I could not settle it in a moment: it was far too weighty a
consideration--it required serious deliberation. So, I paced on, still
moodily to the end of the Prebend's Walk; and, although it was raining
heavily, sat down on the stone balustrade of the little rustic bridge
over the fosse, facing the river.--"Ah me!" I reflected, calling to my
memory Thackeray's sad lament, in that seemingly-comic "Ballad of the
Bouillabaisse," which is all the more pathetic from its affected humour.
"Ah me! how quick the days are flitting!
I mind me of a time that's gone
When I'd sit, as now I'm sitting,
In this same place--but not alone.
"A fair young form was nestled near me,
A dear, dear face looked fondly up,
And sweetly spoke and smiled to cheer me--
There's no one now to share my cup."
As I was musing thus sadly, I was unexpectedly tapped on the shoulder by
Monsieur Parole d'Honneur, who had come up quietly behind me, without my
noticing his approach. He was on his way to pay a visit to his "good
vicaire" at the vicarage, after giving his usual Wednesday lecture at
the neighbouring "college for young ladies;" where, blooming misses--in
addition to their curriculum of "accomplishments" and "all the
'ologies"--were taught the noble art of family multiplication, domestic
division, male detraction, feminine sedition, and, the glorious rule
of--_one_!
Me grieving, he joyously addressed.
"Ohe! my youngish friends"--his general term in speaking to me--"how
goes it?--Hi--lo!" he went on, seeing from my face, as I turned my head
to speak to him, that, "it" did not "go" particularly well--"Hi--lo! vat
ees ze mattaire?--you look pallide; you have got ze migraine?"
"No," I answered; "there's nothing the matter with me, I assure you,
Monsieur Parole. I'm all right, thank you."
"Ah! but yes," he retorted--"you cannote deceives me. You are pallide;
you take walks on feet this detestable day.--Mon Dieu! votre climat
c'est affreux!--I knows ver wells, Meestaire Lorton, dat somesings ees
ze mattaire!"
"But, I'm quite well, I tell you," said I.
"Quaite well en physique, bon:--quaite well, here?" tapping his chest
expressively the while--"non! I knows vat ees ze mattaire. C'est une
affaire de coeur, ees it not, mon ami? You cannote deceives me, I tells
to you! But, nevaire mind dat, my youngish friends: cheer oop and be
gays--toujours gai! I have had, myselfs, it ees one, two, tree,--seex
lofes! Seex times ees mon coeur brise, and I was desole; and now, you
sees, I'm of a light heart still!"--and he laughed so cheerily, that,
even Lady Dasher, I think, could not have well helped chiming in with
his merriment.
I did not laugh, however. "Pardon me, monsieur," I said,--"I'm not in a
joking mood."
"Come, come, mon brave," he continued, seeing that my dejection was
beyond the point where it could be laughed away; and accommodating
himself to my humour, with the native delicacy of his race--"I have
myself, suffered:--ainsi, I can condoles! You know, my dear, youngish
friends, when I was deporte de mon pays, he?"
I nodded my head in acquiescence, hardly feeling inclined for the
recital of some revolutionary anecdote, which I thought was going to be
related to me. Monsieur Parole, however, astonished me with quite a
different narration.
"Leesten," said he.--"When I did leeves my Paris beloved, helas! I was
tored from my lofe--my fiancee dat I adore! I leaves her in hopes and
au desespoir. I dreams of her images in my exiles! When I learns at my
acadamies ze young ladees, ze beautifool Eenglish mees, I tinks of ma
belle Marie, her figure, and her face angelique, wheech I sail nevaire
forgets--no, nevaire! And I says to myselfs, `Ah! she ees more
beautifools dan dese!' Mais, mon ami, I was deceives by her all dat
time. Not sooner go I from France, dan she ees marie to un grand, gros,
fat epicier of La Villette--Marie dat was fiancee au moi, gentilhomme!
Mais, mon Dieu; when I was heard ze news, I was enrage--I goes back to
Paris. I fears notings--no mouchard--no gend'armerie--no notings--
although, I was suspect and deporte de France! I sends un cartel--you
comprends--to ze gros bon ami de ma Marie, ce cochon d'un epicier! We
meets in ze Bois: I gives him one leetel tierce en carte dat spoils his
lovemakings for awhile; and, I leeves France again for evers--dat is,
unless ma patrie and ze sacred cause of ze Republique Francaise calls
upon me--but, not till den! So, you sees, my youngish friends, dat
oders suffer like yourselfs. I have told to you my story; cheer oop!
If ze ladees have deceives you, she is not wort one snaps of ze
fingers!"
"But, she has not deceived me," I said.
"Den why are you melancolique?"
"Because, because--" I hesitated:--I was ashamed to say what made me
despondent.
"For ze reasons dat you don't knows weder she lofes you or not?" he
asked. "Ah, ha! Den, why not ask her, my friends? You are young; you
have a deesposeetion good; you are handsome--"
"O-oh, Monsieur Parole," I exclaimed at his nattering category of my
attributes, almost blushing.
"Ah, but yes," he went on--"I am quaite raite. You are handsome; with
un air distingue; reech."
I shook my head, to show that I could not lay claim to being a
millionaire, in addition to my other virtues.
"No, not reech, but clevaire; and you will be reech bye-bye! I see not
why ze ladees should not leesten to you, mon ami, he?--But, if she does
note; why, courage! Dere are many odere ladees beautifool also in
England; and, yet, if you feels your loss mooch, like myselfs with ma
perfide Marie, why you can go aways and be console, as I!"
His words encouraged me:--and, my face imperceptibly brightened.
"Ah, ha! dat is bettaire," he said--"I likes you, Meestaire Lorton; and
it does me pain to sees you at deespair like dese! Cheer oop; and all
will be raite, as our good friend, ze vicaire, all-ways tells to us. We
will go and sees him now!"
He took my unresisting arm, and carried me off to the vicarage; changing
the conversation as we went along, and gradually instilling fresh hope
into my heart.
I dare say you think it was very idiotical on my part, thus to bewail my
grief to another person; and allow a few empty words to change the
current of my feelings?
But then, you must recollect, that I would not have comported myself in
this way with a brother Englishman.
If Horner had told me of _his_ woes, for example, similarly as I told
mine, or let them be drawn out of me by Monsieur Parole, I confess I
would have been much more likely to have laughed at, than sympathised
with him.
A Frenchman, however, is naturally more sentimental than any of
ourselves. He looks seriously and considerately on things which we make
light of.
Besides, in my then cut-throat mood, I was longing for sympathy; and
would have made a confidante of any one offering for the post--barring
Lady Dasher or Miss Spight--neither of whom would I have chosen as a
depository were I anxious to give my last dying speech and confession to
the world; although, they would probably cause the same to be circulated
fast enough--judging by their habit in regard to that sort of private
information respecting the delicate concerns of other people which is
passed on from hand to hand "in strict confidence, mind!" and which is
not to be told to any one else "for the world!"
Monsieur Parole's story was a good lesson to me.
I saw that he who had had grief as great, and greater than mine, for I
knew that Min loved me and was constant--had concealed it so that none
who looked on his round merry face, would have supposed him capable of a
deep emotion; while, I, on the contrary, had paraded my little
anxieties, like a fool!
He also taught me determination; for, I resolved now, that, on the first
opportunity I had, I would speak to my darling again, and have my fate
settled, without more delay--for good or ill, as the case might be.