LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume III, Issue 296, 25 May 1875, Page 3

LITERATURE.

ROMANCE IN A PARIS PENSION. (Continued.) Horace laughs heartily. 'You know little about fishing if you imagine that one has merely to wait quietly for the fish to be hooked; but it is no use my trying to initiate you into the mysteries of fishing in your drawing-room. When you come over to England we shall have some fishing together, I hope.' ' Oh that will be so jolly ! I shall be mad with delight if I can just fish up a salmon.' And Olga claps her hands at the mere anticipation of such a triumph. ' We shall not begin by salmon-fishing, I assure you ; but I must retire, Mademoiselle Olga. ' I have much enjoyed my evening here. We shall meet to-morrow at breal .- fast, for I am staying in this house. So bon sou: The next morning, at breakfast, Horace sits between Olga and me, to the evident disgust of poor Mr Morris, who watches us gloomily from his side of the table. Mr Blake is sitting near Mary Magee, in close confabulation, to the dismay of the widow. Mr Smiles is between the two young American girls, flirting cleverly with the two. Miss Hutchinson is smiling radiantly upon a red-hot Radical. We can overhear a little of their conversation. • Why should not women be in Parliament ? they are more eloquent, more tenacious than men.' ' Did you ever hear such rubbish ?' says Horace. 'lf that fellow goes on talking such arrant bosh I shall surely have an indigestion. I hate Radicals ; they never look gentlemanly. Now look at this man, his coat does not fit him properly, his nails are black. Now a Conservative always looks a gentleman.' Immediately after breakfast we all three decide upon going to Asnieres to see Olga's little protege, the cripple boy. OUR VISIT TO THE LITTLE CRIPPLE BOY. It is a glorious morning. We got out of the train at Asnieres. The river looks so tempting, that we get into a little boat and Horace rows us. We take off our gloves, dip our fingers in the water, while Horace siugs, in a strong, lusty voice : " Do you ken John Peel with his coat so gay? Do you ken John Peel at the break of day? Do you ken John Peel when he's far far away, With his hounds and his horn in the morning? CHORUS. " For the sound of his horn brought me from my bed, And the cry of his hounds which he ofttimes led, Peel's view halloo, would awaken the dead, Or the fox from his lair in the morning." ***** Horace decidedly looks to great advantage in the boat. He is attired in a well-made suit of light grey cloth ; his bright, deep blue eyes are full| of fun and honesty; his chest is broad and well-developed ; he is the best type of the "muscular Christianity" school. We get out of the boat and walk across a field full of wild flowers. We all pick some daisies and buttercups to give to poor little Victor. • I am afraid that he is not long for this world,' says Olga. 'I fear he is slowly pining away. His mother died during the siege of Paris, literally of starvation, for she could not swallow either horse-flesh, rats, or cats ; so little Victor is living with his old grand'mere. The little boy is a cripple, and in a consumption; but his father, a most intelligent, honest workman, will not believe that his ci ild is seriously ill. There is the house, that little white place amongst the trees ; it is a kind of modest inn, where one can have fish, or rather friture, bread and butter, and cheap wine. 'All right,' shouts Horace;' 'I am hungry. I shall order all the fish in the house to be fried ; besides, it will put some money into those poor people's pockets.' The old grand'mere is standing at the door of the small inn ; a fine type of old age. Her hair is snowy Avhitc, a colored fichu is pinned across her broad chest ; by her side totters a pale, thin, emaciated little boy, so transparent looking, that one could almost fancy a strong breath of wind would waft him away, holding to his grandmcre's skirts. On seeing Olga a bright, sunny smile illuminates his wan, white face. ' He has been inquiring after you, mademoiselle,' says the grandmcrc, 'nest-ce-jws, Victor? You are glad to see Mademoiselle Olga ?' The child creeps to her, and Olga gives him some toys, cakes, and bonbons. Horace takes him on his knees, and gives him a box of soldiers ; the child at first seems a little frightened, but my cousin soon makes friends with him, and they chatter quite gaily together. La mere Gigun looks sadly at her delicate grandchild, and tells us with a big sigh that he is getting weaker and weaker. ' What a lovely face he has ! —such long, soft, brown, curly hair, large hazel eyes, with such a wistful expression in them. How I should like to have good picture of him !' mutters mere Gigun, ' for no photograph can do justice tj him.'

' That is an idea ! Let us come and paint him,' says Olga. ' I will do hisl portrait and give it to you and his father ; but you must allow my friend, Miss Larcom, to paint you and the child also. She wants a svjet for a picture.' ' Only too happy to think that my old face can be of use. lam quite at your disposition, mademoiselle. ' I thank the old woman. We arranged to come the following day with our easels, canvases, and paint-boxes. Before leaving we order some fried gougons for our lunch. Horace compliments the old woman upon her cookery, and insists upon her accepting a twenty franc piece, in order that she may get a few delicacies for the child. Before leaving, Olga takes Victor upon her knee and tells him a story. That is his greatest treat; for he is an imaginative child, and likes to hear about fairies, imps, elves, &c. Victor exists in a kind of Wonderland, and firmly believes that he is always surrounded by fairies. His grand'mere tells us that he often says he will be will be glad to go and live among the fairies: that is his notion of death; a change from what he is bow to a beautiful being who lives among flowers, feeds upon honey and fruits, has wi:ags, and visits the stars. Upon returning to the boarding-house that evening we find our invitations from Madame Latour; it is for the promised fancy ball to take place that day fortnight: No one can make up their minds as to who or what he or she will personate. Olga first thinks of going as a star, next as a dryad, or as a sea nymph. ' Do go as an Ophelia,' suggests Mr Morris. ' Oh, I should have to look melancholy all the evening! A lively Ophelia would be so absurd.' ' You would be an ideal Ophelia,' continues Mr Morris. ' You have just the right hair, the eyes, the figure, and the expression.' ' The crazy look in the eyes,' barks out Horace. 'Do take my advice, Mademoiselle Olga, and go in a costume that suits your general mood and disposition.' • Happy thought!' exclaims Olga. ' I shall go as a diavolina —an imp from the regions downstairs.' ' That's right. Hurrah !' shouts Horace ; ' and I shall attend the ball as his infernal majesty himself, with a long tail, horns, and a pitchfork.' ' Convetws,' laughs Olga. Mr Morris looks pale and very cross, and scowls furiously at my cousin, who screams out:— • Louisa, you might as well dress as an Ophelia ; only your fat, red cheeks and tendency to embonpoint might be a little incongruous. ' ' You are very rude! I mean to go as a viandiere des zouaves. In a blue vest, scarlet knickerbockers, white waistcoast, a gold kepi on my head, and a little barrel filled with cognac at my side.' 1 Delightful idea. We shall all have a drop now and then to revive our drooping spirits.' ' Now, Mr Morris, how will you dress? I particularly wish you to look to advantage,' says Olga, going up to him. Let me think what would suit your character as an artist, a poet, a philosopher.' (Olga darts a saucy look at Horace, who is studying pertinaciously the pattern of the carpet.) 'I have it: You must go as Hamlet in the 'lnky cloak.' I order you, Mr Morris. Now, will you? won't you obey me?' • I should have gladly gone as Hamlet if you had consented to be Ophelia,' whispers Mr Morris.

' Oh, that would have been too remarkable! Besides which, I should very likely be in wild spirits, and that would not do for Ophelia. No, go as Hamlet, and I shall dance the first dance with you.' Mr Morris promises, and bidding us goodniglA disappears to his den upstair. l ). ' rdo not like that man,' growls; out my cousin, the moment the door closes upon Mr Morris; ' he is so unhealthy in all his views and notions of life. That artist nature seems unnatural to me. It would do Mr Morris a vast deal of good to hunt, shoot, and fish. It would make him manly; his notions of everything are sickly, false, and absurd.' 'Well, Mr Dashwood, I am surprised at your disobedience!' exelaims Olga, standing up and flushing with excitement. 'I did tell you several times that nothing can annoy me more than to hear Mr Morris abused. Your idea of life is sport and getting into Parliament. All right. Mr Morris loves art; he is a great artist and musician. He might dress better, but it is not affectation on his part; simply he does not care about the cut of his coat nor about the particular shade of his necktie, &c. Mr Morris will, I am sure, be a great man one of these days. Meanwhile, let him alone, or we shall quarrel seriously. You are a naughty boy; the more you abuse Mr Morris the mere I shall like him.' 'Well, I shall not mention Mr Morris' namt again.' When Horace is gone, I ask Olga if she thinks that my cousin is improved. ' I have not thought much about him, one way or the other.' ('What a stoiy !' I inwardly ejaculate.) 'He has good qualities, but he is fearfully prejudiced. He is a type of modern young Englishman ; no feeling for art, but fond of sport. He is generous and manly.' ' 1 wonder if he will ever fall in love ?'— saying this I peep slyly at Olgo through the corners of my eyes. She colours up. 'I do not think that it is in him to care much for any one.' ' Well, I think you are mistaken, and I sometimes think that he does actually care for some young lady.' ' Really ? Oh ! do tell me all abcut it: he is your cousin, so it is natural that; I should take some interest in him.' ' Ask no questions and if shall tell you no stories. I cannot say anything for certain, it is a supposition on my part. I should like Horace to marry; he will make a firstrate husband.' ' Have you seen the girl you think he is in love with?' ' I have seen her, she is a great friend of mine.' And I look hard at Olga, who pretends not to understand, gets very red, rushes off to the piano and plays deliciously a valse of Chopin. The next morning Olga and I go to Asnieres. We have our easels, canvases, and painting materials. When we reach the quiet inn, we perceive mere Gigun at the door, looking very dismal; the child is sleeping. ' I am afraid that before next month he will be lying by his poor mother's grave, in the little cimctierc over there; he is ebbing away.' • To be continued.