choly eyes, his rare cold words, his air of indifference, all give him the appearance of being a stranger. I cannot say he pleased me, for there is nothing winning in him, but he surprises and interests me. He did not address to me one word of that commonplace politeness generally kept in store for the service of new acquaintances, and when I called him "my cousin" he replied so as to correct me once for all for my impropriety. Yes, it is quite evident, Hubert Merlin is a cold, scornful, taciturn, in short a disagreeable creature. He spoke but a few words, and these were bitter and stinging. My aunt, who several times in the course of the evening was the victim of his irony, did not appear to perceive it, and always calls him ber dear son. He addresses no other title than Madame to his step-mother. This morning, during the whole time of breakfast, he read the newspaper without once raising his eyes. My aunt is evidently shocked at his coldness towards me, for she never misses an opportunity of forcing him to talk to me. "Hubert will explain that;" or, "My dear Hubert, you will show such or such thing to your cousin." But all her diplomacy fails; her "dear Hubert" pushes his coldness to the limits of rudeness. To the limits only, for I must acknowledge there is a sort of distinction in his savageness. But for my aunt's awkward efforts this predetermination of his to ignore my existence might be less noticed, but she makes it visible to all eyes. Virginie appears to amuse herself with it on the sly. This evening, after dinner, as she and I were out of hearing of the others, she said to me,

"Is not my brother very polite ?" Then, falling into that passionné tone that so much astonishes coming from her, said,

"If he is icy to you he is thousand times more so to

a

me.

Never one affectionate word does he say to me, and yet in old times, when I was a little girl, he used to love me and pet me. And I loved him better than father or mother, better than anything else in the world; but all is so changed. He is grown hard, scornful, proud, as you see him, and so I love him no longer. I think I even detest him. Here, Gertrude, I'll tell you how it all happened. I like talking to you. I can say everything to you, and yet you don't like me, I know well."

"I shall love you, Virginie, when I know you, but you must confess it is not easy to understand you."

"No; I am a log of wood, rather a stone-you are right; but who knows if in my place you would not be so too? There is mamma going to call me. Let me tell you quickly my history. I was then a little girl, and he was twenty. I remember that for some time there had been great disputing going on in the house. I knew vaguely that Hubert's projects for his future greatly displeased my father and mother, but nothing more was told

me.

One day, passing by my father's study, I found Hubert standing, his back to me, holding the door half open with one hand.

666

This, then, is your final decision, father,' he said, in a voice. that terrified me, so like it sounded to the low muttering of a storm.

"It is my final decision,' answered my father, laying stress on each syllable.

I have told you that this means despair and moral suicide for me.'

"Folly. Nonsense!' said my father; you know perfectly, sir, that grand melodramatic phrases don't take with me.'

"All right,' answered Herbert, I shall give you a definitive auswer this evening; but, if I submit, all moral tie is broken between us. This you desire, father?'.

"I want only obedience from

my

you,' said father. I know the day will come when you will thank me for preventing you from committing a folly, and sacrificing your future for some miserable daydreams.'

"Herbert turned round without answering, and I flew away. Some minutes after he came to me. He was pale, and paced up and down the room in great agitation; at last, suddenly drawing me to him, and pressing me closely, said: Little sister' (this was the last time he ever called me so), ' answer me, what ought I to do? pass my life getting rich, or pass it doing my duty?'

"But," said I, quite astonished, "is it not doing your duty to gain a great deal of money?"

Then he pushed me roughly

from him.

"Wisdom speaks through the mouth of babes and sucklings,' said he. 'I shall obey the oracle. Thank you, Virginie, you have spoken the word that shall decide my life. I shall always be indebted to you.' He went out without looking at me; then, suddenly turning round, said, You have admirable ideas, little girl; you will be the joy and pride of your family. I congratulate you having reached, so young, that point of perfection towards which all my efforts shall henceforth tend.'

"From that day to this, Hubert has never said one affectionate word to me. We live as strangers to each other."

This narrative of Virginie's set me thinking. It may be that the scornful coldness of Hubert comes from the terrible repression his nature has undergone, from the sacrifice of his real being, which he has been forced to make. I will not judge him finally till I understand him better.

June, 1870.

As I was sitting in the dining

room this morning with Fraülein Thusnelda, I heard a conversation between my aunt and a person who came to ask assistance from her. I saw through the half-open door that the poor woman to whom she was speaking could hardly stand, and seemed every minute ready to drop down on the bench behind her.

"Well, my good woman," said my aunt, "what have you to say to me?"

"Madame, my husband is not working, and my children are starving."

"This is a way of talking; people don't die of hunger. How old are your children?"

'They are all under twelve." "All! Why, how many have

you?"

66

Six, madame."

I think my aunt was on the point of pronouncing censure upon this exorbitant number, but she thought twice.

Well, my good woman, children are a blessing. We ought to be grateful when God gives them to us. It is a parent's duty to bring them up well, setting them the example of work, not of begging."

If my husband were working, madame, we should ask nothing from any one."

"I know, I know; always the same story. You see, my good woman, I am quite convinced your husband might have work if he wished. No doubt he prefers passing his time in the public

house."

"Oh, madame, he never puts his foot inside one," said the woman, "there is none like him for carrying home every farthing he earns. But he is ill. His master sent him off a month ago, because he was too weak, and he has not been able to get work elsewhere."

Then she added,—

"You must send them to school. We owe a good education to our children quite as much as we owe them bread for their bodies; more, even, for the soul is more precious than the body. I, who am speaking to you, have spared no trouble, no fatigue, for the education of my daughter."

So saying, my aunt came to get her memorandum-book, to inscribe in it the name and address of the poor woman.

"Those people," said she, "don't at all understand their duty. Ah! how sad it is to meet such ignorance and moral misery."

"Very sad," answered the echo. One is tempted to ask, Have they souls like ours?

"Your name and address ?" said my aunt, going back to the poor

woman.

I did not catch the answer, but my aunt cried out,

"What! is it you, my poor Mariette? I should never have known you-you who used to be so smart. There is what it is to have followed your own whim in place of listening to my advice. However, all the same. I will help you, though you rejected my counsel. No doubt you now repent of it, though too late. Many others in my place would refuse to help a person who had voluntarily chosen poverty; but I'll think no more of it. I will give you a ticket, so that you can get your children dressed in a way that they can go to school."

"We have had no bread at home since yesterday," said the poor woman in a broken voice.

I ran into my room for my purse, but when I came back my aunt was alone. I looked out of the window; Mariette was walking, with her head bent down, close to the wall, and, turning round the corner, disappeared.

My aunt occupies herself much about the poor. She visits them, helps them, gives them alms. Does she like them? I am inclined to doubt it. Still it is self-devotion to give one's time and strength. Up to the present I have done nothing for them. I have not thought even of considering them a class distinct from us, with whom we ought to have relations of a particular kind. The people of our cabins used to receive me with pleasure, and, if they did not come to see us, it was because they were working all day. I as little thought of giving them a lesson as of receiving one from them. The visit of this poor woman left me inexpressibly sad.

When next I found myself with Hubert, I felt benevolently disposed towards him, but every word of his fell on me like a drop of iced water. How can one take such pleasure in being disagreeable to this degree? There is this singular peculiarity about him that, according to the different aspects of his face, which is wonderfully mobile, he appears by turns, and almost at the same moment, very young and very old. His eyes are me ancholy, and his mouth ironical, but he has fugitive expressions that, for an instant, give him a look of extreme youth.

Fraülein Thusnelda came and seated herself by my side in the little salon.

"What do you think of Monsieur Hubert?" she asked.

"He is not particularly polite, so far as I can judge in so short a time."

"Ah! he was once very different. He has had grief, I am sure. It is only a disappointment of the heart could produce such a change." "You mean a disappointment in love?"

"To be sure. What other grief could he have?"

After a moment's silence, the tender German asked me,"Have you ever loved?" "Never, mademoiselle." "Never! and you are twenty ? " "Twenty, and three months." "Never loved!" she repeated with melancholy compassion. "In my country such a thing is unknown. At twelve I had an attachment, it was for a boy a little older than myself, whom I used often to meet going to school; he was pale, with large black eyes. I always loved those melancholy faces, they are so interesting. When I heard this young boy was a butcher's son, it pained me, and I looked no more at him when he passed, but a little after, when I heard he was dead, I sobbed a whole night through, covering my head with my quilt lest my mother should hear me. I have since thought it was fortunate he died, for I could not have loved a butcher's son, and yet he had such beautiful black eyes! Well, when I arrived here first for Virginie's education, Monsieur Hubert greatly reminded me of this poor boy. What he is now can give you no idea of what he then was."

Fraülein Thusnelda stopped, heaved a sigh, and took my hand, which I gently withdrew.

"Ah! I have too loving a heart, it is my misfortune. You are happy in not resembling me."

In spite of all that was ridiculous in this superannuated romanesquerie, I could not help feeling compassion for this poor girl.

"He was then so good, so generous, always talking of reforms, of

liberty, equality, of all sorts of grand things. I liked to listen to him when he talked of his theories before Madame Merlin, she thought he went a little too far. She showed him how each should keep in the place God put him, because what is good for some is bad for others; how also all is compensated for in this world, and those we think are to be pitied have fewer sources of suffering than those we think privileged. But he did not mind her much. Unfortunately a day came when he wanted to pass from theories to their application. They say the French are all like that; they cannot stay in the sphere of pure thought. Naturally his father was greatly irritated, and very painful disputes took place between them. Gradually he submitted, but he has never been himself since."

A few sighs followed this narrative. I rose, not wishing to run the risk of penetrating deeper into the tender soul of Fraülein Thusnelda.

"Play something for us, little one," said my uncle to his daughter. "Have you nothing new ?"

Play your piece by Herz," said my aunt.

"Be it so, and let it be carefully played. I paid, thank God, piano lessons enough these ten years. It is time now for this money to bring me in some interest. Come! give us something brilliant.”

Virginie gave them something brilliant, a long series of difficulties, a perfect triumph of musical education over fingers naturally refrac tory and stiff. She played without stopping, hesitating, or missing a note. I confess this kind of music is an unintelligible language to me; a deluge of notes, an avalanche of chords but no melody, no pathos, no rhythm, nothing that speaks or sings. Ah! I like better the murmur of our fountains, and

the distant song of the little shepherd-boy away among the meadows.

My uncle applauded uproariously. "This is good," said he, "I may console myself for having spent money for such a result. You shall have a new piano next year, little one."

Hubert waited till his father's ecstasy was finished.

"It is really almost as good as a music-box," said he ; " Virginie is becoming quite accomplished."

Virginie said nothing, but I saw her lips tremble, and her eyes fill with tears. I thought Hubert cruel.

The evening dragged on slowly. My life is so useless and empty here. Oh! what am I to do? What am I to do to overcome this lassitude that is gaining on me? I felt none of it at Chanzane. I let myself live, happy in the mere feeling of existence in the midst of a nature I was in sympathy with, and among people I liked. My whole life was like a sweet dream, a little sad but full of charm. I yielded myself up to its sweetness, never asking was it to finish, or how it would finish. Here I am suddenly wakened up, and in my new existence everything jars on me, everything hurts me, everything seems discordant to my eyes and ears as well as to my feelings and thoughts.

Hubert's Journal, June, 1870.

Since I renounced what would have made my life noble and honourable, inasmuch as it would have been an attempt at least to realize my ideal, I have been, I fear, exclusively preoccupied with myself, while fancying myself entirely detached from self. How comes it that the old beliefs are again wakening up within me? No, it is but an illusion, a lure, a snare. The sacrifice is made, it is

not for ever to be begun over again.

It is easy to suggest the ideal when one has harmonious movements and deep eyes, by turns full of dreams or thought. Her soul, I doubt not, is dry, cold, superficial, like all the others. Why should it be better? Because, as Madame Merlin says, with a sigh, she has not been instructed? This would be a reason, no doubt, but is it true she has not been instructed? Is it not rather that she finds it interesting to play the part of a child of nature and the woods? Each of us plays his part; that of naturalness is the cleverest. I see plainly I displease her supremely. When I say one of my perverse words, she first looks at me with wonder, then turns away her eyes, as if to say, "After all, what does it signify to me ?" and this disdain provokes me to show myself more hateful still.

Really I am ashamed of myself. When one commits suicide it should not be by halves, and then to agitate one's self in order to vex those to whom we swore to be dead outright. It is positively disloyal as well as bad taste.

This young heroine of the woods and of savage life, Mademoiselle Gertrude de Chanzane, knows perfectly how to have her own will. Madame Merlin intended recommencing her education. This she resisted with calm firmness, and up to the present she has kept her liberty, but it is the liberty of the caged bird. It appears that when she inhabited her manor-house at Chanzane she passed her time wandering through the country, visiting the peasants, no doubt maintaining with them the classic relations of princess with shepherds and shepherdesses, gathering booty like a bee, exploring every path in the woods, every nook in the valleys, and as familiar with nature