regretted relation, an ancient château which she had never seen,
although it was at barely fifteen leagues from her habitual summer
residence. One of the most elegant, and almost one of the prettiest
women in Paris, Madame de Moncar was but moderately attached to the
country. Quitting the capital at the end of June, to return thither
early in October, she usually took with her some of the companions of
her winter gaieties, and a few young men, selected amongst her most
assiduous partners. Madame de Moncar was married to a man much older
than herself, who did not always protect her by his presence. Without
abusing the great liberty she enjoyed, she was gracefully coquettish,
elegantly frivolous, pleased with trifles--with a compliment, an
amiable word, an hour's triumph--loving a ball for the pleasure of
adorning herself, fond of admiration, and not sorry to inspire love.
When some grave old aunt ventured a sage remonstrance--"_Mon Dieu!_"
she replied; "do let me laugh and take life gaily. It is far less
dangerous than to listen in solitude to the beating of one's heart.
For my part, I do not know if I even have a heart!" She spoke the
truth, and really was uncertain upon that point. Desirous to remain
so, she thought it prudent to leave herself no time for reflection.
One fine morning in September, the countess and her guests set out for
the unknown château, intending to pass the day there. A cross road,
reputed practicable, was to reduce the journey to twelve leagues. The
cross road proved execrable: the travellers lost their way in the
forest; a carriage broke down; in short, it was not till mid-day that
the party, much fatigued, and but moderately gratified by the
picturesque beauties of the scenery, reached the château of Burcy,
whose aspect was scarcely such as to console them for the annoyances
of the journey. It was a large sombre building with dingy walls. In
its front a garden, then out of cultivation, descended from terrace to
terrace; for the château, built upon the slope of a wooded hill, had
no level ground in its vicinity. On all sides it was hemmed in by
mountains, the trees upon which sprang up amidst rocks, and had a dark
and gloomy foliage that saddened the eyesight. Man's neglect added to
the natural wild disorder of the scene. Madame de Moncar stood
motionless and disconcerted upon the threshold of her newly-acquired
mansion.
"This is very unlike a party of pleasure," said she; "I could weep at
sight of this dismal abode. Nevertheless here are noble trees, lofty
rocks, a roaring cataract; doubtless, there is a certain beauty in all
that; but it is of too grave an order for my humour," added she with a
smile. "Let us go in and view the interior."
The hungry guests, eager to see if the cook, who had been sent forward
upon the previous day, as an advanced guard, had safely arrived,
willingly assented. Having obtained the agreeable certainty that an
abundant breakfast would soon be upon the table, they rambled through
the château. The old-fashioned furniture with tattered coverings, the
arm-chairs with three legs, the tottering tables, the discordant
sounds of a piano, which for a good score of years had not felt a
finger, afforded abundant food for jest and merriment. Gaiety
returned. Instead of grumbling at the inconveniences of this
uncomfortable mansion, it was agreed to laugh at everything. Moreover,
for these young and idle persons, the expedition was a sort of event,
an almost perilous campaign, whose originality appealed to the
imagination. A faggot was lighted beneath the wide chimney of the
drawing-room; but clouds of smoke were the result, and the company
took refuge in the pleasure grounds. The aspect of the gardens was
strange enough; the stone-benches were covered with moss, the walls of
the terraces, crumbling in many places, left space between their
ill-joined stones for the growth of numerous wild plants, which sprung
out erect and lofty, or trailed with flexible grace towards the earth.
The walks were overgrown and obliterated by grass; the parterres,
reserved for garden flowers, were invaded by wild ones, which grow
wherever the heavens afford a drop of water and a ray of sun; the
insipid bearbine enveloped and stifled in its envious embrace the
beauteous rose of Provence; the blackberry mingled its acrid fruits
with the red clusters of the currant-bush; ferns, wild mint with its
faint perfume, thistles with their thorny crowns, grew beside a few
forgotten lilies. When the company entered the enclosure, numbers of
the smaller animals, alarmed at the unaccustomed intrusion, darted
into the long grass, and the startled birds flew chirping from branch
to branch. Silence, for many years the undisturbed tenant of this
peaceful spot, fled at the sound of human voices and of joyous
laughter. The solitude was appreciated by none--none grew pensive
under its influence; it was recklessly broken and profaned. The
conversation ran upon the gay evenings of the past season, and was
interspersed with amiable allusions, expressive looks, covert
compliments, with all the thousand nothings, in short, resorted to by
persons desirous to please each other, but who have not yet acquired
the right to be serious.
The steward, after long search for a breakfast-bell along the
dilapidated walls of the château, at last made up his mind to shout
from the steps that the meal was ready--the half-smile with which he
accompanied the announcement, proving that, like his betters, he
resigned himself for one day to a deviation from his habits of
etiquette and propriety. Soon a merry party surrounded the board. The
gloom of the château, its desert site and uncheery aspect, were all
forgotten; the conversation was general and well sustained; the health
of the lady of the castle--the fairy whose presence converted the
crazy old edifice into an enchanted palace, was drunk by all present.
Suddenly all eyes were turned to the windows of the dining-room.
"What is that?" exclaimed several of the guests.
A small carriage of green wicker-work, with great wheels as high as
the body of the vehicle, passed before the windows, and stopped at the
door. It was drawn by a gray horse, short and punchy, whose eyes
seemed in danger from the shafts, which, from their point of junction
with the carriage, sloped obliquely upwards. The hood of the little
cabriolet was brought forward, concealing its contents, with the
exception of two arms covered with the sleeves of a blue _blouse_, and
of a whip which fluttered about the ears of the gray horse.
"_Mon Dieu!_" exclaimed Madame de Moncar, "I forgot to tell you I was
obliged to invite the village doctor to our breakfast. The old man was
formerly of some service to my uncle's family, and I have seen him
once or twice. Be not alarmed at the addition to our party: he is very
taciturn. After a few civil words, we may forget his presence;
besides, I do not suppose he will remain very long."
At this moment the dining-room door opened, and Dr Barnaby entered. He
was a little old man, feeble and insignificant-looking, of calm and
gentle countenance. His gray hairs were collected into a cue,
according to a bygone fashion; a dash of powder whitened his temples,
and extended to his furrowed brow. He wore a black coat, and steel
buckles to his breeches. Over one arm hung a riding-coat of
puce-coloured taffety. In the opposite hand he carried his hat and a
thick cane. His whole appearance proved that he had taken unusual
pains with his toilet; but his black stockings and coat were stained
with mud, as if the poor old man had fallen into a ditch. He paused at
the door, astonished at the presence of so many persons. For an
instant, a tinge of embarrassment appeared upon his face; but
recovering himself, he silently saluted the company. The strange
manner of his entrance gave the guests a violent inclination to laugh,
which they repressed more or less successfully. Madame de Moncar
alone, in her character of mistress of the house, and incapable of
failing in politeness, perfectly preserved her gravity.
"Dear me, doctor! have you had an overturn?" was her first inquiry.
Before replying, Dr Barnaby glanced at all these young people in the
midst of whom he found himself, and, simple and artless though his
physiognomy was, he could not but guess the cause of their hilarity.
He replied quietly:
"I have not been overturned. A poor carter fell under the wheels of
his vehicle; I was passing, and I helped him up." And the doctor took
possession of a chair left vacant for him at the table. Unfolding his
napkin, he passed a corner through the buttonhole of his coat, and
spread out the rest over his waistcoat and knees. At these
preparations, smiles hovered upon the lips of many of the guests, and
a whisper or two broke the silence; but this time the doctor did not
raise his eyes. Perhaps he observed nothing.
"Is there much sickness in the village?" inquired Madame de Moncar,
whilst they were helping the new comer.
"Yes, madam, a good deal."
"This is an unhealthy neighbourhood?"
"No, madam."
"But the sickness. What causes it?"
"The heat of the sun in harvest time, and the cold and wet of winter."
One of the guests, affecting great gravity, joined in the
conversation.
"So that in this healthy district, sir, people are ill all the year
round?"
The doctor raised his little gray eyes to the speaker's face, looked
at him, hesitated, and seemed either to check or to seek a reply.
Madame de Moncar kindly came to his relief.
"I know," she said, "that you are here the guardian genius of all who
suffer."
"Oh, you are too good," replied the old man, apparently much engrossed
with the slice of pasty upon his plate. Then the gay party left Dr
Barnaby to himself, and the conversation flowed in its previous
channel. If any notice was taken of the peaceable old man, it was in
the form of some slight sarcasm, which, mingled with other discourse,
would pass, it was thought, unperceived by its object. Not that these
young men and women were generally otherwise than polite and
kind-hearted; but upon that day the journey, the breakfast, the
merriment and slight excitement that had attended all the events of
the morning, had brought on a sort of heedless gaiety and
communicative mockery, which rendered them pitiless to the victim whom
chance had thrown in their way. The doctor continued quietly to eat,
without looking up, or uttering a word, or seeming to hear one; they
voted him deaf and dumb, and he was no restraint upon the
conversation.
When the guests rose from table, Dr Barnaby took a step or two
backwards, and allowed each man to select the lady he wished to take
into the drawing-room. One of Madame de Moncar's friends remaining
without a cavalier, the village doctor timidly advanced, and offered
her his hand--not his arm. His fingers scarcely touched hers as he
proceeded, his body slightly bent in sign of respect, with measured
steps towards the drawing-room. Fresh smiles greeted his entrance, but
not a cloud appeared upon the placid countenance of the old man, who
was now voted blind, as well as deaf and dumb. Quitting his companion,
Dr Barnaby selected the smallest, humblest-looking chair in the room,
placed it in a corner, at some distance from everybody else, put his
stick between his knees, crossed his hands upon the knob, and rested
his chin upon his hands. In this meditative attitude he remained
silent, and from time to time his eyes closed, as if a gentle slumber,
which he neither invoked nor repelled, were stealing over him.
"Madame de Moncar!" cried one of the guests, "I presume it is not your
intention to inhabit this ruin in a desert?"
"Certainly I have no such project. But here are lofty trees and wild
woods. M. de Moncar may very likely be tempted to pass a few weeks
here in the shooting season."
"In that case you must pull down and rebuild; clear, alter, and
improve!"
"Let us make a plan!" cried the young countess. "Let us mark out the
future garden of my domains."
It was decreed that this party of pleasure should be unsuccessful. At
that moment a heavy cloud burst, and a close fine rain began to fall.
Impossible to leave the house.
"How very vexatious!" cried Madame de Moncar. "What shall we do with
ourselves? The horses require several hours' rest. It will evidently
be a wet afternoon. For a week to come, the grass, which overgrows
everything, will not be dry enough to walk upon; all the strings of
the piano are broken; there is not a book within ten leagues. This
room is wretchedly dismal. What can we do with ourselves?"
The party, lately so joyous, was gradually losing its gaiety. The
blithe laugh and arch whisper were succeeded by dull silence. The
guests sauntered to the windows and examined the sky, but the sky
remained dark and cloud-laden. Their hopes of a walk were completely
blighted. They established themselves as comfortably as they could
upon the old chairs and settees, and tried to revive the conversation;
but there are thoughts which, like flowers, require a little sun, and
which will not flourish under a bleak sky. All these young heads
appeared to droop, oppressed by the storm, like the poplars in the
garden, which bowed their tops at the will of the wind. A tedious hour
dragged by.
The lady of the castle, a little disheartened by the failure of her
party of pleasure, leaned languidly upon a window-sill, and gazed
vaguely at the prospect without.
"There," said she--"yonder, upon the hill, is a white cottage that
must come down: it hides the view."
"The white cottage!" cried the doctor. For upwards of an hour Dr
Barnaby had been mute and motionless upon his chair. Mirth and
weariness, sun and rain, had succeeded each other without eliciting a
syllable from his lips. His presence was forgotten by everybody: every
eye turned quickly upon him when he uttered these three words--"The
white cottage!"
"What interest do you take in it, doctor?" asked the countess.
"_Mon Dieu, madame!_ Pray forget that I spoke. The cottage will come
down, undoubtedly, since such is your good pleasure."
"But why should you regret the old shed?"
"I--_Mon Dieu!_ it was inhabited by persons I loved--and--"
"And they think of returning to it, doctor?"
"They are long since dead, madam; they died when I was young!" And the
old man gazed mournfully at the white cottage, which rose amongst the
trees upon the hill-side, like a daisy in a green field. There was a
brief silence.
"Madam," said one of the guests in a low voice to Madame de Moncar,
"there is mystery here. Observe the melancholy of our Esculapius. Some
pathetic drama has been enacted in yonder house; a tale of love,
perhaps. Ask the doctor to tell it us."
"Yes, yes!" was murmured on all sides, "a tale, a story! And should it
prove of little interest, at any rate the narrator will divert us."
"Not so, gentlemen," replied Madame de Moncar, in the same suppressed
voice. "If I ask Dr Barnaby to tell us the history of the white
cottage, it is on the express condition that no one laughs." All
having promised to be serious and well-behaved, Madame de Moncar
approached the old man. "Doctor," said she, seating herself beside
him, "that house, I plainly see, is connected with some reminiscence
of former days, stored preciously in your memory. Will you tell it us?
I should be grieved to cause you a regret which it is in my power to
spare you; the house shall remain, if you tell me why you love it."
Dr Barnaby seemed surprised, and remained silent. The countess drew
still nearer to him. "Dear doctor!" said she, "see what wretched
weather; how dreary everything looks. You are the senior of us all;
tell us a tale. Make us forget rain, and fog, and cold."
Dr Barnaby looked at the countess with great astonishment.
"There is no tale," he said. "What occurred in the cottage is very
simple, and has no interest but for me, who loved the young people:
strangers would not call it a tale. And I am unaccustomed to speak
before many listeners. Besides, what I should tell you is sad, and you
came to amuse yourselves." And again the doctor rested his chin upon
his stick.
"Dear doctor," resumed the countess, "the white cottage shall stand,
if you say why you love it."
The old man appeared somewhat moved; he crossed and uncrossed his
legs; took out his snuff-box, returned it to his pocket without
opening it; then, looking at the countess--"You will not pull it
down?" he said, indicating with his thin and tremulous hand the
habitation visible at the horizon.
"I promise you I will not."
"Well, so be it; I will do that much for them; I will save the house
in which they were happy.
"Ladies," continued the old man, "I am but a poor speaker; but I
believe that even the least eloquent succeed in making themselves
understood when they tell what they have seen. This story, I warn you
beforehand, is not gay. To dance and to sing, people send for a
musician; they call in the physician when they suffer, and are near to
death."
A circle was formed round Dr Barnaby, who, his hands still crossed
upon his cane, quietly commenced the following narrative, to an
audience prepared beforehand to smile at his discourse.
"It was a long time ago, when I was young--for I, too, have been
young! Youth is a fortune that belongs to all the world--to the poor
as well as to the rich--but which abides with none. I had just passed
my examination; I had taken my physician's degree, and I returned to
my village to exercise my wonderful talents, well convinced that,
thanks to me, men would now cease to die.
My village is not far from here. From the little window of my room, I
beheld yonder white house upon the opposite side to that you now
discern. You certainly would not find my village handsome. In my eyes,
it was superb; I was born there, and I loved it. We all see with our
own eyes the things we love. God suffers us to be sometimes a little
blind; for He well knows that in this lower world a clear sight is not
always profitable. To me, then, this neighbourhood appeared smiling
and pleasant, and I lived happily. The white cottage alone, each
morning when I opened my shutters, impressed me disagreeably: it was
always closed, still and sad like a forsaken thing. Never had I seen
its windows open and shut, or its door ajar; never had I known its
inhospitable garden-gate give passage to human being. Your uncle,
madam, who had no occasion for a cottage so near his château, sought
to let it; but the rent was rather higher than anybody here was rich
enough to give. It remained empty, therefore, whilst in the hamlet
every window exhibited two or three children's faces peering through
the branches of gilliflower at the first noise in the street. But one
morning, on getting up, I was quite astonished to see a long ladder
resting against the cottage wall; a painter was painting the
window-shutters green, whilst a maid-servant polished the panes, and a
gardener hoed the flower-beds.
"All the better," said I to myself; "a good roof like that, which
covers no one, is so much lost."
From day to day the house improved in appearance. Pots of flowers
veiled the nudity of the walls; the parterres were planted, the walks
weeded and gravelled, and muslin curtains, white as snow, shone in the
sun-rays. One day a post-chaise rattled through the village, and drove
up to the little house. Who were the strangers? None knew, and all
desired to learn. For a long time nothing transpired without of what
passed within the dwelling. The rose-trees bloomed, and the fresh-laid
lawn grew verdant; still nothing was known. Many were the commentaries
upon the mystery. They were adventurers concealing themselves--they
were a young man and his mistress--in short, everything was guessed
except the truth. The truth is so simple, that one does not always
think of it; once the mind is in movement, it seeks to the right and
to the left, and often forgets to look straight before it. The mystery
gave me little concern. No matter who is there, thought I; they are
human, therefore they will not be long without suffering, and then
they will send for me. I waited patiently.
At last one morning a messenger came from Mr William Meredith, to
request me to call upon him. I put on my best coat, and, endeavouring
to assume a gravity suitable to my profession, I traversed the
village, not without some little pride at my importance. That day many
envied me. The villagers stood at their doors to see me pass. "He is
going to the white cottage!" they said; whilst I, avoiding all
appearance of haste and vulgar curiosity, walked deliberately, nodding
to my peasant neighbours. "Good-day, my friends," I said; "I will see
you by-and-by; this morning I am busy." And thus I reached the
hill-side.
On entering the sitting-room of the mysterious house, the scene I
beheld rejoiced my eyesight. Everything was so simple and elegant.
Flowers, the chief ornament of the apartment, were so tastefully
arranged, that gold would not better have embellished the modest
interior. White muslin was at the windows, white calico on the
chairs--that was all; but there were roses and jessamine, and flowers
of all kinds, as in a garden. The light was softened by the curtains,
the atmosphere was fragrant; and a young girl or woman, fair and fresh
as all that surrounded her, reclined upon a sofa, and welcomed me with
a smile. A handsome young man, seated near her upon an ottoman, rose
when the servant announced Dr Barnaby.
"Sir," said he, with a strong foreign accent, "I have heard so much of
your skill that I expected to see an old man."
"I have studied diligently, sir," I replied. "I am deeply impressed
with the importance and responsibility of my calling: you may confide
in me."
"'Tis well," he said. "I recommend my wife to your best care. Her
present state demands advice and precaution. She was born in a
distant land: for my sake she has quitted family and friends. I can
bring but my affection to her aid, for I am without experience. I
reckon upon you, sir. If possible, preserve her from all suffering."
As he spoke, the young man fixed upon his wife a look so full of love,
that the large blue eyes of the beautiful foreigner glistened with
tears of gratitude. She dropped the tiny cap she was embroidering, and
her two hands clasped the hand of her husband. I looked at them, and I
ought to have found their lot enviable, but, somehow or other, the
contrary was the case. I felt sad; I could not tell why. I had often
seen persons weep, of whom I said--They are happy! I saw William
Meredith and his wife smile, and I could not help thinking they had
much sorrow. I seated myself near my charming patient. Never have I
seen anything so lovely as that sweet face, shaded by long ringlets of
fair hair.
"What is your age, madam?"
"Seventeen."
"Is the climate of your native country very different from ours?"
"I was born in America--at New Orleans. Oh! the sun is far brighter
than here."
Doubtless she feared she had uttered a regret, for she added--
"But every country is beautiful when one is in one's husband's house,
with him, and awaiting his child!"
Her gaze sought that of William Meredith; then, in a tongue I did not
understand, she spoke a few words which sounded so soft that they must
have been words of love.
After a short visit I took my leave, promising to return. I did
return, and, at the end of two months, I was almost the friend of this
young couple. Mr and Mrs Meredith were not selfish in their happiness;
they found time to think of others. They saw that to the poor village
doctor, whose sole society was that of peasants, those days were
festivals upon which he passed an hour in hearing the language of
cities. They encouraged me to frequent them--talked to me of their
travels, and soon, with the prompt confidence characterising youth,
they told me their story. It was the girl-wife who spoke:--