LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXI, Issue 1669, 26 June 1879, Page 3

LITERATURE.

THE MARCHIONESS DE VALLORIN. The Marchioness de Vallorin and the Baron de Lircas had been sitting for nearly an hour by the fireside in a room in the lady's country house. The Baron was gazing in adndration at the Marchioness, while she calmly contemplated tha logs and irons. Occasionally the poor adorer sighed, and the lady yawned. At length she thus broke the silence :

'Do you not love those dear old castles, Baron, with their massive towers, their ghosts, and their dungeons? We should not look down on the days of chivalry, the knights wno vanquished the unbeliever, the chatelaines who en hanted them.' • May I ask. madame,' the Baron replied, ' why yon talk to me of castles and chateJa : nes, when I speak to you of my love ? I hold our grandmothers in high respect, but I prefer more modern beauties. Those far off times are venerable, sacred to memory, but you are bright as the present day. Remember, fair widow, that our marriage is to take place this year —that you wero to name the day this evening.' ' Oh, there's time enough for that!' said the Marchioness ; 'there are three hundred and sixty five days in the year, and we are but in March.'

'Do you moan to put me off till Few Year's eve ? [ must speak frankly—l fear I have a rival.'

* A rival! among men of the nineteenth century ! What nonsense! Who could I fancy ?—tell me, now, would it be one of those carpet knights, whose flame is kindled with tho first lustre in the ball-room, and bnrns as long a time ? or with the more serious lovers, who adore ro prettily, and offer a miniature passion ? Well, I own it, I could have loved '

•Whom?' cried in jealous rage. ' Koland, Charlemagne's nephew, or some pa'adin, some gallant knight of old.' « Capital!' exclaimed the Baron, with a polite laugh 'love Roland, fair lady ; I am not jealons of him. Only beware of your rival, Angelica; when you are tired of Aiiosto's history, and 4gnes Sorel's days, I will return to the charge. Farewell, charming Marchioness.' The next day Madame de Vallorin was alone in her chamber, it was midnight, the hour of thieves and bate, nightingales, serenades and lovers. She was musing about some paladin, when her foot struck against a large enam-lled coffer. Who could have placed it there ? What could it contain ? Curious as a true daughter of Eve, she quickly opened it-what a surprise! She found a picturesque and graceful mediaeval costume. Coquetry followed curiosity, she hastened to try on the satin robe with hanging sleeves, tbe toque with its drooping white feather, the pearl embroidered girdle with its emerald clasp, and as she stood, glowing with gratified vanity before her mirror, she modestly said, ' I really do look very well, what a pity no one seea me, I only want some one to tell me so.' A slight noise warned her that her wish was granted. She shrieked in terror. The door opened and a young man appeared, dressed as in the days of Charles VII. ' Follow me, madame,' as he drew nearer. 'Good heavens! Help I help! I will ring—help I' «Silence, for pity's sake. If you refuse to •follow me I die of despair, for I love you, madame, to my ears your very name is music, each fold of your garment draws me to you.' • Sir ! this language—here —at such an hour. I have never even seen you, I do not know you.' * But I have seen you —I adored you without obtaining one glance from those eyes. I

am a descendant of Eaoul de Courcy, my ancestors were heroes in the days of Charles VII., my name is Sir Oliver. I have a horror of dress coats and yellow gloves, and have decided on shutting myself up in the halls of my forefathers, and adopting their manners and costume. Deign to become my Chatelaine!'

The marchioness ventured to steal a look at him as ho spoke, and her anger gradually decreased. He realised all she had imagined; it was a waking dream, moving and speak ing ; a real knight, and with a ruby clasp in his cap, his dress spangled with silver stars, and an ardent look in his eyes, but, notwithstanding these observations, she rushed to the farther end of the room. We do not let ourselves be run away with eo quietly when we have been brought up in a good boarding-school, and been taught morals as well as grammar, and the uso of tha globes. But Sir Oliver caught her up despite her resistance, and carried her oft in his armsvigorous as Roland's. The "next moment they were at the garden gate—for the marchioness' villa was a mere modern box. i'uddenly a white phantom ro?e from bshind tho lodge—the sister of the fair victim. Oliver allowed the two v e nen to exchange a plaintive farewell; but to enable them to e -nbrace, it was necessary to enter tho ditch, which did duty as a moat, and divided tin grounds from tho highway. 1 Come,' said the knight, addressing his courser by the name of the most celebrated steeds of romance, 'come, Bride d'Or Hippo • gtiffe, breast the waves gallantly.' Bat Hippogriffe, who w»3 a prosaic Norman roan, reflected a mom nt, and then thought be would nibble tho grass; bo Oliver carefully lifted up the lady till she stood on the saddle before him, thua enabling her to reach the castle wall. ' Adieu, my beloved sister,' she cried, ' they are tearing me from yon.' 'An abduction!' exclaimed her sister, ' tills is ic famous ; where are the police ? where would they take you ?'

' I know not—doubtlefs to the turrets of some time-worn castle.' She held out her hand to her sister, who «aught i*;, Gobbing bitterly. Oliver replaced his treasure, and spurred on his palfrey. The good steed trotted gaily forward, thinking of his oats, while the knight soothed his lady love. The journey was very common place, no storms, no witches, no vampires—not even a hooting owl; the moon looked on with perfect calm —she has seen bo mary elopements since He 1 en's days. They rode for some hours, until they gained a battlemented castle, whose portcullis was raised to admit them. A damsel preceded the new Chatelaine to a vast chamber, where the knight left her, after saluting her very respectfully. The Marchioness began by bolting the doors, then she raised her eyes to heaven, this naturally showed her the ceiling—primite ceiling—nothing bnt the bare rafters, she involuntarily regretted her gilt cornices. She paced her room, but her feet were frozen, instead of her well-warmed floor and velvet carpets, she had nothing bnt tesselated bricks; but she consoled herself by reflecting that Blanche *de Castille and Agnes Sorel had caught chilblains there before her. Still tho poor thing trembled with cold and fear. Her room, so spacious and gloomy, seemed built for ghosts. She dared not go to bed, and not a book to drive away thought; she could find but one a Gothic missal, which she could not decipher. She saw some implements of woman's work —alas, it was a spindle and distaff, and she had never spun anything but money. All at once something fluttered near her ; it flew over her torch and nearly extinguished it. Aa she had nothing of the Clorinda and Bradamante about her, she ehuddered in horror, and as she had a box at the Opera, she remembered""The Dame Blanche." Fortunately the ghost was but a swa low. who had built its nest in tha rafteis of hsr ceiling. The timid Chatelaine had scarcely recovered from her fright when she heard a broken, lugubrious cry without. • Good heavens I' sbe exclaimed, ' can they be hanging a vassal ?' As she was turning over this agreeable explanation in her mind, a screechfng owl passed her window. 'I was wrong,' she continueel, 'but as far as birds go, I pefer my cana-y to an owl.' On tho morrow and following day, Oliver paid her a visit. He was teneler and respectful. I cannot tell you how interestiug and varied these conversations with the lady of his thoughts were. The first day he said, 'I love you!' with one sigh; on the next day he repeated it with two sighs. She found mm sentimental and entertaining. The third day he said, *lf you will not love me, I will throw myself into the torrent.' He seemeel madly in love, and she remembered the Baron de Lircas with great disdain. On the fourth day he threatened—' If you will not love me, I will plunge this dagger in my heart before your eyes 1' This was irresistible the marriage was decided on.

The next day he conducted her to a room in the castle, and told her he would soon come and lead her to the chapel, where a priest was waiting to betroth them. She had been alone bat a moment when a small door opened ; she turned her head, andwas much surprieed to see tho Baron de Lircas enter.

' You here, sir !' she cried. ' Yes, madame ; I learnt that a villain had carried you away. I have discovered the castle where you were imprisoned—l come to release you.' ' He of whom you speak, sir, is the noblest of men. He loves me frantically. I shall soon be his wife. Leave me!'

'Do you think, beautiful lady, that I would yield yon thus to a rival ? I am a lover, not a philosopher. You forget that I love yon,' he cried, sinking on his knee. At this moment Sir Oliver returned. 'Death and fury!' he exclaimed, 'my betrothed alone with a lover ! You forget, madame, that I have a dagger and a fiery heart.' 'ln mercy, hear me!' said the Marchioness. ' Vo you think, he resumed, ' I will allow my name to bo sullied by my wife ? In our family, madame, the honor of the men is bright aa the blades of their swords ; the honor of their wives is pare as the new driven snow.' ' But Mr,' said the Baron. • I am not called Mr—l am Sir Oliver.' ' Well, then, Sir Oliver, allow me to say that the Marchioness knew me before yon; that our marriage has long been settled.' • Thou liest in thy teeth.' ' Since the Revolution, sir, none but Quakor3 use the second person.' ' Die!' shouted Sir Oliver—' down, down to sulphurous flames ! thy life is mine ! thy soul the demons !' As he Bpoke he stabbed the Baron, who groaned deeply and fell. He turned to the la<ly, who was white as her brid*l robes. ' Do not approach me !' she shrieked. * I hold you in horror.' ' Tell me, madame, he asked, ' if you remember Othello's story, and Desdemona's death V ' Othello !—heavens ?—what can he mean? —would he smother me ?' ' Are you better versed in the chronicle of Raoul de Courcy and Gabrielle de Vergy, Lady of Fayal ?' « What horrid ideas,' she thought, with & shudder ; ' can he mean me to eat the poor dear Baron's heart ?' ' I," he resumed, ' am more jealous, more desperate than Othello, or the Lord of Fayal. I wish a more complete revenge.' She fell half dead on her knees. « You little heeded, madame, that we are in an o'd castle, beneath this room lie my oubliettes.' ' Your oubliettes !' sbe screamed in terror. ' Do you know what they are ?' ho added, holding her firmly on the spot. ' You stand at this moment on a trap, the least movement will open it beneath you, and you will fall into a dungeon paved with knives and sharp stones.' She shrieked terribly, and instinctively rose to fly ; her fate was sealed ; the trap sank, she disappeared, buried in the our." liettes. This drama was scarcely over when the scene was changed ; a brilliant table was laid out in another room, around whioh some some young and pretty women and young men, dressed like natives of the Boulevard de Gand, were seated and talked joyously. • Be so good as to pass me a sherbet,' said Oliver. 'What a delightful supper!' cried another, ' the wine is old, the ladies are young, the punch is smoking, and bright eyes are Bparkling around us. Tho hours and our hearts are quicker than of old.' • Wake up, rouge yourself, my poor little

Bister,' said a lady, who was holding a smelling bottlo to a fainting figure. The lady slowly recovered herself, and looked with a bewildered air. Where am I?' she asked, according to immemorial custom. 'But just now, I remembor, I fell into the oubliette*, and now—theec flowers, these dazzling lights—am lin heaven ?' 'That may well be,' said the Baron do Lircas, 'for though we have no saints here, I see an angel, and trust you will at length grant me the martyr'e palm branch.' She rose in terror, she had caught sight of Oliver, and recognised him, notwithstanding his frock coat and black cravat.

' Di not be alarmed, madame, but forgivo ma/ he said, 'the feudal lord ia an humble banker, his old castle, where gallant knights once lived, has nothing fearful now; and the saloon over the oubliettes ia our theatre the tapestry hangings soon metamorphosed it. At my signal the trap on which you stood was gently lowered —ycu fainted away and were carried to thiß room.'

' What! you were amusing yourself at my expense !' she cried, and she looked at Oliver, whom she though much less fascinating in his frock <3oat.

'I am the criminal,' Haid tho Baron, ' Your sister and I wished to give you an idea of the soeues of the middle ages. Come, now, read over books of those days, and tell me if our little drama has been faithful.'

'Why, yes,' she answered, 'castles and oubliette 3 for martial or seiguorial vengeances, husbands punished the most innocent flirtation with the dagger's point.' ' Well, then, madame,' asked the Baron, 'do you still wish to live ia an old manner, with a knight banneret V ' I had rather live in my country house, or the Rue de Ia Chaussee d'Antio, and tike a husband from my own times.' And she gwe her hand to the Baron.