LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume III, Issue 204, 3 February 1875, Page 3

LITERATURE.

SKETCHES IN FRENCH SOCIETY. THE BITER BIT. A bright and cozy picture is the salon of Beaupre-Latour, when the guests are all assembled there after dinner. Without, all is cold and gloomy, for October is drawing to its close, and it wants but four days to November. Within, all is cheerfulness and and warmth. The occupants of the room have snugly ensconced themselves in the large fauteuils, or are lazily stretched out on couches or settees. Nearly in the centre of the room isj a group, claiming our special attention. Seated in a wide causeuse is the Comtesse Veaucluse, the charming sister of the chatelaine, the Marquise de Beaupre. Her ladyship is a brunette, with large expressive eyes, by courtesy called violet, but which in reality possess no colour at all, their tint varying with every change of thought and expression. She is a widow, and has just made her rentree in society, from which she retired three years ago on the death of her husband, who left her at the age of twenty-five in the uncontrolled enjoyment of about eighty thousand livres de rente. Since then she has devoted the whole of her time to the education of her two children, aided in the task by the young lady who is now sitting on a tabouret at her feet. Miss Stodart is English. A glance at her face is sufficient to prove it. No other country in the world produces such clear complexions, such bright blue eyes,—not the dirty washed-out German blue; the real deep blue, by painters called ultramarine. Her hair is auburn, chatain-clair, as the French term it, with flashes of golden sheen when seen in the light. Clean-cut featnres, not pretty, only expressive ; mouth rather large, but adorned with a double row of pearls ; in one word, a bonnie English girl. Nominally she is the governess of Madame Veaucluse’s children; virtually she is that lady’s friend, counsellor, second-self. Bought up at the same convent school, the friendship there begun has never been interrupted; and when Colonel Stodart died, leaving his daughter unprovided for, the Comtesse simply claimed her as a sister from her rich relations, who would have made an unpaid drudge of the young girl under the cloak of charity. From that moment they have never been separated for an hour. Leaning on the back of Madame Veaucluse’s chair is Monsieur Thorval. A tall commanding figure, closely-cropped dark hair and beard a la Henri Quatre, piercing black eyes with something of the fascination of the Indian snake-charmer in them, finely chiselled features bronzed by exposure to the sun, —he might be called handsome, were it not for a certain sinister expression, that might be accurately defined by the epithet Mephistophelean. The descendant of a noble family and immensely rich according to some, an adventurer and as poor as a Gascon according to others, he has nevertheless the entree to the best society. He is aux petits scions for the Comtesse, and misses no opportunity de Ini faire la oour. His attentions are not altogether unwelcome, but he is no favorite 'with her English companion. She has an instinctive dislike to him, in which she is strongly backed up by another gentleman in the house, Monsieur Hector de Francheville, a captain in the Chasseurs d’Afrique, absent from his regiment on sick leave. Neither of these two can account for the aversion to Thorval. It is simply a case of Dr. Fell. Du reste, these two are pretty well agreed upon most topics. All occupation has for the moment ceased in the drawing-room. Everybody is listening intently to the Marquis de Beaupre, who, standing with his back to the fire, is just concluding a story he has been invited to tell.

‘ Void la legende de Beaupre-Latour. The bricks a,re alive at this day to testify it, as Shakespeare has it; and what’s more, Asrafel appears every eve of Toussaint by the stone-oak at the stroke of twelve, in his gold-scaled cuirass, crimson cloak and turban, and his moorish sabre by his side. Thus he keeps the promise given to the Lady Elenore to be at the rendezvous dead or alive. ’

‘ And have you ever seen him, cher Marquis 1 ’ inquired Leon de Bellegarde, a specimen of the French jeunesse doree, rocking himself on the chair, on which he was seated a choral, to the imminent danger of that piece of furniture and his own limbs. ‘ Never, Bellegarde; but I must confess never to have been there at the exact moment. ’

‘That’s a pity.’ remarked Monsieur Thorval ; * you ought to have gone, if only to show your people the absurdity of their superstition. ’ ‘ I’m of a different opinion,’ interrupted the Comptesse ; ‘ ray brother would have shown too much regard for their foolishness ; no one with a grain of sense believes in ghosts. ’ ‘You certainly do not, ma chere ,’ laughed M. Beaupre. ‘ Really,’ said M. de Francheville, shifting his position from the other side of the room, and coming close to the centre group, ‘I didn’t know that our host had such a fertile imagination. He ought to write a novel, he’d beat Le Sage and Galland. ’ ‘ My imagination amomits to nothing in it. I didn’t invent the story.’ ‘ No, not invent it, only embellished it,’ exclaimed the Comtesse ; ‘it could not have come down to you with all these details. ’ * I have given it as it was noted down by my grandfather from the mouth of his nurse, who again had heard it from her grandmother. Do you know that, in going back like this, we reach a good way down the sixteenth century. ’ ‘ A plea for its truth, certainly. But all badinage apart, do you really believe in it ? and, if so, do you really believe in the apparition V interrogated De Francheville.

‘Not in the least.’ , ‘That’s right,’ jubilated the Comtesse; ‘ who would?’

‘ Ay, who indeed ?’ exclaimed nearly all. * Ay, who indeed ?’ repeated Bellegarde. ‘ But believing or not, I’ll bet that none of you would have the courage to go near the spot on the eve of Toussaint.’ ‘ I would, I would !’ was the general cry.

‘ Yes, yes, as we are here, in company; but I mean alone, as the clock strikes twelve. ’

There was a moment of suspense. ‘ I think I would go,’ the Comtesse said suddenly ; then checking herself, she adds : ‘ px-ovided the paths weren’t dirty, it didn’t rain, and there were no suspicious people lurking about. ’ ‘ I fancy you’d think twice,’ now remarks the Marquise Beaupre, now had been a silent listener. i

‘ Do you think Madame really would go?* whispers Mademoiselle Parolles, a young lady of twenty, also a guest at the chateau, into Miss Stodart’s ear.

‘ Madame never says what she does not mean,’ replies the English girl curtly, firing up at the doubt respecting her patroness’s courage. ‘Well,’ says Monsieur Thorval, * we must admit that it shows great heroism. ’ ‘You mean to say that it would do so,* corrects Bellegarde, ‘if she executed her project.’ ‘I hope she will never be so foolish,’ remonstrates Madame Beaupre sternly. ‘ Toussaint is very near, and I have a good mind to pay his ghost a visit myself.’ This from Monsieur Thorval in a slightly supercilious tone. ‘ I wish he would, and never come back again,’ says Miss Stodart softly to the Chasseur d’Afrique, who, by some clever manoeuvre, had succeeded in approaching her very closely. ‘Shall I go with him?’ tenderly asks Franchevile.

‘You can see him safely on his route, and return alone,’ is the answer, gottovoce. This little interlude has not been noticed by anyone, and the conversation has gone on uninterruptedly. ‘ Suppose you did go, M. Thorval, and suppose he served you as he did the others —that is to say, chopped your head off—what then ?’

‘ Let us leave these most disagreeable suppositions for to-night, Monsieur 'de Bellegarde,’ here the hostess breaks in, ‘for fear we might dream of them. Ido not see the use of having bedrooms, and not occupying them ; therefore I propose to retire.’ ‘ Yes, it is late, and more than time,’ says Madame Varonne, an old lady, who looks like a Louis-Seize portrait come out of its frame; ‘ and permit me to do what the gentlemen, in the heat of their discussion, have no doubt forgotten—that is, to thank M. le Marquis for his story.’ ‘Very much obliged,’ echoes now, all round.

‘ Our omission is the more excusable, as it implies a complement, cher Beaupre; we forgot the teller in the interest of the tale.’ With this, M. de Francheville takes his candle and retires.

The others follow his example. A few moments after, the apartment is deserted, and the chateau is silent throughout. Three full days have elapsed. It is the morning of the fourth. The weather is lovely, and. were it not for the leafless branches on the trees, one might fancy summer had returned. Captain Francheville, who has been away at Rouen, where business called him, has just returned by an early train, and is pacing up and down the terrace side by side with Miss Stodart, who seems very much excited and distressed. ‘ But tell me, Mademoiselle Stodart, how did all this happen ? and what makes the Comtesse insist upon such a foolhardy expedition ?’

‘lt happened in this way,’ answers the young lady. ‘ Yesterday being the jour-de-fete of M. le Marquis, the children were allowed to come down after dinner to the drawing room, and, to amuse them, a game of forfeits was proposed. Everyone seemed in the best possible spirits ; only Madame Veaucluse and Monsieur Thorval appeared distraits. I did not marvel much, knowing that they had a long interview together in the morning, and I ascribed their silence to exces de bonheur. Too much happiness,’ added she, looking up to the stalwart figure of the warrior, ana blushing deeply, ‘ is as apt to make us silent as the want of it. Well, long before all the pledges were redeemed, the children, overcome with sleep, were taken up to bed, and the fun was continued by us. Madame Varonne held the gages, and it was M. Thorval’s turn to impose a fine. He hesitated for a moment; then, with a more than usually sinister smile, he ejaculated slowly : ‘ The one to whom this pledge belongs shall go to-morrow night alone, at the stroke of twelve, to the stone-oak, wait there till the clock strikes, and knock five nails into the tree. * Miss Stodart stopped a moment to catch breath after her long story. ‘ Well ?’ said the Captain, getting interested in spite of himself. ‘Well,’ continues the lady, ‘there was a moment of intense expectancy. Then Madame Varonne brought the forfeit to light: it was Clara’s gold thimble. I shall never forget the look she darted upon M. Thorval. Immediately the guests interfered, saying that such a condition could not be imposed, that it was beyond the limit, that one might as well be asked to go to India, &c, &c. There was a perfect hubbub of voices, to all of which M. Thorval quietly remarked, that there was nothing impossible in it; that it was very difficult to invent a fine that was not trite and hackneyed ; that the stone oak was only outside the park gates, and not in India; and concluded with the, to Madame’s pride, crushing observation, that it could not be objected to by the Comtesse, inasmuch as she had declared herself, a few evenings ago, ready to undertake the nocturnal promenade. At these words she looked as if she would burst out crying, but nothing of the kind happened. By a supreme eftort she controlled her anger and emotion, and declared herself ready to go. ‘I am not in the habit,” said she, “of boasting. I have said I would go, and I will.” ’ ‘And has anyone tried to dissuade her V interrogated Francheville. ‘ We all have, but to no purpose” At this moment Madame Beaupre made her appearance from the open window, and joined the speakers. She had been to her sister, but nothing could shake that lady in her resolution. She was very angry with M. Thorval, and had given that gentleman an unmistakable hint that his room would be preferable to his company. As a last effort, she begged Miss Stodart to use her influence, which was readily promised, but with sore misgivings as to its success. ‘ What can I do if she will not listen to you, madameV’ ‘1 do not know; but no stone must be left unturned. ’ ‘ Well, I will try.’ Leaving the Captain and the Marquise together, the ambassadrice made her way to her friend’s room. On the landing she met M. Thorval, who looked embarrassed, and immediately turned into a side passage leading to the armour gallery. In his hurry, however, he dropped something crimson, folded up. Hastily stooping to pick it up, he disappeared. To be continved. =