They say that some of the most talented men die unknown, or live misunderstood. I do not believe this. A first attempt may not be successful, but true merit inevitably rises at last to its own level. I made this reflection, which I believe a just one, as I thought bitterly that sooner or later the remarkable talent of Frank would become recognised, and that his obscurity, over which I was now rejoicing, would be but a thing of the past.
I looked again in the catalogue for the numbers and subjects of his water-colour sketches. Like the painting, they demonstrated the poetic intelligence of the artist.
The subject of one was from Shakespeare's "King Lear;" the other was from Goethe's beautiful drama of "Goetz of Berlichingen."
Not far from Frank's oil-painting I discovered these two sketches, which were of large dimensions.
The subject of the first was that sad and touching scene, in which Cordelia, the noble daughter of the old king, notices in her father the return of reason, the cruelty of his other daughters having driven him crazy.
He exclaims:
"Where have I been? Where am I? Fair daylight! I am mightily abused. I should e'en die with pity, to see another thus. I know not what to say, I will not swear these are my hands. Let's see, I feel this pin prick. Would I were assured of my condition!"
"Oh, look upon me, sir," sweet Cordelia replies, "and hold your hands in benediction o'er me; no, sir, you must not kneel," she cries, holding in hers her father's hands, who, pale and trembling, wishes to kneel before his daughter, saying: "Pray do not mock me. I am a very foolish fond old man, forescore and upward, not an hour more nor less; and, to deal plainly, I fear I am not in my perfect mind. Methinks I should know you, and know this man; yet I am doubtful: for I am mainly ignorant what place this is; and all the skill I have remembers not these garments; nor I know not where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me; for, as I am a man, I think this lady to be my child Cordelia."
"And so I am, I am," cries Cordelia, weeping, and wetting his hands with her tears.
"Be your tears wet? Yes, 'faith. I pray, weep not: if you have poison for me, I will drink it. I know you do not love me; for your sisters have, as I do remember, done me wrong: you have some cause, they have not."
All the fearful sadness of the poor king, all the courageous tenderness of Cordelia, were exhaled from this beautiful drawing, which bore the imprint of the sombre and melancholy genius of Shakespeare.
The other water-colour offered a remarkable contrast to the first; there, one beheld the wildness and rusticity of the German nature. The scene was laid in the vast and antique kitchen of old Goetz's château, which had been transformed into a magazine and hospital during the siege of his feudal habitation by the troops of the Empire.
Elizabeth, his wife, is busy in attending to the needs of a wounded man; the men are all on the ramparts, and so the women and children are hurrying here and there, moulding bullets or preparing food for the besieged. Old Goetz has just entered. His rude physiognomy, frank and warlike, shows the stubbornness and bravery of this man of iron; armed with his breastplate, he has placed, for an instant, his casque and his arquebuse on a massive oak table, on which is stretched out the half of a deer, that no one has had the time to cut up. Goetz passes one of his great hands over his forehead, from which he wipes the moisture, and in the other hand holds a large pewter mug, from which he means to quench his thirst and renew his strength.
"Thou hast a hard time, poor wife?" says he to Elizabeth. "I hope to have it a long time," she answers; "but we will hardly hold out." "Some charcoal, madame!" asks a servant maid. "What for?" "To melt bullets, we have no more." "How are you off for powder?" "We waste none of our shots, madame."
In order to give an idea of the powerful and varied beauty of the principal figures in this drawing, it will suffice to say that they perfectly expressed the savage energy which Goethe ascribes to them.
As I returned home, thinking of this unknown man, who had held me so long under the irresistible spell of his talent, my jealousy, my hateful irritation, gave way to a sort of sadness, which was calmer, but harder to bear. For the first time in my life, I was ashamed of my own idleness, as I compared the pure and elevated emotions, the noble resources, that the man I detested, this Frank, must find in his art, to the aimless life I was dragging along in such obscurity, without even having enough vulgar common sense to enjoy the sensual delights that were offered me.
I could not, however, hide from myself the fact that regret and envy were the sole motives of such reflections. Had Hélène married a man who was rich, idle, and well born, in the same social position as myself, I should never have had such thoughts; therefore, I was enraged when I reflected that fame would put an enormous and insurmountable distance between this Frank and myself. Sooner or later, he would be able to bestow on Hélène, not only the fortune that I could have given her, but the distinction of a great name, a name to be illustrious for ever, perhaps one of those glorious names that thrills with pride the woman who bears it!
Oh, how frightful all this seemed to me! For me there was no consolation, no possible hope. I found consolation, however, in this thought, which came to me through dragging to the surface every shameful and mean thought that was buried deep in my envious soul.
I hoped that Frank, in spite of his talent and his poesy, would prove to be of a vulgar and repulsive appearance. Besides, he could never have received that refined education, which results in elegance in the smallest details of daily life, a charm which Hélène, who was a woman of such distinction, knew so well how to appreciate. Remembering, with a childish maliciousness, how few of the men of talent or genius I had met had an education and charm of manner on a level with the splendours of their mind, I had hopes that Frank would not be among the number of these privileged few.
Shall I dare to tell it? It was with the greatest conceivable impatience that I waited for night to come, so that again I might take my station before the shutters of Hélène's house, and find out if I had been mistaken on the subject of Frank.
Nothing could be wilder or more ridiculous than this kind of espionage. And, besides, why should I wish to continue in the fatal round? Why open a wound which was already so sore? I know not, but my curiosity was insurmountable.
I could not go too soon before Hélène's house, for fear of attracting the attention of people who might pass by. It was, therefore, ten o'clock at night when I reached that lonely boulevard.
The light was shining clearly from the little holes in the shutters. I crept quietly up to the house.
The little salon was lighted up; but at first I did not see Hélène.
Near the mantelpiece a man was drawing, by the light of a lamp. This man could be no other than Frank.
On beholding him, I felt myself torn to pieces by jealousy and hatred, for I could see that he was very young and remarkably handsome. The clear light from the lamp shone on his profile, whose noble contour showed a striking and extraordinary likeness to the portraits of Raphaël at twenty-five.
His mouth had a smile both sweet and serious, and his eyelashes were so long that they threw a shadow on his delicate pale cheeks. His hair was chestnut brown, and, as was the fashion among German students, he wore it falling in soft curls on his neck, whose grace and elegance were apparent; for Frank wore a sort of black velvet jacket, belted around the waist with a purple silk cord. His long, white hand, which from time to time dipped a paint brush into a glass cup, was admirably shaped.
Nothing could be more despicable than my real despair at the revelation of Frank's beauty. But are the secret and disgraceful sores of pride any the less agonising, because they are hidden out of sight, in the very recesses of our hearts?
But with the insatiable avidity of despair, that wishes to drain its bitter cup to the dregs, I looked again into the parlour, leaning my burning forehead against the damp panel of the window blinds.
I cast my eyes towards the door which led into that other room; where the day before I had seen the cradle, I now saw, through that door which was standing wide open, Hélène sleeping beside her child.
Frank kept on with his drawing, though from time to time he would give a tender glance towards the enchanting group.
Never in my life shall I forget the sublime spectacle of this noble young man working thus in the silence of night, and the sacred tranquillity of the domestic hearth, to assure the existence of the wife and child who were sleeping so peacefully under his protection.
All the blackness of my envy could not withstand a scene so simple and so grand. My soul, until then cold and inflexible, was gently and insensibly penetrated by admiration. I understood how much hope and strength this young man must possess in order to struggle, talented and unknown, against the evil days now present and the terrible uncertainty of future success.
How beautiful Hélène was while thus sleeping! How blissful seemed her slumbers! What an angelic calm was on her closed eyelids; what serenity on her pure white brow, encircled by the waves of blonde hair; with what maternal grace she abandoned one of her beautiful hands to her child, who, still asleep, clasped it with his little fingers! Hélène had, no doubt, hesitated to withdraw it for fear of awakening him. What a serious charm her features had taken on! It was the melancholy and sweet smile of the young wife, happy and proud in her dignity of being a mother.
How despairing was my regret! With what bitterness I again recalled all I had lost as I contemplated this touching and chaste picture, in admiring that home which was so poor and yet seemed so blessed of God.
I know not how long a time I remained absorbed in such thoughts, but it must have been late when I again looked into the salon, for Frank was standing and contemplating his work with the fugitive and pleased look of an artist who is charmed and proud of his work. This satisfaction, rapid and ephemeral as it is, which only lasts a moment, reveals to the artist in that one moment the resplendent beauty of his work in all its perfections. Then, strange phenomenon, this divine lustre once gone, this consciousness of genius once extinct, the artist loses all remembrance of it. It is no more than a vague and far-off dream, whose memory excites him without reassuring him, and he becomes crushed to earth under the terrible doubt as to the real worth of his talents,—eternal torture to a sensitive soul who can compare the limitations of art to the grandeur of nature.
After having contemplated his drawing, Frank smiled sadly, covered it over, and went towards a little secretary which stood on the other side of the fireplace. He opened a drawer, took out a purse, and, having put to one side some pieces of gold, he sighed as he looked at the little that remained.
Almost at the same instant he glanced quickly and sadly at his wife and her child; then with his forehead bent on his hands he remained for some time with his elbows on the mantelpiece.
I understood it all.
No doubt this brave man was experiencing one of those terrible alarms during which the reality of his position crushes him with its chilling, deadening weight. The radiant wings of his bright genius, which for a moment he had spread out so gloriously, had dashed against that hideous phantom, which always stands like an open sepulchre,—want! And he had a wife, a child,—and that wife was Hélène!
However, after a moment of reflection, Frank proudly raised his beautiful head; his eyes, though moistened with tears, shone with courage and with hope. It may have only been by chance, but his gaze, so touching, and so full of energy, fell on "The Descent from the Cross," by Rembrandt, one of the engravings which ornamented the salon.
Thus, as he contemplated this symbol of suffering on earth, Frank's features gradually became serene and grave. Perhaps he was ashamed of his weakness and discouragement, when he remembered the immeasurable sorrow and the angelic patience of the One whose Calvary was so high and whose cross was so heavy.
I returned home sadder but less unhappy. Some kindly feelings cooled the burning regrets that were consuming me. I no longer had the heart to begrudge Frank his happiness; nor did I rejoice over his poverty when I had seen how courageously he bore it. The love I bore to Hélène, the remembrance of my mother, who had loved her so much, of my father, to whom she had been like a daughter, brought better and more generous thoughts into my mind. I wished that I might be of some service to them both, and to this end I went the next day to see Lord Falmouth.
CHAPTER XXVIII
THE DEPARTURE
My idea was to beg Lord Falmouth to buy for me, in his own name, the oil-painting and the two water-colours by Frank; and afterwards to order, still in his name, a set of drawings on subjects from the works of Schiller, Shakespeare, Goethe, and Walter Scott.
My object was to assure the future for a certain length of time to Hélène and Frank by this easy and pleasing work, which would not interfere in any way with that inspiration necessary to more serious labours, and in doing this I hoped to liberate this noble young man from those sad and annoying preoccupations which often react with fatal effect on even the greatest geniuses.
I addressed myself to Lord Falmouth in preference to any other man, because, in spite of his reputation as a man who was perfectly blasé, and his disdainful and profound scepticism of all and everything, he was the only man among my acquaintances that I dared to take so much into my confidence. I had noticed in him—doubtless to give credit to that common saying, that extremes meet—a great inclination, not to feel, but at least to contemplate, all emotions that were young, innocent, and happy.
It was anything but easy to get to see him before four o'clock in the afternoon, the hour at which he got up; however, he received me.
"Where do you come from?" said he; "for the last eight days no one has caught a glimpse of you anywhere. I know very well that Madame de Pënâfiel has left town, but you are not the kind of man to be inconsolable; besides, a departure is always flattering—when one stays behind."
"I want to speak to you very seriously," said I, fearing that if our conversation took on such a bantering tone, he would interpret the service I was about to ask of him in a false manner.
"What is it, then?" said he.
"In two words, then, it is this: A young foreign painter of great talent, but who is absolutely unknown here, has married my first cousin, who was like a sister to me, who grew up at our home, whom I wish you to believe that I respect as much as I love. An unfortunate lawsuit against my aunt, a suit which I may be said to have instigated and gained, much to my regret, by the abuse of a procuration, which my lawyers made use of without my knowledge, has caused a great deal of coolness between my cousin and myself, at least on her part; for, not knowing the whole truth, she believes my conduct to have been frightfully grasping. The amount I gained by this suit is very little for me, but it would be a great help to my cousin and her husband, who I admit to you are poor. On the other hand, as we never see each other any more, and as I know what a proud, sensitive nature the young woman has, it is absolutely impossible for me to restore to her what I have gained in spite of my wishes. I have then thought of a means which will conciliate everything, if you will only be so extremely obliging as to come to my aid. This young painter has exposed an oil-painting and two water-colours which show a great and incontestable talent; but his name is unknown. I wish, then, that you should buy the pictures as though for yourself, and furthermore, that you command under your own name a set of drawings from different works of Goethe, Schiller, Shakespeare, and Scott, for the sum of fifty thousand francs. You see it is an indirect manner, not of giving back the money that cursed lawsuit gained for me (for that is impossible), but at least of being of some use to my cousin and her husband, whom fortunate circumstances and certainty of work will surely place in the position he merits."
In keeping with his imperturbable nature, Lord Falmouth never manifested the least surprise, neither did he make the slightest objection, but, in the most amiable way, promised to do what I had requested him, and we agreed to go the next day to the gallery to see Frank's pictures.
More than this, he promised that he would immediately recommend the artist to five or six of his friends, who were great connoisseurs, and who would very soon be able to elevate Frank from his obscure position, if he really possessed the talent that I gave him credit for. I went then the next day to the Museum with Lord Falmouth. He had formerly been very fond of pictures himself, but, being bored with everything, was quite indifferent to them now. He was struck, however, with the indisputable talent which was so suddenly revealed in Frank's works; he admired above all the painting of Claire and Egmont, criticised it with marvellous appreciation, and admitted that, though he had distrusted my enthusiasm, he was obliged to recognise in it the work of a great painter.
Lord Falmouth was to go to see Frank the next evening, having written him a note that morning to find out if he could be received. Under the pretext of taking Lord Falmouth the money I destined for these purchases, I called on him, urged to do so by my curiosity to know Frank's answer. It was very simple, but very dignified, and neither full of that pretended modesty, that obsequious humility, which, too often, ruin the finest minds.
"If you will come and take supper with me," said I to Lord Falmouth, as I was leaving the salon, "after your visit to our great artist, I will wait for you. But not later than six o'clock in the morning," I added, laughingly.
"I will be at your house before midnight," he replied, "however extraordinary that may seem to you. The fact is, that for the last five or six days I have not been playing any more; I am in constant good luck, and that is a bore. Play for its own sake seems to me decidedly stupid. I have not the courage to play high enough to ruin myself, and, considered simply as an amusement, the loss and gain are not worth the trouble."
"And at what o'clock do you go to see Frank?"
"I am going at nine o'clock, for that is what he asks me to do in his reply to my letter. By the way, you will perhaps think me peculiar or ridiculous," added Lord Falmouth; "but I always notice the way a letter is written, and even how it is folded, for I gain from these small indications very sure knowledge as to the savoir-vivre of the writer, and on this score our young painter appears to be a perfect gentleman."
I left Lord Falmouth.
I shall not attempt to hide the fact that this last observation on his part, apropos of these trifling circumstances, which he found so full of meaning, and which I had also noticed in Frank's letter, awoke in my breast, and in spite of all my good and generous intentions, a new and cruel fit of envy.
Then, prompted by this new access of jealousy, I began for the first time to insult my noble conduct towards Frank and Hélène; I mocked at my delicacy with bitter irony. I said that I was a ridiculous fool to do all this for people who most likely never spoke of me except with scorn; then, by a miserable chain of thought, I arrived at a state of mind in which I was again capable of bringing up accusations against Hélène. If she had consoled herself so soon, it was because she had never really loved me; in spite of my love, my regret, my remorse, she had been merciless to me; her refusal of my hand was only a high-strung display of her false pride. She was still prouder than she was egotistical and mercenary, I said to myself. Fortunately, she will never know the source of this help, and, with the exception of Lord Falmouth, whose discretion I can count on, and from whom I have hidden the veritable pretext of my conduct, no one shall ever be aware of my silly generosity. And after all, I added, seeking to find by no matter what means a selfish motive for my conduct, "I have got the painting and the drawings; and when Frank will have become a celebrity, they will be very valuable, and I shall have made a good speculation!"
It was thus, alas! that I found the means of withering and falsifying my good action, through the odious fear I had of being the dupe of a high and honourable sentiment.
In spite of these fancies which for awhile dimmed the only ray of happiness whose blest influence had come to refresh me, I wished to see Hélène once more, if it were possible, and also to be an invisible witness of the manner that she and Frank would receive Lord Falmouth.
I took up my station there, on the boulevard, at nine o'clock, not daring to approach the house until after the arrival of Lord Falmouth. I did not wait long; very soon a carriage stopped, it was his. Again I leaned my forehead against the window-blinds.
By a noticeable display of good breeding, which showed me that Hélène was still the same, there had, evidently, been no preparations made in her modest home, there was nothing to indicate an expected visit from a Mæcenas. Everything was arranged with its usual taste and simplicity.
When Lord Falmouth entered, he bowed respectfully to Hélène, who received him with a polite dignity which was full of charm. Frank, in his manner, seemed to understand perfectly the exact point where the pride of an artist should give place to the affability of a man of the world. Then, no doubt at the request of Lord Falmouth, he showed him some of his sketches, and I noticed that Lord Falmouth's face, which was usually so expressionless, brightened up with something that looked almost like enthusiasm, as he contemplated I know not what drawing; while Hélène blushed with pride and pleasure on hearing these praises which Frank was receiving with so much modesty and serious good breeding.
After a half-hour's visit, Lord Falmouth took leave of Hélène, who, without rising, returned his bow in the most affable manner. Frank rang the bell, accompanied Lord Falmouth as far as the door, and bowed to him. I hid myself when Lord Falmouth came out, and until he had entered his carriage, then I returned to the window.
Frank and Hélène were no longer in the salon; they had both gone to look on their child, and I saw them smiling, as they stood besides its cradle, and gazed on it with loving eyes, as though they wished to bestow on the angelic little creature the unexpected good fortune which had come to them.
For one last time I looked towards the house with grief in my heart, and then silently bidding farewell to Hélène, I hastened away.
On returning home I waited for Lord Falmouth impatiently, for I wished to know the impression Hélène and Frank had made on him. He was soon announced.
"Do you know," said he to me on entering, "that your cousin is a très grande dame? that it would be impossible to find more grace or more distinction? that she converses most agreeably, and that I can easily conceive your anger with your lawyers for causing you to gain a suit that could bring distress to such a charming woman?
"And what about Frank?" I asked him.
"Our great painter? Before the year is out that man will have risen to his proper level. I am sure of it; and his position will be a fine one. I predict this more from his conversation than from his admirable picture, though we talked but little, after all; but in some of the sketches he showed me, and in some beautiful ideas that he developed very simply and naturally, I beheld veritable ingots of the purest and finest gold, which only awaited the stamp of the mint to become more valuable and splendid still. And with all this, everything in their simple home is in such good form and breathes such an air of native elegance that it is quite touching to see these two beautiful young people, so reserved, so noble, and so dignified in their poverty. I thank you for the sweetest impression I have felt for these many years. Your errand is done, the pictures are yours, our Frank is going to set to work on the drawings; as to the price, he is to draw on my banker at sight. I also ordered two pictures for myself, for he rekindled in me the love of art, and I am going to send two or three eminent connoisseurs to see him, who will know how to help him, so that you will see him in six months earning all the money he wants, and then he will lose the only thing that spoils him, which is the proud reserve of his manner; for fortune expands great minds, whereas it shrivels up narrow ones, until they are all that is sublimely ridiculous and insolent."
The praises bestowed On Frank, by a man who was as habitually cold and reserved as Lord Falmouth, caused me intense suffering, because they confirmed in an unmistakable way all the good qualities I had, in spite of my malevolence, discovered in Hélène's husband. I thanked Lord Falmouth for his kindness, but he appeared to perceive my unkind thoughts, and said:
"You seem to be worried."
"I really am; and as you are one of the few men to whom one may tell the truth, I am willing to admit it," said I.
"To tell you the truth, I like you better so disposed than if you were very gay," he replied. "I don't know why, but I am bored more than usual these last few days." Then after a long pause: "Does the life you are leading here amuse you enormously?" said he.
"Great God, no!" I exclaimed.
"Speaking seriously?"
"Oh, very seriously."
At this moment supper was announced.
"Be so good as to have all we will be likely to need placed on the side-tables, and send away your servants; we will talk more freely," said Lord Falmouth, in English, as we were going into the dining-room.
"Thanks to God," said he, "I never have such a good appetite as when I am bored to death. It seems as though I had at such times to nourish the beast that is within me."
"I am also very gourmand, but in fits and starts," I replied, "and then I go to impossible lengths, and when I would like to find an inventive and creative genius I only stumble on a cook. And you may laugh if you please; but I need to have an excuse to really dine conscientiously, if you will allow me to say so; for example, after a long hunt, when I can stretch out in a great armchair. I then feel a real sensual enjoyment; but to make a study of my dinner, to seriously reflect on what I am going to eat, that is too limited a pleasure; for one soon falls into repetition and then comes satiety."
"Well," said Lord Falmouth, "I had once a veritable Christopher Columbus, in his way, who discovered for me unknown worlds, but unfortunately he is dead, poor fellow! Not a suicide like your Vatel, but in a real duel with the head butler of M. de Nesselrode; for my poor Hubert deeply despised all that concerned the pantry; he would sometimes busy himself there by way of pastime, for amusement, he would say. He pretended that the pudding glacé à la Nesselrode was the result of one of these leisure hours, and that his rival was simply a plagiarist. But alas! how sad is our fate here below! My poor Hubert was doubly the victim, for the name of the great diplomat who christened the pudding is the only name that it bears in the legend of good livers."
"What a singular thing it is," said I to Lord Falmouth, "that duelling and suicide should descend so low, and how truly it is said that the passions only change their names!"
"Ah, for my poor Hubert the cuisine was a real passion. To satisfy hunger was only a vile trade, he said, but to make people eat when they were not hungry, he considered a fine art, and one he placed higher than many another."
"And he was quite right," said I to Lord Falmouth; "for if we all were virtuous enough only to care for sensual pleasures, how deadly stupid life would be! The most admirable thing about the cravings of physical appetite is that they can always be appeased, and being satisfied, bring us a torpor, a dullness, which has a certain charm, while the desires of the mind, its most splendid imaginings, only fill us with regret and bitterness."
"I think as you do," said Lord Falmouth, "it is evident that every abstract thought pursued too long a time only leaves us in a state of lassitude and chagrin, because it is not given to the human species to comprehend the eternally true, nor to attain to the eternally perfect, while a physical appetite liberally satisfied leaves the organisation calm and contented, because in this man has fulfilled an exact want of nature."
"That is true; thought wears one out and destroys one."
"And besides," said Lord Falmouth, as he slowly emptied his glass, "all this time life is passing, every day we exclaim, 'What a bore!' but that doesn't prevent, Lord be praised! the hours from gliding along all the same."
"And so we arrive," said I, "at the end of our term of life, day by day,—hour after hour."
Lord Falmouth made a gesture of resignation, filled his glass, and pushed the decanter over to me.
We remained this way some moments without speaking a word. Lord Falmouth was the first to break the silence. He said to me: "Is your travelling carriage in order?"
"To be sure it is," said I, very much surprised at such a sudden question.
"Listen," said he, as though he were speaking of the most ordinary topic. "At the present hour you are extremely unhappy. You have not told me why, consequently I am ignorant as to the cause of your grief. Paris is as hateful to you as it is a bore to me. I have sometimes dreamed of a wild project which I have always wished to carry out, so seductive has it seemed to me, but to do so I need a companion who feels in himself the energy and desire to attain to new and powerful emotions, perhaps at the risk of his life." I looked steadily at Lord Falmouth. He continued to drain his glass in little sips. "I needed, in order to put this plan into execution, to find some one who, in order to become my associate, would be ready, as the country folks say, to go to the devil,—not through want, but from a superabundance of the joys and good things of this life."
I continued to watch Lord Falmouth, thinking that he was joking; he remained just as calm and serious as he always was.
"Well," said he at length, "are you willing to be that companion?"
"But what is it that I am expected to undertake?" I asked him, with a smile.
"I can not tell you yet; but if you accept my offer this is what you will have to do: First you must expect to travel a year or more, or even—"
"Or even for all eternity. Yes, I understand. And afterwards, what else?"
"You are only to take with you one man, but he must be trustworthy, healthy, and brave."
"I have such a one among my servants."
"Very well; then you must bring fifteen or twenty thousand francs, not more."
"What else?"
"Provide yourself and your man with the best possible arms."
I continued to smile as I watched Lord Falmouth. "It is getting to be serious," said I.
"Allow me to finish, afterwards you can act as you see fit," he continued. "You must provide yourself with excellent arms, get your passport, and send immediately for your horses."
"What! start off to-night?"
"This very night,—this very hour; you must give me what I need to write to my valet de chambre, my waiting man will take it to him, and will return with all I shall want and my carriage, for it is important that you should have your carriage and I should have mine."
"Ah, come, now, are you speaking seriously?"
"Give me a chance to write, and you shall soon find out."
And in a few moments Lord Falmouth had written his letter, and one of his men had started off with it.
"But," said I, "my clothes—my trunks?"
"If you will take my advice you will only carry with you the necessary linen for your voyage."
"But how long is that journey to be? What road do we take?"
"The road to Marseilles."
"Are we going to Marseilles?"
"Not exactly, but to a little port which is near that city."
"And what to do there?"
"We are to embark."
"And in what direction are we to sail?"
"That is my secret; trust in me and you will not regret it. However, I should tell you, perhaps," added he, in a tone which moved me deeply, "I ought to tell you without any silly trifling, that you will do as well to arrange any business you may have on your mind, in case of our not returning."
"You mean I am to make my will?" I cried out, laughing at such an idea.
"Do as you please," said Lord Falmouth, in the most uninterested way possible.
Still continuing to believe this voyage in the light of a mystification in which I was willing to indulge him, I was so desirous of quitting Paris, where such cruel souvenirs continued to sadden my life, that I decided to write a few last words as a measure of prudence; however, I said to Lord Falmouth:
"Oh, I see, it is a bet you have made, to get me to make my will."
"Then don't make it," said he, without changing his expression.
I knew that on several occasions Lord Falmouth had started off in this impromptu way on very long voyages. I thought then, that, perhaps, after all, he felt the desire for a sudden change. Now his companionship was very agreeable to me, and the object of the voyage, which he tried to hide from me (doubtless to excite my curiosity) by an appearance of mystery, might suit me very well. Perhaps, though, it might have unforeseen consequences, and so I might as well write a few directions in case we should not return, as he said.
This sudden determination looks as strange to me to-day as were the results it brought about; but I had been so forlorn lately, I was so perfectly free from any attachment, any affection, any duty, that the suddenness of the determination pleased me, as any strange new thing pleases us when we are but twenty-five years old.
I sent for my old tutor, and left him my directions and full power to attend to my affairs.
At the end of an hour's time my preparations were all finished, and the carriage of Lord Falmouth was waiting for us. I got into it with him. Our men servants were to follow us in mine.
Ten minutes afterwards we had left Paris.
LORD FALMOUTH
CHAPTER XXIX
PLANS
I left Paris with Lord Falmouth under the weight of an overwhelming sorrow. Although indifferent at leaving a worldly life for a peregrination, of whose mysterious end I was still in ignorance, the memory of affections so incompletely severed, which I was leaving behind me, would, I knew, pursue me and overtake me in the midst of the distractions of this journey.
Hélène, Marguerite! sad names which fate cast at me every day as a cruel joke, a remorse, or as a challenge,—I could not forget you, and my conscience avenged you!
Once cracked, let the cup be broken! It matters not. But what folly to cast it still full at their feet! To feel one's lips parched and dry when one might still drink from a fresh, pure spring! It was frightful. In analysing my impressions, I recognised everywhere my instinct of habitual egotism. Never, never did I dream of the horrible wrong that I had done to Marguerite or to Hélène. I thought always of the great happiness, the loss of which I deplored.
I was leaving Paris, but I was still held, so to speak, in spite of myself, to this centre of bitter regrets, by a thousand invisible ties. If I sometimes allowed myself to entertain the hope of again seeing, of one day finding, Marguerite again, suddenly the reality of the past came to check my heart's throb, by one of those quick, heavy, so to speak, electric blows, which go straight to the soul and make the whole being tremble painfully.
I was also overcome when I contemplated with what indifference I thought of my father; and yet if I thought of him, it was to make a sacrilegious comparison between the trouble that his death had formerly caused me and the grief of love which I felt.
Must it be, alas! confessed to my shame? In considering with an experience so unfortunately hasty these different kinds of griefs, this last pain seemed to me less intense, but more bitter; less deep, but more violent; less oppressive, but more poignant than the first.
There are, I believe, two orders of suffering: suffering of the heart, legitimate and hallowed; suffering of pride, shameful and miserable.
The first, however desolating it may be, has no bitterness; it is immense, but one is proud of this immensity of grief, as one would be of the religious accomplishment of some great and sad duty!
Then, also, the tears caused by this suffering flow abundantly, and without any trouble; the soul is disposed to the most touching emotions of pity, or is full of commiseration and of love; in a word, all misfortunes are the cherished and respected sisters of our misfortune.
On the contrary, if you suffer for an unworthy cause, your heart is drowned in hatred; your concentrated grief resembles dumb fury which shame bridles with a sharp bit that vanity conceals; envy and hatred gnaw you, but your eyes are dry, and the unhappiness of others can alone draw from you a sad and mournful smile.
Such, at least, were the two shades of grief, very defined, which I felt after the death of my father, and after my rupture with Hélène and Marguerite.
That was not all. Scarcely had I left Paris with Lord Falmouth, than, by a miserable caprice, I regretted having undertaken this journey; not that I feared its results, but I should have preferred to be alone, in order to have looked my sorrow well in the face, to have struggled with it hand to hand, and, perhaps, to have triumphed over it.
I have often found when one suffers, nothing is more fatal than to wish to be distracted from one's grief.
If during some moments you become stupefied by your misfortunes, the awakening is horrible.
When you find yourself suddenly precipitated into an abyss of moral suffering, after the terrible shock which stuns, which bruises even the most delicate fibres of your heart, that which is, above all, most frightful, is this sudden night, black and profound, of the soul, which does not permit one to see even the thousand wounds by which it is torn.
Frightfully bruised, you lie annihilated in the midst of a chaos of nameless pains; then, little by little, thought follows the vertigo. As sight becomes accustomed to distinguishing the objects in the gloom, you begin, so to speak, to recognise yourself in your despair.
Then, sinister and fading as spectres, slowly one by one the harrowing regrets of the past spring up around you, and the charming visions of a future which will never be; then appear before you the phantoms of the happiest, the most radiant, the most brilliant hours of former times,—for your grief forgets nothing,—the most distant echo, the faintest perfume, the most mysterious murmur, all are mercilessly reproduced in your thoughts; but this mirage of a lost happiness is strange and sinister. You believe you see a magnificent landscape, bathed in azure, of light and sun, across the glassy pupil of a dying man, and all seems veiled in a gray and sepulchral mist.
The suffering is then in its paroxysm, but it can only diminish; it is sharp and penetrating, but it can be analysed; your enemies are numerous, are threatening, are terrible, but you see them, you can fight them.
You struggle so, or, like a wounded wolf, which, in the depths of its cave, awaits his recovery only in time, wrapped in your solitary suffering, you can, near or far, assign a term to your grief, and hope, at least, in forgetfulness. Forgetfulness,—this only inexorable reality of life! Forgetfulness,—this fathomless ocean, wherein come unceasingly to be lost all sorrow, all love, and all curses.
And yet, strange impotency which is called human philosophy! You know that one day,—that soon, perhaps,—time must efface many griefs, and this certain conviction can in no way calm or alleviate your torment.
It is for this reason, I repeat, that it has always seemed to me that to divert oneself from one's sorrow, instead of confronting it resolutely, is to begin each day this cruel initiation of suffering, instead of exhausting it by its own excess.
It will therefore be seen that, in the disposition of mind in which I found myself, this journey, adventurously undertaken, might sometimes seem to me painful.
We had travelled the whole night. We were about forty leagues from Paris. Falmouth awakened soon, took me by the hand, and said: "Night induces counsel. Now that I reflect upon everything, my plan may seem very stupid to you. I also wish to tell you my secret while we are still quite near to Paris, in order that you may be able to return there to-night, if what I have to propose is not agreeable to you."
"Let us see,—tell me this mysterious plan."
"Here it is, then," replied Falmouth. "Do you know the Yacht Club?"
"Yes,—and you are, I believe, one of its members."
"Well, as such I own a charming schooner now moored off the Islands of Hyères, near Marseilles. This schooner is armed with eight carronades, and equipped with a crew of forty men."
"It is, then, a veritable cruise which you propose to me?"
"Almost; but you should first know that the crew of my yacht, from the captain to the last sailor, is entirely devoted to me."
"I can readily believe it."
"You should know further that my yacht, which is named the Gazelle, is worthy of its name; it does not sail, it bounds over the water. It has three times beaten the brig of Lord Yarboroug, our president, in the races at the Isle of Wight, and has taken the prize of the Yacht Club; in a word, there is not a warship of the royal navy of France or of England, that my yacht cannot distance as easily as a race-horse outstrips a cart-horse."
"I know that nearly all these pleasure-boats of your aristocracy swim like fishes; but what more?"
"Life now seems to you weary and monotonous, does it not? Well, would you like to give it some savour?"
"Without doubt."
"But first," said Falmouth, with an air of grave sarcasm, "I must declare to you that I am not the least in the world friendly to the Greeks; on the contrary, I have a leaning, and a very marked inclination towards the Turks."
"What?" I said to him, in astonishment. "And what connection is there between our journey and the Turks or friendliness towards the Greeks?"
"A very simple connection: I am going to propose to you to go to Greece."
"For what?"
"Have you heard of Canaris?" said Falmouth.
"Of that intrepid corsair, who has already burned all the Turkish vessels with his fireships? Certainly."
"Ah, well, and have you never been tempted to go to see that?"
"But go to see what?"
"Go to see Canaris set fire to a Turkish vessel?" replied Falmouth, with the most indifferent air in the world, and as if it had been a question of taking part in a race, or visiting a manufactory.
"I confess," I replied, unable to suppress a smile, "that until the present moment I have never had such a curiosity."
"It is surprising," replied Falmouth; "for myself, for six months I have dreamed only of Canaris and his fireships; and I have had my yacht brought from the Isle of Wight to Marseilles with the only intention of gratifying this fancy; so that if you consent to it we will set out from Marseilles for Malta, on board my schooner. Once arrived at Malta, I shall obtain authority from Lord Ponsonby to serve with my yacht, in aid of the Greeks, although, I repeat, I am not friendly to the Greeks, and go to increase the squadron of Lord Cochrane. Now if you wish, for a few months, we will lead a life on board ship, which will have a little of the life of wandering knights or of pirates. We shall find there dangers, combats, tempests,—who knows? Finally, all kinds of things new, and a little adventurous, which will take us out of this worldly life which weighs upon us, and we shall perhaps have the pleasure of seeing my fixed idea realised, that of seeing Canaris burn a Turkish vessel, for I shall not die satisfied until I shall have seen that. What do you say to it?"
Although I thought Falmouth's taste a singular one, experimenting with incendiaries, I saw no serious objection to his proposition. I was unacquainted with the Orient; my thoughts had often wandered with love towards its beautiful skies. This idle and sensual life had always charmed me; and then, although having travelled much already, I had no idea what a voyage somewhat serious might be, and I felt a sort of curiosity to know how I might face some great danger.
Aside from the risks which one might run in associating with one of Canaris's expeditions, I knew that, since the Grecian insurrection, the Archipelago was infested with pirates, either Turks, renegades, or Algerians, and that a boat as weak as Falmouth's had every chance of being attacked. Upon the whole, this proposition did not displease me, and I replied, after a long silence, the result of which Falmouth appeared to await with impatience:
"Although, be it said to my great shame, the curiosity to see Canaris burn a Turkish ship is not positively what decides me, I agree entirely with your plan, and you may consider me one of the passengers on your schooner."
"Then we shall be together there for a long time!" said Falmouth to me. "So much the better, for I have to free you well from prejudices."
I looked at him with surprise, and begged him to explain himself; he evaded.
The object of our voyage decided, it was expedient that we should set out from the Hyères Isles for Malta upon our arrival at Marseilles.
Little by little the sight of exterior objects, the experiences of the journey, calmed or rather benumbed my sufferings; but it was with uneasiness that I yielded to this sort of transient well-being. I knew that my griefs would soon return, keener than before. This beneficent sleep must have a cruel awakening. It must be said, too, that Falmouth showed the most affectionate cordiality, the most amiable cheerfulness of a most even character.
His conversation and his wit, moreover, pleased me greatly; I had sincerely appreciated his delicacy and his gracious kindness at the time of his relations with Hélène's husband.
In spite of my apparent coldness, and my continual sarcasms against friendship,—this sentiment to which I pretended to be so indifferent,—I felt at times drawn towards Falmouth by a lively sympathy.
Then, I repeat, this voyage appeared to me under a charming aspect; instead of regarding it as a disagreeable and tiresome distraction, I had golden dreams in thinking of all that might be agreeable, if I saw, if I met in Falmouth a tender and devoted friend.
There were the long and intimate conversations of the voyage, hours so favourable for disclosing one's inmost thoughts, and for confidences; there were the cruises, fatigues, even perils to share as brothers in an unknown country,—confidences, cruises, fatigues, perils, that might be so pleasant to recall later, in saying to each other, "Do you remember?" Sweet words, sweet echo of the past which makes the heart leap!
"Without doubt," I said to myself, "the satiety of pleasures is bad, but at least happily surfeited are they who, satiated with all the delicacies of the most refined existence, have the valiant caprice to go to temper again their souls at the conflagration of Canaris."
Interpreted in this manner, was not this voyage noble and grand? Was there not something touching and chivalrous in this community of dangers so fraternally shared?
When I quietly yielded to these impressions their beneficent influence softened my heart, so grievously occupied; a precious balm shed itself upon my wounds, I felt better; I still sorrowfully deplored the past, but I no longer hated it, and the generous faith that I had in myself for the future soothed the bitterness of my regrets.
Finally, during the pure and pious aspirations of my heart towards a consoling friendship, I could not express the happiness which transported me; as God embraces with a single glance all the ages of eternity, with the sudden radiance of my young hope it seemed to me to disclose all at once the horizon of the happiness which I imagined, a thousand new raptures, a thousand enchanting joys, with these words, "a friend." I felt awaken within me the noblest instincts, the most generous enthusiasm. I was then, doubtless, well worthy of inspiring and of sharing this great and lofty sentiment, for I felt all the sympathy of it, I understood all the pious duties in it, and I experienced all the happiness of it.
But, alas! this ecstasy lasted but a short time, and from this radiant sphere I often fell again into the black abyss of the most detestable doubt, of the most humiliating scepticism.
My distrust of myself and my fear of being the dupe of the feelings which I experienced became magnified to the most suspicious monomania.
Instead of believing Falmouth attracted to me by a sympathy equal to that which I felt for him, I sought to learn what interest he could have had in inviting me to accompany him. I knew his fortune to be so large that I could not see in his offer any desire to diminish by half the expense of the voyage that he wished to make by proposing to me to undertake it with him. Nevertheless, in thinking of the contradictions of human nature, so extreme and so inexplicable, and of the more than modest simplicity which Falmouth assumed at times, I did not regard this miserable afterthought as absolutely inadmissible.
Without disclaiming this shameful supposition, I still saw in his proposition the disdainful indifference of a man, blasé, who would take by chance, indifferently, the arm of the first who came along,—take a long promenade, provided this first comer followed the same direction as himself.
Such were the mental reservations which often came in spite of myself to blemish a future which I sometimes dreamed of as so beautiful!
Oh, my father! my father I how fatal is the terrible gift which you have made me, in teaching me to doubt! I have put on your armour of war, but I have not been able to fight with it; it crushes me under its weight. Driven back, turned back upon myself, I feel my feebleness, my misery, and I exaggerate it still more.
We arrived at Marseilles and soon at the Hyères Islands without any remarkable episode.
CHAPTER XXX
THE YACHT
As we stopped in Marseilles only to change horses, we soon arrived at the Hyères Islands. We found Falmouth's yacht moored in the bay of Frais-Port in the Porquerolles harbour.
The Gazelle was a marvel of luxury and elegance; nothing could be prettier or more coquettish than this little boat. The whole interior had been reserved for Falmouth's habitation. This apartment was very commodious, consisting of a saloon and two bedrooms, each with a bath-room. The cabins of the captain and the lieutenant of the yacht were forward. The crew numbered forty sailors; they wore blue jackets with buttons bearing the Falmouth arms; red woollen sashes fastened their white trousers, and broad black ribbons floated from their straw hats.
On the deck of the schooner, dazzlingly clean, were eight carronades of bronze carefully fixed on their mahogany carriages; swivel-guns of copper, an armory symmetrically furnished with guns, pistols, sabres, spears, and axes, completed the armament of this pretty boat.
The captain of the yacht, whom Falmouth presented to me, and whom he called Williams, was a tall, robust man of about twenty-five years of age, with a gentle and open face. He was—so Falmouth told me—the son of one of his Suffolk farmers. The greater number of the sailors belonged also to his county, where my lord owned much property near the sea. The lieutenant, a younger brother of Williams, was named Geordy. Younger by five or six years, he strongly resembled his brother, with the same appearance of strength, quiet, and gentleness.
The manner of these two young officers towards Falmouth was extremely respectful; they called him "my lord" and he addressed them with a familiarity that was friendly and almost paternal.
It was early in the month of June; the weather was magnificent; the wind, quite brisk and very favourable to our voyage, was from the north. After having consulted Williams as to the time of our departure, Falmouth decided that we should set sail the following morning.
In order to take a route towards the south it was necessary that we should reconnoitre the western coasts of Corsica, Sardinia, and of Sicily, and put into port at Malta; then, after having seen the governor and taken a pilot on board we would set sail to the northeast, and enter the Grecian Archipelago, in order to reach Hydra, where Falmouth hoped to meet Canaris.
The bay of Frais-Port, where the Gazelle was moored, was situated south of Porquerolles, and frequented only by fishing-boats or small Sardinian ships which cruised along its shores.
When we reached this harbour, we found there, at anchor, some distance from the Gazelle, a large mystic, flying a Sardinian flag.
Night came on, the moon rose with all its dazzling brilliancy in the centre of a magnificent starry heaven; the air was perfumed with the odour of orange-blossoms from the gardens of Hyères.
Falmouth proposed a walk along the shore, so we set out. We followed a range of perpendicular rocks, rising from twenty-five to thirty feet above the shore which they outlined, and upon which the large waves of the Mediterranean broke, and died peacefully.
From the height of this sort of natural terrace, we discovered, at some distance before us, an immense sea, whose sombre azure was furrowed by a zone of silver light,—for the moon was still rising radiant and bright. In the west we could distinguish the entrance of the bay of Frais-Port, where the yacht was moored, and in the east the mountainous point of Cape Armes, whose white cliffs cut boldly into the deep blue of the sky.
We were much impressed by this calm and majestic picture; no sound disturbed the profound silence of the night, except from time to time the low, monotonous murmur of the waves breaking on the beach.
I had fallen into a deep reverie, when Falmouth pointed out to me, by the light of the moon, the mystic of which I have spoken, advancing out of the bay, towed by its long-boat. Some minutes later it cast anchor at the extreme point outside the port, as if it wished to hold itself in readiness to set sail at the first signal.
"Our yacht will pass the night alone in the bay," said Falmouth, "for the mystic appears disposed to set sail."
"Between ourselves, your Gazelle will have little regret for its company," I replied, "for I have seen this boat by day, and it would be impossible to meet a ship of worse appearance; compared with your elegant and coquettish schooner it has the air of a hideous beggar before a pretty woman."
"So be it," answered Falmouth, "but the beggar has good legs, I can tell you. I, too, have noticed this boat; it is frightful, and, therefore, I am sure that it travels like a dolphin. See, look at the immense spread of the lateen sails which it has just hoisted."
I interrupted Falmouth to show him, thirty feet below, his Lieutenant Geordy, who, advancing cautiously along the shore, seemed afraid of being seen. He had to cross a part of the beach lighted by the moon. Instead of walking directly, he made a détour, in order to crouch behind some masses of rock which bordered the shore in this place, and dragged himself crawling along.
"What the devil is Geordy doing?" said Falmouth, looking at me with astonishment.
We continued to follow Geordy with our eyes; suddenly we saw him stop, throw himself into the cleft of a rock, and lie close to the ground.
With an instinctive act of imitation, Falmouth and I stopped at the same time. Then, hearing the sound of voices, we cautiously lifted our heads, and saw the long-boat which had towed the mystic approach and touch at the point of the bay.
A dozen sailors, wearing long caps of red wool and brown jackets with camail, manned this small boat. A sailor seated at the stern steered it; he was clad in a black mantle, whose turned-up hood would not permit us to distinguish his features; however, his whole appearance gave me an unpleasant impression.
When the towboat reached the shore, the man with the mantle remained alone, and threw a rope to the sailors, which they fastened to a rock.
These men first looked carefully and suspiciously about them, then passed rapidly towards the large rock which concealed Geordy.
At their approach he took from his pockets a pair of pistols.
Falmouth and I exchanged glances, uncertain as to what we ought to do; the rock was perpendicular, its slope far distant; in case of attack, it seemed impossible to help Geordy other than by our cries, and even if they put these sailors to flight, in ten minutes their boat could reach the mystic and set sail with him.
We were in this state of perplexity when the sailors stopped in front of the rock which served as a hiding-place for Geordy. With iron levers they laboriously raised a large stone, which closed an opening, doubtless very spacious, for they hastily took from it several boxes and some very heavy barrels, which they carried to their boat.
At the risk of being discovered, Falmouth burst into a shout of laughter, saying to me:
"These are bold smugglers, who have concealed their booty for fear of a visit from the custom-house officers or the French coast-guards, and who are preparing to put to sea to-night with this forbidden fruit. That explains why they have a ship which can travel so fast."
"But," said I, "if that were so, why does the lieutenant of our brig, who is neither a coast-guard nor custom-house officer, come to watch also?"
"You are right," replied Falmouth; "I am wrong there; let us, then, see the end of all this."
Ten minutes after the transportation of the boxes, the long-boat, so loaded that it sank almost to the level of the water, set out for the mystic, which had just hoisted its last sail.
Scarcely had the craft stood away, than Geordy leaped from his concealment, and ran rapidly in the direction of the bay where the yacht was moored; but this time the lieutenant, instead of gliding behind the rocks, followed the edge of the beach, and the seamen of the long-boat saw him by the light of the moon.
Immediately the man with the black mantle, seated at the helm, arose, left the rudder, took a gun, and quickly covered Geordy.
A flash shone in the darkness as the shot was fired. Although a second shot followed the first, Geordy appeared not to have been wounded, for he continued to run until, by a turn in the shore, he was lost to our sight.
"Let us return to the yacht," said I to Falmouth. "There will, perhaps, be time to board this mystic, and obtain justice for his attack."
Hurrying precipitately along the range of rocks, we saw the long-boat continually urging the oars, in order to reach their boat.
In a few moments it had reached it, was hoisted aboard, and the ship, spreading to the north wind its great sails like two immense wings, soon disappeared in the dark shadows of the horizon.
"Too late," said Falmouth, "there they go."
We hastened to a miserable inn, situated near the wharf of Frais-Port, and there we found Geordy. He was not wounded.
"Explain to me now," said Falmouth to him, "what you were doing on shore, and why those wretches fired two shots at you?"
Geordy, surprised to find that Falmouth knew this circumstance, gave him the following details:
It appears that this Sardinian mystic was already moored in the bay when the yacht arrived, expecting soon to set sail. Although they pretended to have the ballast on board, and were returning from Barcelona to Nice without cargo, the presence of the English schooner seemed to change the captain's mind.
His stay at Porquerolles becoming more and more prolonged, Williams and Geordy had good reason to be surprised that such a poor merchant ship should lose so much valuable time; moreover, its crew consisted of twenty men, a singularly large number for a vessel of its size, which, lying unemployed, could hardly afford to pay for such an armament. The two Englishmen, wishing to judge for themselves as to what this boat might be, went aboard, under the pretext of asking a slight service of the captain. They had been able to examine the interior of the ship, which seemed to them much better adapted to racing than to commerce; but they saw neither arms nor munitions of war, for all was open from the hold to the bridge; they had in vain tried to meet the captain, who was no other than the man with the black mantle. But he had constantly avoided an interview. Finally, in their trifling visit aboard this mysterious boat, as well as in their inspection of the captain's papers, the French custom officers had found nothing to suspect.
Geordy said among the men who formed the crew were five or six Italians; the rest were Spaniards and Americans, and appeared to be pirates of sinister and patibulary countenances. That which above all had contributed to excite the suspicions of the Englishmen, was that nearly every day, during the absence of the captain for a certain time, the crew of his ship was increased little by little, and the boat had set sail with nearly fifty sailors, an exorbitant number of seamen for so small a ship.
"But," said Falmouth to Geordy, "why did you watch them so this evening?"
"As these people, whom I believe to be pirates, prepared to set sail at the same time as your Grace's yacht, or, perhaps, before," replied Geordy, "I suspected that at the time of departure they would perhaps go ashore to seek some concealed arms, since we had seen none on board; so, when I saw them presently leave the ship with their long-boat and go towards the rocks at the north, I ran along the shore, and arrived in time to prove what my brother Williams and I had thought to be true."
"That is to say, these people are really pirates," said Falmouth.
"Without doubt, my lord; the boxes are filled with arms, the barrels with powder; they had found a means of putting them there before the first visit of the French custom officers."
"And have you heard them talk?"
"Yes, my lord, I heard an American sailor say to his companion, when showing him the barrels of powder, 'There is the glue which will catch the English fly,' that is to say, your Grace's schooner."
"It is marvellous," I said, smiling to Falmouth; "we are still in port, and yet danger threatens us already. You are indeed marked by fate."
"I understand their plan perfectly," replied Falmouth. "They calculate, without doubt, to replace their ugly mystic with my pretty Gazelle. It would be an excellent acquisition for them; for once possessors of my yacht, no ship-of-war could overtake them, and no merchant ship could escape them."
"It is superfluous to add," said I, "that as our presence would incommode them so much, they would, doubtless, throw us into the sea for fear of indiscretions."
"It is one of the usual customs of this kind of an exchange, but we shall find a way of preventing them," said Falmouth. Then he added, "I have no need, Geordy, once at sea, to recommend you to constantly watch the horizon, in order that we may not be surprised by these scoundrels. You are at all times a vigilant and brave seaman, the worthy brother of Williams. You have both been rocked from infancy upon the salt water, so I sleep tranquilly when the yacht is in your hands. I have seen you both face to face with many dangers, in the midst of frightful tempests. Ah, well, would you believe," added Falmouth, turning to me and pointing to Geordy, "would you believe that with this quiet and timid manner he and his brother are lions in danger?"
At this praise Geordy smiled modestly, cast down his eyes, blushed like a young girl, and went to join his brother Williams to prepare everything, for we were to set sail from the bay of Porquerolles the next morning at sunrise.
CHAPTER XXXI
THE VOYAGE
It was three days since we had left France; the wind, until then favourable, had become contrary ever since we sighted Sardinia.
Without being positively sure of being attacked by the mysterious ship whose departure had been so sudden and so hostile, Falmouth had recommended the captain of his yacht to be constantly upon his guard. The carronades of the Gazelle were loaded with grape-shot, the arms prepared on the false deck, and at night a sailor remained on watch to prevent any surprise.
I could not but admire the calmness and sweetness of the two young officers of the schooner, their silent activity, and the feeling full of tenderness which seemed to attach one to the other, and to put—if so it may be called—in their most indifferent actions a touching union.
I remarked, also, that when the management required that Williams or Geordy should give an order before Falmouth, their voices preserved a respectful accent for the lord as long as they were obliged to give orders in his presence. This shade seemed to me to be an exquisite tact, or rather the expression of a very refined nature.
Geordy obeyed his elder brother Williams with a joyous submission. Nothing could be more charming to observe than the mutual affection of these two brothers, constantly exchanging looks as they attended to the details of their service, with rare sagacity, or rather with marvellous congeniality.
I had the curiosity to inspect the forward cabin which they occupied.
I saw there two hammocks as white as snow, a small table, and a wash-stand shining like a mirror; two portraits, coarsely but naturally painted,—the one, their mother, with a grave, sweet face (both resembled her greatly), the other, their father, whose masculine and open countenance showed good humour and loyalty. Between these two portraits, and for ornament alone, their arms were fastened to the oaken wainscoting of their little room.
Often when the schooner, well under way, ploughed its furrow of white foam across the quiet waters of the Mediterranean, Williams and Geordy would seat themselves side by side upon a gun, and there, with locked arms, serious and pensive countenances, they piously read an old Bible with brass fastenings, resting it upon their knees, and only interrupting their reading to cast an occasional melancholy glance upon the broad and solitary horizon,—a distraction which was an act of homage to the greatness of God.
At other times, when this religious reading was finished, the two brothers would fall into long talks.
One day I had the curiosity to overhear one of their conversations. I seated myself near the cannon, where they usually sat, and, after exchanging a few words with them, I pretended to be asleep.
I heard them then exchanging innocent confidences of their hopes, recalling pleasant memories of their country, encouraging each other to serve Falmouth well, this noble protector of their family, for whom they showed this respectful, almost filial, attachment that is maintained sometimes among us for several successive generations by followers of the family (in the feudal acceptation of the word)[3] for the noble houses which patronise them.
When the two brothers spoke of the lord, it was always without irreverence, without envy, and, more than all, without any bitter and jealous reflection upon their own obscure and poor condition.
Once they related some particulars in the life of Falmouth which struck me with surprise. This man, whom I had believed so blasé as to all human feelings, had a thousand times manifested the most generous kindness, the most exquisite delicacy. Williams and Geordy spoke of it with admiration.