On the day that Julian Arden landed from the Onyx, Lieutenant Thornton,
Mademoiselle de Tourville, and her friend Julia Plessis having made
arrangements for a day’s excursion, proceeded to visit a place long
celebrated in that part of the country, and known as the Hermit’s
Grotto.
This hermitage was not more than a couple of miles from the Château
Coulancourt, and was reached by traversing a road leading through a
picturesque country.
The tradition that rendered this grotto celebrated was that for nearly
one hundred years it was the residence of a holy man, who had subsisted
principally on the water from the well, that rose within the grotto,
and said to possess peculiar properties. In fact, there is scarcely
a rural village of France that has not its legend of a holy man, or
hermit, dwelling in the neighbourhood; but one remaining in the same
place a hundred years seemed marvellous; for, even allowing that he
commenced his holy life at the age of twenty, the worthy recluse must
have been of a very respectable age when he departed from earth, and
a desire would have arisen in the minds of the young people to make
a pilgrimage to such a hallowed spot had not Mademoiselle Plessis
declared that the scenery in the vicinity of the grotto was exceedingly
beautiful, and talked enthusiastically of the cascade, piles of
curious rocks, and a spot like the Perte du Rhone, near Geneva, where
the little river entirely disappeared, and then came sparkling and
dashing out of the rocks, some hundred yards from where it had been
lost to view.
Monsieur Plessis had gone to Havre, for Madame de Coulancourt’s letter
had not yet arrived, though many days after the expected time, and
Jean Plessis became uneasy. Our hero was not, because he was fairly,
irrevocably in love, a love that absorbed his whole thoughts and
actions, and he no longer talked of making his escape. The glory of
naval achievements, once his pride and only thought, faded like rose
leaves, and were wafted away, as Cupid shook his tiny pinions over his
victim, encircling him with his invisible but most secure meshes.
Shall we attempt to probe the heart of the fascinating and lively Marie
de Tourville? Had she become aware of her lover’s devotion? We only
ask our fair readers, did they ever mistake a man’s love when declared
by his eyes, his actions, by anything but words? Did they ever mistake
that devotion for friendship?
All we can say is, Marie de Tourville was not blind; she knew that
she was loved, and she gloried in it, though it seemed a strange
contradiction for one so sweetly modest and retiring to declare to
her friend, that the dearest object of her life was obtained when she
gained the love of William Thornton. Neither did this declaration shock
the pretty Julia, who laughed as she kissed the crimsoned cheek of the
beautiful girl, saying—
“You see, dearest, that for once, your giddy friend prophesied rightly;
and in overcoming your timid reluctance, she may have aided to ensure
your future happiness.”
In this instance Cupid played no game of cross purposes. If Lieutenant
Thornton fondly loved, he was no lover in vain, for the gentle heart of
Marie de Tourville beat in unison with his.
It was a lovely day in June, the one chosen for the excursion; and,
though it is hotter in Normandy during that month than with us, who are
sometimes content to warm ourselves with a good fire, when June, as
Master _Punch_ says, sets in with its usual severity, yet the heat was
tempered by a delicious fresh westerly wind, and a succession of light
gossamer clouds, that somewhat softened the glowing hue of a Norman
sky, which, though not of the glorious colour of the Italian firmament,
is yet intensely blue when compared with the canopy heaven spreads over
the bright green fields of merry England.
Bill Saunders followed the young couple at a little distance, carrying
a basket, containing some light refreshment to be partaken of in the
grotto. Bill had grown very philosophical; he found the life he led an
easy one, rather too much so, for he would willingly have exerted his
tongue more than he did, but he made poor progress in the language,
though the females of the establishment, who liked the good-tempered
and very good-looking seaman, took considerable pains to teach him.
However, Bill smoked his pipe in the yard, helped the old gardener in
his rough work, and as the old man had been deaf and dumb for the last
two years of his life, they got on remarkably well; that is, they both
made signs and nodded their heads, and remained quite satisfied as if
they each understood the other. Bill had instructions from his master,
as he would style Lieutenant Thornton, that if ever he came in the way
of a stranger, to pretend that he was deaf and dumb, and hitherto he
had managed to act his part well; but this day his discretion was to be
put to a severer test.
Our hero and his fair companions rambled on through the very pretty
country surrounding the château, conversing on various and numerous
subjects. Sometimes he would climb a rock to gather some wild flower,
to give to Mademoiselle de Tourville, and receive in return a smile and
a glance of pleasure from her large dark eyes that strangely confused
his brain.
“You remind me, in some respects,” he once remarked, “of little
Mabel Coulancourt; so much so, that I get quite bewildered with the
resemblance; it is in the eyes, I fancy.”
“But why, Monsieur Thornton,” said Julia Plessis, laughing, “do you
always call Mademoiselle Coulancourt ‘little Mabel?’ surely she is not
a dwarf.”
Marie de Tourville looked with a peculiar smile into the lieutenant’s
eyes.
“Dwarf,” he repeated, “oh, no; I daresay she may be a tall elegant
girl. But somehow she always appears before my eyes as the dear,
engaging, tender-hearted child, with her thin, pale face, so expressive
of all the sufferings she had gone through; and then the pleading look
of her large lustrous eyes. I would have sacrificed my boyish life for
her; and God knows I would do so now, as for a fondly loved sister.”
The lieutenant looked up as he spoke, and Marie de Tourville turned
aside her head as if gazing round her; he fancied that her eyes filled
with tears.
“This is very strange,” thought our hero, “I have observed this emotion
before; indeed, it is always obvious whenever we speak of Mabel
Coulancourt.”
“It is a great pity, Monsieur Thornton,” observed Julia Plessis, with a
very demure and serious look, “that you have not been faithful to your
fair protégée; instead of loving her as a sister, you ought to have
given and kept for her your fondest affection—the affection of a lover.”
“You forget, fair Julia,” replied our hero, somewhat seriously, “that
when we parted Mabel was but a child. What might have been my feelings
in after years, had circumstances thrown us together, who can say? The
human heart is a strange piece of mechanism; we can with difficulty
control or command its impulses.”
“And yet,” said Marie de Tourville, in a low and somewhat agitated
voice, “gratitude has a strange power over woman’s heart; who can say
but that the child you describe as so precocious and sensitive, may
not have grown into womanhood with a deep and overpowering feeling,
gradually increasing with increased sensibility, till that one feeling
has become the engrossing one of her whole heart, staking her happiness
on earth on its being returned?”
William Thornton started, and a flush rose to his cheeks as he sought
to gaze into the expressive features of his companion, whose eyes
sought the ground. He felt uneasy, he knew not why, till Julia, with a
light, merry laugh, said gaily—
“Come, we have had quite enough of Master Cupid, and his supposed
capabilities of making people miserable or happy, as the case may be.
I know for my part the little wretch shall take the bandage off his
own eyes before he blinds mine, for I verily declare I consider all
people in love nothing more than a set of poor deluded mortals—moths
about a flame. Now turn, both of you and look at this view, there’s the
grotto and the rocks of Menin; and there, about two miles off, on that
high bank with the noble forest behind it, stands the château of the
Monsieur or Captain Gramont my father was speaking about the other day.”
“I had no idea of seeing any spot half so picturesque and lovely,”
cried Marie, rousing from the reverie she seemed plunged in; and gazing
into the lieutenant’s face with such a look of confiding affection,
that had they been alone he would have thrown himself at her feet,
and avowed that love so plainly shown by every look and action; that
devotion, which, no matter whether alone or in the presence of Madame
Plessis and her daughter, he made no effort to conceal. He had been
told she was an orphan, and going to England with the intention of
trusting to her talents for support. Then what was to hinder him from
loving her and throwing himself at her feet? his heart told him she
would not scorn his affection, every difficulty therefore vanished.
Where is the difficulty that will not disappear before a lover,
satisfied of his fair one’s faith and truth?
The scenery would have been unnoticed but for Julia’s call on his
attention. Politeness compelled him to rouse himself, and looking
around he declared that Julia’s previous description—a description
that had called up his wish to view the Hermit’s Grotto—was exceeded
by the reality. It certainly was a glowing and charming picture. The
path on which they were standing was apparently intercepted by a range
of extremely picturesque rocks of immense size, looking like detached
masses piled one upon another. The recesses were covered with an
infinite variety of parasite plants, mosses, and flowering shrubs, and
the summits covered with groups of stunted pines. Through the heart of
this singular barrier of rocks, nearly half a mile in length, the trout
stream rushed with considerable violence, falling a height of above
thirty feet, in one broad sheet, into a beautiful pool of deep pellucid
water, more than a thousand feet in circumference. The stream then fell
over a low range of rock, and pursued its course, tumbling and foaming
over detached rocks, till it reached a level track running through some
rich pasture meadows.
Close beside the pool, and seemingly scooped out of the rock, was the
grotto, its sides covered with the luxuriant foliage of the wild fig,
whilst from the top hung festoons of the flowery jessamine, which grew
in wild profusion over the rocks.
“I do not wonder,” said Lieutenant Thornton, “that the good hermit
lived to a good old age in this charming spot.”
“Do you think you could live here a quarter that period, Monsieur de
Tourville?” inquired Julia, laughing.
“Oh, yes, with a fair saint like yourself on the opposite side of the
pool to give life and beauty to the scene.”
“And to help to fry the trout you would catch in the said pool,”
returned the lively girl, trying to climb a rock for a beautiful wild
rose.
Thornton and Marie de Tourville strolled into the grotto, leaving Julia
collecting a wild nosegay, whilst Bill, having deposited the basket,
scrambled up the rocks to see what was on the other side.
Marie de Tourville sat down on the stone bench hewn out of the rock,
either by the pious hermit or some hermit-loving disciple, and her
companion placed himself beside her.
“If ever a hermit lived here,” observed the young girl, looking around,
“surely he must have had some other place of repose than this open
grotto; you see it is of no extent, and in winter the blasts up the
valley must have been piercing.”
“Depend on it, the holy father took care of himself,” returned our
hero; “at all events, if he lived here a hundred years he was blessed
with a most excellent constitution.”
“You seem to have no faith in the piety of monks and hermits,” observed
Marie, with a smile.
“Not much, I confess,” said our hero; “it requires to be a good
Catholic to hear, see, and believe all we are told of their
self-denial.”
“Yet, you may be mistaken; you are aware I was reared a Protestant.
Still I do not see that we have any right to doubt the piety of others,
trusting chiefly to our biassed history of their lives and doings.”
“I would not argue the point with so dangerous and so fair an
antagonist,” said the Lieutenant, “I would rather,” he added, with
a look of devoted affection, “plead my own cause,” and he laid his
hand gently upon the fair and beautiful fingers that trembled at his
touch, but were not drawn away. “It is needless for me to say that
with my whole heart and soul I love you, Marie, for you must have read
my affection before now. A strange and incomprehensible feeling drew
me towards you the very first moment that we met; I call it strange,
because when I gaze into your features an inexplicable idea rushes
through my brain, a confusion of thoughts impossible to disentangle.
But one feeling, however, struggles through the mist, and that is, that
I adore you, and that to remain longer silent is impossible.” The hand
he held trembled exceedingly as he added, “Beloved, my heart has dared
to whisper that I am not wholly indifferent to you. One word, Marie,
from your lips decides my fate.”
He drew her gently towards him, and raising her eyes to his—they were
full of tears—she said in a low sweet voice, and speaking, to his utter
amazement, in English—
“Is it possible, William, you never recognised little Mabel?”
The blood rushed to William Thornton’s heart with overwhelming
force, as with an uncontrollable emotion he caught her to his heart,
exclaiming—
“My God! how grateful am I! The one painful feeling of my life is
scattered to the winds. Oh, Mabel! Mabel! Can you still love me as I
adore you?”
“Dear William, why doubt poor Mabel’s love? How it has grown with my
growth! It has been my pride and my joy that my happiness was centred
in you.”
“Ah! and yet,” uttered the Lieutenant, in a tone of bitter
self-reproach, “I apparently loved another.”
“No, William, you loved Mabel. In the midst of your love for Marie,
Mabel was flitting before your mind’s eye, the pale, thin, careworn
face of the child you protected was still struggling for a place in
your heart—confess it.”
“Mabel, you are an angel,” and pressing her to his heart he fondly
kissed her cheek.
A shadow crossed the grotto’s mouth, and Julia Plessis entered
laughing, saying—
“Well, upon my word, strange things do occur in this world. I left you,
monsieur, with a woman, and lo! I hear you say she’s an angel; never
after this doubt the holiness of the Hermit’s Grotto.”
Before another word could be said a darker shadow crossed the grotto’s
mouth, and caused the three absorbed inmates to start to their feet.
The tall form of a man, with a fishing rod in his hand and a basket
at his back, stood before them, and at a glance Lieutenant Thornton
recognised Captain Gramont.
Raising his hat from his head, the Frenchman bowed with the utmost
courtesy, saying—
“Pardon me, ladies, and you Monsieur de Tourville, for this intrusion;
it was quite unintentional. I was crossing the rocks towards the stream
on the other side to try and tempt a large trout out of this famous
pool, when I encountered a rather strange individual. I spoke to him,
but he looked at me as if I were a wild beast, shook his head, and made
a horrid noise in his throat.”
“Ah!” interrupted our hero, inclined to laugh, though exceedingly
annoyed at the interruption, “you met my man, Pierre Bompart; he is
deaf and dumb, but as faithful a fellow as ever lived.”
There was a curl on Monsieur Gramont’s lip as he bowed; and as all left
the grotto, he observed—
“I have no doubt of his fidelity, for he seemed decidedly inclined to
throw me over the rocks, and I really did not offend him. But I have
to beg your pardon, Monsieur de Tourville, for not having called at
Coulancourt. I have been absent. The Government has made me Maire of
this arrondissement, and I had to proceed to Rouen; but I had intended
doing myself that honour to-morrow.”
Our hero bowed, and as he could do no less, and politeness required it,
he introduced the two ladies to the unwelcome intruder.
Monsieur Gramont could scarcely conceal his admiration as he
acknowledged the introduction to Mademoiselle de Tourville, but to
Mademoiselle Plessis he said in a gay tone—
“Though I have not had the pleasure of an introduction before, I have
had the happiness of seeing Mademoiselle Plessis.”
“The happiness was entirely confined to yourself, monsieur,” said
Julia, carelessly, “for I really never remember having anywhere seen
you.”
“I could recall the period, nevertheless, mademoiselle, but it is a
painful time to bring back to your memory; you were a very young girl.”
Julia did look surprised, and a little uneasy, and perhaps curious, for
she said—
“Pray to what time do you refer, monsieur? You know our sex are always
accounted curious, so I suppose I am like all the rest.”
“If all were like you, mademoiselle,” said Monsieur Gramont, with a
flattering smile, “this would be a dangerous world for our sex; but the
period I refer to was shortly after the taking of Lyons, when Collet
d’Herbois, Fouché, and Montait had formed a military commission there.”
“Ah! mon Dieu!” exclaimed Julia Plessis, with a start of horror.
And Mabel’s cheek turned deadly pale, whilst Lieutenant Thornton gazed,
with a frown on his brow, at the unconcerned features of the Frenchman.
“Mon Dieu! were you there with those wretches?”
“I was a lieutenant in the Chasseurs, mademoiselle, and doing my duty
under the orders of General Ronsin. I had no share in the horrors there
committed; those men have since received a merited doom for their
atrocities; but I was struck at the time, mademoiselle, by the noble
devotion of your father and family in the cause of the beautiful and
then unfortunate Duchesse de Coulancourt.”
Mabel felt intensely uneasy, for as she raised her eyes, she thought,
or she fancied, the eyes of Monsieur Gramont rested upon her with a
peculiar look. In a low voice she said to Lieutenant Thornton—
“Let us go back to the château.”
“Well, Monsieur Gramont,” cried our hero, “we will not interrupt you in
your sport; there are some clouds overhead, and a fine breeze curls the
surface of yonder deep pool, both prognostics in your favour.”
The two maidens saluted the Frenchman, who remained uncovered until
they turned to depart, and then he said—
“Since I have been so fortunate in making such agreeable and charming
acquaintance, I will eagerly avail myself of my good fortune.”
The party then began retracing their steps, and Bill, from his station,
seeing them retiring, rose up; he was quietly smoking his pipe, eyeing
all the movements of Monsieur Gramont, for whom he had imbibed a most
inconceivable dislike from the very first day of their meeting, and
hearing his master say he did not like that Monsieur Gramont, Bill
doubly disliked him. He, however, had no dislike for the Frenchwomen;
the men, he declared, were born his natural enemies, and the only
one he was likely to be reconciled to was the old deaf gardener;
but Monsieur Gramont was a tall, handsome man, with whom he felt
a monstrous desire to pick a quarrel. The party going away without
refreshment, and in which he considered he would have shared after they
had finished, was caused by Monsieur Gramont’s intrusion, and this made
Bill grumble.
He was descending the rocks, and was passing the Frenchman to get his
basket, when Monsieur Gramont, unfolding his rod and landing net,
turned suddenly round, and looking into Bill’s honest face, said,
pointing to the net—
“Hold this a moment, my man, and I’ll thank you.”
Bill started back as if a thirty-two pound shot had made an attempt to
pass between his legs, for the Frenchman spoke in unmistakable English.
Bill was taken aback, and he at once replied—
“I’ll see you——first.”
But immediately recollecting his dumb character, and seeing his
master waving his hand for him to come on, he glared at the cool, and
collected, and smiling Frenchman, and uttered such a succession of
unearthly sounds, that any one else would have been confounded; and
then, with a look of unmistakable rage at Monsieur Gramont, he seized
his basket, clenched his huge fist, and departed, whilst the Frenchman
kept quietly putting his rod together, singing “Malbrook,” and other
French airs.
“Well, blow me,” muttered Bill, “if I wouldn’t give twelve months’ pay
to thrust my fist into that crapaud’s mouth! I’d spoil the beauty of
his Moll Brook, the cursed frog-eating lubber! speaking English too,
thinking to take me in. Ay, ay; sink me if it is not enough to capsise
a fellow under bare poles.”
Thus grumbling and growling, and rather afraid his master would think
he had not acted his part well, and, on reflecting, deeply regretting
that he had not thrown Frenchman, rod, and all into the pool, he
hurried on after the party.
As our hero and his fair companions proceeded towards the château, the
conversation naturally turned upon the discovery which had just been
made of Marie de Tourville being no other than Mabel Arden.
“And is it possible, monsieur,” said Julia Plessis, “that your heart
never suggested the idea that Marie and Mabel were one and the same
person? Was there no trace of the thin, pale girl left in the sweet
face of my beloved friend to recall the past?”
“Yes,” replied the young man, gazing with fond delight upon the
beautiful and happy girl who leaned upon his arm so confidingly. “Yes,
the child’s image constantly haunted me; sleeping or waking the two
faces appeared before me. It seemed to me as if I was loving both;
I was most completely bewildered. Still, I really never for a moment
thought it possible they could be one and the same; that idea never
entered my head at all. It is true, Marie’s eyes always reminded me of
Mabel’s; and I often in fancy pictured to myself my little protégée
grown into just such another lovable being as Marie, and I continually
tormented myself as to whether Mabel would ever remember me as anything
but a brother, if I had kept my affections free.”
“Ah, the fact is, I was always quite right,” said Julia, laughing;
“love is blind, and lovers infatuated.”
“But your time will come, fair Julia,” suggested the lieutenant.
“Eh, bien!” returned the lovely girl. “I will then beseech the saints
to grant me patience, strengthen my digestion, and make me love a
rational creature. But, badinage apart, I can’t endure that Monsieur
Gramont; he says he had no share in the horrors committed at Lyons. I
do not believe him; he belonged to the army of the ferocious Ronsin,
and that’s enough to stamp his character in my mind. I wonder he had
the face to acknowledge he was one of the monsters that so disgraced
God’s own image.”
“Like you, Julia,” said Mabel, with a shudder, “I feel a kind of
apprehension steal over me when I think of that man; indeed, I thought
he looked at me with a strange inquiring expression. However, after
all, it was perhaps mere fancy on my part.”
“Now, dearest,” interrupted our hero, addressing Mabel, “pray explain
to me the singular and extraordinary circumstance of your being
here, when I thought you were far away in Old England. It appears so
unaccountable.”
“And yet,” returned Mabel, “most easily explained, and will appear
very simple and natural, when you hear my explanation. From the moment
I became aware that my beloved mother was alive and well and residing
in Paris, an overpowering desire to fly to her arms took possession
of me; I could not rest night or day—I could think of nothing else.
Amongst the French refugees, acquaintances of Madame Volney’s, was a
Madame de Tourville, whose family consisted of a son and daughter;
their resources were very limited, and just at this time they received
letters from an uncle, who was in power, and high in the French
Directory. He urged their return to France, _viâ_ Hamburg, with every
hope of some of their estates being restored, on their taking the oath
not to emigrate.
“They immediately resolved to return to their country. Madame Volney,
knowing my intense desire to rejoin my parents, and participating
in the feeling, and also knowing how necessary it was that I should
procure proofs of my birth and my mother’s marriage, easily prevailed
on Madame de Tourville to take me with her, as her daughter’s French
attendant—her late one had refused to go back to France. Accordingly,
we embarked for Hamburg, and the necessary papers being sent us by
Madame de Tourville’s uncle, we travelled safely to Paris.
“Need I describe the joy and rapture of my beloved mother? I will pass
over many things now for the sake of brevity. It was necessary that I
should continue to represent Janette Brusset, the attendant of Madame
Tourville; so I remained with Madame Plessis and my dear Julia, the
beloved companion of my childhood, visiting my dear and still beautiful
mother daily, and occasionally staying several days and nights as if in
attendance on her. My mother’s ardent, burning desire is to get from
France, and return to her own country.
“When I explained to her that my uncle had left me so noble a fortune,
and that you were her brother’s son, she told me she had heard all
that, and that Jean Plessis was even then seeking the necessary
documents to establish her marriage and my poor lamented brother
Julian’s birth. Afterwards came your letter, inclosed in one from good
Dame Moret’s son to Jean Plessis, who had just returned. Imagine our
joy, though still our anxiety.
“Then it was that Julia proposed that I should accompany her and her
father and mother to Coulancourt, as Mademoiselle de Tourville. Ah,
William—I still call you William”—our hero pressed the little hand
resting on his arm—“I was easily persuaded to practise this ruse upon
you, to see if you still remembered the ‘little pale, thin child’
that clung to you years back, as her only hope; and so good Monsieur
Plessis, who had an eye to your escape out of France, and to guard
you from imprisonment, whilst in it, by bribery, procured papers for
Monsieur Philip and Mademoiselle Marie de Tourville, so that if you
attracted notice you might pass for my brother; after arranging this
plan, it struck my mother that she might also get out of France, but
Jean Plessis over-persuaded her for the present, as it might prove our
destruction, and at one sweep confiscate all her property. My dear
mother cared not for the estates, she so longed to quit France; but
then she knew she might involve good Monsieur Plessis, whose attachment
and noble generosity had caused him so often to risk his life for
her and her late husband, so she consented to my coming here. ‘And
perhaps,’ suggested Monsieur Plessis, ‘by a little manœuvring you may,
madame, be able to visit Coulancourt yourself.’ This idea delighted my
mother, for she longs to see and embrace you.
“So now, dear William, it is I that have to ask your pardon for
thinking to steal your heart from little Mabel.”
Young hearts—young hearts—how few and simple are the words from the
lips beloved that constitute the felicity! We know not the delights in
the years that follow.
As they approached the château, walking up from the bottom of the lawn,
they beheld Rose Moret running from the front door to meet them.
“What can cause Rose to hurry so?” exclaimed Mabel—we will drop her
assumed name; but Rose was up with them before they could surmise, or
utter a conjecture. She looked like a full-blown peony, her cheeks were
so flushed.
“Why, Rose, you are out of breath,” said Julia; “anything wrong?”
“Well, indeed, mademoiselle, perhaps what I have to tell you may not be
pleasant; but mother told me to run and take the short cut, and to tell
you that Sergeant François Perrin and another gendarme are coming to
the château on a visit of inspection; but do not be alarmed, for it is
only a matter of form.”
Mabel at first turned pale, and clung with a feeling of alarm to her
companion, but Julia Plessis re-assured her by saying—
“Do not trouble about Sergeant Perrin; we are old acquaintances. I can
very easily manage him, so trust to me.”
Rose then turned to Lieutenant Thornton, saying—
“Monsieur, there is a young man, a sailor, apparently—he says his name
is Louis Lebeau—waiting for you under the great chestnut tree at the
back of the garden.”
“Louis Lebeau,” repeated our hero, “I never heard the name before, to
the best of my recollection; but pray, Rose, say I will join him there
in a few minutes. I wish to speak to Saunders, for he had better keep
out of the way, provided the sergeant does not inquire after him.”
“Do you think there is anything to fear from this visit, William?”
asked Mabel, anxiously, looking into her lover’s face.
“No, Mabel, I do not think there is the slightest cause for
apprehension; these kind of visits are common in France; a mere
ceremony that must be gone through. Monsieur Plessis has had our papers
so carefully prepared, that suspicion cannot be excited.”
By this time they had reached the house, and whilst the females went
in, the young man turned back to have a word with Bill.
“I trust, Bill, you did not utter a syllable when that Frenchman spoke
to you on the rocks.”
“Not one,” replied Bill; “I gave a kind of grunt, like a well-bred
porker, when he feels the knife in him, and then Mounseer stared at me,
as if I was a whale or a porpoise sporting over land, and says he,
‘Parley voo, garron;’ by my conscience, I had a mind to give him a flip
in the head, for calling me a garron.”
“He did not call you a garron; he, no doubt, said garçon.”
“Well, sir, they are much the same, seeing I don’t know what that word
is.”
Then Bill hesitated a little; then looking up and rubbing the back of
his head, he continued—
“He speaks English, your honour.”
“Speaks English!” repeated our hero, with a start. “How can you know
that? you surely must have spoken to him.”
Bill looked puzzled? he, however, said—
“No, your honour, I didn’t speak to him. I was passing him by, you see,
when he turns round, and says he, curse his impudence, ‘Hold that, my
man, and I’ll thank you.’ ‘See you——first,’ says I.”
“What!” exclaimed the Lieutenant, angrily, “you said that!”
“Not exactly,” said Bill, fidgeting; “in course I meant it. I turns
round, fills, and goes ahead; the Mounseer begins singing about some
Moll Brook, and some other gibberish, and says I, ‘I’d Moll Brook you,
if I had ten minutes’ play with you,’ and so, your honour, I left him.”
“Well,” said Lieutenant Thornton, thoughtfully, “this is serious.
However, what’s done cannot be undone! you acted as well as I could
expect: but now hear me, you had better keep out of the way: there are
two gendarmes coming here, to make the usual examination of the papers
of all strangers; so keep to your room unless I send for you.”
Thus speaking, the lieutenant walked on, making a circuit of the house
to enable him to reach the great chestnut tree at the back.
“Well, blow me, if this ain’t a nice country to live in. Coming to look
at our papers!” muttered Bill, “I wish we had the two lubbers on board
the little Onyx—my eyes! wouldn’t I paper them; howsomever, I will take
this basket to my room, I suppose I’m not expected to fast because
those beggars are coming.”
Bill very quietly made his way to his room, shut the door, bolted it,
and then began to examine the contents of the basket. In the meantime,
our hero was by no means easy in his mind respecting Bill’s rencontre
with Monsieur Gramont; for on reflection it convinced him of two
things—first, that the Frenchman doubted Bill’s being deaf and dumb;
and secondly, he must have suspected him to be an Englishman. This
train of reflection made him exceedingly uncomfortable; he had now not
only his own safety to attend to, but the safety of one dearer to him
than life.
He was roused from his uncomfortable thoughts by seeing the great
chestnut tree before him, a tree considered almost sacred by the
peasantry, from its great age, and several remarkable historical events
connected with it; but as those events belong to the traditionary
history of Normandy, we will not interrupt the thread of our story by
reciting them.
On looking under the spreading branches, he perceived a young man in
a sailor’s dress leaning against the huge trunk, but who immediately
advanced towards him. Our hero looked at him with some surprise, for
although vested in the attire of the French common sailor, there was an
air of easy grace, and a gentlemanly bearing, that was noticeable at
first sight. As the stranger halted close beside the lieutenant, there
was a visible flush on his cheek as he said—
“It will not do to waste words—Sir Oscar de Bracy.”
The lieutenant started and gazed somewhat curiously into the features
of the stranger, which appeared almost familiar to him, and being
addressed in English, his surprise was the greater.
“No doubt you are astonished,” continued the false Lebeau, “but I had
better inform you who I am at once—I am Julian Arden.”
“Heavens! is this possible?” exclaimed the astonished listener,
grasping the speaker’s hand. “You Julian Arden, the lost and
deeply-lamented brother of Mabel!”
“Such in truth is the case,” returned Julian, warmly pressing the hand
that held his.
“I have no doubt of it,” interrupted the amazed lieutenant, “your
features so resemble your sister’s; but, in the name of fate, how knew
you me, or that I was here? There is joyful news in store for you—your
mother and sister both live.”
“Yes, yes,” returned the young man, “I know all that, and more than you
imagine; perhaps, I have news also for you.”
“Still, Julian,” said Lieutenant Thornton, addressing him as he would
a brother, “you cannot surely know that Mabel is here, in the old
château.”
“Ah, that is news, indeed,” joyfully exclaimed Julian Arden, “and amply
repays the years of privation, and at times suffering, that I have
endured. I was aware of my beloved mother being alive and well, and in
Paris; but Mabel I thought was in England—her being here amazes me.
Aware that she owes her preservation and future happiness to your care
and noble generosity, I longed to see you before I proceeded to seek my
mother.”
“Had we not better proceed to the house?” said William Thornton; “we
have so much to explain and to say; but I will first break this joyful
intelligence to Mabel.”
“No,” said Julian, “I dare not venture there till night, after the
visit of François Perrin, and the inspecting gendarmes. In my joy at
meeting you, I have delayed speaking of him; I was with Dame Moret when
he came to her house, stating that he was going to visit the château,
and as she had informed me that you were here, she wished you to be put
upon your guard. Rose Moret went on before me, so now you had better
go back to the house. I will return to Dame Moret till dark, and then
come here, and you can hide me for a few days, till we are enabled to
talk over our position and future proceedings; after which I intend
journeying to Paris. I have papers as Louis Lebeau, of Rouen, and can
more readily than any Englishman pass for a French sailor, as you will
be able to judge when you hear my story.”
Rose Moret interrupted their further conversation, by hurrying towards
them. “The gendarmes are come, monsieur, and Mademoiselle Plessis is
anxious you should see them; it will remove all suspicion, though she
does not think they have any.”
“Very good,” said Lieutenant Thornton, “I will see them; but, Rose, you
must contrive to keep Pierre Bompart out of the way.”
“There’s no fear of him, monsieur,” returned Rose, laughing. “He has
taken the basket with the lunch to his room, and locked himself in,
grumbling a good deal, but really I have no idea about what, as there
is enough in the basket to keep him a week.”
“He is only lamenting, Rose, that he cannot knock the heads of the
two gendarmes together; an amusement that would please him amazingly.
Farewell, Julian; I shall most anxiously expect you, and you may be
sure there is one that will be in a state of intense anxiety till she
sees you.”
“Farewell till to-night,” replied Julian, “but for heaven’s sake be
cautious with those men, though Dame Moret said you spoke French very
nearly like a native of the country, but of another province; and as
the De Tourvilles were from Picardy, mind that, you will do very well.”
So shaking hands, the young men, who already felt highly pleased with
each other, parted.