The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 14, No. 82, August, 1864. Various
book abounds, as indeed all its companions do, in quaint passages, comical turns of a word, shrewd sayings,—of which a handful:—
'"Now you know,' said Dard, 'if I am to do this little job to-day, I must start.'
"'Who keeps you?' was the reply.
"Thus these two loved."
Dard, by the way, being an entirely new addition to the novelists' corps dramatique, and almost a Shakspearian character.
"It was her feelings, her confidence, the little love wanted,—not her secret: that lay bare already to the shrewd young minx,—I beg her pardon,—lynx."
Another involves a curious philosophy, summed up in the following formula:—
"She does not love him quite enough.
"He loves her a little too much. Cure,—marriage."
But there are one or two scenes in this tale of "White Lies" perfectly matchless for fire and spirit; and to support the assertion, the reader must allow a citation. And he will pardon the first for the sake of the others, since Josephine is the betrothed of Camille Dujardin.
"When he uttered these terrible words, each of which was a blow with a bludgeon to the Baroness, the old lady, whose courage was not equal to her spirit, shrank over the side of her arm-chair, and cried piteously,—'He threatens me! he threatens me! I am frightened!'—and put up her trembling hands, so suggestive was the notary's eloquence of physical violence. Then his brutality received an unexpected check. Imagine that a sparrow-hawk had seized a trembling pigeon, and that a royal falcon swooped, and with one lightning-like stroke of body and wing buffeted him away, and there he was on his back, gaping and glaring and grasping at nothing with his claws. So swift and irresistible, but far more terrible and majestic, Josephine de Beaurepaire came from her chair with one gesture of her body between her mother and the notary, who was advancing on her with arms folded in a brutal menacing way,—not the Josephine we have seen her, the calm, languid beauty, but the Demoiselle de Beaurepaire,—her great heart on fire, her blood up,—not her own only, but all the blood of all the De Beaurepaires,—pale as ashes with wrath, her purple eyes flaring, and her whole panther-like body ready either to spring or strike.
"'Slave! you dare to insult her, and before me! Arrière, misérable! or I soil my hand with your face!'
"And her hand was up with the word, up, up,—higher it seemed than ever a hand was lifted before. And if he had hesitated one moment, I believe it would have come down; and if it had, he would have gone to her feet before it: not under its weight,—the lightning is not heavy,—but under the soul that would have struck with it. But there was no need: the towering threat and the flaming eye and the swift rush buffeted the caitiff away: he recoiled three steps, and nearly fell down. She followed him as he went, strong in that moment as Hercules, beautiful and terrible as Michael driving Satan. He dared not, or rather he could not, stand before her: he writhed and cowered and recoiled down the room while she marched upon him. Then the driven serpent hissed as it wriggled away.
"'For all this, she too shall be turned out of Beaurepaire,—not like me, but forever! I swear it, parolé de Perrin!'
"'She shall never be turned out! I swear it, foi de De Beaurepaire!'
"'You, too, daughter of Sa—'
"'Tais toi, et sors à l'instant même! Lâche!'
"The old lady moaning and trembling and all but fainting in her chair; the young noble like destroying angel, hand in air, and great eye scorching and withering; and the caitiff wriggling out at the door, wincing with body and head, his knees knocking, his heart panting, yet raging, his teeth gnashing, his cheek livid, his eye gleaming with the fire of hell."
Too much of this sort of thing becomes meretricious; a man is never the master of his subject, when he suffers himself to be carried away by it. And though a fault of haste is pardonable, when lost in fine execution, we must acknowledge that there is certainly something very "Frenchy" in this scene,—a remark, though, which can hardly be considered as derogatory, when we remember that altogether the most readable fiction of the day is French itself. Our author is evidently a great admirer of Victor Hugo, though he is no such careful artist in language: he seldom closes with such tremendous subjects as that adventurous writer attempts; but he has all the sharp antithesis, the pungent epigram of the other, and in his freest flight, though he peppers us as prodigally with colons, he never becomes absurd, which the other is constantly on the edge of being.
The next scene which we adduce is that where the battered figure of a pale, grisly man walks into the garrison-town of Bayonne, after a three-years' absence, explained only to his disgrace, mutely overcomes the guard, and rings the bell of the Governor's house.
"The servant left him in the hall, and went up-stairs to tell his master. At the name, the Governor reflected, then frowned, then bade his servant reach him down a certain book. He inspected it.
"'I thought so: any one with him?'
"'No, Monsieur the Governor.'
"'Load my pistols: put them on the table: put that book back: show him in: and then order a guard to the door.'
"The Governor was a stern veteran, with a powerful brow, a shaggy eyebrow, and a piercing eye. He never rose, but leaned his chin on his hand, and his elbow on a table that stood between them, and eyed the new-comer very fixedly and strangely.
"'We did not expect to see you on this side of the Pyrenees.'
"'Nor I myself, Governor.'
"'What do you come to me for?'
"'A welcome, a suit of regimentals, and money to take me to Paris.'
"'And suppose, instead of that, I turn out a corporal's guard, and bid them shoot you in the court-yard?'
"'It would be the drollest thing you ever did, all things considered,' said the other, coolly; but he looked a little surprised.
"The Governor went for the book he had lately consulted, found the page, handed it to the rusty officer, and watched him keenly: the blood rushed all over his face, and his lip trembled; but his eye dwelt stern, yet sorrowful, on the Governor.
"'I have read your book: now read mine.'
"He drew off his coat, and showed his wrists and arms, blue and waled.
"'Can you read that, Monsieur?'
"'No.'
"'All the better for you! Spanish fetters, General.'
"He showed a white scar on his shoulder.
"'Can you read that, Sir?'
"'Humph?'
"'This is what I cut out of it,'—and he handed the Governor a little round stone, as big and almost as regular as a musket-ball.
"'Humph! that could hardly have been fired from a French musket.'
"'Can you read this?'—and he showed him a long cicatrix on his other arm.
"'Knife, I think?' said the Governor.
"'You are right, Monsieur: Spanish knife!—Can you read this?'—and opening his bosom, he showed a raw and bloody wound on his breast.
"'Oh, the Devil!' cried the General.
"The wounded man put his coat on again, and stood erect and haughty and silent.
"The General eyed him, and saw his great spirit shining through this man. The more he looked, the less could the scarecrow veil the hero from his practised eye.
"'There has been some mistake, or else I dote—and can't tell a soldier from a'—
"'Don't say the word, old man, or your heart will bleed!'
"'Humph! I must go into this matter at once. Be seated, Captain, if you please, and tell me what have you been doing all these years?'
"'Suffering!'
"'What, all the time?'
"'Without intermission.'
"'But what?