V.
PHASES IN THE LIFE OF JOHN POLLEXFEN.
PHASE THE FIRST.
There are but three persons now living who can truthfully answer the question, "How did John Pollexfen, the photographer, make his fortune?"
No confidence will be violated, now that he is dead, and his heirs residents of a foreign country, if I relate the story of that singular man, whose rapid accumulation of wealth astonished the whole circle of his acquaintance.
Returning from the old man's funeral a few days since, the subject of Pollexfen's discoveries became the topic of conversation; and my companions in the same carriage, aware that, as his attorney and confidential friend, I knew more of the details of his business than any one else, extorted from me a promise that at the first leisure moment I would relate, in print, the secret of that curious invention by which the photographic art was so largely enriched, and himself elevated at once to the acme of opulence and renown.
Few persons who were residents of the city of San Francisco at an early day, will fail to remember the site of the humble gallery in which Pollexfen laid the foundations of his fame. It was situated on Merchant Street, about midway between Kearny and Montgomery Streets, in an old wooden building; the ground being occupied at present by the solid brick structure of Thomas R. Bolton. It fed the flames of the great May fire of 1851, was rebuilt, but again consumed in December, 1853. It was during the fall of the latter year that the principal event took place which is to constitute the most prominent feature of my narrative.
I am aware that the facts will be discredited by many, and doubted at first by all; but I beg to premise, at the outset, that because they are uncommon, by no means proves that they are untrue. Besides, should the question ever become a judicial one, I hold in my hands such written proofs, signed by the parties most deeply implicated, as will at once terminate both doubt and litigation. Of this, however, I have at present no apprehensions; for Lucile and her husband are both too honorable to assail the reputation of the dead, and too rich themselves to attempt to pillage the living.
As it is my wish to be distinctly understood, and at the same time to be exculpated from all blame for the part I myself acted in the drama, the story must commence with my first acquaintance with Mademoiselle Lucile Marmont.
In the spring of 1851, I embarked at New York for Panama, or rather Chagres, on board the steamship "Ohio," Captain Schenck, on my way to the then distant coast of California, attracted hither by the universal desire to accumulate a rapid fortune, and return at the earliest practicable period to my home, on the Atlantic seaboard.
There were many hundred such passengers on the same ship. But little sociability prevailed, until after the steamer left Havana, where it was then the custom to touch on the "outward bound," to obtain a fresh supply of fuel and provisions. We were detained longer than customary at Havana, and most of the passengers embraced the opportunity to visit the Bishop's Garden and the tomb of Columbus.
One morning, somewhat earlier than usual, I was standing outside the railing which incloses the monument of the great discoverer, and had just transcribed in my note-book the following epitaph:
"O! Restos y Imagen
Del Grande Colon:
Mil siglos durad guardados
En lare Urna,
Y en la Remembranza
De Nuestra Nacion,"
when I was suddenly interrupted by a loud scream directly behind me. On turning, I beheld a young lady whom I had seen but once before on the steamer, leaning over the prostrate form of an elderly female, and applying such restoratives as were at hand to resuscitate her, for she had fainted. Seeing me, the daughter exclaimed, "Oh, Monsieur! y-a-t-il un medecin ici?" I hastened to the side of the mother, and was about to lift her from the pavement, when M. Marmont himself entered the cathedral. I assisted him in placing his wife in a volante then passing, and she was safely conveyed to the hotel.
Having myself some knowledge of both French and Spanish, and able to converse in either tongue, Lucile Marmont, then sixteen years of age, and I, from that time forward, became close and confidential friends.
The steamer sailed the next day, and in due time anchored off the roadstead of Chagres. But Mme. Marmont, in the last stages of consumption when she embarked at New York, continued extremely ill until we passed Point Concepcion, on this coast, when she suddenly expired from an attack of hemorrhage of the lungs.
She was buried at sea; and never can I forget the unutterable anguish of poor Lucile, as her mother's body splashed into the cold blue waters of the Pacific.
There she stood, holding on to the railing, paler than monumental marble, motionless as a statue, rigid as a corpse. The whole scene around her seemed unperceived. Her eyes gazed upon vacancy; her head was thrust slightly forward, and her disheveled tresses, black as Plutonian night, fell neglected about her shoulders.
Captain Watkins, then commanding the "Panama"—whom, may God bless—wept like a child; and his manly voice, that never quailed in the dread presence of the lightning or the hurricane, broke, chokingly, as he attempted to finish the burial rite, and died away in agitated sobs.
One by one the passengers left the spot, consecrated to the grief of that only child—now more than orphaned by her irreparable loss. Lifting my eyes, at last, none save the daughter and her father stood before me. Charmed to the spot was I, by a spell that seemed irresistible. Scarcely able to move a muscle, there I remained, speechless and overpowered. Finally the father spoke, and then Lucile fell headlong into his arms. He bore her into his state-room, where the ship's surgeon was summoned, and where he continued his ministrations until we reached this port.
It is scarcely necessary to add, that I attended them ashore, and saw them safely and commodiously lodged at the old Parker House, before I once thought of my own accommodations.
Weeks passed, and months, too, stole gradually away, before I saw anything more of the bereaved and mourning child. One day, however, as I was lolling carelessly in my office, after business hours (and that meant just at dark in those early times), Lucile hastily entered. I was startled to see her; for upon her visage I thought I beheld the same stolid spell of agony that some months before had transfixed my very soul. Before I had time to recover myself, or ask her to be seated, she approached closer, and said in a half whisper, "Oh, sir, come with me home."
On our way she explained that her father was lying dangerously ill, and that she knew no physician to whom she could apply, and in whose skill she could place confidence. I at once recommended Dr. H. M. White (since dead), well knowing not only his great success, but equally cognizant of that universal charity that rendered him afterwards no less beloved than illustrious. Without a moment's hesitation, the Doctor seized his hat, and hastened along with us, to the wretched abode of the sick, and, as it afterwards proved, the palsied father. The disease was pronounced apoplexy, and recovery doubtful. Still, there was hope. Whilst we were seated around the bedside, a tall, emaciated, feeble, but very handsome young man entered, and staggered to a seat. He was coarsely and meanly clad; but there was something about him that not only betokened the gentleman, but the well-bred and accomplished scholar. As he seated himself, he exchanged a glance with Lucile, and in that silent look I read the future history of both their lives. On lifting my eyes toward hers, the pallor fled for an instant from her cheek, and a traitor blush flashed its crimson confession across her features.
The patient was copiously bled from an artery in the temple, and gradually recovered his consciousness, but on attempting to speak we ascertained that partial paralysis had resulted from the fit.
As I rose, with the Doctor, to leave, Lucile beckoned me to remain, and approaching me more closely, whispered in French, "Stay, and I will tell you all." The main points of her story, though deeply interesting to me, at that time, were so greatly eclipsed by subsequent events, that they are scarcely worthy of narration. Indeed, I shall not attempt to detail them here fully, but will content myself with stating, in few words, only such events as bear directly upon the fortunes of John Pollexfen.
As intimated above, Lucile was an only child. She was born in Dauphiny, a province of France, and immigrated to America during the disastrous year 1848. Her father was exiled, and his estates seized by the officers of the government, on account of his political tenets. The family embarked at Marseilles, with just sufficient ready money to pay their passage to New York, and support them for a few months after their arrival. It soon became apparent that want, and perhaps starvation, were in store, unless some means of obtaining a livelihood could be devised. The sole expedient was music, of which M. Marmont was a proficient, and to this resource he at once applied himself most industriously. He had accumulated a sufficient sum to pay his expenses to this coast, up to the beginning of 1851, and took passage for San Francisco, as we have already seen, in the spring of that year.
Reaching here, he became more embarrassed every day, unacquainted as he was with the language, and still less with the wild life into which he was so suddenly plunged. Whilst poverty was pinching his body, grief for the loss of his wife was torturing his soul. Silent, sad, almost morose to others, his only delight was in his child. Apprehensions for her fate, in case of accident to himself, embittered his existence, and hastened the catastrophe above related. Desirous of placing her in a situation in which she could earn a livelihood, independent of his own precarious exertions, he taught her drawing and painting, and had just succeeded in obtaining for her the employment of coloring photographs at Pollexfen's gallery the very day he was seized with his fatal disorder.
Some weeks previous to this, Charles Courtland, the young man before mentioned, became an inmate of his house under the following circumstances:
One evening, after the performances at the Jenny Lind Theatre (where M. Marmont was employed) were over, and consequently very late, whilst he was pursuing his lonely way homewards he accidentally stumbled over an impediment in his path. He at once recognized it as a human body, and being near home, he lifted the senseless form into his house. A severe contusion behind the ear had been the cause of the young man's misfortune, and his robbery had been successfully accomplished whilst lying in a state of insensibility.
His recovery was extremely slow, and though watched by the brightest pair of eyes that ever shot their dangerous glances into a human soul, Courtland had not fully recovered his strength up to the time that I made his acquaintance.
He was a Virginian by birth; had spent two years in the mines on Feather River, and having accumulated a considerable sum of money, came to San Francisco to purchase a small stock of goods, with which he intended to open a store at Bidwell's Bar. His robbery frustrated all these golden dreams, and his capture by Lucile Marmont completed his financial ruin.
Here terminates the first phase in the history of John Pollexfen.
PHASE THE SECOND.
"Useless! useless! all useless!" exclaimed John Pollexfen, as he dashed a glass negative, which he had most elaborately prepared, into the slop-bucket. "Go, sleep with your predecessors." After a moment's silence, he again spoke: "But I know it exists. Nature has the secret locked up securely, as she thinks, but I'll tear it from her. Doesn't the eye see? Is not the retina impressible to the faintest gleam of light? What telegraphs to my soul the colors of the rainbow? Nothing but the eye, the human eye. And shall John Pollexfen be told, after he has lived half a century, that the compacted humors of this little organ can do more than his whole laboratory? By heaven! I'll wrest the secret from the labyrinth of nature, or pluck my own eyes from their sockets."
Thus soliloquized John Pollexfen, a few days after the events narrated in the last chapter.
He was seated at a table, in a darkened chamber, with a light burning, though in the middle of the day, and his countenance bore an unmistakable expression of disappointment, mingled with disgust, at the failure of his last experiment. He was evidently in an ill-humor, and seemed puzzled what to do next. Just then a light tap came at the door, and in reply to an invitation to enter, the pale, delicate features of Lucile Marmont appeared at the threshold.
"Oh! is it you, my child?" said the photographer, rising. "Let me see your touches." After surveying the painted photographs a moment, he broke out into a sort of artistic glee: "Beautiful! beautiful! an adept, quite an adept! Who taught you? Come, have no secrets from me; I'm an old man, and may be of service to you yet. What city artist gave you the cue?"
Before relating any more of the conversation, it becomes necessary to paint John Pollexfen as he was. Methinks I can see his tall, rawboned, angular form before me, even now, as I write these lines. There he stands, Scotch all over, from head to foot. It was whispered about in early times—for really no one knew much about his previous career—that John Pollexfen had been a famous sea captain; that he had sailed around the world many times; had visited the coast of Africa under suspicious circumstances, and finally found his way to California from the then unpopular region of Australia. Without pausing to trace these rumors further, it must be admitted that there was something in the appearance of the man sufficiently repulsive, at first sight, to give them currency. He had a large bushy head, profusely furnished with hair almost brickdust in color, and growing down upon a broad, low forehead, indicative of great mathematical and constructive power. His brows were long and shaggy, and overhung a restless, deep-set, cold, gray eye, that met the fiercest glance unquailingly, and seemed possessed of that magnetic power which dazzles, reads and confounds whatsoever it looks upon. There was no escape from its inquisitive glitter. It sounded the very depths of the soul it thought proper to search. Whilst gazing at you, instinct felt the glance before your own eye was lifted so as to encounter his. There was no human weakness in its expression. It was as pitiless as the gleam of the lightning. But you felt no less that high intelligence flashed from its depths. Courage, you knew, was there; and true bravery is akin to all the nobler virtues. This man, you at once said, may be cold, but it is impossible for him to be unjust, deceitful or ungenerous. He might, like Shylock, insist on a right, no matter how vindictive, but he would never forge a claim, no matter how insignificant. He might crush, like Cæsar, but he could never plot like Catiline. In addition to all this, it required but slight knowledge of physiognomy to perceive that his stern nature was tinctured with genuine enthusiasm. Earnestness beamed forth in every feature. His soul was as sincere as it was unbending. He could not trifle, even with the most inconsiderable subject. Laughter he abhorred. He could smile, but there was little contagion in his pleasantry. It surprised more than it pleased you. Blended with this deep, scrutinizing, earnest and enthusiastic nature, there was an indefinable something, shading the whole character—it might have been early sorrow, or loss of fortune, or baffled ambition, or unrequited love. Still, it shone forth patent to the experienced eye, enigmatical, mysterious, sombre. There was danger, also, in it, and many, who knew him best, attributed his eccentricity to a softened phase of insanity.
But the most marked practical trait of Pollexfen's character was his enthusiasm for his art. He studied its history, from the humble hints of Niépce to the glorious triumphs of Farquer, Bingham, and Bradley, with all the soul-engrossing fidelity of a child, and spent many a midnight hour in striving to rival or surpass them. It was always a subject of astonishment with me, until after his death, how it happened that a rough, athletic seaman, as people declared he was originally, should become so intensely absorbed in a science requiring delicacy of taste, and skill in manipulation rather than power of muscle, in its practical application. But after carefully examining the papers tied up in the same package with his last will and testament, I ceased to wonder, and sought no further for an explanation.
Most prominent amongst these carefully preserved documents was an old diploma, granted by the University of Edinburgh, in the year 1821, to "John Pollexfen, Gent., of Hallicardin, Perthshire," constituting him Doctor of Medicine. On the back of the diploma, written in a round, clear hand, I found indorsed as follows:
Fifteen years of my life have I lost by professing modern quackery. Medicine is not a science, properly so called. It is at most but an art. He best succeeds who creates his own system. Each generation adopts its peculiar manual: Sangrado to-day; Thomson to-morrow; Hahnemann the day after. Surgery advances; physic is stationary. But chemistry, glorious chemistry, is a science. Born amid dissolving ruins, and cradled upon rollers of fire, her step is onward. At her side, as an humble menial, henceforth shall be found
John Pollexfen.
The indorsement bore no date, but it must have been written long before his immigration to California.
Let us now proceed with the interview between the photographer and his employee. Repeating the question quickly, "Who gave you the cue?" demanded Pollexfen.
"My father taught me drawing and painting, but my own taste suggested the coloring."
"Do you mean to tell me, really, that you taught yourself, Mlle. Marmont?" and as he said this, the cold, gray eye lit up with unwonted brilliancy.
"What I say is true," replied the girl, and elevating her own lustrous eyes, they encountered his own, with a glance quite as steady.
"Let us go into the sunlight, and examine the tints more fully;" and leading the way they emerged into the sitting-room where customers were in the habit of awaiting the artist's pleasure.
Here the pictures were again closely scrutinized, but far more accurately than before; and after fully satisfying his curiosity on the score of the originality of the penciling, approached Lucile very closely, and darting his wonderful glance into the depths of her own eyes, said, after a moment's pause, "You have glorious eyes."
Lucile was about to protest, in a hurried way, against such adulation, when he continued: "Nay, nay, do not deny it. Your eyes are the most fathomless orbs that ever I beheld—large, too, and lustrous—the very eyes I have been searching for these five years past. A judge of color; a rare judge of color! How is your father to-day, my child?"
The tone of voice in which this last remark was made had in it more of the curious than the tender. It seemed to have been propounded more as a matter of business than of feeling. Still, Lucile replied respectfully, "Oh! worse, sir; a great deal worse. Doctor White declares that it is impossible for him to recover, and that he cannot live much longer."
"Not live?" replied Pollexfen, "not live?" Then, as if musing, he solemnly added, "When your father is dead, Lucile, come to me, and I will make your fortune. That is, if you follow my advice, and place yourself exclusively under my instructions. Nay, but you shall earn it yourself. See!" he exclaimed, and producing a bank deposit-book from his pocket, "See! here have I seven thousand five hundred dollars in bank, and I would gladly exchange it for one of your eyes."
Astonishment overwhelmed the girl, and she could make no immediate reply; and before she had sufficiently recovered her self-possession to speak, the photographer hastily added, "Don't wonder; farewell, now. Remember what I have said—seven thousand five hundred dollars just for one eye!"
Lucile was glad to escape, without uttering a syllable. Pursuing her way homewards, she pondered deeply over the singular remark with which Pollexfen closed the conversation, and half muttering, said to herself, "Can he be in earnest? or is it simply the odd way in which an eccentric man pays a compliment?" But long before she could solve the enigma, other thoughts, far more engrossing, took sole possession of her mind.
She fully realized her situation—a dying father, and a sick lover, both dependent in a great measure upon her exertions, and she herself not yet past her seventeenth year.
On reaching home she found the door wide open, and Courtland standing in the entrance, evidently awaiting her arrival. As she approached, their eyes met, and a glance told her that all was over.
"Dead!" softly whispered Courtland.
A stifled sob was all that broke from the lips of the child, as she fell lifeless into the arms of her lover.
I pass over the mournful circumstances attending the funeral of the exiled Frenchman. He was borne to his grave by a select few of his countrymen, whose acquaintance he had made during his short residence in this city. Like thousands of others, who have perished in our midst, he died, and "left no sign." The newspapers published the item the next morning, and before the sun had set upon his funeral rites the poor man was forgotten by all except the immediate persons connected with this narrative.
To one of them, at least, his death was not only an important event, but it formed a great epoch in her history.
Lucile was transformed, in a moment of time, from a helpless, confiding, affectionate girl, into a full-grown, self-dependent, imperious woman. Such revolutions, I know, are rare in everyday life, and but seldom occur; in fact, they never happen except in those rare instances where nature has stamped a character with the elements of inborn originality and force, which accident, or sudden revulsion, develops at once into full maturity. To such a soul, death of an only parent operates like the summer solstice upon the whiter snow of Siberia. It melts away the weakness and credulity of childhood almost miraculously, and exhibits, with the suddenness of an apparition, the secret and hitherto unknown traits that will forever afterwards distinguish the individual. The explanation of this curious moral phenomenon consists simply in bringing to the surface what already was in existence below; not in the instantaneous creation of new elements of character. The tissues were already there; circumstance hardens them into bone. Thus we sometimes behold the same marvel produced by the marriage of some characterless girl, whom we perhaps had known from infancy, and whose individuality we had associated with cake, or crinoline—a gay humming-bird of social life, so light and frivolous and unstable, that, as she flitted across our pathway, we scarcely deigned her the compliment of a thought. Yet a week or a month after her nuptials, we meet the self-same warbler, not as of old, beneath the paternal roof, but under her own "vine and fig-tree," and in astonishment we ask ourselves, "Can this be the bread-and-butter Miss we passed by with the insolence of a sneer, a short time ago?" Behold her now! On her brow sits womanhood. Upon her features beam out palpably traits of great force and originality. She moves with the majesty of a queen, and astounds us by taking a leading part in the discussion of questions of which we did not deem she ever dreamed. What a transformation is here! Has nature proven false to herself? Is this a miracle? Are all her laws suspended, that she might transform, in an instant, a puling trifler into a perfect woman? Not so, oh! doubter. Not nature is false, but you are yourself ignorant of her laws. Study Shakspeare; see Gloster woo, and win, the defiant, revengeful and embittered Lady Anne, and confess in your humility that it is far more probable that you should err, than that Shakspeare should be mistaken.
Not many days after the death of M. Marmont, it was agreed by all the friends of Lucile, that the kind offer extended to her by Pollexfen should be accepted, and that she should become domiciliated in his household. He was unmarried, it is true, but still he kept up an establishment. His housekeeper was a dear old lady, Scotch, like her master, but a direct contrast in every trait of her character. Her duties were not many, nor burdensome. Her time was chiefly occupied in family matters—cooking, washing, and feeding the pets—so that it was but seldom she made her appearance in any other apartment than those entirely beneath her own supervision.
The photographer had an assistant in his business, a Chinaman; and upon him devolved the task of caring for the outer offices.
Courtland, with a small stock of money, and still smaller modicum of health, left at once for Bidwell's Bar, where he thought of trying his fortune once more at mining, and where he was well and most cordially known.
It now only remained to accompany Lucile to her new home, to see her safely ensconced in her new quarters, to speak a flattering word in her favor to Pollexfen, and then, to bid her farewell, perhaps forever. All this was duly accomplished, and with good-bye on my lips, and a sorrowful sympathy in my heart, I turned away from the closing door of the photographer, and wended my way homewards.
Mademoiselle Marmont was met at the threshold by Martha McClintock, the housekeeper, and ushered at once into the inner apartment, situated in the rear of the gallery.
After removing her veil and cloak, she threw herself into an arm-chair, and shading her eyes with both her hands, fell into a deep reverie. She had been in that attitude but a few moments, when a large Maltese cat leaped boldly into her lap, and began to court familiarity by purring and playing, as with an old acquaintance. Lucile cast a casual glance at the animal, and noticed immediately that it had but one eye! Expressing no astonishment, but feeling a great deal, she cast her eyes cautiously around the apartment.
Near the window hung a large tin cage, containing a blue African parrot, with crimson-tipped shoulders and tail. At the foot of the sofa, a silken-haired spaniel was quietly sleeping, whilst, outside the window, a bright little canary was making the air melodious with its happy warbling. A noise in an adjoining room aroused the dog, and set it barking. As it lifted its glossy ears and turned its graceful head toward Lucile, her surprise was enhanced in the greatest degree, by perceiving that it, too, had lost an eye. Rising, she approached the window, impelled by a curiosity that seemed irresistible. Peering into the cage, she coaxed the lazy parrot to look at her, and her amazement was boundless when she observed that the poor bird was marred in the same mournful manner. Martha witnessed her astonishment, and indulged in a low laugh, but said nothing. At this moment Pollexfen himself entered the apartment, and with his appearance must terminate the second phase of his history.
PHASE THE THIRD.
"Come and sit by me, Mademoiselle Marmont," said Pollexfen, advancing at the same time to the sofa, and politely making way for the young lady, who followed almost mechanically. "You must not believe me as bad as I may seem at first sight, for we all have redeeming qualities, if the world would do us the justice to seek for them as industriously as for our faults."
"I am very well able to believe that," replied Lucile, "for my dear father instructed me to act upon the maxim, that good predominates over evil, even in this life; and I feel sure that I need fear no harm beneath the roof of the only real benefactor——"
"Pshaw! we will not bandy compliments at our first sitting; they are the prelude amongst men, to hypocrisy first, and wrong afterwards. May I so far transgress the rules of common politeness as to ask your age? Not from idle curiosity, I can assure you."
"At my next birthday," said Lucile, "I shall attain the age of seventeen years."
"And when may that be?" pursued her interlocutor. "I had hoped you were older, by a year."
"My birthday is the 18th of November, and really, sir, I am curious to know why you feel any disappointment that I am not older."
"Oh! nothing of any great consequence; only this, that by the laws of California, on reaching the age of eighteen you become the sole mistress of yourself."
"I greatly fear," timidly added the girl, "that I shall have to anticipate the law, and assume that responsibility at once."
"But you can only contract through a guardian before that era in your life; and in the agreement between us, that is to be, no third person shall intermeddle. But we will not now speak of that. You must consider yourself my equal here; there must be no secrets to hide from each other; no suspicions engendered. We are both artists. Confidence is the only path to mutual improvement. My business is large, but my ambition to excel greater, far. Listen to me, child!" and suddenly rising, so as to confront Lucile, he darted one of those magnetic glances into the very fortress of her soul, which we have before attempted to describe, and added, in an altered tone of voice, "The sun's raybrush paints the rainbow upon the evanescent cloud, and photographs an iris in the skies. The human eye catches the picture ere it fades, and transfers it with all its beauteous tints to that prepared albumen, the retina. The soul sees it there, and rejoices at the splendid spectacle. Shall insensate nature outpaint the godlike mind? Can she leave her brightest colors on the dark collodion of a thunder-cloud, and I not transfer the blush of a rose, or the vermilion of a dahlia, to my Rivi or Saxe? No! no! I'll not believe it. Let us work together, girl; we'll lead the age we live in. My name shall rival Titian's, and you shall yet see me snatch the colors of the dying dolphin from decay, and bid them live forever."
And so saying, he turned with a suddenness that startled his pupil, and strode hastily out of the apartment.
Unaccustomed, as Lucile had been from her very birth, to brusque manners, like those of the photographer, their grotesqueness impressed her with an indefinable relish for such awkward sincerity, and whetted her appetite to see more of the man whose enthusiasm always got the better of his politeness.
"He is no Frenchman," thought the girl, "but I like him none the less. He has been very, very kind to me, and I am at this moment dependent upon him for my daily bread." Then, changing the direction of her thoughts, they recurred to the subject-matter of Pollexfen's discourse. "Here," thought she, "lies the clue to the labyrinth. If insane, his madness is a noble one; for he would link his name with the progress of his art. He seeks to do away with the necessity of such poor creatures as myself, as adjuncts to photography. Nature, he thinks, should lay on the coloring, not man—the Sun himself should paint, not the human hand." And with these, and kindred thoughts, she opened her escritoire, and taking out her pencils sat down to the performance of her daily labor.
Oh, blessed curse of Adam's posterity, healthful toil, all hail! Offspring of sin and shame—still heaven's best gift to man. Oh, wondrous miracle of Providence! divinest alchemy of celestial science! by which the chastisement of the progenitor transforms itself into a priceless blessing upon the offspring! None but God himself could transmute the sweat of the face into a panacea for the soul. How many myriads have been cured by toil of the heart's sickness and the body's infirmities! The clink of the hammer drowns, in its music, the lamentations of pain and the sighs of sorrow. Even the distinctions of rank and wealth and talents are all forgotten, and the inequalities of stepdame Fortune all forgiven, whilst the busy whirls of industry are bearing us onward to our goal. No condition in life is so much to be envied as his who is too busy to indulge in reverie. Health is his companion, happiness his friend. Ills flee from his presence as night-birds from the streaking of the dawn. Pale Melancholy, and her sister Insanity, never invade his dominions; for Mirth stands sentinel at the border, and Innocence commands the garrison of his soul.
Henceforth let no man war against fate whose lot has been cast in that happy medium, equidistant from the lethargic indolence of superabundant wealth, and the abject paralysis of straitened poverty. Let them toil on, and remember that God is a worker, and strews infinity with revolving worlds! Should he forget, in a moment of grief or triumph, of gladness or desolation, that being born to toil, in labor only shall he find contentment, let him ask of the rivers why they never rest, of the sunbeams why they never pause. Yea, of the great globe itself, why it travels on forever in the golden pathway of the ecliptic, and nature, from her thousand voices, will respond: Motion is life, inertia is death; action is health, stagnation is sickness; toil is glory, torpor is disgrace!
I cannot say that thoughts as profound as these found their way into the mind of Lucile, as she plied her task, but nature vindicated her own laws in her case, as she will always do, if left entirely to herself.
As day after day and week after week rolled by, a softened sorrow, akin only to grief—
"As the mist resembles the rain"—
took the place of the poignant woe which had overwhelmed her at first, and time laid a gentle hand upon her afflictions. Gradually, too, she became attached to her art, and made such rapid strides towards proficiency that Pollexfen ceased, finally, to give any instruction, or offer any hints as to the manner in which she ought to paint. Thus her own taste became her only guide; and before six months had elapsed after the death of her father, the pictures of Pollexfen became celebrated throughout the city and state, for the correctness of their coloring and the extraordinary delicacy of their finish. His gallery was daily thronged with the wealth, beauty and fashion of the great metropolis, and the hue of his business assumed the coloring of success.
But his soul was the slave of a single thought. Turmoil brooded there, like darkness over chaos ere the light pierced the deep profound.
During the six months which we have just said had elapsed since the domiciliation of Mlle. Marmont beneath his roof, he had had many long and perfectly frank conversations with her, upon the subject which most deeply interested him. She had completely fathomed his secret, and by degrees had learned to sympathize with him, in his search into the hidden mysteries of photographic science. She even became the frequent companion of his chemical experiments, and night after night attended him in his laboratory, when the lazy world around them was buried in the profoundest repose.
Still, there was one subject which, hitherto, he had not broached, and that was the one in which she felt all a woman's curiosity—the offer to purchase an eye. She had long since ascertained the story of the one-eyed pets in the parlor, and had not only ceased to wonder, but was mentally conscious of having forgiven Pollexfen, in her own enthusiasm for art.
Finally, a whole year elapsed since the death of her father, and no extraordinary change took place in the relations of the master and his pupil. True, each day their intercourse became more unrestrained, and their art-association more intimate. But this intimacy was not the tie of personal friendship or individual esteem. It began in the laboratory, and there it ended. Pollexfen had no soul except for his art; no love outside of his profession. Money he seemed to care for but little, except as a means of supplying his acids, salts and plates. He rigorously tested every metal, in its iodides and bromides; industriously coated his plates with every substance that could be albumenized, and plunged his negatives into baths of every mineral that could be reduced to the form of a vapor. His activity was prodigious; his ingenuity exhaustless, his industry absolutely boundless. He was as familiar with chemistry as he was with the outlines of the geography of Scotland. Every headland, spring and promontory of that science he knew by heart. The most delicate experiments he performed with ease, and the greatest rapidity. Nature seemed to have endowed him with a native aptitude for analysis. His love was as profound as it was ready; in fact, if there was anything he detested more than loud laughter, it was superficiality. He instinctively pierced at once to the roots and sources of things; and never rested, after seeing an effect, until he groped his way back to the cause. "Never stand still," he would often say to his pupil, "where the ground is boggy. Reach the rock before you rest." This maxim was the great index to his character; the key to all his researches.
Time fled so rapidly and to Lucile so pleasantly, too, that she had reached the very verge of her legal maturity before she once deigned to bestow a thought upon what change, if any, her eighteenth birthday would bring about. A few days preceding her accession to majority, a large package of letters from France, via New York, arrived, directed to M. Marmont himself, and evidently written without a knowledge of his death. The bundle came to my care, and I hastened at once to deliver it, personally, to the blooming and really beautiful Lucile. I had not seen her for many months, and was surprised to find so great an improvement in her health and appearance. Her manners were more marked, her conversation more rapid and decided, and the general contour of her form far more womanly. It required only a moment's interview to convince me that she possessed unquestioned talent of a high order, and a spirit as imperious as a queen's. Those famous eyes of hers, that had, nearly two years before, attracted in such a remarkable manner the attention of Pollexfen, had not failed in the least; on the contrary, time had intensified their power, and given them a depth of meaning and a dazzling brilliancy that rendered them almost insufferably bright. It seemed to me that contact with the magnetic gaze of the photographer had lent them something of his own expression, and I confess that when my eye met hers fully and steadily, mine was always the first to droop.
Knowing that she was in full correspondence with her lover, I asked after Courtland, and she finally told me all she knew. He was still suffering from the effect of the assassin's blow, and very recently had been attacked by inflammatory rheumatism. His health seemed permanently impaired, and Lucile wept bitterly as she spoke of the poverty in which they were both plunged, and which prevented him from essaying the only remedy that promised a radical cure.
"Oh!" exclaimed she, "were it only in our power to visit La belle France, to bask in the sunshine of Dauphiny, to sport amid the lakes of the Alps, to repose beneath the elms of Chálons!"
"Perhaps," said I, "the very letters now unopened in your hands may invite you back to the scenes of your childhood."
"Alas! no," she rejoined, "I recognize the handwriting of my widowed aunt, and I tremble to break the seal."
Rising shortly afterwards, I bade her a sorrowful farewell.
Lucile sought her private apartment before she ventured to unseal the dispatches. Many of the letters were old, and had been floating between New York and Havre for more than a twelvemonth. One was of recent date, and that was the first one perused by the niece. Below is a free translation of its contents. It bore date at "Bordeaux, July 12, 1853," and ran thus:
Ever dear and beloved Brother:
Why have we never heard from you since the beginning of 1851? Alas! I fear some terrible misfortune has overtaken you, and overwhelmed your whole family. Many times have I written during that long period, and prayed, oh! so promptly, that God would take you, and yours, in His holy keeping. And then our dear Lucile! Ah! what a life must be in store for her, in that wild and distant land! Beg of her to return to France; and do not fail, also, to come yourself. We have a new Emperor, as you must long since have learned, in the person of Louis Bonaparte, nephew of the great Napoleon. Your reactionist principles against Cavaignac and his colleagues, can be of no disservice to you at present. Napoleon is lenient. He has even recalled Louis Blanc. Come, and apply for restitution of the old estates; come, and be a protector of my seven orphans, now, alas! suffering even for the common necessaries of life. Need a fond sister say more to her only living brother?
Thine, as in childhood,
Annette.
"Misfortunes pour like a pitiless winter storm upon my devoted head," thought Lucile, as she replaced the letter in its envelope. "Parents dead; aunt broken-hearted; cousins starving, and I not able to afford relief. I cannot even moisten their sorrows with a tear. I would weep, but rebellion against fate rises in my soul, and dries up the fountain of tears. Had Heaven made me a man it would not have been thus. I have something here," she exclaimed, rising from her seat and placing her hand upon her forehead, "that tells me I could do and dare, and endure."
Her further soliloquy was here interrupted by a distinct rap at her door, and on pronouncing the word "enter," Pollexfen, for the first time since she became a member of his family, strode heavily into her chamber. Lucile did not scream, or protest, or manifest either surprise or displeasure at this unwonted and uninvited visit. She politely pointed to a seat, and the photographer, without apology or hesitation, seized the chair, and moving it so closely to her own that they came in contact, seated himself without uttering a syllable. Then, drawing a document from his breast pocket, which was folded formally, and sealed with two seals, but subscribed only with one name, he proceeded to read it from beginning to end, in a slow, distinct, and unfaltering tone.
I have the document before me, as I write, and I here insert a full and correct copy. It bore date just one month subsequent to the time of the interview, and was intended, doubtless, to afford his pupil full opportunity for consultation before requesting her signature:
This Indenture, Made this nineteenth day of November, A. D. 1853, by John Pollexfen, photographer, of the first part, and Lucile Marmont, artiste, of the second part, both of the city of San Francisco, and State of California, Witnesseth:
Whereas, the party of the first part is desirous of obtaining a living, sentient, human eye, of perfect organism, and unquestioned strength, for the sole purpose of chemical analysis and experiment in the lawful prosecution of his studies as photograph chemist. And whereas, the party of the second part can supply the desideratum aforesaid. And whereas further, the first party is willing to purchase, and the second party willing to sell the same:
Now, therefore, the said John Pollexfen, for and in consideration of such eye, to be by him safely and instantaneously removed from its left socket, at the rooms of said Pollexfen, on Monday, November 19, at the hour of eleven o'clock p. m., hereby undertakes, promises and agrees, to pay unto the said Lucile Marmont, in current coin of the United States, in advance, the full and just sum of seven thousand five hundred dollars. And the said Lucile Marmont, on her part, hereby agrees and covenants to sell, and for and in consideration of the said sum of seven thousand and five hundred dollars, does hereby sell, unto the said Pollexfen, her left eye, as aforesaid, to be by him extracted, in time, place and manner above set forth; only stipulating on her part, further, that said money shall be deposited in the Bank of Page, Bacon & Co. on the morning of that day, in the name of her attorney and agent, Thomas J. Falconer, Esq., for her sole and separate use.
As witness our hands and seals, this nineteenth day of November, a. d. 1853.
(Signed)John Pollexfen, [l. s.]
........... [l. s.]
Having finished the perusal, the photographer looked up, and the eyes of his pupil encountered his own.
And here terminates the third phase in the history of John Pollexfen.
PHASE THE FOURTH.
The confronting glance of the master and his pupil was not one of those casual encounters of the eye which lasts but for a second, and terminates in the almost instantaneous withdrawal of the vanquished orb. On the contrary, the scrutiny was long and painful. Each seemed determined to conquer, and both knew that flight was defeat, and quailing ruin. The photographer felt a consciousness of superiority in himself, in his cause and his intentions. These being pure and commendable, he experienced no sentiment akin to the weakness of guilt. The girl, on the other hand, struggled with the emotions of terror, curiosity and defiance. He thought, "Will she yield?" She, "Is this man in earnest?" Neither seemed inclined to speak, yet both grew impatient.
Nature finally vindicated her own law, that the most powerful intellect must magnetize the weaker, and Lucile, dropping her eye, said, with a sickened smile, "Sir, are you jesting?"
"I am incapable of trickery," dryly responded Pollexfen.
"But not of delusion?" suggested the girl.
"A fool may be deceived, a chemist never."
"And you would have the fiendish cruelty to tear out one of my eyes before I am dead? Why, even the vulture waits till his prey is carrion."
"I am not cruel," he responded; "I labor under no delusion. I pursue no phantom. Where I now stand experiment forced me. With the rigor of a mathematical demonstration I have been driven to the proposition set forth in this agreement. Nature cannot lie. The earth revolves because it must. Causation controls the universe. Men speak of accidents, but a fortuitous circumstance never happened since matter moved at the fist of the Almighty. Is it chance that the prism decomposes a ray of light? Is it chance, that by mixing hydrogen and oxygen in the proportion of two to one in volume, water should be the result? How can Nature err?"
"She cannot," Lucile responded, "but man may."
"That argues that I, too, am but human, and may fall into the common category."
"Such was my thought."
"Then banish the idea forever. I deny not that I am but mortal, but man was made in the image of God. Truth is as clear to the perception of the creature, when seen at all, as it is to that of the Creator. What is man but a finite God? He moves about his little universe its sole monarch, and with all the absoluteness of a deity, controls its motions and settles its destiny. He may not be able to number the sands on the seashore, but he can count his flocks and herds. He may not create a comet, or overturn a world, but he can construct the springs of a watch, or the wheels of a mill, and they obey him as submissively as globes revolve about their centres, or galaxies tread in majesty the measureless fields of space!
"For years," exclaimed he, rising to his feet, and fixing his eagle glance upon his pupil, "for long and weary years, I have studied the laws of light, color, and motion. Why are my pictures sharper in outline, and truer to nature, than those of rival artists around me? Poor fools! whilst they slavishly copied what nobler natures taught, I boldly trod in unfamiliar paths. I invented, whilst they traveled on the beaten highway, look at my lenses! They use glass—yes, common glass—with a spectral power of 10, because they catch up the childish notion of Dawson, and Harwick, that it is impossible to prepare the most beautiful substance in nature, next to the diamond—crystalized quartz—for the purposes of art. Yet quartz has a power of refraction equal to 74! Could John Pollexfen sleep quietly in his bed whilst such an outrage was being perpetrated daily against God and His universe? No! Lucile; never! Yon snowy hills conceal in their bosoms treasures far richer than the sheen of gold. With a single blast I tore away a ton of crystal. How I cut and polished it is my secret, not the world's. The result crowds my gallery daily, whilst theirs are half deserted."
"And are you not satisfied with your success?" demanded the girl, whose own eye began to dilate, and gleam, as it caught the kindred spark of enthusiasm from the flaming orbs of Pollexfen.
"Satisfied!" cried he; "satisfied! Not until my camera flashes back the silver sheen of the planets, and the golden twinkle of the stars. Not until earth and all her daughters can behold themselves in yon mirror, clad in their radiant robes. Not until each hue of the rainbow, each tint of the flower, and the fitful glow of roseate beauty, changeful as the tinge of summer sunsets, have all been captured, copied, and embalmed forever by the triumphs of the human mind! Least of all, could I be satisfied now at the very advent of a nobler era in my art."
"And do you really believe," inquired Lucile, "that color can be photographed as faithfully as light and shade?"
"Believe, girl? I know it. Does not your own beautiful eye print upon its retina tints, dyes and hues innumerable? And what is the eye but a lens? God was the first photographer. Give me but a living, sentient, perfect human eye to dissect and analyze, and I swear by the holy book of science that I will detect the secret, though hidden deep down in the primal particles of matter."
"And why a human eye? Why not an eagle's or a lion's?"
"A question I once propounded to myself, and never rested till it was solved," replied Pollexfen. "Go into my parlor, and ask my pets if I have not been diligent, faithful, and honest. I have tested every eye but the human. From the dull shark's to the imperial condor's, I have tried them all. Months elapsed ere I discovered the error in my reasoning. Finally, a little boy explained it all. 'Mother,' said a child, in my hearing, 'when the pigeons mate, do they choose the prettiest birds?' 'No,' said his mother. 'And why not?' pursued the boy. Because, responded I, waking as from a dream, they have no perception of color! The animal world sports in light and shade; the human only rejoices in the apprehension of color. Does the horse admire the rainbow? or does the ox spare the buttercup and the violet, because they are beautiful? The secret lies in the human eye alone. An eye! an eye! give me but one, Lucile!"
As the girl was about to answer, the photographer again interposed, "Not now; I want no answer now; I give you a month for reflection." And so saying, he left the room as unceremoniously as he had entered.
The struggle in the mind of Lucile was sharp and decisive. Dependent herself upon her daily labor, her lover an invalid, and her nearest kindred starving, were facts that spoke in deeper tones than the thunder to her soul. Besides, was not one eye to be spared her, and was not a single eye quite as good as two? She thought, too, how glorious it would be if Pollexfen should not be mistaken, and she herself should conduce so essentially to the noblest triumph of the photographic art.
A shade, however, soon overspread her glowing face, as the unbidden idea came forward: "And will my lover still be faithful to a mutilated bride? Will not my beauty be marred forever? But," thought she, "is not this sacrifice for him? Oh, yes! we shall cling still more closely in consequence of the very misfortune that renders our union possible." One other doubt suggested itself to her mind: "Is this contract legal? Can it be enforced? If so," and here her compressed lips, her dilated nostril, and her clenched hand betokened her decision, "if so, I yield!"
Three weeks passed quickly away, and served but to strengthen the determination of Lucile. At the expiration of that period, and just one week before the time fixed for the accomplishment of this cruel scheme, I was interrupted, during the trial of a cause, by the entry of my clerk, with a short note from Mademoiselle Marmont, requesting my immediate presence at the office. Apologizing to the judge, and to my associate counsel, I hastily left the court-room.
On entering, I found Lucile completely veiled. Nor was it possible, during our interview, to catch a single glimpse of her features. She rose, and advancing toward me, extended her hand; whilst pressing it I felt it tremble.
"Read this document, Mr. Falconer, and advise me as to its legality. I seek no counsel as to my duty. My mind is unalterably fixed on that subject, and I beg of you, as a favor, in advance, to spare yourself the trouble, and me the pain, of reopening it."
If the speech, and the tone in which it was spoken, surprised me, I need not state how overwhelming was my astonishment at the contents of the document. I was absolutely stunned. The paper fell from my hands as though they were paralyzed. Seeing my embarrassment, Lucile rose and paced the room in an excited manner. Finally pausing, opposite my desk, she inquired, "Do you require time to investigate the law?"
"Not an instant," said I, recovering my self-possession. "This paper is not only illegal, but the execution of it an offense. It provides for the perpetration of the crime of mayhem, and it is my duty, as a good citizen, to arrest the wretch who can contemplate so heinous and inhuman an act, without delay. See! he has even had the insolence to insert my own name as paymaster for his villainy."
"I did not visit your office to hear my benefactor and friend insulted," ejaculated the girl, in a bitter and defiant tone. "I only came to get an opinion on a matter of law."
"But this monster is insane, utterly crazy," retorted I. "He ought, this moment, to be in a madhouse."
"Where they did put Tasso, and tried to put Galileo," she rejoined.
"In the name of the good God!" said I, solemnly, "are you in earnest?"
"Were I not, I should not be here."
"Then our conversation must terminate just where it began."
Lucile deliberately took her seat at my desk, and seizing a pen hastily affixed her signature to the agreement, and rising, left the office without uttering another syllable.
"I have, at least, the paper," thought I, "and that I intend to keep."
My plans were soon laid. I sat down and addressed a most pressing letter to Mr. Courtland, informing him fully of the plot of the lunatic, for so I then regarded him, and urged him to hasten to San Francisco without a moment's delay. Then, seizing my hat, I made a most informal call on Dr. White, and consulted him as to the best means of breaking through the conspiracy. We agreed at once that, as Pollexfen had committed no overt act in violation of law, he could not be legally arrested, but that information must be lodged with the chief of police, requesting him to detail a trustworthy officer, whose duty it should be to obey us implicitly, and be ready to act at a moment's notice.
All this was done, and the officer duly assigned for duty. His name was Cloudsdale. We explained to him fully the nature of the business intrusted to his keeping, and took great pains to impress upon him the necessity of vigilance and fidelity. He entered into the scheme with alacrity, and was most profuse in his promises.
Our settled plan was to meet at the outer door of the photographer's gallery, at half-past ten o'clock P. M., on the 19th of November, 1853, and shortly afterwards to make our way, by stratagem or force, into the presence of Pollexfen, and arrest him on the spot. We hoped to find such preparations on hand as would justify the arrest, and secure his punishment. If not, Lucile was to be removed, at all events, and conducted to a place of safety. Such was the general outline. During the week we had frequent conferences, and Cloudsdale effected an entrance, on two occasions, upon some slight pretext, into the room of the artist. But he could discover nothing to arouse suspicion; so, at least, he informed us. During the morning of the 19th, a warrant of arrest was duly issued, and lodged in the hands of Cloudsdale for execution. He then bade us good morning, and urged us to be promptly on the ground at half-past ten. He told us that he had another arrest to make on the Sacramento boat, when she arrived, but would not be detained five minutes at the police office. This was annoying, but we submitted with the best grace possible.
During the afternoon, I got another glimpse at our "trusty." The steamer left for Panama at one P. M., and I went on board to bid adieu to a friend who was a passenger.
Cloudsdale was also there, and seemed anxious and restive. He told me that he was on the lookout for a highway robber, who had been tracked to the city, and it might be possible that he was stowed away secretly on the ship. Having business up town, I soon left, and went away with a heavy heart.
As night approached I grew more and more nervous, for the party most deeply interested in preventing this crime had not made his appearance. Mr. Courtland had not reached the city. Sickness or the miscarriage of my letter, was doubtless the cause.
The Doctor and myself supped together, and then proceeded to my chambers, where we armed ourselves as heavily as though we were about to fight a battle. We were both silent. The enormity of Pollexfen's contemplated crime struck us dumb. The evening, however, wore painfully away, and finally our watches pointed to the time when we should take our position, as before agreed upon.
We were the first on the ground. This we did not specially notice then; but when five, then ten, and next, fifteen minutes elapsed, and the officer still neglected to make his appearance, our uneasiness became extreme. Twenty—twenty-five minutes passed; still Cloudsdale was unaccountably detained. "Can he be already in the rooms above?" we eagerly asked one another. "Are we not betrayed?" exclaimed I, almost frantically.
"We have no time to spare in discussion," replied the Doctor, and, advancing, we tried the door. It was locked. We had brought a step-ladder, to enter by the window, if necessary. Next, we endeavored to hoist the window; it was nailed down securely. Leaping to the ground we made an impetuous, united onset against the door; but it resisted all our efforts to burst it in. Acting now with all the promptitude demanded by the occasion, we mounted the ladder, and by a simultaneous movement broke the sash, and leaped into the room. Groping our way hurriedly to the stairs, we had placed our feet upon the first step, when our ears were saluted with one long, loud, agonizing shriek. The next instant we rushed into the apartment of Lucile, and beheld a sight that seared our own eyeballs with horror, and baffles any attempt at description.
Before our faces stood the ferocious demon, holding in his arms the fainting girl, and hurriedly clipping, with a pair of shears, the last muscles and integuments which held the organ in its place.
"Hold! for God's sake, hold!" shouted Dr. White, and instantly grappled with the giant. Alas! alas! it was too late, forever! The work had been done; the eye torn, bleeding, from its socket, and just as the Doctor laid his arm upon Pollexfen, the ball fell, dripping with gore, into his left hand.
This is the end of the fourth phase.
PHASE THE FIFTH, AND LAST.
"Monster," cried I, "we arrest you for the crime of mayhem."
"Perhaps, gentlemen," said the photographer, "you will be kind enough to exhibit your warrant." As he said this, he drew from his pocket with his right hand, the writ of arrest which had been intrusted to Cloudsdale, and deliberately lighting it in the candle, burned it to ashes before we could arrest his movement. Lucile had fallen upon a ready prepared bed, in a fit of pain, and fainting. The Doctor took his place at her side, his own eyes streaming with tears, and his very soul heaving with agitation.
As for me, my heart was beating as audibly as a drum. With one hand I grappled the collar of Pollexfen, and with the other held a cocked pistol at his head.
He stood as motionless as a statue. Not a nerve trembled nor a tone faltered, as he spoke these words: "I am most happy to see you, gentlemen; especially the Doctor, for he can relieve me of the duties of surgeon. You, sir, can assist him as nurse." And shaking off my hold as though it had been a child's, he sprang into the laboratory adjoining, and locked the door as quick as thought.
The insensibility of Lucile did not last long. Consciousness returned gradually, and with it pain of the most intense description. Still she maintained a rigidness of feature, and an intrepidity of soul that excited both sorrow and admiration. "Poor child! poor child!" was all we could utter, and even that spoken in whispers. Suddenly a noise in the laboratory attracted attention. Rising I went close to the door.
"Two to one in measure; eight to one in weight; water, only water," soliloquized the photographer. Then silence, "Phosphorus; yellow in color; burns in oxygen." Silence again.
"Good God!" cried I, "Doctor, he is analyzing her eye! The fiend is actually performing his incantations!"
A moment elapsed. A sudden, sharp explosion; then a fall, as if a chair had been upset, and——
"Carbon in combustion! Carbon in combustion!" in a wild, excited tone, broke from the lips of Pollexfen, and the instant afterwards he stood at the bedside of his pupil. "Lucile! Lucile! the secret is ours; ours only!"
At the sound of his voice the girl lifted herself from her pillow, whilst he proceeded: "Carbon in combustion; I saw it ere the light died from the eyeball."
A smile lighted the pale face of the girl as she faintly responded, "Regulus gave both eyes for his country; I have given but one for my art."
Pressing both hands to my throbbing brow, I asked myself, "Can this be real? Do I dream? If real, why do I not assassinate the fiend? Doctor," said I, "we must move Lucile. I will seek assistance."
"Not so," responded Pollexfen; the excitement of motion might bring on erysipelas, or still worse, tetanus.
A motion from Lucile brought me to her bedside. Taking from beneath her pillow a bank deposit-book, and placing it in my hands, she requested me to hand it to Courtland the moment of his arrival, which she declared would be the 20th, and desire him to read the billet attached to the banker's note of the deposit. "Tell him," she whispered, "not to love me less in my mutilation;" and again she relapsed into unconsciousness.
The photographer now bent over the senseless form of his victim, and muttering, "Yes, carbon in combustion," added, in a softened tone, "Poor girl!" As he lifted his face, I detected a solitary tear course down his impressive features. "The first I have shed," said he, sternly, "since my daughter's death."
Saying nothing, I could only think—"And this wretch once had a child!"
The long night through we stood around her bed. With the dawn, Martha, the housekeeper, returned, and we then learned, for the first time, with what consummate skill Pollexfen had laid all his plans. For even the housekeeper had been sent out of the way, and on a fictitious pretense that she was needed at the bedside of a friend, whose illness was feigned for the occasion. Nor was the day over before we learned with certainty, but no longer with surprise, that Cloudsdale was on his way to Panama, with a bribe in his pocket.
As soon as it was safe to remove Lucile, she was borne on a litter to the hospital of Dr. Peter Smith, where she received every attention that her friends could bestow.
Knowing full well, from what Lucile had told me, that Courtland would be down in the Sacramento boat, I awaited his arrival with the greatest impatience. I could only surmise what would be his course. But judging from my own feelings, I could not doubt that it would be both desperate and decisive.
Finally, the steamer rounded to, and the next moment the pale, emaciated form of the youth sank, sobbing, into my arms. Other tears mingled with his own.
The story was soon told. Eagerly, most eagerly, Courtland read the little note accompanying the bankbook. It was very simple, and ran thus:
My own life's Life: Forgive the first, and only act, that you will ever disapprove of in the conduct of your mutilated but loving Lucile. Ah! can I still hope for your love, in the future, as in the past? Give me but that assurance, and death itself would be welcome.
L. M.
We parted very late; he going to a hotel, I to the bedside of the wounded girl. Our destinies would have been reversed, but the surgeon's order was imperative, that she should see no one whose presence might conduce still further to bring on inflammation of the brain.
The next day, Courtland was confined to his bed until late in the afternoon, when he dressed, and left the hotel. I saw him no more until the subsequent day. Why, it now becomes important to relate.
About eight o'clock in the evening of the 21st, the day after his arrival, Courtland staggered into the gallery, or rather the den of John Pollexfen. He had no other arms than a short double-edged dagger, and this he concealed in his sleeve.
They had met before; as he sometimes went there, anterior to the death of M. Marmont, to obtain the photographs upon which Lucile was experimenting, previous to her engagement by the artist.
Pollexfen manifested no surprise at his visit; indeed, his manner indicated that it had been anticipated.
"You have come into my house, young man," slowly enunciated the photographer, "to take my life."
"I do not deny it," replied Courtland.
As he said this, he took a step forward. Pollexfen threw open his vest, raised himself to his loftiest height, and solemnly said: "Fire! or strike! as the case may be; I shall offer no resistance. I only beg of you, as a gentleman, to hear me through before you play the part of assassin."
Their eyes met. The struck lamb gazing at the eagle! Vengeance encountering Faith! The pause was but momentary. "I will hear you," said Courtland, sinking into a chair, already exhausted by his passion.
Pollexfen did not move. Confronting the lover, he told his story truthfully to the end. He plead for his life; for he felt the proud consciousness of having performed an act of duty that bordered upon the heroic.
Still, there was no relenting in the eye of Courtland. It had that expression in it that betokens blood. Cæsar saw it as Brutus lifted his dagger. Henry of Navarre recognized it as the blade of Ravillac sank into his heart. Joaquin beheld it gleaming in the vengeful orbs of Harry Love! Pollexfen, too, understood the language that it spoke.
Dropping his hands, and taking one stride toward the young man, he sorrowfully said: "I have but one word more to utter. Your affianced bride has joyfully sacrificed one of her lustrous eyes to science. In doing so, she expressed but one regret, that you, whom she loved better than vision, or even life, might, as the years roll away, forget to love her in her mutilation as you did in her beauty. Perfect yourself, she feared mating with imperfection might possibly estrange your heart. Your superiority in personal appearance might constantly disturb the perfect equilibrium of love."
He ceased. The covert meaning was seized with lightning rapidity by Courtland. Springing to his feet, he exclaimed joyfully: "The sacrifice must be mutual. God never created a soul that could outdo Charles Courtland's in generosity."
Flinging his useless dagger upon the floor, he threw himself into the already extended arms of the photographer, and begged him "to be quick with the operation." The artist required no second invitation, and ere the last words died upon his lips, the sightless ball of his left eye swung from its socket.
There was no cry of pain; no distortion of the young man's features with agony; no moan, or sob, or sigh. As he closed firmly his right eye, and compressed his pallid lips, a joyous smile lit up his whole countenance that told the spectator how superior even human love is to the body's anguish; how willingly the severest sacrifice falls at the beck of honor!
I shall attempt no description of the manner in which I received the astounding news from the lips of the imperturbable Pollexfen; nor prolong this narrative by detailing the meeting of the lovers, their gradual recovery, their marriage, and their departure for the vales of Dauphiny. It is but just to add, however, that Pollexfen added two thousand five hundred dollars to the bank account of Mademoiselle Marmont, on the day of her nuptials, as a bridal present, given, no doubt, partially as a compensation to the heroic husband for his voluntary mutilation.
Long months elapsed after the departure of Lucile and her lover before the world heard anything more of the photographer.
One day, however, in the early spring of the next season, it was observed that Pollexfen had opened a new and most magnificent gallery upon Montgomery Street, and had painted prominently upon his sign, these words:
John Pollexfen, Photographer.
Discoverer of the Carbon Process,
By which Colored Pictures are Painted by the Sun.
The news of this invention spread, in a short time, over the whole civilized world; and the Emperor Napoleon the Third, with the liberality characteristic of great princes, on hearing from the lips of Lucile a full account of this wonderful discovery, revived, in favor of John Pollexfen, the pension which had been bestowed upon Niépce, and which had lapsed by his death, in 1839; and with a magnanimity that would have rendered still more illustrious his celebrated uncle, revoked the decree of forfeiture against the estates of M. Marmont, and bestowed them, with a corresponding title of nobility, upon Lucile and her issue.
This ends my story. I trust the patient reader will excuse its length, for it was all necessary, in order to explain how John Pollexfen made his fortune.
