CHAPTER I.--CHILDHOOD.

Produced by Dianna Adair, Jonathan Ingram, Josephine

Paolucci and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at

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[Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT, AT THE AGE OF TWELVE, AND HER MOTHER.

_From an Unpublished Photograph by C. Robert, Paris._]

THE STRAND MAGAZINE.

Vol. xxvii. APRIL, 1904. No. 160.

_The Memoirs of Sarah Bernhardt._

Copyright, 1904, by George Newnes, Limited.

[These Memoirs, written by the greatest actress of our

time, will give not only the story of her career in the

theatrical world, but also in social life, in which she

has, of course, met nearly all the celebrated people of

the day, from Royalties downwards, and will be found

throughout of the most striking interest to all classes

of readers.]

CHAPTER I.--CHILDHOOD.

My mother was fond of travelling: she would go from Spain to England, from

London to Paris, from Paris to Berlin, and from there to Christiania; then

she would come back, embrace me, and set out again for Holland, her native

country. She used to send my nurse clothing for herself and cakes for me.

To one of my aunts she would write: "Look after little Sarah; I shall

return in a month's time." A month later she would write to another of her

sisters: "Go and see the child at her nurse's; I shall be back in a couple

of weeks."

[Illustration: MME. SARAH BERNHARDT'S DEDICATORY LETTER.

SPECIALLY WRITTEN FOR THIS MAGAZINE.

"Je suis heureux de dedier le premier chapitre de mes Memoires au peuple

anglais, qui, le premier de tous les peuples etrangers, m'a accueillie avec

une si grande bienveillance qu'il m'a fait croire en moi.--SARAH BERNHARDT,

Paris, 1904."

TRANSLATION.--"I am pleased to dedicate the first chapter of my Memoirs to

the English people, who, first among all foreign nations, welcomed me with

such great kindness that they made me believe in myself."]

My mother's age was nineteen; I was three years old, and my two aunts were

seventeen and twenty years of age; another aunt was fifteen, and the eldest

was twenty-eight, but the last one lived at Martinique, and was the mother

of six children. My grandmother was blind, my grandfather dead, and my

father had been in China for the last two years. I have no idea why he had

gone there.

My youthful aunts always promised to come to see me, but rarely kept their

word. My nurse hailed from Brittany and lived near Quimperle, in a little

white house with a low thatched roof, on which wild gillyflowers grew.

That was the first flower which charmed my eyes as a child, and I have

loved it ever since. Its leaves are heavy and sad-looking, and its petals

are made of the setting sun.

Brittany is a long way off, even in our present epoch of velocity. In those

days it was the end of the world. Fortunately my nurse was, it appears, a

good, kind woman, and, as her own child had died, she had only me to love.

But she loved after the manner of poor people, when she had time.

One day, as her husband was ill, she went into the fields to help gather in

potatoes; the over-damp soil was rotting them, and there was no time to be

lost. She left me in charge of her husband, who was lying on his Breton

bedstead suffering from a bad attack of lumbago. The good woman had placed

me in my high chair, and had been careful to put in the wooden peg which

supported the narrow tablet for my toys. She threw a fagot in the grate,

and said to me in Breton language (until the age of four I only understood

Breton), "Be a good girl, Milk Blossom." That was my only name at the time.

When she had gone I tried to withdraw the wooden peg which she had taken so

much trouble to put in place. Finally I succeeded in pushing aside the

little rampart. I wanted to reach the ground, but--poor little me!--I fell

into the fire, which was burning joyfully.

[Illustration: SARAH BERNHARDT'S HOME IN BRITTANY WHEN SHE WAS A CHILD.

_From a Photo._]

The screams of my foster-father, who could not move, brought in some

neighbours. I was thrown, all smoking, into a large pail of fresh milk. My

aunts were informed of what had happened; they communicated the news to my

mother, and for the next four days that quiet part of the country was

ploughed by stage-coaches, which arrived in rapid succession. My aunts came

from all parts of the world; and my mother, in the greatest alarm, hastened

from Brussels with Baron Larrey, one of her friends, who was a celebrated

doctor, and a surgeon whom Baron Larrey had brought with him. I have been

told since that nothing was more painful to witness, and yet so charming,

as my mother's despair. The doctor approved of the "mask of butter," which

was changed every two hours.

Dear Baron Larrey! I often saw him afterwards, and now and again we shall

meet him in the pages of my Memoirs. He used to tell me in such charming

fashion how those kind folks loved Milk Blossom. And he could never refrain

from laughing at the thought of that butter. There was butter everywhere,

he used to say; on the bedsteads, on the cupboards, on the chairs, on the

tables, hanging up on nails in bladders. All the neighbours used to bring

butter to make masks for Milk Blossom.

Mother, admirably beautiful, looking like a Madonna, with her golden hair

and her eyes fringed with such long lashes that they made a shadow on her

cheeks when she bent her eyes, distributed money on all sides. She would

have given her golden hair, her slender white fingers, her tiny feet, her

life itself, in order to save the child. And she was as sincere in her

despair and her love as in her unconscious forgetfulness. Baron Larrey left

for Paris, leaving my mother, Aunt Rosine, and the surgeon with me.

Forty-two days later mother took in triumph to Paris the nurse, the

foster-father, and me, and installed us in a little house at Neuilly, on

the banks of the Seine. I had not even a scar, it appears. My skin was

rather too bright a pink, but that was all. My mother, happy and trustful

once more, began to travel again, leaving me in care of my aunts.

Two years were spent in the little garden at Neuilly, which was full of

horrible dahlias, growing close together and coloured like woollen balls.

My aunts never came there. My mother used to send money, bonbons, and toys.

The foster-father died, and my nurse married a concierge, who used to pull

open the door at 65, Rue de Provence.

Not knowing where to find my mother, and not being able to write, my

nurse--without telling any of my friends took me with her to her new abode.

The change delighted me. I was five years old at the time, and I remember

the day as if it were yesterday. My nurse's abode was just over the doorway

of the house, and the window was framed in the heavy and monumental door.

From outside I thought it was beautiful, and I began to clap my hands on

reaching the house. It was towards five o'clock in the evening in the month

of November, when everything looks grey. I was put to bed, and no doubt I

went to sleep at once, for there end my souvenirs of that day.

The next morning there was terrible grief in store for me. There was no

window in the little room in which I slept, and I began to cry, and escaped

from the arms of my nurse, who was dressing me, so that I could go into the

adjoining room. I ran to the round window, which was an immense

"bull's-eye" above the doorway, I pressed my stubborn brow against the

glass and began to scream with rage on seeing no trees; no box-wood, no

leaves falling, nothing, nothing but stone--cold, grey, ugly stone, and

panes of glass opposite me. "I want to go away. I don't want to stay here.

It is all black, black! It is ugly! I want to see the ceiling of the

street!" and I burst into tears. My poor nurse took me up in her arms and,

folding me in a rug, took me down into the courtyard. "Lift up your head,

Milk Blossom, and look! See, there is the ceiling of the street!"

It comforted me somewhat to see that there was some sky in this ugly place,

but my little soul was very sad. I could not eat, and I grew pale and

became anaemic, and I should certainly have died of consumption if it had

not been for a mere chance, a most unexpected incident. One day I was

playing in the courtyard with a little girl named Titine, who lived on the

second floor, and whose face or real name I cannot recall. I saw my nurse's

husband walking across the courtyard with two ladies, one of whom was most

fashionably attired. I could only see their backs, but the voice of the

fashionably-attired lady caused my heart to stop beating. My poor little

body trembled with nervous excitement.

"Do any of the windows look on to the courtyard?" she asked.

"Yes, madame, those four," he replied, pointing to four open ones on the

first floor.

The lady turned to look at them, and I uttered a cry of joy.

"Aunt Rosine! Aunt Rosine!" I exclaimed, clinging to the skirts of the

pretty visitor. I buried my face in her furs, stamping, sobbing, laughing,

and tearing her wide lace sleeves in my frenzy of delight. She took me in

her arms and tried to calm me, and, questioning the concierge, she

stammered out to her friend, "I can't understand what it all means! This is

little Sarah! My sister Youle's child!"

The noise I made had attracted attention, and people opened their windows.

My aunt decided to take refuge in the concierge's lodge, in order to come

to an explanation. My poor nurse told her all that had taken place--her

husband's death and her second marriage. I do not remember what she said to

excuse herself. I clung to my aunt, who was deliciously perfumed, and I

would not let go of her.

She promised to come the following day to fetch me, but I did not want to

stay any longer in that dark place. I asked to start at once with my nurse.

My aunt stroked my hair gently, and spoke to her friend in a language I did

not understand. She tried in vain to explain something to me--I do not know

what it was--but I insisted that I wanted to go away with her at once. In

a gentle, tender, caressing voice, but without any real affection, she said

all kinds of pretty things, stroked me with her gloved hands, patted my

frock, which was turned up, and made any amount of charming, frivolous

little gestures, but all without any real feeling. She then went away, at

her friend's entreaty, after emptying her purse in my nurse's hands. I

rushed towards the door, but the husband of my nurse, who had opened it for

her, now closed it again. My nurse was crying, and, taking me in her arms,

she opened the window, saying to me: "Don't cry, Milk Blossom; look at your

pretty aunt. She will come back again, and then you can go away with her."

[Illustration: RUE DE PROVENCE, WHERE SARAH BERNHARDT, AT THE AGE OF FIVE,

WAS TAKEN TO LIVE WITH HER NURSE.

_From a Photo. by C. Robert Paris._]

Great tears rolled down her calm, round, handsome face. I could see nothing

but the dark, black hole which remained there immutable behind me, and in a

fit of despair I rushed out to my aunt, who was just getting into a

carriage. After that I knew nothing more; everything seemed dark; there was

a noise in the distance. I could hear voices far, far away. I had managed

to escape from my poor nurse and had fallen down on the pavement in front

of my aunt. I had broken my arm in two places and injured my left knee-cap.

I only came to myself again a few hours later, to find that I was in a

beautiful wide bed which smelt very nice. It stood in the middle of a large

room, with two lovely windows, which made me very joyful, for I could see

the ceiling of Heaven through them.

My mother, who had been sent for immediately, came to take care of me, and

I saw the rest of my family, my aunts and my cousins. My poor little brain

could not understand why all these people should suddenly be so fond of me,

when I had passed so many days and nights only cared for by one single

person.

As I was weakly and my bones were small and friable, I was two years

recovering from this terrible fall, and during that time was nearly always

carried about. I will pass over these two years of my life, which have left

me only a vague memory of being petted, and of a chronic state of torpor.

One day my mother took me on her knees and said to me, "You are a big girl

now, and you must learn to read and write." I was then seven years old and

could neither read, write, nor count, as I had been five years with the old

nurse and two years ill. "You must go to school," continued my mother,

playing with my curly hair, "like a big girl." I did not know what all this

meant, and I asked what a school was.

"It's a place where there are many little girls," replied my mother.

"Are they ill?" I asked.

"Oh, no. They are quite well, like you are now, and they play together, and

are very gay and happy."

I jumped about in delight and gave free vent to my joy, but on seeing tears

in my mother's eyes I flung myself in her arms.

"But what about you, mamma?" I asked. "You will be all alone and you won't

have any little girl."

She bent down to me and said, "God has told me that he will send me some

flowers and a little baby."

My delight was more and more boisterous. "Then I shall have a little

brother!" I exclaimed, "or else a little sister! Oh, no, I don't want

that; I don't like little sisters!"

Mamma kissed me very affectionately, and then I was dressed, I remember, in

a blue corded velvet frock, of which I was very proud. Arrayed thus in all

my splendour, I waited impatiently for Aunt Rosine's carriage, which was to

take us to Auteuil.

It was about three o'clock when she arrived. The housemaid had gone on

about an hour before, and I had watched with delight my little trunk and my

toys being packed into the carriage. The maid climbed up and took the seat

by the driver, in spite of my mother protesting at first against this. When

my aunt's magnificent equipage arrived, mamma was the first to get in,

slowly and calmly. I got in slowly too, giving myself airs because the

concierge and some of the shop-keepers were watching. My aunt then sprang

in lightly, but by no means calmly, after giving her orders in English to

the stiff, ridiculous-looking coachman, and handing him a paper on which

the address was written. Another carriage followed ours, in which three men

were seated: Regis L----, a friend of my father's, General de P----, and an

artist named Fleury, I think, whose pictures of horses and sporting

subjects were very much in vogue just then.

I heard on the way that these gentlemen were going to arrange about a

little dinner near Auteuil to console mamma for her great trouble in being

separated from me. Some other guests were to be there to meet them. I did

not pay very much attention to what my mother and my aunt said to each

other. Sometimes when they spoke of me they talked either English or

German, and smiled at me affectionately. The long drive was greatly

appreciated by me, for, with my face pressed against the window and my eyes

wide open, I gazed out eagerly at the grey, muddy road, with its ugly

houses on each side and its bare trees. I thought it was all very

beautiful--because it kept changing.

The carriage stopped at 18, Rue Boileau, Auteuil. On the iron gate was a

long, dark signboard, with gold letters. I looked up at it, and mamma said:

"You will be able to read that soon, I hope." My aunt whispered to me,

"Boarding School. Madame Fressard," and, very promptly, I said to mamma:

"It says, 'Boarding School. Madame Fressard.'"

[Illustration: THE EDUCATIONAL ESTABLISHMENT AT AUTEUIL WHERE SARAH

BERNHARDT PASSED SOME OF HER EARLY YEARS.

_From a Photo. by C. Robert, Paris._]

Mamma, my aunt, and the three gentlemen laughed heartily at my assurance,

and we entered the house. Mme. Fressard came forward to meet us, and I

liked her at once. She was of medium height, rather stout, with a small

waist, and her hair turning grey "en Sevigne." She had beautiful, large

eyes, rather like George Sand's; very white teeth, which showed up all the

more as her complexion was rather tawny. She looked healthy, spoke kindly;

her hands were plump and her fingers long. She took my hand gently in hers

and, half-kneeling, so that her face was level with mine, she said, in a

musical voice, "You won't be afraid of me, will you, little girl?" I did

not answer, but my face flushed as red as a coxcomb. She asked me several

questions, but I refused to reply. They all gathered round me. "Speak,

child!" "Come, Sarah, be a good girl!" "Oh, the naughty little child!"

It was all in vain. I remained perfectly mute. The customary round was then

made of the bedrooms, the dining-hall, the class-rooms, and the usual

exaggerated compliments were paid. "How beautifully it is all kept! How

spotlessly clean everything is!" and a hundred stupidities of this kind

about the comfort of these prisons for children. My mother went aside with

Mme. Fressard, and I clung to her knees so that she could not walk. "This

is the doctor's prescription," she said, and then followed a long list of

things that were to be done for me.

Mme. Fressard smiled rather ironically. "You know, madame," she said to my

mother, "we shall not be able to curl her hair like that." "And you

certainly will not be able to uncurl it," replied my mother, stroking my

head with her gloved hands. "It's a regular wig, and they must never

attempt to comb it until it has been well brushed. They could not possibly

get the knots out otherwise, and it would hurt her too much. What do you

give the children at four o'clock?" she asked, changing the subject. "Oh, a

slice of bread and just what the parents leave for them."

"There are twelve pots of different kinds of jam," said my mother, "but she

must have jam one day and chocolate another, as she has not a good

appetite, and requires change of food. I have brought six pounds of

chocolate." Mme. Fressard smiled in a good-natured but rather ironical way.

She picked up a packet of the chocolate and looked at the mark.

"Ah! from Marquis? What a spoilt little girl it is!" She patted my cheek

with her white fingers, and then, as her eyes fell on a large jar, she

looked surprised. "That's cold cream," said my mother. "I make it myself,

and I should like my little girl's face and hands to be rubbed with it

every night when she goes to bed."

"But----" began Mme. Fressard.

"Oh, I'll pay double laundry expenses for the sheets," interrupted my

mother, impatiently. (Ah! my poor mother, I remember quite well that my

sheets were changed once a month, like those of the other pupils.)

The farewell moment came at last, and everyone gathered round mamma, and

finally carried her off, after a great deal of kissing, and with all kinds

of consoling words. "It will be so good for her." "It is just what she

needs." "You'll find her quite changed when you see her again," etc., etc.

The General, who was very fond of me, picked me up in his arms and tossed

me in the air.

"You little chit," he said; "they are putting you to the barracks, and

you'll have to mind your pace!"

I pulled his long moustache, and he said, winking, and looking in the

direction of Mme. Fressard, who had a slight moustache, "You mustn't do

that to the lady, you know!"

My aunt laughed heartily, and my mother gave a little stifled laugh, and

the whole troop went off in a regular whirlwind of rustling skirts and

farewells, whilst I was taken away to the cage where I was to be

imprisoned.

* * * * *

I spent two years at this school, and I learned to read, write, and do

sums. I also learned plenty of new games, and to sing _rondeaux_ and

embroider handkerchiefs for mamma.

I was comparatively happy on the whole, because we went out on Sundays and

Thursdays, and I had a sort of sensation of liberty on those days. The sun

in the street seemed to me quite different from the sun in the big garden

belonging to the school. My Aunt Felix Faure (no relation to the wife of

the late President) often fetched me and took me out with her. There was a

little brook running through the grounds round her house at Neuilly, and I

used to spend hours fishing in it with my two cousins, a boy and a girl.

These two years passed by peacefully enough, the chief events being my

terrible fits of temper, which upset the whole school occasionally, and

ended usually by my spending two or three days in the sick-room. One day

Aunt Rosine arrived suddenly, to take me away altogether. My father had

written giving orders as to where I was to be placed, and these orders were

imperative. My mother was travelling, so she had sent word to my aunt, who

had hurried off at once between two dances, to carry out the instructions

she had received.

The idea that I was to be ordered about without any regard to my own wishes

or inclinations put me into an indescribable rage. I rolled about on the

ground, uttering the most heartrending cries. I yelled out all kinds of

reproaches, blaming mamma, my aunts, and Mme. Fressard for not finding some

way to keep me with her. The struggle lasted two hours, and while I was

being dressed I escaped twice into the garden and attempted to climb the

trees and to throw myself into the pond, in which there was more mud than

water.

[Illustration: THE GRAND CHAMP CONVENT, VERSAILLES.

_From a Photo. by C. Robert, Paris._]

Finally, when I was completely exhausted and subdued, I was taken off

sobbing in my aunt's carriage.

I stayed three days at her house, as I was so feverish that they all

thought I was sickening for some illness. It proved to be nothing but the

result of my wild fit of anger.

* * * * *

I will pass over some pages which my readers will find later on in my

Memoirs, and will go on to the time when I was at the Grand Champ Convent

at Versailles, whither I had been taken after various events.

* * * * *

Endowed with a lively imagination and with an extremely sensitive nature,

the Christian legend appealed both to my heart and mind. The Divine Martyr

became my ideal, and the Mother with the Seven Sorrows I simply worshipped.

An event which seemed simple enough in itself, but which was very

important, as, indeed, everything is which disturbs, if only for an hour,

the tranquillity of convent life, served to attach me more strongly than

ever to this peaceful home. It seemed to me to be the place for all earthly

happiness and the road to eternal peace in the next world.

The Archbishop of Paris, Monseigneur Sibour, was to honour the convent by

paying a sacerdotal visit. It was not only the father coming to look after

the welfare of his children, but, and more particularly this, it was the

Prince of the Church condescending to appear in the midst of these humble

and holy women and pure children. It was a Divine Majesty coming down from

the throne to mingle with his human subjects.

The whole convent was in a state of great excitement when the good news was

received, and I must own that there was more enthusiasm than solemnity

visible during the time that preceded the visit. The chapel was decorated

with all its most special ornaments for this most special reception. The

whole house was filled with flowers, and what particularly delighted me and

several of my companions was that a play taken from a Biblical subject was

rehearsed for the benefit of Monseigneur. I should not like to affirm that

the privileged ones who were chosen to take part in this play had no vanity

on their conscience on that particular day. It was no small glory to appear

before a public, limited certainly in number, but so wonderfully select.

I was only a fragile child at that time, interesting rather than pretty, in

spite of my rose-coloured lips, my "heavenly eyes," as the nuns called

them, and my light gold hair. It is from that far-back time that my

earliest theatrical souvenirs date. It was St. Catherine's Day, a general

holiday in all the convents for girls, but with us, this year, it was a

very great day. Much more attention than usual had been given to the

rehearsals of the play that was to be performed. The subject of the piece

had been taken from the Bible. It was the journey of young Tobias, and had

been written by Sister Therese.

The girls who had _roles_ were wild with delight. They had had committee

meetings, at which they discussed the quality of the piece, and I may add

that it was unanimously pronounced perfectly wonderful. All around me I

heard nothing but exclamations of joy and admiration, and I alone was

wretched, absolutely wretched, for I had no _role_. What misery I endured

in the midst of all this joy! My dear Mother--as we called the elder girls

who looked after us--never thought of trying to comfort me nor yet to

reason with me; she was too much taken up herself with the great event. I

could, therefore, weep and fume to my heart's content. I knew all the

_roles_ by heart, and I thought that most of the girls recited their parts

very badly. Finally I undertook to coach Louise Bugnet in her _role_. She

was to play the part of the guiding angel, and she could not manage it at

all. She was ten years old, and I liked her very much. She was my special

friend. "How silly you are!" I said to her. "If I were in your place I

should not be at all nervous. Listen! this is how I should say it." And

standing in front of her I went through her part, and she then repeated it

much better after me. But the next day, at the final rehearsal, in the

large room which we used on holidays, she was seized with such a trembling

fit that she could not utter a single word. We were all there together, and

Mother Sainte-Appoline was drilling us in her own way. She imitated

Monseigneur Sibour, who was to be present at the performance, and she said,

"When he does like this you must all clap," and when she clapped her long,

delicate hands together, it sounded as though there were cotton-wool

between them.

I should have enjoyed all this immensely if I had not been furious. I knew

all the _roles_ and had not a single word to say. Most of the girls were

beaming with pride; Louise Bugnet alone was crying and sobbing. I thought

her very stupid.

"That child will never get through her part," exclaimed the Mother

Superior.

"Oh, no, I can't; I am sure I can't!" sobbed my poor little friend.

There was a general uproar, and all at once I felt my childish heart leap

with the wildest joy. The blood seemed to boil in my veins, and, rushing

from the platform, I jumped on to a form. "Mother! Mother!" I exclaimed, "I

know the _role_. Would you like me to take it?"

Everybody was looking at me. I was trembling, but I felt quite brave. I

knew the part and was sure of myself.

Mother Sainte-Sophie, the Superior of the Convent, an adorable creature

(one of the happy memories of my childhood), answered: "Well, my dear, let

me hear you."

I tossed back my refractory hair, and, bold and panting, proceeded to

recite the _role_ of the guiding angel.

"There!" I exclaimed, when I came to the end.

My schoolfellows laughed, the sisters smiled, but, very much encouraged, I

mounted on to the little platform and the rehearsal commenced.

"It will be all right," everyone said, and I felt very proud, but still I

was afraid lest I should not get through well enough.

When the rehearsal was over the luncheon bell rang, but I could neither eat

nor drink; I felt choked and oppressed. How many times since then I have

had this same sensation of physical anguish!

On the table there was a special treat that day--a dish of custard. I was

very fond of this, but I could not possibly swallow anything. I glanced

anxiously at the girls to see if they were looking or listening. They were

eating and laughing. Louise Bugnet took my share of the custard. "Look

here!" she said, "you've taken my _role_, so I can eat your custard." I

began to cry, for I was very fond of custard. Fortunately, just then Sister

Sainte-Marie came to fetch me to be dressed, otherwise I should have had a

fit of temper, and it is quite probable that my silver goblet and my pewter

plate would have landed in the middle of the table. I was taken into the

large committee-room. I had never been in it before, and to my childish

imagination there was something mysterious about it.

I shuddered on entering, for it seemed to me I should hear all those rules

that were discussed in there twice a month. A looking-glass had been

brought in, the only one I ever saw in the convent. It belonged to Pere

Larcher, the gardener, the only man who was free to come in and out of the

house. The glass was too small and was framed in oak, with a bird carved on

the top. I can see it now, with the tinfoil worn off in patches and marks

all over it which interfered with its transparency. The nuns kept at a safe

distance from it as though it were a danger, and their black veils were

lowered over their white crepe ones. The sister who attended to the

turning-box, the only one in the convent who was not cloistered (because it

was she who had to deal with the tradesmen), was told off to dress us. She

put a long white gown on me with large sleeves, and two beautiful white

wings were then fastened on to me. My hair had been well curled and was

tied over my forehead with a gold lace.

[Illustration: THE GRAND CHAMP CONVENT FROM THE GARDEN.

_From a Photo. by C. Robert, Paris._]

Oh, dear, how my poor little heart was beating!

Suddenly the convent bells began to peal gaily; a carriage rolled up into

the courtyard and Monseigneur Sibour made his appearance.

I was too little and could not see, although I did my utmost to make myself

higher. Pere Larcher lifted me up in his arms, and then what a magnificent

sight I beheld.

Monseigneur had alighted from his episcopal carriage and Mother

Sainte-Sophie, our Mother Superior, was kneeling down and kissing his ring.

All the nuns, with bowed heads, were awaiting the signal to kneel down and

receive his blessing.

I thought all this very beautiful. All these black gowns with white caps,

and then this tall man in violet, with white hair, so majestic looking, and

yet with such a kind, fatherly expression on his face. Then, too, there

were the carriage and the fat coachman, all bedizened and yet sitting up

straight and looking so solemn on his draped seat, and our chaplain, both

gentle and severe--I thought it was all superb, and I decided to become a

nun.

An hour passed by, during which I knew absolutely nothing of what was said

or done.

I was waiting, very tired after all my emotion, and half asleep, too, in

the armchair which belonged to the old Mere Sainte-Alexis, the most aged

member of the community.

A light touch woke me. I was dreaming of my _role_ and was not, therefore,

at all surprised. I exclaimed, as I rushed towards the door, "Ah, they are

going to commence!"

Unfortunately, I had forgotten my long dress, and I fell down in the middle

of the room. The merriment which my accident caused put me in such a rage

that the tears which the pain in my knees brought to my eyes dried up

promptly. "I haven't hurt myself, there now!" I exclaimed, furious, and

then went into the small room which was to serve as our green-room.

The stage was represented by a plank of wood, which prevented our passing

the limits arranged. There was, of course, no sign of a curtain. A wooden

bench and a table, upon which was the frugal repast of old Tobias,

constituted the scenery.

Ah! there were also two stools, which one of the girls had to move about as

required. When I entered our green-room the entertainment had commenced,

but it was not time for our play. The eldest boarder was reciting the

address which had been composed in honour of Monseigneur. Her hard, dry

voice, repeating correctly the words she had learned, sounded to me like

the creaking of a door. We were eleven little girls in this small room, and

not one of us uttered a word. We could hear the beating of our hearts. Our

feverish little hands, clasped together from habit in prayer, were

clenched now in terror.

This opening number was over at last, and the girl was presented with a

cross that had been blessed. She assured us that she had not been nervous,

and that it was quite easy. We had only to look at the bright light which

the sun threw on the frame of the large picture representing Heaven, with

all the angels. In this way each one could imagine herself alone.

[Illustration: MME. SARAH BERNHARDT.

_From a Photo. by Lafayette._]

After this Marie Hubart played a piano-forte solo. Nothing was spared for

this great ceremony, and then, at last, it was our turn. I will not give

the details of the piece, as it is well known. I tell this as one of my

souvenirs, as it was my _debut_. I came very near entering a nunnery. It

seemed to me that there was nothing better, nothing which could make me

happier. In my childish imagination I could see angels drawing me

heavenwards. The only way appeared to be through the convent. In the

meantime I was about to appear on the stage.

I felt paralyzed, and a shudder ran through me from the back of my neck to

my feet. I fancy that I missed the right moment for appearing on the scene,

as one of the girls pushed me forward, just as my professor, Monsieur M.

Provost, had to do some years later when I made my _debut_ in "Iphigenia"

at the Comedie Francaise. My entrance was a success, for I had a sudden fit

of self-assurance, although I was really half delirious with fright, and I

went through my part very well, adding whole phrases to it. I scarcely knew

what I was saying, but I continued nevertheless.

When the piece was over the guiding angel was sent for by Monseigneur. I

was perfectly triumphant.

"What's your name, my child?" asked Monseigneur.

"Sarah," I replied.

"That name must be changed," he said, smiling.

"Yes," answered the Superior, "her father wants her to be baptized and to

be called Henriette; the ceremony is to take place in a month."

"Well, Sarah or Henriette," said Monseigneur, "here is a medal that you

must always wear, and the next time I come here you must recite some

poetry, 'Esther's Prayer,' for me."

Monseigneur then kissed me, and this caused some jealousy. I promised him

that I would learn "Esther's Prayer" for his next visit. I had only a vague

idea of what he meant by poetry. I knew some fables, but was not aware that

they were poetry. I asked to have something to learn at once for

Monseigneur, and "Esther's Prayer" was given to me. I began to study it

without a moment's delay. Alas! I was never to recite it to him. A few days

later, one morning after prayers, when we were all assembled in the chapel,

the almoner, who was deeply moved, told us in a short address that

Monseigneur Sibour had just been assassinated.[A] Little had we expected to

hear such terrible news.

All feelings of envy and triumph, together with the joyful remembrance of

our _fete_, were swept away in this great grief, which, for my part, I have

never forgotten.

Assassinated! A wave of terror seemed to pass over us, and the dread word,

echoing through the church, smote me more particularly. Had I not been

marked out as the favourite of the moment? It was to me as though the

murderer, Verger, had robbed me at the same time of my little share of

glory. I began to cry, more with regret than sorrow, and the prayers for

the dead, that we were told to say, brought my grief to a climax. I was

carried away in a fainting-fit, and it was from that time that I was taken

with an ardent love for mysticism, which was encouraged by our religious

observances, the _mise-en-scene_ of our services, and perhaps, too, by the

fervent and cajoling approval of the women who were educating me. They were

very fond of me and I adored them, so that even now the memory of them

thrills my heart with affection.

(_To be continued._)

FOOTNOTES:

[A] He was killed by the Abbe Verger, a priest who had been suspended from

office, Jan. 1, 1857.

THE RETURN OF SHERLOCK HOLMES[A].

By A. CONAN DOYLE.

_VII.--The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton._

It is years since the incidents of which I speak took place, and yet it is

with diffidence that I allude to them. For a long time, even with the

utmost discretion and reticence, it would have been impossible to make the

facts public; but now the principal person concerned is beyond the reach of

human law, and with due suppression the story may be told in such fashion

as to injure no one. It records an absolutely unique experience in the

career both of Mr. Sherlock Holmes and of myself. The reader will excuse me

if I conceal the date or any other fact by which he might trace the actual

occurrence.

We had been out for one of our evening rambles, Holmes and I, and had

returned about six o'clock on a cold, frosty winter's evening. As Holmes

turned up the lamp the light fell upon a card on the table. He glanced at

it, and then, with an ejaculation of disgust, threw it on the floor. I

picked it up and read:--

CHARLES AUGUSTUS MILVERTON,

APPLEDORE TOWERS,

AGENT. HAMPSTEAD.

"Who is he?" I asked.

"The worst man in London," Holmes answered, as he sat down and stretched

his legs before the fire. "Is anything on the back of the card?"

I turned it over.

"Will call at 6.30--C. A. M.," I read.

"Hum! He's about due. Do you feel a creeping, shrinking sensation, Watson,

when you stand before the serpents in the Zoo and see the slithery,

gliding, venomous creatures, with their deadly eyes and wicked, flattened

faces? Well, that's how Milverton impresses me. I've had to do with fifty

murderers in my career, but the worst of them never gave me the repulsion

which I have for this fellow. And yet I can't get out of doing business

with him--indeed, he is here at my invitation."

"But who is he?"

"I'll tell you, Watson. He is the king of all the blackmailers. Heaven help

the man, and still more the woman, whose secret and reputation come into

the power of Milverton. With a smiling face and a heart of marble he will

squeeze and squeeze until he has drained them dry. The fellow is a genius

in his way, and would have made his mark in some more savoury trade. His

method is as follows: He allows it to be known that he is prepared to pay

very high sums for letters which compromise people of wealth or position.

He receives these wares not only from treacherous valets or maids, but

frequently from genteel ruffians who have gained the confidence and

affection of trusting women. He deals with no niggard hand. I happen to

know that he paid seven hundred pounds to a footman for a note two lines in

length, and that the ruin of a noble family was the result. Everything

which is in the market goes to Milverton, and there are hundreds in this

great city who turn white at his name. No one knows where his grip may

fall, for he is far too rich and far too cunning to work from hand to

mouth. He will hold a card back for years in order to play it at the moment

when the stake is best worth winning. I have said that he is the worst man

in London, and I would ask you how could one compare the ruffian who in hot

blood bludgeons his mate with this man, who methodically and at his leisure

tortures the soul and wrings the nerves in order to add to his already

swollen money-bags?"

I had seldom heard my friend speak with such intensity of feeling.

"But surely," said I, "the fellow must be within the grasp of the law?"

"Technically, no doubt, but practically not. What would it profit a woman,

for example, to get him a few months' imprisonment if her own ruin must

immediately follow? His victims dare not hit back. If ever he blackmailed

an innocent person, then, indeed, we should have him; but he is as cunning

as the Evil One. No, no; we must find other ways to fight him."

[Illustration: "CHARLES AUGUSTUS MILVERTON."]

"And why is he here?"

"Because an illustrious client has placed her piteous case in my hands. It

is the Lady Eva Brackwell, the most beautiful _debutante_ of last season.

She is to be married in a fortnight to the Earl of Dovercourt. This fiend

has several imprudent letters--imprudent, Watson, nothing worse--which were

written to an impecunious young squire in the country. They would suffice

to break off the match. Milverton will send the letters to the Earl unless

a large sum of money is paid him. I have been commissioned to meet him,

and--to make the best terms I can."

At that instant there was a clatter and a rattle in the street below.

Looking down I saw a stately carriage and pair, the brilliant lamps

gleaming on the glossy haunches of the noble chestnuts. A footman opened

the door, and a small, stout man in a shaggy astrachan overcoat descended.

A minute later he was in the room.

Charles Augustus Milverton was a man of fifty, with a large, intellectual

head, a round, plump, hairless face, a perpetual frozen smile, and two keen

grey eyes, which gleamed brightly from behind broad, golden-rimmed glasses.

There was something of Mr. Pickwick's benevolence in his appearance, marred

only by the insincerity of the fixed smile and by the hard glitter of those

restless and penetrating eyes. His voice was as smooth and suave as his

countenance, as he advanced with a plump little hand extended, murmuring

his regret for having missed us at his first visit. Holmes disregarded the

outstretched hand and looked at him with a face of granite. Milverton's

smile broadened; he shrugged his shoulders, removed his overcoat, folded it

with great deliberation over the back of a chair, and then took a seat.

"This gentleman?" said he, with a wave in my direction. "Is it discreet? Is

it right?"

"Dr. Watson is my friend and partner."

"Very good, Mr. Holmes. It is only in your client's interests that I

protested. The matter is so very delicate----"

"Dr. Watson has already heard of it."

"Then we can proceed to business. You say that you are acting for Lady Eva.

Has she empowered you to accept my terms?"

"What are your terms?"

"Seven thousand pounds."

"And the alternative?"

"My dear sir, it is painful to me to discuss it; but if the money is not

paid on the 14th there certainly will be no marriage on the 18th." His

insufferable smile was more complacent than ever.

Holmes thought for a little.

"You appear to me," he said, at last, "to be taking matters too much for

granted. I am, of course, familiar with the contents of these letters. My

client will certainly do what I may advise. I shall counsel her to tell her

future husband the whole story and to trust to his generosity."

Milverton chuckled.

"You evidently do not know the Earl," said he.

From the baffled look upon Holmes's face I could clearly see that he did.

"What harm is there in the letters?" he asked.

"They are sprightly--very sprightly," Milverton answered. "The lady was a

charming correspondent. But I can assure you that the Earl of Dovercourt

would fail to appreciate them. However, since you think otherwise, we will

let it rest at that. It is purely a matter of business. If you think that

it is in the best interests of your client that these letters should be

placed in the hands of the Earl, then you would indeed be foolish to pay so

large a sum of money to regain them." He rose and seized his astrachan

coat.

Holmes was grey with anger and mortification.

"Wait a little," he said. "You go too fast. We would certainly make every

effort to avoid scandal in so delicate a matter."

Milverton relapsed into his chair.

"I was sure that you would see it in that light," he purred.

"At the same time," Holmes continued, "Lady Eva is not a wealthy woman. I

assure you that two thousand pounds would be a drain upon her resources,

and that the sum you name is utterly beyond her power. I beg, therefore,

that you will moderate your demands, and that you will return the letters

at the price I indicate, which is, I assure you, the highest that you can

get."

Milverton's smile broadened and his eyes twinkled humorously.

"I am aware that what you say is true about the lady's resources," said he.

"At the same time, you must admit that the occasion of a lady's marriage is

a very suitable time for her friends and relatives to make some little

effort upon her behalf. They may hesitate as to an acceptable wedding

present. Let me assure them that this little bundle of letters would give

more joy than all the candelabra and butter-dishes in London."

"It is impossible," said Holmes.

"Dear me, dear me, how unfortunate!" cried Milverton, taking out a bulky

pocket-book. "I cannot help thinking that ladies are ill-advised in not

making an effort. Look at this!" He held up a little note with a

coat-of-arms upon the envelope. "That belongs to--well, perhaps it is

hardly fair to tell the name until to-morrow morning. But at that time it

will be in the hands of the lady's husband. And all because she will not

find a beggarly sum which she could get in an hour by turning her diamonds

into paste. It _is_ such a pity. Now, you remember the sudden end of the

engagement between the Honourable Miss Miles and Colonel Dorking? Only two

days before the wedding there was a paragraph in the _Morning Post_ to say

that it was all off. And why? It is almost incredible, but the absurd sum

of twelve hundred pounds would have settled the whole question. Is it not

pitiful? And here I find you, a man of sense, boggling about terms when

your client's future and honour are at stake. You surprise me, Mr. Holmes."

"What I say is true," Holmes answered. "The money cannot be found. Surely

it is better for you to take the substantial sum which I offer than to ruin

this woman's career, which can profit you in no way?"

"There you make a mistake, Mr. Holmes. An exposure would profit me

indirectly to a considerable extent. I have eight or ten similar cases

maturing. If it was circulated among them that I had made a severe example

of the Lady Eva I should find all of them much more open to reason. You see

my point?"

Holmes sprang from his chair.

"Get behind him, Watson! Don't let him out! Now, sir, let us see the

contents of that note-book."

Milverton had glided as quick as a rat to the side of the room, and stood

with his back against the wall.

"Mr. Holmes, Mr. Holmes," he said, turning the front of his coat and

exhibiting the butt of a large revolver, which projected from the inside

pocket. "I have been expecting you to do something original. This has been

done so often, and what good has ever come from it? I assure you that I am

armed to the teeth, and I am perfectly prepared to use my weapons, knowing

that the law will support me. Besides, your supposition that I would bring

the letters here in a note-book is entirely mistaken. I would do nothing so

foolish. And now, gentlemen, I have one or two little interviews this

evening, and it is a long drive to Hampstead." He stepped forward, took up

his coat, laid his hand on his revolver, and turned to the door. I picked

up a chair, but Holmes shook his head and I laid it down again. With a bow,

a smile, and a twinkle Milverton was out of the room, and a few moments

after we heard the slam of the carriage door and the rattle of the wheels

as he drove away.

[Illustration: "EXHIBITING THE BUTT OF A LARGE REVOLVER, WHICH PROJECTED

FROM THE INSIDE POCKET."]

Holmes sat motionless by the fire, his hands buried deep in his trouser

pockets, his chin sunk upon his breast, his eyes fixed upon the glowing

embers. For half an hour he was silent and still. Then, with the gesture of

a man who has taken his decision, he sprang to his feet and passed into his

bedroom. A little later a rakish young work-man with a goatee beard and a

swagger lit his clay pipe at the lamp before descending into the street.

"I'll be back some time, Watson," said he, and vanished into the night. I

understood that he had opened his campaign against Charles Augustus

Milverton; but I little dreamed the strange shape which that campaign was

destined to take.

For some days Holmes came and went at all hours in this attire, but beyond

a remark that his time was spent at Hampstead, and that it was not wasted,

I knew nothing of what he was doing. At last, however, on a wild,

tempestuous evening, when the wind screamed and rattled against the

windows, he returned from his last expedition, and having removed his

disguise he sat before the fire and laughed heartily in his silent inward

fashion.

"You would not call me a marrying man, Watson?"

"No, indeed!"

"You'll be interested to hear that I am engaged."

"My dear fellow! I congrat----"

"To Milverton's housemaid."

"Good heavens, Holmes!"

"I wanted information, Watson."

"Surely you have gone too far?"

"It was a most necessary step. I am a plumber with a rising business,

Escott by name. I have walked out with her each evening, and I have talked

with her. Good heavens, those talks! However, I have got all I wanted. I

know Milverton's house as I know the palm of my hand."

"But the girl, Holmes?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"You can't help it, my dear Watson. You must play your cards as best you

can when such a stake is on the table. However, I rejoice to say that I

have a hated rival who will certainly cut me out the instant that my back

is turned. What a splendid night it is!"

"You like this weather?"

"It suits my purpose. Watson, I mean to burgle Milverton's house to-night."

I had a catching of the breath, and my skin went cold at the words, which

were slowly uttered in a tone of concentrated resolution. As a flash of

lightning in the night shows up in an instant every detail of a wide

landscape, so at one glance I seemed to see every possible result of such

an action--the detection, the capture, the honoured career ending in

irreparable failure and disgrace, my friend himself lying at the mercy of

the odious Milverton.

"For Heaven's sake, Holmes, think what you are doing," I cried.

"My dear fellow, I have given it every consideration. I am never

precipitate in my actions, nor would I adopt so energetic and indeed so

dangerous a course if any other were possible. Let us look at the matter

clearly and fairly. I suppose that you will admit that the action is

morally justifiable, though technically criminal. To burgle his house is no

more than to forcibly take his pocket-book--an action in which you were

prepared to aid me."

I turned it over in my mind.

"Yes," I said; "it is morally justifiable so long as our object is to take

no articles save those which are used for an illegal purpose."

"Exactly. Since it is morally justifiable I have only to consider the

question of personal risk. Surely a gentleman should not lay much stress

upon this when a lady is in most desperate need of his help?"

"You will be in such a false position."

"Well, that is part of the risk. There is no other possible way of

regaining these letters. The unfortunate lady has not the money, and there

are none of her people in whom she could confide. To-morrow is the last day

of grace, and unless we can get the letters to-night this villain will be

as good as his word and will bring about her ruin. I must, therefore,

abandon my client to her fate or I must play this last card. Between

ourselves, Watson, it's a sporting duel between this fellow Milverton and

me. He had, as you saw, the best of the first exchanges; but my

self-respect and my reputation are concerned to fight it to a finish."

"Well, I don't like it; but I suppose it must be," said I. "When do we

start?"

"You are not coming."

"Then you are not going," said I. "I give you my word of honour--and I

never broke it in my life--that I will take a cab straight to the

police-station and give you away unless you let me share this adventure

with you."

"You can't help me."

"How do you know that? You can't tell what may happen. Anyway, my

resolution is taken. Other people beside you have self-respect and even

reputations."

Holmes had looked annoyed, but his brow cleared, and he clapped me on the

shoulder.

"Well, well, my dear fellow, be it so. We have shared the same room for

some years, and it would be amusing if we ended by sharing the same cell.

You know, Watson, I don't mind confessing to you that I have always had an

idea that I would have made a highly efficient criminal. This is the chance

of my lifetime in that direction. See here!" He took a neat little leather

case out of a drawer, and opening it he exhibited a number of shining

instruments. "This is a first-class, up-to-date burgling kit, with

nickel-plated jemmy, diamond-tipped glass-cutter, adaptable keys, and every

modern improvement which the march of civilization demands. Here, too, is

my dark lantern. Everything is in order. Have you a pair of silent shoes?"

"I have rubber-soled tennis shoes."

"Excellent. And a mask?"

"I can make a couple out of black silk."

"I can see that you have a strong natural turn for this sort of thing. Very

good; do you make the masks. We shall have some cold supper before we

start. It is now nine-thirty. At eleven we shall drive as far as Church

Row. It is a quarter of an hour's walk from there to Appledore Towers. We

shall be at work before midnight. Milverton is a heavy sleeper and retires

punctually at ten-thirty. With any luck we should be back here by two, with

the Lady Eva's letters in my pocket."

Holmes and I put on our dress-clothes, so that we might appear to be two

theatre-goers homeward bound. In Oxford Street we picked up a hansom and

drove to an address in Hampstead. Here we paid off our cab, and with our

great-coats buttoned up, for it was bitterly cold and the wind seemed to

blow through us, we walked along the edge of the Heath.

"It's a business that needs delicate treatment," said Holmes. "These

documents are contained in a safe in the fellow's study, and the study is

the ante-room of his bed-chamber. On the other hand, like all these stout,

little men who do themselves well, he is a plethoric sleeper.

Agatha--that's my _fiancee_--says it is a joke in the servants' hall that

it's impossible to wake the master. He has a secretary who is devoted to

his interests and never budges from the study all day. That's why we are

going at night. Then he has a beast of a dog which roams the garden. I met

Agatha late the last two evenings, and she locks the brute up so as to give

me a clear run. This is the house, this big one in its own grounds. Through

the gate--now to the right among the laurels. We might put on our masks

here, I think. You see, there is not a glimmer of light in any of the

windows, and everything is working splendidly."

With our black silk face-coverings, which turned us into two of the most

truculent figures in London, we stole up to the silent, gloomy house. A

sort of tiled veranda extended along one side of it, lined by several

windows and two doors.

"That's his bedroom," Holmes whispered. "This door opens straight into the

study. It would suit us best, but it is bolted as well as locked, and we

should make too much noise getting in. Come round here. There's a

greenhouse which opens into the drawing-room."

The place was locked, but Holmes removed a circle of glass and turned the

key from the inside. An instant afterwards he had closed the door behind

us, and we had become felons in the eyes of the law. The thick, warm air of

the conservatory and the rich, choking fragrance of exotic plants took us

by the throat. He seized my hand in the darkness and led me swiftly past

banks of shrubs which brushed against our faces. Holmes had remarkable

powers, carefully cultivated, of seeing in the dark. Still holding my hand

in one of his he opened a door, and I was vaguely conscious that we had

entered a large room in which a cigar had been smoked not long before. He

felt his way among the furniture, opened another door, and closed it behind

us. Putting out my hand I felt several coats hanging from the wall, and I

understood that I was in a passage. We passed along it, and Holmes very

gently opened a door upon the right-hand side. Something rushed out at us

and my heart sprang into my mouth, but I could have laughed when I realized

that it was the cat. A fire was burning in this new room, and again the air

was heavy with tobacco smoke. Holmes entered on tip-toe, waited for me to

follow, and then very gently closed the door. We were in Milverton's study,

and a _portiere_ at the farther side showed the entrance to his bedroom.

It was a good fire, and the room was illuminated by it. Near the door I saw

the gleam of an electric switch, but it was unnecessary, even if it had

been safe, to turn it on. At one side of the fireplace was a heavy curtain,

which covered the bay window we had seen from outside. On the other side

was the door which communicated with the veranda. A desk stood in the

centre, with a turning chair of shining red leather. Opposite was a large

bookcase, with a marble bust of Athene on the top. In the corner between

the bookcase and the wall there stood a tall green safe, the firelight

flashing back from the polished brass knobs upon its face. Holmes stole

across and looked at it. Then he crept to the door of the bedroom, and

stood with slanting head listening intently. No sound came from within.

Meanwhile it had struck me that it would be wise to secure our retreat

through the outer door, so I examined it. To my amazement it was neither

locked nor bolted! I touched Holmes on the arm, and he turned his masked

face in that direction. I saw him start, and he was evidently as surprised

as I.

"I don't like it," he whispered, putting his lips to my very ear. "I can't

quite make it out. Anyhow, we have no time to lose."

"Can I do anything?"

"Yes; stand by the door. If you hear anyone come, bolt it on the inside,

and we can get away as we came. If they come the other way, we can get

through the door if our job is done, or hide behind these window curtains

if it is not. Do you understand?"

I nodded and stood by the door. My first feeling of fear had passed away,

and I thrilled now with a keener zest than I had ever enjoyed when we were

the defenders of the law instead of its defiers. The high object of our

mission, the consciousness that it was unselfish and chivalrous, the

villainous character of our opponent, all added to the sporting interest of

the adventure. Far from feeling guilty, I rejoiced and exulted in our

dangers. With a glow of admiration I watched Holmes unrolling his case of

instruments and choosing his tool with the calm, scientific accuracy of a

surgeon who performs a delicate operation. I knew that the opening of safes

was a particular hobby with him, and I understood the joy which it gave him

to be confronted with this green and gold monster, the dragon which held

in its maw the reputations of many fair ladies. Turning up the cuffs of his

dress-coat--he had placed his overcoat on a chair--Holmes laid out two

drills, a jemmy, and several skeleton keys. I stood at the centre door with

my eyes glancing at each of the others, ready for any emergency; though,

indeed, my plans were somewhat vague as to what I should do if we were

interrupted. For half an hour Holmes worked with concentrated energy,

laying down one tool, picking up another, handling each with the strength

and delicacy of the trained mechanic. Finally I heard a click, the broad

green door swung open, and inside I had a glimpse of a number of paper

packets, each tied, sealed, and inscribed. Holmes picked one out, but it

was hard to read by the flickering fire, and he drew out his little dark

lantern, for it was too dangerous, with Milverton in the next room, to

switch on the electric light. Suddenly I saw him halt, listen intently, and

then in an instant he had swung the door of the safe to, picked up his

coat, stuffed his tools into the pockets, and darted behind the window

curtain, motioning me to do the same.

[Illustration: "HE STOOD WITH SLANTING HEAD LISTENING INTENTLY."]

It was only when I had joined him there that I heard what had alarmed his

quicker senses. There was a noise somewhere within the house. A door

slammed in the distance. Then a confused, dull murmur broke itself into the

measured thud of heavy footsteps rapidly approaching. They were in the

passage outside the room. They paused at the door. The door opened. There

was a sharp snick as the electric light was turned on. The door closed once

more, and the pungent reek of a strong cigar was borne to our nostrils.

Then the footsteps continued backwards and forwards, backwards and

forwards, within a few yards of us. Finally, there was a creak from a

chair, and the footsteps ceased. Then a key clicked in a lock and I heard

the rustle of papers.

So far I had not dared to look out, but now I gently parted the division of

the curtains in front of me and peeped through. From the pressure of

Holmes's shoulder against mine I knew that he was sharing my observations.

Right in front of us, and almost within our reach, was the broad, rounded

back of Milverton. It was evident that we had entirely miscalculated his

movements, that he had never been to his bedroom, but that he had been

sitting up in some smoking or billiard room in the farther wing of the

house, the windows of which we had not seen. His broad, grizzled head, with

its shining patch of baldness, was in the immediate foreground of our

vision. He was leaning far back in the red leather chair, his legs

outstretched, a long black cigar projecting at an angle from his mouth. He

wore a semi-military smoking jacket, claret-coloured, with a black velvet

collar. In his hand he held a long legal document, which he was reading in

an indolent fashion, blowing rings of tobacco smoke from his lips as he did

so. There was no promise of a speedy departure in his composed bearing and

his comfortable attitude.

I felt Holmes's hand steal into mine and give me a reassuring shake, as if

to say that the situation was within his powers and that he was easy in his

mind. I was not sure whether he had seen what was only too obvious from my

position, that the door of the safe was imperfectly closed, and that

Milverton might at any moment observe it. In my own mind I had determined

that if I were sure, from the rigidity of his gaze, that it had caught his

eye, I would at once spring out, throw my great-coat over his head, pinion

him, and leave the rest to Holmes. But Milverton never looked up. He was

languidly interested by the papers in his hand, and page after page was

turned as he followed the argument of the lawyer. At least, I thought, when

he has finished the document and the cigar he will go to his room; but

before he had reached the end of either there came a remarkable development

which turned our thoughts into quite another channel.

Several times I had observed that Milverton looked at his watch, and once

he had risen and sat down again, with a gesture of impatience. The idea,

however, that he might have an appointment at so strange an hour never

occurred to me until a faint sound reached my ears from the veranda

outside. Milverton dropped his papers and sat rigid in his chair. The sound

was repeated, and then there came a gentle tap at the door. Milverton rose

and opened it.

"Well," said he, curtly, "you are nearly half an hour late."

So this was the explanation of the unlocked door and of the nocturnal vigil

of Milverton. There was the gentle rustle of a woman's dress. I had closed

the slit between the curtains as Milverton's face had turned in our

direction, but now I ventured very carefully to open it once more. He had

resumed his seat, the cigar still projecting at an insolent angle from the

corner of his mouth. In front of him, in the full glare of the electric

light, there stood a tall, slim, dark woman, a veil over her face, a mantle

drawn round her chin. Her breath came quick and fast, and every inch of the

lithe figure was quivering with strong emotion.

"Well," said Milverton, "you've made me lose a good night's rest, my dear.

I hope you'll prove worth it. You couldn't come any other time--eh?"

[Illustration: "YOU COULDN'T COME ANY OTHER TIME--EH?"]

The woman shook her head.

"Well, if you couldn't you couldn't. If the Countess is a hard mistress you

have your chance to get level with her now. Bless the girl, what are you

shivering about? That's right! Pull yourself together! Now, let us get down

to business." He took a note from the drawer of his desk. "You say that you

have five letters which compromise the Countess d'Albert. You want to sell

them. I want to buy them. So far so good. It only remains to fix a price. I

should want to inspect the letters, of course. If they are really good

specimens----Great heavens, is it you?"

The woman without a word had raised her veil and dropped the mantle from

her chin. It was a dark, handsome, clear-cut face which confronted

Milverton, a face with a curved nose, strong, dark eyebrows shading hard,

glittering eyes, and a straight, thin-lipped mouth set in a dangerous

smile.

"It is I," she said; "the woman whose life you have ruined."

Milverton laughed, but fear vibrated in his voice. "You were so very

obstinate," said he. "Why did you drive me to such extremities? I assure

you I wouldn't hurt a fly of my own accord, but every man has his business,

and what was I to do? I put the price well within your means. You would not

pay."

"So you sent the letters to my husband, and he, the noblest gentleman that

ever lived, a man whose boots I was never worthy to lace--he broke his

gallant heart and died. You remember that last night when I came through

that door I begged and prayed you for mercy, and you laughed in my face as

you are trying to laugh now, only your coward heart cannot keep your lips

from twitching? Yes, you never thought to see me here again, but it was

that night which taught me how I could meet you face to face, and alone.

Well, Charles Milverton, what have you to say?"

"Don't imagine that you can bully me," said he, rising to his feet. "I have

only to raise my voice, and I could call my servants and have you arrested.

But I will make allowance for your natural anger. Leave the room at once as

you came, and I will say no more."

The woman stood with her hand buried in her bosom, and the same deadly

smile on her thin lips.

"You will ruin no more lives as you ruined mine. You will wring no more

hearts as you wrung mine. I will free the world of a poisonous thing. Take

that, you hound, and that!--and that!--and that!--and that!"

She had drawn a little, gleaming revolver, and emptied barrel after barrel

into Milverton's body, the muzzle within two feet of his shirt front. He

shrank away and then fell forward upon the table, coughing furiously and

clawing among the papers. Then he staggered to his feet, received another

shot, and rolled upon the floor. "You've done me," he cried, and lay still.

The woman looked at him intently and ground her heel into his upturned

face. She looked again, but there was no sound or movement. I heard a sharp

rustle, the night air blew into the heated room, and the avenger was gone.

No interference upon our part could have saved the man from his fate; but

as the woman poured bullet after bullet into Milverton's shrinking body I

was about to spring out, when I felt Holmes's cold, strong grasp upon my

wrist. I understood the whole argument of that firm, restraining grip--that

it was no affair of ours; that justice had overtaken a villain; that we had

our own duties and our own objects which were not to be lost sight of. But

hardly had the woman rushed from the room when Holmes, with swift, silent

steps, was over at the other door. He turned the key in the lock. At the

same instant we heard voices in the house and the sound of hurrying feet.

The revolver shots had roused the household. With perfect coolness Holmes

slipped across to the safe, filled his two arms with bundles of letters,

and poured them all into the fire. Again and again he did it, until the

safe was empty. Someone turned the handle and beat upon the outside of the

door. Holmes looked swiftly round. The letter which had been the messenger

of death for Milverton lay, all mottled with his blood, upon the table.

Holmes tossed it in among the blazing papers. Then he drew the key from the

outer door, passed through after me, and locked it on the outside. "This

way, Watson," said he; "we can scale the garden wall in this direction."

I could not have believed that an alarm could have spread so swiftly.

Looking back, the huge house was one blaze of light. The front door was

open, and figures were rushing down the drive. The whole garden was alive

with people, and one fellow raised a view-halloa as we emerged from the

veranda and followed hard at our heels. Holmes seemed to know the ground

perfectly, and he threaded his way swiftly among a plantation of small

trees, I close at his heels, and our foremost pursuer panting behind us. It

was a six-foot wall which barred our path, but he sprang to the top and

over. As I did the same I felt the hand of the man behind me grab at my

ankle; but I kicked myself free and scrambled over a glass-strewn coping. I

fell upon my face among some bushes; but Holmes had me on my feet in an

instant, and together we dashed away across the huge expanse of Hampstead

Heath. We had run two miles, I suppose, before Holmes at last halted and

listened intently. All was absolute silence behind us. We had shaken off

our pursuers and were safe.

* * * * *

[Illustration: "THEN HE STAGGERED TO HIS FEET AND RECEIVED ANOTHER SHOT."]

We had breakfasted and were smoking our morning pipe on the day after the

remarkable experience which I have recorded when Mr. Lestrade, of Scotland

Yard, very solemn and impressive, was ushered into our modest sitting-room.

"Good morning, Mr. Holmes," said he; "good morning. May I ask if you are

very busy just now?"

"Not too busy to listen to you."

"I thought that, perhaps, if you had nothing particular on hand, you might

care to assist us in a most remarkable case which occurred only last night

at Hampstead."

"Dear me!" said Holmes. "What was that?"

"A murder--a most dramatic and remarkable murder. I know how keen you are

upon these things, and I would take it as a great favour if you would step

down to Appledore Towers and give us the benefit of your advice. It is no

ordinary crime. We have had our eyes upon this Mr. Milverton for some time,

and, between ourselves, he was a bit of a villain. He is known to have held

papers which he used for blackmailing purposes. These papers have all been

burned by the murderers. No article of value was taken, as it is probable

that the criminals were men of good position, whose sole object was to

prevent social exposure."

[Illustration: "FOLLOWING HIS GAZE I SAW THE PICTURE OF A REGAL AND STATELY

LADY IN COURT DRESS."]

"Criminals!" said Holmes. "Plural!"

"Yes, there were two of them. They were, as nearly as possible, captured

red-handed. We have their foot-marks, we have their description; it's ten

to one that we trace them. The first fellow was a bit too active, but the

second was caught by the under-gardener and only got away after a struggle.

He was a middle-sized, strongly-built man--square jaw, thick neck,

moustache, a mask over his eyes."

"That's rather vague," said Sherlock Holmes. "Why, it might be a

description of Watson!"

"It's true," said the inspector, with much amusement. "It might be a

description of Watson."

"Well, I am afraid I can't help you, Lestrade," said Holmes. "The fact is

that I knew this fellow Milverton, that I considered him one of the most

dangerous men in London, and that I think there are certain crimes which

the law cannot touch, and which therefore, to some extent, justify private

revenge. No, it's no use arguing. I have made up my mind. My sympathies are

with the criminals rather than with the victim, and I will not handle this

case."

* * * * *

Holmes had not said one word to me about the tragedy which we had

witnessed, but I observed all the morning that he was in his most

thoughtful mood, and he gave me the impression, from his vacant eyes and

his abstracted manner, of a man who is striving to recall something to his

memory. We were in the middle of our lunch when he suddenly sprang to his

feet. "By Jove, Watson; I've got it!" he cried. "Take your hat! Come with

me!" He hurried at his top speed down Baker Street and along Oxford Street,

until we had almost reached Regent Circus. Here on the left hand there

stands a shop window filled with photographs of the celebrities and

beauties of the day. Holmes's eyes fixed themselves upon one of them, and

following his gaze I saw the picture of a regal and stately lady in Court

dress, with a high diamond tiara upon her noble head. I looked at that

delicately-curved nose, at the marked eyebrows, at the straight mouth, and

the strong little chin beneath it. Then I caught my breath as I read the

time-honoured title of the great nobleman and statesman whose wife she had

been. My eyes met those of Holmes, and he put his finger to his lips as we

turned away from the window.

FOOTNOTES:

[A] Copyright, 1904, by A. Conan Doyle, in the United States of America.

_The Romance of the Bronze Duke._

On a green mound commanding Caesar's Plain, Aldershot, a rider and his horse

survey the landscape. Occasionally soldiers come up and salute

them--sometimes singly, sometimes in companies, often in battalions. But

the salute is never returned; both rider and horse remain rigid. The sun

sets and finds them still at their post; it rises and they have never

stirred. The explanation is simple--this giant horse and horseman are of

bronze; they form the greatest equestrian group in the world.

Yet the pair have not always been thus stationary. They have been thrice

moved and may be moved thrice again. Perhaps in the watches of the night on

Caesar's Plain they are thinking of their past, and of the protracted

episode which once shook the society of the British capital to its centre,

and in which they played the chief part. Factions raged around them ere

they left their humble birthplace in the Harrow Road, and for a time the

bronze enjoyed far more celebrity than its original, the Iron Duke.

[Illustration: SOLDIERS SALUTING THE DUKE'S STATUE, AS IT STANDS AT

ALDERSHOT TO-DAY.

_From a Photo. By Knight, Aldershot._]

The story is well worth telling, for nobody remembers it now. Seventy years

ago, although England had then no sculptors to speak of, there was a

general passion for erecting statues. The statues were nearly all bad, of

course, and to the decade between 1830 and 1840 the kingdom owes some of

its worst atrocities in this department of art. About the time the late

Queen came to the throne, a sculptor, Matthew Wyatt, was commissioned to

execute a statue of George III. The result may be seen in Cockspur Street

to-day. Critics complained that it was too small. The reproach greatly

offended Wyatt, who roundly declared that he had not aimed at bigness, but

that if size had been in question he was quite capable of modelling a

statue larger than any Michael Angelo or the Indian idolmakers had ever

attempted. He mentioned this to an ardent worshipper of the Duke of

Wellington in the City, a Common Councilman named Simpson, who had already

raised subscriptions for one Wellington equestrian group, now in front of

the Royal Exchange. Simpson and Wyatt talked it over, and the result was

the formation of a committee, headed by the Duke of Rutland, and the

raising of fourteen thousand pounds for the erection of a memorial to the

Duke in the West-end. This body duly handed the commission over to Wyatt as

"in every respect eminently qualified to be entrusted with the proposed

equestrian statue."

On this point it was plain that there were two opinions prevalent. Wyatt

now prepared to realize his boast, and boldly announced that the equestrian

statue should be of Titanic proportions. As to the site of his handiwork

thereby hangs a tale. Wyatt had a friend with whom he had quarrelled, named

Decimus Burton. This Burton, an architect, had recently erected a mighty

triumphal arch at the entrance to Green Park. It formed a great feature in

the magnificent plan submitted to Parliament in 1827 for the

"re-edification" of Buckingham Palace. In this costly design the above arch

was to form the Royal entrance to the palace gardens, to be laid out to

suit the rather luxurious taste of George IV.

The arch was eighty feet high. Burton's original idea was to embellish the

main piers with groups of trophies; to place the figure of a warrior on

each stylobate; to enrich the base with a sculptural representation of an

ancient triumph; to place a statue over each column; and various other

embellishments. But all this ambitious plan was instantly shortened by

Wyatt's declaring his intention of placing his colossal statue not in the

middle of Hyde Park, or even of Green Park, or Kensington Gardens, but on

the very summit of Burton's arch!

The unfortunate architect was beside himself with rage at the suggestion.

He protested, but he protested in vain. The complaisant committee had quite

fallen in with Wyatt's idea. But it was not so the Government, the Royal

Academy, and the Press. They heaped ridicule upon both the project and the

sculptor. They roundly declared that it would ruin the unity and symmetry

of his building. Then began an acrimonious discussion between the friends

of Wyatt and the objectors to his proposed statue. All London divided

itself into factions. The common topic of drawing room and dinner

conversation was, "Are you for or against putting a gigantic Iron Duke on

the top of the arch?" "Brazen impudence!" wrote Thackeray, himself an

artist.

Meanwhile, in the studio in the Harrow Road, opposite the Dudley Arms

Tavern, the lucky sculptor had been proceeding with his task. He prepared

several models and designs, and the sub-committee availed themselves of a

model of the Hyde Park Corner arch to consider, which they did with the

greatest attention, the position and relative size of the statue to be

placed on the summit. Wyatt then prepared a drawing of the arch with the

equestrian statue, of which the sub-committee approved.

But at this point the Lords of the Treasury stepped in with an injunction.

As the modelling and casting went on the battle raged. Macaulay wrote from

India that the sculptor and his friends "ought to be in Bedlam"; his

antagonist, Croker, inquired blandly "what a Whig Dissenter knew of high

art." "High" art then became a joke. To the query, "What is the very

_highest_ form of art?" the jocular answer was, "Wyatt's Duke." The

newspapers between 1840 and 1846 contain innumerable references to and

descriptions of the statue, and the progress it was making towards

completion.

We are told that the plaster of Paris used in the stupendous work

considerably exceeded one hundred tons; it was formed upon a turn-plate, or

revolving platform, upwards of twenty feet across, travelling upon forty

rollers and weighing in itself several tons. The vastness of the model

required certain precautions to ensure its integrity. To give strength to

the body of the horse, a beam passed through it longitudinally, like a

backbone from which spring traverse timbers, like the ribs of a ship. From

the body of the horse was a line of iron bolts, beneath which, in the early

stage of the modelling, were placed props for security in shifting the

figure by means of the platform, so as to obtain the most desirable

position for light, etc. To reach the different parts of the statue a

travelling stage with a shifting floor was constructed, so that it might be

adjusted to any height.

The entire group represented the Duke of Wellington as he appeared on the

field of Waterloo upon his favourite horse, Copenhagen. The Duke--at least

so Wyatt declared, although this was denied--sat to the sculptor for the

portrait, the warrior wearing his customary short cloak, which the artist

draped so as to give it something of the grace of classic costume. But the

sculptor's intentions generally surpassed his execution.

For melting the sixty tons of bronze Wyatt erected two great furnaces. The

first employed was capable of melting only twelve tons at a time, whereas

it was found desirable to cast the remainder of the statue in larger and

consequently fewer pieces. A record furnace was therefore built capable of

melting twenty tons at a time.

The mould and core being placed in the pit in the foundry, the bronze was

run into it from the furnace, and the body of the horse and the lower

portion of the rider were thus cast in two parts of about twenty tons each.

These were magnificent castings, and the effect of so large a surface of

molten compound as the twenty tons presented is described as very

extraordinary. The statue, or rather group, was thus cast in about eight

pieces. In each case the mould was placed in the pit embedded in sand,

rammed in as tightly as possible; yet in casting the front of the horse, by

some means six tons of metal escaped through the mould, the chest of the

horse was left vacant, and the casting was consequently spoiled. In order

that the legs of the horse should be capable of carrying the great weight

they would have to sustain it was found necessary to cast them solid. The

other portions of the work vary from one to three inches in thickness, with

strong ribs internally to give additional strength. Its height approaches

thirty feet, and such is the bulk of the horse that eight persons once

dined within one-half of it.

The following are some of the main dimensions:--

Ft. in.

Girth round the horse 22 8

Ditto arm of 5 4

From the horse's hocks to the ground 6 0

From the horse's nose to the tail 26 0

Length of head 6 0

Length of each ear 2 4

The group being cast in pieces as above, they were joined partly by

screw-bolts two inches in thickness. Owing to the colossal size of the

group there were, for some time, upwards of thirty men employed at once

upon the bronze; and in case of any work being requisite to be done within

the figure of the rider, the head was removed to allow the workmen to

descend through the neck. The cleansing, chasing, and finishing occupied a

considerable time.

[Illustration: THE STATUE AT MR. WYATT'S FOUNDRY.

_From the "Illustrated London News."_]

At last, after being repeatedly canvassed in Parliament and in the country

for six years, provoking a greater degree of heat than perhaps any statue

in the world had ever provoked before, the business was supposed to be

temporarily settled by the authorities agreeing to allow the statue to be

placed on the arch "on three weeks' probation," when, "if the location

proved to be injudicious," it was to be removed. Whereat there was great

joy at the sculptor's studio in the Harrow Road. The Duke of Rutland jumped

into his carriage and flew thither himself to bear the glad tidings.

"Once it's up," he is said to have cried, "the devil himself can't pull it

down!"

When the gigantic horse and rider was all but finished it was hoisted out

of the pit in the foundry and placed upon an enormous car, built especially

for the purpose at Woolwich Dockyard. The roof of the foundry had first to

be removed and one of the walls completely demolished to allow of the entry

of the car, which weighed no less than twenty tons. Its wheels were twenty

feet in diameter, with radiating cast-iron spokes, and were surmounted by a

platform within which the statue was slung. The feet of the horse rested

upon ledges, so close to the ground as to preclude any possibility of

danger from a fall. As it stood thus it was visited during three weeks by

many hundreds of persons, including most of the celebrities of the day,

such as Lytton, Disraeli, and Dickens.

Outside every day saw a vast concourse of people watching the movements of

the workmen. On the 28th September, at dusk, by means of chain windlasses,

ropes, pulleys, inclined planes, plank tramways, etc., the biggest

carriage in the world and the largest statue were moved in proximity to the

gate, in readiness for the event of the next day.

[Illustration: _From the "Illustrated London News._"

THE GRAND PROCESSION OF THE STATUE--TURNING FROM PARK LANE.]

All London was agog on September 29th, 1846. As it was understood by the

public that the removal would take place as early as ten o'clock, long

before that hour the Harrow Road and the streets adjoining were thronged

with well-dressed people. Seats were erected in various places, for which

shillings and half-crowns were cheerfully paid. Even the roofs and windows

in the neighbourhood of Mr. Wyatt's foundry were crowded with anxious

spectators. The whole line of route from the Harrow Road to Piccadilly,

was, indeed, one scene of excitement, the windows being mostly filled with

company and presenting a scene of much gaiety and animation. Paddington

Green was filled, and Hyde Park was crowded towards the Drive and principal

walk.

The procession included a large number of troops--Life Guards, Fusiliers,

Grenadiers, Coldstreams, together with no fewer than four bands. In brief,

the worshippers of the Duke omitted nothing to make the occasion a triumph.

Besides, the weather was superb.

[Illustration: "PUNCH'S" SKIT ON THE PROCESSION.

_Reproduced by permission of the Proprietors of "Punch."_]

The miserable pageant prophesied by _Punch_ in Leech's amusing drawing was

nothing like the reality. Leech afterwards drew a mirth-provoking picture

of the effect of the statue's passing down Edgware Road upon a gentleman

shaving in the seclusion of an upper window, which we here reproduce.

[Illustration: AWFUL APPARITION TO A GENTLEMAN, WHILST SHAVING, IN THE

EDGWARE ROAD--ANOTHER "PUNCH" JOKE ON THE PROCESSION.

_Reproduced by permission of the Proprietors of "Punch."_]

Arrived at the arch, where Royal Princes, dukes, earls, and innumerable

peeresses were assembled, it was found too late that day to hoist the

mighty bronze to its resting-place. In fact, the ceremony took three days

before it was concluded.

While all this was happening, on the first and last days the happy

sculptor, Wyatt, was holding high revel at his studio, his friends

partaking of a banquet at his expense.

Nobody dreamed of trouble. "Once up--the statue is safe," was the

watchword. But the Royal Academy and the Office of Woods and Forests had

resolved that the fate of this huge "solecism" was sealed. It had taken six

years to set up; it should come down in three weeks! By October 1st, 1846,

the sixty tons had been hoisted to the top of the one hundred and fifteen

foot scaffold and placed in position by the sculptor himself. A few days

later the fatal message arrived: "The Government decides that your statue

must come down within three weeks." No wonder the sculptor and his friends

were panic-stricken. How were they to be saved? There was only one way--by

intercession to the Duke to save his bronze counterfeit.

[Illustration: HOISTING THE STATUE TO THE TOP OF THE ARCH.

_From the "Illustrated London News."_]

We have not space to tell the full story; the Iron Duke spake the word and

the Government dared not deny him his request.

For nearly thirty-seven years the great statue remained on the summit of

the triumphal arch opposite Apsley House. But never during a moment of that

time was it unassailed by hostile criticism. Foreigners were said to point

at it with scorn. Albert Smith declared that saturnine men came to laugh at

it "who had never laughed before." But it was not so much that it was a

badly-modelled statue as that it had given rise to prejudices and

antagonisms which long survived both Duke and sculptor. So it happened that

in 1883, when alterations were projected in the locality, the Duke at last

was made to descend from his eminence. It was a tremendous piece of

work--both the Duke and Copenhagen had to be decapitated and otherwise

mutilated--but the gradual descent was accomplished, witnessed by vast

multitudes. Wyatt's enemies had triumphed.

The question arose as to where the statue should be placed. "In the

furnace," said many zealous brother sculptors. Ruskin boldly counselled its

destruction. But it was decided that a good place for it would be in St.

James's Park, opposite the Horse Guards' Parade. The removal thither to

this obscure spot was accordingly begun. But the old antagonism apparently

revived. The Horse Guards complained; the Duke of Cambridge thought it an

eyesore. Lord Randolph Churchill, whose way between Westminster and St.

James's led through the park, said he was "driven to frequent Whitehall,"

and predicted that the big bronze Duke would bring about the fall of the

Government. Sir Frederick Leighton, P.R.A., and Lord Hardinge defended the

new position, but the former was asked: "How would you like sixty tons of

bad bronze opposite the Royal Academy?"

This time the old Duke of Wellington--thirty years in his grave--could give

no sign. Rider and man waited immobile for further orders.

"Forward--march!" finally, in 1885, came the command from head-quarters,

and slowly, with difficulty, and with Copenhagen with his legs in the air,

the new journey of forty miles began.

Such is the story of a statue. Where will it end? Two or three years ago a

distinguished general, whose wife is also a distinguished painter of

soldiers and horses, remarked cruelly that "Aldershot would be delightful

if it wasn't for that--ogre."

And as he spoke, from force of habit he grimly raised two fingers to his

temple, saluting the insulted Field-Marshal whose mighty shadow now darkens

Caesar's Plain.

Where will it end?

[Illustration: THE STATUE IN THE POSITION WHICH RAISED SUCH A STORM OF

OPPOSITION.

_From the "Illustrated London News."_]

_Two and a Tiger._

BY R. E. VERNEDE.

Nare had enjoyed himself at the picnic until the baronet arrived, in spite

of being rather an outsider among these local people, who all knew one

another from the cradle. He had enjoyed himself in spite, too, of Mrs.

Corcoran, who by many signs and cool politenesses had shown him that her

daughter Judith had no need and--as she hinted very plainly--no inclination

for his attentions. "Dear Sir Henry will be arriving soon, surely?" Mrs.

Corcoran had said in his presence to their hostess, and little Mrs.

Harrington, who had been very kind to Nare in that capacity, replied that

of course Sir Henry would be arriving soon, but that in the meantime the

rector (a mild man with a capacity for being held in awe) was very anxious

to consult Mrs. Corcoran on the subject of an altar-cloth. Mrs. Corcoran

was unable to resist the invitation. Whether the rector was as grateful for

Sir Henry Pove's arrival as Nare was ungrateful, nobody can say, but there

is no denying that the rector looked a little browbeaten by that time.

The baronet came on a tricycle, looking reedy in his light suit, but very

dignified.