One word more with regard to my dramatis persono, none of whom are to be taken for photographs or caricatures of living individuals. In one case I have endeavoured to construct out of the editorial chit-chat of a journal an amusing personality,—not, I think, ungenerously conceived; of the real editor I know absolutely nothing, and I certainly bear him no ill-will, much as I dislike the system of personal journalism which he has created. All the other characters are purely fictitious. Gavrolles and his circle are to be accepted as representatives, not of æstheticism proper, but of the cant of æstheticism—which is quite another thing.
R. B.
THE MARTYRDOM OF MADELINE.
PROLOGUE IN THE NIGHT.
As the two women gazed at one another under the lamplight, one standing and looking down, the other sitting and looking up, you would have said they might have been twin sisters—they looked so wonderfully alike. Both were fair, with pale forget-me-not eyes, and skins delicately clear; both were tall and slight. Nor was there any very noticeable difference in the dress they wore. She who stood erect, with the rain beating down upon her head, wore only, besides her bonnet and dress of black stuff, a shawl wrapt tightly around her; the shawl was rich and valuable, but looked common enough in the dim light. She who sat, with her elbow on her knees and her chin resting in her open palms, wore a shawl too, and a plain stuff dress, sodden with the rain; her bonnet had fallen back, soaking and unheeded, on her shoulders, just held by the sodden strings.
A close observer, however, would have perceived a world of difference between these two women. The woman standing had the fierce, pained, impatient manner of a wild animal; every look, every gesture was self-contained, determined, yet full of overmastering anxiety, The woman sitting was a crushed, gin-sodden, passionless, powerless waif, with only the courage of a hunted pariah dog, to snap, and crawl uselessly away.