‘“Ay, these fifteen,” interposed Ned.
‘“No, it isn’t though,” said the captain crossly, “it isn’t more than three at most—cut off in her prime too. She was the last of an old stock—I knew them all well. There was Dick—blazing Dick O’Kelly, as they called him—that threw the sheriff into the mill-race at Kilmacud, and had to go to France afterwards; and there was Peter—Peter got the property, but he was shot in a duel. Peter had a son—a nice devil he was too; he was drowned at sea; and except the little girl that has the school up there, Sally O’Kelly—she is one of them—there’s none to the fore.”
‘“And who was she, sir?”
‘“Sally was—what’s this? Ay, Sally is daughter to a son Dick left in France. He died in the war in Germany, and left this creature; and Miss Judy heard of her, and got her over here, just the week she departed herself. She’s the last of them now—the best family in Kerry—and keeping a child’s school! Ay, ay, so it is; and there’s property too coming to her, if they could only prove that chap’s death, Con O’Kelly. But sure no one knows anything where it happened. Sam Fitzsimon advertised him in all the papers, but to no use.”
‘I did not wait for more of the old captain’s reminiscences, but snatching up my hat I hurried down the street, and in less than an hour was closeted with Mr. Samuel Fitzsimon, attorney-at-law, and gravely discussing the steps necessary to be taken for the assumption of my right to a small property, the remains of my Aunt Judy’s—a few hundred pounds, renewal fines of lands, that had dropped since my father’s death. My next visit was to the little school, which was held in the parlour where poor Aunt Judy used to have her little card parties. The old stuffed macaw—now from dirt and smoke he might have passed for a raven—was still over the fireplace, and there was the old miniature of my father, and on the other side was one which I had not seen before, of Father Donnellan in full robes. All the little old conchologies were there too; and except the black plethoric-looking cat that sat staring fixedly at the fire as if she was grieving over the price of coals, I missed nothing. Miss Sally was a nice modest-looking woman, with an air of better class about her than her humble occupation would seem to imply. I made known my relationship in a few words, and having told her that I had made all arrangements for settling whatever property I possessed upon her, and informed her that Mr. Fitzsimon would act as her guardian, I wished her good-bye and departed. I saw that my life must be passed in occupation of one kind or other—idleness would never do; and with the only fifty I reserved to myself of my little fortune, I started for Paris. What I was to do I had no idea whatever; but I well knew that you have only to lay the bridle on Fortune’s neck, and you ‘ll seldom be disappointed in adventures.
‘For some weeks I strolled about Paris, enjoying myself as thoughtlessly as though I had no need of any effort to replenish my failing exchequer. The mere human tide that flowed along the Boulevards and through the gay gardens of the Tuileries would have been amusement enough for me. Then there were theatres and cafés and restaurants of every class—from the costly style of the “Rocher” down to the dinner beside the fountain Des Innocents, where you feast for four sous, and where the lowest and poorest class of the capital resorted. Well, well, I might tell you some strange scenes of those days, but I must hurry on.
‘In my rambles through Paris, visiting strange and out-of-the-way places, dining here and supping there, watching life under every aspect I could behold it, I strolled one evening across the Pont Neuf into the Ile St. Louis, that quaint old quarter, with its narrow straggling streets, and its tall gloomy houses, barricaded like fortresses. The old portes cochères studded with nails and barred with iron, and having each a small window to peer through at the stranger without, spoke of days when outrage and attack were rife, and it behoved every man to fortify his stronghold as best he could. There were now to be found the most abandoned and desperate of the whole Parisian world; the assassin, the murderer, the housebreaker, the coiner, found a refuge in this confused wilderness of gloomy alleys and dark dismal passages. When night falls, no lantern throws a friendly gleam along the streets; all is left in perfect darkness, save when the red light of some cabaret lamp streams across the pavement. In one of these dismal streets I found myself when night set in, and although I walked on and on, somehow I never could extricate myself, but continually kept moving in some narrow circle—so I guessed at least, for I never wandered far from the deep-toned bell of Notre Dame, that went on chanting its melancholy peal through the stillness of the night air. I often stopped to listen. Now it seemed before, now behind me; the rich solemn sound floating through those cavernous streets had something awfully impressive. The voice that called to prayer, heard in that gloomy haunt of crime, was indeed a strange and appalling thing. At last it ceased, and all was still. For some time I was uncertain how to act. I feared to knock at a door and ask my way; the very confession of my loneliness would have been an invitation to outrage, if not murder. No one passed me; the streets seemed actually deserted.
‘Fatigued with walking, I sat down on a door-sill and began to consider what was best to be done, when I heard the sound of heavy feet moving along towards me, the clattering of sabots on the rough pavement, and shortly after a man came up, who, I could just distinguish, seemed to be a labourer. I suffered him to pass me a few paces, and then called out—
‘“Halloa, friend! can you tell me the shortest way to the Pont Neuf?”
‘He replied by some words in a patois so strange I could make nothing of it. I repeated my question, and endeavoured by signs to express my wish. By this time he was standing close beside me, and I could mark was evidently paying full attention to all I said. He looked about him once or twice, as if in search of some one, and then turning to me said, in a thick guttural voice—