LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume IX, Issue 1239, 25 February 1878, Page 3

LITERATURE.

MY HEROINE. Argosy. (Concluded.) He continued imperturbably, in a tone of irony, ' You should see all the sights before you g°-' ' You are mad to speak to me. Go your way.' ' The best sight is at the ramparts to-day. Allez y.' He elbowed his way into the crowd. I did not reason or pause, but strode blindly towards the ramparts, I scarcely knew why. There were I met hor, at the angle of the useless battery, I stood waiting—for what ? Not a reader but guesses, but I could Dot say. At nightfall I heaid voices on the other tide of the battery. Then there stole forth a slight active figure, the fig ire of a woman. I followed her down that interminable Grand Hue, keeping well in shadow this time—followed her to the cathedral. I dared not enter. I know not what I feared. But I waited. In a few minutes she) reappeared alone, and I followed her still—followed over the swinging bridge, followed through the ill-paved melancholy streets of the Pollet —to the Puie de la Poissonnerie. Passionless I should have gusssed it all in a moment. As it was I went home merely puzzled, painfully puzzled, halfdoubting perhaps, but realising nothing. I read the announcement of Emily's mar riage that evening, and wrote a commonplace letter of congratulation. The n r xt morning I met Aon- tte. She was eharmin •, and 1 did not—dared not - spea'i of the ramparts She had familiarised herself with her position, and her hands were ready to caress, her lips bolder in their loving . rattle. It was no longer a fisher I ass 1 was marrying, but a lady deolasnee.il you will a piquant flavour of Boh mia about her, but graceful, intelligent, refined. And that was the last day. The next morning I received two letters ; one from my uncle, the other from an old friend, a painter who was illustrating a story of mine. My uncle wrote laconically : ' Dear Stephen—Your note means that you are well, I trust and suppose. I thank you for your good wishes ia Emily's behalf. But individually I should have been more favorably impressed by your present attentions b,ad you condescended to acknowledge my letter and remittance of the 29th ultimo.'

I did not open Bertram's letter. I was stunned by what I had read. Was the old man mad or dreaming ? I wrote hastily and somewhat violently, I am afraid, to Vallance Place, and then shut myself up sullenly to write the preface to my novel, a preface I had originally intended to be as profound and revolutionary as *h&jfc of Victor Hugo's "Cromwell," NftW I made it a snarling address, to, * indolent irresponsible reviewers,* &c. Annette was away at Puys. So for two days I brooded and wrote alonethank Providence the writing is not printed ! Then on the third day-the day of her return -I had a letter: 'My dear Stephen,—l am quite unable to understand your letter. Here is the communication made to me during yov<r illness, a communication which \ answered by a cheque for twenty pounds.' And surely eaoagh I read enclosed an application, in my behalf to my uncle It was written in French, Raid that on vnv sickbed I desired to be at peace with my family j. it said that I was poor, that my sickness would impoverish me still more; and it asked for money, and it was signed Annette le lloux.

I was facy, to face with her—my heroine—in a lew ininutes. I was calm : the bjood that had been boiling with humiliation and disappointment, with the sham,© and sorrow of the dupe, seemed, I&e solid ice in my veins. ' You gee.the letter,' I said calmly.

And in truth she seemed surprised at my anger. But a heavy sullen lo >k—the look of a kitchen-wench you have caught in th" act of riflling the larder—came. iato> those

good brown eyes I had written pages about.

'Where's the harm? You're poor—you said you were. I thought you v. ouid like to be reconciled to your family. La famille cent tout when one is poor.'

I sighed despairingly. I saw it all. Saw the peasant's hard positive calculations, and underneath her glib Parisian poetry the bitter prose of her race and clas3. One could not argue with such a thing as that; but one could i-orrow fr the dream ended, mourn the deception, albeit the deceiver was not worth a sigh, ' Why have you lied to me V I said gently and sadly, try ng against hope to make her uuder3t*nd my feelings. 'I would nut have betrayed you to those you are at enmity with for a world. And to ask for money ! Annette, Annette, were a make believe from beginning to end.

She reddened. Ah me, it was the iiah-fag faced me.

' A make believe ! I didn't seek you out— I didn't follow you Ask for money, indeed! Why, you co-ildn't have pa'd father's bill if I h-.dn't written. Oh, le beau monsieur a chcral snr les prinoipesP Aud. in faith, one must take such mishaps gaily ; there was a gesture, worth}' of tho Salle Valentino. Thank Heaven there was this comic standpoint from which to view the situation! I should have exploded otherwise. As it was I anaw red calmly in about the same manner, I suspect, as a chaplain lecturing a delinquent in a reformatory.

' You don't know the harm you have done. You cannot understand. 1 wa«i grievously mistaken.' And then—l could not help it—' Mignonne, mignoane, say something to ease me ; un mot —itwouid suffice—je f aime si bien.' There was a shrill laugh of triumph at the the tears that stood in my eyes. ' Yoi won't make it up with your uncle the milord; and you are savage about nothing. Then [go; fyou are not my only chance.'

Even with these words did my heroine leave me.

I packed up that evening and took my ticket. But two thiDgs retarded me. I read the letter from my old chum Bertram, and one of its paragraphs impressed me:

•So you are staying at old Le Houx's place. I put up there more than a year ago. < 'ood sort of people. Bat beware of the girl. Pretty wench, and knew it in my time. Under the pretence o? learning Eoglish she made desperate efforts to entrap me into matrimony. Think of the hardihood that would lay si p ge to Tom Bertram 1 I gave her some books as souvenirs, and departed precipitately. Girl you could do anything with, except marry.' The second event was the solemn appearance of my 'riend the lieutenant, whom the waiter ushered into my room with immense pomp and gravity. The lieutenant wished to do things dramatically, it was evident. After a mute obeisanc h»i delivered himself of one of those graceful little speeches which are among the most recognisable articles de Paris —about the pleasures of society, the two nations almost sisters, the charm of my conversation, &c. I bowed, and he became more solemn.

' A cloud has come over our acquaintance, monsieur ; I am sorry for it, and I wish to explain. Between hommcs du monde and galants homines like onrse'ves one owes these little reparations. I offended you with regard to Mdlle. le Houx. I wish now to say frankly that I have pretensions—nay, since this morning, claims—to that young lady's hand. I want to have it clear between us, monsieur, whether I am to regard you in the light of a rival or in that of a friend, and to state that I anticipate a union b tween myself and the young lady in qnestion directly her father has provided her with the sum an officer's wife must poasess according to our army regulations ' I smiled in spite of my desponden-y. * Before I answer will you do me the favor to inform me whether you are in the habit of meeting Mdlle. le Houx on the raniparts ?' 1 Certainly. Our rendezvous has been there during the last six months.' ' Thank you. Now, if it be any satisfaction to you, I can say that I am in no way, and never intend to be, a candidate for the young lady's hand.'

The lieutenant bowed and looked less solemn, only remarking parenthetically, ' I had two brother officers waiting on the port to act as oui seconds. But lam sin* cerely de'ighted that there is no necessity for crossing sworda with a gentleman for whose charac'er and general sentiments I have the highest esteem.' And then there was a fine nourish of neat little compliments, after which I ordered absinthe and cigars. Why should I undeceive him ? is he would make a famous garrison belle.

So I left Dieppe. The novel is one of the great Ruccesses of tha season. ' That is a tender idyllic picture of primitive womanhood,' say the critics. 'The character of Babette is charming and wonderfully true." • The author is most happy in his delineation of the simple, artless bewitching little fisher-girl, his heroine,' Those are some of the opinions of the blind pitiless press. If the revie ers had only known how each word of pain went to the author's heart and tore open the old wound, they would have been more merciful, and abused him a little.