A STORY OF THE REIGN OF TERROR.
O, what was love made for if 'twas not for this,
The same amidst sorrow, and transport, and bliss?
Moore.
The fanaticism of the French revolutionists had reached its height; the excitable population, intoxicated with power, and maddened by the vague dread of the retribution of despair, goaded on by profligate, ferocious, or insane leaders, was plunging into the most revolting and sanguinary excesses. The son of St. Louis had ascended to heaven, the beautiful and unfortunate Marie Antoinette had laid her head upon the block, the baby heir of the throne of the Capets was languishing in the hands of his keepers, and the Girondists, the true friends of republican liberty, were silenced by exile or the scaffold. In short, the Reign of Terror, the memorable sway of Robespierre, hung like a funeral pall upon the land which was fast becoming a vast cemetery. The provincial towns, faithful echoes of the central capital, were repeating the theme of horror with a thousand variations. Each considerable city had its guillotine, and where that instrument of punishment was wanting, the fusillade or the mitraille supplied its place.
At this crisis, Eugene Beauvallon, a young merchant of Toulouse, presented himself one morning in the drawing room of Mademoiselle Eulalie Lasalle, an orphan girl of great beauty and accomplishment, to whom he had long been betrothed, and whom he would ere this have married but for the political troubles of the period. Eulalie was a graceful creature, slenderly and symmetrically formed, with soft blue eyes, and an exceedingly gentle expression, which was indicative of her character. She seemed too fair and fragile to buffet with the storms of life, and ill fitted to endure its troubles, created to be the idol of a drawing room, the fairy queen of a boudoir.
Eugene was a handsome, manly fellow, of great energy and character. The revolution surprised him in the act of making a fortune; the whirlwind had stripped him of most of his property, but had yet left him liberty and life. He had contrived to avoid rendering himself obnoxious to the sansculottes without securing their confidence. The tri-colored cockade which he wore in his hat shielded him from the fatal epithet of aristocrat—a certain passport to the guillotine.
Beauvallon then seated himself beside Eulalie, who was struck with the radiant expression of his countenance, and begged to know the reason of his joyous excitement.
"I have good news to tell you," he said, gayly; "but we are not alone," he added, stopping short, as his eyes rested on the sinister face of an old woman, humbly attired, who was busily engaged in knitting, not far from the lovers.
"O, don't mind poor old Mannette," said Eulalie. "The poor old creature is past hearing thunder. It is a woman, Eugene, I rescued from absolute starvation, and she is so grateful, and seems so desirous of doing something to render herself useful, that I am mortified almost at her sense of the obligation."
"I hope she has not supplanted your pretty femme de chambre, Julie, of whom you threatened to be jealous. My admiration, I hope, has not cost the girl her place."
"O, dear, no! I couldn't part with Julie!" replied Eulalie, laughing gayly. "But come, you must not tantalize me—what has occurred to make you so gay, at a time when every true Frenchman wears a face of mourning?"
"The Marquis de Montmorenci is at liberty."
"At liberty? How happened it that the Revolutionary Tribunal acquitted him?"
"Acquitted him! Eulalie, does the tiger that has once tasted the blood of his prey permit him to escape? Is Robespierre more lenient than the beast of prey? No, Eulalie, he escaped by the aid of a true friend. He fled from Paris, reached Toulouse, and found shelter under my roof!"
The cheek of Eulalie turned ashy pale. "Under your roof!" she faltered. "Do you know the penalty of sheltering a fugitive from justice?"
"It is death upon the scaffold," answered the young merchant, calmly. "But better that a thousand times than the sin of ingratitude; the sin of turning a deaf ear to the claims of humanity."
"My own noble Eugene!" exclaimed the young girl, enthusiastically, pressing her lover's hand. "Every day increases my love, my respect for you, and my sense of my own unworthiness. But you will never have to blush for the inferiority of your wife."
"What do you mean, dearest?" inquired Eugene, with alarm.
"This is no time for marriage," said Eulalie, sadly. "Images of death and violence meet our eyes whichever way they turn. We were born, Eugene, in melancholy times, and our loves are misplaced. We shall meet hereafter; on this earth, I fear, our destinies will never be united."
"Prophetess of evil!" said Beauvallon, gayly. "Your rosy lips belie your gloomy augury. No, Eulalie, this dark cloud cannot forever overshadow the land—even now I think I can see glimpses of the blue sky. Le bon temps viendra,—the good time is coming,—and then, Eulalie, be sure that I will claim your promised hand."
The conversation of the lovers had been so animated and interesting that they did not notice the moment when old Mannette had glided like a spectre from the apartment.
Beauvallon lingered a while,—"parting is such sweet sorrow,"—and finally reluctantly tore himself from the presence of Eulalie, promising to see her again on the ensuing day, and let her know whatever had transpired in the interim.
As he approached the street in which his store and house were situated, he heard the confused murmur of a multitude, and soon perceived, on turning the corner, that a very large crowd was collected outside his door. There were men and women—many of the former armed with pikes and sabres—the latter, the refuse of the populace, who appeared like birds of evil omen at every scene of violence and tumult.
A hundred voices called out his name as he approached, and menacing gestures were addressed to him by the multitude.
"Citizens," said the merchant, "what is the meaning of all this?"
"You shall know, traitor," shrieked a palsied hag of eighty, whose lurid eyes had already gloated on every public execution that had taken place in Toulouse. "Here is Citizen Dumart of the revolutionary committee—ah, he is a true friend of the people—he is no aristocrat in disguise! Vive le Citoyen Dumart!"
"Long live Citizen Dumart! Down with the aristocrats!" shouted a hundred voices.
The Citizen Dumart was a sallow-faced man, dressed in rusty black, wearing an enormous tri-colored cockade in his three-cornered hat, with a sash of the same color girt around his waist. His bloodshot eyes expressed a mixture of cowardice with ferocity. He was flanked by a couple of pikemen as hideous as the Afrites of Eastern romance.
"Citizen Beauvallon," said he, in a voice whose tremor betrayed his native timidity, "I arrest you in the name of the revolutionary committee of Toulouse. Citizen Beauvallon, it is useless to resist the authority of the representatives of the people; if you have any concealed weapons about you, I advise you to surrender them. You see I stand here protected by the arms of the people."
"I have no weapons," replied Beauvallon. "I have no sinister designs. I know not why I am arrested. Acquaint me with the charge, and confront me with my accusers."
"Seize upon the prisoner!" cried Dumart to his satellites. And he breathed freer when he saw the merchant in the gripe of two muscular ruffians, whose iron hands compressed his wrists as if they were manacles.
"Away with him!" screamed the hag who had spoken before. "Away with him to the revolutionary committee! Down with the aristocrats!"
Followed by the imprecations of the crowd, Beauvallon was conducted to the town house, and in a very few moments was placed at the bar of the revolutionary committee—a body invested with the power of life and death. On his way thither he had found means to speak a word to an acquaintance in the crowd, and to beg him to inform Eulalie of what had happened.
So soon as he had heard the accusation read, and knew that he was charged with the crime of aiding the Marquis de Montmorenci, a fugitive from justice, he felt that his situation was indeed critical; but mingled with his astonishment and dread was a curiosity to learn whence his denunciation could have proceeded—who could have lodged the information against him. He was not long kept in suspense, for the witness brought on the stand to confront him was no other than Mannette, the supposed deaf servant of Eulalie Lasalle, who had overheard his confession of the morning, and hastened to denounce him. Though his sentence was not immediately pronounced, and the decision of his case was deferred till the next day, Beauvallon felt that his doom was sealed.
He was conveyed to a house in the vicinity of the town hall for confinement, as the prisons were all overstocked. His jailer was a man whom the merchant had formerly befriended, and whose heart was not inaccessible to emotions of pity, though he was above bribery, and evidently determined to execute his duty to the letter.
"I have a favor to ask of you, my friend," said the prisoner, slipping a golden louis into his hand.
"If it is one that I can grant without violating my duty," replied the jailer, returning the money to Beauvallon, "I will do so for the sake of old times, but not for gold."
Beauvallon explained that he wished to send a note to Mlle. Lasalle, requesting her to visit him in prison—an interview which would probably be their last, and the jailer undertook readily to see the missive delivered, and to permit the visit. The note having been despatched, Beauvallon sat down to wait for the arrival of his mistress.
The sad hours passed away,—but though he learned from the jailer that his errand had been performed, no Eulalie made her appearance.
"She forsakes me!" he muttered bitterly. "The wounded deer is abandoned by the herd, and an unfortunate man is shunned by his fellows. Well, the dream was pleasant while it lasted—the regret of awakening can scarce be tedious—a few hours, and all the incidents of this transitory life will be forgotten. But Eulalie—whom I loved better than my life itself—it is hard to die without one word from thee."
When on the following day Beauvallon was again taken before the revolutionary committee, he looked anxiously around the court room to see if he could discover the face of Eulalie among the spectators, many of whom were women. But he was disappointed. Her absence convinced him that she had abandoned him, and wholly absorbed by this reflection, he paid no attention to the formula of his trial. He was condemned to death, the sentence to be executed on the following day.
"Mr. President," said he, rising, "I thank you, and I have merely one favor to ask. Anticipate the time of punishment—let it be to-day instead of to-morrow—let me go hence to the scaffold."
"Your request is reasonable," replied the president, in a bland voice, "and if circumstances permitted, it would afford me the greatest pleasure to grant it. But the guillotine requires repair, and will not be in a condition to perform its functions until to-morrow, at which time, Citizen Beauvallon, at the hour of ten, A.M., you will have ceased to exist. Good night, and pleasant dreams!"
This sally was received with roars of applause, and the unhappy prisoner was reconducted to the place of confinement.
That night was a sleepless one. Beauvallon's arrest, his speedy trial and condemnation, the desertion of Eulalie, had followed each other with such stunning rapidity, that, until now, he had hardly time to reflect upon the dismal chain of circumstances—now they pressed upon his attention, and crowded his mind to overflowing. At midnight, as he lay tossing on his bed, upon which he had thrown himself without undressing, he thought he heard a confused noise in the apartment of the next house adjoining his. The noise increased. He placed his hand upon the wall, and felt it jar under successive shocks. Suddenly a current of air blew in upon him, and at the same time a faint ray of light streamed through an opening in the partition.
"Courage!" said a soft voice. "The opening enlarges. Now, Julie!"
Julie! Beauvallon was sure he heard the name, and yet uncertain whether or not he was dreaming.
"Julie!" he exclaimed, cautiously.
"Yes, monsieur—it is Julie—sure enough," answered a pleasant voice.
"Then you, at least, have not forgotten me."
"No one who has once known you can ever forget you. Courage! you will soon be free. Aid us if you can."
"Then you are not alone?"
"Have patience, and you will see."
His own exertions, added to those of his friends without, soon enabled the prisoner to force his way into the next house; but there disappointment awaited him. Two soldiers in the uniform of the gensdarmerie stood before him.
"On ne passe par ici,—you can't pass here,"—said one.
"What cruel mockery is this?" cried Beauvallon. "Is it not enough that I am condemned to death, but you must subject me to an atrocious pleasantry? This is refinement of cruelty."
"It seems that our disguise is perfect, Julie," said the soldier who had not yet spoken. "Eugene does not know his best friends."
In an instant the speaker was folded in the arms of Beauvallon. It was Eulalie herself, as bewitchingly beautiful in her uniform as in the habiliments of her sex. She hurriedly explained that the moment she heard of Eugene's arrest, she prepared to meet the worst contingency. She had already converted her money into cash. Learning the place of his imprisonment, she had hired, through the agency of another person, the adjoining house, which happened to be unoccupied. The task of making an aperture in the partition was an easy one—the difficulty of passing through the city was greater. The idea of military disguises then occurred. Julie and herself had already equipped themselves, and they were provided with a uniform for Beauvallon.
Secured by this costume, the three fugitives ventured forth. In the great square of the city, workmen were busily employed in repairing the hideous engine of death, and Beauvallon passed, not without a shudder, beneath the very shadow of the guillotine, to which he had been doomed.
Seated on the cold ground, beneath the fatal apparatus, was an old woman muttering to herself.
"Good evening, citizens," said she. "We shall have a fine day for the show to-morrow. Look how the bonny stars are winking and blinking on the gay knife blade they've been sharpening. It will be darker and redder when the clock strikes ten again. Down with the aristocrats!"
The fugitives needed no more to quicken their steps. They reached the frontiers in safety, and beyond the Rhine, in the hospitable land of Germany, the lovers were united; nor did they return to France till the star of Robespierre had set in blood, and the master mind of Napoleon had placed its impress on the destinies of France.
THE OLD CITY PUMP.
Many evenings since, we were passing up State Street late at night. State Street at midnight is a very different affair from State Street at high noon. The shadows of the tall buildings fall on a deserted thoroughfare; save where, here and there, a spectral bank watchman keeps ward over the granite sepulchres of golden eagles, and the flimsier representatives of wealth. The bulls and bears have retired to their dens, and East India merchants are invisible. Newsboys are nowhere, and every sound has died away. There stands the Old State House, peculiar and picturesque, rising with a look of other days, a relic of past time, against the deep blue sky, or webbing the full moon with the delicate tracery of its slender spars and signal halliards. And there stands—no! there stood the old Town Pump. But it is no more—Ilium fuit was written on its forehead—it has been reformed out of office, its occupation has gone, its handle has been amputated, its body has been dissected, and there is nothing of it left.
Yet on the evening to which we alluded in the beginning, the old pump was there, and crossing over from the Merchants Bank, we leaned against its handle, as one leans against the arm of an old friend, in a musing, idle mood. Presently we heard a gurgling sound and confused murmurs issuing from its lips—"like airy tongues that syllable men's names." Anon these murmurs shaped themselves into distinct articulations, and as we listened, wonderingly, the old pump spoke:—
"Past twelve o'clock, and a moonlight night. All well, as I'm a pump. Nobody breaking into banks, and nobody kicking up rows—watchmen fast asleep, and every body quiet. But I can't sleep. No! the city government has murdered sleep! There's something heavy on my buckets, and I fear me, I'm a gone sucker! They thought I couldn't find out what they were up to—the municipal government—but I'm a deep one, and I know every thing that's going for'ard. What a jolly go, to be sure! They told me Mayor Bigelow hated proscription—but I knew it was gammon! He must follow the fashion, and Cochituate is all the go. There ain't no pumps now—it's all fountain! Pump water is full of animalculæ, and straddle bugs don't exist in pond water—of course not. Nobody ever see young pollywogs and snapping turtles floating down stream in fly-time. Certainly not! I'm getting old—of course I am; that's the talk! I've been in office too long. Well, well, I know I'm rather asthmatic and phthisicky—but nobody ever knowed me to suck, even in the driest time. These living waters have welled up even from the time when the salt sea was divided from the land, and the rocks were cloven by the hand of Omnipotence, and the sweet spring came bursting upward from the fragrant earth, and light and flowers came together to welcome the birthday of the glad and glorious gift. Here, many a century back, the giant mastodon trod the earth into deep hollows, as he moved upon his sounding path. Then came another time. In the hollow of the three hills, the Indian raised his bark wigwam, and the smoke of his council fire curled up like a mist-wreath in the forest. Here the red man filled the wild gourd cup when he returned weary from the chase or the skirmish. And here, too, the Indian maiden smoothed her dark locks, and her lustrous, laughing eyes gazed upon the image of her own dusky beauty, mirrored on the surface of the wave. By and by the red man ceased to drink of my unfailing rill. Beings with pale faces came to me to quench their thirst; bearded lips were moistened with my diamond drops; and I looked up upon iron corselet and steel hauberk, and faces harder than either. But the old Puritans gave me form and substance—a 'local habitation and a name.' The spirit of the fountain was wedded to its present tabernacle. The dwellings of men sprang up around me in the place of the departing forest. I gave them all a cheerful welcome. If the colonists worked hard, I worked harder yet. I filled their pails and cups, and revived their failing hearts, and cheered their unremitting labors. They called me their friend. The pretty girls smiled upon me, as, under pretence of levying contributions on my treasures, they chatted with young men who gathered at my side. Then came a sterner period. I heard no more love tales—no more idle gossip. Men stood here, and spoke of deep wrong, of tyranny, of trampled rights, of resistance, of liberty! That was a word I had not heard since the red man drank of my unfettered tide. One night, there was a great gathering here. There were men and boys, a multitude. There was much angry talk and much confusion. Then I heard the roll of the drum and the regular tramp of an armed force. A band of British soldiers, all resplendent with scarlet, and gold, and burnished muskets that glittered in the moonbeams, were formed into line at the command of an officer, and confronted the dark array of citizens. Then came an angry discussion—orders on the part of the commander for the multitude to disperse, which were unheeded or disobeyed. Then that line of glittering tubes was levelled. I heard the fatal word "fire!" the flame leaped from the muzzles of the muskets, and the volley crashed and echoed in the street. Blood flowed upon the pavement—the blood of citizens mingled with my waters, and I was the witness of a fearful tragedy. In after times, I heard it named the Boston Massacre. Since then, I have seen hours of sunshine and triumph, of fun and frolic, of anger and rejoicing. My waters have laved the dust that it might not soil the uniform of Washington as he rode past on his snow-white charger, amid the acclamations of the multitude. I have seen Hull and his tars pass up the street, bearing the stripes and stars in triumph from the war of the ocean. I have heard long-winded orators spout over my head in emulation of my craft, "in one weak, washy, everlasting flood." I have seen many a military, many a civic pageant. The last I witnessed was, as Dick Swiveller remarks, a 'stifler.' It was that confounded Water Celebration. Republics is ungrateful. I was forgotten on that occasion. Nobody drank at the old city pump. People sat on my head and stood on my nose, just as if I had no feelings. I heard a young lady in the gallery overhead say, 'Well, that horrid old pump will soon be out of the way now.' And a city father answered her, 'Of course.' It was a workin' then—treason and fate, and all them things. I knew they were going to 'put me out of my misery,' as the saying goes. I'm getting superannuated—I heard 'em say so. Sometimes an office boy tastes a drop, and then turns up his nose,—as if it wasn't pug enough before,—and says, 'What horrid stuff! the Cochituate for my money!' General Washington's canteen was filled here—and he said, 'Delicious!' when he raised it to his lips. But he was no judge, of course not. Time was when I wasn't slow but I'm not fast enough for this generation. When folks write letters with lightning, and sail ships with tea-kettles, pumps can't come it over 'em. Well, well, I'll hold out to the last—I'll make 'em carry me off and bury me decently at the city's expense, and perhaps some kind old friend will write my epitaph."
The old pump was mute—the speech was ended—its "song had died into an echo." We passed on mournful and thoughtful. Republics are ungrateful—old friends are forgotten with a change of fashion, and there is a period to the greatness of town pumps as well as the glory of individuals.
THE TWO PORTRAITS.
"Beautiful! beautiful!" exclaimed Ernest Lavalle, as, throwing himself back in his chair, he contemplated, with eyes half shut, a lovely countenance that smiled on him from a canvas, to which he had just added a few hesitating touches. It was but a sketch—little more than outline and dead coloring, and a misty haze seemed spread over the face, so that it looked vision-like and intangible. The young painter's exclamation was not addressed to his workmanship—he was not even looking at that faint image; but, through its medium, was gazing on lineaments as rare and fascinating as ever floated through a poet's or an artist's dream. Deep, lustrous blue eyes, in whose depth sincerity and feeling lay crystallized; features as regular as those of a Grecian statue; a lip melting, ripe, and dewy, half concealing, half revealing, a line of pearls; soft brown hair, descending in waves upon a neck and shoulders of satin surface and Parian firmness. Such were some of the external traits of loveliness belonging to
"A creature not too bright and good
For human nature's daily food,"
who had completely actualized the ideal of the young Parisian artist, into whose studio we have introduced our readers. The fair original, whose portrait is before us, was Rose d'Amour, a beautiful actress of one of the metropolitan theatres, who had just made her debut with distinguished success. There was quite a romance in her history. Of unknown parents, she had commenced her career—like the celebrated Rachel—as a street singer, and was looking forward to no more brilliant future, when her beauty, genius, and purity of character attracted the attention of a distinguished newspaper editor, by whose benevolent generosity she was enabled to prepare herself for the stage, by two or three years of assiduous study. The success of his protégée more than repaid the kind patron for his exertions and expenditure.
A word of Ernest Lavalle, and it shall suffice. He was the son of a humble vine dresser in one of the agricultural departments of France. His talent for drawing, early manifested, attracted the notice of his parish priest, whose earnest representations induced his father to send the boy to Paris, and give him the advantages afforded by the capital for students of art. In the great city, Ernest allowed none of the attractions, by which he was surrounded, to divert him from the assiduous pursuit of his beloved art. His mornings were passed in the gallery of the Louvre, his afternoons in private study, and his evenings at the academy, where he drew from casts and the living model. The only relaxation he permitted himself, was an occasional excursion in the picturesque environs of the French capital; and he always took his sketch book with him, thus making even his pleasure subservient to his studies. Two prizes obtained, for a drawing and a picture, secured for him the patronage of the academy, at whose expense he was sent to Italy, to pursue his studies in the famous galleries of Rome and Florence. He returned with a mind imbued with the beauty and majesty of the works of those great masters, whose glory will outlive the canvas and marble which achieved it, determined to win for himself a niche in the temple of Fame, or perish in his laborious efforts to obtain it. At this time he was in his twenty-second year. A vigorous constitution was his heritage; and his rounded cheek glowed with the warm color of health. His strictly classical features were enhanced by the luxuriance of his hair, which he wore flowing in its native curls, while his full beard and mustache relieved his face from the charge of effeminacy.
Ernest was yet engaged in the contemplation of the unfinished work—or rather in dreaming of the bright original—when a light tap was heard at his door. He opened it eagerly, and his poor studio was suddenly illuminated, as it were, by the radiant apparition of Rose d'Amour. She was dressed with a charming simplicity, which well became a sylph like form, that required no adventitious aid from art.
"Good morning, Monsieur Lavalle!" said the beautiful actress, cheerfully, as she dropped gracefully into the fauteuil prepared for her reception. "You find me in the best possible humor to-day, thanks to this bright morning sun, and to the success of last night. Mon Dieu! so many bouquets! you can't think! Really, the life of an artiste begins to be amusing. Don't you find it so, as a painter?"
"I confess to you, mademoiselle, I have my moments of despondency."
"With your fine talent! Think better of yourself. I hope, at least, that I have not been so unlucky as to surprise you in one of those inopportune moments."
"Ah, mademoiselle," said the painter, "if it were so, one of your smiles would dispel the cloud in a moment."
"Really!" replied the actress, gayly. "Are you quite sure there is no flattery in the remark? I am aware that flattery is an essential part of an artist's profession."
"Not of a true artist's," replied Ernest. "The aim and end of all art is truth; and he who forgets it is untrue to his high mission."
"True," said the lady. "Well, then, faites votre possible—as Napoleon said to his friend David—for I am anxious that this portrait shall be a chef-d'œuvre. I design it for a present."
"With such a subject before me," replied the painter "I could not labor more conscientiously, if the picture were designed for myself."
The sitting passed away rapidly, for the artist; and he was surprised when the lady, after consulting her watch, rose hastily, and exclaimed, "That odious rehearsal! I must leave you—but you ought to be satisfied, for I have given you two hours of my valuable time. Adieu, then, until to-morrow."
With a smile that seemed natural to her, the beautiful girl vanished, taking with her half the sunshine of the room.
The painter continued his labor of love. Indeed, so absorbed was he in his employment, that he did not notice the entrance of a visitor, until he felt a light tap on his shoulder, accompanied by the words,—
"Bravo, mon cher! You are getting on famously. That is Rose herself—as radiant as she appears on the stage, when the focus of a lorgnette has excluded all the stupid and ennuyantes figures that surround her."
The speaker was Sir Frederic Stanley, an English baronet, now some months in Paris, where he had plunged into all the gayeties of the season. He was a handsome man, of middle age, whose features bore the impress of dissipation.
"You know the original, then?" asked the painter, somewhat coldly.
"Know her! My dear fellow, I don't know any body else, as the Yankees say. Why, I have the entry of the Gaité, and pass all my evenings behind the scenes. I flatter myself—but no matter. I have taken a fancy to that picture: what do you say to a hundred louis for it?"
"It is not for me to dispose of it."
"You have succeeded so well, you wish to keep it for yourself—eh? Double the price, and let me have it!"
"Impossible, Sir Frederic. It is painted for Mlle. d'Amour herself, and she designs it for a present."
"Say no more," said the baronet, with a self-satisfied smile. "I think I could name the happy individual."
Ernest would not gratify his visitor by a question, and the latter, finding the artist reserved and distrait, suddenly recollected the races at Chantilly, and took his leave.
"Can it be possible," thought the painter, "that Rose has suffered her affections to repose on that conceited, purse-proud, elderly Englishman? O, woman! woman! how readily you barter the wealth of your heart for a handful of gold!"
Another tap at the door—another visitor! Really, Lavalle must be getting famous! This time it is a lady—a lady of surpassing loveliness—one of those well-preserved Englishwomen, who, at forty, are as attractive as at twenty. This lady was tall and stately, with elegant manners, and perhaps a thought of sadness in her expression. She gazed long and earnestly upon the portrait of Rose d'Amour.
"It is a beautiful face!" she said, at length. "And one that indicates, I should think, goodness of heart."
"She is an angel!" said the painter.
"You speak warmly, sir," said the lady, with a sad smile.
Ernest blushed, for he feared that he had betrayed his secret. The lady did not appear to notice his embarrassment, and passed to the occasion of her visit, which was to engage the young artist to paint her portrait—a task which he readily undertook, for he was pleased with, and interested in, his fair patroness. The picture was immediately commenced, and an hour fixed for a second sitting, on the next day. It was on that occasion that the fair unknown encountered the actress, and they retired in company.
The two portraits were finished at the same time, and reflected the greatest credit upon the artist. They were varnished, framed, and paid for, but the painter had received no orders for their final disposition, when, one morning, he was waited on by the two ladies, who informed him that they should call upon him the following day, when the two portraits would be presented, in his study, to the persons for whom they were designed. The artist was enjoined to place them on two separate easels,—that of the actress to stand nearest the door of the studio, and both to be concealed by a curtain until the ladies should give the signal for their exposure. The portrait of the English lady, we will here remark, had, by her request, been hitherto seen only by the artist. There was a mystery in this arrangement, which piqued, excessively, the curiosity of the painter, and he was anxious to witness the denouement.
The next day, at eleven o'clock, every thing was in readiness, and the painter awaited the solution of the mystery.
The first person who presented himself was Sir Frederic Stanley. He was very radiant.
"Congratulate me, mon cher," said he. "Read that."
Ernest took an open note from his hand, and read as follows:—
"Be at the studio of Ernest Lavalle, to-morrow, at eleven. You will there receive a present, which, if there be any truth in man's vows, will certainly delight you.
"Rose."
The astonishment and disappointment of Ernest was at its height, when his door opened, and the actress entered, followed by a female, closely veiled.
"You are true to your appointment, Sir Frederic," said the actress, gayly, "and your punctuality shall be rewarded."
She advanced to the farther easel, and, lifting the curtain, disclosed the features of the English lady.
"This is for you!" she said, laughing.
"My wife! by all that's wonderful!" exclaimed the baronet.
"Accompanied by the original!" said Lady Stanley, as she unveiled and advanced. "Sir Frederic! Sir Frederic! when you were amusing yourself, by paying unmeaning attentions to this young lady, I am afraid you forgot to tell her that you had a wife in England."
"I thought it unnecessary," stammered the baronet.
"How could you disturb the peace of mind of a young girl, when you knew you could not requite her affection?" continued Lady Stanley.
"It was only a flirtation, to pass the time," said Sir Frederic; "but I acknowledge it was culpable. My dear Emeline, I thank you for your present. I shall ever cherish it as my dearest possession—next to yourself."
"For you, sir," said the beautiful actress, turning to Ernest, "I cannot think of depriving you of your best effort. Take the portrait. I wish the subject were worthier." And she withdrew the curtain from her picture.
"I am ungrateful," said Ernest, in a low and tremulous tone. "Much as I prize the picture, I can never be happy without the original."
"Is it so?" replied the actress, in the same low tone of emotion; then, placing her hand timidly in his, she added, "The original is yours!"