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Twenty Years After/Chapter 13

The road was long, but the horses upon which D'Artagnan and Planchet rode had been refreshed in the well supplied stables of the Lord of Bracieux; the master and servant rode side by side, conversing as they went, for D'Artagnan had by degrees thrown off the master and Planchet had entirely ceased to assume the manners of a servant. He had been raised by circumstances to the rank of a confidant to his master. It was many years since D'Artagnan had opened his heart to any one; it happened, however, that these two men, on meeting again, assimilated perfectly. Planchet was in truth no vulgar companion in these new adventures; he was a man of uncommonly sound sense. Without courting danger he never shrank from an encounter; in short, he had been a soldier and arms ennoble a man; it was, therefore, on the footing of friends that D'Artagnan and Planchet arrived in the neighborhood of Blois.

Going along, D'Artagnan, shaking his head, said:

"I know that my going to Athos is useless and absurd; but still I owe this courtesy to my old friend, a man who had in him material for the most noble and generous of characters."

"Oh, Monsieur Athos was a noble gentleman," said Planchet, "was he not? Scattering money round about him as Heaven sprinkles rain. Do you remember, sir, that duel with the Englishman in the inclosure des Carmes? Ah! How lofty, how magnificent Monsieur Athos was that day, when he said to his adversary: `You have insisted on knowing my name, sir; so much the worse for you, since I shall be obliged to kill you.' I was near him, those were his exact words, when he stabbed his foe as he said he would, and his adversary fell without saying, `Oh!' 'Tis a noble gentleman -- Monsieur Athos."

"Yes, true as Gospel," said D'Artagnan; "but one single fault has swallowed up all these fine qualities."

"I remember well," said Planchet, "he was fond of drinking -- in truth, he drank, but not as other men drink. One seemed, as he raised the wine to his lips, to hear him say, `Come, juice of the grape, and chase away my sorrows.' And how he used to break the stem of a glass or the neck of a bottle! There was no one like him for that."

"And now," replied D'Artagnan, "behold the sad spectacle that awaits us. This noble gentleman with his lofty glance, this handsome cavalier, so brilliant in feats of arms that every one was surprised that he held in his hand a sword only instead of a baton of command! Alas! We shall find him changed into a broken down old man, with garnet nose and eyes that slobber; we shall find him extended on some lawn, whence he will look at us with a languid eye and peradventure will not recognize us. God knows, Planchet, that I should fly from a sight so sad if I did not wish to show my respect for the illustrious shadow of what was once the Comte de la Fere, whom we loved so much."

Planchet shook his head and said nothing. It was evident that he shared his master's apprehensions.

"And then," resumed D'Artagnan, "to this decrepitude is probably added poverty, for he must have neglected the little that he had, and the dirty scoundrel, Grimaud, more taciturn than ever and still more drunken than his master -- stay, Planchet, it breaks my heart to merely think of it."

"I fancy myself there and that I see him staggering and hear him stammering," said Planchet, in a piteous tone, "but at all events we shall soon know the real state of things, for I imagine that those lofty walls, now turning ruby in the setting sun, are the walls of Blois."

"Probably; and those steeples, pointed and sculptured, that we catch a glimpse of yonder, are similar to those that I have heard described at Chambord."

At this moment one of those heavy wagons, drawn by bullocks, which carry the wood cut in the fine forests of the country to the ports of the Loire, came out of a byroad full of ruts and turned on that which the two horsemen were following. A man carrying a long switch with a nail at the end of it, with which he urged on his slow team, was walking with the cart.

"Ho! Friend," cried Planchet.

"What's your pleasure, gentlemen?" replied the peasant, with a purity of accent peculiar to the people of that district and which might have put to shame the cultured denizens of the Sorbonne and the Rue de l'Universite.

"We are looking for the house of Monsieur de la Fere," said D'Artagnan.

The peasant took off his hat on hearing this revered name.

"Gentlemen," he said, "the wood that I am carting is his; I cut it in his copse and I am taking it to the chateau."

D'Artagnan determined not to question this man; he did not wish to hear from another what he had himself said to Planchet.

"The chateau!" he said to himself, "What chateau? Ah, I understand! Athos is not a man to be thwarted; he, like Porthos, has obliged his peasantry to call him `my lord,' and to dignify his pettifogging place by the name of chateau. He had a heavy hand -- dear old Athos -- after drinking."

D'Artagnan, after asking the man the right way, continued his route, agitated in spite of himself at the idea of seeing once more that singular man whom he had so truly loved and who had contributed so much by advice and example to his education as a gentleman. He checked by degrees the speed of his horse and went on, his head drooping as if in deep thought.

Soon, as the road turned, the Chateau de la Valliere appeared in view; then, a quarter of a mile beyond, a white house, encircled in sycamores, was visible at the farther end of a group of trees, which spring had powdered with a snow of flowers.

On beholding this house, D'Artagnan, calm as he was in general, felt an unusual disturbance within his heart -- so powerful during the whole course of life are the recollections of youth. He proceeded, nevertheless, and came opposite to an iron gate, ornamented in the taste of the period.

Through the gate was seen kitchen-gardens, carefully attended to, a spacious courtyard, in which neighed several horses held by valets in various liveries, and a carriage, drawn by two horses of the country.

"We are mistaken," said D'Artagnan. "This cannot be the establishment of Athos. Good heavens! Suppose he is dead and that this property now belongs to some one who bears his name. Alight, Planchet, and inquire, for I confess that I have scarcely courage so to do."

Planchet alighted.

"Thou must add," said D'Artagnan, "that a gentleman who is passing by wishes to have the honor of paying his respects to the Comte de la Fere, and if thou art satisfied with what thou hearest, then mention my name!"

Planchet, leading his horse by the bridle, drew near to the gate and rang the bell, and immediately a servant-man with white hair and of erect stature, notwithstanding his age, presented himself.

"Does Monsieur le Comte de la Fere live here?" asked Planchet.

"Yes, monsieur, it is here he lives," the servant replied to Planchet, who was not in livery.

"A nobleman retired from service, is he not?"

"Yes."

"And who had a lackey named Grimaud?" persisted Planchet, who had prudently considered that he couldn't have too much information.

"Monsieur Grimaud is absent from the chateau for the time being," said the servitor, who, little used as he was to such inquiries, began to examine Planchet from head to foot.

"Then," cried Planchet joyously, "I see well that it is the same Comte de la Fere whom we seek. Be good enough to open to me, for I wish to announce to monsieur le comte that my master, one of his friends, is here, and wishes to greet him."

"Why didn't you say so?" said the servitor, opening the gate. "But where is your master?"

"He is following me."

The servitor opened the gate and walked before Planchet, who made a sign to D'Artagnan. The latter, his heart palpitating more than ever, entered the courtyard without dismounting.

Whilst Planchet was standing on the steps before the house he heard a voice say:

"Well, where is this gentleman and why do they not bring him here?"

This voice, the sound of which reached D'Artagnan, reawakened in his heart a thousand sentiments, a thousand recollections that he had forgotten. He vaulted hastily from his horse, whilst Planchet, with a smile on his lips, advanced toward the master of the house.

"But I know you, my lad," said Athos, appearing on the threshold.

"Oh, yes, monsieur le comte, you know me and I know you. I am Planchet -- Planchet, whom you know well." But the honest servant could say no more, so much was he overcome by this unexpected interview.

"What, Planchet, is Monsieur d'Artagnan here?"

"Here I am, my friend, dear Athos!" cried D'Artagnan, in a faltering voice and almost staggering from agitation.

At these words a visible emotion was expressed on the beautiful countenance and calm features of Athos. He rushed toward D'Artagnan with eyes fixed upon him and clasped him in his arms. D'Artagnan, equally moved, pressed him also closely to him, whilst tears stood in his eyes. Athos then took him by the hand and led him into the drawing-room, where there were several people. Every one arose.

"I present to you," he said, "Monsieur le Chevalier D'Artagnan, lieutenant of his majesty's musketeers, a devoted friend and one of the most excellent, brave gentlemen that I have ever known."

D'Artagnan received the compliments of those who were present in his own way, and whilst the conversation became general he looked earnestly at Athos.

Strange! Athos was scarcely aged at all! His fine eyes, no longer surrounded by that dark line which nights of dissipation pencil too infallibly, seemed larger, more liquid than ever. His face, a little elongated, had gained in calm dignity what it had lost in feverish excitement. His hand, always wonderfully beautiful and strong, was set off by a ruffle of lace, like certain hands by Titian and Vandyck. He was less stiff than formerly. His long, dark hair, softly powdered here and there with silver tendrils, fell elegantly over his shoulders in wavy curls; his voice was still youthful, as if belonging to a Hercules of twenty-five, and his magnificent teeth, which he had preserved white and sound, gave an indescribable charm to his smile.

Meanwhile the guests, seeing that the two friends were longing to be alone, prepared to depart, when a noise of dogs barking resounded through the courtyard and many persons said at the same moment:

"Ah! 'Tis Raoul, who is come home."

Athos, as the name of Raoul was pronounced, looked inquisitively at D'Artagnan, in order to see if any curiosity was painted on his face. But D'Artagnan was still in confusion and turned around almost mechanically when a fine young man of fifteen years of age, dressed simply, but in perfect taste, entered the room, raising, as he came, his hat, adorned with a long plume of scarlet feathers.

Nevertheless, D'Artagnan was struck by the appearance of this new personage. It seemed to explain to him the change in Athos; a resemblance between the boy and the man explained the mystery of this regenerated existence. He remained listening and gazing.

"Here you are, home again, Raoul," said the comte.

"Yes, sir," replied the youth, with deep respect, "and I have performed the commission that you gave me."

"But what's the matter, Raoul?" said Athos, very anxiously. "You are pale and agitated."

"Sir," replied the young man, "it is on account of an accident which has happened to our little neighbor."

"To Mademoiselle de la Valliere?" asked Athos, quickly.

"What is it?" cried many persons present.

"She was walking with her nurse Marceline, in the place where the woodmen cut the wood, when, passing on horseback, I stopped. She saw me also and in trying to jump from the end of a pile of wood on which she had mounted, the poor child fell and was not able to rise again. I fear that she has badly sprained her ankle."

"Oh, heavens!" cried Athos. "And her mother, Madame de Saint-Remy, have they yet told her of it?"

"No, sir, Madame de Saint-Remy is at Blois with the Duchess of Orleans. I am afraid that what was first done was unskillful, if not worse than useless. I am come, sir, to ask your advice."

"Send directly to Blois, Raoul; or, rather, take horse and ride immediately yourself."

Raoul bowed.

"But where is Louise?" asked the comte.

"I have brought her here, sir, and I have deposited her in charge of Charlotte, who, till better advice comes, has bathed the foot in cold well-water."

The guests now all took leave of Athos, excepting the old Duc de Barbe, who, as an old friend of the family of La Valliere, went to see little Louise and offered to take her to Blois in his carriage.

"You are right, sir," said Athos. "she will be the sooner with her mother. As for you, Raoul, I am sure it is your fault, some giddiness or folly."

"No, sir, I assure you," muttered Raoul, "it is not."

"Oh, no, no, I declare it is not!" cried the young girl, while Raoul turned pale at the idea of his being perhaps the cause of her disaster.

"Nevertheless, Raoul, you must go to Blois and you must make your excuses and mine to Madame de Saint-Remy."

The youth looked pleased. He again took in his strong arms the little girl, whose pretty golden head and smiling face rested on his shoulder, and placed her gently in the carriage; then jumping on his horse with the elegance of a first-rate esquire, after bowing to Athos and D'Artagnan, he went off close by the door of the carriage, on somebody inside of which his eyes were riveted.

title: Twenty Years After/Chapter 13


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CHISWICK PRESS:—CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO. TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON.

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User:PentelandMartin

Introduction

 * Name : PentelandMartin
 * Hometown : Ho Chi Minh city, Vietnam.
 * Nationality : Vietnamese.
 * Year of birth : 2000.
 * Occupation : Secondary school student.
 * Started to contribute : 14th December, 2012.
 * Contributions on all wikis: 500+

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Australia again! Well, what does it matter how many years had passed!

Sandy Magee (the coach driver), a bit grayer, a little more furrowed round the eyes, petted and hustled and swore and drove a four-horse team along the deep-rutted bush track between Grafton and Solferino. We were alone; I on the box-seat beside him.

Sandy and I coached that track once before alone together, but we were going the other way then, and I was pretty well broken up, and showed the raw red of healing scars I shall always carry with me. We crossed the old ford on the Clarence again, with the green island a few yards from the bank, and the broad, flat shelf of rock in the middle—with a deep drop into a dozen feet of water a few inches off the near wheels—into which my mate and I went headlong—pack horses and all—the first time we ever attempted it. By the way, we built the first punt that ever carried a dray across it in flood times—a good punt; it floats to-day—and we were driving quietly through old paddocks on the Yugilbar-Ogilve's, the very gum trees of which were familiar. We ring-barked many an acre of those same paddocks, my mate and I, at a price which was never paid us; but that doesn't matter now. Presently we came to a dip, where the track led through heavy timber down a gorge, at the foot of the ranges in which the Solferino diggings lay.

"You remember Dago" said Sandy, pointing with his whip to a little grass-grown heap of about a dozen yards from the track on our right.

"Do I remember Dago?" Yes, I remembered Dago well. My hand went involuntarily to a heavy scar on

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36 my chin. "That's Dago, Sandy," said I pointing to it.

"Well—that's Dago—over there," nodded Sandy with his head. I looked round at the mullock heap, and as I turned, my companion flicked at a blowfly on the off-leader's rump, who, suddenly jumping forward, jerked the old rattle-trap of a coach half across the track.

"Whoa, mare! Whoa! Yes (as we swung into line again at a gallop), that's Dago! Whoa, can't yer?"

But they'd all four got the fidgets, and we flew along the next hundred yards as if the devil was after us.

So that was Dago! It set me thinking—wandering back to New South Wales when I was a lad—a lad on the tramp for gold. Gold I couldn't win in coined sovereigns at home, but with hope in my heart and the dreams of youth, I set out from my ship to dig for from the hard earth of a strange land.

And Sandy told me his memories as we drove through the silent bush. I told Sandy mine in return; and some of the terrible minutes of our lives came back to us both out of the past, and we lived them over again.

I have had other memorable minutes, but I don't remember so much being crammed into one of them as into that one which flashed back through our minds when Sandy said, "You remember Dago?" Yes, I remembered the city of Grafton, which now revels in a bishop, a cathedral and other appliances of civilization when it was only a straggling bush settlement consisting of one accommodation house, perhaps a dozen weatherboard shanties, a forge and a few tents dotted about at irregular distances from one another on either side of one long, straight, grass-grown street.

But Grafton was looked upon even in those days as quite a "place," for it boasted an annual race meeting

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Rh and a wharf on the river bank, where once a fortnight a steamer from Sydney used to call, an occurrence of the greatest importance to the entire population, which gathered regularly at the waterside to witness it.

Grafton was the receiving place on the Clarence river for produce coming off the stations to the north; and it suddenly sprang into importance through being the nearest point of debarkation for the new gold rush that broke out at Solferino, a point in the Yugilbar ranges, seventy-five miles away. It was on a scorching day in the seventies that I and my mate, a young Scotchman who had passed for the army, and who, while waiting for his commission, had come out to Australia in the same ship with myself, first set eyes on the place.

We landed, and the same evening left for the diggings by the one long, straggling street, which gradually dwindled away into a track, and soon lost itself in the depths of the primeval bush.

We steered northward by the compass. Besides ourselves there was our dog, a shambling, long-legged, yellow kangaroo hound we called "Jack," and one pack-horse, a raw-boned Waler, christened "Rosinante."

Somehow or other we soon lost the blazed-tree line, the only indication of a way to the gold fields; but after many hardships and mishaps we recovered the track, made Solferino at last, pitched camp, and then settled down to the life of the diggings among some hundreds of others attracted there by the more or less exaggerated reports of the rich "finds" on the reefs.

I still possess my miner's right, which I treasure as a relic of past days. It is reproduced on the following page. There was little or no alluvial gold at Solferino, however, the work being nearly all reefing; and we at once started out to prospect, soon stumbling on a blow-up of gold-bearing quartz, and following it down to a reef which we duly registered as the "Don Juan."

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38 There were six of us in it—my mate, the army officer; Sam Devere, an Irishman and a barrister; Abbott, a smart young fellow who had been in the police; Harry Allen, a Royal Academy of Music man from London, who played divinely on the fiddle and the concertina; "Dago," a Spaniard, and myself.

We picked up "Dago"—as we called him—not because we cared about him, but because we wanted an extra man to make up the six necessary to enable us to apply for a twelve-acre claim along the line of our reef; and "Dago" was loafing around doing nothing. That's how we roped him in. He was rather a sullen chap—dark, handsome, with a black moustache, very white teeth, and a trick of showing them when he smiled, which wasn't often. He talked a little English, of a sort, not unsparsely sprinkled with deities and "big-big-D's," and he camped by himself about a quarter of a mile below the claim on a bend of the Yugilbar creek, where he had put up a log humpy, thatched with sheets of stringy bark.

I strolled down there one Sunday, but he didn't make me welcome, so I never went near him again. "Dago," my mate and I worked in the same shift, two of us down the hole and one on top to wind up.

"Dago" and I had a difference of opinion one night—about a girl, of course. It was Christmas, and they had been having a jamboree in the camp and some dancing. The girl—there were only two altogether on the reefs—gave me a dance, and "Dago" didn't like it. So we quarreled, "Dago" and I, and he gave me some of his special brand of "English." I slipped into him and hurt him. In the middle of my forehead there is a sear—you can see it now—where the haft of the "Dago's" knife caught me in the scrimmage.

There were some words, but our mates separated us, and we went our ways. But "Dago" was never friends after that, and I hated being down the hole

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Rh with him. Weeks went by, and I had forgotten all about it. I thought "Dago" had, too, but he hadn't, and this is what happened.

We had sunk on the reef about a hundred feet when we came on water, which made so fast that we couldn't work at the bottom of the shaft at all. There was nothing for it but to build a floor about thirty feet up from the bottom and work at that level until the shaft below us was filled up. So we got on.

This floor was simply made of young saplings with the bark left on, laid loosely on a couple of cross-pieces, one at each end of the shaft, which measured the usual six feet by three. The country we were going through was as hard as iron, and we could do nothing with it with the gads and hammers, so started blasting.

It is necessary in order to understand properly what follows for me to describe our work and the way we did it. At the top of the shaft was a windlass, by which one of us hauled up iron buckets from below whilst the other two filled them with stone and mullock as it was broken out. The buckets simply hooked onto an iron hook, which in turn was spliced onto the end of a manila rope working round the windlass-barrel. It was our custom when the bucket was full and hooked on to shake the rope. Then, whoever was at the windlass immediately wound up, and when the bucket reached the top emptied the contents into a paddock and then sent it down below again.

In the shaft we were obliged to blast, as I said before. This was done by drilling holes in the rock, which were then loaded with the blasting powder, the fuse inserted, and then the hole tamped down hard and fired. The firing was done by lighting a bit of candle over the flame of which we bent the fuse. While the easing of the fuse was burning through whoever fired the shot would have plenty of time to put his foot in the hook, shake the rope and be hoisted up out

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40 of danger. Then off would go the blast, and when the smoke cleared away we went down again and sent up the rock broken out by the shot. After we put in the sapling floor over the water-hole we began to drive along the face of the reef, and had worked in about a foot when my gold-mining days were almost brought to a sudden stop.

My mate, the army man, had injured his hand, and knocked off work for a spell to get well. So "Dago" and I had to shift for ourselves. It was my turn down the hole, and I had succeeded after great labor in putting in two shots about eighteen inches deep, one each side the shaft where we were driving.

The labor of this was terrific, as, being single-handed, I had to swing my hammer—an eight-pounder—with one hand and turn my drill with the other. However, I got through, loaded up the two holes, bent my fuses over two pieces of candle, which I lit, and then shook the rope as the signal to hoist away. Just as I put my foot in the hook, however, I noticed that one of the fuses had buckled up with the heat and turned out of the candle flame, so I stooped down to bend it straight again. The casing of the other fuse blazed away merrily, and I knew that in a few seconds the fuse itself would catch. There was no time to lose. I turned to grasp the rope—but it was gone!

Looking up the shaft, I saw it disappearing high above my head. I shouted to "Dago," but he didn't seem to hear me. The hiss of the fuses, which I had timed for a half minute, attracted me, fascinated me. I remember looking helplessly at them, and thinking I could, perhaps, drag them out. I tried; but no! I had tamped them in so tight that they would not budge. My God! What was I to do?

There was about twenty seconds between me and eternity. I heard nothing but the infernal hissing of the fuses, and it seemed to get louder and louder.

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Rh Suddenly an idea struck me! If I could climb up the shaft I might get above the worst of the blast. I put my back against the face of the shaft and my feet against the other and tried to work up that way. It answered at first. I had got a few feet above the level of the drive when I slipped and came down with a thud on the floor of the shaft.

I heard the saplings crack, but the noise was almost drowned by the awful hissing of the fuses. As I scrambled to my feet a sapling broke under me and my leg went through the floor. With an inspiration, I thought of the well beneath! Still that awful hissing! I knew I had only a few seconds now between me and utter annihilation. I tore away at the saplings like a mad man. My God! how hard they had been jammed down. I saw the water below me; the bright light from the top of the shaft was reflected in it.

Was it my fancy? Did I see "Dago's" face reflected there, or was it my own?

The water was about ten feet down below me. There was no time to hesitate. The only chance of safety lay that way. I made one wild plunge, and as I fell I heard the splitting, hurtling, thundering roar of the blasts as they both went off above me. Then I knew no more.

They told me it was days afterwards when I woke up. I was lying in my humpy, conscious of great pain. My head was all bound up, my left arm was strapped to a piece of wood, and I felt awful.

"Dago's" girl was sitting on a wood heap in the big chimney of the bumpy heating something over the fire.

She came up presently beside me and saw I was awake. Dimly the remembrance of something happening in the mine dawned on me.

"What has happened?" I murmured, feebly. She bent down over me. "Hush, you mustn't talk."

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Twenty Years After/Chapter 14

Whilst this scene was going on, D'Artagnan remained with open mouth and a confused gaze. Everything had turned out so differently from what he expected that he was stupefied with wonder.

Athos, who had been observing him and guessing his thoughts, took his arm and led him into the garden.

"Whilst supper is being prepared," he said, smiling, "you will not, my friend, be sorry to have the mystery which so puzzles you cleared up."

"True, monsieur le comte," replied D'Artagnan, who felt that by degrees Athos was resuming that great influence which aristocracy had over him.

Athos smiled.

"First and foremost, dear D'Artagnan, we have no title such as count here. When I call you `chevalier,' it is in presenting you to my guests, that they may know who you are. But to you, D'Artagnan, I am, I hope, still dear Athos, your comrade, your friend. Do you intend to stand on ceremony because you are less attached to me than you were?"

"Oh! God forbid!"

"Then let us be as we used to be; let us be open with each other. You are surprised at what you see here?"

"Extremely."

"But above all things, I am a marvel to you?"

"I confess it."

"I am still young, am I not? Should you not have known me again, in spite of my eight-and-forty years of age?"

"On the contrary, I do not find you the same person at all."

"I understand," cried Athos, with a gentle blush. "everything, D'Artagnan, even folly, has its limit."

"Then your means, it appears, are improved; you have a capital house -- your own, I presume? You have a park, and horses, servants."

Athos smiled.

"Yes, I inherited this little property when I quitted the army, as I told you. The park is twenty acres -- twenty, comprising kitchen-gardens and a common. I have two horses, -- I do not count my servant's bobtailed nag. My sporting dogs consist of two pointers, two harriers and two setters. But then all this extravagance is not for myself," added Athos, laughing.

"Yes, I see, for the young man Raoul," said D'Artagnan.

"You guess aright, my friend; this youth is an orphan, deserted by his mother, who left him in the house of a poor country priest. I have brought him up. It is Raoul who has worked in me the change you see; I was dried up like a miserable tree, isolated, attached to nothing on earth; it was only a deep affection that could make me take root again and drag me back to life. This child has caused me to recover what I had lost. I had no longer any wish to live for myself, I have lived for him. I have corrected the vices that I had; I have assumed the virtues that I had not. Precept something, but example more. I may be mistaken, but I believe that Raoul will be as accomplished a gentleman as our degenerate age could display."

The remembrance of Milady recurred to D'Artagnan.

"And you are happy?" he said to his friend.

"As happy as it is allowed to one of God's creatures to be on this earth; but say out all you think, D'Artagnan, for you have not yet done so."

"You are too bad, Athos; one can hide nothing from you," answered D'Artagnan. "I wished to ask you if you ever feel any emotions of terror resembling "

"Remorse! I finish your phrase. Yes and no. I do not feel remorse, because that woman, I profoundly hold, deserved her punishment. Had she one redeeming trait? I doubt it. I do not feel remorse, because had we allowed her to live she would have persisted in her work of destruction. But I do not mean, my friend that we were right in what we did. Perhaps all blood demands some expiation. Hers had been accomplished; it remains, possibly, for us to accomplish ours."

"I have sometimes thought as you do, Athos."

"She had a son, that unhappy woman?"

"Yes."

"Have you ever heard of him?"

"Never."

"He must be about twenty-three years of age," said Athos, in a low tone. "I often think of that young man, D'Artagnan."

"Strange! For I had forgotten him," said the lieutenant.

Athos smiled; the smile was melancholy.

"And Lord de Winter -- do you know anything about him?"

"I know that he is in high favor with Charles I."

"The fortunes of that monarch now are at low water. He shed the blood of Strafford; that confirms what I said just now -- blood will have blood. And the queen?"

"What queen?"

"Madame Henrietta of England, daughter of Henry IV."

"She is at the Louvre, as you know."

"Yes, and I hear in bitter poverty. Her daughter, during the severest cold, was obliged for want of fire to remain in bed. Do you grasp that?" said Athos, shrugging his shoulders; "the daughter of Henry IV. shivering for want of a fagot! Why did she not ask from any one of us a home instead of from Mazarin? She should have wanted nothing."

"Have you ever seen the queen of England?" inquired D'Artagnan.

"No; but my mother, as a child, saw her. Did I ever tell you that my mother was lady of honor to Marie de Medici "

"Never. You know, Athos, you never spoke much of such matters."

"Ah, mon Dieu, yes, you are right," Athos replied; "but then there must be some occasion for speaking."

"Porthos wouldn't have waited for it so patiently," said D'Artagnan, with a smile.

"Every one according to his nature, my dear D'Artagnan. Porthos, in spite of a touch of vanity, has many excellent qualities. Have you seen him?"

"I left him five days ago," said D'Artagnan, and he portrayed with Gascon wit and sprightliness the magnificence of Porthos in his Chateau of Pierrefonds; nor did he neglect to launch a few arrows of wit at the excellent Monsieur Mouston.

"I sometimes wonder," replied Athos, smiling at that gayety which recalled the good old days, "that we could form an association of men who would be, after twenty years of separation, still so closely bound together. Friendship throws out deep roots in honest hearts, D'Artagnan. Believe me, it is only the evil-minded who deny friendship; they cannot understand it. And Aramis?"

"I have seen him also," said D'Artagnan; "but he seemed to me cold."

"Ah, you have seen Aramis?" said Athos, turning on D'Artagnan a searching look. "Why, it is a veritable pilgrimage, my dear friend, that you are making to the Temple of Friendship, as the poets would say."

"Why, yes," replied D'Artagnan, with embarrassment.

"Aramis, you know," continued Athos, "is naturally cold, and then he is always involved in intrigues with women."

"I believe he is at this moment in a very complicated one," said D'Artagnan.

Athos made no reply.

"He is not curious," thought D'Artagnan.

Athos not only failed to reply, he even changed the subject of conversation.

"You see," said he, calling D'Artagnan's attention to the fact that they had come back to the chateau after an hour's walk, "we have made a tour of my domains."

"All is charming and everything savors of nobility," replied D'Artagnan.

At this instant they heard the sound of horses' feet.

"'Tis Raoul who has come back," said Athos; "and we can now hear how the poor child is."

In fact, the young man appeared at the gate, covered with dust, entered the courtyard, leaped from his horse, which he consigned to the charge of a groom, and then went to greet the count and D'Artagnan.

"Monsieur," said Athos, placing his hand on D'Artagnan's shoulder, "monsieur is the Chevalier D'Artagnan of whom you have often heard me speak, Raoul."

"Monsieur," said the young man, saluting again and more profoundly, "monsieur le comte has pronounced your name before me as an example whenever he wished to speak of an intrepid and generous gentleman."

That little compliment could not fail to move D'Artagnan. He extended a hand to Raoul and said:

"My young friend, all the praises that are given me should be passed on to the count here; for he has educated me in everything and it is not his fault that his pupil profited so little from his instructions. But he will make it up in you I am sure. I like your manner, Raoul, and your politeness has touched me."

Athos was more delighted than can be told. He looked at D'Artagnan with an expression of gratitude and then bestowed on Raoul one of those strange smiles, of which children are so proud when they receive them.

"Now," said D'Artagnan to himself, noticing that silent play of countenance, "I am sure of it."

"I hope the accident has been of no consequence?"

"They don't yet know, sir, on account of the swelling; but the doctor is afraid some tendon has been injured."

At this moment a little boy, half peasant, half foot-boy, came to announce supper.

Athos led his guest into a dining-room of moderate size, the windows of which opened on one side on a garden, on the other on a hot-house full of magnificent flowers.

D'Artagnan glanced at the dinner service. The plate was magnificent, old, and appertaining to the family. D'Artagnan stopped to look at a sideboard on which was a superb ewer of silver.

"That workmanship is divine!" he exclaimed.

"Yes, a chef d'oeuvre of the great Florentine sculptor, Benvenuto Cellini," replied Athos.

"What battle does it represent?"

"That of Marignan, just at the point where one of my forefathers is offering his sword to Francis I., who has broken his. It was on that occasion that my ancestor, Enguerrand de la Fere, was made a knight of the Order of St. Michael; besides which, the king, fifteen years afterward, gave him also this ewer and a sword which you may have seen formerly in my house, also a lovely specimen of workmanship. Men were giants in those times," said Athos; "now we are pigmies in comparison. Let us sit down to supper. Call Charles," he added, addressing the boy who waited.

"My good Charles, I particularly recommend to your care Planchet, the laquais of Monsieur D'Artagnan. He likes good wine; now you have the key of the cellar. He has slept a long time on a hard bed, so he won't object to a soft one; take every care of him, I beg of you." Charles bowed and retired.

"You think of everything," said D'Artagnan; "and I thank you for Planchet, my dear Athos."

Raoul stared on hearing this name and looked at the count to be quite sure that it was he whom the lieutenant thus addressed.

"That name sounds strange to you," said Athos, smiling; "it was my nom de guerre when Monsieur D'Artagnan, two other gallant friends and myself performed some feats of arms at the siege of La Rochelle, under the deceased cardinal and Monsieur de Bassompierre. My friend is still so kind as to address me by that old and well beloved appellation, which makes my heart glad when I hear it."

"'Tis an illustrious name," said the lieutenant, "and had one day triumphal honors paid to it."

"What do you mean, sir?" inquired Raoul.

"You have not forgotten St. Gervais, Athos, and the napkin which was converted into a banner?" and he then related to Raoul the story of the bastion, and Raoul fancied he was listening to one of those deeds of arms belonging to days of chivalry, so gloriously recounted by Tasso and Ariosto.

"D'Artagnan does not tell you, Raoul," said Athos, in his turn, "that he was reckoned one of the finest swordsmen of his time -- a knuckle of iron, a wrist of steel, a sure eye and a glance of fire; that's what his adversary met with. He was eighteen, only three years older than you are, Raoul, when I saw him set to work, pitted against tried men."

"And did Monsieur D'Artagnan come off the conqueror?" asked the young man, with glistening eye.

"I killed one man, if I recollect rightly," replied D'Artagnan, with a look of inquiry directed to Athos; "another I disarmed or wounded, I don't remember which."

"Wounded!" said Athos; "It was a phenomenon of skill."

The young man would willingly have prolonged this conversation far into the night, but Athos pointed out to him that his guest must need repose. D'Artagnan would fain have declared that he was not fatigued, but Athos insisted on his retiring to his chamber, conducted thither by Raoul.

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42 "Where's 'Dago'?" I wondered. I must have said it aloud, for she answered

"Gone!"

"Where?"

"God knows."

The tears welled up in her eyes. Then it all got dark again.

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— billinghurst  sDrewth  10:56, 1 January 2013 (UTC)

title: User talk:PentelandMartin


text:
Twenty Years After/Chapter 15

D'Artagnan retired to bed -- not to sleep, but to think over all he had heard that evening. Being naturally goodhearted, and having had once a liking for Athos, which had grown into a sincere friendship, he was delighted at thus meeting a man full of intelligence and moral strength, instead of a drunkard. He admitted without annoyance the continued superiority of Athos over himself, devoid as he was of that jealousy which might have saddened a less generous disposition; he was delighted also that the high qualities of Athos appeared to promise favorably for his mission. Nevertheless, it seemed to him that Athos was not in all respects sincere and frank. Who was the youth he had adopted and who bore so striking a resemblance to him? What could explain Athos's having re-entered the world and the extreme sobriety he had observed at table? The absence of Grimaud, whose name had never once been uttered by Athos, gave D'Artagnan uneasiness. It was evident either that he no longer possessed the confidence of his friend, or that Athos was bound by some invisible chain, or that he had been forewarned of the lieutenant's visit.

He could not help thinking of M. Rochefort, whom he had seen in Notre Dame; could De Rochefort have forestalled him with Athos? Again, the moderate fortune which Athos possessed, concealed as it was, so skillfully, seemed to show a regard for appearances and to betray a latent ambition which might be easily aroused. The clear and vigorous intellect of Athos would render him more open to conviction than a less able man would be. He would enter into the minister's schemes with the more ardor, because his natural activity would be doubled by necessity.

Resolved to seek an explanation on all these points on the following day, D'Artagnan, in spite of his fatigue, prepared for an attack and determined that it should take place after breakfast. He determined to cultivate the good-will of the youth Raoul and, either whilst fencing with him or when out shooting, to extract from his simplicity some information which would connect the Athos of old times with the Athos of the present. But D'Artagnan at the same time, being a man of extreme caution, was quite aware what injury he should do himself, if by any indiscretion or awkwardness he should betray has manoeuvering to the experienced eye of Athos. Besides, to tell truth, whilst D'Artagnan was quite disposed to adopt a subtle course against the cunning of Aramis or the vanity of Porthos, he was ashamed to equivocate with Athos, true-hearted, open Athos. It seemed to him that if Porthos and Aramis deemed him superior to them in the arts of diplomacy, they would like him all the better for it; but that Athos, on the contrary, would despise him.

"Ah! Why is not Grimaud, the taciturn Grimaud, here?" thought D'Artagnan, "There are so many things his silence would have told me; with Grimaud silence was another form of eloquence!"

There reigned a perfect stillness in the house. D'Artagnan had heard the door shut and the shutters barred; the dogs became in their turn silent. At last a nightingale, lost in a thicket of shrubs, in the midst of its most melodious cadences had fluted low and lower into stillness and fallen asleep. Not a sound was heard in the castle, except of a footstep up and down, in the chamber above -- as he supposed, the bedroom of Athos.

"He is walking about and thinking," thought D'Artagnan; "but of what? It is impossible to know; everything else might be guessed, but not that."

At length Athos went to bed, apparently, for the noise ceased.

Silence and fatigue together overcame D'Artagnan and sleep overtook him also. He was not, however, a good sleeper. Scarcely had dawn gilded his window curtains when he sprang out of bed and opened the windows. Somebody, he perceived, was in the courtyard, moving stealthily. True to his custom of never passing anything over that it was within his power to know, D'Artagnan looked out of the window and perceived the close red coat and brown hair of Raoul.

The young man was opening the door of the stable. He then, with noiseless haste, took out the horse that he had ridden on the previous evening, saddled and bridled it himself and led the animal into the alley to the right of the kitchen-garden, opened a side door which conducted him to a bridle road, shut it after him, and D'Artagnan saw him pass by like a dart, bending, as he went, beneath the pendent flowery branches of maple and acacia. The road, as D'Artagnan had observed, was the way to Blois.

"So!" thought the Gascon "Here's a young blade who has already his love affair, who doesn't at all agree with Athos in his hatred to the fair sex. He's not going to hunt, for he has neither dogs nor arms; he's not going on a message, for he goes secretly. Why does he go in secret? Is he afraid of me or of his father? For I am sure the count is his father. By Jove! I shall know about that soon, for I shall soon speak out to Athos."

Day was now advanced; all the noises that had ceased the night before reawakened, one after the other. The bird on the branch, the dog in his kennel, the sheep in the field, the boats moored in the Loire, even, became alive and vocal. The latter, leaving the shore, abandoned themselves gaily to the current. The Gascon gave a last twirl to his mustache, a last turn to his hair, brushed, from habit, the brim of his hat with the sleeve of his doublet, and went downstairs. Scarcely had he descended the last step of the threshold when he saw Athos bent down toward the ground, as if he were looking for a crown-piece in the dust.

"Good morning, my dear host," cried D'Artagnan.

"Good day to you; have you slept well?"

"Excellently, Athos, but what are you looking for? You are perhaps a tulip fancier?"

"My dear friend, if I am, you must not laugh at me for being so. In the country people alter; one gets to like, without knowing it, all those beautiful objects that God causes to spring from the earth, which are despised in cities. I was looking anxiously for some iris roots I planted here, close to this reservoir, and which some one has trampled upon this morning. These gardeners are the most careless people in the world; in bringing the horse out to the water they've allowed him to walk over the border."

D'Artagnan began to smile.

"Ah! You think so, do you?"

And he took his friend along the alley, where a number of tracks like those which had trampled down the flowerbeds, were visible.

"Here are the horse's hoofs again, it seems, Athos," he said carelessly.

"Yes, indeed, the marks are recent."

"Quite so," replied the lieutenant.

"Who went out this morning?" Athos asked, uneasily. "Has any horse got loose?"

"Not likely," answered the Gascon; "these marks are regular."

"Where is Raoul?" asked Athos; "How is it that I have not seen him?"

"Hush!" exclaimed D'Artagnan, putting his finger on his lips; and he related what he had seen, watching Athos all the while.

"Ah, he's gone to Blois; the poor boy "

"Wherefore?"

"Ah, to inquire after the little La Valliere; she has sprained her foot, you know."

"You think he has?"

"I am sure of it," said Athos; "don't you see that Raoul is in love?"

"Indeed! With whom -- with a child seven years old?"

"Dear friend, at Raoul's age the heart is so expansive that it must encircle one object or another, fancied or real. Well, his love is half real, half fanciful. She is the prettiest little creature in the world, with flaxen hair, blue eyes, -- at once saucy and languishing."

"But what say you to Raoul's fancy?"

"Nothing -- I laugh at Raoul; but this first desire of the heart is imperious. I remember, just at his age, how deep in love I was with a Grecian statue which our good king, then Henry IV., gave my father, insomuch that I was mad with grief when they told me that the story of Pygmalion was nothing but a fable."

"It is mere want of occupation. You do not make Raoul work, so he takes his own way of employing himself."

"Exactly; therefore I think of sending him away from here."

"You will be wise to do so."

"No doubt of it; but it will break his heart. So long as three or four years ago he used to adorn and adore his little idol, whom he will some day fall in love with in right earnest if he remains here. The parents of little La Valliere have for a long time perceived and been amused at it; now they begin to look concerned."

"Nonsense! However, Raoul must be diverted from this fancy. Send him away or you will never make a man of him."

"I think I shall send him to Paris."

"So!" thought D'Artagnan, and it seemed to him that the moment for attack had arrived.

"Suppose," he said, "we roughly chalk out a career for this young man. I wish to consult you about some thing."

"Do so."

"Do you think it is time for us to enter the service?"

"But are you not still in the service -- you, D'Artagnan?"

"I mean active service. Our former life, has it still no attractions for you? would you not be happy to begin anew in my society and in that of Porthos, the exploits of our youth?"

"Do you propose to me to do so, D'Artagnan?"

"Decidedly and honestly."

"On whose side?" asked Athos, fixing his clear, benevolent glance on the countenance of the Gascon.

"Ah, devil take it, you speak in earnest "

"And must have a definite answer. Listen, D'Artagnan. There is but one person, or rather, one cause, to whom a man like me can be useful -- that of the king."

"Exactly," answered the musketeer.

"Yes, but let us understand each other," returned Athos, seriously. "if by the cause of the king you mean that of Monsieur de Mazarin, we do not understand each other."

"I don't say exactly," answered the Gascon, confused.

"Come, D'Artagnan, don't let us play a sidelong game; your hesitation, your evasion, tells me at once on whose side you are; for that party no one dares openly to recruit, and when people recruit for it, it is with averted eyes and humble voice."

"Ah! My dear Athos!"

"You know that I am not alluding to you; you are the pearl of brave, bold men. I speak of that spiteful and intriguing Italian -- of the pedant who has tried to put on his own head a crown which he stole from under a pillow -- of the scoundrel who calls his party the party of the king -- who wants to send the princes of the blood to prison, not daring to kill them, as our great cardinal -- our cardinal did -- of the miser, who weighs his gold pieces and keeps the clipped ones for fear, though he is rich, of losing them at play next morning -- of the impudent fellow who insults the queen, as they say -- so much the worse for her -- and who is going in three months to make war upon us, in order that he may retain his pensions; is that the master whom you propose to me? I thank you, D'Artagnan."

"You are more impetuous than you were," returned D'Artagnan. "Age has warmed, not chilled your blood. Who informed you this was the master I propose to you? Devil take it," he muttered to himself, "don't let me betray my secrets to a man not inclined to entertain them."

"Well, then," said Athos, "what are your schemes? What do you propose?"

"Zounds! Nothing more than natural. You live on your estate, happy in golden mediocrity. Porthos has, perhaps, sixty thousand francs income. Aramis has always fifty duchesses quarreling over the priest, as they quarreled formerly over the musketeer; but I -- what have I in the world? I have worn my cuirass these twenty years, kept down in this inferior rank, without going forward or backward, hardly half living. In fact, I am dead. Well! When there is some idea of being resuscitated, you say he's a scoundrel, an impudent fellow, a miser, a bad master! By Jove! I am of your opinion, but find me a better one or give me the means of living."

Athos was for a few moments thoughtful.

"Good! D'Artagnan is for Mazarin," he said to himself.

From that moment he grew very guarded.

On his side D'Artagnan became more cautious also.

"You spoke to me," Athos resumed, "of Porthos; have you persuaded him to seek his fortune? But he has wealth, I believe, already."

"Doubtless he has. But such is man, we always want something more than we already have."

"What does Porthos wish for?"

"To be a baron."

"Ah, true! I forgot," said Athos, laughing.

"'Tis true!" thought the Gascon, "Where has he heard it? Does he correspond with Aramis? Ah! If I knew that he did I should know all."

The conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Raoul.

"Is our little neighbor worse?" asked D'Artagnan, seeing a look of vexation on the face of the youth.

"Ah, sir!" replied Raoul, "Her fall is a very serious one, and without any ostensible injury, the physician fears she will be lame for life."

"This is terrible," said Athos.

"And what makes me all the more wretched, sir, is, that I was the cause of this misfortune."

"How so?" asked Athos.

"It was to run to meet me that she leaped from that pile of wood."

"There's only one remedy, dear Raoul -- that is, to marry her as a compensation " remarked D'Artagnan.

"Ah, sir!" answered Raoul, "You joke about a real misfortune; that is cruel, indeed."

The good understanding between the two friends was not in the least altered by the morning's skirmish. They breakfasted with a good appetite, looking now and then at poor Raoul, who with moist eyes and a full heart, scarcely ate at all.

After breakfast two letters arrived for Athos, who read them with profound attention, whilst D'Artagnan could not restrain himself from jumping up several times on seeing him read these epistles, in one of which, there being at the time a very strong light, he perceived the fine writing of Aramis. The other was in a feminine hand, long, and crossed.

"Come," said D'Artagnan to Raoul, seeing that Athos wished to be alone, "come, let us take a turn in the fencing gallery; that will amuse you."

And they both went into a low room where there were foils, gloves, masks, breastplates, and all the accessories for a fencing match.

In a quarter of an hour Athos joined them and at the same moment Charles brought in a letter for D'Artagnan, which a messenger had just desired might be instantly delivered.

It was now Athos's turn to take a sly look.

D'Artagnan read the letter with apparent calmness and said, shaking his head:

"See, dear friend, what it is to belong to the army. Faith, you are indeed right not to return to it. Monsieur de Treville is ill, so my company can't do without me; there! My leave is at an end!"

"Do you return to Paris?" asked Athos, quickly.

"Egad! Yes; but why don't you come there also?"

Athos colored a little and answered:

"Should I go, I shall be delighted to see you there."

"Halloo, Planchet!" cried the Gascon from the door, "We must set out in ten minutes; give the horses some hay.

Then turning to Athos he added:

"I seem to miss something here. I am really sorry to go away without having seen Grimaud."

"Grimaud!" replied Athos. "I'm surprised you have never so much as asked after him. I have lent him to a friend "

"Who will understand the signs he makes?" returned D'Artagnan.

"I hope so."

The friends embraced cordially; D'Artagnan pressed Raoul's hand.

"Will you not come with me?" he said; "I shall pass by Blois."

Raoul turned toward Athos, who showed him by a secret sign that he did not wish him to go.

"No, monsieur," replied the young man; "I will remain with monsieur le comte."

"Adieu, then, to both, my good friends," said D'Artagnan; "may God preserve you! As we used to say when we said good-bye to each other in the late cardinal's time."

Athos waved his hand, Raoul bowed, and D'Artagnan and Planchet set out.

The count followed them with his eyes, his hands resting on the shoulders of the youth, whose height was almost equal to his own; but as soon as they were out of sight he said:

"Raoul, we set out tonight for Paris."

"Eh?" cried the young man, turning pale.

"You may go and offer your adieux and mine to Madame de Saint-Remy. I shall wait for you here till seven."

The young man bent low, with an expression of sorrow and gratitude mingled, and retired in order to saddle his horse.

As to D'Artagnan, scarcely, on his side, was he out of sight when he drew from his pocket a letter, which he read over again:

"Return immediately to Paris. -- J. M ."

"The epistle is laconic," said D'Artagnan; "and if there had not been a postscript, probably I should not have understood it; but happily there is a postscript."

And he read that welcome postscript, which made him forget the abruptness of the letter.

"P. S. -- Go to the king's treasurer, at Blois; tell him your name and show him this letter; you will receive two hundred pistoles."

"Assuredly," said D'Artagnan, "I admire this piece of prose. The cardinal writes better than I thought. Come, Planchet, let us pay a visit to the king's treasurer and then set off."

"Toward Paris, sir?"

"Toward Paris."

And they set out at as hard a canter as their horses could maintain.

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Poverty—do I know what poverty means? I set out from England with my heart full of hope and youth for the "Golden South"—Australia—and landed with another "new chum," as the colonists contemptuously call all fresh arrivals from home, thinking to find the place paved with gold and the gutters running with water in which gold dust sparkles.

I had read much about the country—all those fairy tales which are so attractive to the susceptible school-boy, which drive him to the gold fields as surely as Marryat's sea stories drive him to sea.

Well, we landed at Sandridge Pier, cleared from the old ship which had been our home for a completely happy ninety-six days, and started off together to seek our fortunes. My chum had about fifty pounds; I had in all fifteen, but we were young, and these seemed a fortune to us. Melbourne, mavelousmarvelous [sic] Melbourne as it is called, was before us, and we never gave a thought to the morrow.

It was not until our fortunes had dwindled to within an inappreciable distance of zero that we sat one night in solemn conclave over our pipes to discuss the momentous question, What was to be done?

We had to get to work, but what and how? Then came the tug. We presented our letters of introduction and everyone was charmed to see us, asked us to luncheon, to dinner, to supper, to race-meetings, to theatres, everywhere; but the moment we suggested that we were on the lookout for work we became less

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 QUEBEC AND MONTREAL


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 COLOSSAL STATUES OF MEMNON.

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 GENERAL VIEW OF DEM SULEIMAN.

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44 and less welcome. By degrees we came to have no further use for our dress suits, and they went the way of so many dress suits in the colonies—to our "uncle."

The rest of our store of clothes followed piece by piece, then all our little knicknacks, our shirt studs, our sleeve links, our silk hats, our swagger boots. Why should we burden ourselves with umbrellas and greatcoats? It never rained, and it was hot as hot could be. At length we were left with nothing except what we stood up in, and, on being turned out of lodgings, we parted in the streets of Melbourne.

My mate and I had tossed up to decide which should stop in the city, which take to the bush. He had won the toss and started up country. I was left alone, fourteen thousand miles from home. It was awful to have no friends; as I got shabbier and shabbier my acquaintances dropped me, and I avoided the streets where I might meet them. I felt my poverty was a reproach to myself, and hated to allow anyone to witness it. Gradually I had fallen until I was one of the forlorn band of waifs that every big city possesses—houseless, hungry and hopeless, whose beds at night are in the streets or on the grass under a tree in some public park.

In Melbourne this didn't matter much, for the weather was intensely hot. It was the hunger that was unbearable. Sometimes I earned a few pennies carrying portmanteaux to the station or holding a horse, but frequently for days I earned nothing. I grew miserably thin and hollow-eyed. Try where I would I could get no work.

I was lying one night alongside a man under a tree in the Treasury Gardens. He was as hungry and miserable as I.

"Say, mate, were you ever in jail?" he asked me suddenly.

"No. Why?"

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(Aug. 31, 1914) 61

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Rh "You can go to jail here for fourteen days, if you like. I've been. It isn't so bad; they feed you well and you only have to crack stones for the roads."

"How can one get there?" I asked.

"I've got a chum at the police station. He'll put us down as vagrants. You don't have to steal anything.

I was horribly hungry. "All right, come on," I said.

It was Christmas Eve. We stood by the gates of the Gardens in the moonlight. We heard the town clock in the distance striking midnight, and as the last stroke died away the bells of St. Patrick's Cathedral pealed out, and down the deserted street came the chant through the open doors proclaiming God's promise of "Peace on earth, good will to men."

I thought of my own dear England, of home, of my dear father and sisters so many miles away, and the tears welled up in my eyes.

"My God, I can't stand this!" said my mate, and he fled down the street into the quiet of the night.

The river shone like a silver streak in the moonlight, and I knew what he meant. I walked to the great steps of the Cathedral, and through the doors I saw the lights of the great high altar and the priests chanting the mass. Everything seemed to be swimming around me. I remember the voices, the heavy perfume of the incense. I heard the "Gloria in Excelsis Deos," and then I remember no more.

When I came to I found myself in a small room with an old priest kneeling by my side. God bless him, wherever he is? He is one I shall never forget, for he started me fair on my road in life. From that day to this when I feel dismayed and weak the tender voice and kindly smile of this dear old man come back to me, and with them the memory of that Christmas Day in Melbourne when St. Patrick's bells rang out the welcome "Peace on earth, good will to men!"

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210 and I will show you the Dark River, and the Bridge of Folly.'

We drove on accordingly through the streets until the houses became far apart from each other, and the lamps dwindled by degrees both in number and brightness. A plunging gallop of the horses brought us to a high, half-ruined bridge, which spanned a rushing torrent, whose waters were of a pitchy blackness. The deep caverns whence this horrible river issued were lit in the distance by a pale phosphorescent glow that reminded me strangely of St Elmo's fire. The scene was terrible, and though I only saw it for a few moments, I shall never lose the sight of it. The river flowed down under the bridge, causing alarming vibrations, and became a frightful whirlpool which dashed its waves against an island of the hardest rock, and this was as black as the waters themselves. Far below, among the subterranean mountains, echoed the hoarse roar of a tremendous waterfall, mingled with other far more fearful sounds.

'This is the Bridge of Folly,' said the Doctor; 'that island is the Island of Ignorance; the whirlpool is called Presumption, and the river itself is Infidelity.'

While we sat in our carriage on the centre of the bridge I was horrified to see an aged man advancing towards us from the opposite side. He was attended by a crowd of admiring followers, who, whenever he turned and spoke a few words to them, shouted and clapped their bands. He came up to the Doctor's carriage, saluted us gravely, and addressed my friend thus:

'Ho, ho, Doctor Julius! I am rejoiced to welcome thee again into the country of infinite light, love universal, and pleasure eternal. Freedom, freedom; hurrah for freedom! It was our cradle, and it shall be our grave. Do I talk about graves? We shall have no grave. Art thou come,


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 Dutch scenery; art in the coats of arms, such as Zeeland (Sea-land), whose lion emerging from the sea, with the device Luctor et emergo (“I struggle, but I emerge”), typifies the agonies and triumphs of Zeeland.

Many a pretty story lies hidden in these symbols of organized social life. The Volendam white horse, with one of its hoofs a botje (flounder), recalls the legend of the veulen (foal or steed) which came ashore from the Zuider Zee, and was fed with wheat by a Volendam maiden, to whom for a week he daily brought a botje, in grateful recognition of her kindness, until one day the maiden was induced to bestride his back, when it carried her away for ever. Such is the Lorelei of the Zuider Zee. Edam's steer is likewise the subject of a pretty story. Once upon a time the Edammers and the Haarlemmers revelled


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Rh thou jolly Doctor, with thy milk-and-water, ratsbane-looking friend up there to join our holy circle? "Freedom is our watchword, Liberty our banner. We have no master, and our eyes are bright; no deadly pall of future fear hangs over us, and our hearts are light. We can see, and judge, and put things together. We worship no Creator, for the good reason—there is not one to worship; we worship our noble selves; ha! ha! ho! ho! and we're jolly and happy, and careless and free. Are we not, my trusty followers and dearest friends? If I had a thousand wives and ten thousand children, I would have them all here about me now. Join us, Doctor; join us, Mr. Puddingface, or whatever your precious name may be.'

The followers set up a shout of approbation, but the Doctor drove his horses on to the end of the bridge, turned them round to go back to the Demon's palace, and as he passed the band of athiests spoke these few words:

'Professor Muddlebrain, if you can learn nothing yourself, attempt not to teach others. Your mind is a dark chamber where light cannot enter. You are a blind fool, and a leader of blind fools. Away with you; vanish from my sight!'

They obeyed him. They burst into shrieks of hideous laughter, and to my horror and astonishment leaped over the parapet of the bridge into the boiling gulf, following to the last man their hoary leader, and I could see them by the faint light dashed upon the rocks of the Island of Ignorance.

In the course of our drive my protector had said but little. Now, however, when he had dismissed his carriage, he spoke these words as we walked slowly up and down the courtyard of the palace:

'I ought to apologize, Ubertus, for my late abruptness, with which you have good reason to be offended. I have a


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 in a sea-fight. The former were victorious, whereupon the vanquished ones paid them the following generous compliment: “We could not help being beaten by you, for you fight like steers.” “We do,” was the somewhat vainglorious rejoinder. Hence the Edam steer. It is not, as has been stated, a cow, selected because there are so many cows about the well-known cheese-town. Such an explanation verges on the ridiculous.

Art there is in the biers lying in the church at Workum, representing the various trades of the dead. The builder, the smith, the sailor, the farmer, the surgeon—each and every one was carried to his rest on the bier proper to his occupation in life. Art there is in Sneek's Water-Gate, in the Stadhuis steps of Bolsward, at Laren, the haunt of the American artist; and art there is at Volendam, where


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 II

THE DREAM


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212 hasty temper and an imperious will, by which I conquer nearly all things, but no one can say that I am a false and unprincipled deceiver. You have asked me to bring you here to see the Demon King's Parliament in session, and I have complied with your request, although for several weighty reasons I ought not to have done so. You are in danger here, and so am I; but we must not be cowards. The fall and disgrace of Astoragus will most likely draw upon you the vengeance of the Larrikin Guards' (here I shuddered in my inmost soul); 'your rejection of Princess Bellagranda's hand in marriage will certainly provoke the hatred of that powerful personage. If she should invite you to lunch with her to-day, you must follow the guidance of your own inclinations; I must not influence you. Perhaps I was wrong when I told you who she was when she lived on earth, and if she knew I had done so she might find means to sting me, as Astoragus stung you.'

'She shall never know it from me, sir; I will not lunch with her!' I broke in vehemently.

'Reflect for awhile in silence,' he replied; 'we are in good time, and need not enter yet.'

I did reflect. A beautiful woman seldom fails to conquer the weak heart of the strongest man even if he be also wise and conscientious. Bellagranda was beautiful, graceful, charming, witty, and winning. Whether she was acting a basely treacherous part at the instance of her 'dear papa,' or was really capable of loving me at first sight, I had no means of knowing. If she were indeed Clytemnestra, she was a murderess, but she might not be that infamous woman. Did she intend to entrap me and turn me into a dog for her own amusement, or did she consider me a fine-looking fellow whom she could love and make happy for ever? Who can tell? The current of our lives becomes divergent streams; our better angel alone, and not our own prudence,


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Rh can tell us which to follow. My heart fluttered in my breast when her image presented itself before me. I was bewitched by the grandeur and loveliness of her outward person. A deadly influence was at work, and I trembled. The boundless ocean of eternity was within my view, on one side light, on the other darkness. What might not be the consequences should my resolution give way? Had I seen the 'Star of Victory,' and the virtuous wife or lover of my friend the Doctor in vain? 'Weak as water, weak as water,' I muttered to myself. 'Oh, poor Ubertus! pray now for the strength which conquers all weakness.'

The members of the Council now began to arrive. A number of chariots drawn by fiery horses dashed into the courtyard. The Doctor entered the palace, and I followed him into the large chamber in which I had first met my enemy Astoragus. My guide directed me to take a humble seat near one of the thrones; for, to my surprise, I saw two thrones, where on my first visit there was but one. He took a seat near me, explaining in a low voice that his proper seat was at the other side, opposite the Demon's throne, but he wished to be near me to point out by name the celebrated personages who were expected to take part in the forthcoming debate. The personages themselves need not be described. For the most part they were large, rough, shaggy-looking figures; I dare not call them men. It is needless to say that their appearance nearly drove me frantic with terror.

He told me many of their names, but I remember only few. There were seven Ministers of State; the Minister of Fires and Blazes was the chief, under the Premier; his name was Lord Flambo Combustius. The Minister of War rejoiced in the cognomen of the Hon. Kattyscalpa Bomblaza. He who had the charge of Foreign Affairs was by name Sir Dashmy Partigan. The Secretary for the Home Department


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 more pictures are seen in one day than can be painted in a lifetime. In the little fishing-village stands the hostelry known as “The Spaander,” from its proprietor's name. For years past it has been the rendezvous of artists of all nations. What was at first but an unpretentious yet cosy little inn has nowadays assumed greater proportions, and amid its hundreds of visitors one may number among English artists E. Burne-Jones, George Clausen, Mortimer Menpes, Stanhope Forbes, Adrian Stokes, R. Brough, Fiddes, Bartlett, Lee Hankey, Phil May, Tom Browne, Will Owen, Dudley Hardy, Cecil Alden, Walter Langley, and many others who have left on the walls of “The Spaander” souvenirs of their brush, thus converting the hostelry into a miniature gallery. America has been represented there by William Chase, Raphael Beck, John Rettig, G. Melchers,


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among the French designers of posters with whom I have not previously dealt is Guillaume, an artist widely known in England by reason of the admirable illustrations which, from time to time, appear in our periodicals. Save Chéret and Choubrac, few artists have done so much poster work as Guillaume, and not many have maintained so high a level of accomplishment. Vigour, vivacity, and high spirits, rather than beautiful design and fine colour, are the characteristic qualities of posters by Guillaume. He is, it seems to me, seen at his best in the admirable "Extrait de Viande Armour," which is reproduced here. In its way, and looking to the thing to be advertised, nothing better has been done. The

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 Penfield, Robinson, May A. Post, and Elizabeth Nourse. Dutch Royalty, in the person of Queen Emma, has visited this unique abode of artists. Katwijk, Scheveningen, and other sea-coast towns, are also much frequented by the brothers of the brush. The Frisian Islands deserve to be better explored by them.

To descant on the many treasures displayed in the museums or picture-galleries would carry one too far. The tourist will “do” the Rijks Museum, and content himself with a glance at Rembrandt's great painting, erroneously styled “The Night Watch,” at Paul Potter's “Bull,” in the Mauritshuis at The Hague, where is also to be seen Rembrandt's “Lesson of Anatomy,” or, again, at Franz Hals' “Jolly Toper” and “Buffoon,” likewise in the great museum of Amsterdam. But the lover of art will do more. He will pursue


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214 was Lord Cashup Humbuggings. The Minister of Coal had an altogether unpronounceable name. Sir Bumptious Rocketflight had charge of the golden and leaden portfolios. The Doctor himself was the seventh. When the noise of their tumultuous entrance had subsided, the great clock of the palace boomed forth its awful single stroke. The Doctor ran across the House, and took his seat on the ministerial benches. A door opened, a band of fifes and drums struck up a saluting flourish, and the Demon King, surrounded by a number of his guards, advanced to the throne, and took his seat. All the members rose to receive him. But what commotion was that which now succeeded? What was the meaning of the buzz of admiration that rose up from the crowd? Good angels, protect me! Be still—be still, oh beating heart!—Bellagranda herself!

If I thought her beautiful when I saw her first, she seemed now to be absolutely enchanting. She did not come carried by her women, but, lo! seated on the back of a magnificent lion. She looked like an innocent young virgin in whom there could be no guile. She had arrayed herself in an azure-coloured robe, adorned with buttons and spangles in gold and silver, thus showing her superior taste by discarding lead. On her head she wore a crown of gold, on which were fixed, in imitation of Urania, eight twinkling stars that sent forth a dazzling light. Descending gracefully from the back of her leonine charger, assisted by a number of elegant pages, she seated herself on the second throne at the Demon's right hand; but as she did so I saw, with a delightful sensation which I cannot describe, her glorious eyes riveted upon my face—an ugly face, too, compared with some it has been my privilege to see. It was in vain that I tried to divest myself of the idea that this splendid ire, whoever she was, loved me for my personal or mental attractions. I called myself an ass, an inflated


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 his studies farther, and go in quest of Hals at Haarlem, of Lucas van Leiden at Leyden, of Rembrandt's “Burgemeester Six” in the family mansion on the Heerengracht at Amsterdam, and of Jan Steen and Paul Potter at The Hague. In almost every town will he find masterpieces of the gifted painters who have depicted their country's life under every aspect and from many a point of view. For the delineations of life he will gaze upon the works of Terborch, Metsu, Netscher, Dou, Pieter de Hooch, Brouwer, and Ostade. Holland's well-known picture “The Avenue, Middelharnis,” of which our National Gallery is the fortunate and proud possessor, shows a landscape seldom to be seen in Holland nowadays. In many places, and especially in Zeeland, no trees are to be seen on the dikes, as they break them up. The story goes that


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136 gigantic "strong man," with his huge torso, colossal arms and legs, holding a tiny teacup in his immense hands, is not easily forgotten. The expression on the man's face is inimitable, and the accessories, such as cannons and dumbbells, are most appropriately chosen. The "Chapeaux l elion" is a more complicated design, representing a crowd of men wearing hats of every conceivable shape. The colour of this design is very good, but its chief merit lies in the facial expression of the different members of the crowd. It would be impossible to conceive any single person in a hat other than the one he is wearing. In another excellent poster we are presented with a very fin-de-siècle young lady riding astride a stork which bears her rapidly through space. It would be hopeless to attempt anything like a complete list of Guillaume's posters, but among the most recent are the following, all of which deserve the attention of the collector: "Dentifrices du Dr. Bonn," "Gigolette," "Old England," " Le Pôle Nord," "Cycles Vincent fils," "Le Vin d'Or" (in two sizes, unsigned), "Parfumerie Diaphane; le Diaphane Sarah Bernhardt," "L'œuvre de Rabelais par J. Garnier," and "Ducreux et Giralduc (Ambassadeurs)".

Although a Frenchman, the work of Jean de Paleologue, or "Pal," as he is more frequently called, is perhaps better known to the Londoner than to the Parisian. His

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Rh fool, a manifest and veritable idiot, full of vanity and self-deception. Surely, if she loved me for myself alone, she would never think of turning me into a loathsome animal. Could I reciprocate her love, and fly with her into bowers of bliss and pleasure, which mortal tongue never told, nor imagination conceived? That was the question.

The business of the day now commenced. The Demon opened the session by a long speech from the throne, of which I can only give a very brief and imperfect report It was a matter of great rejoicing to his heart, he said, and to the heart of his amiable daughter, whom he had thought proper to admit to a share in the government of his extensive dominions, to see such a solemn and dignified assembly of lords and princes of his world-wide empire. He was pleased beyond measure to be able to announce that, owing to the exertions of his present constitutional advisers, a universal peace had been proclaimed which he fondly hoped would last for many centuries. As far as he was personally concerned he hated war, but there were many—far too many—discontented and sanguinary spirits in his kingdom who detested peace. Hence the unexpected and bitterly-to-be-regretted complications which had only lately been unravelled on the terrible field of carnage. This bloody climax had been, however, greatly alleviated by the spiritual exertions of his right trusty and beloved Premier, the Director General of Hospitals, whose report would be laid before them, and whose wonderful genius and talents had been successful in restoring the wounded to sound health, and the killed, of whom there were about two hundred thousand, to renewed life. He had the pleasure of assuring his faithful Lords and Commons in Parliament assembled, that he had received highly satisfactory despatches from all parts of his empire, which was annexing fresh worlds,


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 the picture was exchanged by the authorities of Middelharnis for two or three paintings of little worth. Animals have been portrayed to life in the works of Karel du Jardin, Paul Potter, and several others; Willem van de Velde (father and son), Bakhuisen, Stork, and Dubbels are renowned for their marine pictures; while Van der Heist, Hals, Govert Flinck, and Bol are the painters of heroic achievements and of pictures representing doelen.

It has been said that “the first smile of the young Republic was Art, for it was only after the revolt of the Dutch against the Spanish yoke … that painting reached a high grade of perfection.” After the decline of Dutch Art in the eighteenth century, following the flourishing of the great school of the seventeenth century, Art in Holland again had its renaissance in the Hague School of the mid-nineteenth


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216 and constantly growing in dignity, and in the respect of all classes of beings, human and otherwise. It was his intention to lay before them, through his responsible advisers and other experienced members of this honourable house' several very important measures, which, if they met with its approval, and became law, would conduce in no small degree to the extension of the boundaries, and increase of the power, of the empire. The most important of these he would take the liberty of alluding to, although it might be somewhat unconstitutional. He would explain, for their satisfaction, that in doing so he had no wish or intention to influence their weighty deliberations, or interfere with their highly-valued freedom of debate. Many years ago, in his numerous journeys to and fro, on business of importance, from his present subterranean city up to the surface of the world, which was inhabited and dominated by the human race, among whom he had very many, he might say millions, of warm admirers and staunch adherents, it struck him very forcibly that it would be a very great improvement, and an enormous stride in the right direction, if a large city were built on the outside of the world—a city of their own building—capable of containing all the inhabitants of this which they possessed below ground, and many millions more. In all his wanderings hither and thither, and in his aerial flights in his lightning balloon, this idea had grown to something like maturity, and he had of late years even gone so far as to select a suitable site, by anticipation, for this new city. He had—and he said it modestly—with his proverbially superior and taste, selected one in a strange and far-off island, called affectionately by its inhabitants Tasmania. It is in their Lake country, as they call it, and they are particularly proud of it, and he thought a better or finer site could not be chosen in the whole world. The grandest of the lakes, which is called the Great Lake, is one hundred


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Rh bright and flippant posters can be seen any day on the London hoardings, and I have, therefore, purposely selected for reproduction two examples in his less usual manner. The "Lucile Wraïm" is of an elegance to which Paleologue does not often attain, and would be distinguished in almost any collection of posters. "The Euskal Jai Parisien," besides being a good advertisement, is curious on account of its subject. Collectors who would possess a more typical example of Paleologue's work would be well advised to secure one or more of his music-hall series or his "Cabourg," an advertisement for the watering-place of that name. It is a large lithograph in five colours, and represents a very charming lady who, while bathing, is bent upon displaying her charms to the utmost. While Paleologue can in no sense be compared to Chéret in his gift of diffusing joyousness and gaiety, his work is undoubtedly "chic," and rarely fails in its first business of advertisement. Some of his posters have become difficult to procure, notably one designed for a Drury Lane pantomime some few years since.

No artist, save Jules Chéret, has been more indefatigable in the making of posters than Choubrac. The list given in M. Maindron's book is a long one; that given in the catalogues of M. Sagot is still longer. The posters of Choubrac do not seem to have received so much attention at the hands

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 century. Israels, Jacob, Matthew, and Willem Maris, Bosboom, and Mauve were among the many great names of that movement. A newer movement has followed it, and it is at its zenith to-day. It, too, has produced a great, though perhaps a less narrowly national Art. Willem Witsen, Bloomers, Artz, Bles, Bisschop, Therese Schwartze, J. Toorop, Voerman, Verster, van Googh, Bauer, and Camerlingh Onnes all hold a high position in the annals of Dutch Art.

Holland has not produced any sculptors who are to be mentioned with the great sculptors of the Continent. Painters and sculptors require models, and these are to be found in abundance, many of the most noted ones of the day being constantly “commandeered” by foreign as well as native artists. These models have by dint of posing acquired an artistic taste,


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Rh miles in circumference, and has all around it abundance of room for a splendid metropolis. There was an inexhaustible supply of the sweetest water in the universe. There were rivers flowing in different directions; forests for their fires; rocky hills and mountains for their fortified castles, open fields for, if necessary, their battles, to which purpose he hoped they would never be devoted; and sheep and cattle all round them to which they could help themselves when they pleased. Added to all these advantages would be the pleasures of society, and closer and more intimate relations with the people of the island, of the plains below the lakes, and of the distant cities near the sea. A very sweet and refreshing intercourse might be established by means of a mountain railway from north to south, for which the inhabitants would gladly pay. Iron and metal roads would no doubt be cheerfully constructed; and multitudes of delighted visitors would fly in crowded carriages from one city to another. He believed there was a glorious future in store for the Great Lake of Tasmania. Other important measures would be laid before them for their consideration, particularly one to effect the Federation of the World; one for the reconstruction and better organization of the Larrikin Guards; one for establishing a close season of one hundred years for fleas, rats, rabbits, vindictive official tyrants, rogues, fools, snakes, and all other vermin, most useful assistants to them in their moral government of mankind: he trusted that these and many more desirable Acts of this honourable house would become law; and he would now thank them from the bottom of his heart for their devotion to his person, and for their warm and generous support in all seasons of trial and difficulty.

His Majesty then saluted the assembly, who all bowed profoundly to the ground, and marched away, the fifes and drums again striking up a flourish. I watched Bellagranda


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 with the critical faculty, and they are not slow in telling the artist who has not painted them to their liking that he is “not so clever as the Heer Schilder,” who has been more successful in his portrayal of them.

Among the museums there is one not so well known as the larger ones, although it has a special interest for the visitor, since it is an exact counterpart from cellar to garret of a Dutch burgher's residence in the sixteenth century. It owes its origin to Heer Willem J. Tuyn, the author of “Old Dutch Cities,” and a prominent resident of Edam, who acts as its curator. All the furniture of the period is to be found in it, all articles then in domestic use, tools, odd paintings of still more odd worthies of the time, men and women's wearing apparel, curios from the Dutch East Indies, old maps and charts, primitive


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218 most anxiously, expecting to see her rise and follow the Demon, but she did not move.

The Thunderer, as the Speaker of that Parliament was called, now took his seat at one end of the hall. The clerks arranged their papers at the head of a long table, the members flung themselves on their couches in easy, careless attitudes, and the sergeant-at-arms marched up and down with a drawn sword about seven feet long, in one hand, and an enormous revolver, loaded, as I understood, with thunder and lightning, in the other.

The address to the throne, in reply to His Majesty's gracious speech, was moved by the Hon. Member for the thriving suburb of Muddyhole, and seconded by the Hon. Member for the equally thriving district of Briarbank.

The Hon. the Premier caught the Thunderer's eye, and rose to speak to the question. He was received with loud cheers. He would merely say a few words before the resolution was carried. They had all listened with profound attention and respect to His Majesty's eloquent and luminous speech, which, he had no doubt, had given them all exquisite satisfaction. He was a man of few words, and would say but little. The man of few words was the best man, according to Shakespeare : he had no intention of praising himself. The hon. members, the mover and seconder of the address, had done their duty well. He cordially approved of the royal speech. The project of building a new city round the Great Lake of Tasmania met with his entire approbation. He had a guest and friend staying with him who could tell them a great deal about that delightful island, and its enchanting scenery. (Confound him, could he not let me alone!) He requested the Hon. House to allow him to introduce his friend, Mr. Oliver Ubertus, and (here, as I saw all their cat-like eyes directed to me, I thought it advisable to stand up and


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60 purpose of seeing the children, and having but an hour to stay. Are they then to go on with their lessons until the usual time? Certainly not; because in this case the higher duty of giving pleasure, and showing kindness and respect to an aged relative, supersedes the necessity of maintaining a rule. And thus it is, as children advance in years, the mother has to be perpetually choosing for them, not only the good in preference to the evil, but also the greater good in preference to the less.

Among the first convictions impressed upon the mind of a child, should be one of its own helplessness, as well at its own ignorance. The pleasure of being useful is sometimes turned to bad account under the management of nurses, who go the length of persuading children that they can not put the nursery in order without them, nor lift the toys upon the table without their help, thus inspiring premature, as well as false ideas, of their own importance, than which nothing can be more undesirable. On the other hand, however, an equal degree of care must be exercised, that children are neither blamed, nor unnecessarily put down and humbled, either because of their ignorance or their helplessness. Since it is no greater fault of theirs that they are helpless, than that they are little, they should only be made sensible of this fact so far as to render them willing to receive instruction and assistance, as something which is necessary to their safety and wellbeing. In the same way they should be made to undestand, that since as little children they enjoy many pleasures in which older persons could not with propriety participate; so there are certain things—particular kinds of food, for instance—which they see every day partaken of by others, but which, on account of their being little children, are not suitable for them.

I am aware that in this instance my opinions differ from those of many generous and kind-hearted mothers, who declare that they could not allow anything at their tables, of which their children might not partake. But my idea is, that we should begin early with children the kind of discipline which they will inevitably find themselves subjected to in after-life; and as they will often during illness have to abstain from certain kinds of food;

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146 of collectors as those of some of his better-known contemporaries. At the same time, not a few of them are interesting and rare. The bill done for the "Fin de Siècle" was suppressed, and, as a consequence, is in great demand. It exists in four states, three of which, in good condition, command no less than fifty francs. Merely to give the names of the music-halls and theatres for which Choubrac has worked would take up the better part of a page, while a list of the artistes whom he has advertised would be still longer. Amongst the most noticeable of his recent bills are the following: "Eldorado. Y'a pas d'erreur," "Folies Bergère. Armand Ary," "Folies Bergère. Programme," "Folies Dramatiques. Miss Robinson," "Moulin Rouge. Au Joyeux," "Neuilly-sur-Seine. Fête des fleurs," and "Gaieté. Rosa et Josepha" (in two states).

An artist more unlike Choubrac than Maurice Boutet de Monvel it would be assuredly impossible to find, and the fact that these names are in juxtaposition must be taken as proof that no systematic arrangement has been attempted in this chapter. Boutet de Monvel is a painter of European reputation. His fame as an illustrator for, and a delineator of, children stands very high. His studies of child-life are unlike those of any other artist. They display the keenest observation and, as Mr. Pennell has rightly observed, one finds in them not a line

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152 but, when reproduced on a larger scale, was found to be thoroughly effective as a poster. More dainty, if not more characteristic of the art of Boutet de Monvel, is the "Pâte Dentifrice du Dr. Pierre." In this design, one of the prettiest and most delightful little ladies in the whole Monvel gallery of pretty little ladies insists on the merit of the tooth-paste which, if it be half as good as she is charming, must be excellent indeed. Every artist knows his own business best, but one can only hope that, in what leisure he can snatch from his work in paint and illustration, Boutet de Monvel will place the collector of posters under new obligations to him. His note as a decorator of the hoardings is as distinct as it is agreeable.

A very interesting figure in modern design is undoubtedly Carloz Schwæbe. One of the leading lights of that curious institution the "Salon Rose + Croix," it would indeed be curious if Schwæbe did anything commonplace. His posters are as remarkable as those other productions with which he has delighted some and puzzled not a few. Mystic, slightly archaic, they are the work of a man of poetical temperament who has chosen the graphic arts instead of literature as his means of expression. The two posters from his hand are very decorative in their strange way, and contain passages of great beauty. In the

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