I do not know how far other men's experiences will corroborate the opinion, but for myself I will say that more than once has it occurred to me to remark that some of the most monotonous periods of my life have been those to which I often look back with the greatest pleasure, and love to think over as amongst the happiest. The time I passed at Linange was one of these. Nothing could be more simple, nothing more uniform than our life there. The unhappy circumstance to which I have already alluded had completely estranged from the family any of those with whom they might have associated. From some, the former rank and condition of the house separated them; from others they were removed by political bias; and to the rest, the event of which I have already spoken was the barrier. Thus, then, was our life passed within the limits of an humble household of four persons. The old Marquis—for such was he still styled by us—was a fine specimen of the class to which he belonged: proud and stately in manner, but courteous almost to humility in his bearing to one beneath his roof. Unbroken by misfortune, he trusted that—although not in his time—the world would yet return to its ancient course, and the good king “have his own again.” His personal calamities sat lightly on him, or, rather, he bore them bravely. If he spoke of his former state and position, it was in regret for those faithful followers he could no longer support,—not for himself, whose wants were few, and whose habits demanded no luxuries. In the calling that he practised for his maintenance, he saw rather an occasion for pride than humiliation. There was but one topic from which he shrunk back; nor could all his courage enable him to approach that. When I first saw him, it was after a severe attack brought on by the dreadful tidings from Paris; and yet his composure seemed to me almost bordering on indifference, and I half revolted against the calm elegance of a good-breeding that seemed above the reach of all feeling. Ursule was a “nun;” and whether the walls around her were those of a cloister or a cottage, her heart was enclosed within the observances of the convent. She rose hours before daybreak, to pass her time in prayer and solitude. She fasted, and toiled, and observed penances, exactly as if beneath the rule of the Superior. She had been singularly handsome, and there was still a character of beauty in her features, to which her devotional life imparted an expression of sublimity such as I have never seen even in a “Raphael.” Suffering and sorrow seemed so blended with hopefulness—present agony so tinctured with a glorious future—that, to me at least, she appeared almost angelic.

As for “Margot,” child as she was, the whole care of the household devolved upon her. The humblest mÉnage is not without its duties, and to these she addressed herself at once. It was on the day after my arrival, and while just meditating a return to Paris, that symptoms of fever first showed themselves, and a severe shivering, followed by intense headache, showed me that I was not to escape the consequences of my unhappy encounter. Ursule, whose experience in hospital life had been considerable, was the first to see the mischief that threatened, and at once persuaded me to submit to treatment. The old Marquis was soon at my bedside, but as quickly did he perceive that the case was beyond his skill. The surgeon of the village was now sent for; he bled me largely, dressed my wounds, administered some cooling drink, and then left me to that terrible interval which precedes mania, and when the enfeebled intellect struggles for mastery against the force of wandering faculties.

In my wild fancies, all the incidents of my early days, the little adventures of boyhood, my mountain ramble, and my life in Paris, came back, and I talked with intense eagerness to those around me of them all. Short intervals of consciousness, like gleams of sunlight in a lowering sky, would break through these, and then I saw beside the bed the kind faces, and heard the gentle accents, of my friends. “Ursule” and, “Margot” scarcely ever left me. In the dark hours of the long night, if a weary sigh escaped me, one of them was sure to be near to ask if I was in pain or if I needed anything. How often have I turned away from these gentle questionings to hide my face within my hands and cry, not in sorrow, but in a thankful outpouring of emotion, that I, the poor unfriended, uncared-for orphan, should be thus watched, and tended, and loved!

It was not till after a lapse of weeks that I was pronounced out of danger, nor even till long after that that I could arise from my bed. Shall I ever forget the strange confusion of ideas that beset me as I first found myself alone one morning in the little garden, scarcely knowing if I was still dreaming, or if all was reality around me! Where was I? how came I there? were questions that I could not follow to a solution. Some resemblance in the scenery with the country around Reichenau assisted the mystification, and from the entanglement of my thoughts no effort could rescue me. As, one by one, memories of the past came up, there came with them the sad reflection of my own lonely, isolated condition in life. The humblest had a home—had those around them to whose love and affection they could lay claim as from blood and kindred—who bore the same name, were supported by the same hopes, cheered by the same joys, and sorrowed for the same sufferings! It was true that no affection a sister could bestow could exceed that I had met with where I was. There was not a kindness of which I had not been the object. Was I, could I, be ungrateful for these? Far from it!—my melancholy lay in the thought that these were the very evidences of my own forlorn lot, and that compassion and pity were the sentiments that prompted them in my behalf.

I knew, besides, that in my long illness I must have proved a grievous burden to those whose own circumstances were straitened to the utmost limit of narrow fortune. I saw about me comforts, even luxuries, that must have cost many a privation to acquire. I felt that, in succoring me, they had imposed upon themselves the weight of many a future want. These were afflicting considerations, nor could all my ingenuity discover one resource against them. I was still too weak to walk; my limbs tottered under me as I went. Perhaps it were better it had been so, since I really believe if I had had strength sufficient for the effort, notwithstanding all the shame that might attach to my ingratitude, I should have fled from the house that moment, never to return! It was in the abandonment of grief arising from these thoughts that “Ursule” discovered me. With what tenderness did she rally my drooping spirits; how gently did she chide my faint-heartedness!

“You must rise above these things, Jasper,” said she to me. “You must learn to see that the small ills of life are difficult to be borne just because they suggest no high purpose.”

And from this she went on to tell me of the noble devotion of the missionary, the splendid enthusiasm that elevated men above every thought of peril, and taught them to court danger and confront suffering. How mean and sordid did she represent every other ambition in comparison with this! How ignoble was the soldier's heroism when placed beside the martyrdom of the priest! With consummate art she displayed before my boyish fancy all that was attractive, all that was picturesque, in the missionary's life. To glowing descriptions of scenery and savage life succeeded touching episodes of deep interest and passages of tenderest emotions, the power of the Church—whether as consoler or comforter, as healing the sick or supporting the weak-hearted—being never forgotten. If she saw that my mind dwelt with pleasure on pictures of splendor, she lingered on scenes of greatness and royal power, when priests associated with monarchs as their guides and counsellors. If, at another moment, the romance seemed to engage my attention, she narrated incidents of the most affecting kind. At these moments it was strange to mark how the cold and almost stern reserve of the cloister seemed lost in the glowing enthusiasm of the devotee. It was not the nun broken down by fasting, wasted by penance, and subdued by prayer, but the almost inspired daughter of the Church, glorying and exulting in its triumph. She gave me books to read,—lives of saints and martyrs, of devoted missionaries and pious fathers. If in some instances the sufferings they endured seemed more than mere humanity could support, the triumphant joy of their victories appeared to partake of a celestial brilliancy. Day by day, hour by hour, did she pursue the theme, till the subject, like a river fed by a thousand rills, overflowed all else in my mind, and left no room for aught but itself.

It was not difficult for her to show that the frightful condition of France at the period—its lawless confiscations, its pillage, and its bloodshed—all dated from the extinction of the Church. The task was an easy one to contrast past peace and happiness with present anarchy and suffering. I reflected long and deeply on the subject. If doubts assailed me, I came to her to solve them; if difficulties embarrassed me, I asked her to explain them. I applied the question to the circumstances of my own position in life, and began to believe that it was exactly the career to suit me. I eagerly inquired, next, how the fitting education might be obtained, and learned that since the destruction of the religious societies of France and the Low Countries, many had emigrated to Spain and Italy, and some to England. Sister “Ursule” was in correspondence with more than one of these, and promised to obtain all the information I sought for; meanwhile, she besought me to devote my whole mind and thoughts to these sacred subjects, withdrawing, so far as I might, all my desires and ambition from the world.

Margot, I am obliged to own, contributed but little to aid my pious purpose; her gay and joyous nature had no sympathy with asceticism and restraint. The poets and dramatists, whose works she read in secret, inspired very different thoughts from the subject of my studies; her childish buoyancy could not endure the weight of that gloom which a life of denial imposes; and whenever we were alone together, she rallied me on my newly assumed seriousness as on a costume which I would soon discover to be insufferable.

I dwell on these things, trifling as they are, because they convey the curious conflict which my mind sustained at this time, and the struggle that went on within me between the tendencies natural to my age, and the impulses that grew out of a sudden enthusiasm. Perhaps I might not care to recall them, if it was not that they remind me of Margot such as I then remember her. I see her before me: her dark eyes, flashing with daring brilliancy, dropped in a half-rebellious submission, her changing color, her fair and open brow, her beautiful mouth, with all its varying expression, her very gait, haughty even in its girlish gayety,—all rise to my mind's eye; and I feel even yet within me the remembrance of that strange distrust and bashfulness with which I endeavored to reply to her witty sallies, and recall her to a seriousness like my own I I was no hypocrite, and yet she half hinted that I was; neither was it a dash of thoughtless enthusiasm that carried me away, though she often said so. It was the very reverse of vanity or self-exaltation,—it was humility that prompted me to devote myself to a career from which others might have been withheld by the ties of home and affection.

“You forget, Margot,” cried I one day, when she bantered me beyond endurance, “that I am already an idle and homeless being, without one on earth to love me!”

“But I love you, Jasper!” said she, seizing my hand and pressing it to her lips; and then, as suddenly dropping it, she became pale as death, and staggered as if falling. I caught her in my arms; but she disengaged herself at once, and, with her hands pressed closely over her face, fled from the spot.

From that day she never jested with me, nor even alluded to my choice of a career. She, I fancied, even avoided being alone with me as she used to be; the playful tricks she had indulged in of hiding my serious books, or substituting for them others of a very different kind, were all abandoned. Her whole manner and bearing were changed, nor could I fail to see that there was no longer between us the cordial frankness that hitherto united us. If this were, in one respect, a source of sorrow to me, in another there was a strange, secret charm in that reserve so full of meaning,—in that shyness so suggestive!

Up to that time I had been in the habit of reading with her some part of every day. My school-learning, such as it was, was yet fresh in my memory, and I was delighted to have a pupil so gifted and intelligent; but from this time forth she never resumed her studies, but pretended a variety of occupations as excuses. I know not, I cannot even speculate, on how this might have ended, when a sudden change of events gave a decisive turn to my destinies.

The bÂtonnier who had so kindly undertaken to look after the little remnant of Monsieur Bernois' fortune was no less prompt than he had promised. He made all the arrangements required by law, and corresponded with me on each step of the proceedings. In one of these letters was a postscript containing these words: “Is it true that you have had a serious rencontre with a captain of the Chasseurs-À-Cheval who is still in danger from the wound he received?” Before my reply to this question could have reached him, came the following brief note:—

“My dear Monsieur Carew,—I learned late last night the whole circumstances of the adventure of which I had asked an explanation from you by my letter of Tuesday. The affair is a most unhappy one on every account, but on none more than the fact that your antagonist was Captain Carrier, the brother of the celebrated member of the Constituent of that name. I need scarcely remind you that his friends, numerous and influential as they are, are now your bitterest enemies. They are at this moment busily employed in making searches into your previous life and habits; and should all other sources of accusation fail, will inevitably make your nationality the ground of attack, and perhaps denounce you as a spy of the English Government. The source from which I obtained this information leaves no doubt of its correctness, as you will acknowledge when I add that it enables me to forward to you, by this enclosure, a passport for England, under the name of Bernard. I also transmit a bank order for one thousand francs, which I beg you will use freely, as if your own, and part of a fund, the remainder of which I will take an early opportunity of placing in your hands. The hurried nature of my present communication prevents me adding more than that I am, very faithfully, your friend.”

His initials alone were inscribed at the foot of this most extraordinary epistle. I hastened to show it to the Marquis, who, on learning the name of the writer, pronounced him one of the first men at the French bar.

“The warning of such a man,” said he, “must not be neglected; and although Carrier's faction have fallen, who can answer what to-morrow may bring forth? At all events, your position as an alien is highly perilous, and you must see to your safety at once.”

As for the concluding portion of the letter, he could not assist me to any explanation of it. The nearest approach to elucidation was, that many of the leading lawyers of Paris were frequently selected by their clients as depositaries of property, and that it was just possible such had been the case here.

With this meagre suggestion he left me, and I proceeded, with a heavy heart, to make my preparations for departure.