Ronald, whose busy brush had been brought to a stand-still by an unusually dark day, when he returned to his apartments, found his friend reading Bulwer's "Caxtons." Maurice was leaning with both elbows upon the table, his fingers plunged through his disordered hair, his brows almost fiercely contracted, and his wan face bent over the volume before him.

"I found some grand pictures in that book," remarked the young artist. "Which are you contemplating?"

"No pictures. I have not your eye for pictures," answered Maurice, with something more than a touch of impatience. "I am moved, haunted, tormented by truths which have more power than all the ideal pictures pen ever drew, or brush ever painted. You place me here before your library, you lure me to read, and every book I open utters words that make my compulsory mode of existence a reproach, a disgrace, a misery to me. Read this, for instance: 'Life is a drama, not a monologue. A drama is derived from a Greek word which signifies to do. Every actor in the drama has something to do which helps on the progress of the whole,—that is the object for which the author created him. Do your part and let the Great Play go on!' Do? do?" continued Maurice, in an excited tone as he finished the quotation; "it is a torment worthy of a place in Dante's Inferno to know that there is nothing one is permitted to do! I too am an actor in the Great Drama; but I have no part to play save that of lay figure, motionless and voiceless; yet, unhappy, not being deprived of sensibility, I am goaded to desperation by inward taunting because I can do nothing."

"The play is not ended yet," answered Ronald, with as much cheerfulness as he could command, for his friend's depression affected his sympathetic nature. "We may not comprehend our roles in the beginning; we may have to study long before we can thoroughly conceive, then idealize, then act them."

"I could bear that mine should be a sad, if it were only an active one," returned Maurice, again fixing his eyes upon the book.

Ronald could make no reply to a sentiment so thoroughly in accordance with his own views. He constantly pondered upon the possibilities through which his friend might be freed from the shackles that bound him to the effeminate serfdom of idleness; but the magic that could unrivet those fetters had not yet been revealed. Still he was sometimes stirred by a mysterious prescience that they would be loosened, and through his instrumentality.

Ronald's nature was essentially practical without being prosaic. The rich ore of poetry, inseparable from all exquisitely fine organizations, lay beneath the daily current of his life, like golden veins in the bed of a stream, shining through the crystal waters that bore the most commonplace objects on their tide. He thoroughly accepted that interpretation of the Ideal which calls it a "divine halo with which the Creator had encircled the world of reality;" but while he instinctively lifted all he loved into supernal regions and contemplated them in the glorious spirit-light that heightens all beauty, he lost sight of none of the stern actualities of their existence. His imagination had fashioned a hero out of Maurice, and he had thrown his person in heroic guise upon canvas; yet he clearly beheld and mourned over the morbid tendency that was weakening his mind and threatened to render his character and his life equally unheroic.

Only a few days after the conversation we have just narrated, when Maurice entered Ronald's sitting-room he found the student with an open letter in his hand. As he lifted his eloquent, brown eyes from the paper a glittering moisture beaded their darkly fringed lashes, and an expression of ineffable tenderness looked out from their lustrous depths. The letter was from his mother,—one of those messengers of deep affection which transported him into her presence, placed him, as he had so often sat in his petted boyhood, at her feet, to listen to her holy teachings, and be thrilled to the very centre of his being by her words of love. During his three years of separation, at a period when the expanding mind is most impressible, these letters, weekly received, had surrounded him with a heavenly aura which seemed breathed out through a mother's ceaseless prayers, and had kept his life pure, his spirit strong, his heart uplifted; had preserved him from being hurried by the wild, ungoverned impulses of youth, rendered more infectuous by the volcanic fires of genius, into actions for which he might blush hereafter.

It was one of the undefined, unspoken sources of sympathy between Ronald and Maurice, that the guarding hand of woman, influencing them from a distance, preserved the bloom, the freshness, the pristine purity of both their souls, even in the polluted atmosphere of a city where immorality is an accepted evil. Maurice, who had never known a mother's hallowing affection, gained his strength through his early attachment to a maiden whom no man could love without being ennobled thereby; and Ronald, whose heart had never yet awakened to the first pulse of tenderness which drew him towards one he would have claimed as a bride, owed his powers of resistance to as strong, as passionate devotion to a mother who united in her person all the most glorious attributes of womanhood, and whose idolizing love for her child was tempered by wisdom which placed his spiritual progress above all other gain. While he was struggling to win laurels in art's arena, she strove to bind upon his brow a crown whose gems were heavenly truths,—a crown the pure in spirit alone could wear.

Blessed the son who has such a mother! Safe and blessed! His foot shall tread upon the serpent that lies hidden beneath the tempting flowers in his path, ere the reptile can sting him; his hand shall resolutely put away the cup of pleasure from his lips when there is poison in the chalice; he shall walk through the fire of evil lusts unscathed! No laurel that wreaths his brow shall render it too feverish, or too proud, to lie upon that mother's bosom with the glad, all-confiding, satisfied sense which made its joy when it lay there in guileless boyhood. That mother's love shall smooth for him the rough ways of earth, and place in his hand the golden key that opens heaven.

As Maurice took his seat beside Ronald, the latter, hastily sweeping his handkerchief across his eyes, said with a vehement intonation,—

"I have come to a sudden determination! I am going back to America. The trip is nothing,—ten days over and ten back,—a mere trifle! I can spend a couple of months with my parents and be back in time for autumn work. Instead of sending my picture, which is nearly completed, I will present it in person."

Maurice sighed as he answered, "They will be proud of your work! Happy are they who have work to do, and who do it faithfully!"

"That is a sentiment worthy of an American," rejoined Ronald; "indeed, you have unconsciously stolen it from one of our most distinguished American writers, who says, 'To have something to do and to do it is the best appointment for us all.'[Footnote: Hillard's "Italy."] The extent to which I have insensibly Americanized you is very evident. A thought has just struck me: you are weary and melancholy, and seem to grow much paler and thinner every day. It will revive and strengthen you to accompany me. Come, let us go together!"

"Let us fly to the moon!" answered Maurice, half scornfully. "Ronald, why do you always forget that although we have lived precisely the same number of years, and I may be said to have lived so much longer than you, if we count time by sorrows that make long the days,—though we have both passed our twenty-first anniversary, you, as an American, have obtained your majority, and are a free agent, while the law of France renders me still a minor for four years? You know I cannot stir without my father's consent; and, of course, that is unattainable."

"Unattainable if you choose to imagine that it is, and will not seek for it," answered Ronald, rebukingly. "The wisest poet that ever penned his inspiration, says,—

'Our doubts are traitors And make us lose the good we oft might win By fearing to attempt!'

Do not let your traitorous doubts frighten you from the trial."

Maurice smiled away his rising irritability, and replied, "I think, Ronald, your mind is so full of poetic arrows that one could not take a step, or lift a finger, or draw a breath, without your being able to hit him with a verse."

"A verse may hit him who a sermon flies!" retorted Ronald, laughingly. "And a man is easy to hit who sits down with folded hands, like him of whom my rhythmic shaft has just made a target. But, to speak seriously, do you wonder that true thoughts, beautiful thoughts, which have been thrown into the music of verse, keep their haunting echoes in some stronghold of memory, and surge up to the lips when a stirring incident causes the gates of the mind to vibrate? Why, the very proof of the poet's genuine inspiration, his chiefest triumph lies in this, that he speaks a familiar truth, a common word of hope, a little word of comfort, a simple word of warning, with such potency that it strikes deeper into the soul than any other adjuration can reach; it defies us to forget; it takes the sound of a prophecy, and thrills our hearts and governs our actions in spite of ourselves. So much in defence of my poetic memories. Now be generous enough to admit that poetry is usually mingled with a large proportion of prosaic common sense which resolves itself into action. My scoffed-at poetry interprets itself into this matter-of-fact prose: unless you have the courage, the energy to ask your father's consent to your accompanying me to America, you will not get it; and if you ask you may get it; and if you accompany me it may profit you. Come,—what say you? I shall be ready to start next week."

"So soon?" ejaculated Maurice, who, often as he had witnessed the promptitude with which the young American moved, could not yet familiarize himself with his national rapidity of action and decision.

"You call it soon? Why, if I had said day after to-morrow it might have been termed soon; but it seems to me a week is time enough to prepare for a journey around the world. Come, you have half an hour before the post closes,—dash off your letter and let it go at once."

As he spoke, he cleared his writing-table of the books and papers by which it was encumbered, and placed a chair for Maurice. The latter, who was always carried onward by the rushing current of his friend's strong will, wrote, on the spur of the moment, a letter more calculated to impress his father than any deliberately studied epistle. The restless and gloomy state of mind under which Maurice labored, revealed itself in this impulsive effusion with a force which might not have found its way into a calmer communication.

The frequent applications for money which Maurice had been compelled to make, that he might meet the demands of the old Jew, were not without their influence in preparing Count Tristan to look favorably upon his son's solicitation. The count imagined that the sums so constantly demanded were squandered in the manner habitual to gay young men in Paris. He had experienced much difficulty in complying with his son's last request, and became painfully aware that it would not much longer be in his power to supply him at the same extravagant rate. As a natural consequence, he hailed the proposition to travel, which might break off any unfortunate connections, or liaisons, he might have formed in Paris, and without their aid, divert his troubled mind. Then, the present would be a favorable opportunity for Maurice to visit his estate in Maryland, and to learn something further of that railway company which seemed of late to have suspended its operations.

Maurice was not less astounded than overjoyed upon receiving his father's prompt and unconditional consent to his proposed trip. He at once carried the letter to Bertha. She was too generous to oppose a step which promised to be advantageous to her cousin, yet she could not contemplate their inevitable separation without sincere sorrow.

"I wish I were going with you!" she sighed. "It seems to me everybody is going to America. Have you not heard that the Marquis de Fleury has just received the appointment of ambassador to the United States? I wish my uncle would let me travel to some foreign country. I am weary of this Parisian, ball-going life."

"Has Monsieur de Fleury received his appointment at last? I had not heard of it. Who told you?" inquired Maurice.

"M. de Bois, this very morning."

"Gaston goes with him, I presume?"

"Yes, he said so."

"That is an unexpected pleasure,—that is really delightful!" exclaimed Maurice, enthusiastically.

Bertha did not reply; but she certainly looked inclined to pout, and as though she had no very distinct perception of the delight in question.

In a few days Maurice and Ronald were on the great ocean.

A fortnight later the Marquis and Marchioness de Fleury, and the secretary of the former, M. de Bois, were also on their way to the New World.

Bertha worried her uncle by her sad face, listless manner, and low spirits, to say nothing of her loss of appetite (to his thinking the most important feature of her malaise), until he was convinced that she had lost all interest in Paris, and that her sadness would be increased by a longer sojourn in the gay capital. When she admitted this, he kindly inquired if she desired to travel.

"Yes, very much," was her reply.

Whither would she go? To Italy? To England? To Russia?

"No,—to America!"

America!—land of savages!—land of Pawnees and Choctaws!—land where cooking must be in its crude infancy! Her uncle would not listen to such a barbarous proposition; and, finding that he could obtain no other answer from his wilful and incomprehensible ward, he carried her back to Bordeaux, consoling himself with the reflection that although the visit to Paris had not been permanently advantageous to his niece, the culinary knowledge acquired by Lucien was a full compensation.



CHAPTER XVII.

"CHIFFONS."

"Chiffons!" "talking chiffons!" "writing chiffons!"—will any one have the goodness to furnish us with a literal yet lucid interpretation of this enigmatical form of speech so incessantly employed in the Parisian beau monde? Among the translatable words of the French language,—among the expressive terms which cannot be rendered by equally significant expressions in our own more copious tongue,—among the phraseology invented to convey ideas which the phrases themselves certainly do not suggest,—the common application of this curt little word "chiffons" holds a distinguished place. Look for "chiffons" in the dictionary, and you will see it simply defined as "rags;" yet "chiffons" represent the very opposite of rags feminine, and conjure up a multitudinous army of feminine fashions, fripperies, fancies, follies, indispensable aids and adjuncts of the feminine toilet.

We have headed this chapter "chiffons," and given an imperfect definition of the term, as a sign-post of warning to masculine readers,—a hint that this is a chapter to be lightly skimmed, or altogether skipped, for it unavoidably treats of "chiffons," which the necessities of the narrative will not allow us to suppress.

The Marquis de Fleury had been appointed ambassador from the court of Napoleon the Third to the United States of America.

Madame de Fleury's state of mind, in spite of the consolation afforded by a number of strikingly original costumes, which she innocently flattered herself would prove very effective during a sea-voyage, was deplorable. Terror inspired by the perils of the deep was only surpassed by intense grief excited by her compulsory banishment to a land where, she imagined, the invading feet of modiste and mantua-maker had not trodden out all resemblance to the original Eden; a land where the women probably attired themselves with a leaning to antediluvian simplicity, or in accordance with strong-minded proclivities, and the men were, doubtless, too much engrossed by politics and business to be capable of appreciating the most elaborate toilet that could be fashioned to captivate their eyes; a land, in short, where taste was yet unborn, and where it was ignorantly believed that the chief object of apparel was to perform, on a more extensive scale, the use of primitive fig-leaves and furs.

To prevent her from falling into the clutches of American barbarians, Madame de Fleury secured two French maids as a bodyguard. Into the hands of one, skilled in the intricate mysteries of hair-dressing, her head was unreservedly consigned; the other, versed in more varied arts, had entire charge of the rest of her person. But these aides-de-camp of the toilet were deemed insufficient for the guardianship of her charms. The moment her sentence of exile was pronounced, she had summoned the incomparable Vignon to her presence, and piteously painted the difficulties which must beset her path when she was remorselessly torn from within reach of the creative fingers of the artist couturiere. Vignon had unanticipated comfort in store: the most accomplished of her assistants,—one who had exhibited a skill in design and execution positively marvellous,—had several times expressed a strong inclination to establish herself in America, and would gladly make her debut in the New World under the patronage of the marchioness. This information threw Madame de Fleury into such ecstasies that all the waves of the Atlantic, which had been ruthlessly tossing their wrecks about her brain, were suddenly stilled, and she declared that Mademoiselle Melanie must make her preparations to sail in the same steamer; for the knowledge that she was on board would render the voyage endurable. The marchioness complacently added that she felt so much strengthened by these tidings, that she could now look forward to meeting, with becoming fortitude, the trials incident upon her residence among a semi-civilized nation.

We need hardly relate how soon, after reaching Washington, the fair Parisian discovered that civilization had made astounding progress if it might be estimated by the deference paid to "chiffons;" nor need we portray her astonishment at finding that American women "of fashion" were not merely close copyists of extreme French modes, but that they exaggerated even the most extravagant, and hunted after the newest styles with the national energy which their countrywomen of a nobler class expended upon nobler objects; and were more ready to deform or ignore nature, and swear allegiance to the despotic rule of the Crinoline Sovereign, than any Parisian belle under the sun.

Madame de Fleury's royal sway over the empire of "chiffons" was soon as thoroughly established in Washington as it had been in Paris. Dress, or head-dress, bodice, bonnet, mantle, gaiter, glove, worn by her, multiplied itself in important imitations, and every feminine chrysalis sent forth its ballroom butterfly in a livery to match. Whatever style, shape, color, she adopted, however extraordinary, became the rage for that season, and disappeared from sight, totally banished by her regal command, at the inauguration of the next.

At one period no skirt could sweep the pavement, or lie in rich folds at the bottom of a carriage, unadorned by an imposing flounce that almost covered the robe; a little later, the one sober flounce was driven into obscurity by twenty coquettish small ones; and these were displaced by primly puffed bands; which gave way to fanciful "keys" running up the sides of the dress (where they seemed to have no possible right); and those vanished when double skirts commenced their brief reign; to be dethroned by a severe-looking quilted ruffle marching around the hem of the dress and up the centre to the throat; and this grave adornment suddenly found its place usurped by an inundation of fantastic trimmings, jet, bugles, passementerie, velvet or lace. So much for skirts!

Then the bodices:—now nothing was to be seen but the "square cut" which revealed the fine busts of beauties in the days of Charles II.,—now graceful folds a coeur sentimentally ruled the day,—now infant waists became a passion, and the most maternal forms aped the juvenility borrowed from their babies. Then for sleeves: at one time they were wide and long and cumbrous, forbidding every trace of the most rounded member beneath; then they took the form of antique drapery, disclosing the arm almost nude, save for the transparent lace of the undersleeve,—then the close, tight fit of the Quaker left all but a distorted outline to the imagination.

And bonnets: at one moment the tiniest bird's-nest of a hat, embowered in feathers and buried in lace, was perched on the back of the head, reminding one of Punch's suggestion that it could be more conveniently carried upon a salver by a domestic walking behind; a little later, the only bonnet admissible closed around the face like a cap, laces and feathers had disappeared, a few tastefully disposed knots of ribbon, or a single flower, were the only adornments: but hardly had Good Sense nodded approvingly at the graceful simplicity with which heads were covered, when, lo! the bonnets shot up like bright-hued coal-scuttles, over which a basket of buds and blossoms had been suddenly upset, and went through a variety of fantastic transformations wholly indescribable.

So with other articles of attire. Mantles that had established for themselves a natural and convenient length suddenly grew down to the hem of the dress; basques, high in favor, were routed by Zouave jackets; girdles were at one moment drawn down with tight pressure until they barely surmounted the hips, the next were allowed to take an almost natural round (as far as their fitting locality went), and next were put wholly to flight by pointed Swiss belts, with enormous bows, and long, flowing ends,—while these, in turn, were chased from the field by picturesque scarfs.

Then as regards the disposition of that native veil of unsurpassable beauty which adorns the head of woman: now, all locks were braided low at the back of the head, almost lying upon the neck; now they surmounted the crown and rose in stories higher and higher; now they sprang into a pair of wings from either side of the temples; now they were clustered in a tuft of disorderly curls above the brow; now smoothed and bandolined close to the face and knotted with an air of quiet simplicity behind the ears.

Whichever of these modes the Parisian queen of "chiffons" rendered graceful in her own person, every fair one, with the slightest aspiration to style, strengthened her claims to be thought fashionable by scrupulously assuming. What wonder that Mademoiselle Melanie, prime minister to the absolute sovereign, could scarcely receive the crowd of clients that thronged her doors?

She hired a spacious mansion, near the capitol, and furnished it with consummate taste. She combined the vocation of mantua-maker with that of milliner, and supplied all the materials she employed from an assortment of her own selection. This was one secret of her astonishing success, for it gave her control over the entire apparel of her customers. Regarding herself as responsible for the tout ensemble of each toilet that issued from her hands, and her reputation as at stake if any defective touch marred the general result of her adorning, she exerted a thoroughly despotic sway over those whom she undertook to dress, and refused, in the most positive, yet most courteous manner, to allow them to follow the dictates of their own faulty fancies. As a skilful artist examines a picture in the best light, that all its beauties may be revealed, she placed each one of her subjects in the most favorable aspect, studied her closely, searched out every fine point which might be heightened, and pondered over every defect which might be concealed. She had the rare gift of knowing how to embellish nature, how to bring forth all the capacities of a face and form, and how to modify the fashion of the day to the requirements of the wearer, instead of slavishly following an arbitrary mode, and thereby sacrificing all individuality of beauty. Dress became high art in her hands. Wondrously harmonious were the effects produced. Blondes looked softer and purer than ever before, without becoming insipid; brunettes grew more piquante and brilliant; nondescripts gained force and character; pallid faces caught a reflection of rose tints; too ruddy complexions were toned down by paling colors, and sallow skins found their ochre hue mysteriously neutralized. Angular shapes were draped so gracefully that unsymmetrical sharpness disappeared; too ample forms exchanged their air of uncouth corpulence for a well-defined roundness; low statures seemed to spring up to a nobler altitude, and women of masculine height sunk into feminine proportions. In short, Mademoiselle Melanie was not a mantua-maker, or milliner,—she was the genius of taste, the artful embodier of poetry in outward adorning.

Her own person was strikingly attractive; but the severest simplicity characterized her attire. Her manners, though affable, were exceedingly reserved; without any apparent effort, she repressed the familiarity of the vulgar, and rebuked the patronizing airs of the assuming, winning instinctive deference even from the ill-bred.

By her workwomen she was almost worshipped. Young herself, she impressed them with the sense that notwithstanding her lack of advantage over them in point of years, her superior skill and knowledge entitled her to be their head. She sympathized with their griefs, inquired into their needs, sometimes ignored their short-comings, but never their sufferings, and took care that the thread which helped fashion a lady's robe should not be drawn with such weary and overworked hands that, in the language of Hood, it sewed a shroud at the same moment.

She was seldom seen in the streets; and, when her duties called her, she went forth closely veiled. But her distinguished air, the simple elegance of her apparel, and the dignified grace of her movements could not escape admiration.

She soon found a carriage of her own indispensable, and selected an unostentatious equipage; but allowed herself the indulgence of a pair of superb horses, because she chanced to be an appreciating judge of those noble animals: a rather unusual knowledge for a couturiere.

She seldom walked or drove alone. She was usually accompanied by one of her assistants, a young Massachusetts girl, with whom she had been thrown into accidental communication shortly after her arrival in the United States.

The history of Ruth Thornton is one every day repeated, but not less touching because so far from rare. Born and bred in affluence which emanated from the daily exertions of her father, his death left his widow and three orphan daughters destitute. The eldest early assumed the burdens of wifehood and maternity. Ruth was the second child. A girl of high spirit, she quickly laid aside all false pride, and earnestly sought to earn the bread of those she loved by the labor of her fair young hands, until then strangers to toil. But where was remunerative occupation to be found? Needy womanhood so closely crowded the few open avenues of industry that it seemed as though there was no room for another foot to gain a hold, another hand to struggle. To become a teacher, or governess, was Ruth's first, most natural endeavor; but, month after month, she sought in vain for a situation. She possessed a remarkable voice and very decided musical talent. The idea of the concert-room next suggested itself; but her naturally fine organ lacked the long cultivation that could alone fit her to embark upon the career of a singer. Her mind then turned to the stage; but, setting aside the difficulty of obtaining engagements, even to fill some position in the lowest ranks of the profession, she had no means, no time, to go through a long course of requisite study, or to procure herself the costly wardrobe indispensable to such a profession. She pondered upon the possibility of entering that most noble institution, the New York School of Design for Women. Here was meet work, hope-fanning, life-saving work for feminine hands: engraving on wood or steel; coloring plates for illustrated works; sketching designs for fashions to be used in magazines, or patterns for carpets, calicoes, paper-hangings, etc. But, on inquiry, she learned that a year's study would be needful before she could hope to gain a modest livelihood through the medium of the simplest of these pursuits. From whence, in the meantime, could her mother, her sister, and herself derive their support? Next, she resolved to resort to her needle; yet how small was the likelihood of keeping it employed! and how poor the pittance it could earn as an humble seamstress! True, she might learn a trade; but how was she to exist meantime?

She stood erect in the midst of this desert of difficulties, perplexed but undismayed, and still believing in, and steadfastly seeking for, the work allotted to such weak hands as hers.

There is something magnetic in unflagging energy, and untiring hope; they mysteriously attract to themselves the materials which they most need. By a seeming accident, Ruth heard that an assistant housekeeper was required at the Fifth Avenue Hotel in New York. Her high-born relatives learned with horror that one of their kin, the daughter of a gentleman who had held an honorable position in their community, contemplated filling this menial position. But, in spite of their disapproval, Ruth presented herself as an applicant for the post, and though her youth (for she was hardly twenty) was an objection, her services were accepted; and she entered forthwith upon her lowly duties.

We need not dwell upon the manifold and humiliating trials to which she was subjected,—trials to which the loveliness of her person largely contributed. Like a true American maiden, well-disciplined, self-reliant, and of strong principles, she found protection within herself, and bade defiance to dangers which might have proved fatal to one whose early training had been less productive of strength.

It was while Ruth was meekly discharging these humble duties that she became acquainted with Mademoiselle Melanie.

On arriving in New York, Madame de Fleury had taken up her residence for a few days at the Fifth Avenue Hotel, and, as though she feared to lose sight of Mademoiselle Melanie, requested her to do the same. A severe indisposition, which caused the latter to seek feminine aid, threw her in communication with the housekeeper of the hotel and her young assistant. Mademoiselle Melanie quickly became interested in the sweet, pale, patient face hovering about her bed, and did not fail to note the air of refinement which seemed at variance with her position. In less than four and twenty hours the young French couturiere had learned the history of the young American housekeeper, and resolved, if she prospered in America, to remove this lovely girl from her present perilous position to one less exposed.

Six months later Ruth received a letter from Washington making her an offer to become one of the assistants of Mademoiselle Melanie, and gratefully accepted the proposal. Mademoiselle Melanie found her young employee's health too delicate for an exhausting apprenticeship to the needle, and employed Ruth in copying and coloring sketches of costumes which the accomplished couturiere herself designed. As she became more and more conversant with the noble character of her protegee the spontaneous attachment she had conceived for her grew stronger, and Ruth Thornton became her constant companion.



CHAPTER XVIII.

MAURICE.

On their arrival in America Ronald took Maurice to his southern home, where he was received with a cordial hospitality that strengthened and confirmed the tie of brotherhood between the young men.

We will not attempt to portray the meeting between Ronald and his parents,—a meeting so full of joy that its throbs quickened into the pulse of pain, as though clay-compassed hearts were hardly large enough to endure the ecstasy of such a reunion. Nor will we dwell upon the proud elation with which Ronald's first ambitious attempt in art was contemplated by his parents. Their praises might simply have testified that love appreciates; the hand that wrought might have sanctified even a feeble work to their sight; but colder judgments pronounced Ronald's initiatory achievement a pledge of power, and all the more decisive because the execution of the youthful hand obviously had not kept pace with the strong conception of the fervid brain.

We pass on to the effect produced upon Maurice by his sojourn in Ronald's transatlantic home.

Many a pang did the youthful Frenchman endure as he noted the thorough and genial understanding which seemed to exist between the southern youth and his father. Maurice was amazed by Mr. Walton's unfailing recognition that his son was a responsible being; by the confidence he reposed in him; by the unequivocal manner in which he placed him upon a footing of equality, even while guiding him by his counsels,—counsels offered as the results of a larger experience, yet never so compulsorily urged as to check his son's freedom of decision. Maurice, marked, too, the earnest interest with which Mr. Walton entered into all Ronald's projects, albeit some of them appeared too wild and high-reaching to be easy of accomplishment; beheld how readily the paternal hand was stretched out to soften the ordeals through which the neophyte must inevitably pass, and was moved by the touching frankness with which the noble-minded parent repeatedly congratulated himself that he had not permitted his own predilections to force Ronald into a field of action repugnant to his tastes.

When Maurice instinctively compared this liberal, high-toned father's mode of influencing his son with the tyrannous control of the haughty count, and contrasted Ronald's untrammeled position with his own state of dependent nonentity, he felt that unstruggling submission to the cruel decree which doomed him to waste those fresh, strong, aspiring years of his life in hopeless idleness was a weakness rather than a virtue.

He was only spared from passing a judgment upon his father, more correct than filial, by throwing the blame of his conduct upon the shackling customs, and false opinions, and arbitrary laws of his native land. He could not but be forcibly struck by the wide dissimilarity between the usages and views of life which distinguished the two nations. In America, he saw men, self-made and self-educated, at an age when young Frenchmen have scarcely begun to be aware that they have any independent existence, rising to prominent and honorable positions, taking a bold part in public affairs, and asserting by their achievements the maturity of their brains. He saw men, who had been forced by circumstances to commence their lives of toil and self-support at fifteen and eighteen, a few years later not only gaining their own livelihood, but contributing to the maintenance of their families, and laying the foundation of future fortune. He saw artistic tastes, literary talents, professional, legislative, and military abilities, brought to opulent fruition in men but a few years his senior; and though every one seemed to work at high pressure, every one appeared to live rapidly, crowding each day with actions, still men lived, lived consciously, planting along the pathway of their pilgrimage the landmarks of positive deeds; and they sowed, and reaped, and rejoiced in their harvests, and if some of them grew old faster than their European brethren, their age was at least enriched by varied memories, vast experiences, manifold mental gains, that testified to the value of their lives.

And was it imperative, Maurice asked himself, that the accident of noble blood should paralyze a man's volition, and that the bearing of a noble name should render his life inertly ignoble? He recognized that, in the seeming curse which condemned man to "work," God had hidden the richest blessing, even as he buried golden veins in the dark bosom of the earth. "Labor was privilege," and gave its sweetest flavor to the daily cup of life.

As for Ronald, though he loved his country with the enthusiasm which characterized all his affections, he had never been fully cognizant of the advantages it possessed over the land in which he had lately sojourned until he saw them through the eyes of Maurice.

Nothing is more true than that we can render no service to another by which we are not served ourselves, served spiritually, therefore actually, and in the highest sense; and not merely in his new appreciation of the land of his birth, but in numerous other ways, Ronald was the unconscious gainer by the helpful influence he exerted over his friend. The youthful Mentor confirmed himself in grand and vital truths while imparting them to Maurice; his own noble resolves were quickened into activity while he sought to infuse them into the mind of another; his own spirit acquired strength while he was endeavoring to render his companion strong of soul. Ronald's character was perhaps more affluent and expansive, had more force and fixedness of purpose, than that of Maurice, yet it derived fresh vigor from the less hopeful, less confident nature upon which it acted.

Though Maurice owed much to the young art-student, he soon owed more to that gentle but potent hand by which Ronald had been moulded, refined, and spiritualized. Ronald's mother opened wide her large heart and her loving arms to take in the motherless youth thrown by an apparent accident within her sphere.

Mrs. Walton was one of those beings to whom life is a poem, read it in sorrow or gladness, read it whatever way you will, because all things to her mind had a divine significance; she knew that nothing had either its end or origin here, and felt that the very day-dreams and aspirations of impulsive youth descended by influx from those supernal regions in which all causes exist, though we darkly behold them through effects ultimated upon our earthly plane. Her eyes were never bent upon the ground, to search out stumbling-blocks of doubt, but looked up Godward until the heavens grew less distant, and earth's perplexing mysteries were solved; and daily joys and daily pains only acquired importance through their bearing upon the joys and pains of eternity; and celestial light, flowing through her pure thoughts, reflected its mellow glory upon her humblest surroundings, and tinged them with ineffable beauty.

Maurice, who had been so deeply impressed by Ronald's attributes and aims, quickly recognized the fountain-head from whence flowed the living waters he had drank, and, humbly bending to quaff at the same stream, became conscious that his whole being was vitalized and renewed. The great ends of existence, for the first time, became apparent to him; and as he learned to look upon the present and temporal as only of moment through their effect upon the future and eternal,—as he renounced a senseless belief in the very names of chance and accident, and yielded to the conviction that the simplest as the gravest occurrences all tend to lay some stone in the great architectural edifice which every man is building for his own dwelling-place in the hereafter,—his trials, by some wondrous transmutation, wore a holy aspect, and gently into his unfolding spirit stole the comforting assurance that those very trials might be the fittest, the strongest, the appointed instruments to hew out the pathway he panted to tread, and carve for him a future which could never have been wrought by such tools as the velvety hands of prosperity hold in their feeble grasp.

The morbid melancholy into which Maurice had fallen, and which deepened with his vain pondering over the mysterious fate of Madeleine, rolled from his spirit before the breath of hope,—hope breathed through sunshine, from the lips of a woman whose sympathetic voice, tender looks, and quick comprehension of his emotions insensibly melted away reserve, and drew out all his confidence. He could talk to Mrs. Walton of Madeleine with an absence of reticence, an unchecked gush of feeling, which would not have been possible when he conversed with Ronald, or with any one but a woman, and such a woman.

Far from advising him, as a worldly-wise counsellor would have done, to struggle against a passion which did not promise to prove fortunate, she bade him cherish the image of the one he so ardently loved with perfect trust, that if that woman were indeed his other self,—that separate half which makes man's full complement,—he would, in spite of all adverse circumstances, be drawn to her, by mysterious and invisible cords, until their union was consummated.

Mrs. Walton entertained the not irrational belief that as "either sex alone is half itself," and "each fulfils defects in each," there was created for every male soul some feminine spirit, whose heart was capable of responding to the finest pulses of his; one who could meet his largest requirements; one who could alone render his being perfect, his true manhood complete; one whom he might never meet on earth, and yet who lived for him. This great truth (for as such he accepted it) was a glorious revelation to Maurice. He cast out the remembrance that Madeleine had said she loved another, or only recalled her declaration to feel certain that she had mistaken her own heart, or that he had misconstrued the language she had used. She became more vividly present than ever to his mind, and the constant thought that now confidently and happily wound itself about her seemed to him to annihilate material distances and bring their spirits into close communion.

Maurice passed two delightful months beneath the hospitable roof of Mr. and Mrs. Walton. The period which Ronald had allowed himself for a holiday drew to a close. The sense of unoccupied power had begun to render him restless, and it was with elation which might have appeared tinctured with ingratitude by those who did not comprehend the mysterious workings of his untranquil ambition, that he prepared for his return to that foreign land where he could enjoy advantages for the prosecution of his art-studies unattainable in a young country.

When Maurice embarked for America with Ronald, it was understood that they were to return to Europe together; but one morning, when the latter casually announced his intention of securing their passage on board of a steamer about to sail from New York, Maurice turned to him and said abruptly,—

"Ronald, one berth will be sufficient."

"My dear fellow, what do you mean?" inquired Ronald, only half surprised.

"It is impossible for me," replied Maurice, "to return to my life of indolence and supposed gayety. A snake might more easily crawl back into his cast-off skin. I have breathed this free, exhilarating, vitalizing atmosphere, and the convention-laden air of Paris would stifle me. I have written to my father and announced that I propose remaining in Charleston. That is not all: he forbade my studying law in Paris, because his sapient Breton neighbors would have been scandalized by a viscount's taking so sensible a step; but possibly I may prepare myself for the bar at this distance, without subjecting my father to the annoyance of their disapproval. The period required for study is shorter, and I shall have a wider field in which to practise. I cannot be prepared to enter upon the duties of my profession much before the time when, according to the laws of France, I shall reach my majority; meanwhile I study, we will say, for amusement. I study as other men hunt, fish, boat, skate. What do you think of my plan?"

Ronald grasped him warmly by the hand.

"It is just what I expected of you, Maurice! When we first met, and I was so strongly attracted to you, an internal prescience whispered that you had within you the very qualities which are asserting their existence to-day."

"They might have been in me, Ronald," answered Maurice with emotion; "but I fear they would never have been brought out but for your agency. I never can be grateful enough that we have been thrown together! I never can sum up the good you have done me! I stood in such great need of just the influence you and your mother"—The voice of Maurice trembled, and he was unable to proceed.

Ronald broke the somewhat embarrassing silence by saying,—

"In short, you have come to the conclusion that my mother is right in her faith, and whatever we actually need for our spiritual advancement is invariably sent, if we will but preserve ourselves in a state of reception. All that you still lack will be supplied in the same way, if you can but believe."

"I do believe," answered Maurice, in a tone of greater solemnity than the occasion seemed to demand; but there was a world of meaning in those three words. We should be obliged to employ many if we attempted to express a tithe of what he had recently learned to believe through the instrumentality of a noble thinker.

A week later, Ronald folded his mother to his throbbing heart, and tenderly bade her adieu; but, without feeling that he should be parted from her by their material separation. Strange to say, his farewell to his father and Maurice was shadowed by a nearer approach to sadness and a more definite sense of sundering. Possibly their spirits had less power than his mother's to annihilate space and follow him whithersoever he went.

Maurice was induced to linger a few days longer as the guest of his new friends, and his presence prevented the void left by the departure of a beloved and only son from being too keenly felt. At the commencement of a new week the young viscount removed to Charleston. That city was only a few miles distant from the residence of Ronald's parents. Mr. Walton had made his visitor acquainted with an eminent lawyer, who consented to receive Maurice de Gramont as a student.

Count Tristan at first violently opposed his son's step, but he could not, with any show of reason, forbid his studying law as a pastime. The count's affairs became more and more entangled, and he grew more desirous than ever that his son should contract a wealthy marriage. The hope that Maurice might woo and win one of those numerous heiresses, who, Frenchmen imagine, abound in the Southern El Dorado, alone reconciled the haughty nobleman to his son's sojourn in America.



CHAPTER XIX.

THE ARISTOCRATS IN AMERICA.

While Maurice was applying himself to study with a zeal and sense of enjoyment wholly new to him, Bertha was passing through various stages of ennui, and testing the patience, or rather the digestive powers, of that sorely discomforted bon vivant, her uncle. Day after day she grew more capricious, unreasonable, unmanageable.

The distressed marquis came to the conclusion that his disturbed animal economy could only be restored by an amicable separation from his niece. But in vain he bestowed his smiles, and his dinners, upon the multitudinous suitors by whom the young heiress was besieged; her autocratic decree condemned him to the cruel duty of closing the sumptuous repasts by the dessert of a dismissal to each lover in turn, without extending to any the faintest hope that his sentence might be reversed. Finally the marquis became a confirmed dyspeptic; the joy of his life was quenched when his appetite failed, beyond the resuscitating influence of absenthe and other fashionable stimulants; the glory of his festive board had departed, and he was haunted by the conviction that the unnatural conduct of his niece would bring his whitening hairs, through sorrow and indigestion, to the grave.

A small but dearly prized respite from his trials was granted him when Bertha paid her yearly visit, of four months, to her relatives in Brittany. Her stay, however, was never extended beyond the wonted period, for she found her sojourn at the Chateau de Gramont unmitigatedly dull. The reception of letters from Maurice, addressed to his father, alone relieved the tediousness of the hours; but these welcome messengers were infrequent, brief, and somewhat cold. They left Bertha so unsatisfied that before the close of the first year of her cousin's absence she opened a correspondence with him herself. The initiative letter was suggested by pleasant tidings, which she hastened to send. It was written immediately after the eighteenth anniversary of her birthday, and communicated the agreeable intelligence that upon that day she had again received a token of remembrance from their beloved Madeleine.

A yearly gift, bearing the impress of those "fairy fingers," was the only sign Madeleine gave that she lived and remembered.

Three years passed on, and upon each birthday, wherever Bertha chanced to be, in Bordeaux, in Paris, in Brittany, a small parcel was mysteriously left with the concierge of the house where she was residing. The package was always addressed in Madeleine's handwriting, and contained some exquisite piece of needle-work, but no letter, and it bore no mark of post or express. It was invariably delivered by private hand. At least, it rendered certain the consolatory facts, not only that Bertha was unforgotten, but that Madeleine was cognizant of all her movements.

No sooner had the heiress reached her majority than she prepared to carry into execution a plan which for a long period had been silently forming itself in her mind. Her earnest desire to visit America had been secretly, but systematically, strengthened by Count Tristan. He well knew that the Marquis de Merrivale would never be induced to become her escort; and, what was more likely than that she should seek the countenance and protection of her other relatives?

He played his cards so adroitly that Bertha, without once suspecting his machinations, wrote to him, on the very day that closed her twenty-first year, and invited the countess and himself to accompany her upon an American tour. She took care delicately to make a stipulation that the expenses of the projected trip should devolve upon her. The count concealed his exultation under an air of well-acted reluctance, and required much persuasion before he could be taught to look with favor upon this unexpected and sudden proposition.

There was no simulation in the dismay, the horror with which Bertha's proposal was greeted by the countess. How was she to breathe in a land where hereditary claims to rank were unknown?—where distinctions of brains not blood were alone recognized?—where a man might rise to the highest position, as ruler of the realm, though his father chanced to be a mechanic, and his grandfather's existence was untraceable? For a time, Bertha's entreaties and the count's representations were equally impotent; the countess was inexorable. But her son was not to be baffled; he found an avenue through which her heart could be reached, and her resolution undermined. It lay in the suggestion that Bertha's strong inclination to visit America sprang from a desire again to behold Maurice, and that the result of their meeting, after so long a separation, might be in the highest degree felicitous. Bertha, he urged, during the absence of Maurice, had probably learned that he was dearer to her than she imagined; and, if Maurice had reason to believe that she crossed the ocean for the sake of rejoining him, could he remain insensible to such a proof of devotion? The countess bowed her haughty head to a sacrifice which vitally compromised her dignity.

One of the objects of the count's visit to America was to learn something further of the railroad company with which he was connected. For a time its operations had been suspended, owing to a financial crisis,—a sort of periodical American epidemic that, like cholera, sweeps over the land at intervals, making frightful ravage for a season, and departing as mysteriously as it came. The elastic nation, never long prostrate, had risen out of temporary difficulties and depression with a sudden bound, and prosperity walked in the very footprints of the late destroyer.

Mr. Hilson had lately announced to Count Tristan that the railway association was again in full activity, and that the mooted question of the direction which the road ought to take would, ere long, be decided. He added that, according to his judgment, the left road was indubitably the more desirable. Should that road be chosen, it would pass through the property owned by the Viscount de Gramont. We have already alluded to the immense difference in the value of the estate which the advent of the railroad would insure.

Bertha had no difficulty in obtaining the Marquis de Merrivale's approval of the contemplated trip.

Early in the spring the party embarked upon one of those superb steamers that sweep across the ocean like floating cities, pulsating with multitudinous life.

The passage was so smooth that Bertha thoroughly enjoyed the strange, new existence, and found such ever-varying beauty in the gorgeous sunsets, and the resplendent moonlight, that she even forsook her berth to see "Aurora draw aside her crimson curtain of the dawn;" in short she was in an appreciating mood throughout the voyage, and her happy state allowed her to ignore all the desagremens of the sea. The countess also, as she sat upon the deck in a comfortable arm-chair,—which she occupied as though it were a throne, and received the homage of fellow-passengers, who were obviously struck and awed by her majestic deportment,—pronounced the transit more endurable than she anticipated.

Maurice had gone to New York to welcome the voyagers, and when the steamer neared the land he was the first person who bounded upon the deck. Bertha caught sight of him, and as she sprang forward and threw herself into his arms, weeping with joy and heartily returning his warm embrace, the countess and her son exchanged looks of exultation which showed that they had not reflected upon the vast distinction between the frank greeting of brother and sister, and the meeting of possible lovers.

A slight, irrepressible shadow passed over the beaming countenance of Maurice as he turned from Bertha to welcome his father and grandmother. The cloud flitted by in an instant, and only betrayed that the past was unforgotten; while the look of manly confidence and self-possession, by which it was replaced, told that the present and the future could not be subject to by-gone storms.

After the first salutations were over, the countess scanned Maurice from head to foot, to note what changes had been wrought by his residence in a country which she held in such supreme contempt. The slight curl and quivering of the lip, which accompanied her survey, bespoke that it was not entirely satisfactory. In the first place, his apparel displeased her. The care that he had once bestowed upon his toilet betrayed a slight leaning to the side of foppishness; now, his attire gave him the air of a man of business, rather than of mere pleasure. His bearing was more confident than in former days, his movements more rapid, his tone more animated and decisive, his whole manner more energetic. His face was slightly careworn, his brow had lost something of its unruffled smoothness, and the fresh carnation tints had faded out of his complexion; but the wealth of expression his countenance had gained might atone for heavier losses. In repose, his features wore a shade of habitual sadness; but that disappeared the moment he spoke, and was rather an air of reflection than of sorrow. Indeed, all gloom had vanished from his spirit soon after his arrival in America. The hope-inspiring ministry of Ronald's mother, first and engrossing study, and ceaseless occupation next, had effectually medicined his growing melancholy. Maurice had not felt himself a homeless exile during his four years' sojourn in a foreign land. The Chateau de Gramont was less dear to him than the quiet, unpretentious, but affection-brightened home where he was always welcomed as a son.

When his stately grandmother, after so long a separation, once more appeared before him, the cold dignity, repelling hardness, and self-venerating pride of her demeanor struck him all the more painfully because it conjured up, in contrast, a vision of soft humility,—the gentle strength, the intellectual power, the refined tenderness of the lovely woman who realized his ideal of maternity.

It almost seemed as though the countess had some internal perception that Maurice weighed her in the balance of a new judgment, and found her wanting; for she shrank beneath his gaze, and turned from him with a sense of sickening disappointment.

Bertha, while she was struck by the marked alteration in Maurice, noted the change with undisguised admiration. To her eyes he was a thousand times more attractive than ever, and she told him so without a shadow of bashful hesitation.

The young French demoiselle had made up her mind to be charmed with America, and little is required to satisfy those who are determined to be pleased. How much of her enthusiasm was legitimately excited, and how much was the spontaneous kindling of her own bright spirit, we will not attempt to describe. Be it enough to say, that she frequently declared her most sanguine expectations were far surpassed.

The countess, on the other hand, looked through a distorted medium which filled her with disgust. She was horrified at the publicity of hotel-life in New York. She could not tolerate the careless ease of the persons with whom she was thrown into accidental communication,—the confidence with which the very servants ventured to accost her. The absence of awe, the lack of head and knee bending, in her august presence, appeared a tacit insult. She was puzzled to reconcile the freedom with which she was constantly addressed with the great deference paid to her sex. While her rank was almost ignored, the mere fact of being a woman commanded an amount of consideration unsurpassed by the veneration paid to titled womanhood in her own land. Nothing, however, shocked her more than the liberty accorded to young American maidens. She found it impossible to comprehend that, educated as responsible beings, the strict surveillance over girlhood's most trivial actions, which is deemed indispensable in France, ceased to be a matter of necessity in America.

Immediately upon his arrival in New York the count had placed himself in communication with Mr. Hilson; and, a few days later, received a letter informing him that at a recent meeting of the managers of the —— —— Railway Association a committee of nine had been chosen to decide upon the most suitable direction of the new road. The committee was to give in its decision at the end of a fortnight. Mr. Hilson regretted to add that he feared the majority were in favor of the road to the right. He concluded by suggesting that it might be well for the count to visit Washington, and exert over members of the committee any influence, that he could command, to secure a majority of votes in favor of the road which would prove so advantageous to his son's property.

The count resolved to act at once upon Mr. Hilson's suggestion. When he proposed to his mother and Bertha that they should start the very next day for Washington, the countess, for the first time since her arrival, expressed herself gratified. At the seat of government she would meet the French ambassador and his wife (the Marquis and Marchioness de Fleury), and possibly, in the circle in which they moved, she might encounter foreigners with whom it would not be repugnant to associate.

Bertha heard Count Tristan's announcement with such bright gleamings of the eyes, such happy flushings of the cheeks, that the sudden radiance which overspread her countenance set Maurice wondering over the emotions that caused her to so warmly welcome this unanticipated change of locality.

The revery into which he had fallen was broken by his father. The count launched into a discussion upon the management of property in America, then glided into the subject of the Maryland estate, and finally suggested that it would be advisable for his son to grant him a power of attorney which would place him in a situation to act as his representative in any case of emergency. Maurice unhesitatingly expressed his willingness to comply with this request, and the legal instrument was drawn up without delay. Upon receiving the document, the count assured his son that there was no probability that the power would be required, and voluntarily pledged himself not to make use of it without apprising Maurice.

Count Tristan's words and intentions were wholly at variance. His affairs in Brittany had become so frightfully entangled, that it was absolutely necessary for him to be able to command a considerable sum to redeem his credit; and he saw no means by which this desirable end could be obtained, except by a mortgage upon his son's estate. One of his strongest motives in visiting America was to effect this purpose; but he earnestly desired to conceal from Maurice the step he projected, trusting to his own skill in under-hand management for the smoothing away of difficulties before there was a necessity for explanation.

Maurice accompanied the count, his mother, and Bertha to Washington, and there bidding them adieu returned to Charleston.

His preparatory studies being now completed, he was received as junior partner by the gentleman who had initiated him into the mysteries of his profession.

It chanced that Mr. Lorrillard had large possessions in certain iron mines in Pennsylvania, which gave promise of yielding an immense profit. He had conceived a high esteem for the young viscount, and, with a view of promoting his interests, represented to him the advantage of purchasing a few shares, which could at that moment be favorably secured. Maurice had no funds at his command; but Mr. Lorrillard suggested that the viscount could easily procure the ten thousand dollars needful by a mortgage upon his Maryland estate, and even offered to give him a letter to Mr. Emerson,—a personal friend residing in Washington,—who, as the estate was wholly unembarrassed, would willingly loan the money upon this security. It was hardly possible for Maurice to have resided so long in America without being slightly bitten by the national mania for speculation, and he gladly accepted the offer of his principal, and retraced his steps to Washington.



CHAPTER XX.

THE INCOGNITA.

Maurice arrived in Washington without having apprised his father of his purposed visit. Count Tristan received him with ill-concealed embarrassment; but the young viscount was too ingenuous himself, and therefore too unsuspicious of others, for him to attribute his father's discomposure to any source but surprise at his unexpected appearance. If Maurice noted an absence of pleasure in the count's constrained greeting, he was too much accustomed to the formal and undemonstrative manners of the aristocracy to dwell upon the lack of warmth.

The count had taken up his residence at Brown's hotel. He chanced to be sitting alone when his son was ushered into the drawing-room. The opportunity was a favorable one for Maurice to communicate to his father the object of his visit.

After the first salutations were over, he inquired, rather abruptly, "Have you seen Mr. Hilson? What does he say in regard to the probabilities that the railroad will take the direction which we so much desire?"

"Our prospects are tolerably good," returned the count; "but we need to exert ourselves, and, possibly, you may be of service. The committee that has the decision in its hands consists of nine persons. Out of these, four have declared their preference for the road to the right, and are immovable. Our friends, Meredith and Hilson, who are on the committee, vote, of course, for the left road; then there are two rival bankers, Mr. Gobert and Mr. Gilmer, who are bitterly opposed to each other, and generally vote in opposition one to the other; we must bring some agency into play which will induce them, for once, to vote alike."

"That seems indispensable; but is it possible?" questioned Maurice.

"I trust so. Mr. Gobert is the banker of the Marquis de Fleury, who exerts unbounded power over him. One word from the marquis, and Gobert's vote is secured. The marquis, as every one is aware, can always be approached through Madame de Fleury. Obtain her promise that we shall have Mr. Gobert's vote, and it is ours! The marchioness, I fear, may not have forgiven Bertha's rejection of her brother's suit; but, as both parties are still unmarried and unengaged, if she can only be convinced that Bertha's refusal was mere girlish caprice, and that there is still hope of the young duke's success, she will be ready enough to serve us."

"But is there hope?" inquired Maurice, quite innocently.

The wily schemer replied by a glance half-angry, half-contemptuous; but, without making any other answer, went on.

"The other banker, Mr. Gilmer, I am seeking the means to influence. I have no doubt that I shall find them. The ninth member of the committee is Mr. Rutledge, quite a young man, the only son and heir of a Washington millionnaire. I learn, from M. de Bois, that Rutledge is deeply enamored of the sister of Lord Linden."

"I beg pardon, but you have not yet told me who Lord Linden is; and it is so unusual to hear lords mentioned in this country that my ears are quite unattuned to the sound of a title."

Another hasty look from the count might have been interpreted into one of slight disgust. His son was far more Americanized than he could have desired. He went on, with increased haughtiness.

"The English ambassador to the United States married a sister of Lord Linden, and his lordship and a younger sister accompanied them to Washington. Mr. Rutledge aspires to the hand of this young lady,—so says M. de Bois, who is intimately acquainted with her brother. If she can be interested in our plans the vote of Mr. Rutledge is easily secured."

Maurice could not help laughing.

"It is, in reality, the votes of women, then, that are to determine the direction of this road? I ought hardly to be surprised at that; for, if they have feeble voices in other lands, they have very decided ones in America. But how is the young lady in question to be reached?"

"That is what I am pondering upon," resumed his father. "I shall form some plan, you may be sure; and no time must be wasted in carrying it into execution. I have already ventured to touch upon the subject to Lord Linden, but have not said anything definite. It is a difficult affair to conduct delicately; yet the obtaining of these votes is of such vital importance that we must strain every nerve to secure them."

"Certainly, since it will more than treble the value of the property," observed Maurice, placidly. "By the by, I presume you have had no occasion to use the power of attorney which I gave you? Just at this moment it is very fortunate for me that the estate is wholly unencumbered."

The count grew ashy pale; but Maurice did not observe his change of color, nor mark the hesitating tone in which he replied, "Very fortunate, of course,—very fortunate, indeed;" and then, looking at his watch, he added, "It is time for your grandmother and Bertha to return. Lord Linden and M. de Bois escorted them to the capitol. You must be impatient to see them."

"In regard to this property, Mr. Lorrillard informs me," resumed Maurice; but the count interrupted him.

"A visit to Madame de Fleury is now the first step to be taken; there you may be useful; you are such a decided favorite of hers, that your advocacy may be inestimable. Suppose you call at once, and learn at what hour she will receive your grandmother, Bertha, and myself. A visit from you will open the way."

"I will call with pleasure," answered Maurice. "I have a letter from Mr. Lorrillard to his friend Mr. Emerson, which I should like to deliver without delay. It is a matter of business. Mr. Lorrillard thinks that, as my estate is wholly unencumbered"—

"We can talk of that at another time," replied the count, hurriedly. "Suppose you pay your visit to the marchioness at once. It is hardly worth while waiting for the ladies; no one can tell when they may return."

Maurice, though he could not interpret the count's singular manner, could not even remotely divine the meaning of its abruptness and confusion, felt himself checked in his proposed communication. He experienced no uneasiness; he had not the faintest conception that the count was dealing doubly with him, and that his very first act, on reaching Washington, had been to mortgage the estate of his son for so large amount that, but for the advent of the railroad, upon which he confidently calculated, the mortgage must prove ruinous to the interests of the landholder.

Had Maurice been aware of this fact, he would not for a moment have contemplated delivering to Mr. Emerson Mr. Lorrillard's letter, in which it was distinctly stated that the property of the viscount was without lien.

Further discussion between the father and son was prevented by the entrance of the countess, accompanied by Lord Linden, and followed by Bertha and Gaston de Bois.

Maurice, as he saluted his grandmother, was gratified to observe that, albeit her air was by no means less stately, it was more satisfied and complacent. Though titled nobility had no native existence in the semi-civilized land, she rejoiced to find that it was sometimes imported. She had at last encountered an individual with whom she could associate without derogation. The French, as all the world knows, have a national antipathy towards the English; but a nobleman, even though he chanced to be an Englishman, was hailed by the Countess de Gramont, upon American soil, as a God-send. Lord Linden was not aware of the compliment implied by the unwonted graciousness of her demeanor, and the tone of almost equality in which she addressed him.

Maurice comprehended the altered expression that softened his grandmother's countenance, but was struck and amazed by the wonderful radiance of Bertha's face. Her eyes shone as though a veritable sun lived behind those azure heavens, and almost annihilated their color by its brightness; her lips were eloquent with a voiceless happiness they did not care to hide, yet could not speak; the laughing dimples played perpetually about her softly suffused cheeks; her elastic feet almost danced, so airy was their tread; about her whole presence there was a buoyant glow that seemed to encompass her with an atmosphere of light and warmth.

She had not attempted to disguise her joy on again meeting Gaston de Bois; and, though he had paid them repeated visits during their sojourn in Washington, there was always the same deepening of the hue upon Bertha's cheek; the same flood of sunshine brightening over her face; the same softening of the tones of her voice; the same quickened rise and fall of her fair bosom when he approached.

And he,—did he not note these betraying indications of his own power? Did they strike no electric thrill through his rejoicing soul? If they did, he was too much bewildered by a happiness so unexpected to search out calmly the hidden meaning of these precious signs.

The change in the deportment and character of M. de Bois, which we described at its commencement, was now fully confirmed; and though the blood still sprang too rapidly into his face, and his breathing grew labored with emotion, and his manner, especially in Bertha's presence, was slightly confused, it was the confusion of elation rather than embarrassment. The self-control he had acquired had almost overcome his propensity to stammer, and Bertha was unreasonable enough to half regret that she could no longer finish his sentences, and thus prove how instinctively she divined his thoughts.

Maurice greeted her, as was his cousinly wont after a separation, with a kiss on either cheek; but, for the first time, she shrank from his touch, and her ingenuous eyes involuntarily glanced toward Gaston, then were quickly cast down; and the mutinous ringlets that had, as usual, escaped from bondage, were a welcome veil, as they fell over her face.

"Why, little Bertha, has an absence of four years made you forget that we are cousins?" asked Maurice, in surprise at her manner.

"No—no," she answered, shaking back the curls, and looking up brightly in his face; "and I am rejoiced that you have come to Washington: it is a delightful place; I am charmed with everything I see."

Did Bertha reflect how much the charm of a locality depends upon our own internal condition? Was she aware that any place, however tame and dull, becomes delightful through the presence of one who creates in us a state receptive of enjoyment?

Maurice expressed his intention of calling upon Madame de Fleury; Lord Linden and M. de Bois proposed to accompany him. The three gentlemen took their departure together. But soon after they left the hotel, Maurice changed his mind; and, telling his companions that he had some business to transact which required immediate attention, apologized for leaving them, adding that he would call upon Madame de Fleury an hour later, and hoped he might have the pleasure of meeting them there.

M. de Bois proposed to Lord Linden that they, also, should postpone their visit.

"As you please," answered his lordship, languidly. "I am perfectly at leisure. I will go wherever you are going,—it does not matter where; I am indifferent to place."

Lord Linden always was at leisure, and always indifferent, and not unfrequently attached himself to Gaston de Bois, and seemed disposed to accompany him wherever he went.

His lordship was one of that vast race of blase young noblemen whose opportunities of enjoyment had never been circumscribed, except by the absence of the capacity to enjoy, and who, as a natural sequence, were continually oppressed with a sense of satiety, enervated by the noonday sunshine of unbroken prosperity, and thoroughly weary of their own existence. When his brother-in-law had been appointed ambassador to America, he had accompanied him to the United States with a vague idea that he would be thrown in contact with warlike tribes of Indians, the aborigines of the soil, whose novel and barbarous usages might afford him some mediocre measure of excitement. We need hardly picture his disappointment.

The ambassadors from foreign courts and their suites were as a matter of course, thrown into constant communication with each other, and the secretary of the French ambassador and the brother-in-law of the English formed an acquaintance which ripened into an approach to intimacy. There was no particular affinity between them, but Lord Linden liked M. de Bois's society because he was a patient listener, and Lord Linden was the opposite to taciturn; and Gaston, though he sometimes, as in the present instance, felt his lordship an encumbrance, had too often been a victim to ennui not to sympathize with a fellow-sufferer.

"Mademoiselle de Merrivale has a remarkably attractive face," said Lord Linden. "I do not particularly fancy blondes; there is too much milk-and-water and crushed rose-leaves in their general make-up; but, if a blonde could, to my eyes, enter the charmed circle of the positively beautiful, I would give her admission."

Gaston, who had fallen into a pleasant revery, was quickly roused by this observation, and exclaimed, with an indignant intonation, "Not admit a blonde into the circle of the beautiful? Can anything be lovelier than the countenance you have just looked upon?"

"Yes," replied the nobleman, musing in his turn.

"I think I could show you a face that would make Mademoiselle de Merrivale's sink into the most utter insignificance."

"Is your beauty a Washington belle?" inquired Gaston, half-scornfully.

"I do not know,—I do not know anything about her. I merely spoke figuratively when I said I could show you,—for I certainly could not, at this moment; but I allude to the most peerless being that ever captivated the eyes of man. In her, indeed, one could realize the poet's thought,—

"'All beauty compassed in a female form.'"

"And who is this incomparable divinity?" asked Gaston, still with a touch of sarcasm in his voice.

"Who is she? That is more than I know myself. We were thrown together by an accident,—quite an every-day occurrence in this headlong-rushing, pell-mell, neck-breaking land, where the people contemplate railroad catastrophes and steamboat explosions with as cool indifference as though they were a necessary part of a traveller's programme."

"You were thrown in contact with your beauty, then, by a railroad collision, or were blown together through the bursting of a boiler?" remarked Gaston interrogatively, and more because civility seemed to demand the question than because he took any especial interest in the narrative.

"Yes, quite a stirring incident. I felt alive for a month after. I was travelling from New York to Washington, in such a listless and used-up state that, in my desperation, I seriously pondered upon the amount of emotion that could be derived from jumping off the train, at the risk of one's neck. As I was glancing restlessly around, suddenly a face rose before me that riveted my eyes. It was a countenance unlike any I had ever seen. Though features and outline were faultless, in these the least part of its beauty was embodied. There was an eloquence in the rapid transitions of expression that melted one into another; there was a dreamy thoughtfulness in the magnificent hazel eyes. They were not exactly hazel either,—they reminded one of a topaz. I hardly know what name to give to their hue. But it is useless to attempt to describe such a face and form. I might heap epithet upon epithet, and then leave you without the faintest conception of the bewildering loveliness of their possessor."

"You succeeded in becoming acquainted with the lady?" inquired Gaston, now really interested.

"That good fortune was brought about by one of those ill winds, which, for the proverb's sake, must blow good to some one. It could not have been accomplished by any effort of my own, for there was an air of quiet dignity about the lady that no gentleman could have ventured to ruffle by too marked observation, far less by presuming to address even a passing remark. We were about half way between Philadelphia and Baltimore, when suddenly a terrific shock was felt, followed by a dashing of all humanity to one side of the cars, and a great crash. We had run into another train, were thrown off the track, and, in a moment more, upset."

"Since you were longing for excitement," observed Gaston, "this agreeable little variety must have gratified you."

"Yes, it was well enough in its way, not being positively fatal to existence. You may conceive the confusion and the difficulty of getting upon one's feet. How the people scrambled out of the cars I do not exactly know; for a short time I was too much stunned to see anything distinctly. I remember nothing clearly until somebody helped me up, and, in trying to move my left arm, I discovered that it was broken."

"How unfortunate! And you lost sight of the lady?"

"It would have been unfortunate if I had lost sight of her; but I did not. The passengers were huddled together in a most primitive inn by the road-side. There I beheld her, moving about, quite unharmed, quieting a child here, assisting a young mother there, doing something helpful everywhere. There chanced to be a surgeon in the cars, who, happily, was uninjured. He saw my predicament, for I was suffering confoundedly, and, upon examining my arm, said that it must be set at once. He called upon several persons to aid him. Some were too much occupied with their own distress; some too bewildered; and some shrank from the task. But, to my supreme joy (it was worth breaking an arm for such a piece of good luck), the lady I just mentioned came forward, and offered her services! She tore my handkerchief and her own into bandages, produced needle and thread from her little travelling reticule, and sewed them together. She assisted the surgeon in the most skilful but the calmest manner. What could I do but express my gratitude? This was the opening to a conversation. We were detained several hours at the inn before a train arrived to take us on our journey. I had always detested these American cars, where all the travellers sit together in pairs; but now I rejoiced over them, for I managed to obtain a seat beside her. We conversed, without pause, during the whole way to Washington; and what propriety and good sense she evinced! Her beauty had deeply impressed me, but her conversation struck me even more. Such elevated thoughts dropped spontaneously from her lips, and so naturally, that she did not seem to be aware that there was anything peculiar about them. It was enough to drive a man distracted; I confess that it did me!"

"She came to Washington then?"

"Yes; and here we were forced to part. I begged that she would allow me the privilege of calling to thank her. In the most suave, lady-like, but resolute manner,—a manner that silenced all pleading,—she declined. But she had inadvertently admitted that she resided in Washington. That has kept me here ever since. I have been searching for her these six months."

"And you have never met her again?"

"No, I have sought her in the highest circles; for, from her distinguished and even aristocratic air, her exceeding cultivation and good-breeding, I infer that she is a person of standing. It was somewhat singular that a lady of her unmistakable stamp should have been travelling alone; but that is not unusual in this country. In spite of all my efforts, I have never been able to encounter her again. I examined the strips of the fine cambric handkerchief with which my arm was bound, hoping to find a name. Upon one strip the letter 'M' was daintily embroidered. I have those strips yet carefully preserved."

"Do you think she was an American lady?"

"No, assuredly not. Though she spoke the English language very purely, and as only a scholar could have conversed, a slight accent betrayed that she was a foreigner; French, or Italian, I imagine. If I could only behold her once again, I should not be so miserably tired of everything and so bored by my own existence. Washington is killingly dull. By the way, the de Fleurys give a grand ball on Monday. I hear that there is great anxiety prevalent in the beau monde on the score of invitations. Of course, Mademoiselle de Merrivale will be there. Her face must create a sensation. What a piece of good fortune it would be if I could see it, at this very ball, contrasted with that of my lovely incognita! There is a day-dream for you! I never attend a ball, or any large assembly, without a vague anticipation of finding her in the crowd. I should like to hear your candid opinion if you saw those two faces placed side by side."

The response which Gaston made to this remark, and which expressed certain convictions of his own, was not uttered aloud.

It is one of love's happy prerogatives that the countenance best beloved gains to the lover's eye a charm beyond that with which any other face is endowed, even when he is forced to admit that dearest visage is surpassed in point of positive, calculable, tangible beauty.

"A man may love a woman perfectly, And yet by no means ignorantly maintain A thousand women have not larger eyes: Enough that she alone has looked at him With eyes that, large or small, have won his soul."



CHAPTER XXI.

THE CYTHEREA OF FASHION.

Maurice had so unceremoniously parted from Lord Linden and M. de Bois because he suddenly remembered that Mr. Lorrillard had impressed upon him the necessity of making his arrangements with Mr. Emerson without delay, as the present was a peculiarly favorable moment for purchasing shares in the mines whose iron he hoped to convert to gold.

The viscount presented himself at Mr. Emerson's office, and delivered Mr. Lorrillard's letter. This latter gentleman was held in such high esteem that an introduction of his was certain of meeting with the utmost consideration. Mr. Emerson, after only a brief conversation with Maurice, informed him that he was ready to make the desired loan upon the security offered, and begged that he would call the next morning, when the necessary formalities would at once be gone through.

Gratified by his visit and elated by the prospect of effecting a business transaction of so much importance, never dreaming of the fatal sequence which might be the result, Maurice drove to the residence of the French ambassador. It was not Madame de Fleury's reception-day, but by some mistake he was ushered into her drawing-room. In a few minutes, Lurline, a confidential femme de chambre, whom Maurice had often seen in Paris,—a being all fluttering ribbons and alluring smiles and graceful courtesies and coquettish airs,—made her appearance.

"Madame has received the card of monsieur le vicomte," she began, with a sugary accent and soft manner, which reminded one strongly of the tones and deportment of her mistress. "Madame would not treat monsieur as a stranger, and therefore sent me,"—here, with her head on one side, she courtesied again, bewitchingly,—"to say that we have a new valet,—an ignorant fellow, for it is impossible to procure a decent domestic in America,—and this untrained creature has to be drilled into les usages: he has forgotten that madame only receives on Saturday. Madame, however, would see M. le vicomte at any time that was possible."

"I am delighted to hear you say so," returned Maurice, "for I am very desirous of having the pleasure of paying my respects."

"Madame is preparing for a matinee, at the Spanish Embassy. She is just coiffe, and monsieur should see what a magnificent head I have made for her. Notwithstanding my success with her head she is at this moment in deep distress: her dress has not yet arrived; we expect it every moment! Madame's agitation is overpowering. She is quite unequal to encountering a disappointment of this crushing nature. She begs monsieur will excuse"—

Before she could finish the sentence, the marchioness herself appeared, wrapped in a delicate, rose-colored robe-de-chambre, prodigally adorned with lace and embroidery.

"My dear M. de Gramont, I meant to excuse myself; but as I am forced to wait for that tantalizing dress, a few moments with you, en attendant, will divert my thoughts. I had heard from M. de Bois, that the Countess de Gramont and her son, with Mademoiselle de Merrivale, are honoring Washington by their presence; but I was informed that you were not here. You see I paid you the compliment of inquiring."

As she spoke, she glanced at the mirror opposite, and arranged the long sprays of feathery flowers that were mingled with her braided tresses.

"I am highly flattered at not being forgotten," replied Maurice. "I only arrived this morning, and hastened to pay my respects."

"And you ought to be very much flattered that I can spare you an instant, at such a critical moment. Here is my toilet for this matinee at a dead stand-still, because that tiresome dress has not come. It is one I ordered expressly for the occasion, and, I assure you, it is a perfect triumph of art,—a victory gained over great obstacles. Let me tell you, nothing is more difficult to manage than an appropriate costume for a matinee. One's toilet must be a delicate compromise between ball attire and full visiting dress, but Mademoiselle Melanie has hit the juste milieu; and succeeded in carrying me through all the perils of Scylla and Charybdis. Oh, dear! oh, dear!" (stamping her tiny slippered foot) "will that dress never come?"

"It must be very trying!" said Maurice, endeavoring to assume a tone of sympathy.

"Trying? it is killing! Imagine my state of mind. I cannot go without this dress: all my other toilets have been seen more than once in public; and this one was sure to create a sensation,—was planned for this very occasion!"

"I fear my visit is inopportune, and ought to be shortened," replied Maurice, for the agitated manner and troubled look of Madame de Fleury made him feel that he must be an intruder. "I will only remain long enough to know if you will receive my grandmother, my father, and my cousin, Mademoiselle Bertha, to-morrow; they are very"—

"Hush!" cried Madame de Fleury, raising her finger and listening with an eager countenance. "Was that not a ring? Patrick is opening the door. Hush! let me listen! It is the dress,—it must be the dress!" and she made several rapid steps toward the door, but returned to her seat as the servant passed through the entry with empty hands. "This is terrible! I have not my wits about me; I do not know what I am doing or saying!"

"I am truly concerned," observed Maurice, who had risen to depart. "May I tell the Countess de Gramont that you will receive her to-morrow?"

"To-morrow? Yes, certainly. I do not remember any engagement, but I can think of nothing at this moment. If that tormenting dress would only arrive! I fear it will never be here! It is the first time Mademoiselle Melanie ever disappointed me; she is punctuality itself. This waiting is torture, and completely upsets me,—turns my brain; it will throw me into a nervous fever. You, insensible men, cannot feel for such a position; you do not know the importance of a toilet."

"We must be very dull if we do not know how to appreciate those of Madame de Fleury," replied Maurice, bowing courteously. "Pray, do not include me in the catalogue of such sightless individuals. I will bid you adieu until to-morrow, when you will allow me to accompany my grandmother?"

"You are always welcome. Pray tell the countess I shall be charmed to see her, and say the same to that cruel Mademoiselle Bertha,—though I ought not to forgive her treatment of my brother. Say to her that he is yet unconsoled. Good gracious! That dress certainly is not coming! If it were to arrive at this moment I should be obliged to hasten; and to give the finishing touches to a toilet in a hurried and discomposed manner is to run the risk of spoiling the general effect. What can have happened to Mademoiselle Melanie? Hark! is not that some one? Did you not hear a ring? I am not mistaken; some one did come in. It is the dress at last!"

The marchioness started up joyfully, with clasped hands, and an expression of deep gratitude. A servant entered with a note; she snatched it petulantly and tossed it into the card-basket unopened.

"How vexatious! Only a note! It is too cruel! I shall never, never pardon Mademoiselle Melanie if she disappoints me. But that's easy enough to say, difficult enough to carry into execution. In reality I could not exist without her; and Mademoiselle Melanie knows that as well as I do. She is so sought after that her exhibition-rooms are crowded from morning until night. It is now a favor for her to receive any new customers, and I believe she has some thirty or forty workwomen in her employment. Of course, you have heard of Mademoiselle Melanie?"

"I have not had that pleasure; she is a mantua-maker, I presume," returned Maurice, repressing a smile.

"I suppose that is what, strictly speaking, we must call her; but she is the very Queen of Taste, the Sovereign of Modistes. She has a genius that is extraordinary,—it is magic,—it is inspiration! A touch of her hand transforms every one who approaches her. What figures she has made for some of these American women! What charms she has developed in them! What an air and grace she has imparted to their whole appearance! She makes the most vulgar look elegant, and the elegant, divine! Another ring. Now Heaven grant it may be the dress at last!"

The marchioness was again disappointed: it was only another note, which shared the fate of the former.

"Oh, I shall not survive this!" she ejaculated, dropping into an arm-chair; "and that horrid little Mrs. Gilmer will triumph in my absence. You know Mrs. Gilmer?"

"I have not that honor," returned Maurice, who, impatient as he was to take his leave, found it impossible to depart while the marchioness chose to detain him.

"She attempts to pass herself off for a belle, and even tries to take precedence of me, ignoring all the customs of good society; but, doubtless, the poor thing is actually ignorant of them, and should be pardoned and pitied for her ill-breeding. She is the wife of Gilmer, the rich banker. It is to Mademoiselle Melanie that she is indebted for all her social success. Mademoiselle Melanie positively created her, and she never wears anything made by any one else. It is all owing to Mademoiselle Melanie that the men surround her as they do, and try to persuade themselves that she is pretty. Pretty! with her turn-up nose, and colorless hair and eyes. Her husband is immensely rich; and, as wealth rules the day in this country, she takes good care that the depth of his purse shall be known; for that purpose she loads herself with diamonds,—always diamonds. She has not the least idea of varying her jewels; even Mademoiselle Melanie could not make her comprehend that art. I wonder she does not have a dress contrived of bank-notes! That would be novel, and it would also prove a capital way of announcing her opulence!"