“I suppose your reason for not having them published is because some of the people are still alive?”

  “No! Good Heavens, no! That is not why. Of the two principal characters, one died eighteen months ago; the other left Paris a fortnight ago. Now, I am quite sure you are all either too busy or too forgetful to recognise the picture of either the dead or the absent, however true to life it may be. You must see, therefore, that that cannot have been the motive which restrained me.”

  “What was it, then?”

  “Hush! not a word of this to Lamennais, or Béranger, or Alfred de Vigny, or Soulié or Balzac, or Deschamps, or Sainte- Beuve, or Dumas, but I am promised the next vacant seat in the Academy on the one condition, that I go on writing nothing. Once my seat secured, I am free to do as I please.”

  “Auguste, dear boy,” continued the Count, addressing himself to the young fellow who had just re-entered the room with the manuscript, “sit down and read it out to us; we are ready to listen.”

  Auguste sat down, then there was a general clearing of throats, moving of chairs, settling on sofas, and when everyone was comfortable, the young man, in the midst of a solemn silence, proceeded to read what follows.

  CHAPTER I.

  TOWARDS the beginning of May, in the year 1838, as ten o’clock was just striking, the courtyard door of a large house in the Rue des Mathurins opened, and a young man, whose slender limbs and rather long neck betrayed his English origin, rode out mounted on a fine chestnut horse; behind him, and from the same entrance of the same house, followed a groom, dressed in black, who rode at a suitable distance. He too was mounted on a thoroughbred, though a lover of horseflesh would have easily discerned that his horse was not of so pure a blood as his master’s.

  This horseman, who only needed to be seen to be instantly recognised for what, in the parlance our English neighbours across the water, the world calls a “lion,” was a young fellow between twenty-three and twenty-four, whose dress was marked by that simplicity and elegance which distinguishes those of gentle birth, and the habit of which can never be acquired by education.

  It is but fair to say that his looks were in perfect harmony with his dress and appearance, and it would be difficult to meet with anyone more distinguished and refined-looking than this man, with his face framed in black hair and black whiskers, and to which a colourless, yet fresh and youthful, complexion lent a special air of distinction. The young man, last scion of one of the oldest families under the monarchy, was the proud possessor of one of those ancient names which are now rapidly dying out and will soon figure only in history: his name was Amaury de Léoville.

  Now, if after describing his outward appearance, we pass on to a more intimate description, from the physical to the moral, from what seems to what is, we shall see that the calmness of his face is in harmony with the state of his heart, of which it is the reflex. The smile, which from time to time curves his lips, and which is but an answer to his thoughts, is the smile of a happy man.

  Let us follow this fortunate youth, so richly endowed by fate that he is at once the possessor of good birth and good means, youth and distinction, handsome looks and happiness, for he is the hero of our story.

  On leaving home he set his horse at a canter; and, keeping the same pace, reached the Boulevard, passed the Madeleine, threaded his way along the Faubourg St. Honoré, and arrived at the Rue d’Angoulême.

  Once there, with a light touch on the rein, he slackened speed, whilst his hitherto careless and indifferent gaze became riveted on a certain point in the street he was just entering.

  This was a charming house situated between a forecourt, full of flowers and enclosed by iron railings, and one of those large gardens which the industrial Paris of these times sees day by day disappearing, only to be replaced by those huge stone barracks, without air, without space, without greenery, which we so inappropriately call houses. On reaching this spot, his horse drew up of its own accord, as though from force of habit, but after a long look at two of the windows, the curtains of which were closely drawn as if to defy too curious inquiry from without, Amaury continued his way, not, however, without looking back more than once, not without satisfying himself by consulting his watch that the hour had not yet arrived which would open the doors to him.

  The only thing therefore for our young hero to do was to kill time: so he dismounted at Lepage’s Gallery, and amused himself by shooting first at dolls, then at eggs, and finally at a minute mark.

  All games of skill arouse the wish to excel. So in spite of the fact that our young marksman had no other spectators but the loaders, as he was an admirable shot, and they had nothing else to do than to stand round and watch him, he was able to dispose very satisfactorily of three quarters of an hour or so at this sport. Then he remounted, galloped off towards the Bois, and in a few minutes found himself at the Avenue Madrid. There he met one of his friends, with whom he spent half-an-hour discussing the latest steeple-chase, and the coming races at Chantilly.

  They were then joined by a third friend, whom they came across at the Porte St. James. The friend in question was but three days returned from the East, and his descriptions of social life at Cairo and Constantinople were so interesting, that another hour passed by without seeming too excessively long. But this hour gone, our hero could no longer restrain himself, and wishing his two friends goodbye, he galloped off. Then, without drawing rein or slackening his pace, he returned, straight as an arrow, to that end of the Rue d’Angoulême which opens on to the Champs Elysées.

  There he pulled up, looked at his watch and, seeing that it was now one o’clock, he dismounted, threw the reins to his groom, approached the house before which he had stopped some hours earlier, and rang the bell.

  If Amaury were diffident, this diffidence seemed rather unaccountable, as by the smile with which the servants greeted him, from the concierge who opened the door, to the footman in the hall, it was very evident he was no stranger to the house.

  So too, when the visitor asked if Monsieur d’Avrigny were at home, the servant replied as to one for whom the usual conventionalities might naturally be relaxed.

  “No! sir! but the ladies are in the small drawing-room.”

  Then as he was about to announce him, Amaury waved him aside, and with the assurance of an old friend of the family, went along a narrow passage, on to which all the doors opened, and soon reached the small drawing-room, the door of which being ajar, enabled him to see into the room.

  For one moment he stood in the doorway. Two young girls of eighteen and nineteen were seated facing each other embroidering at the same frame, whilst in the window recess their old English governess had just put down her book, and was gazing affectionately at her two pupils.

  The highest conception of painting, that queen of the arts, could not have reproduced a more charming picture than that formed by the two young girls; the two faces, almost touching one another, were such a contrast both in character and appearance, that one might have imagined Raphael himself had brought them together as a study of two distinct types, equally beautiful though utterly different.

  One of the young girls was fair and pale with long hair curled in the English fashion, blue eyes, and a neck perhaps a shade too long; she seemed a fragile and delicate maiden, born to float on the mists swept by the north wind round the summits of the bleak mountains of Scotland, or through the foggy valleys of Great Britain; one of those visions half-human, half-fairy, which Shakespeare alone has conceived, and transformed by sheer force of genius, from the fantastic to the real delightful creations which, before his birth, no one had ever imagined, since his death, no one has ever equalled, and to which he gave such sweet names as Cordelia, Ophelia, or Miranda.

  Her companion, on the other hand, had black hair, which she wore plaited; a brilliant complexion, sparkling eyes, rich red lips, and a bright, sparkling manner; she reminded one of those maidens, bronzed by the suns of Italy, whom Boccaccio brings together in the Villa Palmieri, to listen to the gay tales of the Decameron. She was overflowing with life and health, thoughts which she could not put into words were reflected in her expressive face. If at times sad, for none however happy but have their moments of sadness, her melancholy could never entirely cloud her usually cheerful expression; behind her sadness one could always feel her smile, as the sun peeps out from behind the thunder-cloud.

  Such were the two girls, who, as we have already said, seated opposite to each other, and bending over the same embroidery frame, worked at a bunch of flowers, which grew under their dainty fingers; and, each true to her character, the one created lilies and pale hyacinths, whilst the other shaded with living colours tulips, auriculas, and carnations.

  After a moment or two of quiet contemplation, the young man pushed open the door.

  At the sound both girls turned and uttered a little cry, like two gazelles caught unawares; the only difference was that a bright but fleeting blush suffused the fair girl’s face, whilst, on the other hand, her companion grew imperceptibly paler.

  “I see that I should not have entered unannounced,” said the young man, as he advanced eagerly towards the fair young girl, taking no notice of her friend, “because I startled you, Madeleine. Forgive me, Madeleine; somehow I always consider myself Monsieur d’Avrigny’s adopted son, and act as if I were still living in the house.”

  “Quite right, Amaury,” answered Madeleine. “Besides, I do not believe you could act differently, even if you tried; six weeks cannot change the habits of eighteen years. But you have not yet wished Antoinette good-morning.”

  Smiling the young man held out his hand to the dark girl.

  “Excuse my seeming rudeness, dear Antoinette,” he said; “but I felt I must ask forgiveness for my awkwardness from her whom my awkwardness alarmed. I heard Madeleine cry out, and hastened at once to her.”

  Then turning to the governess he said, “How do you do, Miss Brown?”

  Antoinette smiled half sadly, as she returned the young man’s grasp, because she knew that she too had uttered a cry, but Amaury had not noticed it.

  As to Miss Brown, she saw nothing, or rather she saw everything, but did not look below the surface.

  “You need make no excuses, my dear Count,” she said; “on the contrary, it is a pity others do not more often follow your example, if only to cure this dear child of her foolish terrors and sudden alarms. Do you know what is the cause of it all? her habit of dreaming. She lives in a world of her own into which she retires when wearied with the real world. What happens in that other world? I cannot tell. I only know that if this goes on, she will end by giving up the one for the other, and then her dream will become her life, whilst her life will become the dream.”

  Madeleine turned to the young Count with a sweet steady look, which plainly said: “You know of whom I am thinking in my dreams. Amaury, do you not?”

  Antoinette caught this look, she remained standing motionless for one moment, then instead of sitting down again at the frame, moved to the piano, and let her fingers stray lightly over the keys into one of Thalberg’s fantasias.

  Madeleine took up her work, and Amaury seated himself beside her.

  CHAPTER II.

  “HOW IT pains me, my dear Made1eine,” whispered Amaury, “that we are now so rarely alone and free to talk! Is it by chance or by your father’s orders?”

  “Alas! I do not know,” answered the girl, “but be sure I suffer just as much as you do. When we were able to see each other every day, and at every hour of the day, we did not sufficiently appreciate our happiness; it is so in everything, — to make us long for the sun, we must first have felt the shadow.”

  “But, could you not tell Antoinette, or at least hint to her, that by sometimes keeping good old Miss Brown away, she would be doing us a great kindness; I think she remains on here more from force of habit than motives of prudence, and I do not believe your father has ever given her positive orders to keep us always in sight.”

  “I have thought of doing so twenty times over, Amaury, but I really cannot account for the feeling which always hinders me. The instant I open my lips to speak of you to my cousin, my voice fails, and yet what can I tell her which she does not know already? She knows how I love you.”

  “Yes! and I know it too, Madeleine; but I want to hear you say it openly. Look dear, you know how happy it makes me to see you, but truly I think I would rather deprive myself of this happiness than have to meet you always before strangers, before cold and indifferent people in whose presence your dear voice changes, and you disguise your feelings. Why, even at this moment you cannot tell how this restraint chafes me.”

  Madeleine rose with a smile on her face. “Amaury,” she said, “will you come with me into the garden and greenhouse to pick some flowers? I am painting a nosegay from nature, and as mine of yesterday is faded, I must have a fresh one.”

  Antoinette got up quickly.

  “Madeleine,” she said, as the two girls exchanged a meaning glance, “it is not wise for you to go out this dull, cold weather. Let me do this for you, and I know that I shall carry it out with credit to myself. My dear Miss Brown,” she said, “will you be good enough to fetch the nosegay which you will find in a Japanese vase on the small round buhl table in Madeleine’s room, and bring it to me in the garden; only by having the old one before my eyes, can I arrange another exactly like it.”

  So saying, Antoinette stepped out by one of the windows opening to the ground, and walked down a flight of steps into the garden, whilst Miss Brown, who had received no instructions with regard to the two young people, and who well knew the strong affection which existed between them from childhood, opened a side door, and went out of the room, without making any remark.

  Amaury’s eyes followed the governess out of the room, then as soon as he found himself alone with the young girl, he seized her hand.

  “At last, Madeleine dear,” he said, with a look of passionate love, “we are alone for a moment. Look at me, darling. Tell me again and again that you love me, because truly, since the unaccountable change in your father’s manner towards me, I begin to doubt everything. You know that I am yours body and soul; you know that I love you!”

  “Oh yes!” answered the girl, with one of those sighs of joy which relieve the over-full heart, “yes, tell me again that you love me, because sometimes, frail creature that I am, it seems your great love alone which keeps me alive. When you are with me, Amaury, I breathe freely, I feel strong. Before you come, after you have gone, my heart dies within me; and now that you no longer live with us, you are so often away. How long must it be before it is my right to be always with you, — you who are my life, my soul?”

  “Listen, Madeleine, whatever happens, I shall write to your father this very night.”

  “And what do you suppose can happen but that our childhood’s dreams will at last be realised? Since you are twenty, and I fifteen, have we not always felt ourselves destined for each other? Write boldly to my father, Amaury, and you will see that he cannot refuse to listen to your letter on the one hand and my entreaties on the other.”

  “I wish I felt equally confident, Madeleine, but really your father’s manner has I greatly changed towards me of late. After treating me for fifteen years as his own son, has he not little by little assumed towards me the attitude of a stranger?

  After living in this house like your brother, now when I come into the room without warning, you utter a cry of alarm.”

  “Ah! that cry was one of joy, Amaury; your presence can never take me by surprise, for I am always expecting you; but I am now so weak and nervous that I cannot control my feelings. You must be lenient with me, dearest, and treat me like that sensitive plant which we amused ourselves with tormenting the other day, not thinking that it too has life, as we have, and that very probably we were hurting it. Well! I am like the sensitive plant; to feel you near me gives me that sense of security which, as a child, I felt when on my mother’s knee. God, in taking her from me, has given me you instead. To her I owe the first part of my life, the second, I owe to you. She brought me to the light of day, you to the light of the soul. Amaury, to make me wholly yours, be often with me.”

  “Always, always,” cried Amaury, taking the girl’s hand, and pressing it to his burning lips; “oh! Madeleine, I love you, I love you!”

  But at the touch of his kiss, the poor child started up, flushed and trembling, and, putting her hand to her side, said: “Oh! no, no! your voice is too passionate, it frightens me; your lips are burning. Restrain yourself, I do beseech you. Do remember the poor sensitive plant; I went to look at it yesterday, but it was dead.”

  “Well! well! Madeleine, it shall be as you wish. Sit down again, dear, and let me lie on this cushion at your feet, and since my love frightens you, well, I must content myself with a brotherly chat. Thank Heaven! your cheeks look natural again; they have lost that hectic flush which they had awhile ago, and that deadly pallor which overspread them when I came in so suddenly. You are better again, you are well, Madeleine, my sister, my sweetheart.

  The girl sank down, rather than sat in the armchair, supporting herself on her elbow, and let her face, shaded by her long fair hair, fall forward, the tips of her curls brushing against the young man’s forehead.

  In this attitude her breath mingled with her lover’s.

  “Yes,” she said, “yes Amaury, you can make me blush and grew pale at will.

  You are to me what the sun is to the flowers.”

  “Oh! how intoxicating to thus make you blush with a look — revive with a word! Madeleine, I love you, I love you.”