"The blond misses of Albion see nothing in the dull inhabitants of their brumous isle, which can compare with the ardor and vivacity of the children of the south. We bring our sunshine with us; we are Frenchmen, and accustomed to conquer. Were it not for this affair of the heart, and my determination to marry an Anglaise, do you think I would stop in this island (which is not altogether ungrateful, since I have found here a tender mother in the respectable Madame Fribsbi), in this island, in this family? My genius would use itself in the company of these rustics—the poesy of my art can not be understood by these carnivorous insularies. No—the men are odious, but the women—the women! I own, dear Fribsbi, are seducing! I have vowed to marry one; and as I can not go into your markets and purchase, according to the custom of the country, I am resolved to adopt another custom, and fly with one to Gretna Green. The blonde Miss will go. She is fascinated. Her eyes have told me so. The white dove wants but the signal to fly."
"Have you any correspondence with her?" asked Fribsby, in amazement, and not knowing whether the young lady or the lover might be laboring under a romantic delusion.
"I correspond with her by means of my art. She partakes of dishes which I make expressly for her. I insinuate to her thus a thousand hints, which, as she is perfectly spiritual, she receives. But I want other intelligences near her."
"There is Pincott, her maid," said Madame Fribsby, who, by aptitude or education, seemed to have some knowledge of affairs of the heart, but the great artist's brow darkened at this suggestion.
"Madame," he said, "there are points upon which a gallant man ought to silence himself; though, if he break the secret, he may do so with the least impropriety to his best friend—his adopted mother. Know then, that there is a cause why Miss Pincott should be hostile to me—a cause not uncommon with your sex—jealousy."
"Perfidious monster!" said the confidante.
"Ah, no," said the artist, with a deep bass voice, and a tragic accent worthy of the Porte St. Martin and his favorite melo-drames. "Not perfidious, but fatal. Yes, I am a fatal man, Madame Fribsbi. To inspire hopeless passion is my destiny. I can not help it that women love me. Is it my fault that that young woman deperishes and languishes to the view of the eye, consumed by a flame which I can not return? Listen! There are others in this family who are similarly unhappy. The governess of the young Milor has encountered me in my walks, and looked at me in a way which can bear but one interpretation. And Milady herself, who is of mature age, but who has oriental blood, has once or twice addressed compliments to the lonely artist which can admit of no mistake. I avoid the household, I seek solitude, I undergo my destiny. I can marry but one, and am resolved it shall be to a lady of your nation. And, if her fortune is sufficient, I think Miss would be the person who would be most suitable. I wish to ascertain what her means are before I lead her to Gretna Grin."
Whether Alcide was as irresistible a conqueror as his namesake, or whether he was simply crazy, is a point which must be left to the reader's judgment. But the latter, if he has had the benefit of much French acquaintance, has perhaps met with men among them who fancied themselves almost as invincible; and who, if you credit them, have made equal havoc in the hearts of les Anglaises.