LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIV, Issue 2501, 13 April 1882, Page 4

LITERATURE.

A SLIGHT MISTAKE. (Concluded ) ‘ I have promised to look thOEi up tomorrow,’ I say, trying to speak carelessly. ‘ Ah,’ says Dolly resentfully, 1 1 only wish I had known this afternoon! I met i aok Bryant, and he would have been only too thankful tc corns and take me ont. However, it’s not too late-; I can send a note round to him.”

Half an 'hour earlier I might have been piqued by such a threat about Jack, of whom I am net particularly fond ; at this moment I could clasp hire to my heart. • Wat that man her husband ?’ asks Dolly: and I start ns if I had boeu stabbed.

Certainly women are the devil. How canning they are at finding the joints of your harness where «. knife will penetrate I know the idea ia ridicnlona, I know'that if he had been her husband they would have introduced me to him ; and yet all the e vening the horrid suspicion gnaws, and worries and torments me. As I wait in the passage of her hotel the next morning, as I ascend the stairs behind the waiter who is to conduct me to her presence, I am a prey to nervous 'irritation.

When I enter the room my lovely cousin comes forward to greet me. She is alone ; tbanka be praised for that. As though In an excess of cousinly affection, I take both her hands in mine, and scan the left one eagerly. There are three gold rings on the third finger, but each is inlaid with stones. I breathe again. Coris'ndc seems more arch, more full of spirits than ever this morning. ‘You will be disappointed, my poor Roger !’ she says, * Poor dear mamma has a migraine I Yon will not be able to see her ; she is in bed. What penalties one pays for enjoyment In this vale of tears. This is the sad result of our delicious dinner last night.’ ‘ I am awfully sorry,’ I rema-k, trying to look so. ‘But yon—you are none the worse V

‘l,’ says Coiisande, ‘have the digestion cf su ontrieh. Ido nofthink that a diet of billiard-tails would Impair it. Bat tell me, my cousin, is this to be a regulation call of twenty minutes, or have you a few hours at your disposal ?’ ‘All day,’ I cry joyfully. ‘Caul be of any use to yon ?’ ‘Of every use,’ she replies ; and fixing me with those lovely eyes cf hers, she adds—- ‘ Lot us spend a long day together.’ Was ever so heavenly a proposition made to mortal man !

* It will ba quite proper,’ ehe continues. • You are my cousin, you know—my brother,’ with an arch glanee. ‘By all means,’ I say j ‘father, grandfather, nnrl?,’ thinking joyfully to myself that she is my cousin all the same, and not within the prohibited degrees in the prayerbook.

•No,' she repeats, with a peremptory little air, ‘my brother. Now lam going to put on my hat. I have told mamma, and Hudson will soigner her until my return. Apropos, J. have not told you, my dear .Roger, where I propose to take yon. Wo are going to have a real lark. We will go down to the fair at St. Cloud and buy fairings, and we will lunch in a balcony giving on the river at Snreanea; and, best of all,’ with a triumphant look, *we will go by the penny boat.’ And, making me a little gesture with her hand, she vanishes. Certainly my cousin Ooriaando is as selfwilled and original as she is fair. Never mind! her programme will suit me down to the ground. In a few minutes she reappears, looking more captivating than ever. Her dress Is pale-blne cotton, perhaps? Ido not know the names of materials; round her throat is a black laoo scarf ? Again I am uncertain. She wears a sort of Spanish matador’s hat, with a big tnft. rather on the back of her head, and she is just beginning to put on a gant de Svede, with legions of buttons.

‘Let ns go,’ says this enchanting creature. * Yes,’ in answer to a look from me, *it is very vulgar to put on one’s gloves In the street, but, yon know, according to British ideas, one can do anything abroad.’ ‘1 must plans myself in ymr bands, my fair cousin,’ I observe; ‘ for 1 know no more about the arrangements of the penny boats in Paris than the mm in the moon.’

* Trust yourself to me,’ she answers, ‘ Now call that voiture, Te l him,’ ohe continues, gaily stepping In, *to drive to the Pont de la Concorde.’

* Won’t you tell him ?’ I say imploringly, ‘ I’m an awful duffer at French and yon speak it so divinely.’ Thus urged, sho gives the order. By this this time she has coaxed on one glove, and holding out her arm to me, bids me button it. A thrill of rapture goes through mo as I set myself with ardor to the delightful task ‘Oh matheurl’ ejaculates Corisande a moment later, and 1 look up and sea Phil and Dolly In the act of passing. At least I don’t see Dolly, for she has stuck her parasol down over her little nose. Phil waves his hacd in a cheery, congratulatory sort of manner.

Corisande laughs maliciously, ‘My poor Roger!’ she says. I am angry to find my face getting hot. ‘ I wish you would not keep hinting,’ I exclaim eagerly, ‘that there is anything between mo and —and that lady.’ * Why not ?’ asks Corisande coolly. 1 One must have one’s distractions. And that, I suppose, is M. le mart ?’

‘ Yes, poor old Phil Chester, one of my greatest pals.’ Corisande gives me ouch a saucy look that I am dumbfounded.

‘ I assure you upon my word of honour, I cry.

‘ That is enrugh, my cousin. Qui s’ excuse, s' accuse, you know. And 1 can easily believe you, for I give you credit for better taste than to he seriously epris with such a very ordinary little person. ’ Evidently Corisande can hit hard as well as Dolly. I have learned one thing in tho course of my five lustres and a half, never to vaunt or defend the charms of one woman to another.

We arrive at the quay j we take our places on the woeden pier to wait for the boat; two minutes more and we are on board.

Tho company is not very choice—some hideous old women, one csrrying fowls, a sprinkling of mechanics, and a few people who may, by contrast, bo called respeotabie. I feel very unhappy at seeing my superb young goddess in the midst of these dirty beasts—one mercy, it was none of my doing. I shrewdly suspect she did not know what she was letting herself in for. ‘ Don’t look to wretched, men cher,’ she cries, laughing; it will be better presently, True enough, at the Point do lAlma, our most objectionable iollow travellers leave, and Corisande and I esconce ouroelves in tho bow. Our privacy is respected. Everything after this is delightful. It is a heavenly day again; the sky is like one big turquoise. Corisande points out to the pretty sloping gardens at Pas-ty; the merry-go-rounds. the arbors, and restaurants at Antenll.

‘ We will come here one evening,’ she says, * and yon shall take me to the hippo drome; O, and heaps of places I’ And she gives me such an intoxicating glance from her beautiful eyea that I fall headlong desperately in love with her there and then. I have felt it coming iu for some time. There Is something divinely limpid about those matchless eyes of hers; try to imagine sapphires swimming in liquid diamonds. But the simile Is poor, and does not sound half eo nice as the reality looks. Why will she insist on my looking at the scenery, when I only want to gaze at her ? By Jove, though, It is very pretty now we are approaching Sevres ; those wooded slopes with every exquisite Autumn tint are lovely! '* We will come here and fish some day,’ says Corieande, as we see Mossoo in a punt anchored in midstream, and some fishermen standing on the 1 ank. There is an inn with the sign of ‘The Miraculous Draught,’an inn with balconies and trellises—a divinely spoony sort of place. I should like to spend my honeymoon with CorSsande there. Shall I tell her so? Perhaps it would be premature. We get out at St. Cloud. 'Pon my life I never saw such a baby as this magnificent looking young cousin of mine. She Is In the highest spirits; she does nothing but laugh, and she has such lovely teeth that it ia a positive treat to see them ; she insists on buying filthy plum tarts and gingerbread which she can’t eat; she throws balls at the dolls stuck up in rows; she shoots at the revolving egg and hits it three times, by Jove ! she insists on my being photographed and framed for a franc in three minutes, and

goes into fits when I come out the mo»t villainous Icoking dog one ever beheid \ she buys a quantity of rubbish and makes me cany it; and vows she has never enjoyed herself so much in all her life. It is getting . n for two.

‘ I am ravenously hungry,' sha declares ; ‘ let ns make hasto and get to our journey’s end.’ I suggest that we shall lunch here at St. Cloud.

‘No, no, no!” she replies. * That is not my idea. I always cany out my ideas. I saw a little inn at Suresnes when 1 drove through from the Bois; it has a balcony with tables in it looking on the river ; and I said to myself that I would some day sit there one day and eat my lunch.’ So twenty minutes later in that balcony we are sitting. ‘ I hope they will have something nice,’ Corisande, who is a bit of a gourmet, has said. ‘ But whatever it is, we must have it quickly.” The balcony which appeared so deliciously rustic and inviting loses considerably by acquaintance; we ascend to it by two flights of wooden steps, passing through a bare room with sanded floor. The little table with cloths that looked so snowy from the boat are no great shakes now we sit down to one. Worst of all, there is nothing to bo bad but blfteck or cutlets, and either will take twenty minutes lam happy enough ; the view of the river and Longchamps is charming, the view of Corisande opposite me more charming still j and 1 had a big breakfast at 10 o’clock, and could live on love for at least five hours more. But Corisande’s gay spirit have gone she is pensive; she looks as if she might cry In a few minutes more. ‘Roger,’ she says [dolorously, looking at mo with the most heartrending expression. “ I shall positively die if I don’t have something to eat. O, Roger, I could oat you, I am so hungry ! For pity’s sake get me something, if it is only bread and butter.’ Thus adjured, I look about hastily for a bell ; there is none. ‘ Call the waiter,’ she says faintly ; and I obey. There is no gat the end of garcon, dear Roger,’ she remarks plaintively ; ‘bat all the same, try again.’ I roar at the highest pitch of my voice. Presently Steps are beard ascending ; I go to meet them.

‘Pang et bur, vite !’ I about. ‘ And when the devil are you going to bring that bifteok[? And look here vang, vang rouge, Bordeaux, St. Julien ; look eharp !’ When T return to Corrisande she is in convulsions of laughter ; the tears are running down her cheeks. I feel a little nettled. I suppose she is laughing at mo. But the waiter appears, and my time Is taken up, like Charlotte’s, with cutting bread-and-butter. Corlanrdo certainly astonishes me by her powers of consuming it, * I am qualifying for a bread-and-bntter miss,’ she says, with her extraordinary laonity if reading my thoughts The bifteok oomes at last. When I have stuck a fork Into it, I look at her with dismay. ‘Never mind,’ she remarks socially. ‘ Give me some all the same My hunger is not yet appeased. Ah,’ *as she put a piece {between her red Ups, ‘I recognise an old friend. This is the cab horse we drove drove behind last week.’

But she perseveres; she eats all the fried potatoes, and then a plate of little eakes and a bunch of grapes. ‘I am better,’ she says, with a long sigh of contentment. And she leans her arms on the balcony, and looks down the river. I cannot take my eyes off her’ * How lovely you are!’ I say at last. ‘Oh, my dear,’ she replies nonchalantly, ‘that is because you’ve been out of England so long. When you go back to It, you’ll think hundreds of womei better looking than yonr poor cousin.’ * I’ll be shot if I shall,’ I say. ‘Yes,’ she replies, ‘by an arrow from Onpid’s bow.’ She has a pretty talent for repartee. _ I look from her eyes to her lips, from her lips to her throat, and my glance falls on three little diamond brooches nestling in her lace.

* Is it the fashion now to wear diamonds in the day time ?’ I inquire. ‘O, yea, you stick yourself all over with them, as many as you can get. 1 have several more—two flies and a beetle, and a shrimp. Can you see my triad ? Isn't It a sweet ? Isn’t it a lambsin V ‘lt is rather neat,’ I answer, thinking my epithet better chosen than hers. ‘ Tom gave mo that,’ she says. * Tom ? Tom who V ‘ Why your brother Tom, of course, * Ah,’ I think a trifle bitterly, *he can’t afford to give diamonds !’ And 1 register a mental vow that, though I am not particularly flush of money, I will, on the first opportunity, buy Corisande a toad twice as big and twice as ugly as Tom’s. * By the way. what la Tom like,’ I a'.k carelessly. She looks at [mo with her bead on one side.

‘ Well,' she eays impartially, ‘he’a not as good-looking as yon. He’a shorter, aud bis nose is not as straight as yours.’

‘ Ah !' aad I stroke that feature caressingly.

‘and what’o he like otherwise ? Is he a decent sort of fellow.’

* Very decent,’ she responds dryly. However, I do not feel disposed to waste time in talking of Tom. Every moment I am growing more desperately In love with my beautiful cousin, I can’t help It j it is stronger than I.

Suddenly I oatch her by bothjhands. ‘My darling,’ I say, ‘don’t think me a lunatic, but I love you to madness.’ She tears her bauds from me with a look half angry, half-alarmed. * Are you out of your senses, Koger, ’ she exclaims, ‘ This Is most unmanly, most unfair.’

* Why unfair ?’ I cry. * Most unfair,’ she repeats, ready to weep. * Unfair to mo, and to Tom.’ *To Tom ?’ [ gasp. ‘ Why to Tom.’ * Because you know I am engaged to him,’ I sit paralysed and speechless, ‘He wrote, and mamma wrote, and I wrote,’ she continues. ‘Of course, ycu knew it.’

Still I cannot find my voice, ‘Do yon think if it had not been for that I should have come out with you as I have done to-day—you, who are almost a stranger. I told yon I looked upon you as a brother.’ My heart is too bitter for speech, I look away from her down the river I lean my face between my hands. Verily, I feel like Esau—my younger. brother baa taken my birthright, and now something that costs me a far crueller pang. How I wish I was at the bottom of the Seine—anywhere away from this. Involuntarily I think of Dolly. How ready I had been to throw her over! ‘ Here comes the boat, ’ remarks Corisande, in a cold voice. ‘We had better be going ’ Silently we walked on board ; silently we are borne Parisward. As we approach the hotel she turns to me and sayn, with a half tmile, ‘ This all very ridiculous. We mast be friends, you know. Come In and see mamma ’

‘No, thank you,’ I say quietly, ‘not now.’ The same evening I leave Paris.