LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume IV, Issue 466, 11 December 1875, Page 3

LITERATURE.

UNDER THE FIR TREES. A STORY or a cardinal’s love. Continued. The village churches far and near were sending up their morning peals, the peasants in their gayest attire were hastening, by cross road and path, to their devotions ; the birds were actively performing their part in the general chorus, and the wild flowers, scattered about on all sides with profusion, gave forth, under the pressure of the dew and at the invitation of the sun’s rays, the most delicious fragrance in the world. But all these incentives to enjoyment were lost on the traveller. His thoughts were busy with the incidents of the diabolical drama in which he was going to enact the chief part; and, since his interest required it to bo so, be hoped, before many days should be over, to convert a scene of contentment and peace into a place of wailing and lamentation.

We need not follow him all the way to the village, since, except that he ate and drank much, there was nothing in the events of his journey demanding notice. If yon have visited the banks of the Loire you will remember the distinguishing features of that lovely country, which in many respects has no superior! n Europe. One valley especially, which opens its bosom towards the setting sun, and is beautified in its whole length by a narrow but deep stream, imparting as it flows rare fertility to its green depths, where orchards and walnut woods half conceal the hamlets and villages, that grow more and more numerous as the tributary draws near the great river. A large, straggling group of habitations, almost deserving the name of a town, occupying an abrupt slope on the eastern side of the valley, and commanding through breaks in the woods a view of one of the most magnificent reaches of the Loire, resembling on a grand scale that of the Thames as beheld from Richmond Hill, arrested the steps of the count. This was the bourne of his journey, this was the stage on which he was to play his fiendish part; here, gathered together in the balmy July air, were his victims, imrry enough now, because they did not dream of the shadow which was approaching them. Though he meant to act the stranger he knew every house in the village, since it was there he had spent his boyhood and no small portion of his youth. Riding straight to the inn he put up his horse and ordered dinner. The count, like most other French noblemen of the period, was a gourmand and loved wine, of which at times he drank to excess, less perhaps for the pleasure of drinking than because it drowned certain unpleasant recollections, apt occasionally to become more than unpleasant. We shall not | sit down with him to dinner, which he ate alone. He then lingered a little over a plate of fine strawberries, a few peaches, and a bottle of Volnay, after which, when the shades of evening had begun to lie heavily on the village, he took a cane in his hand and walked out. Having descended the principal street, which was steep and stony, he came to the old grey bridge, through whose three arches the waters of the nameless river seek junction with the Loire, He leaned upon the parapet, spotted ‘by circles of yellow lichen, and gazed sadly around. How often had he leaned there in boyhood, with mind buoyant and conscience clear. And now what was he ? The plaything of infamy and disgrace, a ruined gambler aiming at recovering his position in society by doing the work of an assassin. Nestling among the walnut trees yonder he sees the lights which evening kindles Hash forth from the windows of a pretty cottage, the abode of the woman whom he had undertaken to destroy, if the development of his plans should need it. Ho now meant to visit her, to reconnoitre, as it were, the chief groundwork of his plan, and ascertain how many individuals besides herself possessed a knowledge of the fatal secret. The lady, sometimes called Madame, sometimes Mademoiselle—the people in that part of France are not particular—had three daughters, who shared with their mother her maiden name. It was universally understood, however, that she was a married woman, though no one it was supposed knew exactly who or what her husband was. Some imagined him to be a prince, others thought he was a nobleman, constrained for family reasons to conceal his marriage, while a third party, successfully hitting the mark, pronounced him to be a distinguished minister of the church. When the count knocked at the door, which, in spite of his hardihood, he did with some misgiving, it was opened by a laughing young peasant girl, who, at the unusual apparition of a gentleman, started back with a loud exclamation of surprise. ‘ What is the matter, Kuphrosine ?’ inrprired the lady of the house. ‘ A gentleman, madame—a gentleman !’ ‘Very well, show the gentleman in.’ The count was then conducted into a pretty parlour, with well-waxed lloor shining and slippery as glass, furnished quite in the old-fashioned style, having long mirrors let into the pannelling, with tables between the windows supporting gild figures which held the candlesticks, Madame rose to meet her

guest, to whom one of her daughters handed a chair. There were no moments of awkwardness, for the count, being a thorough man of the world, cleared away at once all mystery, or at least appeared to do so, by naming the friend in Paris from whom he had come. Over the lady’s handsome face a momentary paleness spread at this announcement, but, recovering herself immediately, she inquired to whom she had the honour of speaking. A false name, but still a name of distinction, was given, which, as she was thoroughly unacquainted with such matters, did as well as any other. The ablest villains are sometimes by a very simple occurrence thrown out of their calculations. Madamc’s eldest daughter, then about nineteen, was extremely beautiful, so beautiful indeed, that several of the first gentlemen in the neighbourhood had one after another offered her their hands, in spite of her resting under a cloud of suspicion and scandal, for she could claim no father, and owed to unknown sources the means of living. From her lovely countenance the count could not keep his eyes. While he spoke, therefore, to the mother, his thoughts were fixed upon the daughter, for whose ruin he rapidly formed a plan which, with persons so primitive, he never doubted he should be able to develop with success. Through long experience, aud living habitually in the best society, he had acquired those graceful manners which fascinate country people like a spell. He talked a great deal, leaving it somewhat doubtful whether what he said was meant for mother or daughter —described the dazzling allurements of Paris, and, without exactly blaming the friend whose representative he professed to be, expressed much regret that persons so well calculated to adorn the highest circles should remain in the dull seclusion of a village. Without knowing why the daughter’s heart beat wildly at this sugges tion, which seemed to shadow forth the possibility of her being at length recognised by her unknown father, whom she now firmly believed to be one of the elite of the capital. And so indeed he was—for influence, second only to the head of the state —but, instead of courting her presence near him, his chief regret now was that she and her sisters had ever been born. Having stayed .as long as even provincial politeness would allow the count reluctantly took his leave and returned to the inn. Next day, after roaming about, and gazing wistfully at the chateau in which lie had been born, now belonging to strangers, he came back in no’vcry enviable mood of mind to the best dinner the landlord could provide. To this worthy personage he pretended great dislike to dining alone, and asked whether there were not in the village some gentleman remarkable for scholarship, who would condescend to share his delicacies and indulge him with a little learned conversation, especially on theology, to the study of which he said he was much addicted. The landlord of course knew such a man, the cure of the village, whose presbytere lay within a stone’s throw of the inn. Honest Boniface then entered into a flattering eulogium of the clergyman, whom he described as at once a saint and an oracle. The count, impatient of his garrulity, affected to fear that so distinguished an individual would not be likely, on so short an invitation, to honour a stranger with his company ; but, this objection having been overruled, the count’s request was made known to the priest, and frankly complied with. Behold now the two principal actors in the drama, sitting at table, face to face, tin one wondering why he was there, the otherseeking by the most ingenious devices to convert him into an instrument for the furtherance of his own nefarious purposes. It has been said that, metamorphosed by a French cook, a man might eat his grandfather without the slightest repugnance. But the cookery is not all. There is something in the air, in the satisfied and jocund looks of the waiters, in the gaiety of the guests, above all the wines, which opens the heart, and gives it an inclination to be confiding. But, though as cheerful and as jovial as any priest could be, the cure, fancying he detected in his host’s manner something sinister, though, if put upon his oath, he could no’ have said what it was, skilfully eluded the count’s attempts to put him into the confessional. The evening was accordingly spent to no purpose, and the count, humiliated at discovering that his arts were not so potent as lie had hitherto persuaded himself, retire.l in a very illhumour to bed. People in such a frame of mind seldom fall asleep as soon as they could wish. The count at least did not, but lay twisting and turning in a state of indescribable irritation. The lamp on the chimneypiece burnt dimly, the dogs barked, flie cocks in the farmyard persisted, exceedingly malapropos, in crowing as if in rivalry of each other. What sort of reflections force themselves naturally on a sleepless man everybody knows. In the present instance they were of the least comfortable description, so that the voluntary hero of the piece, a hundred times at least before daylight, murmured to himself like Dogberry, ‘ Write me down an ass.’ At the breakfast table next morning he received a letter from Paris, which added considerably to his disquietude; it was from the bi-hop in a feigned hand, without signature, and enjoyed him peremptorily to attempt nothing under any circumstances against the lady’s life. Having had leisure to take a view of his entire position the churchman, bad as he was, and eager to reach the summit so bewitchiugly pictured by ambition, began to have his doubts whether the consciousness of so heinous an act of guilt might not disturb too roughly his Epicurean Elysium ; this was the only motive so far as he could discover that prompted him to fearbearance, though there may have been another lying hidden far down in the depths of his spiritual nature which exerted a still moie potent influence. However this may have been the count, when he had read the letter, flung it from him with disgust. (To he continued.)