matter? what have I said? art
thou angry with me?”
“No, not with thee, my poor dear little angel! but with those people
there—the brutes!”
“Comment! who has told thee of them, my brother?”
“A little fairy.”
“Who is that little fairy that tells thee so much? what is she called?”
“She is called Julie.”
“Comment! what dost thou say? I am she! But how could I tell thee, since
thou wilt scarcely allow me to speak a single word, dear monsieur le
docteur?”
“My poor little Julie has had bad dreams and talked in her sleep. There,
now, thou art weary. Close thy pretty eyes and rest thee. Already, I
fear, I have let thee talk too long.”
“But it is so good to be with one who comprehends, and can speak with me
our own beautiful language!”
“Poor little sister! when thou art stronger, we will do nothing but talk
for a whole day.”
While the child lay sleeping, there came a rap at the outer door. Julien
hoped he was going to have a patient. But no, a tall, stout gentleman
strode into the office. His face was ruddy, his eyes twinkled merrily. He
didn’t look as if he were in any need of medicine.
“I came to ask after the little Julie,” he said. “She came over in my
ship,” he explained. “Possibly she has made mention of—”
“Ah! is it ‘oncle le capitaine’?”
“The same,” answered the gentleman, smiling.
“Then let me thank you for your kindness to my little sister!” cried the
young man, grasping his hand. “I know not how to express my gratitude.”
“Bah! where is she?”
“In the next room. She sleeps. She is just recovering from a fever—of the
brain.”
“Indeed! Strange that woman should not have spoken of it! Has she been
very sick?”
“It has been a struggle for life.”
“Ah-h-h, those Lanes! the rascals! Why, sir, I left the child in charge
of people I thought I could trust—people I had befriended. Why, that man,
Lane, was head and ears in debt! but for me, he and his would be in want
and misery to-day! What do they do, the moment I am out of sight, but
send her to an orphan asylum! Sent her off! off West! that was all they
could tell me at the asylum. Gone West! Nothing definite. No record, no
trace. I’ve had a search, I can tell you. Hunted, advertised, from place
to place. Yesterday I came here. It was by this cross I found her. I saw
it in a shop window and identified it at once with one little Julie had
shown me on shipboard. You recognize it?”
“I do, indeed. It is an heir-loom. It has been handed down through I know
not how many generations.”
“I made inquiries in the shop, and was directed to a lady who they said
was its owner. She proved to be the person who took the child from the
asylum. She seemed strangely embarrassed and disinclined to speak about
the matter.”
“With good reason! mon Dieu! my blood boils as I think of it. It was the
cruelty and overtask that caused my little one’s illness.”
“I suspected something of the kind. Listen to the condition upon which
that person acquainted me with your whereabouts—that I ‘shouldn’t mention
the matter to any one in town!’ And there’s something wrong about this
cross. She said she was afraid the child might lose it, and so had put it
under lock and key for safe keeping, and had afterwards lent it to the
jeweler as a curiosity. But he was wonderfully inquisitive, and undertook
to pump me when I went back after it. What do you think he had labeled
it? As one of the jewels of your ex-Empress!”
“C’en est trop![7] these Yankees!” exclaimed Julien; then coloring to the
roots of his hair he stammered:
“Pardon, monsieur!”
“No offense,” said the captain, smiling. “I am, then, so genuine a
Yankee?”
“I do not say it,” the other slowly answered.
The captain laughed aloud.
Julien opened the inner door.
“Didst thou call, sister?”
“Oui, mon frere. Tell me who is with thee? But I know it—I! It is oncle
le capitaine! I heard him laugh!”
“Bonjour, bonjour, mademoiselle l’Empress! how is your Majesty’s health
to-day?” cried a voice over Julien’s shoulder. “See, little pale one, I
come to bring thee thy cross.”
“Oh, the cross of mamma! the cross of mamma!” exclaimed Julie, seizing it
and covering it with kisses, while silent tears crept down her wan cheeks.
Julien turned away to the window, and the captain sat down by the couch
and shaded his eyes with his hand.
“But, mon oncle,” said Julie after awhile, “tell me, did you have a good
voyage? Did the great waves come and tip the ship right over on its
side and almost spill you out? You were gone so long I feared you were
drowned. Oh, mon oncle, do not go away again upon the terrible sea; but
stay with us, my brother and me.”
“Ah, my little Julie, thy poor old uncle is, upon land, like a fish out
of water.”
Julie must not yet hear, the captain thought, the story of that great
gale off the coast of the Carolinas, in which his good ship had nearly
been wrecked. It would better suit the little convalescent to be told of
those islands where he had been; those sunny islands where it is always
summer, where oranges and bananas and the rarest and most beautiful
flowers grow wild.
While the two were talking, Julien once more took up his pen.
“With monsieur’s permission. An article for the _Morning Post_. It must
be ready within the next two hours.”
“Ah!—a treatise on health, doubtless.”
“A treatise on Louis Napoleon—ce scelerat!”
“My friend, take the advice of your sister’s venerable uncle; let that
poor wretch alone. He’s about played out. At all events, you are out of
his reach. Stick to your profession. Writing is fool’s business. ‘A jack
at all trades is good at none.’”
“But monsieur knows one must find some way to kill time.”
“Ah? Pill-peddling is not a lively business nowadays, I take it.”
“Monsieur, I have set up shop in three cities, and in each have waited
three months for a patient.”
“Whew! is _that_ so? Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“Why be in haste to tell of it, monsieur? It is nothing to boast of,
surely!”
“Why? Because I can help you. I am going to help you. I intended to when
I came here, if I found you were in need of it.”
“I have not said I was in need. I ask no one for help. What I ask for
is—work!”
“Young man, you are altogether too proud! You should take lessons of
Young America! Young America isn’t afraid of the jingling of coin. Young
America doesn’t spurn a good offer. Young America would jump at the
chance. But as for work, why, work will come to you if you only wait for
it long enough. ‘Patient waiters are no losers.’”
“Wait, wait, wait! mon Dieu! and the child there!”
“Yes, we must think of her! Come, my dear fellow, you’ve had a hard row
to hoe. No use denying!”
Julien was silent for a few moments; then he said:
“I will confess, monsieur, that I have seen times when I have wished
myself well back in France. There, at least, one could fight for one’s
country.”
“Is it worth fighting for? Poor France!—a republic, a kingdom, an empire,
a bedlam, by fits! ruled yesterday by an idiot, to-day by a lynx,
to-morrow by a pack of bloodhounds! Better off where you are, young man;
better off where you are.”
Julien had arisen, and stood glaring at the captain.
“Monsieur forgets he is speaking of the land of my birth!”
“And of the land of his birth, as well,” was the quiet reply.
“Quoi! what do I understand monsieur to say?”
“Have you never heard your mother speak of her brother Jean?”
“Often.”
“I am he.”
“But no! He entered a monastery. He was a monk.”
“Still again, I am he. At your age I grew weary of the cloister.
Disguised as a sailor I escaped to the United States; and disguised as a
sailor I have knocked about the world ever since. My own country is the
one I avoid most of all. I suppose I never should have known aught of
Marguerite’s children if the little Julie had not come to me just as she
did. Indeed, although she told me her name, I never suspected who she
might be until she showed me her poor mother’s cross. In the cloister one
is buried from the world. I did not know whom my sister married. He,
too, is dead, the child told me. I mean your father.”
“General Leblanc, of the Italian campaign—you have never heard of him? It
was there that he lost his life.”
“Poor Marguerite! She was coming to you, it seems, and fell ill upon the
way.”
“I first learned it from Julie. I had received no tidings for months. Our
home was in the region which has fallen into the enemy’s clutches. Mails,
of course, were stopped. What other reason for the silence? Mon Dieu! the
agony of suspense! I should have returned immediately when the republic
was declared, if I could have seen my way—”
“And you two might have sought each other till your locks were gray—and
probably would never have met.”
“Mon oncle, please tell to me also those strange, sad things you have
been telling my brother now for a long time in that dreadful English,
till suddenly, at this moment, he looks frightened.”
Julien went over to the little questioner and kissed her wondering eyes.
“Thy uncle, sister—dear angel!—has been telling me that he is also _my_
uncle.”
[7] That’s too much!