CHAPTER I.

THE REDACRES.

The Redacres were at home on Saturday evening—at home in the pleasant, simple way that used to be the fashion in Paris some twenty, or even ten, years ago. They lived in an entresol in the Faubourg St. Honoré and their friends flocked to them in troops regularly every Saturday, crowding the spacious, old-fashioned salon, where there was always a cordial welcome to be had, cheerful conversation, excellent tea, and a blazing hearth when the weather was cold. It was bitterly cold on this January evening when I beg to introduce you to the Redacre family. The head of the house, Colonel Redacre, was a retired cavalry officer, who had lost his left leg at Balaklava; Mrs. Redacre had been a beautiful, and was still a lovely, woman; there were two sons who were at Eton, and two daughters, both at home, Pearl and Polly.

The colonel had spent ten years in India, and his wife had become so acclimatized to those burning skies that she could not bear the climate of England on leaving them. She was, indeed, a chronic invalid, and this was why they lived abroad. At least, Colonel Redacre always gave his wife’s health as a reason for not living in England, and took no small share of credit to himself for making this sacrifice of personal choice to his duty as a husband. When old friends, who knew how strong were his English predilections, pitied him for having to reside in France, he would heave a sigh, and, looking towards his wife reclining on her cushions, say: “Yes, yes; but she’s worth it, bless her!” And nothing was prettier than the smile with which Mrs. Redacre would thank him for this remark when it was made in her hearing, as it generally was.

It was past nine, and there were a good many people in the salon. Some of the ladies were in full evening dress, having turned in for an hour before going to some larger assembly; but the greater number were in plain morning dresses. There was a whist-table in a far corner of the large, square room, and the players were deep in their game, the partners being Mrs. Monteagle and the Comte de Kerbec, the Comtesse de Kerbec and Mr. Kingspring.

Polly Redacre was singing, accompanied by her sister Pearl. Polly was a beauty. The most fastidious critic could not have found a fault in her face; the lines and the coloring were alike perfect. And yet, when you had paid this inevitable tribute of admiration to the chiselled features and brilliant complexion, to the harmonious grace of her movements, your eyes turned to Pearl’s face and lingered there, riveted by some more potent spell than mere beauty. You never dreamed of analyzing Pearl’s face; you enjoyed it, and you said involuntarily, “What a sweet girl! I should like to talk to her. What a spirit there is in her eyes! what fun in those dimples!” And your own face broke into sympathetic smiles. There was a close family likeness between the sisters; both were rather above the medium height, and both were very fair. Polly’s eyes were deep blue, almond-shaped, and black-fringed. Pearl’s were brown, bright and limpid as a Scotch pebble; as to their shape, you never gave that a thought; you only saw that, whether the light in them was soft, mischievous, or merry, they were good to look at.

The song was over.

“Mme. la Baronne Léopold, Mme. Blanche, et M. le Capitaine Léopold!” called out the servant. Pearl and Polly flew to greet Blanche, who was Polly’s bosom-friend, and the three girls betook themselves to a private corner of their own, and were soon deep in confidential talk. Mme. Léopold got out her tapestry, and began stitching away by the shaded lamp near Mrs. Redacre’s sofa; and Léon, after doubling himself in two before the ladies of the house three separate times, fell in with a group of gentlemen on the hearth-rug. Presently Mme. Léopold looked up from her floss silks and called out to the young girls:

“Have we interrupted the music, mesdemoiselles? I implore of you to go on with it! My son will be in despair if you don’t; he perfectly adores music. I hope you will induce him to sing a duet with you—that one from _Fra Diavolo_ that goes so well with your voice, Pearl. Do make him sing it, dear child, I pray you!”

Thus adjured, Pearl drifted away to capture the reluctant and, so far, unconscious songster, who again doubled himself in two, and vowed that he was a miserable singer, but at the orders of _ces demoiselles_.

“Are we not to see Léopold this evening?” inquired Col. Redacre in his loud military tones.

“Can I say? He is so busy. He keeps me hard at work, too; I write twenty letters a day for him, and still he can’t get through all his correspondence. One must have real patriotism to serve one’s country in France, my dear colonel.”

“Humph! It is easy enough to serve it when one can stay at home and keep one’s legs,” grunted the colonel. “I should not mind writing five hundred letters a day if I could get my leg back.”

“Ah! but you are a hero,” smiled Mme. Léopold.

Presently, throwing aside her tapestry, she sallied over to the card-table, and, laying her hand on Mrs. Monteagle’s shoulder, “Will your game soon be done, chère madame?” she said. “I want to have a little chat with you, and it is so difficult for me to get to you in the day! M. Léopold, since he is in the Chamber, works me to death. Not that I complain of it. I am proud to be of use to him; but it is a life of sacrifice.” And the patriot’s wife sighed.

“My dear baronne, if there be a thing I resent it is having my game of whist interfered with,” burst out Mme. de Kerbec before Mrs. Monteagle could answer. “How is Mrs. Monteagle to give her full attention to the game, if you stand there watching the minutes till it is over?” And the irate whist-player turned down her hand and looked indignantly at the intruder.

Mme. Léopold fled with a pretty pretence of terror; and Mrs. Monteagle, whose attention had been disturbed by the interruption, after nervously surveying a wretched set of cards, threw a low trump—on her partner’s ace.

M. de Kerbec uttered a meek “Oh!” of expostulation.

“I feel for you, Jack—I do indeed,” said Mme. de Kerbec. “The idea of having a partner that trumps one’s ace the second round!”

“Dear me! I thought it was the third round,” said Mrs. Monteagle; “that was why I risked my little trump.”

“Then you deserved to lose your little trump!” said Mme. de Kerbec. “You should have trumped high if you trumped at all; third in hand _always_ plays high!”

“Ma chère amie,” put in meekly M. de Kerbec, “one plays as one can; my partner may not have any high trumps.”

“Good heavens! count,” screamed his wife, “the idea of your exposing your partner’s hand in this way!”

“Ma chère amie, I am not exposing it; I merely suggest that—”

“Hold your tongue, count! What business have you to suggest? What sort of whist is this? I thought whist meant _hush_; and you have done nothing but chatter ever since we sat down.”

When Mme. de Kerbec addressed her husband as “count,” those who knew M. de Kerbec felt for him; when she called him “Jack” they congratulated him. His real name was Jacques; but though she had been married to him for thirty years, and lived nearly all that time in France, his wife had never modified her hard English ring of the soft French name, hammering it out with three _k_’s at the end.

“It sounds so uncommonly like _whack_” Col. Redacre used to say, “that I feel for poor Kerbec, as if I saw the stick coming down on him.”

He jocosely called Mme. de Kerbec “Captain Jack” one day, and the name stuck to her, as appropriate nicknames sometimes will. And yet Captain Jack was very kind to her husband, letting no one bully him but herself.

Her partner this evening, Mr. Kingspring, was an excellent player, but he had his temper so well in hand that no one suffered from this superiority. If his partner had trumped his ace on the first round, he would have received the stab with a lovely smile; but when he succeeded in trumping his adversary’s ace, or some such indelicate feat, he had a way of quietly chuckling that was very offensive to Capt. Jack. To-night, however, they being partners, she beamed on him.

“Ha! ha! This time we looked out,” said M. de Kerbec. “When monsieur leads trumps we know that means mischief.”

“What do _you_ mean by making such remarks?” demanded Mme, de Kerbec. “Will you hold your tongue and attend to the game? Go on, partner; very well played. Oh! it is my turn.”

The game went on in silence for a couple of rounds.

“Humph!” muttered Mme. de Kerbec, putting the ten of clubs on Mrs. Monteagle’s deuce; M. de Kerbec threw the knave, and Mr. Kingspring took it with his queen. Mrs. Monteagle looked aghast.

“Why, count,” she said, “I made sure you had either ace or king. I led from nothing.”

“Really, Mrs. Monteagle, you are past praying for!” exclaimed Mme. de Kerbec indignantly.

“I was certain my partner had the ace,” pleaded the culprit.

“How could he have it when I took the very first trick with it?”

“So you did, ma chère amie,” said the count, “and I quite forgot it, or I should have played my king; but I thought monsieur had the ace, and would have come down on me with it.”

“You thought, forsooth! What business had you to think at all? You know the rule—third in hand; you should have stuck to the rule and taken the consequences.”

“Ma chère amie, you sometimes remind me that it is part of genius to know when to break rules.”

“Don’t throw my words in my face, count. And don’t argue with me about whist. I have been playing whist with you these thirty years, and _everybody_ knows I am a better player than you!”

“Shall I bring you some tea now?” said Pearl, advancing to the whist-table and cutting short the little discussion between the count and Capt. Jack.

“I shall be _most_ thankful for a cup, my dear,” said that lady in an aggrieved tone; “but not strong. I can’t have my night’s rest spoiled for anybody. Jack, you know how I like my tea; just go and get me a cup, if it’s not too much trouble.”

The obedient Jack flew to obey.

The large room was now very full; there were a few groups of splendid ladies in diamonds and shining silks and a great many gentlemen in uniform that gave quite a brilliant air to the unceremonious gathering. Polly Redacre was a picture to look at as she moved about in her white muslin, her bright gold hair shining more effectively than any coronet of jewels, and her cheeks flushed with pleasurable excitement to the brightest rose tint. She knew she was by far the loveliest object in the room, and she took great pleasure in the thought. And who shall blame her? Pearl certainly did not. Indeed, Pearl had a great deal to answer for in the way she ministered to her sister’s vanity; for she was ten times as vain of Polly’s beauty as Polly herself was. Col. Redacre was talking very loudly, while his right hand expostulated with Balaklava, his wooden leg, so called in memory of the field where he lost the original. Every change in the weather affected Balaklava painfully; for the colonel declared that his wooden limb had more sensibility in it than all the rest of his body combined. To-night the sudden frost that had set in was shooting fifty razors a minute in and out of it. He was confiding this detail to M. de Kerbec’s sympathizing ear in his very loudest tones when a voice called out:

“Jack, is this tea sweetened?”

“Certainly, ma chère amie; that is—I really don’t know, now I remember. Mlle. Pearl prepared it, and I have no doubt it is well sweetened.”

“You have no doubt! I dare say not. You care very little about what interests _me_, count. Pray don’t trouble yourself about it now.” And Jack retreated, meek and snubbed.

“The selfishness of men!” said Mme. de Kerbec, as she helped herself from the bowl Pearl held out—“the selfishness of men! He knows if there is a thing I _detest_ it is tasting my tea without the sugar.”

While the tea-serving was going on Léon Léopold stood with his back to the wall and watched the pretty tea-table with its glistening silver and porcelain, and graceful cup-bearers hurrying to and fro; he never dreamed of lending more than a moral assistance to the latter, as an Englishman in his place would have done. Blanche was intimate as a sister with Pearl and Polly Redacre; but Léon seldom showed himself on a Saturday evening. He was on the most distant terms of acquaintanceship with the ladies of the family, with whom he was always as silent as a sphinx. No wonder Polly voted him a muff. But Pearl declared her belief that Léon had plenty of fun in him, if one only could get at it. He was very good-looking, rather striking, indeed, in appearance; not tall but finely proportioned, with a blue shaven chin and a short black moustache, and solemn, coal-black eyes that had a way of looking at you, Pearl said, as if to see whether you or he should look longest without laughing. Colonel Redacre thought highly of him, and said he had the making of a first-rate soldier in him; but Pearl declared this was because Léon listened so attentively to the description of the Balaklava charge every time her father related it, which was pretty nearly every time he met Léon.

“And that song we were to have had from your son?” said Mrs. Monteagle, taking her tea-cup to a seat near Mme. Léopold. “I have a poor opinion of a young man who can sing and won’t sing; either he is shy, which means that he is a goose, or he wants to make a fuss over it, which means that he is a coxcomb.”

“My dear boy, you must execute yourself after that!” exclaimed his mother, laughing.

“I but await the orders of ces demoiselles,” protested Léon, starting from his position against the wall and doubling himself in two before Pearl. He went straight to the piano, and soon the room was echoing to the lament of the disconsolate lover to his Eléonore. Léon had a fine voice, fairly cultivated, and, if he had not sung exactly as if he had been a wooden man, it would have been very pleasant to listen to him; but Pearl said it was just like accompanying an automaton.

“How well they suit!” observed Mme. Léopold in a _sotto voce_, as she glanced towards the piano, where Léon’s black head showed above Pearl’s fair face and dancing brown eyes. Mrs. Monteagle knew at once why she had been convened to a little chat by Léon’s mother.

“Yes; they make a good effect as contrasts.”

“And both are so musical! My son has a passion for music.”

“If he has all his passions under as good control as he seems to have this one, he is a model young man—indeed, a model man for any age,” said Mrs. Monteagle with a little grunt that was peculiar to her. To judge of Mrs. Monteagle’s character from seeing her at whist would have been a grievous mistake; you would have supposed she had not the spirit of a mouse, whereas she had, on the contrary, a very high spirit, and held her own everywhere and against all comers except at cards, and above all when Mme. de Kerbec was playing. She laughed at Mme. de Kerbec everywhere except at the whist-table, and there she was completely cowed by her.

“I suppose I am not a witness to be trusted,” remarked Mme. Léopold; “but I can testify that he _is_ a model man. He is certainly a model son, and a good son is generally good in every other relation.”

“That depends. He loves you, so it costs him nothing to be good to you. We are all of us good to those we love.”

“And why should he not love his wife? Is there any reason why he should not love her?”

“Not that I know of; but I did not know he had a wife.”

“Ah! but I have got one for him. Chère madame, that is why I wanted to have a little chat with you. I have found a perfect wife for my son, and I want you to arrange it. Do you not guess?”

Yes, Mrs. Monteagle did; and involuntarily her eyes wandered to the piano, where Pearl was striving earnestly, but in vain, to draw out by her passionate accompaniment some responsive spark from the dark face that was solemnly appealing to his Eléonore, her own face meanwhile flushed with the effort and the music; perhaps also by her endeavors to keep those dimples under control, for they seemed actually bursting with suppressed laughter.

“How lovely she is!” said Mrs. Monteagle, instead of answering the eager mother.

“She is a most sweet girl, and would, I feel sure, make a perfect wife for my Léon.”

“And you are equally sure that he would make her a perfect husband?”

“Chère madame! can you look at him and doubt it?”

“Is he so very much in love with her?”

Mme. Léopold gave an imperceptible start, and put her handkerchief to her mouth with a little cough; but the pantomime was lost on her companion, who was watching Pearl and observing mentally, “She is not in love with him, at any rate.” The brown eyes were sending forth sparks of merriment, and looked as if they were on the point of exploding outright with fun.

“My son is the very soul of honor,” Mme. Léopold went on to explain. “Before doing anything that could in the faintest degree compromise Mlle. Pearl, it was necessary for me to arrange all the essentials; and, as an old and valued friend of the family, I thought you would be, of all others, the person to help me in this. Let us, therefore, come to the point at once in all simplicity. What is her _dot_?”

“Her _dot_! Good gracious! how should I know?”

“Not, perhaps, the exact sum, but you surely must know _à-peu-près_, intimate as you are.”

“I have not the remotest idea on the subject. I never heard that she had a _dot_ at all. Now you mention it, I should think it highly probable she had not. But if your son be really attached to her, that—”

“_Bonté divine!_ No _dot_! A man of Col. Redacre’s position not give his daughter a _dot_! You are surely not serious?”

“Indeed I am. He has two sons to provide for, and in England the sons come first; the daughters are provided for by their husbands. Your son being an only son and so well off, it does not—”

“But his sons will have a _carrière_; and besides there is an estate that is to come to the eldest, I understand. Then there is the mother’s fortune to be divided amongst the younger children. Surely the girls’ _dot_ will come out of that?”

“You seem to be much better informed about the family affairs than I am,” said Mrs. Monteagle. “I know nothing about Mrs. Redacre’s fortune; but, now you mention it, I dare say it will be divided amongst the younger ones. In any case I should think your son ran no risk in trusting all that in Col. Redacre’s hands.”

“There can be no question of risk. I know my duty to my son better than to let him run any risk on such a point as that. It must be all clearly and distinctly understood before he is committed in any way.”

“It seems to me he is committed very extensively, if he has fallen in love,” said Mrs. Monteagle. “You should not have thrown him in Pearl’s way, if you were not prepared for his running risks.”

“_Qu’elle est donc romanesque!_” exclaimed Mme. Léopold, putting her handkerchief to her mouth, as if she were exploding with laughter; but Mrs. Monteagle could see that she was not laughing at all.

“What is it that you wish me to do in the affair?” she inquired. “Do you want me to sound Pearl and find out whether she returns your son’s affection?”

“_Grand Dieu!_ that would be madness. I would not breathe a word that could disturb the dear child’s peace of mind until we find out what the exact figure of her _dot_ is. Surely you can help me to do this.”

“What odd people you French are! Ha! ha! ha!” And Mrs. Monteagle fell back in her chair and had her laugh out, in spite of Mme. Léopold’s agonizing pressure of the hand and imploring eyes at her to be quiet.

“Col. Redacre would think I had taken leave of my senses if I were to go and catechise him about his money affairs,” said the incorrigible confidante when she had sufficiently recovered herself.

“But through the family lawyer you might do it. Chère amie,” pleaded the mother, “could you not ask him?”

“He would tell me to mind my own business. Besides, I don’t know the man’s name, or where he lives, or anything about him.”

“But you could easily find out. How do families do in England in such cases? How do the parents find out about the young people’s fortune before they ask for them in marriage?”

“They don’t find out, and they don’t ask; the young people manage their own affairs first, and leave the parents to fight over settlements afterwards.”

“And if it turns out there is nothing to settle on either side? Suppose the young folk have become engaged without any money between them?”

“That is their affair; they must get out of it as well as they can.”

“And the young lady’s name is compromised, and if she loves the man she breaks her heart and dies! Very sensible and very pretty indeed!”

“Tut! tut! They don’t die off so easily as all that, pretty dears! Every girl I know has had her little romance before she marries; and all the better for it. It takes the nonsense out of a girl to be crossed in love.”

“How shocking!” cried Mme. Léopold, lifting up her hands. “With us a young girl goes to the altar with the virgin bloom of her heart untouched.”

“Pish! Don’t talk such stuff to me, my dear lady,” said Mrs. Monteagle with a contemptuous grunt. “Virgin bloom, forsooth! You marry your daughters before they are out of the nursery, while they are ignorant babies that have had no time to develop either mind or heart or character. And what comes of it half the time? When one sees the way you French people arrange your marriages, the wonder is that you are not ten times worse than you are—ten times worse!”

There was plenty of noise in the room, and, what between Polly’s performance on the piano and the general buzz of voices all round, there was little danger of the private conference being overheard; still, Mme. Léopold cast nervous glances on either side while Mrs. Monteagle thus denounced the evil courses of the French people.

“Then you decline to be my intermediary in this matter?” said the disappointed mother, lowering her voice to the most confidential tone.

“I decline to commit an impertinence that would lead to my being shown to the door—and very properly; but I shall be most happy to convey the offer of your son’s hand to my young friend Pearl, if you and he honor me with the mission.”

“Thank you, dear madame; you are very kind. I must consult first—”

“M. le Baron Léopold!” called out the servant. Mme. Léopold started, and with a discreet pressure of the hand moved away and joined the group gathered round Mrs. Redacre’s sofa.

“Who expected to see you appear this evening, legislator? I thought you were at headquarters governing the country,” said Col. Redacre, propelling reluctant Balaklava to meet the deputy.

“I have just come from the Intérieur, where we have been holding a little private council,” said M. Léopold, a fine, solid sort of man, whom you might fire jokes at for an hour with impunity, so well encased was he in good-natured self-approval.

Everybody was glad when he appeared, for the deputy was delighted to see everybody, was always in good temper, and always had some bit of pleasant news—news, that is, that he considered pleasant. In person he was the very opposite of his son Léon; very stout, and tall in proportion, florid in complexion, a shining bald head, and bland, fussy manners. This evening he looked big with some mighty intelligence.

“What news? Are we to have war or not?” asked Mr. Kingspring, who with several others crowded round the deputy.

“I myself think we are,” he replied; “but I have been talking with Canrobert, and he thinks it will blow off.”

“_Quel malheur!_” said a voice from behind him. It was Léon’s.

“Ah! you soldiers call it a misfortune when you miss the chance of having your heads blown off.”

“Or our legs, which is much worse,” growled Col. Redacre; “when a man is shot at all he ought to be shot outright.”

“My dear Hugh!” protested Mrs. Redacre from her sofa.

“And so Canrobert thinks it will blow over?” said Léon, who was another man now that he felt himself safe amongst his fellow-men. “That is hard on us, after calling us back from Marseilles just as we were going to embark. We made certain there was war in the wind when the order came to return. The colonel will be horribly disappointed; he was sure to get his command if war had been declared.”

“Well, my opinion is that it will be declared,” said the baron; “so cheer up and hope for the best.”

“If you go to war I don’t see how _we_ are to keep out of it,” said Col. Redacre.

“That would be most unfortunate,” said M. de Kerbec. “I should have to leave France.”

“Why so? You are not a naturalized Englishman, are you?” said M. Léopold.

“Not exactly; but our property is in England; and besides, my wife hates living there. But of course I could not consider that; a man must overrule his wife and take her interests in hand, even against her will, when his judgment dictates. I invariably do so.”

“You poor creature!” thought Col. Redacre. “But I don’t contemplate our going to war with France,” he added aloud; “we should take sides with her against Austria—that is to say, if Prussia joined her—”

“Which she won’t,” said M. Léopold emphatically. “I have just been saying so to one of the ministers—I won’t name him, because what he said to me was confidential—”

“And what did he say?” inquired M. de Kerbec.

“He said—I don’t mind repeating it, as I have not mentioned names—he said that it was impossible at this stage of affairs to say what England or Prussia would or would not do.”

“I could have said as much myself,” said Col. Redacre; “one need not be a minister of state to say that.”

“He said a great deal more than that, though,” said the deputy. “He told me several facts connected with the state of the army and the condition of the troops that threw a great light on future probabilities. He seems to think our arsenal, and artillery, and all that are in a much more flourishing condition than either Austria’s or Prussia’s, and he has not the smallest doubt as to the issue if we go to war. His facts and figures were, indeed, perfectly conclusive to my mind.”

“It was the Minister of War, then,” said Col. Redacre. “Come, now, baron, don’t be playing the diplomat with us already. You are not at the Foreign Office yet.”

“My dear friend, I beg of you don’t let this go beyond ourselves!” said M. Léopold, his bland features assuming an expression of fussy concern. “You know I speak out here as amongst friends whose discretion I can trust.”

“Who the deuce, now, should we go and denounce you to?” said his host. “What else did _la guerre_ say?”

“You must not ask me; I really must not say any more,” said M. Léopold. “The emperor is very anxious, it appears; he has not slept for three nights.”

“No more have I,” said the colonel; “but that was Balaklava’s fault,” and he tapped angrily on the offending limb. “If these arm-chair soldiers had a touch of the frost in a wooden leg, they would not be in such a hurry to go to war.”

“It would be much worse if you were in England; the damp would kill you,” said M. de Kerbec, meaning to be consolatory.

“You are greatly mistaken; it would do nothing of the sort,” snarled the colonel. “The climate of England agreed with me perfectly; I never enjoyed a day’s perfect health since I left it. You don’t suppose it is for my pleasure that I live out of my own country? It is on account of my wife’s health; she could not bear the damp.”

“No more could Balaklava, papa,” said Pearl, slipping her hand into his arm and looking archly into her father’s face.

“You minx! How dare you contradict me?” said the colonel, scowling down on the saucy brown eyes. “You know very well if it was not for your mother’s sake I would not stay an hour in this country.”

“_Mon cher colonel!_” protested three Frenchmen in chorus.

“Oh! you are very good fellows, you French, and your climate is not so bad, and Paris is a pleasant enough place; but there is no place like one’s own country.” And the exile heaved a sigh that would have melted a stone.

“England is the most delightful place in the world to live in when one has an estate and a good rent-roll,” said Mr. Kingspring; “but under other circumstances it is not so pleasant.”

“When one is hard up, you mean. I don’t know the place that is pleasant under those circumstances.” And the colonel almost groaned this time.

“Your property is in Devonshire, is it not?” inquired M. de Kerbec, who liked to show off his knowledge of English country geography.

“It is in the moon, sir,” replied Colonel Redacre. “I have a worthy cousin who has a property in Devonshire which it is generally supposed he means to leave to me, which in fact he must leave to me; but unless he leaves something more than the estate as it stands it will be of precious little use, I suspect. A fancy place, sir, a fine, picturesque old place, but brings in nothing and takes a deal of keeping up.”

“He is a very old man, the dean, is he not?” said M. de Kerbec.

“He is nothing of the sort. Am I an old man? He is five years older than I am—a most worthy, excellent man. I wish him a long life; I have no murderous thoughts concerning him. His fortune would be a boon to a family man like myself; but one gets used to dragging the devil by the tail.”

“I hope the devil gets used to it, too,” said M. Léopold. “If he doesn’t, the poor wretch must find it very uncomfortable.”

“The wonder is that he has any tail left, considering how half the world is engaged in pulling at it.”

The colonel laughed, and so did everybody else. The deputy’s little joke proved rather a relief. Colonel Redacre had a way of airing his pecuniary grievances in public that was sometimes embarrassing to people; it was difficult to know what to say. French people especially were at a non-plus on these occasions; but they mostly set down the colonel’s grumbling to the evil behavior of Balaklava. If Balaklava was making him miserable, then there was no pleasure to be got out of life. When a man had only one leg he should at least have had ten thousand a year as a set-off to the accident; this would enable him to travel about in the wake of the sun with his household gods around him. He could not do this with three thousand a year—not as an English gentleman understands travelling.

You have already discovered that Pearl’s father was the last man to mislead any one intentionally as to her fortune. If Mme. Léopold or anybody else assumed that she was to have a large fortune because the colonel lived like a gentleman, that was no fault of his; it was absurd and unreasonable to imagine that he could do otherwise. Nobody expected a man to pinch and screw for the sake of saving _dots_ for his daughters out of an income that was barely sufficient for his wants. Least of all did the daughters expect it. They preferred infinitely that their father should give them a carriage and a couple of riding horses than economize for the sake of leaving or giving them a fortune on their marriage. Besides, there was Broom Hollow and the dean’s money, which they were safe to inherit some day.