CHAPTER XIII. THE ABBE’S STORY

‘Without tiring you with any irrelevant details of the family and relatives of my hero, if I dare call him such, I may mention that he was the second son of an old Belgian family of some rank and wealth, and that in accordance with the habits of his house he was educated for the career of diplomacy. For this purpose, a life of travel was deemed the best preparation--foreign languages being the chief requisite, with such insight into history, national law, and national usages as any young man with moderate capacity and assiduity can master in three or four years.

‘The chief of the Dutch mission at Frankfort was an old diplomat of some distinction, but who, had it not been from causes purely personal towards the king, would not have quitted The Hague for any embassy whatever. He was a widower, with an only daughter--one of those true types of Dutch beauty which Terburg was so fond of painting. There are people who can see nothing but vulgarity in the class of features I speak of, and yet nothing in reality is farther from it. Hers was a mild, placid face, a wide, candid-looking forehead, down either side of which two braids of sunny brown hair fell; her skin, fair as alabaster, had the least tinge of colour, but her lips were full, and of a carmine hue, that gave a character of brilliancy to the whole countenance; her figure inclined to embonpoint, was exquisitely moulded, and in her walk there appeared the composed and resolute carriage of one whose temperament, however mild and unruffled, was still based on principles too strong to be shaken. She was indeed a perfect specimen of her nation, embodying in her character the thrift, the propriety, the high sense of honour, the rigid habits of order, so eminently Dutch; but withal there ran through her nature the golden thread of romance, and beneath that mild eyebrow there were the thoughts and hopes of a highly imaginative mind.

‘The mission consisted of an old secretary of embassy, Van Dohein, a veteran diplomat of some sixty years, and Edward Norvins, the youth I speak of. Such was the family party, for you are aware that they all lived in the same house, and dined together every day--the _attachés_ of the mission being specially intrusted to the care and attention of the head of the mission, as if they were his own children. Norvins soon fell in love with the pretty Marguerite. How could it be otherwise? They were constantly together; he was her companion at home, her attendant at every ball; they rode out together, walked, read, drew, and sang together, and in fact very soon became inseparable. In all this there was nothing which gave rise to remark. The intimate habits of a mission permitted such; and as her father, deeply immersed in affairs of diplomacy, had no time to busy himself about them, no one else did. The secretary had followed the same course at every mission for the first ten years of his career, and only deemed it the ordinary routine of an _attachés_ life.

‘Such, then, was the pleasant current of their lives, when an event occurred which was to disturb its even flow--ay, and alter the channel for ever. A despatch arrived one morning at the mission, informing them that a certain Monsieur von Halsdt, a son of one of the ministers, who had lately committed some breach of discipline in a cavalry regiment, was about to be attached to the mission. Never was such a shock as Marguerite and her lover sustained. To her the idea of associating with a wild, and unruly character like this was insupportable. To him it was misery; he saw at once all his daily intimacy with her interrupted; he perceived how their former habits could no longer be followed--that with this arrival must cease the companionship that made him the happiest of men. Even the baron himself was indignant at the arrangement to saddle him with a _vaurien_ to be reclaimed; but then he was the minister’s son. The king himself had signed the appointment, and there was no help for it.

‘It was indeed with anything but feelings of welcome that they awaited the coming of the new guest. Even in the short interval between his appointment and his coming, a hundred rumours reached them of his numerous scrapes and adventures, his duels, his debts, his gambling, and his love exploits. All of course were duly magnified. Poor Marguerite felt as though an imp of Satan was about to pay them a visit, and Norvins dreaded him with a fear that partook of a presentiment.

‘The day came, and the dinner-hour, in respect for the son of the great man, was delayed twenty minutes in expectation of his coming; and they went to table at last without him, silent and sad--the baron, annoyed at the loss of dignity he should sustain by a piece of politeness exercised without result; the secretary, fretting over the _entrées_ that were burned; Marguerite and Edward, mourning over happiness never to return. Suddenly a _calèche_ drove into the court at full gallop, the steps rattled, and a figure wrapped in a cloak sprang out. Before the first surprise permitted them to speak, the door of the _salle_ opened, and he appeared.

‘It would, I confess, have been a difficult matter to fix on that precise character of looks and appearances which might have pleased all the party. Whatever were the sentiments of others I know not, but Norvins’ wishes would have inclined to see him short and ill-looking, rude in speech and gesture--in a word, as repulsive as possible. It is indeed a strange thing--you must have remarked it, I’m certain--that the disappointment we feel at finding people we desire to like inferior to our own conceptions of them, is not one-half so great as is our chagrin at discovering those we are determined to dislike very different from our preconceived notions, with few or none of the features we were prepared to find fault with, and, in fact, altogether unlike the bugbear we had created for ourselves. One would suppose that such a revulsion in feeling would be pleasurable rather than otherwise. Not so, however; a sense of our own injustice adds poignancy to our previous prejudice, and we dislike the object only the more for lowering us in our own esteem.

‘Van Halsdt was well calculated to illustrate my theory. He was tall and well made; his face, dark as a Spaniard’s (his mother was descended from a Catalonian family), was manly-looking and frank, at once indicating openness of temperament, and a dash of heroic daring that would like danger for itself alone; his carriage had the easy freedom of a soldier, without anything bordering on coarseness or effrontery. Advancing with a quiet bow, he tendered his apologies for being late, rather as a matter he owed to himself, to excuse his want of punctuality, than from any sense of inconvenience to others, and ascribed the delay to the difficulty of finding post-horses. “While waiting, therefore,” said he, “I resolved to economise time, and so dressed for dinner at the last stage.”

‘This apology at least showed a desire on his part to be in time, and at once disposed the secretary in his favour. The baron himself spoke little; and as for Marguerite, she never opened her lips to him the whole time of dinner; and Norvins could barely get out the few commonplaces of table, and sat eyeing him from time to time with an increasing dislike.

‘Van Halsdt could not help feeling that his reception was of the coldest; yet either perfectly indifferent to the fact, or resolved to overcome their impressions against him, he talked away unceasingly of everything he could think of--the dinners at court, the theatres, the diplomatic soirées, the news from foreign countries, all of which he spoke of with knowledge and intimacy. Yet nothing could he extract in return. The old baron retired, as was his wont, immediately after dinner; the secretary dropped off soon after; Marguerite went to take her evening drive on the boulevards; and Norvins was left alone with his new comrade. At first he was going to pretend an engagement. Then the awkwardness of the moment came forcibly before him, and he sat still, silent and confused.

‘“Any wine in that decanter?” said Van Halsdt, with a short abrupt tone, as he pointed to the bottle beside him. “Pray pass it over here. I have only drunk three glasses. I shall be better aware to-morrow how soon your party breaks up here.”

‘“Yes,” said Edward timidly, and not well knowing what to say. “The baron retires to his study every evening at seven.”

‘“With all my heart,” said he gaily; “at six, if he prefer it, and he may even take the old secretary with him. But the mademoiselle, shall we see any more of her during the evening? Is there no salon? Eh, what do you do after dinner?”

‘“Why, sometimes we drive, or we walk out on the boulevards; the other ministers receive once or twice a week, and then there’s the opera.”

‘“Devilishly slow you must find all this,” said Van Halsdt, filling a bumper, and taking it off at a draught. “Are you long here?”

‘“Only three months.”

‘“And well sick of it, I ‘ll be sworn.”

‘“No, I feel very happy; I like the quiet.”

‘“Oh dear! oh dear!” said he, with a long groan, “what is to become of me?”

‘Norvins heartily wished he could have replied to the question in the way he would have liked; but he said nothing.

‘“It’s past eight.” said Van Halsdt, as he perceived him stealing a look at his watch. “Never mind me, if you’ve any appointment; I ‘ll soon learn to make myself at home here. Perhaps you’d better ring for some more claret, however, before you go; they don’t know me yet.”

‘Edward almost started from his chair at this speech. Such a liberty had never before been heard of as to call for more wine; indeed, it was not their ordinary habit to consume half what was placed on the table; but so taken by surprise was he, that he actually rose and rang the bell, as he was desired.

‘“Some claret, Johann,” said he with a gulp, as the old butler entered.

‘The man started back, and fixed his eyes on the empty decanter.

‘“And I say, ancient,” said Van Halsdt, “don’t decant it; you shook the last bottle confoundedly. It’s old wine, and won’t bear that kind of usage.”

‘The old man moved away with a deep sigh, and returned in about ten minutes with a bottle from the cellar.

‘“Didn’t Providence bless you with two hands, friend?” said Van Halsdt. “Go down for another.”

‘“Go, Johann,” said Norvins, as he saw him hesitate, and not knowing what his refusal might call forth; and then, without waiting for further parley, he arose and withdrew.

‘“Well,” thought he, when he was once more alone, “if he is a good- looking fellow, and there’s no denying _that_, one comfort is, he is a confirmed drunkard. Marguerite will never be able to endure him”; for such, in his secret heart, was the reason of his premature dislike and dread of his new companion; and as he strolled along he meditated on the many ways he should be able to contrast his own acquirements with the other’s deficiencies, for such he set them down at once, and gradually reasoned himself into the conviction that the fear of all rivalry from him was mere folly; and that whatever success his handsome face and figure might have elsewhere, Marguerite was not the girl to be caught by such attractions, when coupled with an unruly temper and an uneducated mind.

‘And he was right. Great as his own repugnance was towards Van Halsdt, hers was far greater. She not only avoided him on every occasion, but took pleasure, as it seemed, in marking the cold distance of her manner to him, and contrasting it with her behaviour to others. It is true he appeared to care little for this; and only replied to it by a half- impertinent style of familiarity--a kind of jocular intimacy most insulting to a woman, and horribly tantalising for those to witness who are attached to her.

‘I don’t wish to make my story a long one; nor could I without entering into the details of everyday life, which now became so completely altered. Marguerite and Norvins met only at rare intervals, and then less to cultivate each other’s esteem than expatiate on the many demerits of him who had estranged them so utterly. All the reports to his discredit that circulated in Frankfort were duly conned over; and though they could lay little to his charge of their own actual knowledge, they only imagined the more, and condemned him accordingly.

‘To Norvins he became hourly more insupportable. There was in all his bearing towards him the quiet, measured tone of a superior to an inferior, the patronising protection of an elder to one younger and less able to defend himself--and which, with the other’s consciousness of his many intellectual advantages over him, added double bitterness to the insult. As he never appeared in the bureau of the mission, nor in any way concerned himself with official duties, they rarely met save at table; there, his appearance was the signal for constraint and reserve - -an awkwardness that made itself felt the more, as the author of it seemed to exult in the dismay he created.

‘Such, then, was the state of events when Norvins received his nomination as secretary of legation at Stuttgart. The appointment was a surprise to him; he had not even heard of the vacancy. The position, however, and the emoluments were such as to admit of his marrying; and he resolved to ask the baron for his daughter’s hand, to which the rank and influence of his own family permitted him to aspire without presumption.

‘The baron gave his willing consent; Marguerite accepted; and the only delay was now caused by the respect for an old Dutch custom--the bride should be at least eighteen, and Marguerite yet wanted three months of that age. This interval Norvins obtained leave to pass at Frankfort; and now they went about to all public places together as betrothed; paid visits in company, and were recognised by all their acquaintances as engaged to each other.

‘Just at this time a French cuirassier regiment marched into garrison in the town; they were on their way to the south of Germany, and only detained in Frankfort to make up their full complement of horses. In this regiment was a young Dutch officer, who once belonged to the same regiment as Van Halsdt, and who was broke by the court-martial for the same quarrel. They had fought twice with swords, and only parted with the dire resolve to finish the affair at the next opportunity. This officer was a man of an inferior class, his family being an obscure one of North Holland; and thus, when dismissed the service, he had no other resource than to enter the French army, at that time at war with Austria. He was said to be a man of overbearing temper and passion, and it was not likely that the circumstance of his expatriation and disgrace had improved him. However, some pledge Van Halsdt had made to his father decided him in keeping out of the way. The report ran that he had given a solemn promise never to challenge nor accept any challenge from the other on any pretext whatsoever. Whatever the promise, certain it was he left Frankfort the same day the regiment marched into town, and retired to Wiesbaden.

‘The circumstance soon became the subject of town gossip, and plenty there were most willing to attribute Van Halsdt’s departure to prudential motives, rather than to give so wild a character any credit for filial ones. Several who felt offended at his haughty, supercilious manner now exulted in this, as it seemed, fall to his pride; and Norvins, unfortunately, fell into the same track, and by many a sly innuendo and half allusion to his absence gave greater currency to the report that his absence was dictated by other considerations than those of parental respect.

‘Through all the chit-chat of the time, Marguerite showed herself highly indignant at Van Halsdt’s conduct. The quiet timid girl, who detested violence and hated crime in any shape, felt disgusted at the thought of his poltroonery, and could not hear his name mentioned without an expression of contempt. All this delighted Edward; it seemed to be the just retribution on the former insolence of the other, and he longed for his return to Frankfort to witness the thousand slights that awaited him.

‘Such a strange and unaccountable thing is our triumph over others for the want of those qualities in which we see ourselves deficient. No one is so loud in decrying dishonesty and fraud as the man who feels the knave in his own heart. Who can censure female frailty like her who has felt its sting in her own conscience? You remember the great traveller, Mungo Park, used to calculate the depths of rivers in Africa by rolling heavy stones over their banks and watching the air-bubbles that mounted to the surface; so, oftentimes, may you measure the innate sense of a vice by the execration some censor of morals bestows upon it. Believe me, these heavy chastisements of crime are many times but the cries of awakened conscience. I speak strongly, but I feel deeply on this subject.

‘But to my story. It was the custom for Marguerite and her lover each evening to visit the theatre, where the minister had a box; and as they were stepping into the carriage one night as usual, Van Halsdt drove up to the door and asked if he might accompany them. Of course, a refusal was out of the question; he was a member of the mission; he had done nothing to forfeit his position there, however much he had lost in the estimation of society generally; and they acceded to his request, still with a species of cold courtesy that would, by any other man, have been construed into a refusal.

‘As they drove along in silence, the constraint increased at every moment, and had it not been for the long-suppressed feeling of hated rivalry, Norvins could have pitied Van Halsdt as he sat, no longer with his easy smile of self-satisfied indifference, but with a clouded, heavy brow, mute and pale. As for Marguerite, her features expressed a species of quiet, cold disdain whenever she looked towards him, far more terrible to bear than anything like an open reproach. Twice or thrice he made an effort to start some topic of conversation, but in vain; his observations were either unreplied to, or met a cold, distant assent more chilling still. At length, as if resolved to break through their icy reserve towards him, he asked in a tone of affected indifference--

‘“Any changes in Frankfort, mademoiselle, since I had the pleasure of seeing you last?”

‘“None, sir, that I know of, save that the French cuirassier regiment marched this morning for Baden, _of which, however, it is more than probable you are aware already_.”

‘On each of these latter words she laid an undue stress, fixing her eyes steadfastly on him, and speaking in a slow, measured tone. He grew deeply red, almost black for a moment or two; his moustache seemed almost to bristle with the tremulous convulsion that shook his upper lip; then as suddenly he became lividly pale, while the great drops of perspiration stood on his brow, and fell upon his cheek. Not another word was spoken. They soon reached the theatre, when Norvins offered Marguerite his arm, Van Halsdt slowly following them upstairs.

‘The play was one of Lessing’s and well acted; but somehow Norvins could pay no attention to the performance, his whole soul being occupied by other thoughts. Marguerite appeared to him in a different light from what he had ever seen her--not less to be loved, but altogether different. The staid, placid girl, whose quiet thoughts seemed never to rest on topics of violent passion or excitement, who fled from the very approach of anything bordering on overwrought feeling, now appeared carried away by her abhorrence of a man to the very extreme of hatred for conduct which Norvins scarcely thought she should have considered even faulty. If, then, his triumph over Van Halsdt brought any pleasure to his heart, a secret sense of his own deficiency in the very quality for which she condemned him made him shudder.

‘While he reflected thus, his ear was struck with a conversation in the box next his, in which were seated a large party of young men, with two or three ladies, whose air, dress, and manners were at least somewhat equivocal. ‘“And so, Alphonse, you succeeded after all?” said a youth to a large, powerful, dark-moustached man, whose plain blue frock could not conceal the soldier.

‘“Yes,” replied he, in a deep sonorous voice; “our doctor managed the matter for me. He pronounced me unable to march before to-morrow; he said that my old wound in the arm gave symptoms of uneasiness, and required a little more rest. But, by Saint Denis, I see little benefit in the plan, after all. This ‘white feather’ has not ventured back, and I must leave in the morning without meeting him.”

‘These words, which were spoken somewhat loudly, could be easily heard in any part of the adjoining box; and scarcely were they uttered when Van Halsdt, who sat the entire evening far back, and entirely concealed from view, covered his face with both hands, and remained in that posture for several minutes. When he withdrew them, the alteration in his countenance was actually fearful. Though his cheeks were pale as death, his eyes were bloodshot, and the lids swelled and congested; his lips, too, were protruded, and trembled like one in an ague, and his clasped hands shook against the chair.

‘Norvins would have asked him if he were ill, but was afraid even to speak to him, while again his attention was drawn off by the voices near him.

‘“Not got a bouquet?” said the large man to a lady beside him; “_pardi_, that’s too bad. Let me assist you. I perceive that this pretty damsel, who turns her shoulder so disdainfully towards us, makes little use of hers, and so _avec permission_, mademoiselle!” With that he stood up, and leaning across the division into their box, stretched over his hand and took the bouquet that lay before Marguerite, and handed it to the lady at his side.

‘Marguerite started back, as her eyes flashed with offended pride, and then turned them on her lover. He stood up, not to resent the insult, but to offer her his arm to leave the box. She gave him a look: never in a glance was there read such an expression of withering contempt; and drawing her shawl around her, she said in a low voice, “The carriage.” Before Edward could open the box door to permit her to pass out, Van Halsdt sprang to the front of the box, and stretched over. Then came a crash, a cry, a confused shout of many voices together, and the word _polisson_ above all; but hurrying Marguerite along, Norvins hastened down the stairs and assisted her into the carriage. As she took her place, he made a gesture as if to follow, but she drew the door towards her, and with a shuddering expression, “No!” leaned back, and closed the door. The _calèche_ moved on, and Norvins was alone in the street.

‘I shall not attempt to describe the terrific rush of sensations that came crowding on his brain. Coward as he was, he would have braved a hundred deaths rather than endure such agony. He turned towards the theatre, but his craven spirit seemed to paralyse his very limbs; he felt as if were his antagonist before him, he would not have had energy to speak to him. Marguerite’s look was ever before him; it sank into his inmost soul; it was burning there like a fire, that no memory nor after sorrow should ever quench.

‘As he stood thus, an arm was passed hastily through his, and he was led along. It was Van Halsdt, his hat drawn over his brows, and a slight mark of blood upon his cheek. He seemed so overwhelmed with his own sensations as not to be cognisant of his companion’s.

‘“I struck him,” said he, in a thick guttural voice, the very breathings of vengeance--“I struck him to my feet. It is now _à la mort_ between us, and better it should be _so_ at once.” As he spoke thus he turned towards the boulevard, instead of the usual way towards the embassy. ‘“We are going wrong,” said Norvins--“this leads to the Breiten gasse.”

‘“I know it,” was the brief reply; “we must make for the country; the thing was too public not to excite measures of precaution. We are to rendezvous at Katznach.” ‘“With swords?”

‘“No; pistols, _this time_.” said he, with a fiendish emphasis on the last words.

‘They walked on for above an hour, passing through the gate of the town, and reaching the open country, each silent and lost in his own thoughts.

‘At a small cabaret they procured horses and a guide to Katznach, which was about eleven miles up the mountain. The way was so steep that they were obliged to walk their horses, and frequently to get down and lead them; yet not a word was spoken on either side. Once, only, Norvins asked how he was to get his pistols from Frankfort; to which the other answered merely, “They provide the weapons!” and they were again silent.

‘Norvins was somewhat surprised, and offended also, that his companion should have given him so little of his confidence at such a moment; gladly, indeed, would he have exchanged his own thoughts for those of any one else, but he left him to ruminate in silence on his unhappy position, and to brood over miseries that every minute seemed to aggravate.

‘“They’re coming up the road yonder; I see them now,” said Van Halsdt suddenly, as he aroused the other from a deep train of melancholy thoughts. “Ha! how lame he walks!” cried he, with savage exultation.

‘In a few minutes the party, consisting of four persons, dismounted from their horses, and entered the little burial-ground beside the chapel. One of them advancing hastily towards Van Halsdt, shook him warmly by the hand, and whispered something in his ear. The other replied; when the first speaker turned towards Norvins with a look of ineffable scorn and then passed over to the opposite group. Edward soon perceived that this man was to act as Halsdt’s friend; and though really glad that such an office fell not to his share, he was deeply offended on being thus, as it were, passed over. In this state of dogged anger he sat down on a tombstone, and, as if having no interest whatever in the whole proceedings, never once looked towards them.

‘Norvins did not notice that the party now took the path towards the wood, nor was he conscious of the flight of time, when suddenly the loud report of two pistols, so close together as to be almost blended, rang through his ears. Then he sprang up, a dreadful pang piercing his bosom, some terrible sense of guilt he could neither fathom nor explain flashing across him. At the same instant the brushwood crashed behind him, and Van Halsdt and his companion came out; the former with his eyes glistening and his cheek flushed, the other pale and dreadfully agitated. He nodded towards Edward significantly, and Van Halsdt said, “Yes.”

‘Before Norvins could conjecture what this meant, the stranger approached him, and said--

‘“I am sorry, sir, the sad work of this morning cannot end here; but of course you are prepared to afford my friend the only reparation in your power.”

‘“Me! reparation! what do you mean? Afford whom?”

‘“Monsieur van Halsdt,” said he coolly, and with a slight emphasis of contempt as he spoke.

‘“Monsieur van Halsdt! he never offended _me_; I never insulted, never injured _him_,” said Edward, trembling at every word.

‘“Never injured me!” cried Van Halsdt. “Is it nothing that you have ruined me for ever; that your cowardice to resent an affront offered to one who should have been dearer than your life, a hundred times told, should have involved me in a duel with a man I swore never to meet, never to cross swords nor exchange a shot with? Is it nothing that I am to be disgraced by my king, disinherited by my father--a beggar and an exile at once? Is it nothing, sir, that the oldest name of Friesland is to be blotted from the nobles of his nation? Is it nothing that for you I should be _what I now am?_”

‘The last words were uttered in a voice that made Norvins, very blood run cold; but he could not speak, he could not mutter a word in answer.

‘“What!” said Van Halsdt, in an accent of cutting sarcasm, “I thought that perhaps in the suddenness of the moment your courage, unprepared for an unexpected call, might not have stood your part; but can it be true that you are a coward? Is this the case?”

‘Norvins hung down his head; the sickness of death was on him. The dreadful pause was broken at last; it was Van Halsdt who spoke--

‘“Adieu, sir; I grieve for you. I hope we may never meet again; yet let me give you a counsel ere we part. There is but one coat men can wear with impunity when they carry a malevolent and a craven spirit; you can be a------“’

‘Monsieur l’Abbé, the dinner is on the table,’ said a servant, entering at this moment of the story.

‘_Ma foi_, and so it is,’ said he, looking gaily at his watch, as he rose from his chair.

‘But mademoiselle,’ said I, ‘what became of her?’

‘Ah, Marguerite: she was married to Van Halsdt in less than three months. The cuirassier fortunately recovered from his wounds; the duel was shown to be a thing forced by the stress of consequences. As for Van Halsdt, the king forgave him, and he is now ambassador at Naples.’

‘And the other, Norvins?--though I scarcely feel any interest in him.’

‘I’m sorry for it,’ said he, laughing; ‘but won’t you move forward?’

With that he made me a polite bow to precede him towards the dinner- room, and followed me with the jaunty step and the light gesture of an easy and contented nature.

I need scarcely say that I did not sit next the abbé that day at dinner; on the contrary, I selected the most stupid-looking old man I could find for my neighbour, hugging myself in the thought, that, where there is little agreeability, Nature may kindly have given in recompense some traits of honesty and some vestiges of honour. Indeed, such a disgust did I feel for the amusing features of the pleasantest part of the company, and so inextricably did I connect repartee with rascality, that I trembled at every good thing I heard, and stole away early to bed, resolving never to take sudden fancies to agreeable people as long as I lived--an oath which a long residence in a certain country that shall be nameless happily permits me to keep, with little temptation to transgress.

The next morning was indeed a brilliant one--the earth refreshed by rain, the verdure more brilliant, the mountain streams grown fuller; all the landscape seemed to shine forth in its gladdest features. I was up and stirring soon after sunrise; and with all my prejudices against such a means of ‘lengthening one’s days,’ I sat at my window, actually entranced with the beauty of the scene. Beyond the river there rose a heath-clad mountain, along which misty masses of vapour swept hurriedly, disclosing as they passed some tiny patch of cultivation struggling for life amid granite rocks and abrupt precipices. As the sun grew stronger, the grey tints became brown and the brown grew purple, while certain dark lines that tracked their way from summit to base began to shine like silver, and showed the course of many a mountain torrent tumbling and splashing towards that little lake that lay calm as a mirror below. Immediately beneath my window was the garden of the château-- a succession of terraces descending to the very river. The quaint yew hedges carved into many a strange device, the balustrades half hidden by flowering shrubs and creepers, the marble statues peeping out here and there, trim and orderly as they looked, were a pleasant feature of the picture, and heightened the effect of the desolate grandeur of the distant view. The very swans that sailed about on the oval pond told of habitation and life, just as the broad expanded wing that soared above the mountain peak spoke of the wild region where the eagle was king.

My musings were suddenly brought to a close by a voice on the terrace beneath. It was that of a man who was evidently, from his pace, enjoying his morning’s promenade under the piazza of the château, while he hummed a tune to pass away the time:--

‘“Why, soldiers, why Should we be melancholy, boys? Why, soldiers, why? Whose business----”

Holloa, there, François, ain’t they stirring yet? Why, it’s past six o’clock!’

The person addressed was a serving-man, who in the formidable attire of an English groom--in which he was about as much at home as a coronation champion feels in plate armour--was crossing the garden towards the stables.

‘No, sir; the count won’t start before eight.’

‘And when do we breakfast?’

‘At seven, sir.’

‘The devil! another hour--

“Why, soldiers, why Should we be-----”

I say, François, what horse do they mean for Mademoiselle Laura to-day?’

‘The mare she rode on Wednesday, sir. Mademoiselle liked her very much.’

‘And what have they ordered for the stranger that came the night before last--the gentleman who was robbed----’

‘I know, I know, sir; the roan, with the cut on her knee.’

‘Why, she’s a mad one! she’s a runaway!’

‘So she is, sir; but then monsieur is an Englishman, and the count says he ‘ll soon tame the roan filly.’

‘“Why, soldiers, why-----“’

hummed the old colonel, for it was Muddleton himself; and the groom pursued his way without further questioning. Whereupon two thoughts took possession of my brain: one of which was, what peculiar organisation it is which makes certain old people who have nothing to do early risers; the other, what offence had I committed to induce the master of the château to plot my sudden death.

The former has been a puzzle to me all my life. What a blessing should sleep be to that class of beings who do nothing when awake; how they should covet those drowsy hours that give, as it were, a sanction to indolence; with what anxiety they ought to await the fall of day, as announcing the period when they become the equals of their fellow-men; and with what terror they should look forward to the time when the busy world is up and stirring, and their incapacity and slothfulness only become more glaring from contrast! Would not any one say that such people would naturally cultivate sleep as their comforter? Should they not hug their pillow as the friend of their bosom? On the contrary, these are invariably your early risers. Every house where I have ever been on a visit has had at least one of these troubled and troublesome spirits--the torment of Boots, the horror of housemaids. Their chronic cough forms a duet with the inharmonious crowing of the young cock, who for lack of better knowledge proclaims day a full hour before his time. Their creaking shoes are the accompaniment to the scrubbing of brass fenders and the twigging of carpets, the jarring sounds of opening shutters and the cranking discord of a hall door chain; their heavy step sounds like a nightmare’s tread through the whole sleeping house. And what is the object of all this? What new fact have they acquired; what difficult question have they solved; whom have they made happier or wiser or better? Not Betty the cook, certainly, whose morning levée of beggars they have most unceremoniously scattered and scared; not Mary the housemaid, who, unaccustomed to be caught _en déshabillé_, is cross the whole day after, though he was ‘only an elderly gentleman, and wore spectacles’; not Richard, who cleaned their shoes by candle-light; nor the venerable butler, who from shame’s sake is up and dressed, but who, still asleep, stands with his corkscrew in his hand, under the vague impression that it is a late supper-party.

These people, too, have always a consequential, self-satisfied look about them; they seem to say they know a ‘thing or two’ others have no wot of--as though the day, more confidential when few were by, told them some capital secrets the sleepers never heard of, and they made this pestilential habit a reason for eating the breakfast of a Cossack, as if the consumption of victuals was a cardinal virtue. Civilised differs from savage life as much by the regulation of time as by any other feature. I see no objection to your red man, who probably can’t go to breakfast till he has caught a bear, being up betimes; but for the gentleman who goes to bed with the conviction that hot rolls and coffee, tea and marmalade, bloaters and honey, ham, muffins, and eggs await him at ten o’clock--for him, I say, these absurd vagabondisms are an insufferable affectation, and a most unwarrantable liberty with the peace and privacy of a household.

Meanwhile, old Colonel Muddleton is parading below; and here we must leave him for another chapter.