LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume VI, Issue 658, 29 July 1876, Page 3

LITERATURE.

'MADAME LA FONTAINE-TROI-SIEME ETAGE.' (Continued.) 'My ward,' replied the Doctor shortly. ' I have traced him here, and I have come to take him back with me.' ' Your ward !' ' Madame, there is not the least reason for your astonishment. Your servant has confessed all to me. My ward is here, and here I remain until he leaves the house in my company.' ' And are not his wishes to be consulted V ' Certainly not. He is the son of a man who was one of my dearest friends. He will come with me.'

Pie was thinking the while, 'lt is she. I cannot be mistaken.' She was thinking the while, ' This man may be bent, he cannot be broken.' ' Monsieur, I will make a friend of you. Long ago I had a son ; that son was lost to me, but not by death. When I saw the pale face of your ward my heart yearned towards him. It seemed as if my child had been restored to me. I have watched over him long and tenderly. Do not take him from me !' The Doctor murmured, ' There is something in human nature, after all; and then he said : 'You shall decide for yourself, Madame.' She bowed her head, and sighed a sigh of intense relief. ' You were surprised when I told you that we had met before, and not on the Continent. I met you in England.' 'ln England!' She was clutching spasmodically the arms of her chair, and her face was paler than ever. 'ln England,' repeated the Doctor, watching her earnestly. ' And now, if it will not trouble you, I will tell you a little bit of family history.' She was silent. 'An Englishman married a wayward girl —a Frenchwoman —frivolous, fickle, false. A son was the result of the marriage. At the end of three years the French wife left the English husband, in the company of one of her countrymen. My story, which you will admit is not a very long one, is over.' ' But why do you tell me this ?' ' Because you were the French wife ; and the English husband, Henry Gordon, was my dead friend.' 'He is dead !' she exclaimed. 'You have betrayed yourself, madame.' • No, no 1' she said, with an effort. ' You startled me. Long ago I knew Monsieur Gordon and his miserable, unhappy wife. But you are mistaken ; my name is Madame La Fontaine.' ' Madame, 1 have nothing more to say. I am waiting for my ward.' 'I tell you,' she cried excitedly, 'you shall not take him from me. What is your authority ?' ' I represent his father, Henry Gordon. You see my claim is a good one.' She paused for a moment, and turned deadly pale. Then she looked the Doctor full in the face, and said, ' I have a better. You are right, monsieur, I was the wife of your dead friend ; and as that wife, I claim the guardianship of my child.' ' And it is here you would recognise your son ! You would meet him as the keeper of a gambling-house 1' Then she broke down. ' Man, man !' she cried, ' have you no pity ? Is there no return? Ah I' Her hand was placed to her heart; she eeemed to be fainting. The Doctor approached her. 'You are ill.' ' No, no!' she murmured; 'I am very often like this.' The Doctor's face changed. For the first time he regarded her with pity. * I repeat you are ill, very ill, and I dare not excite you further. I have but little to say. You claim the guardianship of your son. So be it. I came here to save him. I brought Avith me the consent of the father of the woman he loves to his marriage. You are his mother, and I tell you this. I leave his fate in your hands. I will return in half an hour, and then you will have decided whether he is to come with me, free and joyous, or with his head bowed to the dust in sorrow and shame, a dishonoured man.' He looked at her—her head was resting on her clasped hands—and murmured, ' The best course in such a case as this is to trust nothing to skill, and everything to conscience.' And then he said aloud, ' Mind, I return for your answer in half an hour,' and was gone. She stared into vacancy with sightless eyes, and then nature came to her rescue. The tears welled up and relieved the breaking heart. 'My son!' she murmured, 'I knew it; my heart told me so when I stooped over him on that dreadful night, when I thought all was lost—that he had come back to his mother's arms but to die. To die I no, that is all over. He will live, and be a great joy to me. But how shall I tell him ! how shall I tell him !' ' Doctor Blunt.' A weak voice. She started up, and found a young man (he was scarcely twenty) standing before her. He was fair and very pale. He evidently was convalescent from some serious illness. She rushed up to him. ' You are imprudent,' she said, caressingly. ' What would the doctor say if he were to see you now 2 Come, this is not obedience.'

' I feel so much better to-day,' he replied. ' But was not that the voice of Dr Blunt 1 You know him V 'He used to know me years ago ;' and then she said warningly, ' But you must return to your room. You must not stay here.' 'Why not?' 'lt is not so comfortable as your own. Come,' and she tried to lead him to the door. ' Stay,' said he in a faint voice. ' For the first time I can collect my thoughts. Where am I ? - I remember being feverish and ill. There were cards and lights. Then all seemed a blank until I saw your face as it bent over mine. I had seen your face somewhere before. Where was it V ' You must not excite yourself,' she murmured, still trying to lead him from the room. * Come.' He looked round. 'Ah, I know this room ! It is the gambling house that has haunted me in my dreams. And you—ah! I remember you now—you are the woman who dealt out the cards. Don't touch me 1' And he cast her from him. She sighed deeply,' and said, 'You can stay here now.' 'And so it is you,' he continued excitedly, 'who have played the good Samaritan. You, who live but to deceive, have saved my live. The gift is valueless when it is received from your hands.' ' You do not know what you say,' she cried in a pleading voice. ' I have watched by your bed night and day. I have wrestled with death for your sake. ' Oh, Frank, Frank, you will break my heart!' ' And so you know my name, too ! I have sunk low indeed when the keeper of a gambling house calls me by my Christian name.' 'Look in my face,' she cried. 'Bead there the sacrifice I have made for you. Cannot you see the hand of death ?' And then, with a revulsion of feeling, she repressed herself. ' No, no; it was freely given. But you should have pity upon me, child. You should have pity;' and she buried her face in her hands. Frank was silent for a few minutes, and then he said, 'I am wrong. You have been very good to me. See, lam sorry ; forgive me.' *Ah 1 if you only knew how much you had to forgive me !' ' Oh, do not trouble yourself on that score. I was desperate, and there are scores of houses such as yours in Paris. I shall never be able to repay you for your kindness ' ' You can pay me,' she cried quickly. ' Ah,' he said, ' you have seen my guardian. Dr Blunt h«s told you that lam not quite a pauper; that I have money.' 'Do not insult me 1' she exclaimed. 'You can repay me. Ch, Frank, Frank, you are young, and are spending your youth in dissipation. Where do I meet you 1 In a gambling-house, your blood fevered with wine ! For Heaven's sake promise me never to touch a card again.' 'This from you,' he said ; 'the keeper of a gambling-house !' ' And who should know better the miseries of play 1 For Heaven's sake promise me never to touch a card again. You hear what I say—what I pray !' And again her hand went to her heart, and her face became ghastly. ' You are ill!' he cried. ' No; give me your answer. Quick, quick !' 'There, I promise you.' ' Thank Heaven for that!' and she sank into a chair. ' You are better now,' he said, leaning over her. ' You have overtasked your strength in nursing me through my illness. And I was brute enough to reproach you ! But tell me, why did you take such an interest in me V She hesitated. ' You reminded me of a son who was very dear to me. A son who is lost to me.' ' Poor mother I' ' Oh, say that again 1' she cried. ' And yet you should have said, " poor son 1" And so this Dr Blunt is a great friend of yours?' 'Yes. He was the bosom friend of my poor dear father.' She looked at him with troubled eyes, and then she said, ' You call your father poor—you speak of him in a tone of sympathy : had he any sorrow ?' She waited anxiously for the answer. 'No.' She looked surprised. • How shall I tell him ?' she murmured j and then, more to gain time than for any other reason, she said: ' Dr Blunt is a very clever man V • Yes,' replied Frank, with a smile. 'He has been very kind to me. Since my father's death he has been my guardian ; and as my guardian, he has given in to all my whims. It is one of his theories that a patient should never be thwarted in his wishes. And, in his eyep, every man and woman in the world is a patient.' ' Supposing I had a whim V ' Then you may be sure that the Doctor would insist upon its being gratified.' 'You shall represent the Doctor,' said Madame La Fontaine, with a forced laugh. Then she added, earnestly, ' I have a whim. It is that you should take the place of my lost son. Oh, not for long—only for a little while. I have so longed to be able to speak to him. You are very like what he would have been had he been left to me. You will not refuse me ?' ' But it is such a strange request j' and then, as he looked into her pleading, teardimmed eyes, he added, 'lconsent.' For a moment she was silent, and then she whispered tenderly and lingeringly, as if she wished the words to last for ever, 'My son!' ' And now,' she continued, ' I am going to be very frank with you. It is a bitter grief to find me here, is it? The keeper of a gambling-house. You can never forgive me?' ' Let us not speak of that,' he said, turning aside his head. ' You are right,' she replied quickly. • No, let.me only remember the bitter sorrow I have undergone—the days and nights of repentance. But it is too late! too late !' She paused for a moment, and then continued, 'I married when I was little more than a child. My husband, I know, loved me ; but then, in those far-distant days, his English nature seemed cold and passionless when judged by my hot Southern blood. His kindness I considered neglect. His calm, pure affection seemed, in my eyes, the offspring of regret. It was then the tempter came to me—to rob me of the paradise of home. At every turn he filled my mind with suspicions. Jealousy robbed me of my senses, and in every act of my husband 1 read treachery and deceit.' (To oe continued.)