L I E) R.ARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 U N IVLR5ITY 
 
 or ILLINOIS 
 
 823 
 
 V.I
 
 A 
 
 J*
 
 WHITE LIES, 
 
 g ^turp. 
 
 BY 
 
 CHARLES EEADE. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 Vol. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 TEtJBNEE & CO., CO PATEENOSTEE EOW. 
 
 1857. 
 
 [The right of Reproduction and Translation reserved.']
 
 LONDON : PRINTED BY W. CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET. 
 
 ^
 
 8^3 
 
 ISS7 
 vJ 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 "White Lies" is a reprint. In its first stage 
 simple souls wrote to the publisher, ' This is a 
 French translation ; just look at the idioms !' 
 
 It is something to be a biped : the quadruped of 
 this species could not take a well for a puddle. 
 
 As if the smallest master could not Anglicize 
 French or any other language : vide ^ Clouds and 
 Sunshine/ which is French Anglicized. 
 
 But a voice from the Public is not to be neg- 
 lected : nor can I afford to let an error of this 
 sort defeat my great labour, and rob a reader of 
 any pleasure or profit it might otherwise give him. 
 
 A French theme has been selected, French 
 sources drawn upon, and French idioms sprinkled, 
 on one principle of art. 
 
 True art is a severe battle, not only against 
 egotism, but against monotony. Books should not
 
 IV PREFACE. 
 
 emulate peas. Each work should add to the features 
 of Hterature, not merely to its lamentable bulk. 
 
 Therefore I, who have been called a hard, diy 
 copyist of actual life, present you here heroic 
 though human characters, with the faults and vir- 
 tues of sex. Therefore I, who have painted Enghsh, 
 Scotch, and Irish, try my hand at French ; and, 
 my story being on French ground, I give it what 
 French colour my narrow pallet holds. Inter 
 alia, I sprinkle a few French idioms. Why 
 not ? I coloured Christie Johnstone Scotch on 
 this principle, and will colour my next tale 
 German. It is mere mimicry ; but not misplaced. 
 
 Shallow sham scholarship is at war with idiom : 
 but idioms are the cream of human language. 
 
 I have seen with pain that my countrymen 
 receive as truth the misrepresentations of French 
 morals that issue from a clever but ignorant clique 
 of Parisian noveUsts. What does the mill-horse 
 of the Boulevard know about France ? He 
 has never seen her with the bodily eye, far less the 
 mental. A mill-round of anything contracts the 
 vision. But a mill-round of vice 1 
 
 I beg the English reader to believe, what the 
 English traveller knows, that husbands and wives
 
 PREFACE. V 
 
 differ little from English ones, in Brittany, Nor- 
 mandy, Auvergne, Picardy, Provence, and other 
 nations unexplored by Parisian mill-horses, and 
 called France : and generally, though this story 
 is necessarily full of errors of detail, yet in 
 essentials it is a fair national portrait : at least it 
 is not a too flattering tribute to that high-minded 
 and refined nation, where I have met so many 
 gallant men, and so many virtuous women. 
 
 C. R. 
 
 London, November 28, 1857.
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 CHAPTER I, 
 
 Towards tlie close of the last century the Baron 
 de Beaurepaire lived in the chateau of that name 
 in Brittany. His family was of prodigious an- 
 tiquity. Seven successive barons had already 
 flourished on this spot of France when a younger 
 son of the house accompanied his neighbour the 
 Duke of Normandy in his descent on England, 
 and was rewarded by a grant of land, on which he 
 dug a moat and built a chateau, and called it 
 Beaurepaire : the worthy natives turned this into 
 Borreper without an instant's delay. Since that 
 day more than twenty gentlemen of the same 
 lineage had held in turn the original chateau and 
 lands, and handed them down to their present lord. 
 Thus rooted in his native Brittany, Henri 
 Lionel Marie St. Quentin de Beaurepaire was as 
 fortunate as any man can be pronounced before he 
 dies. He had health, rank, a good income, a fair 
 domain, a goodly house, a loving wife, and two 
 lovely young daughters all veneration and aifec- 
 tion. Two months every year he visited the 
 
 VOL. 1. B
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 Faubourg St. Germain and the Court. At both 
 every gentleman and every lacquey knew bis 
 name and bis face : bis return to Brittany after 
 this short absence was celebrated by a rustic fete. 
 
 Above all, Monsieur de Beaurepaire possessed 
 that treasure of treasures, content. He hunted no 
 heart-burns. Ambition did not tempt him. Why 
 should he listen to long speeches, and court the 
 unworthy, and descend to intrigue, for so pre- 
 carious and equivocal a prize as a place in the 
 Government, when he could be De Beaurepaire 
 without trouble or loss of self-res23ect ? Social 
 ambition could get little hold of him. Let par- 
 venus give balls half in doors half out, and light 
 two thousand lamps, and waste their substance 
 battling and manoeuvring for fashionable distinc- 
 tion ; he had nothing to gain by such foolery, 
 nothing to lose by modest living ; he was the 
 twenty-ninth Baron of Beaurepaire. So wise, so 
 proud, so little vain, so strong in health and 
 wealth and honour, one would have said nothing 
 less than an earthquake could shake this gentle- 
 man and his house. Yet both were shaken, 
 though rooted by centuries to the soil. But by 
 no vulgar earthquake. 
 
 For years France had bowed in silence beneath 
 two galling burdens, a selfish and corrupt monarchy, 
 and a multitudinous, privileged, lazy, and oppres- 
 sive aristocracy, by whom the peasant, who is now 
 the principal proprietor of the French soil, was 
 handled like a Eussian serf.
 
 WHITE LIES. 6 
 
 Now wlien a high-spirited nation has been long- 
 silent under oppression — tremble oppressors ! 
 The shallow misunderstand nations as they do 
 men. They fear where no fear is, and play 
 cribbage over a volcano. Such are they w^ho 
 expect a revolt in England whenever England 
 grumbles half a note higher than usual. They do 
 not see that she is venting her ill humour instead 
 of bottling it, and getting her grievance redressed 
 gradually and safely. Such is the old lady w'lio 
 pinches us when the engine lets off its steam with 
 a mighty pother. Then it is she fears an ex- 
 plosion. Such are they who read the frothy 
 bombast of Italian Republicans, and fancy that 
 nation of song, superstition, and slavery is going 
 to be free — is worthy to be free — has the heart or 
 the brains or the soul to be free. 
 
 Such w^ere the British placemen, and the pig- 
 headed King, who read the calm, business-like, 
 respectful, yet dignified and determined address of 
 the American colonists, and argued thus — ' What ! 
 they don't bluster ; these then are men we can 
 bully.'* 
 
 Such were the French placemen, w^ho did not 
 see how tremendous the danger to that corrupt 
 government and lawless aristocracy, when an 
 
 * Compare the manifestoes of Italian Eepublicans with the proclama- 
 tions and addresses of the American colonists — i. e., compare the words 
 of the men of words with the words of the men of deeds — the men who 
 fail with the men who succeed ; it is a lesson in human nature. They 
 difter as a bladder from a bludgeon, or harlequin's sword from Xoll 
 Cromwell's. 
 
 B 2
 
 4 • WHITE LIES. 
 
 ardent people raised their heads, after centuries of 
 brooding, to avenge centuries of wrong. 
 
 We all know this wonderful passage of history. 
 How the feeble king was neither woman nor man 
 — could neither concede with grace, nor resist 
 with cannon. How his head fell at a moment 
 when it was monstrous to pretend the liberties of 
 the nation ran any risk from the poor old cipher. 
 How the dregs of the nation came uppermost and 
 passed for 'the people.' How law, religion, 
 common sense, and humanity, hid their faces, 
 the scaffold streamed with innocent blood, and 
 terror reigned. 
 
 France was preyed on by unclean beasts, half 
 ass, half tiger. They made her a bankrupt, and 
 they were busy cutting her throat, as well as 
 rifling her pockets, when Heaven sent her a Man. 
 He drove the unclean beasts off her suffering body, 
 and took her in his hand, and set her on high 
 among the nations. 
 
 But ere the Hero came — among whose many 
 glories let this be written, that he was a fighting- 
 man, yet ended civil slaughter — what wonder 
 many an honest man and good Frenchman de- 
 spaired of France ! Among these was M. de 
 Beaurepaire. These Republicans — murderers of 
 kings, murderers of women, and persecutors of 
 children — were, in his eyes, the most horrible 
 monsters Humanity ever groaned under. 
 
 He put on black for the King, and received no 
 visits. He brooded in the chateau, and wrote and
 
 WHITE LIES. 
 
 received letters ; and these letters came and went 
 by private hands. He felled timber. He raised 
 large sums of money upon his estate. He then 
 watched his opportunity, and on pretence of a 
 journey disappeared from the chateau. 
 
 Three months after, a cavalier, dusty and pale, 
 rode into the court-yard of Beaurepaire, and asked 
 to see the baroness ; he hung his head and held 
 out a letter. It contained a few sad words from 
 M. de Larochejaquelin. The baron had just fallen 
 in La Yendee, fighting, like his ancestors, on the 
 side of the Crown. 
 
 From that hour till her death the baroness wore 
 black. 
 
 The mourner would have been arrested, and 
 perhaps beheaded, but for a friend, the last in the 
 world on whom the family reckoned for any solid 
 aid. Doctor St. Aubin had lived in the chateau 
 twenty years. He w^as a man of science, and did 
 not care a button for money; so he had retired 
 from the practice of medicine, and pursued his re- 
 searches at ease under the baron's roof. They all 
 loved him, and laughed at his occasional reveries, 
 in the days of prosperity ; and now, in one great 
 crisis, the protege became the protector, to their 
 astonishment and his own. But it was an age of 
 ups and downs. This amiable theorist was one of 
 the oldest verbal Eepubhcans in Europe. This is 
 the less to be wondered at that in theory a Ee- 
 public is the perfect form of government. It is 
 merely in practice that it is impossible ; it is only
 
 b WHITE LIES. 
 
 upon going off paper into reality, and trying 
 actually to self-govern old nations with limited 
 territory and time to heat themselves white hot 
 with the fire of politics and the bellows of bombast 
 — that the thing resolves itself into moonshine and 
 bloodshed — each in indefinite proportions. 
 
 Doctor St. Aubin had for years talked and 
 written speculative Republicanism. So, not know- 
 ing the man, they thought him a Republican. 
 They applied to him to know whether the baroness 
 shared her husband's opinions, and he boldly 
 assured them she did not ; he added, ' She is a 
 pupil of mine.' On this audacious statement they 
 contented themselves with laying a heavy fine on 
 the lands of Beaurepaire. 
 
 Assignats were abundant at this time, but good 
 mercantile paper — a notorious coward — had made 
 itself wings and fled, and specie w^as creeping into 
 strong boxes like a startled rabbit into its hole. 
 The fine w^as paid, but Beaurepaire had to be 
 heavily mortgaged, and the loan bore a high rate 
 of interest. 
 
 This was no sooner arranged than it transpired 
 that the baron just before his death had contracted 
 large debts, for w^hich his estate was answerable. 
 
 The baroness sold her carriage and horses, and 
 she and her daughters prepared to deny themselves 
 all but the bare necessaries of life, and pay off their 
 debts if possible. On this their dependents fell 
 away from them ; their fair-weather friends came 
 no longer near them ; and many a flush of indig-
 
 WHITE LIES. 7 
 
 nation crossed their brows, and many an aching 
 pang their hearts, as adversity revealed the base- 
 ness and inconstancy of common people high or 
 low. When the other servants had retired w4tli 
 their wages, one Jacintha remained behind, and 
 begged permission to speak to the baroness. 
 
 ' AYhat would you with me, my child ?' asked 
 that high-bred lady, with an accent in which a 
 shade of surprise mingled with great politeness. 
 
 ' Forgive me, madame the baroness,' began 
 Jacintha, with a formal curtesy ; ' but how can I 
 leave you, and Mademoiselle Josephine, and Made- 
 moiselle Laure ? Reflect, madame ; I was born at 
 Beaurepaire ; my mother died in the chateau ; my 
 father died in the village ; but he had meat every 
 day from the baron's own table, and fuel from the 
 baron's wood, and died blessing the house of Beau- 
 repaire — Mademoiselle Laure, speak for me ! Ah, 
 you weep ! it is then that you see it is impossible 
 I can go. Ah no ! madame, I will not go ; forgive 
 me ; 1 cannot go. The others are gone because 
 prosperity is here no longer. Let it be so ; I will 
 stay till the sun shines again upon the chateau, 
 and then you shall send me away if you are bent 
 on it ; but not now^ my ladies — oh, not now ! Oh ! 
 oh! oh!' 
 
 The warm-hearted girl burst out sobbing un- 
 gracefully. 
 
 ' My child,' said the baroness, ' these sentiments 
 touch me, and honour you. But retire, if you 
 please, while I consult my daughters.'
 
 8 WHITE LIES. 
 
 Jacintlia cut lier sobs dead short, and retreated 
 with a most cold and formal reverence. 
 
 The consultation consisted of the baroness open- 
 ing her arms, and both her daughters embracing 
 her at once. 
 
 ' My children ! there are then some who love 
 you.' 
 
 * No ! you, mamma ! It is you we all love.' 
 
 Three women were now the only pillars, a man 
 of science and a servant of all work the only out- 
 side props, the buttresses, of the great old house of 
 Beaurepaire. 
 
 As months rolled on, Laure de Beaurepaire re- 
 covered her natural gaiety in spite of bereavement 
 and poverty — so strong are youth, and health, and 
 temperament. But her elder sister had a grief all 
 her own. Captain Dujardin, a gallant young 
 officer, well born, and his own master, had courted 
 her with her parents' consent ; and even when the 
 baron began to look coldly on the soldier of the 
 Republic, young Dujardin, though too proud to 
 encounter the baron's irony and looks of scorn, 
 would not yield love to pique. He came no more 
 to tlie chateau ; but he would wait hours and hours 
 on the path to the little oratory in the park on the 
 bare chance of a passing word or even a kind look 
 from Josephine. So much devotion gradually 
 won a heart which in happier times she had been 
 half encouraged to give him; and when he left 
 lier on a military service of uncommon danger, 
 the woman's reserve melted, and, in answer to his
 
 WHITE LIES. 9 
 
 prayers and tears, slie owjied for the first time that 
 she loved him better than any thing in the world 
 — except duty and honour. 
 
 She hid her despondency to comfort him. 
 
 ' Be prudent for my sake, if not for your own. 
 May God w^atch over you ! Your danger is our 
 only fear ; for we are a united family. My father 
 will never force my inclinations ; these unhappy 
 dissensions wall soon cease, and he will love you 
 again. I do not say — " Be constant." I will not 
 wrong either myself or you by a doubt ; but 
 promise me to come back in life, oh ! Camille — 
 Camille !' 
 
 Then it was his turn to comfort and console her. 
 He promised to come back alive, and with fresh 
 honours, and so more worthy the Demoiselle de 
 Beaurepaire. They pledged their faith to one 
 another. 
 
 Letters from the camp breathing a devotion 
 little short of worship fed Josephine's attachment ; 
 and more than one public mention of his name and 
 services made her proud as w^ell as fond of the 
 fiery young soldier. 
 
 The time was not yet come that she could open 
 her whole heart to her parents. The baron was 
 now too occupied . with the State to trouble his 
 head about love fancies. The baroness, like many 
 parents, looked on her daughter as a girl though 
 she was twenty years old. She was of the old 
 school. A passionate love in a lady's heart before 
 marriage was with her contrary to etiquette, and 
 
 B 3
 
 10 WHITE LIES. 
 
 therefore improper ; and to her the great word 
 improper included the Httle word impossible in 
 one of its many folds. Josephine loved her sister 
 very tenderly ; but Laure was three years her 
 junior, and she shrank with modest delicacy from 
 making her a confidante of feelings the bare 
 relation of which leaves the female hearer a child 
 no longer. 
 
 Thus Josephine hid her heart, and delicious first 
 love nestled deep in her nature, and thrilled in 
 every secret vein and fibre. Alas ! the time came 
 that this loving but proud spirit thanked Heaven 
 she had never proclaimed the depth of her attach- 
 ment for Camille Dujardin. 
 
 They had parted two years, and he had joined 
 the army of the Pyrenees about one month, when 
 suddenly all correspondence ceased on his part. 
 
 Eestless anxiety rose into terror as this silence 
 continued ; and starting and trembling at every 
 sound, and edging to the window at every footstep, 
 Josephine expected hourly the tidings of her lover's 
 death. 
 
 Months rolled on in silence. 
 
 Then a new torture came. Since he was not 
 dead he must be unfaithful. At this all the ]Dride 
 of her race was fired in her. 
 
 The struggle between love and ire was almost 
 too much for nature : violently gay and moody by 
 turns she alarmed both her mother and the good 
 Doctor St. Aubin. The latter was not, I think, 
 quite without suspicion of the truth ; however, he
 
 WHITE LIES. 11 
 
 simply prescribed change of air and place. She 
 must go to Frejus, a watering place distant about 
 five leagues. Mademoiselle de Beaurepaire yielded 
 a languid assent. To her all places were ahke. 
 
 That same night, after all had retired to rest, 
 came a low gentle tap at her door ; the next 
 moment Laure came into the room, and, without 
 saying a word, put down her candle and glided up 
 to Josephine, looked her in the face, and wreathed 
 her arms round her neck. 
 
 Josephine panted a little ; she saw something 
 was coming ; the gestures and looks of sisters are 
 volumes to them. Laure clung to her neck. 
 
 * What is the matter, my child ?' 
 
 * I am not a child ! there is your mistake. Sister, 
 why is it you love me no longer ?' 
 
 ' I love you no longer ?' 
 
 ' No ! AYe do not hide our heart from her we 
 love ; we do not try to hide it from her who loves 
 us. We know the attempt would be in vain.' 
 
 Josephine panted heavily ; but she answered 
 doggedly — 
 
 ' Our house is burdened with real griefs ! is it 
 for me to intrude vain and unworthy sentiments 
 upon our sacred and honourable sorrows ? Oh ! 
 my sister, if you have really detected my folly, do 
 not expose me ! but, rather help me to conceal and 
 to conquer that for which your elder now blushes 
 before you !' And the proud beauty bowed her 
 white forehead on the mantelpiece, and turned 
 gently away from comfort.
 
 13 WHITE LIES. 
 
 ' Josephine/ said Laure, * I am young, but 
 already I feel that all troubles are light compared 
 with those of the heart. Besides, we share our 
 misfortunes and our bereavement, and cheer one 
 another. It is only you who are a miser, and 
 grudge me my right — a share of all your joys, 
 and all your griefs ; but do you know that you 
 are the only one in this chateau who does not love 
 me?' 
 
 ' Ah, Laure, what words are these ? my love is 
 older than yours.' 
 
 ^No! no!' 
 
 ' Yes, my little fawn, your Josephine loved you 
 the hour you were born, and has loved you ever 
 since without a moment's coldness.' 
 
 ' Ah ! my sister ! — my sister ! As if I did not 
 know it. Then you will turn your face to me ?' 
 
 ' See 1' 
 
 * And embrace me ?' 
 
 ' There !' 
 
 ' And, now, l)Osom to bosom, and heart to heart ; 
 tell me all !' 
 
 ' I will — to-morrow.' 
 
 ' At least give me your tears ; you see I am not 
 niggardly in that respect.' 
 
 ' Tears, love — ah ! would I could !' 
 
 ' By and by then — meantime do not palpitate so. 
 See, I unclasp my arms. You will find me a 
 reasonable person — indulgent even ; compose your- 
 self; or, rather watch my proceedings; you are 
 interested in them.'
 
 WHITE LIES. 13 
 
 ' It appears to me that you propose to sleep liere.' 
 
 * Does that vex you ?' 
 
 * On the contrary.' 
 
 ' There I am !' cried Laure, alighting among the 
 sheets like a snow flake on water. ' I await you, 
 mademoiselle.' 
 
 Josephine found this lovely face wet, yet smiling 
 saucily, upon her pillow. She drew the fair 
 owner softly to her tender bosom and aching 
 heart, and watched the bright eyes close, and the 
 coral lips part and show their pearls in childlike 
 sleep. 
 
 In the morning Laure, half awake, felt some- 
 thing sweep her cheek. She kej)t her eyes closed, 
 and Josephine, believing her still asleep, fell to 
 kissing her, but only as the south wind kisses the 
 violets, and embraced her tenderly but furtively 
 like a feather curling round a lovely head, caress- 
 ing yet scarce touching, and murmuring ' little 
 angel !' sighed gratitude and affection over her ; 
 but took great care not to wake her with all this. 
 The little angel, who was also a little fox, lay still 
 and feigned sleep, for she felt she was creeping 
 into her sister's heart of hearts. From that day 
 they were confidantes and friends, as well as sisters, 
 and never had a thought or feeling unshared. 
 
 Josephine soon found she had very few facts to 
 reveal. 
 
 Laure had watched her closely and keenly for 
 months. It was her feelings, her confidence the 
 little love wanted ; not her secret — that lay bare
 
 14 WHITE LIES. 
 
 already to the shrewd young minx — I beg her 
 pardon — lynx. 
 
 Give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak. 
 Whispers the o'er-fraught heart, and bids it break. 
 
 A deep observer proclaimed this three hundred 
 years ago, and every journal that is printed now a 
 days furnishes the examples. 
 
 From this silent, moody, gnawing, maddening 
 sorrow, Laure saved her elder sister. She coaxed 
 her to vent each feeling as it rose ; her grief, her 
 doubt, her mortification, her indignation, her pride, 
 and the terrible love that at times overpowered all. 
 Thus much was gained ; these powerful antago- 
 nists were no longer cooped up in her bosom 
 battling together and tearing her. They returned 
 from Frejus : Josephine with a delicate rose tint 
 instead of the pallor that had alarmed St. Aubin. 
 Her mood fluctuated no more. A gentle pensive- 
 ness settled upon her. She looked the goddess 
 Patience. She was unconceivably lovely. Laure 
 said to her one day, after a long gaze at her, 
 
 ' I fear I shall never hate that madman as I 
 ought. Certainly when I think of his conduct I 
 could strike him in the face.' Here she clenched 
 her teeth, and made her hand into a sort of irre- 
 gular little snowball. ' But wdien I look at you I 
 cannot hate, I can but pity that imbecile — that — ' 
 
 ' Oh ! sister,' said Josephine, imploringly, ' let 
 us not degrade one we have honoured with our 
 esteem — for our own sakes, not his,' added she 
 hastily, not looking Laure in the face.
 
 WHITE LIES. 15 
 
 ' No ! forgive my vivacity. I was going to tell 
 you I feel more pity tlian anger for him. Does he 
 mean to turn monk, and forswear us all ? if not, 
 what does he intend to do ? Where can he hope 
 to find any one he can love after you ? Josephine, 
 the more I see of our sex, the more I see that you 
 are the most beautiful woman in France, and by 
 consequence in Europe.' The smile this drew was 
 a very faint one. ' Were this so, surely I could 
 have retained a single heart.' 
 
 * You have then forgotten your La Fontaine ? 
 Does he not sing how a dunghill cock found a 
 pearl necklace, and disdained it ? And why ? 
 Not that pearls are worth less than barley corns ; 
 but because he was a sordid bird, and your prede- 
 cessors were wasted on him my Josephine. So I 
 pity that dragoon who might have revelled in the 
 love of an angel, and has rejected it, and lost it for 
 ever. There, I have made her sigh.' 
 
 ^ Forgive me.' 
 
 ' Forgive her ? for sighing ? I am, then, very 
 tyrannical.' 
 
 One day Laure came into the room where the 
 baroness. Doctor St. Aubin, and Josephine were 
 sitting. She sat down unobserved. 
 
 But Josephine, looking up a minute after, saw 
 at a glance that something had happened. Laure, 
 under a forced calmness, was in great emotion and 
 anxiety. Their eyes met. Laure made her a 
 scarce perceptible signal, and immediately after 
 got up and left the room. 
 
 Josephine waited a few seconds ; then rose and
 
 16 WHITE LIES. 
 
 went out, and found Laure in the passage, as she 
 expected. 
 
 ' My poor sister, have you courage ?' 
 
 * He is dead !' gasped Josephine. 
 
 ' No ! he lives. But he is dead to us and France. 
 Oh ! Josephine, have you courage ?' 
 
 'I have,' faltered Josephine, quivering from 
 head to foot. 
 
 * You know Dard, who works about here for 
 love of Jacintha ? For months past I have set 
 him to speak to every soldier who passes through 
 the village.' 
 
 ' Ah ! you never told me.' 
 
 * Had you known my plan, you would have been 
 for ever on the qui vive ; and your tranquillity 
 was dear to me. It was the first stej) to happiness. 
 Hundreds of soldiers have passed, and none of them 
 knew him even by name. To-day, Josephine, two 
 have come that know all !' 
 
 ' All ! Laure — Laure !' 
 
 * He is disloyal to his country. What wonder 
 he is a traitor to you !' 
 
 ' It is false !' 
 
 ' The men are here. Come, will you speak to 
 them ?' 
 
 * I cannot. But I will come — you speak ; I shall 
 hear.' 
 
 They found in the kitchen two dismounted dra- 
 goons, before whom Jacintha had set a bottle of 
 wine. 
 
 They arose and saluted the ladies. 
 
 * Be seated, my brave men,' said Laure, ^ and
 
 WHITE LIES. 17 
 
 tell me what you told Dard about Captain Du- 
 jardin.' 
 
 ' Don't stain your moutli with the captain my 
 little lady. He is a traitor !' 
 
 * How do you know ?' 
 
 * Marcellus ! mademoiselle asks us how we know 
 Captain Dujardin to be a traitor. Speak.' 
 
 Marcellus, thus appealed to, told Laure after his 
 own fashion that he knew the captain well : that 
 one day the captain rode out of the camp and 
 never returned : that at first great anxiety was felt 
 on his behalf, for the captain was a great favourite, 
 and passed for the smartest soldier in the division : 
 that after a while anxiety gave place to some very 
 awkward suspicions, and these suspicions it was his 
 lot and his comrade's here to confirm. About a 
 month later he and the said comrade and two more 
 were sent, well mounted, to reconnoitre a Spanish 
 village. At the door of a little inn they caught 
 sight of a French uniform. This so excited their 
 curiosity that he went forward nearer than 
 prudent, and distinctly recognised Captain Dujar- 
 din seated at a table drinking, between two 
 guerillas ; that he rode back and told the others, 
 who then came up and satisfied themselves it was 
 so : that if any of the party had entertained a 
 doubt, it was removed in an unpleasant way. He, 
 Marcellus, disgusted at the sight of a French 
 uniform drinking among Spaniards, took down his 
 carabine and fired at the group as carefully as a 
 somewhat restive horse permitted, at which, as if
 
 18 WHITE LIES. 
 
 by magic, a score or so of guerillas poured out from 
 Heaven knows where, musket in hand, and de- 
 livered a volley : the officer in command of the 
 party fell dead, Jean Jacques got a broken arm, 
 and his owti horse was wounded in two places, and 
 fell from loss of blood a few furlongs from the 
 French camp, to the neighbourhood of which the 
 vagabonds pursued them hallooing and shouting 
 and firing like barbarous banditti as they were. 
 
 * However, here I am,' concluded Marcellus, 
 'invalided for a while, my little ladies, but not 
 expended yet : w^e will soon dash in among them 
 again for death or glory ! Meantime,' concluded 
 he, filling both glasses, ' let us drink to the eyes of 
 beauty (military salute), and to the renown of 
 France — and double damnation to all her traitors^ 
 like that Captain Dujardin — whose neck may the 
 devil twist.' 
 
 In the middle of this toast Josephine, w^ho had 
 stood rooted to one place w^th eyes glaring upon 
 each speaker in turn, uttered a feeble cry like a 
 dying hare, and crept slowly out of the room with 
 the carriage and manner of a woman of fifty. 
 
 Laure's first imjDulse was to follow Josephine, 
 but this would have attracted attention to her 
 despair. She had the tact and resolution to remain 
 and say a few kind words to the soldiers, and then 
 she retired and darted up by instinct to Josephine's 
 bedroom. The door was locked. 
 
 * Josephine ! Josephine !' No answer.
 
 TVHITE LIES 19 
 
 * I want to speak to you. I am frightened — oli ! 
 do not be alone !' 
 
 A choking voice answered, * I am not alone — I 
 am with God and the saints. Give me a little 
 while to draw mv breath.' Lam^e sank down at 
 the door, and sat close to it, with her head against 
 it sobbing bitterly. The sensitive little love was 
 hurt at not being let in, such a friend as she had 
 proved herself. But this personal feeling was but 
 a small fraction of her grief and anxiety. 
 
 A good half hour had elapsed when Josephine, 
 pale and stern as no one had ever seen her till that 
 hour, suddenly opened the door. She started at 
 sight of Laure couched sorrowful on the threshold 5 
 her stern look relaxed into tender love and pity ; 
 she sank on her knees and took her sister s head 
 quickly to her bosom. 'Oh, my little heart have 
 you been here all this time ?' ^ Oh ! oh ! oh I' was 
 all the little heart could rejDly. 
 
 Then Josephine sat down, and took Lam-e in her 
 lap, and caressed and comforted her, and poured 
 words of gratitude and affection over her like a 
 warm shower. 
 
 The sisters rose hand in hand. 
 
 Then Laure suddenly seized Josephine, and 
 looked long and anxiously down into her eyes. 
 They flashed fire under the scrutiny. ' Yes, it is 
 ended. I could not despise and love. I am dead 
 to him, as he is dead to France.' 
 
 * Ah ! I hoped so — I thought so ; but you 
 frightened me. My noble sister, were I ever to
 
 20 WHITE LIES. 
 
 lose your esteem I should die. Oh, how awful yet 
 how beautiful is your scorn ! For worlds I would 
 
 not be that Cam ' Josephine laid her hand 
 
 imperiously on Laure's mouth. 
 
 ' To mention that man's name to me will be to 
 insult me ! De Beaurepaire I am, and a French- 
 woman ! Come, love, let us go down and comfort 
 our mother.' 
 
 They went down ; and this patient sufferer and 
 high-minded conqueror of her own accord took up 
 a common-place book, and read aloud for two 
 mortal hours to her mother and St. Aubin. Her 
 voice never wavered. 
 
 To feel that life is ended — to wish existence, too, 
 had ceased ; and so to sit down, an aching hollow, 
 and take a part and sham an interest in twaddle to 
 please others — such are woman's feats. How like 
 nothing at all they look ! 
 
 A man would rather sit on the buffer of a steam 
 engine and ride at the great Redan. 
 
 Laure sat at her elbow, a little behind her, and 
 turned the leaves, and on one pretence or other 
 held Josephine's hand nearly all the rest of the day. 
 Its delicate fibres remained tense like a greyhound's 
 sinews after a race, and the blue veins rose to sight 
 in it, though her voice and eyes were mastered. 
 
 So keen was the strife— ^so matched the an- 
 tagonists — so hard the victory ! 
 
 For ire and scorn are mighty. 
 
 And noble blood in a noble heart is a hero. 
 
 And Love is a Giaxt.
 
 WHITE LIES. 21 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 About this time, the French provinces were orga- 
 nized upon a half miHtary plan, by which all the 
 local authorities radiated towards a centre of go- 
 vernment. This feature has survived subsequent 
 revolutions and political changes. 
 
 In days of change, youth is always at a premium ; 
 because, though experience is valuable, the expe- 
 rience of one order of things unfits ordinary men 
 for another order of things. A. good many old 
 fogies in ofSce were shown to the door, and a good 
 deal of youth and energy infused into the veins of 
 provincial government. 
 
 Citizen Edouard Riviere, who had but just com- 
 pleted his education with singular eclat at a military 
 school, was one fine day ordered into Brittany to 
 fill a responsible post under the Commandant 
 Raynal. 
 
 Nervousness in a new situation generally accom- 
 panies talent. The young citizen, as he rode to 
 present his credentials at head quarters, had his 
 tremors as well as his pride ; the more so as his 
 new chief was a blunt, rough soldier, that had risen
 
 22 WHITE LIES. 
 
 from the ranks, and bore a much higher character 
 for zeal and moral integrity than for affability. 
 
 While the young citizen rides in his breeches 
 and English top boots, his white waistcoat and 
 cravat, his abundant shirt frill, his short-waisted 
 blue coat with flat gilt buttons, his pig tail, his 
 handsome though beardless face and eager eyes, to 
 this important interview, settling" beforehand after 
 the manner of novices what he shall say, what shall 
 be said to him, and what he shall reply, let us 
 briefly dispose of commandant Eaynal's previous 
 history. 
 
 He was the son of a widow that kept a grocer's 
 shop in Paris. She intended him for spice, but he 
 thirsted for glory and vexed her. ' Soldiering in 
 time of peace,' said she, ' such nonsense — it is like 
 swimming on a carpet.' War came and robbed 
 her satire of its point. The boy was resolute. 
 The mother yielded now ; she was a Frenchwoman 
 to the back bone. 
 
 In the armies of the Eepublic a good soldier rose 
 with unparalleled certainty, and rapidity too ; for 
 when soldiers are being mowed down like oats, it 
 is a glorious time for such of them as keep their 
 feet. Eajmal rose through all the intervening 
 grades to be a commandant and one of the general's 
 aides-du-camp, and a colonel's epaulettes glittered 
 in sight. All this time Eaynal used to write to 
 his mother, and joke her about the army being 
 such a bad profession, and as he was all for glory, 
 not money, he lived with Spartan frugality, and
 
 WHITE LIES. 23 
 
 saved half bis pay and all his prize money for the 
 old lady in Paris. 
 
 And here this prosperous man had to endure a 
 great disappointment ; on the same day that he 
 was made commandant came a letter into the 
 camp. His mother was dead after a short illness. 
 This was a terrible blow to the simple rugged 
 soldier, who had never had much time nor inclina- 
 tion to flirt with a lot of girls, and toughen his 
 heart. 
 
 He came back to Paris honoured and rich, but 
 downcast. 
 
 On his arrival at the old place it seemed to him 
 not to have the old look. It made him sadder. 
 To cheer him up they brought him a lot of money. 
 The widow's trade had taken a wonderful start the 
 last few^ years, and she had been playing the same 
 game as he had, living on tenpence a day and 
 saving all for him. This made him sadder. 
 
 ' What have we both been scraping all this dross 
 together for ? I would give it all to sit one hour 
 by the fire, with her hand in mine, and hear her 
 say, " Scamp, you made me unhappy when you 
 were young, but I have lived to be proud of you." ' 
 
 He found out the woman who had nursed her, 
 flung more five-franc pieces into her lap than she 
 had ever seen in one place before, applied for 
 active service, no matter what, obtained at once 
 this post in Brittany, and went gloomily from 
 Paris, leaving behind him the reputation of an 
 ungracious brute devoid of sentiment. In fact, the
 
 24 WHITE LIES. 
 
 one bit of sentiment in this Spartan was any thing 
 but a romantic one ; at least I am not aware of any 
 successful romance that turns on filial affection ; 
 but it was an abiding one. Here is a proof. It 
 was some months after he had left Paris, and, 
 indeed, as nearly as I can remember, a couple of 
 months after young Riviere's first interview with 
 him, that, being in conversation with Monsieur 
 Perrin the notary, he told him he thought he never 
 should cease to feel this regret. 
 
 The notary smiled incredulous, but said nothing. 
 
 ' We were fools to scrape all this money toge- 
 ther ; it is no use to her, and, I am sure, it is none 
 to me !' 
 
 ' Is it permitted to advise you ?' asked his friend 
 persuasively. 
 
 ' Speak '/ 
 
 * This very money, which your elevated nature 
 contemns, may be made the means of healing your 
 w^ound. There are ladies, fair and prudent, who 
 would at once capitulate — he ! he ! — to you, backed, 
 as you are, by two or three hundred thousand 
 francs. One of these, by her youth and affection, 
 would in time sujDply the place of her, your devo- 
 tion to whose memory does you so much credit. 
 That sum would also enable you to become the 
 possessor of an estate — a most advisable invest- 
 ment, since estates are just now unreasonably 
 depressed in value. Its wood and water would 
 soothe your eye, and relieve your sorrow by the 
 sight of your wealth in an enjoyable form.'
 
 WHITE LIES. 25 
 
 * Halt ! say that again in half the words !' roared 
 the commandant roughly. 
 
 * You can buy a fine estate and a chaste wife 
 with the money/ snapped this smooth personage, 
 substituting curt brutality for honeyed prolixity. 
 (^ Aside) — ' Marriage contract so much — commission 
 so much/ 
 
 The soldier was struck by the propositions the 
 moment they hit him small and solid, like his much- 
 loved bullets. He — 
 
 Granted half his prayer 
 Scornful the rest dispersed in empty air. 
 
 ' Have I time to be running after women ?' said 
 he. ' But the estate 111 have, because you can get 
 that for me without my troubling my head.' ' Is it 
 a commisssion then ?' asked the other sharply. 
 
 ' Parbleu ! Do you think I speak for the sake of 
 talking ?' 
 
 No man had ever a larger assortment of tools 
 than Bonaparte, or knew better what each could 
 do and could not do. Eaynal was a perfect soldier 
 as far as he went, and therefore was valued highly. 
 Bonaparte had formed him, too — and we are not 
 averse to our own work. 
 
 Eaynal, though not fit to command a division, 
 had the chic Bonaparte visibly stamped on him by 
 that masterhand. 
 
 For a man of genius spits men of talent by the 
 score. Each of these adopts one or other of his 
 many great qualities, and builds himself on it. I 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 2i) WHITE LIES. 
 
 see tlie marechals of the empire are beginning to 
 brag — now every body else is dead. Well, dissect 
 all those marecJmls, men of talent every one of 
 them, and combine their leading excellences in one 
 figure, and add them up : Total — a NapoleonettoJ^ 
 ' Who is that ? I am busy writing.' 
 ' Monsieur the Commandant, I am the citizen 
 Biviere, I am come to present myself to vou, and 
 to—' 
 
 ' I know — come for orders.' 
 
 * Exactly, commandant.' 
 
 ' Humph ! Here is a report just sent in by 
 young Nicole, who fills the same post as you, only 
 to the northward. Take this pen and analyse his 
 report, while I write these letters.' 
 
 * Yes, commandant.' 
 
 ' Write out the heads of your analysis . . . Good : 
 it is well done. Now take your heads home and 
 act imder them ; and frame your report by them, 
 and bring it me in person next Saturday.' 
 
 ' It shall be done, commandant. Where are my 
 quarters to be ?' 
 
 The commandant handed him a pair of com- 
 passes, and pointed to a map on w^iich Riviere's 
 district was marked in blue ink. 
 
 ' Find the centre of your district.' 
 
 * I mean, of course, as far as soldiering goes ; but soldiering was only a 
 part of tlie mau, a briUiant part which has blinded some people as to the 
 proportions of this colossal figure. He was a profound, though,, from 
 necessity, not a liberal statesman, a great civil engiileer, a marvellous 
 orator in the boudoir and the field, a sound and original critic in all the 
 arts, and the greatest legislator in modern histoiy.
 
 WHITE LIES. 27 
 
 * This point is the centre, commandant.' 
 
 ' Then quarter yourself on that point. Good 
 day, citizen.' 
 
 This was the young official's first introduction 
 to the chic Bonaparte. ' This is a character,' said 
 he ; ' but, by St. Denis, I should not like to 
 commit a blunder under his eye.' 
 
 Edouard Riviere had zeal, and he soon found 
 that his superior was a great appreciator of that 
 quality. His instructions, too, were clear and 
 precise. Riviere lost his misgivings in a very few 
 days, and became inflated wath the sense of his 
 authority and merit, and by the flattery and obse- 
 quiousness that wait on the former. 
 
 The commandant's compasses had pointed to the 
 village near Beaurepaire, as his future abode. 
 
 The chateau was in sight from his apartments, 
 and, on inquiry, he was told it belonged to a 
 Royalist family — a widow and two daughters, who 
 held themselves quite aloof from the rest of the 
 world. 
 
 ' Ah !' said the young citizen, wdio had all the 
 new ideas, and had been sneering four years at the 
 old ones. ^ I see. If these rococo citizens play 
 that game w^ith me, I shall have to take them 
 down.' Thus, a fresh peril hung over this family, 
 on w^hose hearts and fortunes such heavy blows 
 had fallen. 
 
 One evening, our young Republican officer, 
 after a day spent in the service of the country, 
 deigned to take a little stroll to relieve the cares of 
 
 c 2
 
 28 WHITE LIES. 
 
 administration. He imprinted on liis beardless 
 face the expression of a wearied statesman, and 
 strolled through an admiring village. The men 
 pretended veneration from policy. The women, 
 whose views of this great man were shallower but 
 more sincere, smiled approval of his airs. 
 
 The young puppy affected to take no notice of 
 either sex. 
 
 Outside the village, Publicola suddenly en- 
 countered two young ladies, who resembled nothing 
 he had hitherto met with in his district. They 
 were dressed in black, and with extreme simplicity ; 
 but their easy grace and composure, and the 
 refined sentiment of their gentle faces, told at 
 a glance they belonged to the high nobility. 
 Publicola, though he had never seen them, divined 
 them at once by their dress and mien, and as he 
 drew near, he involuntarily raised his hat to so 
 much beauty and dignity, instead of poking it with 
 a finger a la Repuhliqae. On this, the ladies in- 
 stantly curtseyed to him after the manner of their 
 party, with a sweep and a majesty, and a precision 
 of politeness, that the pup would have laughed at 
 if he had heard of it ; but seeing it done, and well 
 done, and by lovely women of high rank, he was 
 taken aback by it, and lifted his hat again, and 
 bowed again after he had gone by, which was 
 absurd — and was generally flustered. In short, 
 instead of a member of the Republican Government 
 saluting private individuals of a decayed party 
 that existed only by sufferance, a handsome, vain,
 
 WHITE LIES. SO 
 
 good-natured boy bad met two self-possessed young 
 ladies of rank and breeding, and bad cut tbe figure 
 usual upon sucb occasions. 
 
 For tbe next bundred yards, bis cbeeks burned, 
 and bis vanity was cooled. But bumptiousness is 
 elastic in France as in England and among tbe 
 Esquimaux. 
 
 ' Well, tbey are pretty girls,* says be to bimself. 
 ' I never saw two sucb pretty girls togetber — tbey 
 will do for me to flirt witb wbile I am banisbed to 
 tbis Arcadia.' (Banisbed from scbool.) 
 
 And ' awful beauty ' being no longer in sigbt, 
 Mr. Edouard resolved be w^ould flirt witb tbem to 
 tbeir bearts' content. 
 
 But tbere are ladies witb wbom a certain pre- 
 liminary is required before you can flirt witb 
 tbem. You must be on speaking terms. How 
 was tbis to be managed ? ' Ob ! it w^ould come 
 somebow or otber if be was always meeting tbem 
 — and really a man tbat is barassed, and worked 
 as I am, requires some agreeable recreation of tbis 
 sort.' 
 
 ' Etc' 
 
 He used to watcb at bis window w^itb a telescope, 
 and wbenever tbe sisters came out of tbeir own 
 grounds, wbicb unfortunately was not above tbree 
 times a week, be would tbrow bimself in tbeir w^ay 
 by tbe merest accident, and pay tbem a dignified 
 and courteous salute, wbicb be bad carefully got 
 up before a mirror in tbe privacy of bis own 
 cbamber.
 
 30 WHITE LIES 
 
 In return lie received two reverences that were 
 to say the least as dignified and courteous as his 
 own, though they had not had the advantage of a 
 special rehearsal. 
 
 So far so good. But a little circumstance cooled 
 our Adonis's hopes 'of turning a bowing acquaint- 
 ance into a speaking one, and a speaking into a 
 flirting. 
 
 There was a flaw at the foundation of this 
 pyramid of agreeable sequences. Studying the 
 faces of these courteous beauties, he became certain 
 that no recognition of his charming person 
 mingled with their repeated acts of politeness. 
 
 Some one of their humbler neighbours had the 
 grace to salute them with the respect due to them : 
 this was an unusual but not a strange occurrence 
 to them even now. When it did happen, they 
 made the proper return. They were of too high 
 rank and breeding to be outdone in politeness. 
 But that the same person met them whenever they 
 came out, and that he w^as handsome and interesting 
 — no consciousness of this phenomenon beamed in 
 those charming countenances. Citizen Eiviere was 
 first piqued and then began to laugh at his want 
 of courage, and on a certain day when his im- 
 portance was vividly present to him he took a new 
 step towards making this agreeable acquaintance : 
 he marched up to the Chateau de Beaurepaire and 
 called on the baroness of that ilk. He sent up his 
 name and office wdth due pomp. Jacintha returned 
 with a black-edged note.
 
 WHITE LIES. 31 
 
 ' Highly Jlattered by Monsieur de Bivieres visits the 
 baroness informed him that she received none hut old 
 acquaintances, in the present grief of the family, and 
 
 of the kingdom: 
 
 Young Eiviere was cruelly mortified by this 
 rebuff. He went off hurriedly, grinding his teeth 
 with rage. 
 
 * Cursed aristocrats ! Ah ! we have done well 
 to pull you down, and we will have you lower 
 still. How I despise myself for giving any one the 
 chance to affront me thus ! The haughty old 
 fool ! if she had known her interest, she would 
 have been too glad to make a powerful friend. 
 These Royalists are in a ticklish position : I can 
 tell her that. But stay — she calls me De Eiviere. 
 She does not know who I am then ! Takes me for 
 some young aristocrat ! "Well then after all — but 
 no ! that makes it worse. She implies that nobody 
 without a " De " to their name would have the pre- 
 sumption to visit her old tumble down house. 
 Well, it is a lesson. I am a Republican, and the 
 Commonwealth trusts and honours me ; yet I am 
 so ungrateful as to go out of the way to be civil to 
 her enemies — to Royalists ; as if those worn out 
 creatures had hearts — as if they could comprehend 
 the struggle that took place in my mind between 
 duty and generosity to the fallen, before I could 
 make the first overture to their acquaintance — as 
 if they could understand the politeness of the 
 heart, or anything nobler than curving and ducking 
 and heartless etiquette. This is the last notice I
 
 32 WHITE LIES. 
 
 will ever take of that family, that you may take 
 your oath of! ! ! !' 
 
 He walked home to the town very fast, his 
 heart boiling and his lips compressed, and his brow 
 knitted. 
 
 Just outside the town he met Josephine and 
 Laure de Beaurepaire. 
 
 At the sight of their sweet faces his moody brow 
 cleared a little, and he was surprised into saluting 
 them as usual, only more stiffly, when lo ! from 
 one of the ladies there broke a smile so sudden, so 
 sweet, and so vivid, that he felt it hit him on the 
 eyes and on the heart. His teeth unclenched 
 themselves, his resolve dissolved, and another 
 came in its place. Nothing should prevent him 
 from penetrating into that fortified castle, which 
 contained at least one sweet creature who had 
 recognized him, and given him a smile brimful of 
 sunshine. 
 
 That night he hardly slept at all, and woke very 
 nearly if not quite in love. Such was the power 
 of a smile. 
 
 Yet this young gentleman had seen many 
 smilers, but to be sure most of them smiled with- 
 out effect, because they smiled eternally ; they 
 seemed cast with their mouths open, and their 
 'pvetij teeth for ever in sight, which has a sadden- 
 ing influence on a man of sense — when it has any. 
 
 But here a fair pensive face had brightened at 
 sight of him ; a lovely countenance on which cir- 
 cumstances, not Nature, had impressed gravity,
 
 WHITE LIES. 33 
 
 had sprung back to its natural gaiety for a moment, 
 and for him. 
 
 Difficulties spur us whenever they do not check 
 us. 
 
 My lord sat at his window with his book and 
 telescope for hours every day. 
 
 Alas ! mesdemoiselles did not leave the premises 
 for three days. But on the fourth industry was 
 rewarded : he met them, and smiling himself by 
 anticipation, it was his fate to draw from the lady 
 a more exquisite smile than the last. 
 
 Smile the second made his heart beat so he could 
 feel it against his waistcoat. 
 
 Beauty is power : a smile is its sword. These 
 two charming thrusts subdued if they did not 
 destroy Publicola's wrath against the baroness, and 
 his heart was now all on a glow. A passing 
 glimpse two or three times a week no longer 
 satisfied its yearning. There was a little fellow 
 called Dard who went out shooting in the capacity 
 of a beater — this young man seemed to know a 
 great deal about the family. He told him that 
 the ladies of Beaurepaire went to Mass every 
 Sunday at a little church two miles off. ' The 
 baroness used to go too, but now they have no 
 carriage she stays at home. She won't go to 
 church or anywhere else now she can't drive up 
 and have a blazing lacquey to hand her out — 
 " Aristo va /" '* 
 
 Riviere smiled at this flow of plebeian bile. 
 
 * Aristocrat go to !
 
 34 WHITE LIES. 
 
 Next Sunday saw him a political renegade. He 
 failed in a prime article of Republican faith. He 
 went to church. 
 
 The Republic had given up going to church : 
 the male part in particular. 
 
 Citizen Riviere attended church and there wor- 
 shipped — Cupid. He smarted for this. The young- 
 ladies went with higher motives, and took no 
 notice of him. They lowered their long silken 
 lashes over one breviary, and scarcely observed the 
 handsome citizen. Meantime he, contemplating 
 their pious beauty with earthly eyes, was drinking 
 loDg draughts of intoxicating passion. 
 
 And w^hen after the service they each took an 
 arm of St. Aubin, and he with the air of an ad- 
 miral convoying two ships choke full of specie, 
 conducted his precions charge away home, our 
 young citizen felt jealous, and all but hated the 
 worthy doctor. 
 
 One day Riviere was out. shoo ting, accompanied 
 by Dard. 
 
 A covey of partridges got up wild, and went out 
 of bounds into a field of late clover. ' It is well 
 done, citizen,' shouted little Dard, 'at present we 
 are going to massacre them.' 
 
 * But that is not my ground.' 
 
 ' No matter : it belongs to Beaurepaire.' 
 ' The last people I should like to take a liberty 
 with.' 
 
 * You must not be so nice ; they have no game- 
 keeper now to interfere with us : they can't afford
 
 WHITE LIES. 35 
 
 one. Aha ! aristocrats ! The times are changed 
 since your pigeons used to devastate us, and we 
 durst not shoot one of the marauders — the very 
 pheasants are at our mercy now.' 
 
 * The more ungenerous would it be of us to take 
 advantage.' 
 
 ' Citizen, I tell you everybody shoots over 
 Beaurepaire.' 
 
 * Oh ! if everybody does it ' 
 
 In short Dard prevailed. A small amount of 
 logic suffices to prove to a man of one and twenty 
 that he follows rectitude when he follows his 
 birds. 
 
 Our hero had his misgivings : but the game was 
 abundant, and tamer than elsewhere. 
 
 In for a penny in for a pound. The next time 
 they went out together, I blush to say he began 
 with this very field of clover, and killed two brace 
 in it. It was about four o'clock of this day when 
 the sportsman and his assistant emerged from the 
 fields upon the high road between Beaurepaire and 
 the village, and made towards the latter. 
 
 They had to pass Bigot's auberge, a long low 
 house all across which from end to end was printed 
 in gigantic letters — 
 
 * ICI OK LOGE A PIED ET A CHEVAL.'* 
 
 ' Here one lodges on foot and on horseback.' 
 
 Opposite this Dard halted and looked wistfully 
 in his superior's face, and laid his hand pathetically 
 on his centre. 
 
 * What a ro^v the latter customers must make going up to bed !
 
 36 . WHITE LIES. 
 
 ' What is the matter ? Are you ill ?' 
 
 ' Yery, citizen.' 
 
 ' What is it ?' 
 
 ' The soldier s gripes,' replied this vulgar little 
 citizen, ' and only smell ; the soup is just coming 
 off the fire.' 
 
 This little Dard resembled (in one particular) 
 Cardinal Wolsey, as handed down to us by the 
 immortal bard, and by the portraits in Magdalen 
 College. 
 
 ' He was a man of an unbomided stomach.' 
 
 He had gone two hours past his usual feeding 
 time, and was in affliction. 
 
 Riviere laughed and consented. ' We will have 
 it in the porch,' said he. 
 
 The consent was no sooner out of his mouth than 
 Dard dashed wildly into the kitchen. 
 
 Riviere himself was not sorry of an excuse to 
 linger an hour in a place where the ladies of 
 Beaurepaire might perhaps pass and see him in a 
 new costume — his shooting cap and jacket, adorned 
 with all the paraphernalia of the sport, which in 
 France are got up with an eye to ornament as well 
 as use. 
 
 The soup was brought out, and for several mi- 
 nutes Dard's feelings were too great for utterance. 
 
 But Riviere did not take after the great cardinal, 
 especially since he had fallen in love. He soon 
 dispatched a frugal meal ; then went in and got 
 some scraps for the dog, and then began to lay
 
 WHITE LIES. 37 
 
 the game out and count it. He emptied liis own 
 pocket and Dard's game bag, and altogether it 
 made a good show. 
 
 The small citizen was now in a fit state to arti- 
 culate. 
 
 ' A good day's work, citizen,' said he, stretching 
 himself luxuriously, till he turned from a rotundity 
 to an oval ; ^ and most of it killed on the lands of 
 Beaurepaire— all the better.' 
 
 ' You appear not to love that family, Dard.' 
 
 'You have hit it, citizen. I do not love that 
 family,' was the stern reply. 
 
 Edouard, for a reason before hinted at, was in no 
 hurry to leave the place, and the present seemed a 
 good opportunity for pumping Dard. He sent 
 therefore for two pipes : one he pretended to 
 smoke, the other he gave Dard : for this shrewd 
 young personage had observed that these rustics, 
 under the benign influence of tobacco, were 
 placidly reckless in their revelations. 
 
 ' By-the-by, Dard — (pnff) — why did you say you 
 disliked that family ?' 
 
 ' Because — because I can't help it ; it is stronger 
 than I am. I hate them, aristo — i;a/' — (puff.) 
 
 ' But why ? — why ? — why ?' 
 
 ' Ah ! good, you demand why ? — (puff.) Be- 
 cause they impose upon Jacintha.' 
 
 'Oh?' 
 
 ' And then she imposes upon me.' 
 
 ' I do not quite understand. Explain Dard, 
 and assure yourself of my sympathy' — (puff).
 
 38 WHITE LIES. 
 
 Thus encouraged Dard became loquacious. 
 
 * Those Beaurepaire aristocrats,' said he, with 
 his hard peasant good sense, ' are neither one 
 thing nor the other. They cannot keep up 
 nobility, they have not the means — they will not 
 come down off their perch, they have not the 
 sense. No, for as small as they are they must 
 look and talk as big as ever. They can only 
 afford one servant, and I don't believe they pay 
 her, but they must be attended on just as obsequi- 
 ous as when they had a dozen. And this is fatal 
 to all us little people that have the misfortune to 
 be connected with them.' 
 
 * Why how are you connected with them ?' 
 ' By the tie of affection.' 
 
 ' I thought you hated them.' 
 
 ' Clearly : but I have the ill-luck to love Jacin- 
 tha, and she loves these aristocrats, and makes me 
 do little odd jobs for them,' and here Dard's eyes 
 suddenly glared with horror. 
 
 ' Well ! what of it ?' 
 
 ' What of it citizen, what ? you do not know" 
 the fatal meaning of those accursed words ?' 
 
 ' Why it is not an obscure phiase. I never 
 heard of a man's back being broken by little odd 
 jobs.' 
 
 ' Perhaps not his back, citizen, but his heart ? if 
 little odd jobs will not break that, why nothing 
 will. Torn from place to place, and from trouble 
 to trouble : as soon as one tiresome thing begins to 
 go a bit smooth, off to a fresh plague — a new
 
 WHITE LIES. 39 
 
 liandicraft to torment your head and your fingers 
 over every day : indoors work when it is dry, out 
 a doors when it snows — and then all bustle — no 
 taking one's work quietly, the only way it agrees 
 with a fellow : no repose. " Milk the cow, Dard, 
 but look sharp ; the baroness's chair wants mend- 
 ing — take these slops to the pig, but you must not 
 wait to see him enjoy them ; you are wanted to 
 chop billets," Beat tlie mats — take down the 
 curtains — walk to church (best part of a league) 
 and heat the pew cushions — come back and cut 
 the cabbages, paint the door, and wheel the old 
 lady about the terrace, rub quicksilver on the 
 little dog's back : mind he don't bite you to make 
 himself sick ! repair the ottoman, roll the gravel, 
 clean the kettles, carry half a ton of water up three 
 pair of stairs, trim the turf, prune the vine, drag 
 the fish pond, and when you are there, go in and 
 gather water lilies for Mademoiselle Josephine 
 while you are drowning the puppies ; that is little 
 odd jobs : may Satan twist her neck who invented 
 them !' 
 
 *Yery sad all this,' said young Riviere, as 
 gravely as he could ; ' but about the family ?' 
 
 ' I am citizen. When I go into their kitchen to 
 court Jacintha a bit, instead of finding a good 
 supper there, which a man has a right to, courting 
 a cook — if I don't take one in my pocket, there is 
 no supper, not to say supper, for either her or me. 
 I don't call a salad and a bit of cheese rind — 
 supper ! Beggars in silk and satin. Every sou
 
 40 WHITE LIES. 
 
 they have goes on to their backs, instead of into 
 their bellies/ 
 
 ' Nonsense, Dard. I know your capacity, but 
 you could not eat a hole in their income, that 
 ancient family.' 
 
 ' I could eat it all, and sit here. Income ! I 
 would not change incomes with them if they'd 
 throw me in a pancake a day. I tell you, citizen, 
 they are the poorest family for leagues round ; not 
 that they need be quite so poor, if they could 
 swallow a little of their pride. But no, they must 
 have china and plate and fine linen at dinner ; so 
 their fine plates are always bare, and their silver 
 trays empty. Ask the butcher, if you don't 
 believe me ! 
 
 ' You ask him whether he does not go three 
 times to the smallest shop-keeper, for once he goes 
 to Beaurepaire. Their tenants send them a little 
 meal and eggs, and now and then a hen, because 
 they must ; their great garden is chock full of fruit 
 and vegetables, and Jacintha makes me dig in it 
 gratis — and so they muddle on. And then the 
 baroness must have her coffee as in the days of 
 old, and they can't afford to buy it — so they roast 
 — haw ! haw ! — roast a lot of horse beans that cost 
 nothing, and grind them, and serve up the liquor 
 in a silver cafetiere, on a silver salver ; Aristo va /' 
 
 ' Is it possible ? — reduced to this ! — oh !' 
 
 ' Perdition seize them ! why don't they melt 
 their silver into soup — why don't they sell the 
 superfluous and buy the grub ? and I can't see why
 
 WHITE LIES. 41 
 
 tliey don't let their house and that accursed 
 garden, in which I sweat gratis, and live in a 
 small house, and be content with as many servants 
 as they can pay wages to.' 
 
 ' Dard,' said Eiviere thoughtfully, interrupting 
 him, ' is it really true about the beans ?' 
 
 ' I tell you I have seen Mademoiselle Laure 
 doing it for the old woman's breakfast ; it was 
 Laure invented the move. A girl of nineteen 
 beginning already to deceive the world. But 
 they are all tarred with the same stick — Aristo va /' 
 
 ' Dard, you are a brute !' 
 
 ' Me, citizen ?' 
 
 ' You ! there is noble poverty, as well as noble 
 wealth. I might have disdained these people in 
 their prosperity, but I revere them in their afflic- 
 tion.' 
 
 ' I consent,' replied Dard, very coolly. ' That is 
 your affair ; but permit me,' and here he clenched 
 his teeth at remembrance of his wrongs, * on my 
 owTL part to say that I will no more be a scullery 
 man without wages to these high minded starve- 
 lings, these illustrious beggars.' Then he heated 
 himself red hot. ' I will not even be their galley 
 slave. Xext, I have done my last little odd job in 
 this world,' yelled the now infuriated factotum.. 
 All is ended. Of two things one — either Jacintha 
 quits those aristos, or I leave Jacin — eh ? — ah ! — 
 oh ! — ahem ! How — 'ow d've do, Jacintha ?' and 
 his roar ended in a whine, as when a dog runs 
 barking out and receiyes in full career a cut from
 
 42 WHITE LIES. 
 
 his master's whip, his generous rage turns to 
 whimper then and there. ' I was just talking of 
 you, Jacintha,' fahered Dard^ in conclusion. 
 
 ' I heard you, Dard,' replied Jacintha, slowly, 
 quietly, grimly. 
 
 Dard from oval shrank back to round. 
 
 The person whose sudden appearance at the 
 door of the porch reduced the swelling Dard to his 
 natural limits moral and corporeal, was a strapping 
 young woman, with a comely peasant face some- 
 what freckled, and a pair of large black eyes 
 surmounted by coal black brows that inclined to 
 meet upon the bridge of the nose. She stood in a 
 bold attitude, her massive but well formed arms 
 folded so that the pressure of each against the 
 other made them seem gigantic, and her cheek 
 pale with wrath, and her eyes glistening hke 
 basilisks upon citizen Dard. Had petulance 
 mingled with her wrath, Eiviere would have 
 howled with laughter at Dard's discomfiture, and 
 its cause; but a handsome woman, boiling with 
 suppressed ire, has a touch of the terrible, and 
 Jacintha's black eyes, and lowering black brows, 
 gave her, in this moment of lofty indignation, a 
 grander look than belonged to her. So even 
 Riviere put down his pipe, and gazed up in her 
 face with a shade of misgiving. 
 
 She now slowly unclasped her arms, and with 
 her great eye immovably fixed on Dard, she 
 pointed witli a commanding gesture towards Beau- 
 repaire. Citizen Dard was no longer master of
 
 WHITE LIES. 43 
 
 his own limbs ; he was even as a bird fascinated 
 by a rattlesnake ; he rose slowdy, wath his eyes 
 fastened to hers, and was moving off like an ill- 
 oiled automaton in the direction indicated ; but at 
 this a suppressed snigger began to shake Riviere's 
 whole body till it bobbed up and down on the seat. 
 That weakened the spell : Dard turned to him 
 ruefully. 
 
 ' There citizen/ he cried, ' do you see that im- 
 perious gesture ? Xow I'll tell you wdiat that 
 means — that means you promised to dig in the 
 aristocrat's garden this afternoon — so march ! 
 Here, then, is one that has gained nothing by 
 kings being put dow^n, for I am ruled wath a rod 
 of iron. Thank your stars, citizen, that you are 
 not in my place.' 
 
 ' Dard,' retorted Jacintha, ' if you don't like your 
 place you can quit it. I know two or three that 
 will be glad to take it. There, say no more ; now 
 I am here I will go back to the village, and we 
 shall see whether all the lads recoil from a few- 
 little jobs to be done by my side, and paid by my 
 friendship.' 
 
 ' No ! no ! Jacintha ; don't be a fool ! I am 
 going ; there, I am at your service, my dear 
 friend. Come !' 
 
 * Go then ; you know what to do.' 
 . 'And leave you here?' 'Yes,' said Jacintha. 
 ' I must speak a word to monsieur — you have ren- 
 dered it necessary.' 
 
 The subjugated one crept to Beaurepaire, but
 
 44 WHITE LIES. 
 
 often looked behind him. He did not relish leav- 
 ing Jacintha with the handsome young citizen, 
 especially after her discovery that there were 
 better men in the district than himself. 
 
 Jacintha turned to young Eiviere, and spoke to 
 him in a very different tone — coldly but politely, 
 
 ' Monsieur will think me very hardy thus to 
 address a stranger, but I ought not to allow mon- 
 sieur to be deceived, and those I serve belied.' 
 
 ' There needs no excuse, female citizen. I am 
 at your service : be seated.' 
 
 ' Many thanks, monsieur ; but I will not sit 
 down, for I am going immediately.' 
 
 * All the worse, female citizen. But I say, it 
 seems to me then you heard what Dard w^as saying 
 to me. What did you listen ? Oh fie !' 
 
 ' No, monsieur, I did not listen,' replied Jacintha, 
 haughtily. ' I am incapable of it ; there was no 
 necessity. Dard bawled so loud the whole village 
 might hear. I was passing, and heard a voice I 
 knew raised so high, I feared he was drunk ; I 
 came therefore to the side of the porch — with the 
 best intentions. Arrived there, words struck my 
 ear that made me j)ause. I was so transfixed I 
 could not move. Thus, quite is spite of myself, I 
 suffered the pain of hearing his calumnies; you 
 see, monsieur, that I did not play the spy on you ; 
 moreover, that character w^ould nowise suit with 
 my natural disposition. I heard too your answer, 
 wdiich does you so much credit, and I instantly 
 resolved that you should not be imposed upon.'
 
 V/HITE LIES. 45 
 
 ' Thank you, citizeness/ 
 
 ' Neither the family I serve, nor myself, are 
 reduced to what that little fool described. I ought 
 not to laugh, I ought to be angry ; but after all it 
 was only Dard, and Dard is a notorious fool. 
 There, monsieur,' continued she graciously, ' I 
 will be candid, I will tell you all. It is perfectly 
 true that* the baron contracted debts, and that the 
 baroness, out of love for her children, is paying 
 them off as fast as possible ; that the estate may be 
 clear before she dies. It is also true that these 
 heavy debts cannot be paid off without great 
 economy. But let us distinguish. Prudence is 
 not poverty ; rather, my young monsieur, it is the 
 thorny road to wealth.' 
 
 ' That is neatly expressed, citizeness ?' 
 
 ' Would monsieur object to call me by my name, 
 since that of citizen is odious to me and to most 
 women ?' 
 
 'Certainly not. Mademoiselle Jacintha, I shall 
 even take a pleasure in it, since it will seem to 
 imply that we are making a nearer acquaintance, 
 mademx)iselle.' 
 
 ' Not mademoiselle, any more than citizen. I am 
 neither demoiselle, nor dame, but plain Jacintha.' 
 
 ' No ! no ! no ! not plain Jacintha ! Do you 
 think I have no eyes then, pretty Jacintha ?' 
 
 'Monsieur, a truce to compliments! Let us 
 resume !' 
 
 ' Be seated, then, pretty Jacintha !' 
 
 'It is useless, monsieur, since I am going im-
 
 46 WHITE LIES. 
 
 mediately. I will be very candid with you. It is 
 about Dard having no supper up at Beaurepaire. 
 This is true. You see I am candid and conceal 
 nothing. I will even own to you that the baroness, 
 my mistress, would be very angry if she knew 
 supper was not provided for Dard ; in a word, I 
 am the culprit. And I am in the right. Listen. 
 Dard is egoist. You may even, perhaps, have 
 yourself observed this trait.' 
 
 * Glimpses of it — ha ! ha ! ha ! — he ! ho !' 
 
 ' Monsiein^ he is egoist to that degree that he 
 has not a friend in the w^orld but me. I forgive 
 him, because I know the reason ; he has never had 
 a headache or a heartache in his life.' 
 
 ' I don't understand you, Jacintha.' 
 
 * Monsieur, at your age there are many things a 
 young man does not understand. But though I 
 make allowances for Dard, I know what is due to 
 myself. Yes, he is so egoist, that, w^ere I to fill 
 that paunch of his, I should no longer know 
 whether he came to Beaurepaire for me or for 
 himself. Now Dard is no beauty, monsieur ; figure 
 to yourself that he is two inches shorter than 
 I am.' 
 
 ' Oh, Heaven ! he looks a foot.' 
 
 ' He is no schola?: neither, and I have had to 
 wipe up many a sneer and many a sarcasm on his 
 account ; but up to now I have always been to 
 reply that this five feet two inches of egoism loves 
 me disinterestedly ; and the moment I doubt this 
 point I give him his conge — poor little fellow !
 
 WHITE LIES. 47 
 
 Now you comprehend all, do you not ? Confess 
 that I am reasonable.' 
 
 ' Parbleu ! I say, I did not think your sex had 
 been so sagacious.' 
 
 ' You saw me on the brink of giving the poor 
 little being his dismissal ?' 
 
 ' I saw and admired. Well then fellow cit — ah ! 
 pardon — Jacintha : so then the family at Beau- 
 repaire are not in such straits as Dard pretends ?' 
 
 ' Monsieur, do I look like one starved ?' 
 
 ' By Jove, no ! — by Ceres, I mean !' 
 
 ' Are my young mistresses w^an — and thin — and 
 hollow-eyed ?' 
 
 ' Treason ! — blasphemy ! — ah ! no. By Yenus 
 and Hebe, no !' 
 
 Jacintha smiled at this enthusiastic denial, and 
 also because her sex smile when words are used 
 they do not understand — guess why ! She resumed 
 — ' When a cup overflows it cannot be empty ; 
 those have enough who have to spare ; now how 
 many times has Dard himself sent or brought a 
 weary soldier to our kitchen by Mademoiselle 
 Laure's own orders ?' 
 
 * I can believe it.' 
 
 ' And how many times have I brought a bottle of 
 good Medoc for them from the baroness's cellar ?' 
 
 ' You did well. I see ; Dard's egoism blinded 
 him : they are prudent, but neither stingy or poor. 
 All the better. But stay ! — the coffee — the beans.' 
 
 Jacintha coloured and seemed put out, but it was 
 only for a moment ; she smiled good-humom'edly
 
 48 WHITE LIES. 
 
 enough and put her hand in her pocket and drew 
 out a packet. ' What is that ?' 
 
 ' Permit me ; it is coffee, and excellent if I may 
 judge by the perfume ; you have just bought it in 
 the village ?' Jacintha nodded. 
 
 'But the beans !' 
 
 ' The beans ! — the beans ! Well — he ! he ! — 
 Monsieur we have a little merry angel in the 
 house called Mademoiselle Laure. She set me one 
 day to roast some beans — the old doctor wanted 
 them for some absurd experiment. Dard came in, 
 and seeing something cooking, " What are they 
 for ?" said he, " what in Heaven's name are they 
 for?" His curiosity knew no bounds. I was 
 going to tell him, but Mademoiselle Laure gave 
 me a look. " To make the family coffee to be 
 sure," says she ; and the fool believed it.' 
 
 Eiviere and Jacintha had a laugh over Dard's 
 credulity. 
 
 ' Well, Jacintha, thank Heaven ! Hard is mis- 
 taken ; and yet do you know I half regret they are 
 not as poor, no not quite, but nearly as poor, as he 
 described them — for then — ' 
 
 ' What then ?' 
 
 ' You need not be angry now.' 
 
 ' Me, monsieur ? One is in no haste to be angry 
 with such a face as yours my young monsieur.' 
 
 ' Well, then, I should have liked them to be a 
 little poor, that I might have had the pleasure and 
 the honour of being useful to them.' 
 
 ' How could you be of use to them ?'
 
 WHITE LIES, 49 
 
 ' Oh, I don't know — in many ways — especially 
 now I have made your acquaintance — you would 
 have told me what to do. I would not have dis- 
 obeyed you, for you are a treasure, and I see you 
 love them sincerely ; it is a holy cause ; it would 
 have been I mean ; and we should have been 
 united in it, Jacintha.' 
 
 ' Ah yes ! as to that, yes.' 
 
 ' We would have concerted means to do them 
 kindness secretly — without hurting their pride. 
 And then I am in authority, Jacintha.' 
 
 * I know it, monsieur. Dard has told me.' 
 
 *In great authority for one so young. They 
 are Royalists — my secret protection might have 
 been of wonderful service to them, and I could 
 have given it them without disloyalty to the State ; 
 for, after all, what has the Republic to dread from 
 women ?' 
 
 Through all this, which the young fellow 
 delivered not flowingly, but in a series of little 
 pants, each from his heart, Jacinth a's great black 
 eye dwelt on him calm but secretly inquisitive, and 
 on her cheek a faint colour came and went two or 
 three times. 
 
 'These sentiments do you honour, my pretty 
 monsieur,' (dwelling tenderly on the pretty.) 
 
 ' And so do yours do you,' cried the young man 
 warmly. ' Let us be friends, us two, who though 
 of different parties, understand one another. And 
 let me tell you Mademoiselle the Aristocrat, that 
 we Republicans have our virtues too.' 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 50 WHITE LIES. 
 
 'Henceforth I ^11 believe this for your sake, 
 my child/ 
 
 ' I am going to tell you one of them.' 
 
 ' Tell me/ 
 
 * It is this — we can recognise and bow to virtue 
 in whatever class we find it. I revere you, cit — 
 ahem ! — henceforth Jacintha is to me a word that 
 stands for lovaltv, fidelitv, and unselfish affection. 
 These are the soul of nobility — titles are its 
 varnish. Such spirits as you, I say, are the orna- 
 ments of both our sexes, of every rank, and of 
 human nature. Therefore give me your pretty 
 brown hand a moment, that I may pay you a 
 homage I would not offer to a selfish, and, by con- 
 sequence a vulgar, duchess.' 
 
 Jacintha coloured a little : but put out her hand 
 with a smile, and with the grace that seems born 
 with French women of all classes. Riviere held 
 the smiling peasant's hand, and bowed his head 
 and just touched it with his lips. 
 
 A little to his surprise, the moment he relaxed 
 his hold of it, it began to close gently on his hand 
 and hold it, and even pressed it a very little. He 
 looked up, and saw a female phenomenon. The 
 smile still lingered on her lip, but the large black 
 eyes were troubled, and soon an enormous tear 
 quietly rolled out of them and ran down her tanned 
 cheek. 
 
 . The boy looked wistfully in her face for an 
 explanation. 
 
 She replied to his mute inquiry by smiling, and
 
 WHITE LIES. 51 
 
 pressing liis hand gently, in which act another 
 tear welled quietly np, and rippled over, and ran 
 with a slant into the channel of the first. The 
 inexperienced boy looked so sad at this that she 
 pressed his hand still more, and smiled still more 
 kindly. Then Edouard sat, and began to watch 
 with innocent curiosity the tears arrive thus, two a 
 minute, without any trouble, while the mouth 
 smiled and the hand pressed his. 
 
 * Crying, Jacintha ?' 
 
 * No, my friend — not that I am aware of.' 
 
 * Yes you are — good ! here comes another.' 
 ' Am I dear ? — it is possible.' 
 
 * I like it — it is so pretty. I am afraid it is my 
 fault. By the by, what is it for ?' 
 
 * My friend, perhaps it is that you praised me 
 too warmly : these are the first words of sympathy 
 that have ever been spoken to me in this village, 
 above all the first words of goodwill to the family 
 I love so.' 
 
 ' Yes ! you do love them, and so do I.' 
 
 * Thank you ! thank you !' 
 
 ' AVhat witchcraft do they possess ? They make 
 me, you, and, I think, every honest heart, their 
 friend.' 
 
 * Ah monsieur — do not be offended — but believe 
 me it is no small thing to be an old family. 
 There, you see, I do not weep ; on the contrary, I 
 discourse. My grandfather served a baron of 
 Beaurepaire. My father was their gamekeeper, 
 and fed to his last hour from the baron's plate ; he 
 
 D 2 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS
 
 52 WHITE LIES. 
 
 was disabled by ague for many years before lie 
 died w^as my poor father ; my mother died in the 
 house, and was buried in the sacred ground near 
 the family chapel. Yes, her body is aside theirs 
 in death, and so was her heart while she lived. 
 They put an inscription on her tomb praising her 
 fidelity and probity. Do you think these things 
 do not sink into the heart of the poor ? — praise on 
 her tomb, and not a word on their own, but just 
 the name, and when each was born and died, you 
 know. Ah ! the pride of the mean is dirt, but the 
 pride of the noble is gold ! 
 
 * ' For, look you, among parvenus I should be a 
 servant, and nothing more ; in this proud family I 
 am a humble friend ; of course they are not always 
 gossiping with me like vulgar masters and mis- 
 tresses — if they did, I should neither respect nor 
 love them ; but they all smile on me whenever I 
 come into the room, even the baroness herself. I 
 belong to them, and they belong to me, by ties 
 without number, by the years themselves — reflect, 
 monsieur, a century — by the many kind w^ords in 
 many troubles, by the one roof that sheltered us a 
 hundred years, and the grave w^here our bones lie 
 together till the day of God.' 
 
 Jacintha clasped her hands, and the black eyes 
 shone out warm through their dew. Riviere's 
 glistened too. 
 
 * The French peasant often thinks half a sentence, and utters the 
 ether half aloud, and so breaks air in the middle of a thought. Probably 
 Jaeintha's whole thought, if we had the means of knowing it, would have 
 run like this — ' Besides I have another reason. I could not be so comfort- 
 able myself elsewhere — for look you '
 
 WHITE LIES. 53 
 
 * It is well said/ he cried ; ' it is nobly said ! 
 But, permit me, these are ties that owe their force 
 to the souls they bind. How often have such 
 bonds round human hearts proved ropes of sand ! 
 They grapple you like hooks of steel — because you 
 are steel yourself to the backbone. I admire you, 
 cit — Jacintha dear. Such women as you have a 
 great mission in France just now.' 
 
 ' Is that true ? What can we poor women do ?' 
 
 * Bring forth heroes ! Be the mothers of 
 great men — the Catos and the Gracchi of the 
 future.' 
 
 Jacintha smiled. She did not know the Gracchi 
 and their political sentiments; and they sounded 
 well. * Gracchi !' a name with a ring to it. People 
 of distinction no doubt. 
 
 ' That would be too much honour,' replied she 
 modestly. ' At present I must say adieu !' and 
 she moved off an inch at a time, and with an un- 
 certain hesitating manner, looking this way and 
 that ' out of the tail of her eye,' as the Italians and 
 Scotch phrase it. 
 
 Eiviere put no interpretation on this. ' Adieu 
 then, if it must be so,' said he. 
 
 She caught sight of the game laid out : on this 
 excuse she stopped dead short. She eyed it wist- 
 fully. 
 
 Eiviere caught this glance. * Have some of it,' 
 cried he, ' do have some of it.' 
 
 ' What should I do with game ?' 
 
 ' I mean for the chateau.' 
 
 * They have such quantities of it.'
 
 54' WHITE LIES. 
 
 'Ah! no doubt. All the tenants send it I 
 suppose.' 
 
 ' Of course they do.' 
 
 ' What a pity ! It is then fated that I am not 
 to be able to show my goodwill to that family, not 
 even in such a trifle as this.' 
 
 Jacintha wheeled suddenly round on him, and 
 so by an instinct of female art caught off its guard 
 that face which she had already openly perused. 
 This done, she paused a moment, and then came 
 walking an inch at a time back to him ; entered 
 the porch thoughtfully, and coolly sat down. At 
 first she sat just opposite Riviere, but the next 
 moment reflecting that she was in sight from the 
 road, she slipped into a corner, and there anchored. 
 Riviere opened his eyes, and while she was settling 
 her skirts he was puzzling his little head. 
 
 ' How odd,' thought he. 'So long as I asked 
 her to sit down, it was always " no, I am 
 going.'" 
 
 ' Yes, my friend, you have divined it !' 
 
 ' Oh ! have I ? — ah, yes — divined what ?' 
 
 ' That I am going to tell you the truth. Your 
 face as well as your words is the cause ; oh yes, I 
 will tell you all.' 
 
 ' Is it about Beaurepaire ?' 
 
 'Yes.' 
 
 ' But you did tell me all ; those were your very 
 words.' 
 
 ' It is possible ; but all I told you was — inexact.' 
 
 ' Oh no, Jacintha, that cannot be. I felt truth 
 in every tone of your voice.'
 
 WHITE LIES. 55 
 
 ' That was because you are true, and innocent, 
 and pure. Forgive me for not reading you at a 
 glance. Now I will tell you all/ 
 
 ' Oh do 1 pray do !' 
 
 * Listen then ! — ah my friend, swear to me by 
 that sainted woman, your mother^ that you will 
 never reveal what I trust you with at this moment !' 
 
 * Jacintha, I swear by my mother to keep your 
 secret.' 
 
 ' Then, my poor friend, what Dard told you was 
 not altogether false.' 
 
 * Good Heavens ! Jacintha.' 
 
 * Though it was but a guess on his part ; for I 
 never trusted my own sweetheart as now I trust a 
 stranger. You that have shown such good senti- 
 ments towards us, oh ! hear and then tell me, can 
 nothing be done ? No, don't speak to me — let me 
 go on before my courage dies ; yes, share this secret 
 with me, for it gnaw^s me, it chokes me. To see 
 what I see every day, and do what I do, and have 
 no one I dare breathe a word to ; ch ! it is very 
 hard. Nevertheless, see on what a thread things 
 turn : if one had told me an hour ago it was you I 
 should open my heart to ! 
 
 * My child, my dear old mistress and my sweet 
 young ladies are — ah ! no I can't ! I can't ! 
 
 ' What a poltroon I am. Yes ! thank you, your 
 hand in mine gives me courage : I hope I am not 
 doing ill. They are not economical. They are 
 not stingy. They are not paying off their debts. 
 My friend, the baroness and the demoiselles de 
 Beaurepaire — are paupers.'
 
 56 WHITE LIES. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 ' Paupers ?' 
 
 * Alas'/ 
 
 ' Members of the nobility paupers ?' 
 
 'Yes; for tbeir debts are greater than their 
 means; they live by sufferance — they lie at the 
 mercy of the law, and of their creditors ; and every 
 now and then these monsters threaten us, though 
 they know we struggle to give them their due/ 
 
 ' What do they threaten ?' 
 
 ' To petition government to sell the chateau and 
 lands, and pay them — the wretches !' 
 
 ' The hogs '/ 
 
 'And then the worst of it is, the family cant 
 do any thing the least little bit mean. I was in 
 the room when M. Perrin, the notary, gave the 
 baroness a hint to cut down every tree on the 
 estate, and sell the timber, and lay by the money 
 for her own use. She heard him out, and then, 
 oh ! the look she gave him — it withered him up 
 on his chair. 
 
 ' " I rob my husband's and my Josephine's estate 
 of its beauty! cut down the old trees that show
 
 WHITE LIES. 57 
 
 the* chateau is not a thing of yesterday, like your 
 Directory, your Re^oublic, and your guillotine !" 
 So then. Monsieur Perrin, to soften her, said : 
 " No, madame, spare the ancient oak of course, 
 and indeed all the very old trees ; but sell the 
 others." 
 
 ' " The others ? what, the trees that my own 
 husband planted? and why not knock down my 
 little oratory in the park — he built it. The stones 
 would sell for something — so would Josephine's 
 hair and Laure's. You do not know perhaps, each 
 of those young ladies there can sit down upon her 
 back hair. Monsieur, I will neither strip the 
 glory from my daughters' heads, nor from the 
 ancient lands of Beaurepaire — nor hallow some 
 Republican's barn, pig stye, or dwelling-house, 
 with the stones of the sacred place where I pray 
 for my husband's soul." 
 
 ' She had been sitting quite quiet like a cat, 
 watching for him. She rose u-p to speak, and 
 those words came from her like puffs of flame from 
 a furnace. You could not forget one of them if 
 you lived ever so long. He hasn't come to see us 
 since then, and it's six months ago.' 
 
 ' I call it false pride, Jacintha.' 
 
 ' Do you ? then I don't,' said Jacintha, firing up. 
 
 ' Well, no matter ; tell me more.' 
 
 * I will tell you all. I have promised/ 
 
 * Is it true about the beans ?' 
 
 * It is too true.' 
 
 ' But this coffee that you have just bought ?* 
 
 D 3
 
 58 WHITE LIES. 
 
 ' I have not bought it ; I have embezzled it. 
 Every now and then I take a bunch of grapes 
 from the conservatory. I give it to the grocer's 
 wife. Then she gives me a little coffee, and says 
 to herself, *' That girl is a thief." ' 
 
 * More fool she. She says nothing of the sort, 
 you spiteful girl.* 
 
 'Then I secretly flavour my poor mistress's 
 breakfast with it.' 
 
 * Secretly ? But you tell Mademoiselle Laure.' 
 
 ' How innocent you are ! — Don't you see that 
 she roasts beans that her mother may still think 
 she drinks coffee ; and that I flavour her rubbish 
 on the sly, that Mademoiselle Laure may fancy 
 her beans have really a twang of coffee ; and for 
 aught I know the baroness sees through us both, 
 and smacks her lips over the draught to make 
 us all happy ; for women are very deep, my young 
 monsieur — you have no idea how deep they are. 
 Yes, at Beaurepaire we all love and deceive one 
 another.' 
 
 * You make my heart sick. Then it was untrue 
 about the wine ?' 
 
 * No, it was not ; we have plenty of that. The 
 baron left the cellar brim full of wine. There is 
 enough to last us all our lives ; and while we have 
 it, we will give it to the brave and the poor.' 
 
 ' And pinch yourselves.' 
 
 * And pinch ourselves.' 
 
 *Why don't they swap the wine for neces- 
 saries ?'
 
 WHITE LIES. 59 
 
 * Because they could not do a mean tiling/ 
 'Where is the meanness? Am I the man to 
 
 advise a mean thing ?' 
 
 * Ah, no, monsieur. "Well, then, they won't do 
 a thing other barons of Beaurepaire never did; 
 that is why they sit down to a good bottle of wane 
 from their own cellar, and to grapes and peaches 
 from their own garden, and even trufSes from their 
 own beech coppice, and good cream from their own 
 cow, and scarce two sous' worth of bread, and 
 butchers' meat not once a fortnight/ 
 
 * In short, they eat fifteen francs' worth of luxu- 
 ries, and so have not ten sous for wholesome 
 food ?' 
 
 * Yes, monsieur.' 
 
 ' Yes monsieur !' cried Biviere, spitefully mock- 
 ing her ; ' and don't you see this is not economy, 
 but extravagance ? Don't you see it is their duty 
 as well as their interest to sell their wine, or some 
 of it, and their fruit, and buy eatables, and even 
 put by money to pay their debts ?' 
 
 ' It would be if they were vulgar people ; but 
 these are not grocers nor cheap Johns ; these are 
 the high noblesse of France.' ' These are a pack of 
 fools,' roared the irritated Bepublican, 'and you 
 are as bad as they.' 
 
 ' I do not assert the contrary,' replied Jacintha 
 humbly and lovingly, disarming his wrath with a 
 turn of the tongue. ' My friend,' she continued in 
 the same tone, ' at present our cow is in full milk ; 
 so that is a great help ; but when she goes dry,
 
 60 WHITE LIES. 
 
 God knows w^liat we shall do, for I don't.' And 
 Jacintha turned a face so full of sorrow on him, 
 that he was ashamed of having been in a rage with 
 her absurdity. 
 
 ' And then to come by and hear my owti sweet- 
 heart, that ought to be on my side, running down 
 
 those saints and martyrs to a stran , to our best 
 
 friend.' 
 
 ' Poor Jacintha !' 
 
 * Oh ! no ; don't, don't ! already it costs me a 
 great struggle not to give way.' 
 
 ' Indeed ! you tremble.' 
 
 'Like enough — it is the nerves. Take no 
 notice, or I could not answer for myself. My heart 
 is like a lump of lead in my bosom at this hour. 
 No ! it is not so much for what goes on up at the 
 chateau. That wdll not kill them. Love nourishes 
 as well as food ; and we all love one another at 
 Beaurepaire. It is for the w^hisper I have just 
 head in the village.' 
 
 'What?— what?' 
 
 ' That one of these cruel creditors is going to 
 have the estate and chateau sold.' 
 
 * Curse him !' 
 
 * He might as w^ell send for the guillotine and 
 take their lives at once. You look at me. You 
 don't know my mistress as I do. Ah ! butchers, if 
 it is so, you w^ll drag nothing out of that house but 
 her corpse. And is it come to this ? The great 
 old family to be turned adrift like beggars to wan- 
 der over the world ? Oh, my poor mistress ! oh,
 
 WHITE LIES. 61 
 
 my pretty demoiselles ! that I played with and 
 nursed ever since I was a child ! I was just six 
 when Josephine was born ; and that I shall love 
 till my last breath.' 
 
 The young woman, torn by the violence of a 
 feeling so long pent up in her own bosom, fell to 
 panting, and laughing, and sobbing, and trembling 
 violently. 
 
 The statesman, who had j^assed all his short life 
 at school and college, was frightened out of his 
 wits, and ran to her side, and took hold of her and 
 pulled her, and cried — ' Oh ! don't Jacintha ; you 
 will kill yourself, you will die ! — this is frightful — 
 help here ! help !' 
 
 Jacintha put her hand to his mouth, and, with- 
 out leaving off her hysterics, gasped out — * Ah ! 
 don't expose me.' 
 
 So then he didn't know what to do ; but he 
 seized a tumbler and with trembling hand filled it 
 with wine, and threw himself on his knees, and 
 forced it between her lips. All she did was to bite 
 a piece out of the glass as clean as if a diamond 
 had cut it. This did her good — destruction of 
 sacred household property gave her another turn. 
 ' There, I've broke your glass now,' she cried, w^ith 
 a marvellous change of tone ; and she came to, and 
 sobbed and cried reasonably. The other young 
 thing of the tender, though impetuous heart, set to 
 comfort her. 
 
 ' Poor Jacintha ! dear Jacintha ! I will be a 
 friend both to them and you. There is a kiss not
 
 6d WHITE LIES. 
 
 to cry so.' Ob, oh, oh ! And lo, and behold ! he 
 burst out crying himself. 
 
 This gave Jacintha another turn. 
 
 * Oh, my son ! don't you cry ! I will never 
 s-s-suffer that.' 
 
 ' How can I help it ? Oh ! It is you who make 
 me — sobbing and weeping like.' 
 
 ' Forgive me, little heart. I will be m-more rea- 
 sonable — not to afflict you. Oh! — Oh! — see, I 
 leave off. Oh ! — I will take the wine.' 
 
 Edouard put the other side of the glass to her 
 lips, and she supped a teaspoonful of the wine. 
 This was her native politeness, not to slight a re- 
 medy he had offered. Then he put down the glass, 
 and she drew his head lightly to her bosom, and he 
 felt her quietly crying. She was touched to the 
 core by his sympathy. As for him, he was 
 already ashamed of the weakness he could not 
 quite master, and was not sorry to hide his face so 
 agreeably. 
 
 ' Oh dear ! Now-^oh ! you are not to fancy (I 
 can hear your heart beat where I am, Jacintha,) / 
 ever cry. I have not done such a contemptible 
 thing since I was a boy.' 
 
 * I believe it. Forgive me. It was all my fault. 
 It is no discredit. Ah ! no, my son ; these tears 
 do you honour, and make the poor Jacintha your 
 friend.' 
 
 These foolish drops did not long quench our 
 statesman's and puppy's manly ardour. 
 
 ' Come, come !' he cried, * let us do somethiDg,
 
 WHITE LIES. 63 
 
 not sit blubbering.' ^ Ah ! if we could do any 
 thing,' cried Jacintha, catching fire at him. 
 
 ' Why, of course we can. People never know 
 what they can do till they try. / shall think of 
 something, you may depend.' (Vanity revived.) 
 
 * And I must run to Beaurepaire ; they will 
 think I am lost.' 
 
 * Stop, you will take some of the game now.' 
 ' That I will— from you.' 
 
 * Thank you. Quick — quick — for goodness' 
 sake. Here, take these four birds. That is right : 
 pin up your apron — that makes a capital pocket.' 
 ' The hare would be more nourishing than the 
 birds,' said Jacintha, timidly. 
 
 * You are to have the hare as well, of course ; 
 send me down Dard ; he shall take her up.' 
 
 ' No ! no ! Dard and I are bad friends. I will 
 ask no favour of him. He shall be my suppliant 
 all this day, not I his. Look at my arm, do you 
 think that is afraid of a hare ?' 
 
 ' Why, it is half as big again as mine, Jacintha ; 
 for all that, I shall carry the hare up in my pocket. 
 France is still France, whatever you may think ; 
 a pretty woman must not be let drag a hare about 
 the nation — come — ' 
 
 * Surely, monsieur does not think of accompany- 
 ing me r 
 
 ' Why not ?' 
 
 * Oh ! as for that, I am no prude — it is a road 
 too on which one meets no one — ah bah ! if you 
 are not ashamed of me, I am not of you — aliens J
 
 64 WHITE LIES. 
 
 They walked up the road in silence. Eiviere 
 had something on his mind, and Jacintha was 
 demurely watching for it out of the tail of her 
 eye. At last, ashamed of going along and not 
 saying a word to rustic Hebe, he dropped out this 
 in an absent sort of way : ' I shall never know by 
 your manner whether you are telling the truth or 
 — the reverse.' No answer. ' You do it beauti- 
 fully.' No answer. ' So smooth and convincing.' 
 No answer. 
 
 ' Seriously then, I used to think it a crime, a 
 sordid vice — but now I see that even a falsehood, 
 coming from a pure heart, is purified, and becomes 
 virtuous, pious.' 
 
 ' Never !' 
 
 ^ And useful.' 
 
 ' What use were mine ? I had to unpick them 
 the next minute — and do you think I did not 
 blush like fire while I was eating my own words 
 one after another ?' 
 
 ' I did not see you.' 
 
 ' A sign I blushed inside, and that is worse. My 
 young monsieur,' continued Jacintha gravely, 
 ' listen to me. A lie is always two tilings — 
 a lump of sin, and a piece of folly. Yes ! women 
 are readier and smoother at that sort of work than 
 men — all the worse for them. Men lie at times to 
 gain some end they are hard bent on ; but their 
 instinct is to tell the truth, those that are men at 
 all. But women, especially uneducated ones like 
 me, run to a lie the first thing, like rats to a hole.
 
 WHITE LIES. 65 
 
 Now, mark the consequence : women suffer many 
 troubles, great and small ; half of these come to 
 them by the will of God ; but the other half they 
 make for themselves by their silly want of truth 
 and candour — there !' 
 
 ' Bless my soul ! here is a sermon. Why, how 
 earnest you are !' 
 
 ' Yes, I am in earnest, and you should not mock 
 me. Consider, I am many years older than you 
 — you are not twenty, I think, and I am close 
 upon five and twenty — and I have seen ten times 
 as much life as you, though I have lived in a 
 village.' 
 
 ' Don't be angry, Jacintha ; I listen to every 
 word.' 
 
 * I am in earnest, my friend, because you terrified 
 me when you smirked like that and talked of 
 beautiful lies, pious lies, (why not clean filth ?) 
 and then quoted me to prove it. Innocence is so 
 easily corrupted. And I could not sleep at night 
 if my tongue had corrupted one so innocent and 
 good and young as you my dear.' 
 
 ' Now, don't you be alarmed,' cried the statesboy 
 haughtily, 'you need not fear that I shall ever 
 take after women in that or any thing else.' 
 
 ' Mind they will be the first to despise you if 
 you do — that is their way — it is one of them that 
 tells you so.' 
 
 ' Set your mind at ease fair moralist ; I shall 
 think of your precepts. I will even note down 
 one of the brilliant things you said,' and he took
 
 66 WHITE LIES. 
 
 out liis tablets. * " A lie is a — lump of sin, and a 
 bit— no — a piece of folly, eh ?" ' 
 
 * Tbat is it !' cried Jacintha gaily, ber anxiety 
 removed. 
 
 ' I did not tbink you were five and twenty 
 tbougb.' 
 
 ' I am tben — don't you believe me ?' 
 
 * Why not ? Indeed bow could I disbelieve you 
 after your lecture ?' 
 
 ' It is well,' said Jacintba witb dignity. 
 Sbe was twenty-seven by tbe parisb books. 
 Riviere relapsed into bis reverie. 
 This time it was Jacintba who spoke first. 
 
 * You forgive me for breaking tbe glass, 
 monsieur, and making you cry ?' 
 
 ' Botber tbe glass — wbat little tbings to tbink 
 of; wbile I — and as for tbe otber business — - 
 you did it fairly ; you made a fool of me, but 
 you began witb yourself — please to remember 
 tbat.' 
 
 * Ob ! a woman cries as sbe spits — tbat goes for 
 notbing — but it is not fair of ber to make a man 
 cry just because be bas a feeling beart.' 
 
 'Stop! — ''A woman — cries — as sbe spits!" 
 Wby Jacintba tbat is a coarse sentiment to come 
 from you wbo say sucb beautiful tbings, and such 
 wise tbings — now and tben.' 
 
 * Wbat would you bave ?' replied Jacintba w4tb 
 sudden bumility. * Wben all is done I am but a 
 domestic ; I am not an instructed person.' 
 
 ' On reflection, if coarse it is succinct. I bad
 
 WHITE LIES. 67 
 
 better note it down with the other — no — I shall 
 remember this one without/ 
 
 * You may take your oath of that. Good 
 things have to be engraved on the memory — bad 
 ones stick there of themselves. Monsieur, we are 
 now near Beaurepaire.' 
 
 ' So I see. Well ?' 
 
 * I don't come out every day — if monsieur has 
 anything important to say to me now is the time.' 
 
 ' What do you mean ?' 
 
 ' I mean that all this chat is not what you want 
 to say to me. There is something you have half a 
 mind to tell Jacintha, and half a mind not. Do 
 you think I can't read your face by this time ? 
 There, I stop to hear it before it is too late. Come, 
 out with it.' 
 
 ' It is all very well to say out with it, but I 
 have not the courage.' 
 
 'It is then that you do not feel I am your 
 friend.' 
 
 * Don't speak so, and don't look so kindly or I 
 shall tell you — Jacintha ' 
 
 ' My son.' 
 
 * It is going to be secret for secret between us 
 two — is not that nice ?' 
 
 ' Delicious !' 
 
 * Ay ; but you must swear as I did, for my 
 secret is as important as yours — every bit.' 
 
 * I swear 1' 
 
 ' Then — Jacintha — I am in love 1' 
 
 And having made the confession blushing, he
 
 68 WHITE LIES. 
 
 smiled a little pompously, for he felt it was a step 
 that stamped him a man. Jacintha's face expanded 
 wdth sacred joy at the prospect of a love affair ; 
 then she laughed at his conceit in fancying a boy's 
 love could be as grave a secret as hers ; finally she 
 lowered her voice to a whisper, though no creature 
 w-as in sight. ' Who is it dear ?' and her eye 
 twinkled, and her ear cocked, and all the woman 
 bristled. 
 
 ' Jacintha can't you guess ?' and he looked 
 down. 
 
 ' Me ? How should I know which way your 
 fancy lies ?' 
 
 But even as she said these words her eye seemed 
 to give a flash inwards, and her vivid intelligence 
 seized the clue in a moment. ' I was blind ! I w^as 
 blind ! It's my young lady. I thought it was very 
 odd you should cry for me, and take such an 
 interest — -ah ! rogue with the face of innocence ! 
 But how and where was it done ? They never 
 dine from home. You have not been two months 
 here — that is what put me off the very idea of such 
 a thing. The saints forgive us he has fallen in 
 love with her in church !' 
 
 * No, no. Why I have met her eleven times out 
 walking with her sister, stupid, and twice she 
 smiled on me. Oh Jacintha ! a smile such as 
 angels smile — a smile to w^arm the heart ' and 
 j)urify the soul and last for ever in the mind.' 
 
 ' Well I have heard say that " man is fire and 
 w^oman tow," but this beats all. Ha ! ha !'
 
 WHITE LIES. 69 
 
 * Oil ! do not jest. I did not laugh at you.' 
 
 * I Avill not be so cruel, so ungrateful as to jest. 
 Still— he! he!' 
 
 ' No Jacintha, it is no laughing matter ; I revere 
 her as mortals revere the saints. I love her so 
 that were I ever to lose all hope of her I would 
 not live a day. And now that you have told me 
 she is poor and in sorrow, and I think of her w^alk- 
 ing so calm and gentle — always in black, Jacintha 
 — and her low curtsey to me whenever we met, 
 and her sweet smile to me though her heart must 
 be sad, oh ! my heart yearns for her. What can I 
 do for her ? How shall I surround her with my- 
 self unseen — make her feel that a man's love waits 
 upon her feet every step she takes — that a man's 
 love floats in the air round that lovely head. And, 
 Jacintha ! if some day she should deign to ask 
 who is this, whom as yet I know only by his de- 
 votion ?' 
 
 ' She will ask that question much earlier than 
 you seem to think, Innocence.' 
 
 ' Will she ? bless you, Jacintha ; but it is un- 
 generous to think of the reward for loving. No, I 
 will entertain no selfish motives, I will love and 
 prove my love whether there is any hope for me or 
 not ; dear Jacintha is there any hope for me, do 
 you think ?' 
 
 * There is hope for all men. I will do all I can 
 for you, and tell you all I see ; but after all it 
 must depend on yourself; only I may hinder you 
 from going at it in a hurry and spilling the milk
 
 70 WHITE LIES. 
 
 for ever. After all/ she continued, looking at tlie 
 case more hopefully, ' the way to win such ladies 
 as mine is to deserve them — not one in fifty men 
 deserves such as they are, but you do. There 
 is not a woman in the world that is too good for 
 you.' 
 
 * Jacintha, that is nonsense. I deeply feel my 
 inferiority.' 
 
 ' And if you were, you wouldn't,' cried the sen- 
 tentious maid, one of whose secret maxims appears 
 to have been ' point before grammar.' 
 
 'Jacintha, before I go, remember, if anything 
 happens you have a friend out of the house.' 
 
 ' And you a staunch friend in it.' 
 
 * Jacintha, I am too happy ; I feel to want to be 
 alone with all the thoughts that throng on me. 
 Good bye,' and he was off like a rocket. 
 
 * My hare ! my hare ! my hare !' screeched Ja- 
 cintha on the ascending scale. 
 
 ' Oh you dear girl ! you remember all the little 
 things ; my head is in a whirl — come out hare.' 
 
 ' No ! You take her round by the back wall 
 and fling her over.' 
 
 Jacintha gave this order in a new tone — it was 
 a pleasant one ; but there was a little air of autho- 
 rity now that seemed to say, * I have got your 
 secret ; you are in my power, you must obey me 
 now my son ; or — ' 
 
 Riviere did as ordered, and when he came back 
 Jacintha was already within the grounds of Beau- 
 repaire. She turned and put a finger to her lips,
 
 WHITE LIES. 71 
 
 to imply dead secresy on both sides ; lie did tlie 
 same, and so the vile conspirators parted. 
 
 Puppies, like prisoners and a dozen other classes, 
 are of many classes stupidly confounded under one 
 name by those cuckoos that chatter and scribble us 
 dead, but never think. There is the commonplace 
 young puppy, who is only a pnppy because he is 
 young. The fate of this is to outgrow his puppy- 
 dom, and be an average man — sometimes wise, 
 sometimes silly, and on the whole neither good nor 
 bad. Sir John Guise was a puppy of this sort in 
 his youthful day. I am sure of it. He ended a 
 harmless biped : witness his epitaph — ■ 
 
 HERE LIES 
 
 Sir John Guise. 
 No one laughs; 
 No one cries. 
 Where he is gone, 
 And how he fares. 
 No one knows, 
 And no one cares. 
 
 There is the vacant puppy, empty of everything 
 but egotism, and its skin full to bursting of that. 
 Eye, the colour of which looks washed out ; much 
 nose — little forehead — long ears. 
 
 Young lady, has this sort of thing been asking 
 you to share its home and gizzard ? On receipt of 
 these present say ' No,' and ten years after go on 
 your bended knees and bless me ! Men laugh at 
 and kick this animal by turns ; but it is woman's 
 executioner. Old age will do nothing for this 
 but turn it from a selfish whelp to a surly old
 
 72 WHITE LIES. 
 
 dog. Unless Religion steps in, whose daily work 
 is miracles. 
 
 There is the good-hearted intelligent puppy. 
 Ah ! poor soul, he runs tremendous risks. 
 
 Any day he is liable to turn a hero, a wit, a 
 saint, an useful man. Half the heroes that have 
 fallen nobly fighting for their country in this war 
 and the last, or have come back scarred, maimed 
 and glorious, were puppies ; smoking, drawling, 
 dancing from tow^n to town, and spurring the 
 ladies' dresses. They changed with circumstances, 
 and without difficulty. 
 
 Our good-hearted intelligent puppy went from 
 this interview with a servant girl — a man. 
 
 He took to his bosom a great and tender feeling 
 that never yet failed to ennoble and enlarge the 
 heart and double the understanding. 
 
 She he loved was sad, was poor, was menaced 
 by many ills ; then she needed a champion. He 
 would be her unseen friend, her guardian angel. 
 A hundred wild schemes whirled in his beating 
 heart and brain as he went home on w^ngs. He 
 could not go in doors. He made for a green lane 
 he knew at the back of the village, and there he 
 walked up and down for hours. The sun set, and 
 the night came, and the stars glittered ; but still 
 he walked alone, inspired, exalted, full of generous 
 and loving schemes and sweet and tender fancies : 
 a heart on fire ; and youth the fuel, and the flame 
 vestal.
 
 WHITE LIES. 73 
 
 CHAPTER lY. 
 
 This day so eventful to our ex-puppy's heart was 
 a sad one up at Beaurepaire. 
 
 It was the anniversary of the baron's death. 
 
 The baroness kept her room all the morning, 
 and took no nourishment but one cup of spurious 
 cojffee Laure brought her. At one o'clock she 
 came down stairs. She did not enter the sitting- 
 room. In the hall she found two chaplets of 
 flowers ; they were always placed there for her 
 on this sad day. She took them in her hand, and 
 went into the park. Her daughters watched her 
 from the window. She went to the little oratory 
 that was in the park ; there she found two wax 
 candles burning, and two fresh chaplets hung up. 
 Her daughters had been there before her. 
 
 She knelt and prayed many hours for her 
 husband's soul ; then she rose and hung up one 
 chaplet and came slowly away with the other in 
 her hand. At the gate of the park filial love met 
 her as Josephine, and filial love as Laure watched 
 the meeting from the window. 
 
 Josephine came towards her with tender anxiety 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 74 _ WHITE LIES. 
 
 in lier sapphire eyes, and wreathed her arms round 
 her, and whispered half inquiringly half reproach- 
 fully — ' You have your children still.' 
 
 The baroness kissed her and replied with a half 
 guilty manner — ' No Josephine, I did not pray to 
 leave you — till you are happy.' 
 
 ' We are not unhappy while we have our 
 mother,' replied Josephine all love and no logic. 
 
 They came towards the house together, the 
 baroness leaning gently on her daughter's elbow. 
 
 Between the park and the angle of the chateau 
 was a small plot of turf called at Beaurepaire the 
 Pleasance, a name that had descended along with 
 other traditions ; and in the centre of this Pleasance 
 or Pleasaunce stood a wonderful oak tree. Its 
 circumference was thirty-four feet. The baroness 
 came to this ancient tree, her chaplet in her hand. 
 The tree had a mutilated limb that pointed towards 
 the house. The baroness hung her chaplet on 
 this stump. 
 
 The sun was setting tranquil and red ; a broad, 
 ruby streak lingered on the deep green leaves of 
 the prodigious oak. 
 
 The baroness looked at it awhile in silence. 
 
 Then she spoke slowly to the oak and said — 
 * You were here before us — you will be here when 
 we are gone.' 
 
 A spasm crossed Josephine's face, but she said 
 nothing. 
 
 They went in together. 
 
 AVe will follow them. But first, ere the sun is
 
 WHITE LIES. 75i 
 
 set, stay a few minutes and looli at the Beaurepaire 
 oak, while I tell you what was known about it, 
 not the thousandth part of what it could have told 
 if trees could speak as well as breathe. 
 
 The baroness did not exaggerate. The tree was 
 somewhat older than even this ancient family. 
 There was a chain of family documents, several of 
 which related incidents in which this tree played a 
 part. The oldest of these manuscripts was written 
 by a monk, a younger son of the house, about five 
 hundred years before our story. This would not 
 have helped us much, but luckily the good monk 
 was at the pains to collect all the oral traditions 
 about it that had come down from a far more 
 remote antiquity, and like a sensible man arrested 
 and sohdified them by the pen. He had a super- 
 stitious reverence for the tree ; and probably this 
 too came down to him from his ancestors, as it was 
 certainly transmitted by him to the chroniclers 
 that succeeded him. The sum of all is this. The 
 first Baron of Beaurepaire had pitched his tent 
 under a fair oak tree that stood prope rivum — near 
 a brook. He afterwards built a square tower hard 
 by, and dug a moat that enclosed both tree and 
 tower and received the waters of the brook afore- 
 said. These particulars corresponded too exactly 
 with the present face of things and the inter- 
 mediate accounts, to leave a doubt that this was 
 the same tree. 
 
 In these early days its size seems to have been 
 nothing remarkable, and this proves it was still 
 
 E 2
 
 70 WHITE LIES. 
 
 growing timber. But a century and a half before 
 the monk wi^ote it had become famous in all the 
 district for its girth, and in the monk's own day 
 had ceased to grow, but showed no sign of decay. 
 The mutilated arm I have mentioned was once a 
 long sturdy bough worn smooth as velvet in one 
 part from a curious cause : it ran about as high 
 above the ground as a full-sized horse, and the 
 knights and squires used to be for ever vaulting 
 upon it, the former in armour ; the monk when a 
 boy had seen thera do it a thousand times. 
 
 The heart of the tree began to go, and then this 
 heavy bough creaked suspiciously. In those days 
 they did not prop a sacred bough with a line of 
 iron post as now. They solved the difficulty by 
 cutting this one off within six feet of the trunk ; 
 two centuries later, the tree being now nearly 
 hollow, a rude iron bracket was roughly nailed 
 into the stem, and running out three feet supported 
 the knights' bough ; for so the mutilated limb was 
 still called. 
 
 What had not this tree seen since first it came 
 green and tender as a cabbage above the soil, and 
 stood at the mercy of the first hare or rabbit that 
 should choose to cut short its frail existence ! 
 
 Since then eagles had perched on its crown and 
 wild boars fed without fear of man upon its acorns. 
 Troubadours had sung beneath it to lords and 
 ladies seated round or walking on the grass and 
 commending the minstrels tales of love by ex- 
 change of amorous glances. It had seen a Xorman
 
 WHITE LIES. 77 
 
 duke conquer England, and English kings invade 
 France and be crowned at Paris. It had seen a 
 woman put knights to the rout, and seen God 
 insulted and the warrior virgin burned by envious 
 priests with the consent of the curs she had de- 
 fended and the curs she had defeated. Mediaeval 
 sculptors had taken its leaves, and wisely trusting 
 to Nature had adorned many a church with those 
 leaves cut in stone. 
 
 Why, in its old age it had seen the rise of print- 
 ing, and the first dawn of national civilization in 
 Europe. It flourished and decayed in France : 
 but it grew in Gaul. , And more remarkable stilly 
 though by all accounts it is like to see the world 
 to an end, it was a tree in ancient history : its 
 old age awaits the millennium : its first youth 
 belonged to that great tract of time which includes 
 the birth of Christ, the building of Rome, and the 
 siege of Troy. 
 
 The tree had mingled in the fortunes of the 
 family. It had saved their lives and taken their 
 lives. One Lord of Beaurepaire hotly pursued by 
 his feudal enemies made for the tree, and hid him- 
 self partly by a great bough partly by the thick 
 screen of leaves. The foe darted in, made sure he 
 had taken to the house, ransacked it, and got into 
 \\i^ cellar where by good luck was store of Malvoisie : 
 and so the oak and the vine saved the quaking 
 baron. 
 
 Another Lord of Beaurepaire, besieged in his 
 castle, was shot dead on the ramparts by a cross-
 
 78 WHITE LIES. 
 
 bowman who Lad secreted himself imobserved in 
 this tree a little before the dawn. 
 • A young heir of Beaurepaire climbing for a 
 raven's nest to the top of this tree, whose crown 
 was much loftier then than now, lost his footing 
 and fell, and died at the foot of the tree : and his 
 mother in her anguish bade them cut down the 
 tree that had killed her boy. But the baron her 
 husband refused, and said, what in the English 
 of the day would run thus — 'ytte ys eneugh that 
 I lose mine sonne, I will nat alsoe lose mine Tre.' 
 In the male the solid sentiment of the proprietor 
 outweighed the temporary irritation of the parent. 
 Then the mother we are told, bought fifteen ells of 
 black velvet, and stretched a pall from the knights' 
 bough across the west side to another branch, and 
 cursed the hand that should remove it, and she 
 herself ' wolde never passe the Tre neither going 
 nor coming, but went still about.' 
 
 And when she died and should have been car- 
 ried past the tree to the park, her dochter did cry 
 from a window to the bearers, ' Goe about ! goe 
 about !' and they went about : and all the company. 
 And in time the velvet pall rotted, and was torn 
 and driven away rapidis ludihria ventis : and when 
 the hand of Nature, and no human hand, had thus 
 flouted and dispersed the trappings of the mother's 
 grief, two pieces were picked up and preserved 
 among the family relics : and the black velvet had 
 turned a rusty red. 
 
 So the baroness did nothing new in this family
 
 AVHITE LIES. 79 
 
 when she hung her chaplet on the knights' bough ; 
 and, in fact, on the west side, about eighteen feet 
 from the ground, there still mouldered one corner 
 of an atchievement an heir of Beaurepaire had 
 nailed there two centuries before, when his pre- 
 decessor died : ' for,* said he, ' the chateau is of 
 yesterday, but the tree has seen us all come and 
 go.' The inside of the tree was clean gone : it was 
 hollow as a drum — not eight inches thick in any 
 part ; and on its east side yawned a fissure as high 
 as a man and as broad as a street door. Dard used 
 to wheel his wheel-barrow into the tree at a trot, 
 and there leave it. 
 
 In spite of excavation and mutilation not life 
 only but vigour dwelt in this wooden shell — the 
 extreme ends of the longer boughs were firewood, 
 touchwood, and the crown was time gone out of 
 mind : but narrow the circle a very little to where 
 the indomitable trunk could still shoot sap from its 
 cruise deep in earth, and there on every side burst 
 the green leaves in summer countless as the sand. 
 The leaves carved centuries ago from these very 
 models, though cut in stone were most of them 
 mouldered, blunted, notched, deforuied — but the 
 delicate types came back with every summer per- 
 fect and lovely as when the tree was but their 
 elder brother — and greener than ever : for from 
 what cause Nature only knows, the leaves were 
 many shades deeper and richer than any other tree 
 could show for a hundred miles round — a deep 
 green, fiery, yet soft ; and then their multitude —
 
 80 WHITE LIES. 
 
 the staircases of foliage as you looked up the tree, 
 and could scarce catch a glimpse of the sky — an 
 inverted abyss of colour, a mound, a dome, of flake 
 emeralds that quivered in the golden air. 
 
 And now the sun sets — the green leaves are black 
 — the moon rises — her cold light shoots across one 
 half that giant stem. 
 
 How solemn and calm stands the great round 
 tower of living wood, half ebony, half silver, with 
 its mighty cloud above of flake jet leaves tinged 
 with frosty fire at one edge ! 
 
 Now is the still hour to repeat in a whisper the 
 words of the dame of Beaurepaire — ^You were 
 here before us : you will be here when we are 
 gone.' 
 
 Let us leave the hoary king of trees standing in 
 the moonlight, calmly defying time, and let us 
 follow the creatures of a day; since what they 
 were we are. 
 
 A spacious saloon panelled : dead but snowy 
 white picked out sparingly with gold. Festoons 
 of fruit and flowers finely carved in wood on some 
 of the panels. These also not smothered with gild- 
 ing, but as it were gold speckled here and there, 
 like tongues of flame winding among insoluble 
 snow. 
 
 Ranged against the walls were sofas and chairs 
 covered with rich stufi's well worn. And in one 
 little distant corner of the long room a grey-haired
 
 WHITE LIES. 81 
 
 gentleman and two young ladies sitting on cane 
 chairs round a small plain table, on which burned 
 a solitarv" candle ; and a little way apart in this 
 candle's twilight an old lady sat in an easy chair, 
 in a deep reverie, thinking of the past, scarce 
 daring to inquire the future. Josephine and Laure 
 were working : not fancy work but needlework ; 
 Doctor St. Aubin writing. Every now and then 
 he put the one candle nearer the girls. They 
 raised no objection, only a few minutes after a 
 white hand would glide from one or other of them 
 like a serpent, and smoothly convey the light 
 nearer to the doctor's manuscript. ' Is it not supper 
 time ?' inquired the doctor. 
 
 * One would think not. Jacintha is very punc- 
 tual.' 
 
 ' So she may be, but I have an inward monitor, 
 mesdemoiselles ; and by the way our dinner was I 
 think more ethereal than usual.' 
 
 ' Hush,' said Josephine, and looked uneasily 
 towards her mother. ' AVax is so dear.' 
 
 ' Wax ? — ah ! — pardon me,' and the doctor re- 
 turned hastily to his work. Then Laure looked 
 up and said — ' I wonder Jacintha does not come — 
 it is certainly past the hour,' and she pried into the 
 room as if she expected to see Jacintha on the 
 road. But she saw in fact very little of anything, 
 for the spacious room was impenetrable to her eye. 
 Midway from the candle to the distant door its 
 twilight deepened, and all became shapeless and 
 sombre. 
 
 E 3
 
 82 WHITE LIES. 
 
 The prospect ended half way sharp and black, 
 as in those out o'door closets imagined and painted 
 by a certain great painter, whose Nature comes to 
 a 'full stop as soon as that great painter sees no 
 further occasion for her, instead of melting by fine 
 expanse and exquisite gradation into genuine 
 distance as Nature does in Claude and in Nature. 
 To reverse the picture, standing at the door you 
 looked across forty feet of black, and the little 
 corner seemed on fire, and the fair heads about 
 the candle shone like the heads of St. Cecilias and 
 Madonnas in an antique stained glass window. 
 
 At last the door opened, and another candle 
 glow^ed upon Jacintha's comely peasant face in the 
 doorway. She put down her candle outside the 
 door, and started as the crow flies for the other 
 light. After glowing a moment in the doorway 
 she dived into the shadow and emerged into light 
 again close to the table with napkins on her arm. 
 She removed the work-box reverentially, the 
 doctor's manuscript unceremoniously, and pro- 
 ceeded to lay a cloth, in w^hich operation she looked 
 at Josephine a point blank glance of admiration ; 
 then she placed the napkins ; and in this process 
 she again cast a strange look of interest upon 
 Josephine. The young lady noticed it this time, 
 and looked inquiringly at her in return, half 
 expecting some communcation ; but Jacintha low- 
 ered her eyes and bustled about the table. Then 
 Josephine spoke to her wath a sort of instinct of 
 curiosity — that this look might find w^ords.
 
 WHITE LIES. 83 
 
 * Supper IS a little late to-night ! is it not, Ja- 
 cinth a ?' 
 
 ' Yes, mademoiselle, I have had more to do than 
 usual,' and with this she delivered another point- 
 blank look as before, and dived into the palpable 
 obscure and came to light in the doorway. 
 
 Josephine. — ' Did you see that ?' 
 
 Laure.— ' What ?' 
 
 Josephine. — ' That look she gave me ?' 
 
 Laure.— ' Xo. What look ?' 
 
 Josephine. — ' A singular look, a look of curi — 
 osity — one would almost say of admi — but no ; 
 that is impossible ' 
 
 St. Aubin (drily). — * Clearly.' He added after 
 a pause : ' yet after all it is the prettiest face in the 
 room.' 
 
 * Doctor !' cried Laure with fury. 
 
 * My child, I did not see you.' 
 
 * And how dare you call my Josephine pretty ? 
 the Madonna pretty? does that describe her? I 
 am indignant.' 
 
 St. Aubin. — ' Mademoiselle Laure, permit me to 
 observe that by calling Mademoiselle your Jose- 
 phine, you claim a monopoly that — ahem ! — can- 
 not possibly be conceded.' 
 
 Laure. — (haughtily) : ' Why, whose Josephine 
 is she but mine ?' 
 
 St. Aubin. — (after coolly taking a pinch of 
 snuff, and seeming to reflect) : ' Mine.' 
 
 Here a voice at the fireplace put quietly in — 
 ' Twenty years ago Laure was not born, and my
 
 64 WHITE LIES. 
 
 good friend there had never seen Beaurepaire. 
 Whose Josephine was she then, good people ?' 
 * Mam ma ! whose is she now ?' and Josephine was 
 at her mother's knees in a moment. 
 
 ' Good !' said the doctor to Laure. ' See the 
 result of our injudicious competition. A third 
 party has carried her off. Is supper never 
 coming ? Are you not hungry my child ?' 
 
 ' Yes, my friend — no ! not very.' 
 
 Alas ! if the truth must be told, they were all 
 hungry. So rigorous was the economy in this 
 decayed, but honorable house, that the wax candles 
 burned to-day in the oratory had scrimped their 
 dinner, unsubstantial as it was wont to be. Think 
 of that, you in fustian jackets who grumble on a 
 full belly. My lads, many a back you envy, with 
 its silk and broad cloth, has to rob the stomach. 
 The door opened ; Jacintha appeared in the light 
 of her candle a moment with a tray in both hands ; 
 and approaching was lost to view. Before she 
 emerged to sight again a strange and fragrant 
 smell heralded her. All their eyes turned with 
 curiosity towards the unwonted odour, till Jacintha 
 dawned with three roast partridges on a dish. 
 
 They were wonder struck. Jacintha's face was 
 red as fire, partly wnth cooking, partly with secret 
 pride and happiness : but she concealed it, and 
 indeed all appearance of feeling, under a feigned 
 apathy. She avoided their eyes, and resolutely 
 excluded from her face everything that could imply 
 she did not serve up partridges to this family
 
 WHITE LIES. 85 
 
 every niglit of her life. The young ladies looked 
 from the birds to her, and from her to the birds, 
 in mute surprise, that was not diminished by the 
 cynical indifference printed on her face. 
 
 ' The supper is served, Madame the Baroness,' 
 said she, with a respectful curtsey and a mecha- 
 nical tone, and, plunging into the night, swam 
 out at her own candle, shut the door, and unlock- 
 ing her face that moment, burst out radiant, and 
 went down beaming with exultation ; and with a 
 tear in her eye, set to and polished all the copper 
 stewpans with a vigour and expedition unknown to 
 the new-fangled domestic. 
 
 * Partridges, mamma ! What next ?' 
 
 ' Pheasants, I hope,' cried the doctor, gaily. 
 ' And after them hares ; to conclude with royal 
 venison. Permit me ladies.' And he set himself 
 to carve with zeal. 
 
 Now Nature is Nature, and two pair of violent 
 eyes brightened and dwelt on the fragrant and 
 delicate food with demure desire. For all that, 
 when St. Aubin offered Josephine a wing, she 
 declined it. ' No partridge ?' cried the savant, in 
 utter amazement. 
 
 ' Not to-day, dear friend — it is not a feast day 
 to-day.' 
 
 ' Ah ! no ; what was I thinking of ?' 
 
 * But you are not to be deprived,' put in Jose- 
 phine, anxiously. ' We will not deny ourselves 
 the pleasure of seeing you eat some.' * What ?' 
 remonstrated St. Aubin, ' am I not one of you ?'
 
 86 WHITE LIES. 
 
 The baroness had attended to every word of this. 
 She rose from her chair and said quietly — ' Both 
 you and he and Laure will be so good as to let me 
 see you eat them.' 
 
 ' But mamma/ remonstrated Josephine and 
 Laure in one breath. 
 
 ' Je le veux^ was the cold reply. 
 
 These were words the baroness uttered so seldom 
 that they were little likely to be disputed. 
 
 The doctor carved and helped the young ladies 
 and himself. 
 
 When they had all eaten a little, a discussion 
 was observed to be going on between Laure and 
 her sister. At last St. Aubin caught these words. 
 ' It will be in vain — even you have not influence 
 enough for that Laure.' 
 
 * We shall see,' was the reply, and Laure put the 
 wing of a partridge on a plate and rose calmly 
 from her chair. She took the plate and put it on 
 the little work table by her mother's side. The 
 others pretended to be all mouths, but they were 
 all ears. 
 
 The baroness looked in Laure's face with an air 
 of wonder that was not very encouraging. Then, 
 as Laure said nothing, she raised her aristocratic 
 hand with a courteous but decided gesture of 
 refusal. 
 
 Undaunted little Laure laid her palm softly on 
 the baroness's shoulder, and said to her as firmly 
 as the baroness herself had just spoken — 
 
 * II le veut ma mere /'
 
 WHITE LIES. 87 
 
 ; The baroness was staggered. Then slie looked 
 steadily in silence at the fair young face — then she 
 reflected. At last she said with an exquisite 
 mixture of politeness and affection. ^ It is his 
 daughter who has told me " II le veut /" I obey.' 
 
 Laure returning like a victorious knight from 
 the lists, saucily exultant, and with only one wet 
 eyelash, was solemnly kissed and petted by the 
 other two. 
 
 Thus they loved one another in this great old 
 falling house. Their familiarity had no coarse 
 side. A form, not of custom but affection, it 
 walked hand in hand with courtesy by day and 
 night ; aristo va ! 
 
 The baroness retired early to rest this even- 
 ing. 
 
 She was no sooner gone than an earnest and 
 anxious conversation took place between the sisters. 
 It was commenced in a low tone not to interrupt 
 St. Aubin's learned lucubrations. 
 
 Josephine. — ' Has she heard any thing ?' 
 
 Laure. — ^ About our harsh creditor — about the 
 threatened sale of Beaurepaire ? Not that I know 
 of. Heaven forbid !' 
 
 Josephine. — ^ Laure, she said some words to me 
 to-day that make me very uneasy, but I did not 
 make her any answer. She said, (we were by the 
 great oak tree,) " You were here before us — you 
 will be here after us." ' 
 
 '0! heaven, who has told her? Can Jacintha 
 have been so mad ?'
 
 88 WHITE LIES. 
 
 * That faithful creature. Oh no ! her great 
 anxiety is lest my mother should know.' 
 
 'May Heaven bless her for having so much 
 sense as well as fidelity. The baroness must never 
 know this till the danger is past — poor thing ! the 
 daily fear would shake her terribly.' 
 
 Josephine. — ' You have heard what we have 
 been saying ?' 
 
 St. Aubin. — ' Every word. Let me put away 
 this rubbish, in which my head but not my heart 
 is interested, and let us unite heart and hand 
 against this new calamity. Who has threatened 
 to sell Beaurepaire ?' 
 
 Josephine. — 'A single creditor. But Jacintha 
 could not tell me his name.' 
 
 St. Aubin. — 'That w^ill be easily discovered. 
 Now as for those words of the baroness, do not be 
 disquieted. You have put a forced interpretation 
 on them my dear.' 
 
 Josephine. — ' Have I, doctor ?' 
 
 St. Aubin. — ' The baroness is an old lady, con- 
 scious of her failing powers. She stood opposite 
 an ancient tree. Something of this sort passed 
 through her mind — " you too are old, older than I 
 am, but you will survive me." ' 
 
 Laure. — ' But she said " us," not " me." ' 
 
 St. Aubin. — ' Oh ! " us " or " me." Ladies are 
 not very exact.' 
 
 Josephine. — ' What you say is very intelligent, 
 my friend ; but — somehow — that was not what she 
 meant.*
 
 WHITE LIES. 89 
 
 * It is the simplest interpretation of her words.' 
 ' I confess it.' 
 
 * Can you give me any tangible reason for 
 avoiding the obvious interpretation ?' 
 
 * No. Only when you are so well acquainted 
 wdth the face and voice of any one, as I am with 
 dear mamma's, you can seize shades of meaning 
 that are not to be conveyed to another by a bare 
 account of the words spoken.' 
 
 ' This is fanciful : chimerical.' 
 
 ^ I feel it may appear so.' 
 
 Laure. — ' Not to me, I beg to observe : it is 
 quite simple, perfectly notorious, and as clear as 
 day.' 
 
 St. Aubin. — ' To you possibly, enthusiastic maid ; 
 but I have an unfortunate habit of demanding a 
 tangible reason for my assent to any given propo- 
 sition.' 
 
 Laure. — ' It is an unfortunate habit. Josephine 
 dear, tell me now what was the feeling our mother 
 gave you by the way she said those w^ords.' 
 
 ' Yes, dear. Well then ' — here Josephine shghtly 
 knitted her smooth brow, and said slowly, turning 
 her eyes inwards — ' Our mother did not intend to 
 compare the duration of our mortal lives with that 
 of a tree.' 
 
 ' Petitio principii,' said the doctor quietly. 
 
 ' Plait-il ? On the other hand, if she had heard 
 our impending misfortune, w^ould she not have 
 been less general ? would she not have spoken to 
 me, and not to the tree ? I think then that our
 
 90 WHITE LIES. 
 
 dear mother had a general misgiving, a presenti- 
 ment that we shall be driven from this beloved 
 spot; and this presentiment found words at the 
 sight of that old companion of our fortunes; but 
 even if this be the right interpretation, I cannot 
 see her come so near the actual truth without 
 trembling ; for I know her penetration ; and oh ! 
 if it were ever to reach her ears that — alas ! my 
 dear mother/ 
 
 * It never shall, it never shall ; to leave Beaure- 
 23aire would kill the baroness/ 
 
 ' No doctor, do not say so/ 
 
 Laure. — ' Let us fight against our troubles, but 
 not exaggerate them. Mamma would still have 
 her daughters' love.' 
 
 ' It is idle to deceive ourselves,' replied St. Aubin. 
 ' The baroness would not live a month away from 
 Beaurepaire. At her age men and women hang 
 to life by their habits. Take her away from her 
 chateau, from the little oratory where she prays 
 every day for the departed, from her place in the 
 sun on the south terrace, and from all the memories 
 that surround her here — she would bow her head 
 and die.' 
 
 Here the savant seeing a hobby-horse near, 
 caught him and jumped on. 
 
 He launched into a treatise upon the vitality of 
 human beings, wonderfully learned, sagacious and 
 misplaced. He proved at length that it is the 
 mind which keeps the body of man alive for so 
 great a length of time as fourscore years. He in-
 
 WHITE LIES. 91 
 
 formed them that he had in the earlier part of his 
 studies carefully dissected a multitude of animals ; 
 frogs, rabbits, dogs, men, horses, sheep, squirrels, 
 foxes, cats, &c., and discovered no peculiarity in 
 man's organs to account for his singular longevity, 
 except in the brain or organ of mind. Thence he 
 went to the longevity of men with contented minds, 
 and the rapid decay of the careworn. He even 
 explained to these girls why no bachelor had ever 
 attained the full age of man, which he was obliging 
 enough to put at one hundred and ten years. A 
 w4fe, he explained, is essential to vast longevity ; 
 she is the receptacle of half a man's cares, and of 
 two thirds of his ill humour. 
 
 After many such singular windings very proper 
 to a lecture room, he came back to the baroness ; 
 on which his heart regained the lost ascendancy 
 over his head, and he ended a tolerably frigid dis- 
 course in a deep sigh. 
 
 ' Oh doctor,' cried Laure, * what shall we do ?' 
 
 ' I have already made up my mind. I shall have 
 an interview with Perrin, the notary.' 
 
 ' But we have offended him.' 
 
 ' Kot mortally. Besides the baroness was in the 
 wrong.' 
 
 * Mamma in the wrong ?' 
 
 'Excusably, but unquestionably. She was im- 
 petuous out of place. Maitre Perrin gave her the 
 advice, not of a delicate mind, but of a friend who 
 had her interest at heart. He is under great obli- 
 gations to this family. He can now repay them
 
 92 WHITE LIES. 
 
 'v\^Itliout injury to liimself ; this is a flight of grati- 
 tude of which I believe even a notary capable. 
 Are you not of my ojDinion, mademoiselle ?' 
 
 Josephine's reply was rather feminine than point 
 blank. 
 
 ' I have already been so unfortunate as to differ 
 once with my best friend ;' and she lowered her 
 lashes and awaited her doom. 
 
 * This dear poltroon/ cried Laure — * speak out !' 
 
 * Well, then, my friend, Monsieur Perrin does 
 not inspire me with confidence.' 
 
 * Humph ! have you heard anything against 
 him?' 
 
 ' No ; it is only what I have observed ; let us 
 hope I am wrong. Well then, Laure, the man's 
 face carries one expression when he is on his guard 
 and another when he is not. His voice too is not 
 frank. It is not a genuine part of himself as 
 yours is dear doctor — and then it is not — it is not 
 one.' 
 
 * Diable ! has he two voices ?' 
 
 ' Yes ! and perhaps more. When he is in this 
 room his voice is — is — what shall I say ? Artificial 
 honey ?' 
 
 * Say treacle,' put in Laure. 
 
 * You have said it Laure ; that is the very word 
 I was searching for ; but out of doors I have heard 
 him speak very differently, in a voice imperious, 
 irascible, I had almost said brutal. Ay and the 
 worst is that bad voice was his own voice.' 
 
 ' How do you know that ?'
 
 WHITE LIES. 93 
 
 * I don't know how I know it dear friend. Some- 
 thing tells me.' 
 
 'However, you can give a tangible reason of 
 course/ said the doctor treacherously. 
 
 * No, my friend ; I am not strong at reasons. 
 Consider, I have not the advantage of being a 
 $avant, I am but a woman. My opinion of this 
 man is an instinct, not a reason.' 
 
 The doctor's face was provoking. 
 
 Josephine saw it, but she was one not easily 
 provoked. She only smiled a little sadly. Laure 
 fired up for her. 
 
 ' I would rather trust an instinct of Josephine's 
 than all the reasons of all the savants in France !' 
 
 ' Laure !' remonstrated Josephine, opening her 
 eyes. 
 
 'Eeasons? — straws!' cried Laure, disdainfully. 
 
 ' Hallo !' cried St. Aubin, with a comical look. 
 
 * And there are always as many of these straws 
 aerainst the truth as for it. The Jansenists have 
 books brim full of reasons. The Jesuits have books 
 full against them. The Calvinists and all the 
 heretics have volumes of reasons — so thick. Is it 
 reason that teaches me to pray to the Madonna and 
 the saints ! and so — Josephine is right and you are 
 wrong.' 
 
 ^ Well jumped. Alas ! I am intimidated but not 
 convinced.' 
 
 ' Your mistake is replying to her, doctor,' said 
 Josephine ; ' that encourages her — a little virago 
 that rules us all with iron. Come here, child, and
 
 94 WHITE lies; 
 
 be well kissed for your effrontery ; and now hold 
 your tongue. Tell us your plan doctor, and you 
 may count on Laure's co-operation as w^ell as mine. 
 It is I w^lio tell you so.' 
 
 ' She is right again, doctor/ said Laure, peeping 
 at him over her sister's shoulder. 
 
 St. Aubin, thus encouraged, explained to them 
 that he w^ould, without compromising the baroness, 
 write to Monsieur Perrin, and invite him to an 
 interview. The result is certain. This harsh 
 creditor will be paid off by a transfer of the loan, 
 and all wall be well. Meantime there is nothing 
 to despond about ; it is not as if several creditors 
 were agreed to force a sale. This is but one, and 
 the most insignificant of them all." 
 
 ^ Is it ? I hope it may be. What makes you 
 think so ?' 'I know it, Josephine.' 
 
 The girls looked at one another. 
 
 ^ Oh I am not divining. My instincts are 
 so feeble that I am driven for aid to that con- 
 temptible ally. Reason. Thus it is. Our large 
 creditors are men of property, and such men let 
 their funds lie unless compelled to move them. 
 But the small mortgagee, the needy man, who has, 
 perhaps, no investment to watch but one small 
 loan, about which he is as anxious and as noisy as 
 a hen wath one chicken — he is the clamorous 
 creditor, the harsh little egoist, who at the first 
 apprehension of losing a crown piece would bring 
 the Garden of Eden to the hammer. Go then to 
 rest, my children, and sleep calmly. Heaven
 
 WHITE LIES. 95 
 
 watches over you, and this grey head leaves its 
 chimeras when your happiness is in peril.' 
 
 ' And there is no better head/ said Laure, 
 affectionately — but she must add saucily — * when 
 it does come out of the clouds ;' and with this sauce 
 in her very mouth she inclined her white forehead 
 to Monsieur St. Aubin for his parting salute.* 
 
 The young ladies retired to rest, greatly reassured 
 and comforted by their friend's confidence, and he 
 with a sudden change of manner paced the apart- 
 ment nervously till one in the morning. His 
 brow was knitted, and his face sad, and if his con- 
 fidence had been real, why then much of it oozed 
 away as soon as he had no one to comfort or 
 confute. 
 
 At one o'clock in the morning he sat down and 
 wrote to the notary. 
 
 * The sparring between St. Aubin and Laure de Beaurepaire was not 
 exactly what it looks on paper at first glance. But we soon come to the 
 limit of the fine arts. The art of writing, to wit, tells 3'ou what people said 
 but not how ; yet ' how ' makes often all the difference. When these 
 two fenced in talk the tones and the manner were full of affection and 
 playfulness, and robbed of their barb words, which, coarsely or unkindly 
 uttered, might have stimg. Look at those two distant cats fighting. 
 They roll over one another in turn ; they bite with visible fury, they scratch 
 alternate. Tigers or theologians could do no more. In about two minutes 
 a black head, a leaf torn out of Dr. Watts, and a tabby tail, will strew the 
 field, sole relics of this desperate encounter. Xow go nearer ; you shall 
 find that in these fierce bites the teeth are somehow kept back entirely, 
 and the scratching is tickling done with the velvet paw, not the poisoned 
 iron claw. The f ghting resolves itself into two elements, play and aftec- 
 tion. These combatants are never strange cats, or cats that bear each 
 other a grudge. And this mock fighting is a favourite gambol with many 
 animals : with none more so than with men and women, especially intelli- 
 gent and finely tempered ones. Be careful not to do it with a fool. 1 
 don't tell you why, because the fool will show you.
 
 96 WHITE LIES. 
 
 He deplored tlie baroness's susceptibility, hinted 
 delicately that she had in all probability already 
 regretted it, and more broadly that he had thought 
 her in the wrong from the first. If Monsieur 
 Perrin shared in any degree his regret at the 
 estrangement, there was now an opportunity for 
 him to return with credit to his place as friend of 
 the family. And to conclude, the writer sought a 
 personal interview. 
 
 Let us follow this letter. It was laid on the 
 notary's table the next afternoon. As he read it, 
 a single word escaped his lips, ' Curious !' 
 
 He wrote an answer immediately. 
 
 St. Aubin was charmed with his reply, and its 
 promptness. He drew the girls aside, and read 
 them the note. They listened acutely. 
 
 * Moivsieur Perrin had never taken serious offence at 
 the baroness s impetuosity^ for which so many excuses 
 were to he made. It ica.s in pressing, indiscreetly 
 perhaps, her interest, that he had been so unfortunate 
 as to give her pain. He now hoped Monsieur St, 
 Aubin vjould shoiv him some way of furthering those 
 interests without annoying her. He woidd call either 
 on the doctor or on the baroness at any hour that 
 should be named,' 
 
 * There,' cried St. Aubin, ' is not that the letter 
 of a friend, and an honest man, or at all events, an 
 honest notary ?' 
 
 * Oh yes ! but is it not too pure ?' suggested 
 Josephine. Such an entire abnegation of self —is 
 that natural — in a notary, too, as you observe ?'
 
 WHITE LIES. 97 
 
 ' Childislmess ! this is a polite note, as well as 
 a friendly one — politeness always sj^eaks a lan- 
 guage tlie opposite of egoism, and consequently 
 of sincerity — it is permitted even to a notary to 
 be polite/ 
 
 ' That is true — may I examine it ?' 
 
 Josephine scanned it as if she would extract the 
 hidden soul of each particular syllable. She 
 returned it with a half sigh. 
 
 * I wish it had a voice and eyes, then I could 
 perhaps — but let us hope for the best.' 
 
 ' I mean to/ cried the doctor cheerfully. ' The 
 man will be here himself in forty-eight hours. I 
 shall tell him to be sure and bring his voice and 
 his eyes with him ; to these he will add of his own 
 accord that little pony round as a tub he goes 
 about on — another inseparable feature of the man.' 
 
 ' Curious !' said the notary. 
 
 An enigmatical remark ; but I almost think I 
 catch the meaning of it. Forgive me for going 
 back a step to explain. 
 
 Outside a small farm-house, two miles from 
 Beaurepaire, stood a squab pony, dun coloured, 
 with a wliite mane and tail. He was hooked by 
 the bridle to a spiral piece of iron driven into the 
 house to hang visitors' nags from by the bridle. 
 The farmer was a man generally disliked and 
 feared, for he was one of those who can fawn or 
 bully as suits their turn ; just now, however, he 
 was in competent hands. The owner of the squab 
 dun was talking to him in his own kitchen as 
 
 VOL. 1. . F
 
 98 WHITE LIES. 
 
 superiors are apt to speak to inferiors, and as 
 superior very seldom speaks to anybody. 
 
 The farmer, for his part, was waiting his time 
 to fire a volley of oaths at his visitor, and kick 
 him out of the house. Meantime, cunning first — 
 he was watching to find out what could be the 
 notary's game. 
 
 ' So you talk of selling up my friend the 
 baroness ?' 
 
 *Well, notary,' replied the other coolly, my 
 half year's interest has not been paid ; it is due 
 this two months.' 
 
 ' Have you taken any steps ?' 
 
 * Not yet ; but I am goiug to the mayor this 
 afternoon — if you have no objection ' (this with a 
 marked sneer). 
 
 'You had better break your leg, and stay at 
 home.' 
 
 * Why so ? if you please.' 
 
 ' Because if you do you are a ruined man.' 
 
 ' I'll risk that. Haw ! haw ! Your friends will 
 have to grin and bear it, as we used to under 
 the kings. They have no one to take their part 
 against me that I know of, without it is you ; and 
 you are not the man to pay other folks' debts I 
 should say.' 
 
 ' They have a friend who will destroy you if you 
 are so base as to sell Beaurepaire for your miserable 
 six thousand francs.' 
 
 ' Who is the man ? if it is not asking too 
 much.'
 
 WHITE LIES. 99 
 
 'You will know all in good time. You owe 
 twelve thousand francs to Frangois Brocard your 
 cousin.' Bonard changed colour. 
 
 ' JJow do you know that ? He promised faithful 
 not to tell a soul.' 
 
 ' When he promised he did not know you in- 
 tended to get drunk and call his wife an unpolite 
 name.' 
 
 ' I never got drunk, and I never called the jade 
 an ugly name.' 
 
 ' You lie, my man.' 
 
 ' Well, monsieur, suppose I did ; hard words 
 break no bones ; he need not talk — he thrashes her, 
 the pig.' 
 
 * She says not. But that is not the point ; there 
 are women who like to be thrashed ; but there is 
 not one who likes to be called titles reflecting on 
 her discretion. So Madame Brocard has given you 
 a lesson not to injure the weak — especially the 
 weak that are strong — women to wit. This one 
 was strong enough to make Francois sell your 
 debt to an honest man, who is ready to receive 
 payment at this hour.' 
 
 ' Is it a jest ? How can I pay twelve thousand 
 francs all in a moment ? Let him give me proper 
 time, and it is not twelve thousand francs that 
 will trouble Jacques Bonard, you know that, mon- 
 sieur.' 
 
 ' I know that to pay it you must sell your ricks, 
 your horses, your chairs and tables, and the bed 
 you sleep on.' 
 
 F 2
 
 100 WHITE LIES. 
 
 * Yes I can ! yes I can ! especially if I have 
 your good word, monsieur ; and I know you will 
 — ten to one if my new creditor (curse him 1) is not 
 known to you.' ^ 
 
 ' He is; 
 
 ' There then it is all right. Every man in the 
 department respects ^you. I'll be bound you can 
 turn him round your finger whoever he is.' 
 
 ' I can.' 
 
 * There is a weight off my stomach. Well, mon- 
 sieur, now first of all who is the man — if it is not 
 asking too much ?' 
 
 at is I.' 
 ^You?' 
 
 a r 
 
 ' Ugh 1' 
 
 ' Well, sir, what is to be done ?' 
 
 * Can you pay me ?' 
 
 ^ That I can ; but you must give me time.' 
 ' If you will give me security, not else.' 
 ' And I will. What security will you have ?' 
 ' The notary answered this question by action. 
 
 He put his hand in his pocket and drew out a 
 
 parchment. 
 
 The farmer's eye dilated. 
 
 ' This is a bond by which you give me a hold 
 
 upon your Benurepaire loan.' 
 
 'Not an assignment?' gasped Bonard. 
 
 ' Not an assignment. On the contrary a bond 
 
 that prevents your either assigning or selling your
 
 WHITE LIES. 101 
 
 loan, or forcing Beaurej^aire to a sale — penalty, 
 twenty thousand francs in either case/ 
 
 The farmer groaned. 
 
 ' Call a witness, and sign.' 
 
 Bonard went to the window, opened it, and 
 called to a man in the farmyard — ' Here, Georges, 
 step this way.' 
 
 As he turned round from the window the first 
 thing he saw was the notary pulling another docu- 
 ment out of his other pocket. Paper this time 
 instead of parchment. 
 
 ' Not another ! ! saints of paradise, not ano- 
 ther ! ! !' yelled the farmer. 
 
 ' This is to settle the interest — nothing more.' 
 
 ' What interest ? Ours ? Why the interest is 
 settled — it is three per cent.' 
 
 ^ Was ! but I am not so soft as to lend money at 
 three per cent. — Are you ? You bleed the baro- 
 ness six per cent.' 
 
 * What has that to do with it ? I take what I 
 can get. But I can't />ay six per cent.' 
 
 ' You are not required. I am not an usurer. I 
 lend at five per cent, what little I lend at all, and 
 I'll trouble you for your signature.' 
 
 * No ! no r cried the farmer, standing at bay, 
 ' you can't do that. Three per cent, is the terms 
 of the loan. Hang it man, stand to your ow^n 
 bargain !' 
 
 The notary started up like jack in the box, with 
 startling suddenness and energy. 
 
 * Pay me my twelve thousand francs !' cried he
 
 10.2 WHITE LIES. 
 
 fiercely, ' or I empty your barns and gut your house 
 before you can turn round. You can't sell Beau- 
 repaire in less than a month, but I'll sell you up in 
 forty-eight hours.' 
 
 ' Sit ye down sir! for Heaven's sake sit ye down 
 my good monsieur, and don't talk like that — don't 
 quarrel with an honest man for a thoughtless word. 
 Ah ! here is Georges. Step in Georges, and see 
 me sign my soul and entrails aw^ay at a sitting — 
 ugh !' 
 
 Five minutes more, the harsh creditor, the parish 
 bully, was obsequiously holding the notary's off 
 stirrup. He mounted the squab dun and cantered 
 off with the parchment sword and the paper javelin 
 in the same pocket now — and tacked together by a 
 pin. 
 
 Now you see why the notary said ' Curious ' 
 when five days after this he read the doctor's invi- 
 tation to Beaurepaire.
 
 WHITE LIES. 103 
 
 CHAPTER Y. 
 
 It was an autumn day refreshing to late turnips, 
 but chilling and depressing to human hearts, and 
 death to those of artists. A steady, even, down 
 pour of rain, with gusts of wind that sent shovv'ers 
 of leaves whirling from the orange-coloured trees. 
 Black double-banked clouds promised twenty- 
 four hours moist misery ; and as for the sun, hang 
 me if you could guess on which side of the house 
 he was, except by looking first at a clock then at 
 an almanack. Even the sorrows and cares of the 
 decaying house of Beaurepaire grew darker and 
 heavier this day. Even Laure, the gayest, bright- 
 est, and most hopeful of the party, sat at the 
 window, her face against the pane, and felt lead 
 at her young heart. While she sat thus, sad and 
 hopeless, instinctively reading the future lot of 
 those she loved in those double-banked clouds, her 
 eye was suddenly attracted by a singular phenome- 
 non. A man of gigantic height and size glided 
 along the public road, one half his huge form visi- 
 ble above the high palings. He turned in at the 
 great gate of Beaurepaire, and lo the giant was but
 
 104 WHITE LIES. 
 
 a rider with a veiled steed. He seemed an enor- 
 mous horseman's cloak — a pyramid of brown cloth 
 with a hat on its apex, and a pony's nose pro- 
 truding at one base, tail at the other. Rider's face 
 did not show, being at the top of the cone but in- 
 side it. 
 
 At the sight of this pageant Laure could hardly 
 suppress a scream of joy. Knight returning from 
 Crusades was never more welcome than was this 
 triangle of broad-cloth. 
 
 She beckoned secretly to St. Aubin. He came, 
 and at the sight went hastily down and ordered a 
 huge wood fire in the dining-room, now little used. 
 He then met the notary at the hall door, and cour- 
 teously invited him in. 
 
 ' But stay ! — your pony — what shall w^e do with 
 him ?' 
 
 ' Give yourself no trouble on his account mon- 
 sieur ; he will not stir from the door ; he is Fidelity 
 in person.' 
 
 St. Aubin apologized for not taking his visitor 
 up to the baroness ; ' but the business is one that 
 must be kept from her knowledge.' At this 
 moment the door opened, and Josephine glided in : 
 ' but here,' said he, ' is Mademoiselle de Beaurepaire 
 come to bid you welcome to a house from which 
 you have been too long absent. Mademoiselle, 
 now that you have welcomed our truant friend, be 
 so good as to describe to him the report which I 
 only know from you.' 
 
 Josephine briefly told what she had heard from
 
 WHITE LIES. 1( 
 
 Jaclntha, that there was one cruel creditor wl 
 threatened to sell the chateau and lands of Bea" 
 repaire. 
 
 ' Mademoiselle,' said the notary gravely, ' th 
 report is true. He openly bragged of his intentic 
 more than a week ago.' 
 
 ' Ah ! we live so secluded — you hear ever 
 thing before us. Well Monsieur Perrin, tin 
 was you took an interest in the fortunes of tl 
 family — ' 
 
 * Never more than at the present moment, mo 
 sieur ;' in saying this he looked at Josephine. 
 
 * The more to your credit monsieur.' 
 
 ^ Do you hajDpen to know what is the sum due 
 this creditor ?' 
 
 * I do. Six thousand francs.' 
 
 St. Aubin looked at Josephine triumphantly. 
 
 ' One of the very smallest creditors then.' 
 
 ' The smallest of them all,' replied the notary. 
 
 Another triumphant glance from St. Aubin. 
 
 ' For all that,' said Monsieur Perrin thougl 
 fully, * I wish it had been a larger creditor, and 
 less unmanageable man. The other creditors coi] 
 be influenced by reason, by clemency, by gO' 
 feeling, but this is a man of iron ; humph ! — ma^ 
 advise ?' 
 
 * It will be received as a favour.' 
 
 ' Then — pay this man off at once — have nothi] 
 more to do with him.' His hearers opened th( 
 eyes. 
 
 ' Where are we to find six thousand francs ?' 
 
 r 3
 
 The notary reflected. ' I have not at this mo- 
 ment six thousand francs, but I. could contribute 
 two thousand of the six.' 
 
 ' We thank you sincerely, but — ' 
 
 ' There then ; I must contrive three thousand.' 
 
 St. Aubin shook his head, ' We cannot find three 
 thousand francs.' 
 
 * Then we must prevail on Bonard to move no 
 further for a time ; and in the interval we must 
 find another lender, and transfer the loan.' 
 
 ' Ah ! my good Monsieur Perrin, can you do 
 this for us ?' 
 
 * I can try ; and you know zeal goes a good way 
 in business. I will be frank with you ; the cha- 
 racter of this creditor gives me some uneasiness ; 
 but courage ! all these fellows have secret histories, 
 secret wishes, secret interest, that we notaries can 
 penetrate — when we have a sufficient motive to 
 penetrate such rubbish — but as it is not a matter 
 to be trifled with, forgive me if I bid you and 
 Mademoiselle an unceremonious adieu.' He rose 
 with zeal depicted on his face. 
 
 ' Such a day for yoif to be out on our service,' 
 cried Josephine, putting up both her hands the 
 palms outward, as if disclaiming the weather. 
 
 ^ If it rained hailed and snowed, I should not 
 feel them in your cause mademoiselle,' cried the 
 chivalrous notary ; and he took by surprise one of 
 Josephine's white hands, and kissed it with the 
 deepest respect ; then made off all in a bustle. 
 St. Aubin followed him to the door, and lo !
 
 * Fidelity in person ' Avas gone. St. Aubin was 
 concerned. 
 
 The notary was a little surprised, but he gave 
 a shrill whistle, and awaited the result — another ; 
 and this time a long tail came slowly out of the 
 Beaurepaire oak ; the pony's quarters followed ; 
 but when his withers were just clear, the cold rain 
 and wind struck on his loins, and the quadruped's 
 bones went slowly in again. The tail had the 
 grace to stay out ; but hair is a vegetable, and 
 vegetables like rain. The notary strode to the 
 tree, and went in and backed ' demifidelity in per- 
 son ' out. The pyramid of cloth remounted him, 
 and away they toddled ; Laure, in spite of her 
 anxiety, giggling against the window ; for why, 
 the fore-shortened animal's fore legs being hidden 
 by the ample folds, the little cream-coloured hind 
 legs seemed the notary's own. 
 
 Meantime St. Aubin w^as in earnest talk with 
 Josephine in the hall. ' Well ! that looks like 
 sincerity !' 
 
 ' Yes ! you did not see the signal I made you.' 
 
 ' No ! what signal ? why ?' 
 
 ' His eye was upon you like a hawk's when he 
 proposed to you to pay three thousand francs out 
 of the six thousand. Doctor, he was fathoming our 
 resources ; I wanted you not to lay bare the extent 
 of our poverty and helplessness — oh that eye. He 
 only said it to draw you out.' 
 
 ' If you thought so why did you not stop me ?' 
 
 ' I did all I could to. I made you a sign twice.'
 
 lOS WHITE LIES. 
 
 ' Not that I observed.' 
 
 ' All ! if it bad been Laure, she would have un- 
 derstood it directly.' 
 
 ' Josephine, be candid : what sinister motive can 
 this poor man have ?' 
 
 ' Indeed I don't know. Forgive me my uncha- 
 ritable instinct, and let us admire your reasonable 
 sairacitv. It icas our smallest creditor ! Laure 
 shall ask your pardon ; dear friend, she will not 
 leave our mother alone : be so kind as to go into 
 the saloon ; then Laure will come out to me.' 
 
 The doctor did as he was bid ; and sure enough, 
 her mother having now a companion, Laure 
 w^hipped out and ran post-haste to her sister for 
 the news. Thus a secret entered the House of 
 Beaurepaire ; a secret from which one person, the 
 mistress of the house, was excluded. 
 
 Theirs' was no vulgar secrecy — no disloyal, nor 
 s'?lfish, nor even doubtful motive mingled with it. 
 Circumstances appeared to dictate this course to 
 tender and vigilant affection. They saw and 
 obeyed. They put up the shutters — not to keep 
 out the light from some action that would not bear 
 the light — but to keep the wind of passing trouble 
 from visiting the aged cheek they loved, and re- 
 vered, and guarded. 
 
 In three days the notary called again. The poor 
 soul seemed a little downcast. He said he had been 
 to Bonard and made no impression on him ; and 
 to tell the truth had been insulted by him, or next 
 door to it. On this they were greatly dispirited.
 
 WHITE LIES. 109 
 
 Maitre Perrin recovered first. He brightened 
 up all in a moment. ' I have an idea,' said he ; 
 ' we shall succeed yet ; ay, and perhaps put all 
 the liabilities on a more moderate scale of interest ; 
 meantime — ' and here he hesitated. ' I wish you 
 would let an old friend be your banker and advance 
 you any small sums you may need for present 
 comforts or conveniences.' Laure's eyes thanked 
 him ; but Josephine, a little to her surprise, put in 
 a hasty and firm though polite negative. 
 
 The notary apologized for his ojfficiousness, and 
 said, 
 
 * I do not press this trifling offer of service ; but 
 pray consider it a permanent offer which at any 
 time you can honour me by accepting.' He ad- 
 dressed this to Josephine with the air of a subject 
 offering one little acorn back out of all ' the woods 
 and forests ' to his sovereign. 
 
 While the open friend of Beaurepaire was thus 
 exhibiting his zeal, its clandestine friend was mak- 
 ing a chilling discovery youth and romance have 
 to make on their road to old age and caution, 
 namely, how much easier it is to form many plans 
 than to carry out one. This boiling young heart 
 had been about to do wonders for her he adored, 
 and for those who were a part of her. He had 
 been going to interest the Government in their 
 misfortunes — but how ? Oh ' some way or other.' 
 Looked at closer ' some way ' had proved impracti- 
 cable, and * the other' unprecedented, i. e., impos- 
 sible.
 
 J 10 WHITE LIES. 
 
 He had not been a mere dreamer in her cause 
 either. He had examined the whole estate of 
 Beam^epaire, and had scientifically surveyed on one 
 government pretence or another two or three of 
 the farms. He had discovered that all the farms 
 were underlet ; that there were no leases ; so that 
 an able and zealous agent could in a few months 
 increase the baroness's income thirty per cent. 
 But when he had got this valuable intelligence 
 what the better were they or he ? To show them 
 that they were not so poor as they in their aristo- 
 cratical incapacity for business thought themselves, 
 he must first win their ear : and how could he do 
 this ? If he were to call at Beaurepaire, word 
 would come down again * not at home to strangers 
 until the Bourbons come back.' If he wrote, the 
 answer would be ' Monsieur, I understand abso- 
 lutely nothing of business. Be kind enough to 
 make your communication to our man of business ' 
 — who must be either incapable or dishonest, argued 
 young Riviere, or their affairs would not be thus 
 vilely neglected ; ten to one he receives a secret 
 commission from the farmers to keep the rents 
 low ; so no good could come of applying to him — 
 and here stepped in a little bit of self — for there 
 are no angels upon earth except in a bad novel, 
 and the poor boy was not writing a bad novel, 
 but acting his little part in the real world. ' No !' 
 said he, * / have found this out : perhaps she will 
 never love me, but at least I will have her thanks 
 and the pride and glory of having done her and
 
 AVHITE LIES. Ill 
 
 tliem a great service : no undeserving person sliall 
 rob me of this, nor even share it with me.' And 
 here came the heart-breaking thing. The prospect 
 of a formal acquaintance receded instead of ad- 
 vancing. 
 
 First, his own heart interposed a fresh obstacle : 
 the deeper he fell in love the more his assurance 
 dwindled, and since he found out they were so 
 very poor he was more timid still, and they seemed 
 to him more sacred and inaccessible, for he felt in 
 his own soul how proud and distant he should be 
 if he was a pauper. 
 
 The next calamity was, the young ladies never 
 came out now. Strange to say he had no sooner 
 confided his love and his hopes to Jacintha than 
 she he loved kept the house with cruel pertinacity. 
 ' Had Jacintha been so mad as to go and prattle in 
 spite of her promise ? had the young lady's delicacy 
 been alarmed ? was she imprisoning herself to 
 avoid meeting one whose admiration annoyed her.' 
 
 A cold perspiration broke over him, whenever 
 his perplexed mind came round to this thought. 
 
 Now the poor cannot afford to lose what the rich 
 can fling away. 
 
 The sight of that sweet face for a moment thrice 
 a week was not much — ah ! but it was, for it was 
 all — his one bit of joy, and comfort and sunshine 
 and hope — and it was gone now. The loss of it 
 kept him at fever heat every day of his life, for an 
 hour or two before their usual time of coming out 
 and an hour or two after it, and chill at heart
 
 112 WHITE LIES. 
 
 the rest of the day : and he lost his colour and his 
 appetite, and fretted and pined for this one look 
 three times a week. And she who could have 
 healed this wound with a glance of her violet eye 
 and a smile once or twice a week : she who with- 
 out committing herself or caring a straw for him, 
 could have brought the colour back to this young 
 cheek and the warmth to this chilled heart by just 
 shining out of doors now and then instead of in, 
 sat at home with unparalelled barbarity and per- 
 severance. 
 
 At last he lost all patience. 'I must see Ja- 
 cintha,' said he, ' and if she really imprisons herself 
 to avoid me, I will leave the country — I will go 
 into the army — it is very hard she should be robbed 
 of her health and her walk because I love her :' 
 and with this generous resolution the poor little 
 fellow felt something rise in his throat and nearly 
 choke him. Forgive him ladies : though a states- 
 man, he was but a boy — boys will cry after women 
 as children for toys. You may have observed this ! 
 He walked hurredly up to Beaurepaire, asking 
 himself how he should contrive an interview with 
 Jacintha. 
 
 On his arrival there, casting his eyes over the 
 palings, what did he see but the two young ladies 
 walking in the park at a considerable distance from 
 the house ! His heart gave a leap at the sight of 
 them. Then he had a sudden inspiration. The 
 park was not strictly private, at least since the 
 Revolution. Still it was so far private that re-
 
 WHITE LIES. 113 
 
 spectable people did not make a practice of cross- 
 ing it. 'I will seem to met them unexpectedly,' 
 thought young Riviere, ' and if she smiles, I will 
 apologize for crossing the park — then I shall have 
 spoken to her. I shall have broken the ice.' 
 
 He met them. They looked so loftily saJ he 
 had not the courage to address them. He bowed 
 respectfully, they curtseyed, and he passed on 
 cursing his cowardice. 
 
 ' I must see Jacintha.' He made a long detour ; 
 his object being to get where he could be seen from 
 the kitchen. 
 
 Meantime the following short dialogue passed 
 between the sisters : — 
 
 Laure. — ' Why he has lost his colour ! What a 
 pityl' 
 
 ' Who, dear ?' 
 
 * That young gentleman who passed us just now. 
 I think he has been ill. I am so sorry.' 
 
 ' Who is he ?' 
 
 ' I don't know who he is ; I know what he is, 
 though.' 
 
 ' And what is he ?' 
 
 ' He is very handsome ; and he passes us oftener 
 than seems to me quite natural ; and now I think 
 of it,' said Laure, opening her eyes ludicrously, 
 ' I have a sister who is a beautiful woman ; and 
 now I think of it again,' — opening her eyes still 
 wider — 'if I do not lock her up, I shall perhaps 
 have a rival in her affections.' 
 
 ' Child ! Moreover he seemed to me a mere
 
 114 WHITE LIES. 
 
 boy.' Laure gave a toss of her head, and a suspi- 
 cious look at Josephine. * Oh, mademoiselle, there 
 are forward boys as well as backward ones. But 
 I shall have an eye on you both.' 
 
 Josephine smiled very faintly ; amidst so many 
 cares she was hardly equal to what she took for 
 granted was a pure jest of Laure's, and their con- 
 versation returned to its usual channels. Edouard 
 got round to the other side of the chateau, and 
 strolled about outside the palings some thirty yards 
 from the kitchen-door ; and there he walked slowly 
 about, hoping every moment to see the kitchen- 
 door open and Jacinth a come out. He was disap- 
 pointed ; and after hanging about nearly an hour, 
 was going away in despair, when a window at the 
 top of the house suddenly opened, and Jacinth a 
 made him a rapid signal with her hand to go 
 nearer the public road. He obeyed ; and then she 
 kept him waiting till his second stock of patience 
 was nearly exhausted ; but at last he heard a rustle, 
 and there was her comely face set between two 
 young acacias. He ran to her. She received him 
 with a rebuke. ' Is that the way to do ? — prowling 
 in sight like a house-breaker.' 
 
 ' Did any one see me ?' 
 
 *Yes! Mademoiselle Laure did; and what is 
 more, she spoke to me, and asked me who you 
 were. Of course, I said I didn't know.' 
 
 'Oh! did you?' 
 
 'Then she asked me if it was not the young 
 monsieur who sent them the game. Oh ! I forgot,
 
 WHITE LIES. 115 
 
 I ought to have told you that first. When they 
 asked me about the game, I said " it is a young 
 sportsman that takes Dard out ; so he shot some 
 on the baroness's land." I was obliged to say that, 
 you know.' 
 
 ' Well, but you spoke the truth.* 
 
 ' You don't mean that ! — that is odd. " And so 
 he gave some of it to Dard for the house," said I. 
 But the next time you want me don't stand 
 sentinel for all the world to see ; make me a signal 
 and then slip in here, and I will join you.' 
 
 * A signal ?' 
 
 Jacintha put her hand under her apron and 
 pulled out a dish-cloth. 
 
 ' Hang this on that tree out there ; then I shall 
 see it from the kitchen window ; so then I shall 
 know something is up. Apropos, what is up now ?' 
 
 ' I am very unhappy ! — that is up.' 
 
 * Oh ! you must expect the cold fit as well as the 
 hot fit, if you will fall in love,' observed eJacintha, 
 with a cool smile. ' AVhy didn't you come to me 
 before, and be cheered up ?' 
 
 ' Dear Jacintha, she never comes out now. 
 What is to become of me if I am to lose the very 
 sight of her? Surely, you have not been so in- 
 discreet as to tell them — ' 
 
 ' There is a question. Do you see green in my 
 eye, young man ?' 
 
 ' Then what is the reason ? — there must be some 
 reason. They used to walk out ; pray, pray, tell 
 me the reason.'
 
 116 WHITE LIES. 
 
 Jacintlia's merry countenance fell. ^My poor 
 lad/ said she kindly, 'don't torment yourself, or 
 fancy I have been such an ill friend to you, or such 
 a novice, as to put them on their guard against 
 you. No ; it is the old story — want of money.' 
 ' That keeps them in doors ? How can that be ?' 
 * Well now,' said Jacintha, ' it is just as well you 
 have come to-day, for if you had come this time 
 yesterday I could not have told you, but I over- 
 heard them yesternight. My son, it is for want 
 of clothes.' Riviere looked aghast at her. 
 
 ' Don't !' cried the faithful servant — ' don't look 
 at me so, or I shall give way, I know I shall ; nor 
 don't mistake me either — they have plenty of 
 coloured dresses ; old ones, but very good ones ; 
 but it is their black dresses that are worn shabby ; 
 and they can't afford to buy new ; and all the old 
 dresses are coloured, and it goes against their hearts 
 to go flaunting it. They were crying last night 
 to think they could not afford even to mourn for 
 their father, but must come out in colours, for want 
 of a little money.' 
 
 ' Jacintha, they will break my heart.' 
 ^ So it seems they have settled not to go out of 
 the grounds at all. Thus they meet nobody ; so 
 now they can wear their mourning till it is quite 
 threadbare. Ah, my son, how different from most 
 women, that can't forget the dead too quick, and 
 come flaring out again ! And to-morrow is her 
 birthday. I mind the time there was one beautiful 
 new gown sure to be laid out on her bed that
 
 WHITE LIES. 117 
 
 day, if not two. Times are sadly changed w^tli 
 us, monsieur/ 
 
 ' To-morrow is her birthday T 
 
 ' Yes !' 
 
 ' Good-bye, Jacintha — my heart is full. There ! 
 good bye, loyal heart,' and he kissed her hastily, 
 with trembling lips. 
 
 ' Poor boy ! — don't lose my dish-clout, what- 
 ever YOU DO !' 
 
 She uttered this caution with extreme anxiety, 
 and at the top of her voice, as he w^as running off 
 in a strange flutter. 
 
 The next day the notary bustled in with a 
 cheerful air. He had not a moment to stay, but 
 just dropped in to say that he thought matters 
 were going well, and that he should be able to 
 muzzle Bonard. 
 
 After this short interview, which was with the 
 young ladies only, for the doctor was out, away 
 bustled Perrin. 
 
 It was about an hour after this — Josephine was 
 reading to the baroness, and Laure and she were 
 working — when in came Jacintha, and made a 
 curtsey. ' The tree is come, my ladies.' ' What 
 tree ?' inquired the baroness. 
 
 * For Mademoiselle to plant, according to cus- 
 tom. It is her birthday. Dard has brought it ; 
 it is an acacia this time.' ' The faithful creature,' 
 cried the baroness. ' She has thought of this — and 
 we forgot it. There, bring me my shawl and 
 hood. I will not be absent from the ceremony.'
 
 118 WHITE LIES. 
 
 * But, dear mamma,' put in Josephine, * had not 
 you better look at us from the window ; there is 
 such a cold air out to-day.' 
 
 ' It is not cold enough to chill a mother's love. 
 My first-born ! I see her in her cradle now. 
 Sweet little cherub.' 
 
 In a few minutes they were all out in the 
 garden. 
 
 Josephine was to decide where she would plant 
 her tree. 
 
 ' Only remember. Mademoiselle,' said Jacintha, 
 'it will not always be little like it is now. You 
 must not put it where it will be choked uj) when 
 it is a big tree.' ' Oh no, Jacintha,' said Laure, 
 ' we will plant it to the best advantage.' 
 
 Then one advised Josephine to plant it on the 
 south terrace ; another preferred the turf oval 
 between the great gate and the north side of the 
 chateau. When they had said their say, to their 
 surprise Josephine said rather timidly, ' 1 should 
 like to plant it in the Pleasance.' 
 
 ' In the Pleasance ! Why, Josephine ?' 
 
 ' It will take some time to plant.' 
 
 ' But it will take no more time to plant it where 
 it will show than in the Pleasance,' said Laure, 
 half angrily. 
 
 ' But Laure, the Pleasance is sheltered from the 
 wind.' 
 
 Dard snorted. 
 
 'It is sheltered to-day because the chateau 
 happens to be between the wind and it. But the
 
 WHITE LIES. 119 
 
 wind will not be always in that quarter ; and the 
 Pleasance is open to more winds than any other 
 part, if you go to that.' 
 
 ' Dear mamma, may I not plant it in the Plea- 
 sance ?' 
 
 ' Of course you may, my child.' 
 
 ' And who told you to put in your word ! You 
 are to take up your spade and dig the hole where 
 Mademoiselle bids, — that is what you are here for, 
 not to argufy.' 
 
 ' Laure, I admire the energy of that girl's cha- 
 racter,' remarked Josephine languidly, as they all 
 made for the Pleasance. ' Where will you have 
 it ?' asked Dard roughly. 
 
 ' Here, I think, Dard,' said Josephine sweetly. 
 
 Dard grinned malignantly, and drove in his 
 spade. 'It will never be much bigger than a 
 stinging nettle,' thought he, ' for the roots of the 
 oak have sucked every atom of heart out of this ;' 
 his black soul exulted secretly. 
 
 They watched his work. ' You are not cold, 
 mamma ?' asked Josephine anxiously. 
 
 ^ No ! no !' said the baroness. ' There is no 
 wind on this side of the house. Ah ! now I see, 
 my Josephine. I have a very good daughter — 
 who will never shine in horticulture.' 
 
 Jacintha stood by Dard, inspecting his work ; 
 the three ladies stood together watching him at 
 the distance of a few feet; on their right, but a 
 little behind them, was the great oak. Close 
 behind them was a lemon tree and its mould in
 
 120 WHITE LIES. 
 
 ail immense tub ; the tub was rotting at the sides. 
 Over the mould was a little moss here and there. 
 
 Now, at the beginning of this business, the 
 excitement of the discussion, and choosing the 
 spot, and setting Dard to work, had animated the 
 baroness as well as her daughter. But now, for 
 some time Dard had all the excitement to himself. 
 They had only to look on and think while he 
 wrought. 
 
 • Oh dear,' cried Laure suddenly, ^ mamma is 
 crying. Josephine, our mother is crying !' 
 
 ' Ah !' cried Josephine, ' I feared this. I did 
 not want her to come out. Oh, my mother I' - 
 
 ' My children,' sobbed the baroness, ' it is very 
 natural. I cannot but remember how often we 
 have planted a tree and kept the poor child's 
 birthday — not as now. Those were on earth then 
 that have left us, and gone to God. Many friends 
 stood around us — how warm their hands — how- 
 friendly their voices — how truthful their eyes I 
 Yet they have abandoned us. Adversity has 
 shaken them off as the frost is even now strip- 
 ping off your leaves, old friend. These tears are 
 not for me ! oh, no ! thanks to God and the Virgin, 
 I know whither I am going, and whom I shall 
 meet again, I care not how soon : but it is to think 
 I must leave my darlings behind me without a 
 friend, my tender lambs in a world of foxes and 
 wolves without a friend !' 
 
 ' Mother, we have friends ! AYe have the dear 
 doctor.'
 
 WHITE LIES. 121 
 
 ' A savant, a creature more a woman than a 
 woman ; you will have to take care of him, not he 
 of you/ 
 
 ' We have our own love ; did ever a sister love 
 another as I love Josephine ?' 
 
 ' No r said Josephine. ' Yes ! I love you as 
 much.' 
 
 ' As to that, yes, you will fall in one another's 
 arms,' said the baroness — * ah ! I do ill to weep 
 this day; my children, suffer me to compose my- 
 self,' and the baroness turned round, and applied 
 her handkerchief to her eyes. Her daughters 
 withdrew a step or two in the opposite direction ; 
 for in those days parents, even the most affection- 
 ate, maintained a marked superiority, and the 
 above was a hint their mother would be alone a 
 moment. 
 
 They waited respectfully for her orders to rejoin 
 her. The order came in a tone that surprised them. 
 ' My children, come here — both of you.' 
 They found the baroness poking among the moss 
 with the point of her ebony crutch. 
 
 ' This is a purse, and it is not yours, Laure, nor 
 yours, is it ?' 
 
 The two girls looked, and sure enough, there 
 lay among the green moss in the tub — a green silk 
 purse. They eyed it like startled deer a moment, 
 and then Laure pounced on it and took it up. 
 ' Oh ! how heavy.' Jacintha and Dard came 
 running up ; Laure poured the contents into her 
 hand, ten gold pieces of twenty francs each : new 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 122 WHITE LIES. 
 
 shining gold pieces. Jacintha gave a scream of 
 jo J, a sort of victorious war whoop. 
 
 * Luck is turned, ' cried she with joyful super- 
 stition. Laure stood with the gold pieces glittering 
 in her pink white palm and her face blushing all 
 over and beaming ; and her eyes glittering with 
 excitement and pleasure. Their amazement was 
 great. ' And here is a paper,' cried Josephine 
 eagerly, bending over the moss and taking up a 
 small piece of paper folded ; she opened it rapidly, 
 and showed it them all ; it contained these words, 
 in a copperplate hand — 
 
 ' From a friend — in part payment of a great debt J 
 
 And now all of a sudden Josephine began to 
 blush ; and gradually not only her face but her 
 neck blushed all over, and even her white forehead 
 glowed like a rose. 
 
 ' Who could it be ?' echoed on all sides. 
 
 The baroness solved it for them — ' it is St. 
 Aubin.' 
 
 ' Oh ! mamma ! he has not ten gold pieces.' 
 
 * Who knows ? he has perhaps found some 
 bookseller who has bought his work on insects.' 
 
 ' Xo, mamma,' said Laure ; ^ I cannot think this 
 is our dear doctor's doing. It is odd, too, his 
 being out of the way at this hour ; I never knew 
 him anywhere but at his books till two. Hush ! 
 hush ! — here he comes ; let us circumvent him on 
 the spot — this is fun.' 
 
 ' Give me the purse, and you Jacintha and 
 Dard, recommence your work.'
 
 WHITE LIES. 123 
 
 When the Doctor came up, he found Dard at 
 work, Jacintha standing by him, and the ladies 
 entirely occupied in looking on. The baroness 
 explained to him what was going on. He showed 
 considerable interest in it. 
 
 Presently the baroness put her hand in her 
 pocket, and gave her daughters a look ; four eyes 
 were instantly levelled at the doctor's face. Stand 
 firm, Doctor ; if there is a crevice in your coat of 
 mail, those eyes wdll pierce it. 
 
 'By-the-by,' said the baroness, with perfect 
 nonchalance, ' you have dropped your purse here ; 
 we have just picked it up ;' and she handed it 
 him. 
 
 'Thank you, madam,' said he, and he took it 
 carelessly; 'this is not mine — it is too heavy — 
 and now I think of it,' continued the savant with 
 enviable simplicity, ' I have not carried a purse 
 this twenty years. No ! I put my silver in my 
 right waistcoat pocket, and my gold in my left, 
 that is, I should — but I never have any.' 
 
 * Doctor, on your honour, did you not leave this 
 purse and this paper there ?' 
 
 The doctor examined the j^aper. Meantime 
 Laure explained to him w^hat had occurred. 
 
 'Madam the baroness,' said he, 'I have been 
 your friend and pensioner nearly twenty years ; 
 if by some strange chance money w^ere to come 
 into my hands, I should not play you a childish 
 trick like this of which you seem to suspect me. I 
 have the right "to come to you, and say, ' My old 
 
 G 2
 
 124 WHITE LIES. 
 
 friend, here I bring you back a small part of all I 
 owe you." ' 
 
 * My friend ! my friend ! I was stupid ; tell us 
 then who is our secret friend ? may heaven bless 
 him!' 
 
 * Let us reflect,' said the doctor. * Ah ! to be 
 sure. I would lay my life it is he !' 
 
 'Who?' 
 
 'A very honest man, w^iom you have treated 
 harshly, madame ; it is Perrin, the notary.' 
 
 It was the baroness's turn to be surprised. 
 
 ' I may as well confess to you, madame, that I 
 have lately had more than one interview with 
 Perrin, and that although he is naturally hurt at 
 the severity with w^hich you treated him, his regard 
 for you is undiminished.' 
 
 ' I am as grateful as possible,' said the baroness 
 with a fine and scarcely perceptible sneer. ' Laure,' 
 said Josephine, 'it is curious, but Monsieur Perrin 
 was here for a minute or, two to-day ; and really 
 he did not seem to have anything particular to 
 say.' 
 
 ' There !' shouted the doctor — ' there ! he came 
 to leave the purse. And in doing so he was only 
 carrying out an intention he had already declared.' 
 
 ' Indeed !' said the baroness. 
 
 * He offered to advance money in small sums ; 
 an offer that of course was declined. So he w^as 
 driven to this manoeuvre. There are honest hearts 
 among the notaries.' 
 
 While the doctor was enforcing his views on the
 
 WHITE LIES. 125 
 
 baroness, Josephine and Laure slipped away round 
 tlie house. 
 
 * Who is it ?' said Laure. 
 
 ' It is not the doctor ; and it is not Monsieur 
 Perrin.' 
 
 ' Of course not, but who is it ?' 
 
 * Laure, don't you think it is some one who has 
 at all events delicate sentiments ?' 
 
 * Clearly, and therefore not a notary.' 
 
 * Laure, dear. Mig-ht it not be some person 
 who has done us some wrong, and is perhaps 
 penitent ?' 
 
 * Certainly. Such a person might make restitu- 
 tion — one of our tenants, or creditors, you mean, 
 but then, the paper says " a friend." Stay, it says 
 a debtor ! Why a debtor ? Down with enigmas V 
 
 ' Laure, dear, think of some one that might — ' 
 
 * I can't. I am quite at a loss.' 
 
 . * Since it is not the doctor, nor Monsieur Perrin, 
 might it not be — for after all, he would naturally 
 be ashamed to appear before me.' 
 ' Before you?' 
 
 * Yes, Laure, is it quite certain that it might not 
 be—' 
 
 ' Who ?' asked Laure nervously, catching a 
 glimpse now. 
 
 *He who once pretended to love me !' 
 
 ' Camille Dujardin ?' 
 
 ' It was not I who mentioned his name,' cried 
 Josephine hastily. Laure turned pale. ' Oh, 77ion 
 Dieu I mon Dieu ! She loves that man still.'
 
 126 WHITE LIES. 
 
 ' No ! no ! no !' 
 
 ' You love him just the same as ever. Oh, it is 
 wonderful — it is terrible — the jDower this man has 
 over you — over your judgment as well as your 
 heart/ 
 
 'No! for I believe he has forgotten my very 
 name ; don't you think so T 
 
 ' Dear Josephine, can you doubt it T 
 
 ' Forgive me/ 
 
 ' Come, you do doubt it/ 
 
 ' I do/ 
 
 * Why ? for what reason ?' 
 
 ' Because the words he said to me as we parted 
 at that gate lie still at my heart : and oh, sister, 
 the voice we love seems the voice of truth itself. 
 He said " I am to join the army of the Pyrenees, so 
 fatal to our troops ; but say to me what you never 
 yet have said, Camille, I love you — and I swear I 
 will come back alive/' So then I said to him, " I 
 love you," — and he never came back/ 
 
 'How could he come here? a deserter — a 
 traitor !' 
 
 * It is not true ! it is not in his nature ; incon- 
 stancy may be. Tell me that he never really 
 loved me and I will believe you ; but not that he 
 is a coward. Let me weep over my past love, not 
 blush for it/ 
 
 * Past ? You love him to-day as you did three 
 years ago !' 
 
 * No ! I tell you I do not. I love no one. I 
 never shall love any one again/
 
 WHITE LIES. 127 
 
 * But him. It is tliat love which tm^ns your 
 heart against others. You love him, dearest, or 
 why should you fancy our secret benefactor could 
 be Camille ?' 
 
 ^ Why ? because I was mad ! because it is im- 
 possible ; but I see my folly. Let us go in, my 
 sister.' 
 
 ' Go, love, I will follow you ; but don't you care 
 to know who 1 think left the purse for us ?' 
 
 ' No,' said Josephine sadly and doggedly ; she 
 added with cold nonchalance, * I dare say time 
 will show,' and she went slowly in, her hand to her 
 head. 
 
 * Her birthday !' sighed Laure. 
 
 ' I will see her tree planted,' thought Laure, 
 *for she has forgotten it, and everything, and 
 everybody but that — ' 
 
 And she ran off to join the group. Turning 
 the corner rapidly, she found Jacintha suspiciously 
 near : and, above all, walking away towards the 
 tree : away from where ? 
 
 Laure burned with anger, and, as she passed 
 Jacintha, wheeled about, and gave her a look like 
 red hghtning. It came like a slap in the face. 
 Jacintha, meantime, had got ready an amazing 
 dogged, unconscious face — 
 
 And o'er the impassive ice the lightuings play. 
 
 This gallant and praiseworthy effort was but
 
 128 WHITE LIES. 
 
 partially successful. She could command her 
 features, but not her blood : she felt it burn her 
 cheek under the fire of Laure's eye. And in the 
 evening, when Laure suddenly beckoned to her, 
 and said in a significant way, ' I want to speak to 
 you Jacintha/ the faithful domestic felt like gwing 
 way at the knees and sinking down flat ; so she 
 stood up like Notre Dame outwardly, and wore an 
 expression of satisfaction and agreeable expectation 
 on her impenetrable mug. Laure drove in an 
 eye. ' TTho put that purse there ?' 
 
 ' Mademoiselle Laure, I don't know — but I have 
 my suspicions ; and if mademoiselle will give me a 
 few days, I think I can find out for sure.' 
 
 * How many days ? for I am impatient.' 
 ' Say a fortnight mademoiselle.' 
 
 * That is a long time ; well, it is agreed.' 
 
 And so these two parted without a word openly 
 uttered on either side about that which was ujoper- 
 most in both their minds. ' Come,' thought 
 J acintha, ' I am well out of it : if I can find that 
 out, she won't give it me for listening ; and it is a 
 fair bargain, especially for me, for I know who 
 left the purse ; but I wasn't going to tell her that 
 all in a moment.' 
 
 Now Jacintha, begging her pardon, did not 
 know ; but she strongly suspected young Riviere 
 of being the culprit who had invented this new 
 sort of burglary — breaking into honest folk's 
 premises in the dead of night, and robbing them of 
 their poverty, instead of their wealth, like the
 
 WHITE LIES. 129 
 
 good old-fasliioned burglars. She waited quietly, 
 expecting every day to see her dish-cloth waving 
 from the tree at the back, and to hear him tell her 
 of his own accord how cleverly he had done the 
 trick. 
 
 Day after day passed away, and no dish-cloth. 
 The fortnight was melting, and Jacintha's patience. 
 She resolved : and one morning she cut two 
 bunches of grapes, and pulled some nectarines, put 
 them in a basket, covered them with a napkin, 
 and called on M. Edouard Riviere at his lodging. 
 She was ushered into that awful presence, and, so 
 long as the servant was in hearing, all her talk 
 was about the fruit she had brought him in return 
 for his game. The servant being gone, she 
 dropped the mask. ' Well it is all right !' said 
 she, smiling and winking. 
 
 ' What is all right ?' 
 
 ' They have got the purse !' 
 
 ' Have they ! What purse ? I don't know 
 what you allude to.' 
 
 * No, of course not, Mr. Innocence : you did not 
 leave a purse full of gold up at Beaurepaire ! ! 1 !' 
 
 ' Well, I never said I did : purses full of gold 
 are luxuries with which I am little acquainted.' 
 
 ' Yery well,' said Jacintha biting her lip ; ' then 
 you and I are friends no longer, that is all.' 
 
 ' ! yes we are.' 
 
 ' No ! if you can't trust me, you are no friend of 
 mine ; ingrate ! to try and deceive ine. I know it 
 was you/ 
 
 G 3
 
 130 WHITE LIES. 
 
 * "Well, if you know, why ask me ?' retorted 
 Edoiiard sharply. ' Better snap my nose off, had 
 you not ?' said Jacintha reproachfully. * Confess 
 it is odd your not showing more curiosity about it. 
 Looks as if you knew all about it, eh ?' 
 
 * But I am curious, and I wish to Heaven you 
 would tell me what it is all about, instead of taking 
 it into your head that I know already.' 
 
 * Well I will; 
 
 So Jacintha told him all about the baroness 
 finding the purse : and on whom their suspicions 
 had fallen. 
 
 ' I wish it had been /,' said Edouard ; ' but tell 
 me dear, has it been of service, has it contributed 
 to their comfort ? that is the principal thing — not 
 who gave it.' 
 
 On this Jacintha reflected, and fixing her grey 
 eye on him she said — ' Unluckily there were just 
 two pieces too few.' 
 
 ' Wliat a pity.' 
 
 ' No one of my ladies ever buys a new dress 
 without the others having one too ; now they found 
 it would take two more gold pieces to give my 
 three ladies a new suit of mourning each. So the 
 money is put by till they can muster the other 
 two.' ' What then,' cried Edouard, ' I must not 
 hope to see them out again any the more for this 
 money ?' 
 
 * No ! you see it was not quite enough.' 
 Eiviere's countenance fell. 
 
 * Well,' said Jacintha, assuming a candid tone,
 
 WHITE LIES. 131 
 
 * I see it was not yon, but really at first I susjoected 
 you.' 
 
 ' It is nothing to be ashamed of if I had done it.' 
 
 * No ! indeed. How foolish to suspect you, 
 was it not? You shall have the grapes all the 
 same.' 
 
 * Thank you ; they come from Beaurepaire ?' 
 
 * Yes. Good-bye. Don't be sad. They will 
 come out again as soon as they can afford the 
 mourning :' she added, with sudden warmth — ' you 
 have not lost my clout ?' 
 
 *No! no!' 
 
 ' You had better give it me back : then my 
 mind will be at ease.' 
 
 * No, excuse me ; it is my only way of getting a 
 word with you.' 
 
 * Why, you have never used it.' 
 ' But I may want to any day.' 
 
 Jacintha, as she went home with her empty 
 basket, knitted her black brows, and recalled the 
 scene, and argued the matter pro and eon. 
 
 * I don't know why he should face it out like 
 that with me if it was he. Ah ! but he would 
 have been jealous, and a deal more inquisitive if it 
 was not he. Well, any way I have put him off 
 his guard, and won't I watch him ! If it is he, I'll 
 teach him to try and draw the wool over Jacintha's 
 eyes, and she his friend — the monster.' 
 
 Fortune co-operated with these mahgnant views. 
 This very evening Dard declared himself — that is, 
 after proposing by implication and probable infer-
 
 132 AVHITE LIES. 
 
 ence for the last seven years, lie made a direct 
 offer of his hand and digestive organs. 
 
 Now this gave Jacintha great pleasure. She 
 could have kissed the little fellow on the spot. 
 
 So she said in an off-hand way ' Well Dard, if 
 I were to take any one, it should be you : but I 
 have pretty well made up my mind not to marry 
 at all : at all events till my mistress can spare me. 
 
 ' Gammon !' shouted Dard, ' that is what they all 
 say.' 
 
 ' Well, what everybody says must be true,' said 
 Jacintha equivocating unworthily. ' Xot unless 
 they stick to it,' objected Dard. ' And that is a 
 song they all drop at the church door, when they 
 do get a chance.' ' Well, I am not in such a hurry 
 as to snap at such a small chance,' retorted Jacin- 
 tha, with a toss of her head. 
 
 So then the polite swain had to mollify her. 
 
 ' Well, Dard,' said she, ' one good turn deserves 
 another : if I am to marry you what will you do 
 for me ?' 
 
 Dard gave a glowing description of what he 
 would do for her as soon as she was his wife. She 
 let him know that was not the point : what would 
 he do for her first. He would do anything — 
 everything. 
 
 -We do know 
 
 AVTien the blood burns how prodigal the heart 
 Lends the tongue vows. — Hamlet. 
 
 This brought the contracting parties to an un- 
 derstanding.
 
 WHITE LIES. 13;3 
 
 First, under a vow of secresy, she told him young 
 Riviere was in love with Josephine, and she was 
 liis confidante ; then how the youth had afi*ronted 
 her by attemj^ting to deceive her about the purse ; 
 and, finally, Dard must watch his movements by 
 night and day, that between them they might 
 catch him out. 
 
 Dard made a wry face — dolus latet in generalibus 
 — [free translation — ' anything means nothing ;'] 
 when he vowed to do anything, everything, what 
 not, and such small phrases, he never intended to 
 do anytliing in particular : but he was in for it ; 
 and sentinel and spy were added to his little odd 
 jobs. For the latter office his apparent stolidity 
 cjualified him, and so did his petty but real astute- 
 ness ; moreover, he was daily primed by Jacintha 
 — a good soul, but no Xicodema. Meantime St. 
 Aubin upheld Perrin as the secret benefactor, and 
 bade them all observe that since that day the no- 
 tary had never been to the chateau. 
 
 The donor, whoever he was, little knew the pain 
 he was inflicting on this distressed but proud 
 family, or the hard battle that ensued between 
 their necessities and their delicacy ! ! The ten 
 gold pieces were a perpetual temptation : a daily 
 conflict. The words that accompanied the dona- 
 tion off'ered a bait. Their pride and dignity de- 
 clined it ; but these bright bits of gold cost them 
 many a sharp pang. 
 
 Jacintha deceived Eiviere : a mere portion of 
 the two hundred francs would have enabled the
 
 134 WHITE LIE&. 
 
 poor girls to keep wp appearances with the outside 
 world, and yet to mourn their father oj)enly. And 
 it went through and through those tender, simple 
 hearts, to think that they must be disunited — even 
 in so small a thing as dress; that while their 
 mother remained in her weeds, they must seem no 
 longer to share her woe. 
 
 The baroness knew their feeling, and felt its 
 piety, and yet must not say — ^ take five of these bits 
 of gold, and let us all look what we are — one.' 
 Yet in this, as in everything else, they came to be 
 all of one mind. They resisted, they struggled, 
 and with a wrench they conquered day by day. 
 At last, by general consent, they locked up the 
 tempter, and looked at it no more. But the little 
 bit of paper met a kinder fate. Laure made a little 
 frame for it, and it was kept in a drawer in the 
 salon: and often looked at and blessed. Their 
 mother had desjDaired of human friendship, and 
 with despondency on her lips she had found this 
 paper with the sacred word * friend ' written on 
 it : it fell all in a moment on their aching hearts. 
 
 They could not tell whence it came — this blessed 
 word. 
 
 But who can tell whence comes the dew ? 
 
 Science is in two minds about that. 
 
 Then let me go with the Poets ; who say it comes- 
 from Heaven. 
 
 And even so that sweet word Friend dropped 
 like the dew from Heaven on these afflicted ones. 
 
 So they locked the potent gold away from them-
 
 WHITE LIES. 135 
 
 selves, and took the kind slip of j)aper to tlieir 
 hearts. Aiisto va I 
 
 The fortnight elaj)sed and Jacintha was no wiser. 
 She had to beg a respite. Lanre conceded it with 
 an austere brow, smiling inwardly. 
 
 Meantime Dard, Jacintha's little odd sentinel, 
 spy, gardener, lover, and all that, wormed himself 
 with rustic cunning into the statesboy's confidence. 
 
 Treachery met its retribution. The statesboy 
 made him his factotum — i, e. yet another set of 
 little odd jobs fell on him. He had always been 
 struck by their natural variety : but now what 
 with Jacintha's and what with Eiviere's they 
 seemed infinite. At one hour he would be hold- 
 ing a long chain while Riviere measured the lands 
 of Beaurepaire : at another he would be set to 
 pump a farmer. Then it would be ' back Dard !' 
 this meant he was to stand in a crescent ^lile 
 Edouard wrote a long calculation or made a sketch 
 upon him, compendious writing desk. 
 
 Then luxury of luxuries, he the laziest of the 
 human race, though through the malice of fate the 
 hardest worked, had to call citizen Riviere in the 
 morning ! 
 
 At night after all his toil he could count upon 
 the refreshment of being scolded by Jacintha be- 
 cause he brought home the wrong sort of informa- 
 tion, and had not the talent to coin the right. He 
 did please her twice though : the first time was 
 when he told her they were measuring the lands 
 of Beaurepaire : and again when he found out the
 
 136 WHITE LIES. 
 
 young citizen's salary, four liiindred francs on the 
 1st of every month. 
 
 ' That brat to have four hundred francs a month !' 
 cried Jacintha. ' Dard I ^'ill give you a good 
 supper to-night.' 
 
 Dard beHeved in her affection for a moment, for 
 with one of his kidney the proof of the pudding, &c. 
 
 ^ And whilst I am cooking it here is a little job 
 for you — to fill up the time.' 
 
 ' Ugh !' 
 
 Jacintha had blacked twenty yards of string, 
 and cut down half a dozen bells that were never 
 used now. 
 
 ' You shall put them up again when times mend,' 
 said she. All Dard had to do now was to draw a 
 wide magic circle all around the lemon tree, and 
 so fix the bells that they should be out of sight, 
 and should ring if a foot came against the invisible 
 string. This little odd job was from that night 
 incorporated into Dard's daily existence. He had 
 to set the trap and bells at dusk every evening, 
 and from that moment till bed-time Jacintha went 
 about her work with half her mind out of doors. — 
 half in, and her ear on full cock. 
 
 One day St. Aubin met the notary ambling. 
 He stopped him, and holding up his finger said 
 playfully — 
 
 ' We have found you out.' 
 
 The notar}' turned pale. 
 
 ' Oh !' said the doctor, ' this is pushing sensi- 
 bility too far.'
 
 WHITE LIES. 137 
 
 The notary stammered. 
 
 ' A good action done slily is none the less a good 
 action.' 
 
 This explanation completed the notary's mystifi- 
 cation. 
 
 ^But you are a worthy man,' cried St. Aubin, 
 warming. 
 
 The notary bowed. 
 
 ' They cannot profit by yom' liberality, but they 
 feel it deeply. And you will be rewarded in a 
 better world. It is I who tell you so.' 
 
 The notary muttered indistinctly. He was a 
 man of moderate desires ; would have been quite 
 content if there had been no other world in per- 
 sj)ective. He had studied this, and made it pay — 
 did not desire a better — sometimes feared a worse. 
 
 ' Ah !' said Monsieur St. Aubin, ' I see how it is ; 
 we do not like to hear ourselves praised, do we ? 
 When shall we see you at the chateau ?' 
 
 ' As soon as I have good news to bring.' And 
 Perrin, anxious to avoid such a shower of compli- 
 ments, spurred the dun, and cantered away.
 
 ]38 WHITE LIES. 
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 
 * Mademoiselle Laure !' 
 ' Who is that ?' 
 
 * Me, mademoiselle ?' 
 
 * And who is me ?' 
 
 * Jacintha. Are you slee23y, mademoiselle ?' 
 ^ Ah, yes!' 
 
 ' Then don't ! — yon must rise directly.' 
 ' Must I ? Why ? Ah ! the chateau is on fire !' 
 ' No ! no ! — great news. I may be mistaken, 
 but I don't think I am — I am sure not, however.' 
 ' The purse ! — the purse !' 
 
 * Xo other thing. Listen, mademoiselle. Dard 
 has watched a certain person this month past, by 
 my orders. Well, mademoiselle, last night he got 
 his pay — four hundred francs — and what do you 
 think, he told Dard he must be called an hour 
 before daybreak. Something must he up — some- 
 thing 25 up !' 
 
 ' That thing is me !' cried Laure. ' Behold, I 
 am up ! You good girl, when did you know all 
 this ? 
 
 ' Only since last night.' 
 
 ' Why didn't you tell me last night, then ?' 
 
 * I had more sense. You would not have slept
 
 WHITE LIES. 139 
 
 a wink. I haven't. Mademoiselle, there is no 
 time to spare ; why, the sun will be up in a few 
 minutes. How quick could you dress to save your 
 life ?' asked Jacintha, a little fretfully ; * in half an 
 hour ?' 
 
 ' In half a minute,' cried Laure ; * fly and get 
 Josephine up ; there will be the struggle !' 
 
 Laure dressed herself furiously, and glided to 
 Josephine's room. She found her languidly ar- 
 ranging herself in the usual style. 
 
 Laure flew at her like a tiger-cat, pinned her 
 and hooked her, and twisted her about at a rare 
 rate. 
 
 Josephine smiled and yawned. 
 
 While the sprightly Hebe was thus expediting 
 the languid Yenus, a bustle of feet was heard over- 
 head, and down came Jacintha red as fire. 
 
 ' Oh, mesdemoiselles ! I have been on the leads. 
 There is somebody coming from the village — I 
 spied from behind the chimney. There is not a 
 moment to lose — the sun is up, too.' 
 
 * But I am not dressed.' 
 
 ' Then you must come undressed,' said Jacintha, 
 brusquely. 
 
 * I feel as if I should come undressed,' answered 
 Josephine, quietly. ' You have not half fastened 
 me. There, don't] let me detain you — go with- 
 out me.' 
 
 'Hear to that !' remonstrated Jacintha ; * and it 
 is for her the man does it all.' 
 ' For her !'
 
 140 WHITE LIES. 
 
 * For me ?' 
 
 * Yes ! mademoiselle, for you. Is tliat wonder- 
 ful ? You look at yourself in the glass, and that 
 will explain all. No, don't, or we shall be too 
 late. Xow, ladies, come to yom* hiding place.' 
 
 * What ! are we to hide ?' 
 
 * Why, you don t think he will do it, if he sees 
 you, mademoiselle. Besides, how are you to catch 
 liim unless I ^^ut you in ambush ?' 
 
 ' Oh, you good girl,' cried Laure. ' Here, then, 
 is one that originates ideas — this is fun.' 
 
 ' I would rather dispense with that part of her 
 idea/ said Josephine. ' What can I say to one I 
 do not know, even if I catch him — which I hope I 
 shall not ?' 
 
 ' Oh, we have not caught him yet,' said Jacintha ; 
 and if you do, it won't be "I," it will be "we.' 
 You will be as bold as lions when you find your- 
 selves two to one, and on your own ground. One 
 and one make fifteen !' 
 
 ' One and one make fifteen ? Laure, you are 
 dressed, demand an explanation — and lend me a 
 pin.' 
 
 ' I mean one young lady alongside another young 
 lady has the courage of fifteen separate.' 
 
 Jacintha now took the conduct of the expedi- 
 tion. She led her young mistresses on tiptoe to 
 the great oak tree. ' In with you, my ladies, and 
 as still as mice.' 
 
 They cast a comic look at one another, and 
 obeyed the general.
 
 WHITE LTES. 141 
 
 ' Xow/ said Jacintha, ' if it is all right, I shan't 
 stir — if it is all wrong, I shall come and tell you. 
 Mother of Heaven, there is your blind up — if he 
 sees that, he will know you are up. I fly to draw 
 it down — adieu, mesdemoiselles.' 
 
 * She is not coming back, Josephine ?' 
 ^No, Laure.' 
 
 * Then my heart beats, that is all. Also, imagine 
 us popping out on a stranger !' 
 
 ' Such a phrase, sister !' 
 
 ' It popped out^ sister !' 
 
 ' Before we even think of anything else, be so 
 kind as to fasten one or two of these hooks pro- 
 perly ; should we really decide to charge the foe, 
 it would be well to have as little disorder in our 
 own lines as possible,' and Josephine's lip made a 
 little curl that was inestimably beautiful. Laure 
 obeyed. During the process, Josephine delivered 
 herself, in a faint sort of way, of ^^liat follows, 
 ' See nevertheless, how hard it is for our sex to 
 resist energy. Jacintha is our servant ; but she 
 has energy and decision ; this young woman, my 
 supposed inferior, willed that I should be in an 
 absurd position ; what is the consequence ? A 
 minute ago I was in bed — now I am here — and the 
 intervening events are a blank ' — (a little yawn). 
 
 'Josephine,' said Laure gravely, 'such small 
 talk is too fearful in this moment of horrible agita- 
 tion. A sudden thought ! How come you to be 
 so frightfully calm and composed, you, the greater 
 poltroon of the two by ever so much.'
 
 142 WHITE LIES. 
 
 ' By a hair's breadth, for instance.' 
 
 'I see — you have decided not to move from 
 this ambush, come what may. Double coward 
 and traitress, that is wliy you are cool. I flutter 
 because at bottom I am brave, because I mean to 
 descend like an eagle on him — and fall dead with 
 fright at his feet.' 
 
 ' Be tranquil — nobody is coming — be reasonable. 
 What ground have we for supposing any one will 
 come here this morning.' 
 
 ' Josephine/ cried Laure eagerly, ' that girl 
 knows more than she has told us ; she is in earnest. 
 Depend upon it, as she says, there is something up. 
 Kiss me, dear, that will give you courage — oh ! 
 how my heart beats, and remember " one and one 
 make — " how many ?' 
 
 'How many figures do one cypher added to 
 anoth — hush ! hush !' cried Josephine, in a loud, 
 agitated whisper, and held up a quivering hand, 
 and her bosom began to heave ; she pointed several 
 times in rapid succession westward through the 
 tree. In a moment Laure had her eye glued to a 
 little hole in the tree. Josephine had instinctively 
 drawn dack from a much larger aperture, through 
 which she feared she could be seen. 
 
 ' Yes,' said Laure, in a trembling whisper. 
 
 A figure stood in the park, looking over the little 
 gate into the Pleasance. 
 
 Josephine kept away from the larger aperture 
 through which she had caught a glimpse of him. 
 Laure kept looking through the little hole, and
 
 WHITE LIES. 143 
 
 back at Josephine, alternately ; the figure nevei*^ 
 moved. 
 
 The suspense lasted several minutes. 
 
 Presently, Laure made a sudden movement, and 
 withdrew from her peep-hole ; and at the same 
 moment Josephine could just hear the gate open. 
 
 Tlie girls came together by one instinct in the 
 centre of the tree, but did not dare to speak, scarce 
 to breathe. After a while Laure ventured 
 cautiously to her peep-hole again ; but she re- 
 coiled as if shot ; he was walking straight for the 
 oak tree. She made a terrified signal to Jose^ohine 
 accordingly. He passed slowly out of sight, and 
 the next time she peeped she could no longer tell 
 where he was. Then the cautious Josephine 
 listened at the side of the east fissure, and Laure 
 pried through the httle hole in case he should 
 come into sight again. While thus employed, she 
 felt a violent pinch, and Josephine had seized her 
 by the shoulder and was dragging her into one 
 corner at the side of the east fissure. They were 
 in the very act of crouching and flattening each 
 into her own corner, when a man's shadow came 
 slap into the tree between them, and there 
 remained. Each put a hand quick and hard 
 against her mouth, or each would have screamed 
 out when the shadow joined them, forerunner, no 
 doubt, of the man himself. 
 
 They glared down at it, and crouched and 
 trembled — they had not bargained for this ; they 
 had hidden to catch, not to be caught. At last
 
 144 WHITE LIES. 
 
 ^liey recovered sufficient composure to observe 
 that this shadow, one half of which lay on the 
 ground, while the head and shoulders went a little 
 way up the wall of the tree, represented a man's 
 profile, not his front face. The figure, in short, 
 was standing between them and the sun, and was 
 contemplating the chateau, not the tree. 
 
 Still, when the shadow took off its hat to 
 Josephine, she would have screamed if she had not 
 bitten her plump hand instead. 
 
 It wiped its brow with a handkerchief; it had 
 walked fast, poor thing ! The next moment it 
 was away. Sic transit gloria mundi. 
 
 They looked at one another and panted. They 
 dared not before. Then Laure, with one hand on 
 her heaving bosom, shook her little white fist 
 viciously at where the figure must be, and perhaps 
 a comical desire of vengeance stimulated her 
 curiosity. She now glided through the fissure like 
 a cautious j^^nther from her den ; and noiseless 
 and supple as a serpent began to wind slowly 
 round the tree. She soon came to a great protu- 
 berance. Her bright eye peeped round it ; her 
 lithe body worked into the hollow, and was 
 invisible to him she was watching. Josej^hine, a 
 yard behind her, clung also to the oak, and waited 
 wdth glowing eye and cheek for signals. 
 
 The cautious visitor had surveyed the ground, 
 had strolled with mock carelessness round the oak, 
 and was now safe at his goal. He was seen to put 
 his hand in his pocket, to draw something out and
 
 WHITE LIES. 145 
 
 drop it under the lemon tree ; this done, he was 
 heard to vent a little innocent chuckle of intense 
 satisfaction, but of brief duration ; for the very 
 moment she saw the purse leave his hand, Laure 
 made a rapid signal to Josephine to wheel round 
 the other side of the tree, and, starting together 
 with admirable concert, both the daughters of 
 Beaurepaire swooped on him from opposite 
 sides. 
 
 His senses were too quick, and too much on the 
 alert, not to hear the rustle the moment they 
 started ; but it was too late then. They did not 
 walk up to him, or even run. They came so fast 
 they must, I think, have fancied they were running 
 away instead of charging. 
 
 He knew notliing about their past tremors. All 
 he saw or heard was — a rustle, then a flap on 
 each side, as of great wings, and two lovely women 
 were upon him with angelic swiftness. ' Ah !' he 
 cried out, with a start of terror, and glanced from 
 the first comer, Laure, to the park. His instinctive 
 idea was to run that way. But Josephine was on 
 that side, caught the look, and put up her hand, as 
 much as to say, ' You can't pass here.' 
 
 In such situations, the mind works quicker than 
 lightning. He took off his hat, and stammered an 
 excuse — ' Come to look at the oak.' But Laure 
 pounced on a purse, and held it up to Josephine. 
 He was caught. His only chance now was to 
 bolt for the great gate and run — but it was not 
 the notary — it was a poor little fellow who lost 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 146 WHITE LIES. 
 
 his presence of mind, or perhaps thought it rude to 
 run when a lady told him to stand still. All he 
 did was to crush his face into his two hands, round 
 which his cheeks and neck now blushed red as 
 blood. Blush ? the young women could see the 
 colour rush like a wave to the very roots of his 
 hair and the tijos of his fingers. 
 
 The moment our heroines, who, in that despe- 
 ration which is one of the forms of cowardice, had 
 hurled themselves on the foe, saw they had caught 
 a Chinese and not a Tartar, flash — the quick-witted 
 poltroons exchanged a streak of purple lightning 
 over the abashed and drooping head, and were two 
 lionesses of valour and dignity in less than half a 
 moment. 
 
 It was with the quiet composure of lofty and 
 powerful natures that Josephine opened on him. 
 
 He gave a little wince when the first rich tone 
 struck his ear. 
 
 ' Compose yourself, monsieur ; and be so good 
 as to tell us who you are.' Edouard must answer. 
 Now he could not speak through his hands ; and 
 he could not face a brace of lionesses ; so he took 
 a middle course, removed one hand, and shading 
 himself from Josephine with the other, he gasped 
 out ' I am— my name is Riviere ; and I — I — ! 
 ladies !' 
 
 * Don't be frightened,' said Laure, with an air 
 of imperial clemency, 'we are not very angry.' 
 
 * Ah ! thank you mademoiselle.' 
 
 ' So,' resumed Josephine, ' tell us what interest
 
 WHITE LIES. 147 
 
 have you in the fortunes of the Baroness de Beau- 
 repaire ?' 
 
 ' I am so confused, or I could perhaps answer. 
 I don't know how it is, I seem not to have an idea 
 left. Suffer me then, with the greatest respect, to 
 take my leave.' And he was for bolting. 
 
 ' Not yet, monsieur,' said Josephine. ' Laure !' 
 
 Laure went off, looking behind her every now 
 and then. 
 
 After a long silence, Edouard muttered — ' Do 
 you forgive me, mademoiselle ?' 
 
 ' Yes.' Josephine coloured and was not quite so 
 stately. She added — ' We should indeed be harsh 
 judges, monsieur, if we — ah ! here is Laure with 
 the other. Take these twenty louis which you 
 have been so kind as to leave here.' And her 
 creamy hand held him out the two purses. 
 
 The boy started back and put up both his hands 
 in a supplicatory attitude. " ' Oh no ! ladies — do 
 not — pray do not ! Let me speak to you. I think 
 I can say a word or two now, though not as I could 
 wish. Do not reject my friendship. You are 
 alone in the world ; your father is dead ; your 
 mother has but you to lean on. After all, I am 
 your neighbour, and neighbours should be friends. 
 And I am your debtor ; I owe you more than you 
 could ever owe me ; for ever since I came into this 
 neighbourhood I have been happy. ISTo man was 
 ever so happy as I, ever since one day I met you 
 out walking. A single glance, a single smile from 
 an angel has done this for me. I owe all my good 
 
 H 2
 
 148 WHITE LIES. 
 
 thouglits, if I have any, to her. Before I saw her, 
 I vegetated — now I live. Yet you talk of twenty 
 louis — well then yes ! I will obey you — I will take 
 them back. So then you will perhaps be generous 
 in your turn. Since you mortify me in this, you 
 will grant what you can grant without hurting 
 your pride ; you will accept my service, my devo- 
 tion. You have no brother — I have no sister. 
 Let me be your brother — and your servant for 
 ever.' 
 
 * Monsieur Riviere,' said elosephine, with her 
 delicate curl of her lij), ' you offer us too much, and 
 we have too little to give you in return. Ours is 
 a falling house, and — ' 
 
 ' No ! no ! mademoiselle, you mistake — you are 
 imposed upon. You fancy you are poor — others 
 that do not care for you say so too ! but I, who 
 owe you so much, have looked closer into your 
 interests — your estate is grossly mismanaged ; for- 
 give me for saying so. You are rich at this mo- 
 ment if you had but a friend — a man of business. 
 You are cheated through thick and thin — it is 
 abominable — and no wonder ; you are women, and 
 don't understand business — you are aristocrats and 
 scorn it.' 
 
 * He is no fool,' said Laure, naively. 
 
 ' And you banish me who could be of such service 
 to you and to Madame the Baroness. Yet you say 
 you forgive my officiousness, but I fear you do not. 
 Ah ! no, this vile money has ruined me with 
 you.'
 
 WHITE LIES. 149 
 
 ' No ! monsieur, no ! — you have earned and well 
 merited our esteem.' 
 
 ' But not your acquaintance.' 
 
 The ladies both looked down a little ashamed. 
 
 * See now/ said the boy bitterly, ' how reason- 
 able etiquette is. If I had happened to dine at 
 some house where you dined, and some person 
 whom neither of us respected had said to you, 
 " Suffer me to ]oresent Monsieur Edouard Riviere 
 to you," I should have the honour and blessing of 
 your acquaintance — that would have been an in- 
 troduction — but all this is none — and you will 
 never, never speak to me again.' ' He is anything 
 but a fool r said Laure. 
 
 A look of ardent gratitude from Edouard. 
 
 * He is very young,' said Josephine, * and tliinks 
 to give society new rules ; society is too strong to 
 be dictated to by him or you ; let us be serious ; 
 Monsieur Edouard, ere we part, and part we must 
 — for your path Hes one way, ours another — hear 
 me, who speak in the name of all this ancient 
 house. Your name is not quite new to me — I 
 believe you are a Republican officer, monsieur ; 
 but you have acted en gentilhomme' 
 
 . ' Mademoiselle ■' 
 
 ' May your career be brilliant Monsieur Riviere ! 
 may those you have been taught to serve, and 
 whom you greatly honour by serving, be more 
 grateful to you than circumstances permit this 
 family to be ; we, who were beginning to despair of 
 human goodness, thank you monsieur for showing
 
 150 WHITE LIES. 
 
 US the world is still embellished with hearts like 
 yours !' And she suddenly held him out her hand 
 like a pitying goddess, her purple eye dwelling on 
 him with^all the heaven of sentiment in it. 
 
 He bowed his head over her hand and kissed it 
 again and again. 
 
 * You will make him cry, that will be the next 
 thing,' said Laure with a little gulp. 
 
 ' No ! no ! he is too much of a man to cry. 
 And see,' said Josephine, in a motherly tone, 
 * though we return your poor gold, we keep both 
 purses ; Laure takes this one, my mother and I 
 this one ; they will be our souvenirs of one wdio 
 wished to oblige wdthout humiliating us.' 
 
 ^ And I think, as his gold is so fugitive I had 
 better imprison it in this purse, which I have just 
 made — there — it would be uncourteous to return 
 him his money loose you know !' 
 
 * Ah ! mademoiselle, what goodness ! Oh ! be 
 assured it shall be put to no such base use as carry- 
 ing money.' 
 
 ' Adieu then Monsieur Riviere !' 
 
 The two sisters were now together, their arms 
 round one another. 
 
 ' Mademoiselle Laure, Mademoiselle Josephine, 
 conceive if you can my happiness, and my disap- 
 pointment — adieu ! — adieu !' He was gone as 
 slowly and unwillingly as it is possible to go. 
 
 ' Inaccessible !' said he to himself sadly, as he 
 went slowly home ; ' quite inaccessible ! Yet there 
 was a moment after the first surprise when I
 
 WHITE LIES. " 151 
 
 thoiight — but no. All the sliame of such a sur- 
 prise, and yet I am no nearer them than before. 
 I am very unhappy ! No ! I am not. I am the 
 happiest man in France.' 
 
 Then he acted the scene all over again, only 
 more adroitly, and blushed again at his want of 
 presence of mind, and concocted speeches for past 
 use, and was hot and cold by turns. 
 
 ' Poor boy,' said Josephine, * he is gone away 
 sad, and that has saddened me. But I did my 
 duty, and he will yet live to thank me for freezing 
 at once an attachment I could never have requited.' 
 
 ' Have you finished your observations, love ?' 
 asked Laure drily. 
 
 ' Yes, Laure.' 
 
 ' Then — to business.' 
 
 ' To business ?' 
 
 * Yes ! — no ! don't go in yet. A little arrange- 
 ment between us two arises necessarily out of this 
 affair — that is how the notary talks — and it is as 
 well to settle it at once, say I ; because, love, in a 
 day or two, you know, it might be too late — ahem !' 
 
 ' But settle what ?' 
 
 ' Which of us two takes him, dear — that is all.' 
 
 * Takes whom ?' 
 
 ' Edouard,' explained Laure, demurely, lowering 
 her eyes. Josephine glared with wonder and 
 comical horror upon the lovely minx. And after 
 a long look too big for words, she said — • 
 
 ' Next, did I not understand Jacintha to say that 
 it was me the poor child dreams of?'
 
 152 WHITE LIES. 
 
 * Oh ! you shall have him, sister,' put in the sly 
 minx warmly, ' if you insist on it.' 
 
 ' What words are these ? I shall be angry by- 
 and-by.' 
 
 ' Well, I must not annoy you by too great im- 
 jDortunity, neither. You have only to say you de- 
 cline him.' 
 
 ' Decline him ? poor boy ! He has never asked 
 me.' 
 
 ' In short, on one pretence or another, you de- 
 cline to decline him.' 
 
 * How dare you, Laure? Of course I decline him.' 
 'Thank you, sister,' cried Laure hastily, and 
 
 kissed her; 'it is the prettiest present you ever 
 gave me — except your love. Ah ! what is that on 
 your hand ? It is wet — it looks like the dew on a 
 lily. It is a tear from his eye — you cruel woman.' 
 
 ' No ! it was when I spoke kindly to him. I re- 
 member now, I did feel something ! Poor child !' 
 
 ' Heart of marble ! that affects pity — an hour 
 after. Stay ! since our agreement, this belongs to 
 me :' and she drew out a back comb, and down fell 
 a mass of rich brown hair. She swept the dew off 
 the lily with it, and did it up again with a turn of 
 the hand. Josephine sighed deeply. 
 
 ' You frighten me. Do not run thus wantonly 
 to the edge of a precipice. Take warning by me. 
 Oh, why did we come out ? Jacintha, what have 
 you done ! !' 
 
 ' This dear Josephine, with her misgivings ! 
 confess, you take me for a fool.'
 
 WHITE LIES. 153 
 
 ' I take you for a child that will play with fire 
 if not prevented.' 
 
 * At nineteen and a half one is no longer a child. 
 Oh ! the blindness of our elders ! I know you by 
 heart, Josephine, but you only know a little bit of 
 me. You have only observed the side I turn to 
 you, whom I love better than I shall love any man. 
 Keep your pity for Monsieur Riviere if ever he 
 does fall into my hands ; not for me. In a word 
 Josephine, the hour is come for making you a 
 revelation. I am not a child. I am a woman !' 
 
 ' All ! all the worse.' 
 
 ' But not the sort of woman you are — and. 
 Heaven be thanked for both our sakes I am not T 
 
 Josephine opened her eyes. ' She never talked 
 like this to me before — this is your doing, Monsieur 
 Riviere. Unhappy girl, what are you then ? — not 
 like me, who love you so ! ! ! ! !' 
 
 ' Xo, my sister, I have the honour to be your 
 opposite.' 
 
 ' My opposite !' said Josephine, ruefully. 
 
 ' I am a devil ! !' explained Laure in a mysterious 
 whisper, but with perfect gravity and conviction, 
 aiming at Josephine with her fore finger, to point 
 the remark. She allowed one second for this im- 
 portant statement to sink into her sister's mind, 
 then straightway set to and gambolled in a most 
 elfish way round and round her as Josephine moved 
 stately and thoughtful across the gTass to the 
 chateau. 
 
 It may well be supposed what was the subject of 
 
 II S
 
 154 WHITE LIES. 
 
 conversation at breakfast, and indeed all the day. 
 The young ladies, however drew only the broader 
 outlines of their story ; with a natural reserve they 
 gave no hint that they thought Monsieur Eiviere 
 was in love with one of them. 
 
 The baroness on her part was not disposed to 
 put love ideas into her daughters' heads ; she 
 therefore, though too shrewd not to suspect Dan 
 Ouj^id's hand in this, reserved her suspicions, and 
 spoke of Eiviere' s act as anyone might, looking 
 only at its delicate, generous, and disinterested side. 
 
 Mal^ sagacity, in the person of St. Aubin, prided 
 itself on its superior shrewdness, held the same 
 language as the others, but smiled secretly all the 
 time at female credulity. 
 
 Scarce three- days had elapsed, three weary days 
 to a friend of ours, when Jacintha, looking through 
 the kitchen window, saw the signal of distress 
 flying from a tree in the park. She slipped out, 
 and there was Edouard Eiviere. Her tongue went 
 off with a clash at the moment of contact with him, 
 like a cymbal. First, she exulted over him — 
 'How had it answered trying to draw the wool 
 over Jacintha's eye, eh ?' then she related her own 
 sagacity, telling him, as such characters are apt to, 
 half the story. She suppressed Hard's share, for 
 she might want a similar service from Hard again 
 — who knows ? But she let him know it was she 
 who had set the ladies in ambush at that time in 
 the morning. 
 
 At this young Eiviere raised his hands, and eyed
 
 WHITE LIES. 155 
 
 her as a moral alligator. She faced the examination 
 with solid composure, lips parted in a brazen smile, 
 and arms akimbo. 
 
 ' What ! Jacintha, you can stand there and tell 
 me this ; what malice ! all because out of delicacy, 
 misplaced perhaps,' I did not like to tell you.' 
 
 ' So then you don't see I have been your best 
 friend, ungratefully as you used me ?' 
 
 ' No, Jacintha, indeed I cannot see that — you 
 have ruined me. Judge for yourself.' Then he 
 told her all that had happened in the Pleasance. 
 Yery little of it was news to her. Still it interested 
 and excited her to hear it told in a piece, and from 
 his point of view. ' So you see, my poor Jacintha, 
 you have got me dismissed, kindly, but oli ! so 
 coldly and firmly — all hope is now dead — alas !' 
 
 ^Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!' 
 
 * Jacintha, do you laugh at the extinction of my 
 hopes ?' 
 
 ' Ha ! ha ! so she has given you conge T 
 
 * Yes, and all that remains for me — ' 
 
 * Is not to take it.' 
 
 ' Oh no !' said Riviere sadly, but firmly ; * de- 
 barred her love, let me at least have her resj^ect.' 
 
 ' Her respect ? how can she respect a man who 
 turns tail at the first word ?' 
 
 ' But that word is hers, whose lightest word a 
 true and loyal lover is bound to obey to his own 
 cost. Am I not to take a lady at her word ?' 
 
 ' Oh ! oh ! little sot — no. I must run and make 
 the cofi^ee.'
 
 150 WHITE LIES. 
 
 ' Malediction on tlie coffee ! liow can you have 
 the heart to think of coffee now, dear Jacintha? 
 Do, pray, explain.' 
 
 ' What is the use, if you will go and dream that 
 a lady is a man ?' 
 
 ' No, no ! I won't fancy any thing ; tell me about 
 women, then, if you think you can understand 
 them.' 
 
 'I will then. Above all mortal things they 
 despise faint-hearted men. They are on the look- 
 out for something stronger than a woman. A 
 woman hates to have to make the advances. She 
 likes to be always retreating, yet never be oft\ 
 She is not content to take what she wants, and 
 thank God for it, and that is a man. She must 
 play with it like a cat with a mouse. She must 
 make difficulties. The man he is to trample on 
 them. She made them to no other end. If he is 
 such a fool as to let them trample on him, Heaven 
 have mercy on him, for she won't ! Her two 
 dehghts are, saying " no " half a dozen times, and 
 saying " yes " at last. If you take her at her word 
 at the first ''no," you cause her six bitter dis- 
 appointments ; for then she can't get to say the 
 other "no's," and, worst of all, she can't get to say 
 the " yes " that was in her heart all along. Now, 
 my young mistress is half angel and half woman, 
 so if you give her u-p because she bids you, she 
 will only despise you ; but if it was my other young 
 lady or me, we should hate you as well.' 
 
 * Hate me ? for selfdenial and obedience ?'
 
 WHITE LIES. 157 
 
 ' No ! Hate you for being a fool ! Hate you 
 with a bitterness — there, hate you.' 
 
 * What horrible injustice !' 
 
 ' Justice ! who looks to us for justice ? We are 
 good creatures, but we don't trouble our heads with 
 justice ; it is a word you shall never hear a woman 
 use, unless she happens to be doing some monstrous 
 injustice at that very moment; that is our rule 
 about justice — so, there.' 
 
 ' Jacintha, your views of your sex are hard, and 
 cynical. Women are nobler and better than 
 men !' 
 
 ' Ay ! ay ! you see them a mile off. I see them 
 too near : they can't pass for rainbows here.' 
 
 ' Pass for rainbows — he ! he ! Speak for your- 
 self, Jacintha, and for coquettes, and for vulgar 
 women ; but do not blaspheme those angelic na- 
 tures with which I was for one short moment in 
 contact.' 
 
 * Ah bah ! we are all tarred with the same stick, 
 angels and all — the angels that wear stays.' 
 
 ' I cannot think so. Besides you were not there ; 
 you did not hear how kindly yet how firmly she 
 thanked, yet bade me adieu.' 
 
 ' I tell you, a word in a man's mouth is a thing, 
 but in a woman's it is only a word.' At this point, 
 without any previous warning, she went into a 
 passion like gunpowder kindled. * Take your own 
 way !' she cried ; * this boy knows more than I 
 do. So be it — let us speak no more of it.' 
 
 * Cruel Jacintha, to quarrel with me, who have
 
 158 WHITE LIES. 
 
 no other friend. There — I am your pupil; for, 
 after all, your sagacity is great. Advise me like a 
 sister — I listen.' 
 
 * No ; good advice is never welcome.' 
 'It is so seldom given kindly.' 
 
 ^ Oh ! as to that, I could not speak unkindly to 
 you, my little cabhage ; hut I shall make you 
 unhappy, and then I shall be unhappy ; for you 
 see, with all ourf aults, we have not bad hearts, we 
 women.' 
 
 'Speak, Jacintha.' 
 
 ' I am going to ; and when I have spoken, I 
 shall never see your pretty face again so near to 
 mine — so you see I am disinterested; and — oh! 
 how I hate telling the truth !' cried she with pious 
 fervour ; ' it always makes everybody miserable.' 
 
 * Jacintha, remember what you said in its favour 
 the first time we met.' 
 
 'I don't remember for my part, and what 
 signifies what I said ? Words — air ! Well my 
 poor child, I will advise you like a mother — give 
 her up.' 
 
 * Give her up ?' 
 
 ' Think no more of her : for there is a thing in 
 your way that is as hard to get over as all her 
 nonsensical words are easy.' 
 
 * Oh ! what is it ? You make me tremble.' 
 
 * It is a man.' 
 *Ah!' 
 
 * There is another man in the way.' 
 ' Who ?— that vile old doctor ?'
 
 WHITE LIES. 159 
 
 * Oil ! if it was no worse than that. No ! it is a 
 young one. Oh, yon don't know him — he has not 
 been here for years ; but what of that, if his image 
 lies in her heart? And it does. I listened the 
 other day, and I heard something that told its ow^n 
 tale. I am cruel to you my son — forgive me !' 
 Jacintha scarcely dared look at her feeble-minded 
 novice. She did not like to see her blow fall and 
 him stagger and turn pale imder it. When she 
 did look, lo and behold! he was red instead of pale. 
 
 ' What is he ?' (in a stern voice.) 
 
 * He is a soldier.' 
 
 ' I am glad of that : then he will fight, and I'll 
 kill him.' 
 
 ' Hear to that now !' 
 
 ' And you think I will give in now ! resign her 
 to an unworthy rival ?' 
 
 ' Who said he was unworthy ?' 
 
 'I say so.' 
 
 * What makes you fancy that ?' 
 
 * Because he never comes near the place — 
 because he neglects what none but a villain could 
 neglect, the greatest treasure in the world. No ! 
 he deserves to lose it — and he shall lose it. Thank 
 you Jacintha ! you show me my folly. I will not 
 take her eonge now, rely on it. No ! no ! if she 
 bade me do any thing in the world to please her, 
 arid her alone, I would do it, though I had to go 
 through fire and water, and blood, and break my 
 heart doing it. But if she asks me to make way 
 for a rival, I answer — never ! — never ! — never !'
 
 160 WHITE LIES. 
 
 ' But if she loves him ?' 
 
 ' A passing fancy, and the object of it unworthy : 
 it is my duty to cure her of a misplaced attachment 
 that can never make her happy, sweet angel ! she 
 will live to thank me — to bless me ! — I say whose 
 side are you on — his or mine ?' 
 
 ' Wretch, do you ask me T 
 
 ' Do they walk in the park ?' 
 
 ' Half an hour every day.' 
 
 ' What time ?' 
 
 ' Uncertain.' 
 . ' And I can't see into the park for that great 
 infernal elm tree at the corner : it just blocks up 
 my window — if I cut it down some night will you 
 tell?' 
 
 ' Not I. Would you really have the forehead 
 to cut down one of the Beaurepaire elms ? — holy 
 saints !' 
 
 'Look for it to-morrow,' said he grimly, 'and 
 look low enough or you won't see it. I'll cut 
 one of your elms doT\Ti with as little remorse as I 
 would half a dozen rivals.' 
 
 'He is mad — after all I want firewood, and 
 above all I want brushwood for my oven : for you 
 are to understand mv friend there is some meal 
 come in from the tenants, and so — ' 
 
 'That's right! think kitchen! talk kitchen! 
 pray does your soul live in a kitchen as well as 
 your body ?' 
 'Monsieur !' 
 ' Forgive me, my blood is on fire — I take your
 
 WHITE LIES. 16i 
 
 ad\ace : you shall never have to spur me again. 
 It is clear you know the sex best : slie shall make 
 as many difficulties as she pleases. She shall 
 say " no " twelve times instead of six, if it amuses 
 her : I will court her, I will besiege her, I'll fight 
 for her against all the soldiers on earth, and all 
 the fiends in you know where.' Whirr — he was 
 away. 
 
 Jacintha gazed after her pupil and firework with 
 ardent admiration so long as his graceful active 
 figure was in sight. 
 
 Then she fell into a reverie — an unusual mood 
 with this active personage. 
 
 It is not customary, in polite fiction, to go into 
 the reflecting part of a servant-maid : let us there- 
 fore make a point of doing it, for to be vulgar in 
 the eyes of snobs and snobbesses is no mean dis- 
 tinction. 
 
 ' Look there now ! — they say you should give 
 and take. AVell, I gave a lesson : and now I have 
 taken one. From fourteen to fourscore a man is a 
 man, and a woman is a woman. Write that in 
 your mass books, for it is as true as gospel. School 
 is never over while we are in the world. I 
 thought I knew something too : but I was all 
 behind. Now to me a woman is the shallowest 
 thing the Lord ever made. I can plumb it with 
 my forefinger. But to a man they are as deep as 
 the ocean. And, no doubt, men can read one 
 another : but they beat me. She put up a straw 
 between him and her, and he fell back as if it was
 
 162 WHITE LIES. 
 
 Goliah's spear, that was as thick as — ^what was it 
 as thick as ? I showed him an iron door between 
 them, and he flies at it as if it was a sheet of brown 
 paper, Mother of Heatex ! 3IY pot ! my pot !' 
 She fled wildlv.
 
 WHITE LIES. 163 
 
 CHAPTER YII. 
 
 * Madame the Baroness, if you please there is a 
 tree blown down in the park.' 
 
 ' Impossible child ! there was no wind at all last 
 night.' 
 
 ' No madame, but there was a night or two ago.' 
 
 Laure giggled. 
 
 ' Well mademoiselle, that might loosen it.' 
 
 Laure laughed ; but the baroness was grave. 
 
 ' Let us all go and look at it,' said she, sadly ; a 
 tree was an old friend to her. 
 
 There lay the monster on the earth that was 
 ploughed and harrowed by its hundred arms and 
 thousand fingers ; its giant proportions now first 
 revealed by the space of earth it covered, and the 
 frightful gap its fall left in the air and the prospect. 
 The doctor inspected the tree, especially the stump, 
 and said — ' Humph !' 
 
 The baroness looked only at the mass and the 
 ruin. 
 
 ' An ill-omen, children,' said she. ' It stood out 
 the storm ; and then one calm night it fell. And 
 so it will be with the House of Beaurepaire.'
 
 164 WHITE LIES. 
 
 * Ah well/ said Jacintlia, in a comfortable tone, 
 ' now you are down, we must do the best we can 
 wdth you. I w^anted some firewood — and I w^anted 
 some small wood terribly.' 
 
 The baroness shrugged her shoulders at this 
 kitchen philosophy, and moved away with Jose- 
 phine. The doctor detained Laure. ' Now it is 
 no use telling your mother, to annoy her, but this 
 tree has been cut down.' 
 
 ' Impossible !' 
 
 'Fact. Come and look at the stub. I have 
 stood and seen thousands of trees felled — it is an 
 interesting operation ; comes next to taking off a — 
 hem ! See how clean three fourths of the wood 
 have come away. They have had the cunning to 
 cut three feet above the ground too ; but this is 
 not Nature's work — it is man's. Laure it wanted 
 but this ; you have an enemy — a secret enemy.' 
 
 ' Ah !' cried Laure, with flashing eyes, and 
 making her hand into an angular snowball ; ' oh ! 
 that I had him here ! I'd — ah ! ah !' This doughty 
 threat ended in two screams, for a young gentle- 
 man sprang from the road over the hedge, and 
 alighted close to them. He took off his hat, and 
 blushing like a rose, poured out a flood of excuses. 
 ' Mademoiselle — monsieur, I saw that a large tree 
 had fallen, and my curiosity — forgive my indiscre- 
 tion ' — and he affected a retreat, but cast a linger- 
 ing look at the fallen tree. 
 
 ' Remain, monsieur,' said St. Aubin, politely ; 
 ^ and as your eyes are younger than mine, I will
 
 WHITE LIES. 165 
 
 even ask you to examine the stump and also the 
 tree, and tell me whether my suspicions are correct. 
 Has this tree fallen by accident, or by the hand of 
 man ?' 
 
 Eiviere darted on the stump with the fire of 
 curiosity in his face, and examined it keenly. His 
 deportment was not bad comedy. ' This tree has 
 been cut down. See, mademoiselle,' cried the 
 young rogue, determined to bring her into con- 
 versation, ' observe this cut here in the wood ; 
 look, here are the marks of the teeth of a saw.' 
 
 This brought Laure close to him, and he gave a 
 prolix explanation to keep her there, and asked 
 her whether she saw this, and whether she saw 
 that ; so then she w^as obliged to speak to him. 
 He proved to their entire satisfaction that some- 
 body had cut down the elm. ' The rogue!' cried 
 St. Aubin. ' The w^ retch !' cried Laure. 
 
 Riviere looked down, and resumed his insj)ection 
 of the stump. 
 
 ^ Oh that I had him !' said Laure, still at fever 
 heat. 
 
 ' I wish you had, mademoiselle,' said Edouard, 
 with a droll look. Then wath an air of imposing 
 gravity, * Monsieur, I have the honour to serve the 
 government in this district, as you may perhaps be 
 aware.' 
 
 St. Aubin looked at Laure for explanation. 
 
 She would not give any, because, by revealing 
 the young man's name she would haye enabled 
 St. Aubin to put the purse and this jump over the
 
 166 WHITE LIES. 
 
 hedge together. She coloured at the bare thought, 
 but said nothing. Riviere went on. ^ If you 
 really suspect this has been done out of malice, I 
 will set an inquiry on foot.' 
 
 ' You are very good, monsieur. It certainly is 
 a mysterious affair.' 
 
 ' Give yourself no further anxiety about it, sir. 
 I take it into my hands — in doing so, I merely 
 discharge my duty ; need I add, mademoiselle, that 
 duty is for once a pleasure ? If any of the neigh- 
 bours is the culprit, it will transpire ; if not, still 
 the present government is, I assure you, sir, a 
 Briareus, and one of its hands will fall sooner or 
 later on him who has dared to annoy you, made- 
 moiselle.' 
 
 As a comment on these words of weight, he drew 
 out his pocket-book with such an air : made a 
 minute or two, and returned it to his pocket. 
 'Monsieur, mademoiselle, receive once more my 
 excuses for my indiscreet curiosity, which I shall 
 never cease to regret, unless it should lead to the 
 discovery of what you have at heart.' And he 
 bowed himself away. 
 
 ' A charming young man, my dear.' 
 
 'What that little buck — do you see charms in 
 him ? — where ?' 
 
 ' Buck ? a young Apollo, beaming with goodness 
 as well as intelligence.' 
 
 'Oh! oh! oh! doctor.' 
 
 ' I have not seen such a face for ever so long,' 
 cried the doctor, getting angry.
 
 WHITE LIES. 167 
 
 ' I don't desire to see sncli another for ever so 
 long.' 
 
 * Confess, at least, that his manners are singularly 
 graceful.' 
 
 ' Republican ease, doctor — admire it — those who 
 ca/i.' 
 
 *It was the respectful ease of a young person 
 not desirous to attract attention to his own grace, 
 but simply to be polite.' 
 
 * Now I thought his flying over our hedge, and 
 taking our affairs on him and his little pocket-book, 
 a great piece of effrontery.' ' If it had not been 
 done with equal modesty and deference, — but the 
 poor boy is a Republican. So you cannot be just. 
 Oh politics ! politics ! — You madden the brain — 
 you bandage the judgment — you corrupt the lieart 
 — let us see whether they have blinded your very 
 eyes. Did you notice his colour — roses and lilies 
 side by side ? Come, now.' 
 
 ' A boy's complexion, staring red and white ! — 
 Yes.' 
 
 ' And his eyes full of soul.' 
 
 ' Yes, he had wildish eyes. If you want to be 
 stared out of countenance, send for Monsieur Riv — 
 hum — what did he say his name was ?' 
 
 ' I forget. A figure like Antinous, with all 
 Diana's bounding grace.' 
 
 * Oh ! he can jump high enough to frighten one : 
 enchanting quality.' 
 
 ' Well, mademoiselle, I shall not subject him to 
 further satire by praising him. He serves France
 
 16S WHITE LIES. 
 
 and not the Bourbons ; and Is therefore a monster, 
 ugly and even old. Let us speak of more im- 
 j)ortant matters.' 
 
 'If you please/ said Laure, drily. And they 
 did. 
 
 And the effect of the rise in themes was that 
 Laure became distracted, and listened badly ; and 
 every now and then she slipped back to the aban- 
 doned subject, and made a number of half conces- 
 sions, one at a time, in favour of the young Re- 
 publican's looks, manners, and conduct — all to please 
 the doctor. So that at last she and St. Aubin 
 were not so very far apart in their estimate of the 
 youth. Arrived at the park gate leading into the 
 Pleasance, she turned suddenly round, beamed and 
 blushed all over with pleasure, and put her arms 
 round the puzzled doctor's neck and kissed him ; 
 then scudded off like a rabbit after her sister wdio 
 was on the south terrace. ' Dard, I've a little job 
 for you,' said Jacintha, cheerily. 
 
 ' Ugh ! oh ! have you ?' 
 
 ' You must put up the grindstone. Stop ! don't 
 go off — that is not all. Put a handle in it, and 
 then sharpen the great axe — the hatchet is not a 
 bit of use.' 
 
 * Any more ?' 
 
 ' Yes ; to-morrow you must go into the jDark 
 with your wheelbarrow, and cut me billet wood for 
 up stairs and small wood for my oven.' The much- 
 enduring man set about this new^ job. 
 
 The demoiselles De Beaurepaire coming out
 
 WHITE LIES. 169 
 
 into the park for their afternoon walk, saw a 
 figure hacking away at the fallen tree. They 
 went towards it near enough to recognise Dard : 
 then they turned and took their usual walk. 
 They made sure Jacintha had ordered him to 
 do it. 
 
 They had not been in the park a minute before 
 a telescope was levelled from a window at them, 
 and the next moment M. Edouard was running up 
 the road to Beaurepaire. 
 
 Now as he came near the fallen tree he heard 
 loud cries for help, followed by groans of pain. 
 He bounded over the hedge, and there was Dard 
 hanging over his axe faint and moaning. ' What 
 is the matter ? — what is the matter T cried Edouard 
 running to him. 
 
 ' Oh ! oh ! — cut my foot.' 
 
 Edouard looked, and turned sick, for there was 
 a gash right through Dard's shoe, and the blood 
 welling up through it. But, recovering himself by 
 an effort of the will, he cried out — ' Courage, my 
 lad ! don't give in — thank Heaven there's no 
 artery there. Oh, dear, it is a terrible cut ! Let 
 us get you home, that is the first thing ! Can you 
 walk ?' 
 
 ' Lord bless you, no ! nor stand either without 
 help.' 
 
 Edouard flew to the wheelbarrow, and reversing 
 i spun a lot of billet out. ' Ye must not do that/ 
 said Dard, with all the energy he was capable of 
 in his present condition — ' why that is Jacintha's 
 
 VOL. I. T.
 
 170 AVHITE LIES. 
 
 wood.' * To the devil with Jacintha and her wood 
 too !' cried Edouard, ' a man is worth more than a 
 faggot. Come Dard, I shall wheel you home : it 
 is only just across the park.' 
 
 With some difficulty he lifted him into the 
 barrow. 
 
 ' How lucky,' he cried, ' I have got my shooting 
 jacket on, so here's my brandy flask : take a suck 
 at it old fellow — and courage !' Dard stretched 
 out his hand with sudden animation for the flask, 
 and it was soon glued to his lips. 
 
 Now the ladies, as they walked, saw a man 
 wheeling a barrow across the park, and took no 
 particular notice : but, as Riviere was making for 
 the same point, presently the barrow came near 
 enough for them to see a man's head and arms in 
 it. Laure was the first to notice this. ' Loo-k ! 
 look ! if he is not wheeling Dard in the barrow 
 now.' 
 
 ' Who ?' 
 
 ' Do you ask who ? Who provides all our 
 amusement ?' 
 
 ' Laure, I do not like this. I am afraid there is 
 something wrong. Consider, Monsieur Riviere 
 would not wheel Dard all across the park for 
 amusement.' 
 
 ' Oh ! let us run and see.' 
 
 Now Riviere did not intend them to see ; he 
 had calculated on getting to the corner a consider- 
 able time before the promenaders. But they 
 hastened their speed, and defeated his intention.
 
 AVHITE LIES. 17J 
 
 He had taken his coat off too, and made a great 
 effort to beat them. ' Dard, said he, ' now here 
 are the young ladies, what a pity — put my coat 
 over your foot, that is a good fellow.' 
 
 ' What for ?' said Dard, sulkily : ' No ! let them 
 see what they have done with their little odd jobs : 
 this is my last for one while. I shan't go on two 
 legs again this year.' 
 
 The ladies came up with them. 
 
 ' Oh, monsieur,' said Josephine, * what is the 
 matter ?' 
 
 ' We have met with a little accident made- 
 moiselle, that is all. Dard has hurt his foot — 
 nothing to speak of, but I thought he would be 
 best at home.' 
 
 Laure raised the coat which Riviere in spite of 
 Dard had flung over his foot, and removed it. 
 
 * He is bleeding ! Dard is bleeding ! Oh, my 
 poor Dard. Oh ! oh !' 
 
 ' Hush ! Laure ! Laure !' 
 
 ' No ! don't put him out of heart mademoiselle. 
 Take another pull at the flask Dard. If you 
 please ladies, I must have him home without 
 delay.' 
 
 ' Oh yes, but I want him to have a surgeon,' 
 cried Josephine. * Ah ! why are we so poor, and 
 no horses nor people to send off as we used to 
 have ?' 
 
 * Mademoiselle, have no fears. Dard shall have 
 the best surgeon in the district by his side in less 
 than an hour : the town is but two short leagues off.' 
 
 I 2
 
 172 WHITE LIES. 
 
 ' Have you a liorse then ?' 
 
 ' No ; but I am as good a runner as any for 
 miles round. I'll run it out in half an hour or die 
 at it, and I'll send the surgeon up full gallop/ 
 
 * Heaven bless you monsieur, you have a good 
 heart,' cried Josephine. 
 
 ' Oh, yes ! Heaven bless him.' 
 
 He was already gone : but these sweet words 
 rang in his ears and ran warm round and round 
 his heart, as he straightened his arms and his back 
 to the work. When they had gone about a 
 hundred yards a single snivel went off in the 
 wheelbarrow. Five minutes after, Dard was at 
 home in charge of his grandmother, his shoe off, 
 his foot in a wet linen cloth ; and the statesman, 
 his coat tied round the neck, squared his shoulders 
 and ran the two short leagues out. He ran them 
 in thirty-five minutes, found the surgeon at home, 
 told the case, pooh poohed that w^orthy's promise 
 to go to the patient presently, darted into his 
 stable, saddled the horse, brought him round, saw 
 the surgeon into the saddle, started him, dined at 
 the restaurateur's, strolled back, and was in time 
 to gel; a good look at the Chateau of Beaurepaire 
 before the sun set on it. 
 
 Jacintha came into Dard's cottage that evening. 
 ' So you have been and done it my man,' cried 
 she cheerfully and rather roughly ; then sat down 
 and rocked herself, with her apron over her head. 
 She explained this anomalous proceeding to his 
 grandmother privately. * I thought I would keep
 
 WHITE LIES. 17 
 
 liis heart up any way ; but you see I was not 
 
 fit; 
 
 Calmer, she comforted Dard, and ended by cross 
 questioning him. The young ladies had told lier 
 what they had seen, and though Dard w^as too 
 wrapped up in himself to dwell with any gusto 
 upon Edouard's zeal and humanity, still, as far as 
 facts went, he confirmed the ladies' comments. 
 
 Jacintha's heart yearned towards the young 
 man. She was in the town next day making a 
 purchase or two, so she called on him. ' I thought 
 I would just step in to put a question to you. 
 Would you like to get a word with her alone ?' 
 
 ' Oh, Jacintha !' 
 
 ' Hush ! don't shout like that ; w^hy you may be 
 sure she is alone sometimes, though not very often. 
 They love one another so, those two.' 
 
 Jacintha then developed her plan. As the dish- 
 cloth was his signal, so she must have a signal to 
 show when she wanted to speak to him, and that 
 signal should be a sheet, which she would hang 
 over the battlement of Beaurepaire Chateau. 
 
 * So when you see a white sheet, you come to 
 me — the quicker the better. It is the least I can 
 do now. You know what I mean. I won't speak 
 about it. Words in a woman's mouth — I told you 
 what they are. No, I w^on't end in steam, like 
 boiling water does. I won't sa2/, I'll show you 
 what you have done my angel.' Her eyes told him 
 all the same. 
 
 ' Where is my dish-clout ? You never left it out
 
 174 WHITE LIES. 
 
 there on tlie tree, did you ?' and she looked 
 solemn. 
 
 * Jacintha ! on my knees I demand pardon for 
 my fatal heedlessness.' Jacintha put her hand 
 under her apron and pulled out the cloth. ' There,' 
 said she, and threw it him. ' Now suppose you had 
 wanted to speak to me — ah well, we can't have 
 all ; you have a good heart, but no head.' 
 
 Dard's grandmother had a little house, a little 
 land, a little money, and a little cow. She could 
 just keep Dard and herself, and her resources 
 enabled Dard to do so many little odd jobs for love, 
 yet keep his favourite organ tolerably filled. 
 
 ' Gro to bed my httle son, since you are hashed,' 
 .'^aid Dard's grandmother. ' Bed be hanged,' cried 
 he. ' What good is bed ? That's another silly 
 old custom wants doing away with. It weakens 
 you — it turns you into train oil — it is the doctor's 
 friend, and the patient's enemy. Many a one shuts 
 up through taking to bed, that could have got 
 through his trouble if he had kept his feet like a 
 man. If I was dying I would not go to bed till I 
 went to the bed with a spade in it. No ! sit up 
 like Julius Csesar, and die as you lived, in your 
 clothes : don't strip yourself : let the old women 
 strip you — that is their delight laying out a chap : 
 that is the time they brighten up, the old sorceresses.' 
 He concluded this amiable rhapsody, the latter part 
 of which was levelled at a lug'ubrious weakness of 
 his grandmother's for the superfluous embellish-
 
 WHITE LIES. 175 
 
 tnent of the dead, by telling her it was bad enougli 
 to be tied by the foot like an ass, without settling 
 down on his back like a cast sheep. ' Give me the 
 armchair. I'll sit in it, and if I have any friends 
 they will show it now : they will come and tell me 
 what is going on in the village, for I can't get out 
 to see it and hear it, they must know that.' 
 
 Seated in state in his granny's easy chair, the 
 loss of which after thirty years' use made her 
 miserable, she couldn't tell why, le Sieur Dard 
 awaited his friends. 
 
 His friends did not come. 
 
 The rain did, and poured all the afternoon. 
 Night came, and solitude. Dard boiled over with 
 bitterness. 
 
 ' They are then a lot of pigs ; all those fellows I 
 have drunk with at Bigot's and Simmet's. Down 
 with all fair weather friends ! !' 
 
 The next day the sun shone, the air was clear, 
 and the sky blue. * Ah ! let us see now,' cried 
 Dard. 
 
 Alas ! no fellow-drinkers, no fellow-smokers 
 came to console their hurt fellow. A.nd Dard, who 
 had boiled with anger yesterday was now sad and 
 despondent. 
 
 ' Down with egoists,' he groaned. 
 
 About three in the afternoon came a tap at the 
 door. 
 
 ' Ah ! at last,' cried Dard : ' come in !' 
 
 The door was slowly opened and two lovely 
 faces appeared at the threshold. The Demoiselles
 
 176 WHITE LIES. 
 
 De Beaurepaire wore a tender look of interest and 
 pity when they caught sight of Dard, and on the 
 old woman curtseying to them they curtseyed to 
 her and Dard. But when Dard put his arms on 
 the chair to rise and salute them, Laure put up her 
 finger and peremptorily forbade him. The next 
 moment they were close to him, one a little to his 
 right, the other to his left, and two pair of sapphire 
 eyes with the mild lustre of sympathy playing 
 down incessantly upon him. How was he ? How 
 had he slept ? Was he in pain ? Was he in much 
 pain ? tell the truth now. Was there anything to 
 eat or drink he could fancy ? Jacintha should 
 make it and bring it, if it was within their 
 means. 
 
 A prince could not have had more solicitous 
 attendants ; nor a fairy king lovelier and less 
 earthly ones. 
 
 He looked in heavy amazement from one to the 
 
 ther. Laure laughed at him, then Josephine 
 
 smiled. Laure bent, and was by some supple 
 
 process on one knee, taking the measure of the 
 
 wounded foot. When she first approached it he 
 
 winced : but the next moment he smiled. He had 
 
 never been touched like this — it was contact and no 
 
 contact — she treated his foot as the zephyr the 
 
 violets — she handled it as if it had been some 
 
 sacred thing. By the help of his eye he could 
 
 ust know she was touching him. 
 
 * There monsieur, you are measured for a liet 
 
 shoe.'
 
 WHITE LIES. 177 
 
 ' And I will make it for you Dard,' said 
 Josephine. 
 
 * Don't you believe her Dard : I shall make it : 
 she is indolent.' * We will both make it then,' 
 said Josephine. 
 
 Dard grinned an uncertain grin. 
 
 At the door they turned and sent back each a 
 smile brimful of comfort, promise, and kindness, to 
 stay with him till next visit. Dard scratched his 
 head. Dard pondered half an hour in silence 
 thus, or thereabouts. 
 
 The old woman had been to milk the cow\ She 
 now came into the kitchen. 
 
 Dard sang out lustily to her — ' Granny I'm 
 better. Keep your heart up old lady : we shan't 
 die this bout. I am good for a few more little odd 
 jobs,' said he, with a sudden tincture of bitter- 
 ness. 
 
 Presently in came Jacintha with a basket 
 crying, ' I have not a minute to stay now : Dard, 
 my young ladies have sent you tw^o bottles of old 
 Burgundy — you won't like that — and here is a 
 loaf I have just made. And now I must go :' and 
 she stayed three quarters of an hour with him, and 
 cheered him mightily. At dusk Riviere rode by 
 — fastened his horse up and came bustling in. 
 ' How do w^e get on dame ?' 
 
 ^ Pretty well monsieur. He w^'^s very dull at 
 first, but now he is brightened up a bit poor thing. 
 All the great folks come here to see him — the 
 Demoiselles de Beaurepaire and all.' 
 
 I 3
 
 178 WHITE LIES. 
 
 - ' All ! that is like them.' 
 
 ' Oh ! as to that, my little son is respected far 
 and wide,' said the old lady inflating herself; and, 
 as gratitude cannot live an instant with conceit, 
 she went on to say, ' and after all it is the least 
 they can do, for he has been a good friend to them, 
 and never seen the colour of their money. Also ! 
 behold him hashed in their service — a wounded 
 foot — that is all ever he took out of Beaurepaire.' 
 
 ' Hold your tongue,' cried Dard brutally ; ' if I 
 don't complain, what right have you ?' He added 
 doggedly, but rather gently, ' The axe was in my 
 hand, not in theirs — let us be just before all 
 things.' 
 
 The statesman sat at breakfast, eating roasted 
 kidneys with a little melted butter and parsley 
 under them, and drinking a tumbler of old Medoc 
 slightly diluted — a modest repast becoming his 
 age, and the state of his affections. On his 
 writing table lay waiting for him a battle array of 
 stubborn figures. He looked at them over his 
 tumbler, ' Ah !' said he, ' to-day I must be all the 
 state's. Even you must not keep me from those 
 dry calculations oh! well-beloved chateau of 
 
 Beau-re-pai ah ! my telescope — it is ! — it is.' 
 
 \_EMt statesman. 
 
 The white flag was waving from the battle- 
 ments. 
 
 When he got half way to Beaurepaire, he found 
 to his horror he had forgotten that wretched cloth.
 
 WHITE LIES. 179 
 
 However he would not go back : he trusted to 
 Jacintha's intelh'gence. It did not deceive him. 
 He found her waiting for him. 
 
 ' She is gone alone to Dard's house. The other 
 will be after her soon — forward ! !' 
 
 He flew; he knocked with beating heart at 
 Dard's door. At another time he should have 
 knocked and opened without further invitation. 
 
 * Come in,' cried Dard's stentorian voice. He 
 entered, and there, seated on a chair, with a book 
 in her hand, was — Mademoiselle Josephine de 
 Beaurepaire. 
 
 Riviere stared — stupefied, mystified. 
 
 The young lady rose with a smile, curtseyed, and 
 reseated herself. She was as self possessed as he 
 was flurried and puzzled what to say or do. He 
 recovered himself a little, inquired with wonderful 
 solicitude Dard's present symptoms, and suddenly 
 remembering the other lady was expected, he said 
 — ^ I leave you in good hands ; angel visitors are 
 best enjoyed alone,' and retired slowly, with a 
 deep obeisance. Once outside the door, dignity 
 vanished in alacrity ; he flew off into the park, and 
 ran as hard as he could towards the chateau. He 
 was within fifty yards of the little gate, when sure 
 enough Laure emerged. They met ; his heart 
 beat violently. ' Ah ! mademoiselle ! — ' 
 
 ' Ah ! it is Monsieur Riviere, I declare,' said 
 Laure coolly, all over blushes though. 
 
 ' Yes mademoiselle, and I am so out of breath. 
 I am sent for you. Mademoiselle Josephine
 
 180 WHITE LIES. 
 
 awaits you at Dard's house.' ^ She sent you for me ?' 
 inquired Laure arching her brows. 
 ' Not positively, Mademoiselle Laure.' 
 
 * How pat he has our names too !' 
 
 * But I could see I should please her by coming 
 for you ; there is, I believe, a bull or so about.' 
 
 ' A bull or two ; don't talk in that reckless way 
 monsieur. She has done well to send you ; let us 
 make haste.' 
 
 ' But I am a little out of breath.' 
 
 ' Oh, never mind that ! I abhor bulls.' 
 
 ' But, mademoiselle, we are not come to them 
 yet, and the faster w^e go now the sooner we 
 shall; 
 
 ' Yes ; but I always like to get a disagreeable 
 thing over as soon as possible,' said Laure slily. 
 
 ' Ah,' replied Edouard mournfully, ' in that 
 case let us make haste.' 
 
 After a little spurt mademoiselle relaxed the 
 pace of her own accord, and even went slower 
 than before. There was an awkward silence. 
 Edouard eyed the jDark boundary, and thought — 
 ' Now what I have to say I must say before we get 
 to you;' and being thus impressed with the 
 necessity of immediate action, he turned to lead. 
 
 Laure eyed him, and the ground, alternately, 
 from under her long lashes. 
 
 At last he began to colour and flutter. She saw 
 something was coming, and all the woman donned 
 defensive armour. 
 
 ' Mademoiselle.'
 
 WHITE LIES. 181 
 
 * Monsieur.' 
 
 ' Is it quite decided that your family refuse my 
 acquaintance, my services, which I still — forgive 
 me — press on you ? Ah ! Mademoiselle Laure, am 
 I never to have the happiness of — of — even 
 speaking to you ?' 
 
 ' It appears so,' said Laure drily. 
 
 ' Have you then decided against me too ? That 
 happy day it was only mademoiselle who crushed 
 my hopes.' 
 
 * I ?' asked Laure ; ' what have I to do with it ?' 
 
 * Can you ask ? Do you not see that it is not 
 Mademoiselle Josephine, but you I — -What am I 
 saying ? but, you understand too well.' 
 
 * No, monsieur,' said Laure with a puzzled air, 
 * I do not understand. Not one word of all you 
 are saying do I comprehend. I am sure it is 
 Josephine and not me ; for I am only a child.' 
 
 ' You a child — an angel like you ?' 
 
 ' Ask any of them, they will tell you I am a 
 child ; and it is to that I owe this conversation, no 
 doubt ; if you did not look on me as a child, you 
 would not dare take this liberty with me,' said the 
 young cat, scratching without a moment's notice. 
 
 ' Mademoiselle, do not be angry. I was wrong.' 
 
 ' Oh ! never mind. Children are little creatures 
 without reserve, and treated accordingly, and to 
 notice them is to honour them.' 
 
 ' Adieu then, mademoiselle. Try to believe no 
 one respects you more than I do.' 
 
 ' Yes, let us part, for there is Dard's house ;
 
 1S2 WHITE LIES. 
 
 and I begin to suspect that Josephine never sent 
 you.' 
 
 * I confess it.' 
 
 ' There, he confesses it. I thought so all along ! ! 
 "What a dupe I have been ! !' * I will offend no 
 more,' said Eiviere humbly. 
 
 ' ^Ye shall see.' 
 
 ' Adieu, mademoiselle. God bless you ! May 
 you find friends as sincere as I am, and more to 
 your taste !' 
 
 ' Heaven hear your prayers !' replied the ma- 
 licious thing, casting up her eyes with a mock 
 tragic air. 
 
 Edouard sighed ; a chill conviction that she was 
 both heartless and empty fell on him. He turned 
 away without another word. She called to him 
 with a sudden airy cheerfulness that made him 
 start. ' Stay, monsieur, I forgot — I have something 
 to tell you.' 
 
 He returned, all curiosity. 
 
 ' And a favour to ask you.' 
 
 * I am so glad.' 
 
 ' You have made a conquest.' 
 ' I have a difficulty in believing you, mademoi- 
 selle.' 
 
 ' Oh ! it is not a lady,' said little Malice. 
 
 ' Ah ! then it is possible,' was the bitter reply. 
 
 * Something better — less terrestrial, you know 
 • — it is a savant. You jumped, you spoke, you 
 conquered Doctor St. Aubin, that day. What do 
 you think he says ?'
 
 WHITE LIES. 183 
 
 ' 1 have no idea.' 
 
 ' He says you are handsome/ (opening her eyes 
 to the full height of astonishment.) ' He says you 
 are graceful ; and, indeed it was not a bad jump ; 
 I have been looking at it since ; and oh ! Monsieur 
 Eiviere, he says you are modest ! ! ! ! ! ! !' 
 
 ' Did he say all this before you ?' 
 
 ' Yes; 
 
 * Heaven reward him !' 
 
 ' Was it not odd he should have ventured on 
 these statements before me ? but these savants can 
 face a deaJ of contradiction.' 
 
 * You did me the honour to contradict all this ?' 
 ' I did not fail.' 
 
 * Thank you, mademoiselle.' 
 
 ' That is right, be uujust. No, monsieur ; to 
 detract from undeniable merit was not my real 
 object ; but not being quite such a child as some 
 people think, I contradicted him, in order to — to — 
 confirm him in those good sentiments ; and 1 
 succeeded ; the proof is that the doctor desires your 
 acquaintance, monsieur ; and now I come to the 
 favour I have to ask you.' 
 
 * Ah, yes — the favour.' 
 
 ' Be so kind as to bestow your acquaintance on 
 Monsieur St. Aubin,' said Laure, her manner 
 changing from sauciness to the timidity of a per- 
 son asking a favour. ' He will not discredit my 
 recommendation. Above all, he will not make 
 difficulties, for he is really worth knowing. In 
 short, believe me, it will be an excellent acquaint-
 
 IS'4 WHITE LIES. 
 
 ance for you — and for him,' added she with all the 
 grace of the De Beaurepaires. ' What say yon, 
 monsieur ?' 
 
 Riviere was mortified to the heart's core. ' She 
 refuses to know me herself,' thought he, ' hut she 
 will use my love to make me amuse that old man.' 
 His heart swelled against her injustice and ingrati- 
 tude, and his crushed vanity turned to strychnine. 
 ' Mademoiselle,' said he, bitterly and doggedly, hut 
 sadly, ' were I so happy as to have your esteem, 
 my heart would overflow^, not only on the doctor, 
 but on every honest person around. But if I must 
 not have the acquaintance I value more than life, 
 suffer me to be alone in the world, and never to 
 say a word either to Doctor St. Aubin, or to any 
 human creature if I can help it.' The imperious 
 young beauty drew herself up. 
 
 ' So be it, monsieur ; you teach me how a child 
 should be answered that forgets herself, and asks 
 — Dieu! — asks a favour of a stranger — a perfect 
 stranger,' added she w^ith a world of small ill- 
 nature. 
 
 Could one of the dog days change to mid-winter 
 in a second, it would hardly seem so cold and cross 
 as Laure de Beaurepaire turned from the smiling 
 saucy fairy of the moment before. Edouard felt a 
 portcullis of ice come down between her and him. 
 She curtseyed and glided away. He bowed and 
 stood frozen to the spot. 
 
 He felt so lonely and so bitter, he must go to 
 Jacintha for something to lean on and scold.
 
 WHITE LIES. 185 
 
 He put his handkerchief up in the tree, and out 
 came Jacintha, curious. ' You left the dish-clout at 
 home, I bet — what a head ! — well, well, tell us.' 
 
 ' A fine blunder you made, Jacintha. It was 
 Mademoiselle Josephine at Dard's.' 
 
 ' Do you call that a blunder — in grate ?' 
 
 ' Yes ! Why, it is not Josephine I love.' 
 
 ' Yes, it is,' replied Jacintha. 
 
 'No! no!' 
 
 * Change of wind then, since yesterday !' 
 
 ' No ! no ! How can you be so stupid — fancy 
 not seeing it is Mademoiselle Laure.' 
 
 'Laure! that child?' 
 
 ' She is not a child ; she is quite the reverse. 
 Don't call her a child — she objects to it — it puts 
 her in a passion.' 
 
 ' You have deceived me,' said Jacintha severely. 
 
 ' Never !' 
 
 ' You have. You never breathed Laure's name 
 to me.' 
 
 ' No more I did Josephine's.' 
 
 ' "What has that to do with it ? You pretended 
 to be in love with my young lady.' 
 
 ' No ! with one of them, I said.' 
 
 ' Well ! and how was I to guess by that it was 
 Laure ?' 
 
 ' And how were you to guess it was Josephine ?' 
 
 ' There was no guessing in the case ; if it was 
 not Josephine, anybody with sense would have told 
 a body it was Laure; but you are mad. Besides, 
 who would look at Laure when Josephine was by ?
 
 1S6 WHITE LIES. 
 
 Mademoiselle Laure is very well ; she has a pretty 
 little face enough, but she is not a patch upon 
 mademoiselle.' 
 
 ' Why, Jacintha, you are blind. But this is tlie 
 way ; you women are no judges of female beauty. 
 They are both lovely, but Laure is the brightest, 
 the gayest — oh, her smile ! It seems brighter than 
 ever now ; for I have seen her frown, Jacintha ; 
 think of that and pity me. I have seen her 
 frown.' 
 
 ' And if you look this way, you may see me 
 frown.' 
 
 * Why, what is the matter with you ?' . 
 . ' The matter is, that I wash my hands of the 
 whole affair. It is infamous.' 
 
 Jacintha then let him know, in her o^ti lan- 
 guage, that such frightful irregularities as this 
 could not pass in an ancient family, where prece- 
 dent and decorum reigned, and had for centuries. 
 * The elder daughter must be got off our hands 
 first ; then let the younger take her turn.' To gild 
 the pill of decorum, she returned to her original 
 argument. ' Be more reasonable, my son, above 
 all, less blind. She is nice, she is frisky ; but she 
 is not like Josephine, the belle of belles.' 
 
 Edouard, in reply, anxious to conciliate his only 
 friend, affected to concede the palm of beauty to 
 the elder sister, but suggested that Laure was 
 quite beautiful enough for ordinary purposes, — 
 such as to be fallen in love with, — nearer his own 
 age, too,, than Josephine. He was proceeding
 
 WHITE LIES. 1S7 
 
 adroitly to suggest that he stood hardly high 
 enough in France to pretend to the heiress of 
 Beaurepaire, and must not look above the younger 
 branch of that ancient tree, when Jacintha, who 
 had not listened to a word he was saying, but had 
 got over her surprise, and was now converted to 
 his side by her own reflections, interrupted him. 
 
 ' And therefore, yes,' said this vacillating per- 
 sonage, carrying out one of her internal chains of 
 reasons. ' Next, I could not promise you Jose- 
 phine, but Laure you shall have if you can be 
 content with her.' The boy threw his arms round 
 her neck. ' Quite content w^ith Laure,' said he, 
 * quite content, you dear Jacintha.' Then his 
 countenance fell. 
 
 ' I forgot,' said he ; ' in the heat of discussion 
 one forgets everything.' 
 
 ' Forgot what ?' cried Jacintha, in some alarm. 
 
 ' I have just lost her for ever.' 
 
 Jacintha put her hands on her hips, knuckles 
 downwards. 
 
 ' Now then,' said she, with something between 
 a groan and a grin, ' what have you been at ?' 
 
 He related his interview, all but the last passage. 
 
 Jacintha congratulated him. 
 
 ' AVhy, it goes swimmingly. You are very 
 lucky. I wonder she spoke to you at all out 
 there all alone. In Dard's cottage I knew she 
 would, because she could not help. Well.' 
 
 Then he told her Laure' s parting request. 
 
 ' I say, mademoiselle,' cried Jacintha, ' you are
 
 188 WHITE LIES. 
 
 coming on pretty well for a novice. There is 
 one that has a head. You thanked and blessed 
 her, &c.' 
 
 ' No, indeed, I did not. I declined — oh ! very 
 respectfully.' ' Yery respectfully !' repeated Ja- 
 cintha, with disdain. * You really are not safe to 
 go alone. Nevertheless, I can't be always at his 
 elbow. Do you know what you have done ?' 
 
 ' No.' 
 
 ' You have made her hate you, that is all.' 
 
 Eiviere defended himself. ' It was so unjust to 
 refuse me her acquaintaince, and then ask me to 
 amuse that ancient personage.' 
 
 Jacintha looked him in the face, sneering like 
 a fiend. 
 
 * Listen to a parable. Monsieur the Blind,' said 
 she. ' Once there was a little boy madly in love 
 with raspberry jam.' 
 
 ' A thing I hate.' 
 
 * It is false, monsieur ; one does not hate rasp- 
 berry jam. He came to the store closet, where ho 
 knew there were a score jars of it, and — oh ! 
 misery — the door was locked. He kicked the 
 door, and wept bitterly. His mamma came and 
 said, "Here is the key," and gave him the key. 
 And what did he do? Why, he fell to crying 
 and roaring, and kicking the door. " I don't wa- 
 wa-wa-wa-nt the key-ey-ey. I wa-a-ant the jam — 
 oh ! oh ! oh ! oh !" ' and Jacintha mimicked to the 
 life the mingled grief and ire of infancy debarred 
 its jam. Edouard wore a puzzled air, but it was
 
 WHITE LIES. ^ 189 
 
 only for a moment ; the next he hid his face in 
 his hands, and cried, ' Fool ! fool ! fool !' 
 
 ' I shall not contradict you,' said his Mentor, 
 with affected politeness. 
 
 * She was my best friend.' 
 
 * Who doubts it ?' 
 
 ' Once acquainted with the doctor, I could visit 
 at Beaurepaire.' 
 
 ^Parbleu!' 
 
 ' She had thought of a way to reconcile my 
 wishes with this terrible etiquette that reigns here.' 
 
 ' She thinks to more purpose than you do — that 
 is clear.' 
 
 ' Nothing is left now but to ask her pardon — 
 and to consent — I am off.' 
 
 ' No, you are not,' and Jacintha laid a grasp of 
 iron on him. ' Will you be quiet ? — is not one 
 blunder a day enough ? If you go near her now, 
 she will affront you, and order the doctor not to 
 speak to you.' 
 
 ' Oh, Jacintha ! your sex then are fiends of 
 malice ?' 
 
 ' While it lasts. Luckily with us nothing does 
 last very long. Take your orders from me.' 
 
 'Yes, general,' said the young man, touching 
 his hat. 
 
 ' Don't go near her till you have made the 
 doctor's acquaintance ; that is easily done. He 
 walks two hours on the east road every day, with 
 his feet in the puddles and his head in the 
 clouds.'
 
 190 WHITE LIES. 
 
 ' But how am I to get him out of the clouds ?' 
 
 ' With the first black beetle you meet.' 
 
 « A black beetle !' 
 
 ' Ay ! catch her when you can. Have her ready 
 for use in your handkerchief : pull a long facQ : 
 and says you — " Excuse me monsieur, I have the 
 misfortune not to know the Greek name of this 
 merchandize here." Say that, and behold him 
 launched. He will christen the beast in Hebrew 
 and Latin as well as Greek, and tell you her 
 history down from the flood : next he will beg her 
 of you, and out will come a cork and a pin, and 
 behold the creature impaled. Thus it is that man 
 loves beetles. He has a thousand pinned doT^Ti at 
 home — beetles, butterflies and so forth. When I 
 go near the lot with my duster he trembles like an 
 aspen. I pretend to be going to clean them, but 
 it is to see the face he makes, for even a domestic 
 requires to laugh : but I never do clean them, for 
 after all he is more stupid than wicked, poor man : 
 I have not therefore the sad courage to annihilate 
 him.' 
 
 *Let us return to our beetle — what will his 
 tirades about the antiquity of the beetle advance 
 me?' 
 
 ' Wretch ! one begins about a beetle, but one 
 ends Heaven knows where.' She turned suddenly 
 grave. ^ All this does -not prevent my pot from 
 being on the fire :' and her heart of hearts being now 
 in the kitchen, Riviere saw it was useless to detain 
 her body, so thanking her warmly made at once
 
 WHITE LIES. 191 
 
 for tlie east road. Sure enough lie fell in with 
 the doctor, but not being armed with an insect he 
 had to take refuge in a vegetable — the fallen elm. 
 He told St. Aubin he had employed a person to 
 keep his ears open, and if anything transpired at 
 either of the taverns to let him know. ' You have 
 done well monsieur,' said the doctor ; ' when the 
 wine goes in the secrets ooze out.' 
 
 The next time they met. Riviere was furnished 
 with an enormous chrysalis. He had found it in a 
 hedge, and w-as struck with its singular size. He 
 produced it and with modest diffidence and twink- 
 ling eye sought information. 
 
 The doctor's eye glittered. 
 
 ' The death's head. moth!' he cried w-ith enthu- 
 siasm — ' the death's head moth ! a great rarity in 
 this district. Where found you this ?' Riviere 
 undertook to show him the place. 
 
 It w^as half a league distant. Coming and 
 going he had time to make friends with St. Aubin, 
 and this was the easier that the old gentleman, 
 who was a physiognomist as well as ologist, had 
 seen goodness and sensibility in Edouard's face. 
 At the end of the walk he begged the doctor to 
 accept the chrysalis. The doctor coquetted. 
 
 ' That would be a robbery. You take an in- 
 terest in these things yourself — at least I hope so !' 
 
 The young rogue confessed modestly to the sen- 
 timent of entomology, but ' the Government worked 
 him so hard as to leave him no hopes of shining in 
 so high a science,' said he sorrowfully.
 
 192 WHITE LIES. 
 
 The doctor pitied liim. ' A young man of your 
 attainments and tastes to be debarred from tbe 
 everlasting secrets of Nature, by tbe fleeting poli- 
 tics of the day, in which it is so seldom that any 
 great principle is evolved.' 
 
 Riviere slii'ugged his shoulders. ' Somebody 
 must do the dirty work,' said he, chuckling in- 
 wardly. 
 
 The chrysalis went to Beaurepaire in the pocket 
 of a grateful man. * Oh wise Jacintha !' said the 
 lover, * I thought you were humbugging me, but his 
 heart is in these things. We are a league nearer 
 one another than yesterday.' 
 
 The doctor related his conversation with young 
 Riviere, on whom he pronounced high encomiums, 
 levelling them at Laure the detractor from his 
 merit, as if he was planting so many death blows. 
 Her saucy eyes sparkled with fun : you might have 
 lighted a candle at one and exploded a mine at the 
 other ; but not a syllable did she utter. 
 
 The white flag waved from the battlements of 
 Beaurepaire. 
 
 So (there's a sentence for you — there's a ring — 
 there's earthly thunder !) the statesman dropped 
 his statistics, and took up his hat and fled. ' Only 
 to tell you you are in high favour, and I think you 
 might risk a call,' said Jacintha. 
 
 ' What, on the baroness ?' 
 
 * AVhy not ? We shall be obliged to let her have 
 a finger in the pie, soon or late,'
 
 WHITE LIES. 193 
 
 ' But I called on her, and was repulsed with 
 scorn.' 
 
 ' Ha ! ha ! I remember you came to offer us 
 your highness's patronage ! Well now I will tell 
 you a better game to play at Beaurepaire than 
 that. Think of some favour to ask us : come with 
 your hat off. We like to grant favours : we are 
 used to that. We don't know how to receive 
 them.' 
 
 ' But what favour can I ask ?' 
 
 ' Oh ! anything ; so that you can make it sound 
 a favour ?' 
 
 * I have it : I will ask leave to shoot over Beau- 
 repaire.' 
 
 * Good : and that will be an excuse for giving 
 me some more birds,' said she, who had always an 
 eye to the pot. ' Come — forward.' 
 
 * What now ? this very moment — I was not pre- 
 pared for this. My heart beats at the idea.' 
 
 ' Fiddle-de-dee ! The baroness and the doctor are 
 on the south terrace. But I am not to know that. 
 I shall show you up to the baroness, and she won't 
 be there — you understand. Bun to the front door ; 
 I'll step round and let you in.' 
 
 * Madam the Baroness, here is a — young mon- 
 sieur with a request — come in monsieur. But 
 mademoiselle where is Madam the Baroness ?' 
 
 * My mother is on the terrace Jacintha,' said 
 Josephine. 
 
 ' I will seek her — be seated monsieur.' 
 Edouard began to stammer apologies. 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 194 WHITE LIES. 
 
 * Such a trifle to trouble the baroness with — and 
 you mesdemoiselles.' ' You do not trouble us mon- 
 sieur,' said Laure; * you see^we go on working as 
 if nothing had happened.' 
 
 * That is flattering, Mademoiselle Laure.' 
 
 ' But we flutter ;' murmured Josephine, too low 
 for Riviere to hear — then the kindly beauty soft- 
 ened down her sister's piquancy. 'Monsieur, I 
 think I can answer for our mother that she will 
 not refuse one whom we must always look on as — 
 our friend.' ' But not your acquaintance,' said 
 Edouard, tenderly, though reproachfully. 
 
 ' Monsieur then cannot forgive us a single re- 
 pulse.' 
 
 Here was an unexpected turn. Josephine's soft 
 eyes and deprecatory voice seemed to imply that 
 she might be won to retract that for which she 
 went so near apologising. 
 
 ' Jacintha is right,' thought he, * she is the belle 
 of belles.' 
 
 ' Ah ! mademoiselle,' said he warmly, ' how good 
 you are to speak so to me !' The door opened, and 
 the baroness came in alone. 
 
 Edouard rose and bowed. The baroness curt- 
 seyed, gravely waved him to a seat, and sat down 
 herself. * They tell me, monsieur, I have it in my 
 power to be of some slight service to you — all the 
 better.' 
 
 ' Yes madam : but it is a trifle, and I am in con- 
 sternation to think I should have deranged you.' 
 
 * Nowise, monsieur ; I was about to come in
 
 WHITE LIES. 195 
 
 wlien Jacintlia informed me of the honour you had 
 done me. Then monsieur wishes — ' 
 
 * Madam, I am a sportsman. I am a neighbour 
 of yours madam, though I have not the honour to 
 be known to you.' 
 
 ' That arises doubtless from this, monsieur, that 
 I so seldom go into the world,' said the lady with 
 polished insincerity. 
 
 ' Well, madam, I am a sportsman, and shoot in 
 your neighbourhood, and the birds fly over into 
 your ground. Now, madam, if I might follow them 
 I should often have a good day's sport.' ' Mon- 
 sieur/ said the old lady, w4th a faint smile, ' follow 
 those birds wherever I have a right to invite 
 you. I must at the same time inform you that 
 since France was reformed, or as some think, 
 deformed, it has not been the custom to give the 
 lady of Beaurepaire any voice in matters of this 
 kind.' 
 
 ' Madam,' said Edouard, ' permit me to separate 
 myself in your judgment from those persons.' 
 
 * Monsieur has done that already,' said the baro- 
 ness with all the grace of the old regime. 
 
 Eiviere bowed low. His head being down, he 
 cast a furtive glance, and there was Josephine 
 working with that conscious complacency young 
 ladies mildly beam with wh3n they are working 
 and interested in a conversation. Laure, too was 
 working, but her head was turned away, and she 
 was bursting with suppressed m^erriment. He felt 
 uneasy — ' it is me she is quizzing ' — and yet he had 
 
 K 2
 
 196 WHITE LIES. 
 
 a nervous desire to langh with her ; so he turned 
 away hastily. 
 
 ' Monsieur,' said the baroness languidly, * may I, 
 without indiscretion, ask — does it afford you much 
 pleasure to kill these birds ?' 
 
 ' Not too much madam, to tell the truth — ^^but 
 pursuit of anything is very inviting to our nature.' 
 
 * Ah !' said Laure drily — off her guard. 
 
 ^Did you speak, my daughter?' said the 
 baroness, coldly. 
 
 ' No mother,' said Laure, a little frightened ; 
 with all her sauce she dare no more put in her 
 word, uninvited, between her mother and a 
 stranger, than she dare jump out of the window. 
 ' Besides,' continued Edouard, ' when a man is 
 very hard worked, these relaxations — ' 
 
 ' Ah ! monsieur is hard worked !' said the 
 baroness ; her eye dwelling with a delicate irony 
 on his rosy face. 
 
 He did not perceive it : it was too subtle. He 
 answered with a shade of pomp — ' Like all who 
 serve the State.' 
 
 ' Ah ! monsieur — serves — the — State.' She 
 seemed to congeal word by word. The young 
 ladies exchanged looks of dismay. 
 
 * I serve France,' said Eiviere, gently ; and 
 something in his manner and in his youth half dis- 
 armed the old lady ; but not quite — she said as she 
 rose to conclude the interview — ' Well monsieur — 
 (you will forgive me if I cannot prevail on myself 
 to call you citizen,') — this with ironical courtesy —
 
 WHITE LIES. 197 
 
 * Call me what you please, madam, except your 
 enemy.' 
 
 And he said this with so much feeling, and this 
 submission of the conquering to the conquered 
 j)arty was so graceful, that the water came into 
 Josephine's eyes, and Laure's bosom rose and fell, 
 and her needle went slower and slower. 
 
 * Citizens have done me too much ill,' explained 
 the baroness, with a sombre look. ' Mamma,' said 
 Josephine^ imploringly. 
 
 * They could not have^ known you madam as I, 
 even in this short interview — forgive my pre- 
 sumption — seem to do,' and he looked beseechingly 
 at her. 
 
 ' At least,' cried the old lady, kindly and almost 
 gaily, * it is a good beginning I think.' She 
 curtseyed, and that meant ' go.' He bowed to her 
 and the young ladies, and retired demurely : one 
 twinkle of triumph shot out of his eye towards 
 Laure. 
 
 The baroness turned to her daughters. 
 
 ' Have you any idea who is this little Republican 
 who has invented the idea of asking permission to 
 shoot the partridges of another, and who, be it 
 said in passing, has the face of an angel ?' 
 
 They looked at one another. Laure spoke — • 
 ' Yes mamma, we have an idea — well he is, you 
 know — the purse.' The baroness flushed. 
 
 ' And why did you not tell me children ?' 
 
 ' ! Mamma ! it would have been so awkward 
 for you we thought.'
 
 198 WHITE LIES. 
 
 ' You are very considerate/ 
 
 'And we must have whispered it, and that is so 
 ill bred.' 
 
 ' More so than to giggle when I receive a 
 visitor ?' asked the baroness keenly. 
 
 * No mamma,' said Laure humbly, and the next 
 moment she coloured all of a sudden, and the next 
 moment after she looked at her mother, and her 
 eyes began to fill. 
 
 'Let us compound mademoiselle,' said the 
 baroness. ' Instead of crying because your old 
 mother speaks more sharply than she means, which 
 would be absurd at your age, you shall tell me 
 why you laughed.' 
 
 'Agreed mamma,' cried Mademoiselle April, 
 vulgarly called Laure ; ' then because — he ! he ! — 
 he has been shooting over your ground for two 
 months past without leave.' 
 
 ' Oh ! impossible.' 
 
 ' I have heard the guns, and seen him and Dard 
 doing it. And now he has come to ask for leave 
 with the face of an angel, as you remarked — he ! 
 he ! — and oh ! mamma you complimented him — 
 he ! — and he absorbed the praise with such an 
 ingenuous gravity — ha ! ha ! ha ! After all it is 
 but reversing the period at which such applications 
 are made by ordinary sportsmen — after instead of 
 before. What does that matter ? — time flies so — • 
 ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!' 
 
 ' Humph !' said the baroness, and seemed very 
 thoughtful, and mighty little amused.
 
 WHITE LIES. > 199 
 
 Edouard went home exulting ; he had inserted 
 the wedge. 
 
 He little thought that Mademoiselle April had 
 sacrificed him to a laugh, still less that a council of 
 war had been convened and was even now sitting 
 on him. Had he known this the deluded youth 
 that went along exulting would have gone 
 trembling and there he would have been mistaken 
 again. Yet there are two hundred thousand 
 people that believe a gipsy girl can predict the 
 future. She cannot — the wisest of us cannot — 
 angels cannot — Satan cannot, though fifty thousand 
 of my Yankee friends have assumed as a self- 
 evident proposition that he can. 
 
 The baroness sent for St. Aubin to ask his 
 advice as to the best way of keeping the citizen at 
 a distance. 
 
 The doctor listened with great interest and often 
 smiled as the baroness put her portions of the 
 puzzle to his portions of it, and the whole enigma 
 lay revealed. 
 
 ' Aha !' said he at last, * the young rogue has 
 taken me by my foible ; but I will be revenged.' 
 
 * The question is not your revenge, but what 
 I am to do.' 
 
 ' Humph !' said the doctor and reflected pro- 
 foundly : ' my advice is — let them alone.' 
 
 ' Let them alone,' replied the baroness sharply 
 — * that is easily said.' 
 
 ' It is as easily done,' replied he quietly. 
 
 The baroness stared, and a faint flush rose in
 
 200 WHITE LIES. 
 
 her delieate clieek, at her friend's cool waj of 
 disposing of a question that so embarrassed her. 
 
 'Trust to Nature,' continued the doctor 
 "benignantly. 
 
 ■ ' Trust to Nature !' screamed the old 
 aristocrat with horror and dismay in her face — * is 
 the man mad ?' 
 
 ' No madam ; nor is Nature : trust to her. She 
 will bring the young lady and the young citizen 
 together quite quickly enough without our 
 inflaming them by opposition.' 
 
 ' You make me regret sir, that I disturbed your 
 graver studies for a matter so little serious as this,' 
 was the bitter answer veiled in tones of perfect 
 politeness. 
 
 ' My friend, if you wished for the sort of advice 
 that political prejudice or other blinding influence 
 gives, I was indeed the wrong person to send for.' 
 
 * But,' continued the lady haughtily, not deigning 
 to notice his last sentence, 'you will make my 
 apologies to the spiders, to whom and their works 
 you are, I conclude, about to return.' The doctor 
 rose at this piece of polite insolence. 
 
 ' Since you permit me, madam. I shall find 
 Nature in spiders and admire her : but not more 
 ■than I do in the young lady and the young citizen 
 who are now submitting to her sweetest law.' 
 
 ' Enough ! monsieur — enough !' 
 
 ' As I myself in former times, when youth — ' 
 
 ' As that must be very long ago, and as among 
 the results marriage has not been one, perhaps it
 
 WHITE LIES. 201 
 
 would be as well to spare me the recital/ said the 
 baroness, too spiteful to let slip this chance of a 
 slap fair or unfair. 
 
 ' True madam. Well then, let us take an un- 
 impeachable example — as yourself — who have been 
 married — in your younger days — not deeming the 
 birds in spring unworthy imitation — deigned—' 
 
 * Monsieur, our conference is ended.' 
 
 The doctor went off with a malicious grin ; much 
 he cared for his old friend's grand airs and biting 
 tongue. The only creature he stood in awe of was 
 Jacintha, and her weapon, the duster. 
 
 . ' What is the hardest substance on earth ?' 
 
 * Adamant, stupid.' 
 ^No.' 
 
 ' Well then steel ? 
 *No.' 
 
 ' Platinum ?' 
 
 ' No. Do you give it up ? — do you ? — do you ? 
 — do you ? — ice.' 
 ' Ice ?' 
 
 * Moral ice, not physical — not solidified water, but 
 solidified etiquette — congealed essence of grand- 
 mamma — custom, ceremony, propriety, when down 
 at 32 Fahrenheit. 
 
 ' How many have jumped as high as they could 
 and come down as hard as they could on purpose 
 to break this ice — and been broken ? You can try 
 it mesdames, but not by my advice. 
 
 ' By a just balance of qualities, human ice, once 
 
 K 3
 
 202 WHITE LIES. 
 
 broken, is the hardest thing in the world to 
 mend.' 
 
 * Nature glides in, and keeps thawed men and 
 women from freezing again, frozen from petrify- 
 ing.* When the ladies of Beaurepaire darted from 
 their family oak, and caught Riviere in his felo- 
 nious act, they broke the ice. 
 
 Josephine's attempt to repair it on the spot was 
 laudable but useless. It was not in nature that 
 this young man and these two young women could 
 ever be again the strangers they were before. 
 Whenever they met in the park he had always a 
 word ready, and they answered. It was but a 
 sly word or two : but these words were like little 
 sticks judiciously inserted as a fire burns up. 
 Factotum Dard co-operated. 
 
 So powerful was Factotum's destiny that even 
 when he was laid up in his arm-chair another little 
 odd job fell upon him ; he became a go-between, 
 though unable to stir. 
 
 Lovers met — to nurse him. 
 
 First would come the two ladies, or sometimes 
 only Laure, and curious enough in less than ten 
 minutes Edouard was sure to arrive, very hot ; it 
 happened ^so — how, I have no idea ; indeed it 
 would be idle to attempt to account for all the 
 strange coincidences that occur. Let me rather 
 mention here, apologising for its complete irrele- 
 vance, that the young man had been puzzled what 
 to do with the twenty pieces of gold. ' They are 
 sacred,' said he.
 
 WHITE LIES. 203 
 
 But eventually he laid them out, and ten more, 
 in a new telescope with an immensely powerful 
 lens. 
 
 Science, by its mouth-piece St. Aubin, highly 
 approved the purchase, and argued great things 
 from a young man, who turned his lodgings into 
 an observatory. 
 
 * Also a politician who looks heavenwards is not 
 of every day occurrence,' said the dry doctor. 
 
 One day that both young ladies and Riviere 
 met round black-foot* Dard, that worthy who had 
 hitherto signalized himself by the depth of his 
 silent reflections, and by listening intently to good 
 books as read by Josephine and by swearing at his 
 toe, rather than by any prolonged conversational 
 efforts, suddenly announced his desire to put a few 
 queries. The auditory prepared to sustain the 
 shock of them. 
 
 ' AYhat I want to know is, how it happens that 
 you aristocrats come to see me so often ?' 
 
 ' Oh, Dard,' said Josephine, ' don't you know ?' 
 
 ' No ! I don't.' 
 
 * Only think of the number of little kind offices 
 you have done for us.' 
 
 ' Oh as to that, I have, by St. Denis.' 
 
 * I have myself seen you work in the garden, 
 drive the cow, chop wood, alas ! poor lad, once too 
 often, and take fish for us out of the pond, and — ' 
 
 ' Stop mademoiselle, it is no use your trying to 
 count them, Heaven has given no man fingers 
 
 * A Scotch word for a go-between : excuse the heartless pun.
 
 204 WHITE LIES'. 
 
 enough to count my little odd jobs ; much less a 
 woman/ added he, getting confused between the 
 jobs and the fingers. 
 
 'Well then, you see you agree with us. You 
 have every claim on our gratitude.' 
 
 ' Oh then, it is the jobs I did up at Beaurepaire 
 that gain me these visits ?' 
 
 ' Yes ! but above all the good heart that 
 prompted them.' 
 
 Dard was silent a moment : then suddenly burst- 
 ing out in an off-hand reckless jaunty tone — * Oh ! 
 as to that,' said he, * I am not one of your fellows 
 that are afraid of work. A few little jobs more or 
 less make no difference to me. " Too much of one 
 thing is good for nothing," as the saying goes — 
 and " changes are lightsome." ' His next observa- 
 tion betrayed more candour than tact. * It was to 
 j)lease Jacintha I did them, not out of regard for 
 you though.' 
 
 * What have we to do with that ?* said Laure 
 sharply — ' we benefited by them : and now you 
 shall benefit by them. Dard ! if we were but a 
 little richer we would make you so comfortable.' 
 
 ' I wish you were the richest citizens in France,' 
 said he bluntly. 
 
 Edouard walked to the gate of the Pleasance 
 with the ladies, and talked nineteen to the dozen, 
 to leave no room for them to say Adieu, and so get 
 rid of him. They did not hate him for not giving 
 them that chance. He gave the ice no time to 
 freeze again.
 
 WHITE LIES. 205 
 
 And all this time he was making friends witli 
 Doctor St. Aubin : and as things will turn in this 
 world, or rather twist, the way least expected, he 
 got to like the doctor and greatly to admire him. 
 He was a mine of knowledge, and his tastes were 
 almost as wide as his information. He relished 
 Nature more perhaps than anything else : but he 
 was equally ready with poetry, with history, and, 
 what charmed young Edouard, with politics of the 
 highest order. 
 
 He made the young man see how great and 
 rare a thing is a statesman, how common and small 
 a thing is a place man. He poured examples 
 drawn from many nations and many epochs, and 
 sounded trumpet notes of great state policy, and 
 the patriotism it is founded on ; and Riviere no 
 sooner felt they were friends than his conscience 
 smote him, and he said to himself, ' I will tell him 
 all : he is a good man — a wise man — a just man. 
 I'm not ashamed of my love. I will entreat him to 
 be on my side.' 
 
 * My friend, I have a confession to make.' 
 
 The doctor twinkled. 
 
 ' Perhaps it will not take you altogether by sur- 
 prise.' 
 
 ' We shall see.' 
 
 Then Edouard told his story as people tell their 
 own stories. How he had come to this district a 
 staunch Republican. How he had seen two young 
 ladies walking so calm, gentle, and sad, always in 
 black. How their beauty and grace had made
 
 206 WHITE LIES. 
 
 tliem interesting, but their misfortunes had made 
 them sacred. How after many meetings a new 
 feature had arisen in their intercourse ; Mademoi- 
 selle Laure had smiled on him, as earth, he thought, 
 had never smiled before. (The doctor grinned 
 here, as many an old fellow has grinned on like 
 occasion, mindful of the days when he was a young 
 fool and did not know it — and now he is an old one, 
 and doesn't know it.) This had gone through his 
 heart. Then suppressing Jacintha, he told his friend 
 he had learned from a sure source the family was in 
 bitter poverty. The doctor sighed. The ardent 
 desire to save them, coupled with the difficulty, and 
 their inaccessibility, had almost driven him mad. 
 
 * I lost all my colour,' said he half angrily. 
 Then he told the story of the purse, and how, 
 after all, that attempt to save them had failed ; 
 * and now monsieur,' he said, ' my heart often 
 aches, and I burn and freeze by turns. I watch 
 hours and hours for the chance of a word or a 
 look. If I fail, I am miserable all that day ; if I 
 succeed, I am the happiest man in France for half 
 an hour. Then I go back to my little room. It 
 looks like a prison after that. The sun seems to 
 have left the earth, and taken hope with him. Oh 
 my friend, much as I love her, there are moments 
 I wish I had never seen her. She I love will be 
 my ruin. But I shall love her all the same ; it is 
 not her fault. I am in a fever night and day. 
 My duties, once so pleasant, are tasteless now. 
 Monsieur, pity me and advise me !'
 
 AVHITE LIES. 20? 
 
 * I will — tell me first, are you conscious of a 
 slight tremor on the skin when you wake in the 
 morning ?' 
 
 'No.' 
 
 ' Occasional twitches.' 
 
 * No ! — yes ! — how could you know that ? but 
 such trifles are not worth our attention.' 
 
 ' Diagnostics are not worth our attention ?' 
 
 ' No, no ! it's my heart ! — it's my heart !' 
 
 ' My young friend,' said the doctor, ' you have 
 done well to come to me. You must do one of 
 two things : you must either leave this district to- 
 morrow — ' 
 
 ' I would rather leave the earth !' 
 
 ' Or— ' 
 
 'Ah! or—' 
 
 ' Go with me to the baroness, and, backed by 
 me, ask leave to court her daughter openly like a 
 man.' 
 
 ' Backed by you ! am I so fortunate ? are you 
 on my side ?' ' Firm as a rock !' shouted the 
 doctor ; * and what is more I have been your 
 secret ally, a traitor in the camp Beaurepaire, this 
 three weeks ; also I have watched your little 
 manoeuvres with me. Citizen Cherubin, with no 
 less interest and curiosity than I watch a young- 
 bird building its first nest, or a silkworm spinning 
 her silk, or a spider her web, or any other cunning- 
 inspired by great Nature. Oh you need not hide 
 your head, fox with the face of the Madonna : I 
 awaited this revelation from you : I knew it would
 
 208^ WHITE LIES. 
 
 come. I am glad it is come so soon; a want of 
 candour is unmanly, and a great fault in youth ; 
 you shall now learn how wise it is to be candid. 
 Now tell me Edouard — ' 
 
 ' Ah ! thank you, monsieur !' 
 
 ' Your parents ! — would they consent to a match 
 between you and a young lady of rank but no 
 wealth ?' 
 
 ' Monsieur, I am not so fortunate as to have 
 any parents — unless you will let me look on you 
 as one.' 
 
 * This, dear child ! — I consent — my snuff box — 
 good ! left it at home.' 
 
 * I have an uncle ; but you know one is not 
 bound to obey an uncle, except perhaps — ' 
 
 * When his wishes are the echo of our own — 
 then we are.' 
 
 ' Besides, my uncle loves me — at least I think so.' 
 
 ' Oh ! impossible. You must be mistaken. Well, 
 
 my young lover, I am satisfied. All the battle, 
 
 then, will be at Beaurepaire. Have you courage ?' 
 
 * I am full of it ; only sometimes it is the courage 
 of hope, sometimes of despair.' 
 
 ' Call on me to-morrow with the courage of 
 hope.' 
 
 ' What, at the chateau !' cried the young man, 
 all in a flutter. 
 
 ' Ay, at the impregnable castle itself, where, 
 preposterous as it may appear, the right of receiv- 
 ing my visitors is conceded me. Were it not — I 
 should take it.'
 
 WHITE LIES. 209 
 
 ' 'It does me good to hear a man talk so boldly 
 about the chateau/ 
 
 ' I shall present you to my friend the baroness. 
 She will receive you as a glacier the Polar Star/ 
 
 ' I feel she will. I shiver in advance.' 
 
 ' And, deaf to me, your advocate, in other words 
 to reason and good sense personified, ahem ! she 
 wnll yield to you : my vanity will be shocked, and 
 behold us enemies for life.' 
 
 > Riviere shook his head despondingly — * Deaf to 
 you, yield to me — how can this be ?' 
 
 ' Because she is a female of our species — a thing 
 to be persuaded, not convinced ; trust to me — have 
 faith in nature — and come at twelve o'clock.' 
 
 St. Aubin, on reaching the chateau, found the 
 dun pony standing at the door. He hurried into 
 the dining room, and there was the notary and 
 the young ladies, all apparently in good spirits. 
 The notary had succeeded. He showed the doctor, 
 as he had already showed the ladies, a penal 
 contract by which Bonard bound himself not to 
 sell the estate, or assign the loan to any one. The 
 doctor was enchanted, shook the notary again and 
 again by the hand, and took him up stairs to the 
 baroness. 
 
 ' There is no further necessity for concealment,' 
 said he, ' and it would be most unjust not to give 
 her an opportunity of thanking you.' The baroness 
 looked rather cold and formal at sight of the 
 notary, but her manner soon changed. Although
 
 210 WHITE LIES. 
 
 tlie doctor underrated the danger the chateau had 
 just escaped, yet at the bare mention she turned as 
 pale as death ; both her daughters and the doctor 
 observed this. * Strange, I had a presentiment.' 
 
 When she found the danger was past, a deep 
 sigh showed how the mere relation had taken 
 away her breath. 
 
 ' Heaven reward you, monsieur,' said she ; ' the 
 last time you were here, you gave me advice which 
 offended me, probably because it was wise advice. 
 Accept my excuses.' 
 
 ' They are unnecessary, madam. I could not 
 but respect your prejudices, though I suffered by 
 them.* 
 
 *In future, monsieur, count on more candour, 
 and perhaps more humility; that is should my 
 impetuosity not deter you from ever wasting good 
 advice on me again.' 
 
 ' On the contrary, madam, if you could give me 
 an hour to-morrow, I should be glad to show you a 
 means by which the estate and chateau can be 
 placed above all risk, not only from a single 
 creditor, but from the whole body, were they to 
 act hostilely and in concert.' 
 
 ' I shall be at your disposal.' 
 
 * At this interview I request that the heiress of 
 Beaurepaire may be also present.' 
 
 * What necessity for that ?' inquired the baroness 
 sharply. 
 
 'Oh!' said the doctor, ' I understand ; the next 
 heir's formal consent is required to arrangements
 
 WHITE LIES. 211 
 
 made for the benefit of the life-holder. Am 1 
 mad ? to talk of the next heir. Why, Josephine 
 is the present proprietor/ 
 
 * I !' cried Josephine with astonishment, not un- 
 mixed with horror. The notary's lip curled with 
 contempt at the little party that had not even 
 asked themselves to whom the property belonged. 
 ' Mademoiselle de Beaurepaire will be present,' said 
 the baroness. 
 
 A little before twelve o'clock, Edouard Riviere 
 stood at the door, with something like an ice jave- 
 lin running the length of his back bone. The 
 baroness was in his eyes the most awful human 
 creature going. He would have feared an inter- 
 view with the First Consul one shade less, or half 
 a shade. Jacintha, smiling and winking, showed 
 him into St. Aubin's study. The doctor received 
 him warmly, and after a few words of kind en- 
 couragement, committed him to beetles and co., 
 while he went to intercede with the baroness. 
 
 The baroness stopped him cunningly at the first 
 word. 
 
 ' My good doctor, spare me this topic for once. 
 The most disagreeable draught ceases to be pun- 
 gent when administered every day for three 
 weeks.' 
 
 ^ If you and I only were concerned in it, I would 
 prescribe it no longer, but those we lave are deeply 
 interested in it.' 
 
 * Josephine, my daughter,' cried the baroness.
 
 212: WHITE LIES. 
 
 'are 'you deeply interested in marrying Citizen 
 Eiviere — with a face like a girl ?' 
 
 ' No ! mamma T 
 
 * We must not ask Laure, I think — she is rather 
 too young for such topics.' 
 
 ' Not a bit too young, mamma, if you please ; 
 but I lack the inclination.' 
 
 ' In short, somehow or another, you can both 
 dispense with the doctor's friend for a husband. 
 Let him go then. Now, if the doctor had proposed 
 himself, we should all three be pulling caps for him.' 
 
 A little peal of laughter, like as of silver bells, 
 rang out at the doctor's expense. He never moved 
 a muscle. * Permit me to recall to you the general 
 substance of the reasons I have urged for admit- 
 ting the visits of my friend Monsieur Edouard 
 Eiviere at this house.' 
 
 ' A sort of precis or recapitulation/ remarked 
 the baroness drily. 
 
 ' Exactly.' 
 
 ' Such as precedes the final dismissal of an ex- 
 hausted subject.' 
 
 ' Or makes the intelligent hearer at last compre- 
 hend and retain it. First and above all, this 
 young man is good and virtuous ; then he loves 
 with delicacy — with rare dehcacy ; am I right, 
 mesdemoiselles ? Well — I await your answer — 
 Cowards ! ! — and with ardour. He burns to do 
 good to you all. Now, let us soberly inquire, is 
 the family in a position to scorn such a godsend ? 
 Some fine day, when the chateau is sold over our
 
 WHITE LIES. 213 
 
 heads, shall we not feel too late that imprudence 
 is guilt in those who have the charge of beloved 
 ones as well as of themselves. Look facts in the 
 face, madam ; comprehend to-day what all the 
 rest of France has long comprehended, that the 
 Bourbons are snuffed out. They were little men, 
 whom accident placed high, and accident could lay 
 low. This Bonaparte's finger is thicker than their 
 loins. Well, if you can really doubt this, lean on 
 your rotten reeds ; but not with all your weight ; 
 marry one daughter to a Royalist, but one into the 
 rising dynasty ; then we shall be safe, come what 
 may, and this ancient but tottering house will not 
 fall in our day, or by any fault of ours.' 
 
 ^ This may be prudence/ said the baroness. * I 
 think it is ; but it is prudence so hard, worldly, 
 and cynical, that, had I known it was coming, I 
 think I should have sent that child out of the 
 room.' Laure cast a look of defiance at Josephine 
 for not being called a child, and she was. 
 
 St. Aubin winced, but kept his temper. 
 
 * Show me then,' said he, ' that you can rise to 
 things less cynical and worldly than prudence. 
 Look at the young man's virtue — his character.' 
 
 * What do we know of his character ?' 
 
 ^ Are we blind then, or can we see virtue only 
 when it comes to us on paper ? Is there nothing 
 in our own souls that recognises great virtues at 
 sight, and cries, " Hail ! brother ?" ' 
 
 * Yes ! yes ! there is !' cried Laure, her eyes 
 glowing.
 
 214 WHITE LIES. 
 
 ^Be silent, my child.' 
 
 * Needs there a long string of scribblers to tell 
 us what actions are good and beautiful, and beyond 
 the little vulgar and the great vulgar to do or ad- 
 mire ? What do you know of his character ? 
 You know that in a world which vaunts much and 
 does nothing but egoism, sometimes bare egoism, 
 sometimes gilt egoism, but always egoism, this 
 poor boy has loved you all as angels love and as 
 mortals don't, and like angels has done you good 
 unseen. You know nothing ? You know he is 
 not rich, yet consecrated half his income to you, 
 without hope even of thanks. Is it his fault he 
 was found out ? No ! my young ladies there were 
 too cunning for him, or you would never have 
 known your angel friend. Read now those great 
 Messieurs Corneille and Racine for a love so in- 
 nocent, so delicate, so like a woman's, so like an 
 angel's. Search their immortal pages for it — and 
 find it not. Are you deaf to sentiment, blind to 
 beauty of person and the soul ? Then be shrewd, 
 be prudent, and be friends with the rising young 
 citizen. I have measured him — he is no dwarf 
 He was first at the Ecole Politechnique — he won't 
 be last in France. Are you too noble to be pru- 
 dent ? then be noble enough to hold out the hand 
 to the noble and good and beautiful for their own 
 sakes, unless, after twenty years' friendship, I am 
 anything to you ; in that case, oh ! welcome them 
 for mine.' 
 
 The baroness hung her head, but made no answer.
 
 WHITE LIES. 215 
 
 'Mother,' said Josephine imploringly, *the dear 
 doctor is in earnest. I fear he may doubt our love 
 for him if you refuse him. He never spoke so loud 
 before. Mamma — dear mamma !' 
 
 ' What is it you wish me to do, monsieur ?' 
 
 * Only to receive my friend, and let him plead 
 his own cause.' 
 
 * I consent. I am like Josephine. I do not love 
 to have an old friend bawling at me.' 
 
 * Thank you ladies, for your consideration for 
 my feelings — and your ears.' 
 
 * Where are you going ?' 
 ' To fetch him !' 
 
 ' What to-day ?' 
 
 * This minute.' 
 
 * My daughters, this was a trap. Where is he ? 
 In the Pleasance ?' asked she ironically, taking for 
 granted he was much farther off. 
 
 ' No ; in my room : trembling at the ordeal be- 
 fore him.' 
 
 * It is not too late to retreat ; better so than give 
 me the pain of dismissing him.' 
 
 ' In one minute he will be with you. Break his 
 heart if you are quite sure there is any real neces- 
 sity ; but at least do it gently.' 
 
 ' That is understood. My child take a turn on the 
 terrace.' Laure went out, after shaking her snowball 
 at Josephine for being allowed to stay and she not. 
 
 ' Oh ! my dear friend, what a surprise I have 
 endured ! what a time you have been !'
 
 216 WHITE LIES. 
 
 * I have had a tough battle.' 
 
 * But you have won ? your reasons have pre- 
 vailed ?' 
 
 * My reasons ? — straws ! One of them calls them 
 so openly, I forget which. No ! my reasons fell to 
 the earth unheeded ; didn't I tell you they would ?' 
 
 ^Oh! Heaven!' 
 
 ' But, luckily, in reasoning I shouted. Then 
 that angel Josephine said — " Oh ! mother, we can- 
 not refuse the doctor; he has shouted— he who 
 never shouts." New definition of reason — an affair 
 of the lungs. Now go and show them your 2)retty 
 face.' 
 
 * Yes ! my friend, what shall I say ? what shall 
 I say ?' 
 
 ' What matters it what you say ? Wisdom won't 
 help you, folly won't hurt you ; still, by way of 
 being extremely cautious, I wouldn't utter too much 
 good sense. Turn two beseeching eyes upon her ; 
 add the language of your face to the logic of my 
 lungs, and win — Come.' 
 
 * Madam, this is Monsieur Edouard Riviere, my 
 friend.' 
 
 A stately reverence from the baroness. 
 
 ' May my esteem and his own merit procure him 
 at your hands favourable treatment, and should 
 you find him timid and flurried, and little able to 
 address yOu fluently, allow, I pray you, for his 
 youth, for the modesty that accompanies merit, and
 
 WHITE LIES. 217 
 
 for the agitation of his heart at such a moment. I 
 leave you.' Edouard, trembling and confused, 
 stammered, scarcely above a whisper. ' Madam, I 
 feel I shall need all my friend's excuses,' and here 
 his whisper died out altogether, and his tongue 
 seemed to glue itself to something, and lose the 
 power of motion. 
 
 ' Calm yourself monsieur : I listen to you.' 
 
 ' Madam, I do not deserve her — but I love her. 
 My position is not what she merits — but I love 
 her.' 
 
 ' How can that be monsieur ? — you do not know 
 her.' 
 
 * Ah yes madam ! — I know her : there are souls 
 that speak through the countenance : I have lived 
 on hers too long not to know her. Say rather you 
 do not know me — you may well hesitate to allow 
 one unknown to come near so great a treasure. 
 There I am sure is the true obstacle. Well madam 
 as my merits are small let my request be moderate : 
 give me a trial. Let me visit you — I am not old 
 enough to be a hypocrite : if I am undeserving, 
 such an eye as yours will soon detect me : you will 
 dismiss me, and I shall go at a word, for I am 
 proud too, though I have so little to be proud of.' 
 
 ' You do not appear to see, monsieur, that this 
 experiment will compromise my daughter.' 
 
 ' Xot at all madam ; I promise it shall not ; I 
 swear I will not presume on any opportunity your 
 goodness shall give me. Consider madam, it is 
 only here that I can make you acquainted with my 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 218 WHITE LIES. 
 
 character : you never leave the chateau madam : 
 let me come to the chateau now and then, oh, pray 
 let me come Madam the Baroness !' and he turned 
 his beseeching eyes on her. 
 
 ' Was ever anything so unreasonable ?' 
 
 * Ah ! madam the more I shall bless you if you 
 will be so generous as not to refuse me.' 
 
 ' But if it is my duty to refuse you.' 
 ' Then I shall die madam, that is all.' 
 ' Childishness !' 
 
 * And you will be sorry.' 
 ' You think so !' 
 
 * yes ! for madam has a good heart — only she 
 cannot see, and will not believe h-h-how 1 1-love.' 
 
 * Child ! now if you cry I will send you away at 
 once. One would say I am very cruel, but I 
 am not — I am only in my senses, and this child is 
 not. In the first place these things are not done 
 in this way. The approaches are made, not by the 
 young madman himself, but by his parents : these 
 open the treaty with the parent or parents of the 
 lady.' 
 
 ' But madam, I am not so fortunate as to have a 
 parent.' 
 
 ' What ! no father ?' 
 
 'No madam. I cannot even remember my 
 father.' 
 
 ' No mother ?' 
 
 ' Madam she died five years ago. Mademoiselle 
 Josephine can tell you what I lost that day. If 
 she was alive she would be about your age. Ah
 
 WHITE LIES. 219 
 
 no, madam ! you may be sure she is gone from me, 
 or I should not kneel before you thus friendless. 
 She would come to you and say — " Madam, you are 
 a mother as I am — feel for me — my son loves your 
 daughter ; he wall die if you refuse him. Have 
 pity on me and on my son. I know him — he is 
 not unworthy." Mademoiselle Josephine, speak a 
 word for me I implore you ; for me who, less 
 happy than you, have no mother — for me who 
 speak so ill, and have so much need to speak well. 
 I shall be rejected — by my own fault — can one 
 have so much to say and say so little ? Can the 
 heart be so full and the tongue so powerless ?' 
 
 The baroness rose. She turned her head away. 
 
 Eiviere awaited his doom trembling wdth agita- 
 tion, and washing he had said anything but what 
 he had said ; he saw^ too a little tremor pass over 
 the baroness, but did not know how to interpret 
 that. 
 
 ' The emotion such w^ords cause me — no, I can- 
 not. My child you shall leave me now. I wall 
 send you my answer by letter.' These last words 
 were spoken in almost a coaxing tone, in a much 
 kinder tone than she had ever used before, and 
 Edouard's hopes rose. ' Oh yes madam,' said he 
 innocently, 'I prefer it so; thank you madam, 
 from the bottom of my heart, thank you !' 
 
 He paused in the middle of his gratitude, for to 
 his surprise the baroness's eyes suddenly became 
 fixed with horror and astonishment. He wheeled 
 round to see what direful object had so transfixed 
 
 L 2
 
 220 WHITE LIES. 
 
 her, and caught Josephine behind him, but at some 
 distance, looking at her mother with an imploring 
 face, a face to melt a tigress, and both her white 
 hands clasped together in mute supplication and 
 her cheeks wet. 
 
 When she saw herself detected, she attempted 
 no further secrecy, but came forward her hands 
 still clasped. 
 
 ' No ! no — mother !' Then she turned to Edouard. 
 
 * Do you not see she is going to refuse you by 
 letter, because she has not the courage to look in 
 your sweet face and strike you.' ' Ah, traitress ! 
 — traitress !' shrieked the baroness. 
 
 Edouard sighed. 
 
 Josephine stood supplicating. 
 
 * A new light strikes me,' cried the old lady — 
 
 * what a horror ! Why Josephine — my daughter 
 — is it possible you are interested — to such a 
 degree — in this — ' 
 
 Josephine lowered her lovely head. ' Yes mo- 
 ther,' said she, just above a whisper. 
 
 The baroness groaned. 
 
 Edouard, to comfort her, began. ' But madam, 
 it is not — ' 
 
 ' Ah ! hold your tongue,' cried Josephine hastily. 
 The mystified one held his tongue. 
 
 ' She is right monsieur,' said the baroness, drily : 
 
 * leave her alone, she will have more influence 
 with me than you. In a word monsieur, I am 
 about to consult my daughter in this wise and 
 well ordered aifair. Be pleased to excuse us
 
 WHITE LIES. 221 
 
 a few minutes.' ' Certainly madam.' He took 
 his hat. 
 
 ' I will send for you. Meantime go and play 
 with that other child on the terrace,' said she spite- 
 fully — for all her short-lived feeling in his favour 
 was gone now. 
 
 Monsieur Edouard bowed respectfully, and sub- 
 mitted demurely to his penance. 
 
 *A11 is ended,' said the baroness; 'the senti- 
 ments that have corrupted the nation, have ended 
 by penetrating into my family — my eldest daughter 
 flings herself at a man's head — again it is not a 
 man, but a boy — with the face of an angel.' 
 
 Josephine ghded to her mother's side, and sank 
 on her knees. 
 
 * Have some little confidence in your Josephine ! 
 Am I so very foolish? Am I so very wicked?' 
 And she laid her cheek against her mother's. 
 The old lady kissed her. 
 
 ' Thou shalt have him — thou shalt have him ! my 
 well beloved : have no fear : thy mother loves thee 
 too well to vex thee.' But at this the old lady began 
 to sob and to cry — 'They are taking away my 
 children ! they are taking away my children !' 
 And to the doctor who came in full of curiosity 
 she cried out — ' Ah ! you have come ! enjoy then 
 your triumph, for you have w^on !' ' All the better,' 
 cried the doctor gaily. 
 
 * Nevertheless it was a sorry triumph to come to a 
 poor old woman from whom they had taken all except 
 her daughters, and to rob her of them too — ah !'
 
 22.5 WHITE LIES. 
 
 The doctor hung his head : then he stepped 
 quickly np to her with great concern, and took 
 her hand. 
 
 ' My dear dear friend,' he cried, * the laws of 
 Nature are inevitable. Sooner or later the 
 young birds must leave the parent's nest.' 
 
 ' Nature is very cruel — oh ! oh !' 
 
 ' She seems so, because she is unchangeable. 
 There is another law to which you and I must 
 both yield ere long.' 
 
 ' Yes my friend.' 
 
 * Shall we go, and leave these tender ones to 
 choose mates and protectors for themselves, out of 
 a world of wolves in sheep's clothing ? Shall we 
 refuse them while we live the light of our age and 
 wisdom in this the act that is to colour their whole 
 lives ?' 
 
 * You have always reason on your side. Well ! 
 send for the young man. He is good : he will 
 forgive me if in spite of myself I should be some- 
 times rude to him : he will understand that to my 
 daughter he is a lover, but to me a burglar — a 
 highway robber — poor child ! He is very hand- 
 some all the same. Next, he has no mother — if I 
 was not so wicked I should try and supply her place 
 — you see I am reasonable. Tell me now how long 
 it will be before you come to me for Laure ? Oh ! 
 do not be afraid : I will let her go too. I will not 
 give all this trouble a second time — the first 
 struggle it is that tears us. Yet I knew it must 
 come some day. But I did not expect it so soon.
 
 WHITE LIES. 223 
 
 No matter — I will be reasonable. To day is the 
 fourth of November. I shall remember the fourth 
 of November — go to. All I ask is, when they 
 are both gone, and the house is quite — quite 
 desolate, then suffer me to die — when all I love is 
 gone from me. Oh ! oh ! oh ! oh ! oh !' 
 
 ' Monsieur Perrin the notary is below and would 
 speak to madam,' said Jacintha at the door. 
 
 ' I remember : away with our tears my friends : 
 here comes one who would not understand them. 
 He would say, " what have they all the toothache 
 at once in this house ?" 
 
 St. Aubin, after the first compliments, retired ; 
 and the notary, the baroness and Josephine seated 
 themselves in a triangle. 
 
 He began by confessing to them that he had 
 not overcome the refractory creditor without much 
 trouble ; and that he had since learned there was 
 another, a larger creditor likely to press for pay- 
 ment or for sale of the estate. The baroness was 
 greatly agitated by this communication : the notary 
 remained cool as a cucumber and keenly observant. 
 
 ' Bonard,' said he, ' has put this into their heads ; 
 otherwise I believe they never would have thought 
 of it.' 
 
 He went on to say all this had caused him 
 grave reflections. ' It seems,' said he with cool 
 candour, ' a sad pity that the estate should pass 
 from a family that has held it since the days of 
 Charlemagne.'
 
 224 WHITE LIES. 
 
 'Now God forbid!' cried tlie baroness lifting 
 lier eyes and her quivering hands to heaven. 
 
 Now the notary held the Republican creed in 
 all its branches. * Providence, madam, does not 
 interfere — in matters of business,' said he. ' No- 
 thing but money can save the estate. Let us then 
 look at things solid. Has any means occurred to 
 you of raising money to pay off these incum- 
 brances ?' 
 
 ' No. "What means can there be ? The estate 
 is mortgaged to its full value : so they all say.' 
 
 ' And they say true !' put in the notary quickly. 
 
 ' There is no hope.' 
 
 ' Do not distress yourself madam : I am here ! !' 
 
 * Ah, my good friend, may Heaven reward you.' 
 
 ' Madam, up to the present time I have no 
 complaint to make of this same Heaven. By the 
 by, permit me to show you that I am on the 
 rise : here, mademoiselle, is a gim-crack they have 
 given me :' and he unbuttoned his overcoat, and 
 showed them a piece of tricoloured riband and a 
 clasp. ' As for me, I look to the solid, I care 
 little for these things,' said he swelling, 'but 
 the world is dazzled by them. However I can 
 show you something better.' He took out a letter. 
 * This is from the Minister of the Interior to a 
 client of mine : a promise I shall be the next 
 prefect, and the present prefect — I am happy to 
 say — is on his death-bed. Thus madam your 
 humble servant in a few short months will be 
 notary no longer, but prefect ; I shall then sell
 
 WHITE LIES. 225 
 
 < my office of notary — it is worth one hundred 
 thousand francs — and I flatter myself when I am 
 a prefect you will not blush to own me/ 
 
 * Then as now monsieur/ said the baroness 
 politely, ' we shall recognise your merit. But — ' 
 
 ' I understand madam : like me you look to 
 what is solid. Thus then it is : I have money.' 
 
 ' Ah ! all the better for you.' 
 
 ' I have a good deal of money. But it is dis- 
 persed in a great many small but profitable invest- 
 ments. To call it in suddenly would entail some 
 loss.' 
 
 ' I do not doubt it.' 
 
 ' Never mind madam, if you and my young 
 lady there have ever so little of that friendly 
 feeling towards me, of which I have so mucli 
 towards you, all my investments shall be called 
 in. Six months will do it ; two thirds of your 
 creditors shall be paid off at once. A single 
 party on whom I can depend, one of my clients 
 who dares not quarrel with me, will advance the 
 remaining third ; and so the estate will be safe. 
 In another six months even that diminished debt 
 shall be liquidated, and Beaurepaire chateau, park, 
 estate, and grounds, down to the old oak tree, 
 shall be as free as air ; and no power shall alienate 
 them from you mademoiselle, and from the heirs 
 of your body.' The baroness clasped her hands 
 in ecstacy. 
 
 ' But what are we to do for this monsieur ?' 
 inquired Josephine calmly, ' for it seems to me 
 
 L 3
 
 226 WHITE LIES. 
 
 that it can only be effected by great sacrifice on 
 your part/ 
 
 ' I tliank yon mademoiselle for your penei ration 
 in seeing that I must make sacrifices. I would 
 never have told you, but you have seen it — and I 
 do not regret that you have seen it. Madam — 
 mademoiselle — those sacrifices a23pear little to me 
 — will seem nothing — will never be mentioned, 
 or even alluded to after this day, if you, on your 
 part, will lay me under a far heavier obligation — 
 if in short ' — here the contemner of things linsub- 
 stantial reopened his coat, and brought liis riband 
 to light again — ' if you, madam, will accept me 
 
 FOR TOUR S0:N^-IN-LAW — IF YOU, MADEMOISELLE, 
 WILL TAKE ME FOR YOUR HUSBAND !' 
 
 The baroness and her daughter looked at one 
 another in silence. 
 
 * Is it a jest ?' inquired the former of the latter. 
 
 ' Can you think so, mother ? Answer Monsieur 
 Perrin. He has just done us a kind office, mother.' 
 
 ' I shall remember it. Monsieur, permit me to 
 regret that having lately won our gratitude and 
 esteem, you have taken this w^ay of modifying 
 those feelings. But after all,' she added with 
 gentle courtesy, 'we may well put your good 
 deeds against this — this error in judgment. The 
 balance is in your favour still, provided you 
 never return to this topic. Come, is it agreed ?' 
 The baroness's manner was full of tact, and the 
 latter sentences were said with an o^en kindliness
 
 WHITE LIES. 227 
 
 of manner. There was nothing to prevent Perrin 
 from dropping the subject and remaining good 
 friends. A gentleman, or a lover would have so 
 done. Monsieur Perrin was neither. He said in 
 rather a threatening tone — * You refuse me then 
 madam ! !' 
 
 The tone and the words were each singly too 
 much for the baroness's pride. She answered 
 coldly but civilly, 
 
 ' I do not refuse you. I do not take an affront 
 into consideration.' 
 
 ' Be calm, my mother ; no affront was intended.' 
 
 ' Ah ! here is one that is more reasonable,' cried 
 Perrin. 
 
 ' There are men,' continued Josephine without 
 noticing him, * who look to but one thing, interest. 
 It was an offer made politely in the way of busi- 
 ness ; decline it in the same spirit mother ; that is 
 what you have to do.' 
 
 ' Monsieur, you hear what mademoiselle says ?' 
 
 * I am not deaf madam.' 
 
 ' She carries politeness a long way. After all it 
 is a good fault. Well monsieur [ need not answer 
 you since Mademoiselle de Beaurepaire has an- 
 swered you ; but I detain you no longer.' 
 
 Strictly a weasel has no business with the temper 
 of a tiger, but this one had, and the long vindictive- 
 ness of a Corsican. 'Ah ! my little lady, you turn me 
 out of the house do you ?' cried he grinding his teeth. 
 
 * Turn him out of the house ! what a phrase 1 
 where has this man lived ?'
 
 228 WHITE LIES. 
 
 ' To the devil with phrases. You turn me out ! 
 A man my Httle ladies whom none ever yet in- 
 sulted without repenting it, and repenting in vain. 
 You are under obligations to me, and you think to 
 turn me out ! You are at my mercy, and you 
 think I will let you turn me to your door ! Say 
 again to me, either with or without phrases, 
 '' So7iez r and by all the devils in less than a 
 month I will stand here, here, here, and say to you 
 ''SortezT' 
 
 ' Ah ! — 7non Dieu ! mon Dieu /' 
 
 * I will say Beaurepaire is mine ! Begone from it !' 
 
 When he uttered these terrible words, each of 
 which was a blow with a bludgeon to the baroness, 
 the old lady, whose courage was not equal to her 
 spirit, shrank over the side of her arm chair and 
 cried piteously — ' He threatens me ! he threatens 
 me ! I am frightened !' and put up her trembling 
 hands, so suggestive was the notary's eloquence of 
 physical violence. Then his brutality received an 
 unexpected check. Imagine that a sparrow hawk 
 had seized a trembling pigeon, and that a royal 
 falcon swooped, and with one lightning-like stroke 
 of body and wing, buffeted him away, and there he 
 was on his back, gaping and glaring and grasping 
 at nothing with his claws. So swift and irresistible, 
 but far more terrible and majestic, Josephine de 
 Beaurepaire came from her chair with one gesture 
 of her body between her mother and the notary, 
 who was advancing on her with arms folded in a 
 brutal menacing way — not the Josephine we have
 
 WHITE LIES. 229 
 
 seen ter, the calm languid beauty, but tlie De- 
 moiselle de Beaurepaire — her great heart on fire — 
 her blood up — not her own only, but all the blood 
 of all the De Beaurepaires — pale as ashes with 
 great wrath, her purple eyes flaring, and her 
 whole panther-like body ready either to spring or 
 strike. ' Slave ! you dare to insult her, and before 
 me ! Arriere, miserable ! or I soil my hand with 
 your face !' And her hand was up with the w^ord, 
 up, up, higher it seemed than ever a hand was 
 lifted before. And if he had hesitated one mo- 
 ment, I believe it would have come down : and if 
 it had he would have gone to her feet before it : 
 not under its weight — the liglitning is not heavy 
 — but under the soul that would have struck vv^ith 
 it : but there was no need : the towering threat 
 and the flaming eye and the swdft rush buffeted the 
 caitiff away : he recoiled three steps and nearly fell 
 down. She followed him as he went, strong in 
 that moment as Hercules, beautiful and terrible as 
 Michael driving Satan. He dared not, or rather 
 he could not stand before her : he wrrithed and 
 cowered and recoiled all down the room, while she 
 marched upon him. Then the driven serpent 
 hissed as it wriggled away. 
 
 'For all this she too shall be turned out of 
 Beaurepaire, not like me, but for ever. I swear it, 
 parole de Perrin.' 
 
 ' She shall never be turned out. I swear it, foi 
 de De Beaurepaire.' 
 
 ' You too daughter of Sa — '
 
 230 WHITE LIES. 
 
 ' Tais toi, et sors a V instant meme — Lache !* 
 The old lady moaning and trembling and all but 
 fainting in her chair : the young noble, like a 
 destroying angel, hand in air, and great eye scorch- 
 ing and withering ; and the caitiff wriggling out 
 at the door, wincing with body and head, his knees 
 knocking, his heart panting yet raging, his teeth 
 gnashing, his cheek livid, his eye gleaming with 
 that hell, a buffeted coward's hate.
 
 WHITE LIES. 231 
 
 CHAPTER YIII. 
 
 ' Mademoiselle, your mother has sent me here to 
 play with you.' 
 
 ' Monsieur !' 
 
 ' It is true. She said, " Go and play with that 
 other child." ' 
 
 ' Mesdames our mothers take liberties which we 
 do not put up with from a stranger.' 
 
 ' I felt like you at such a term being applied to 
 me, but it is sweet to share anything with you, 
 even an affront — a stigma.' 
 
 * So they sent you to amuse me ?' asked the 
 beauty royally. 
 
 ' It appears so.' 
 
 * Whether I like or not ?' 
 
 ' No mademoiselle, at a word from you I was to 
 leave you : that was understood.' 
 ' Go away.' 
 
 He retired. 
 
 * Monsieur Riviere,' called the lady to him in a 
 calm friendly tone as if nothing had happened. 
 He came back. 
 
 ' How thoughtless you are : you are going away
 
 232 WHITE LIES. 
 
 without telling me what you have been saying to 
 my mother about me behind my back.' 
 
 * I never mentioned you mademoiselle !' 
 
 ' Oh !— oh, all the better !' 
 
 Then this child told that child all he had said to 
 the baroness, and her replies ; and this child 
 blushed in telling it and looked timidly every 
 now and then to see how that capricious child 
 took it : and that cajDricious child wore a lofty 
 contemplative air, as much as to say, * I am listen- 
 ing out of politeness to a dry abstract of certain 
 matters purely speculative wherein I have no 
 personal interest.' Certain blushes that came and 
 went gave the requisite incongruity to the per- 
 formance, and might have made an aged bystander 
 laugh. When he came to tell Josephine's inter- 
 ference, and how her mother thought it was she he 
 loved ; and how Josephine, to his great surprise, 
 had favoured the delusion ; and how, on this, the 
 tide had turned directly in his favour, our young 
 actress being of an impetuous nature and off her 
 guard a moment, burst out, ' Ah, I recognise you 
 there my good Josephine !' but she had no sooner 
 said this than she lowered her eyes and her cheek 
 burned. Eiviere was mystified. 
 
 ' But mademoiselle,' said he, ' do pray explain to 
 me — can I be mistaken after all — is she — ?' 
 
 ' Is she what ?' 
 
 ' I mean does she — ?' 
 
 ' Does she what ?' 
 
 ' You know what I mean.'
 
 WHITE LIES. 233 
 
 ^ No I do not : lio w should I ? The vanity of 
 these children ! Now if she did would she have 
 confessed before you that she did ?' 
 
 ' Well I am astonished at you Mademoiselle 
 Laure ; Jacintha then is right ; you acknowledge 
 that everything your sex says is a falsehood— oh 
 fie!' 
 
 ' No ! not every thing,' replied Laure with 
 naivete unparalleled, ' only certain things ! don't 
 tease me,' cried she with sudden small violence ; 
 ' of this be sure, that Josejohine was a good friend 
 to you, not because she loves children, but because 
 she is not one of us at all, but an angel and loves 
 every body — even monsieur.' 
 
 * Now hear what I think,' said Edouard gravely. 
 ' The baroness fancies you a child — you are woman 
 enough to puzzle me, mademoiselle/ 
 
 * That may easily be.' 
 
 * And Mademoiselle Josephine thought I should 
 not be allowed to come into the house at all, if, at 
 that critical moment, another prejudice came in 
 the way.' 
 
 ' What prejudice ?' 
 ' That you are to young to love.' 
 ^ That is no prejudice — it is a fact. I am, 
 monsieur — I am 7auch too young.' 
 
 * No ! I was confused. I mean too young to be 
 loved.' 
 
 'Oh! I am not too young for that — not a bit 
 too young.' 
 
 ' And so the angel Josephine temporized, out of
 
 234 WHITE LIES. 
 
 pity to me : that is my solution, and — ah ! Heaven 
 bless her '/ 
 
 ' Forgive me if I say your sokitidn is a very 
 absurd one.' 
 
 * It is the true one.' 
 ' Are you sure ?' 
 
 * Positive.' 
 
 ' Then it is no use my contradicting you.' 
 ' Not the least.' 
 
 * Then I shall not contradict you.' 
 
 ' Ah well ! perhaps my turn will come/ said the 
 young man, his lips trembling. ' Won't I cut 
 myself in pieces for her at a word, that is all.' 
 
 * I like you better when you talk so.' 
 ' Mademoiselle Laure ?' 
 
 ' Monsieur Edouard ?' 
 
 ^ If you will come to where the great oak tree 
 stands :' 
 
 ' To the Pleasance you mean ?' 
 
 * Oh ! the Pleasance is it ? What lovely names 
 every thing has here ! Well, if you will come 
 into the Pleasance I will make you a drawing of 
 that dear old tree I love so.' 
 
 ' And what right have you to love it ? — it is not 
 yours : you are always loving something you have 
 no business to.' 
 
 ' I love things that one can't help loving — is that 
 a crime ?' 
 
 * He can't help loving a tree, tender nature !' 
 
 * No, I can't help loving a tree out of which you 
 introduced yourself to me.'
 
 WHITE LIES. 235 
 
 ' Insolent ! Well, draw it with two ladies flying 
 out and a boy rooted with terror/ 
 
 ' There is no need. That scene is more than 
 drawn, it is engraved, on all onr memories for ever !' 
 
 * Not on mine ! not on mine ! Oh ! how terrified 
 you were — ha ! ha ! — and how terrified we should 
 have been if you had not. Listen : once upon a 
 time — don't be alarmed : it was after Noah — a 
 frightened hare ran by a pond : the frogs splashed 
 into the water in terror. She said, " Ah ha ! 
 there are then those I frighten in my turn : I am 
 the thunderbolt of war." Excuse my quoting La 
 Fontaine : I am not in " Charles the Twelfth of 
 Sweden " yet. I am but a child.' 
 
 ' And I am glad of it, for when you grow up 
 you will be too much for me, that is evident. 
 Come then mademoiselle the quizzer.' 
 
 ' Monsieur, shall I make you a confession ? 
 You will not be angry : I could not support your 
 displeasure.' 
 
 ' I am afraid you could : so I will not try you.' 
 
 ' Then I have a strange inclination to walk up 
 and down this terrace while you draw that tree in 
 the Pleasance.' 
 
 ' Resist that inclination : perhaps it will fly from 
 
 you.' 
 
 ' No ! you fly from me, and draw, I will rejoin 
 you in a few minutes.' 
 
 ' Thank you ! Not so stupid !' 
 
 ' Do you doubt my word, sir ?' asked she 
 haughtily.
 
 236 WHITE LIES. 
 
 * Heaven forbid mademoiselle ! only I did not 
 see at first that it was a serious promise you are 
 doing me the honour to make me. I go.' 
 
 He went and placed himself on the west side of 
 the oak and took out liis sketch-book, and worked 
 zealously and rapidly. He had done the outlines 
 of the tree and was finishing in detail a part of 
 the huge trunk, when his eyes were suddenly 
 dazzled : in the middle of the rugged bark, de- 
 formed here and there with great wart-like bosses, 
 and wrinkled, seamed, and ploughed all over with 
 age, burst a bit of variegated colour : bright as a 
 poppy on a dungeon wall, it glowed and glittered 
 out through a large hole in the brown bark ; it was 
 Laure's face peeping. To our young lover's eye 
 how divine it shone ! None of the half tints of 
 common flesh were there, but a thing all rose, lily, 
 sajDphire, and soul. His pencil drooped, his mouth 
 ojDened, he was downright dazzled by the glowing, 
 bewitching face, sparkling with fun in the gaunt 
 tree. Tell me, ladies, did she know the value of 
 that sombre frame to her brightness ? Oh ! no — 
 she was only a child ! ! ! ! ! The moment she found 
 herself detected, the gaunt old tree rang musical 
 with a crystal laugh, and out came the arch-dryad. 
 ' I have been there all the time. How solemn 
 you looked ! — ha ! ha ! Now for the result of such 
 profound study.' He showed her his work ; she 
 altered her tone. 
 
 ' Oh ! how clever,' she cried, ' and how rapid ! 
 What a facility you have ! Monsieur is an artist,'
 
 WHITE LIES. 237 
 
 said she gravely ; ' I will be more respectful,' and 
 slie dropped him a low curtsey. ' Mind von 
 promised it me,' she added sharply. 
 
 ' You will accept it, then ?' 
 
 ' That I will, now it is worth having : I never 
 reckoned on that — hence my nonchalance. Finish 
 it directly,' cried this peremptory young person. 
 
 ' First I must trouble you to stand out there near 
 the tree.' 
 
 ' What for ?' 
 
 ' Because I want a contrast. The tree is a 
 - j^icture of Age and gradual decay ; by its side then 
 I must place a personification of Youth and grow- 
 ing loveliness.' 
 
 She did not answer, but made a sort of pi- 
 rouette, and went where she was bid, and 
 stood there with her back to the artist. ' But 
 that will not do, mademoiselle ; you must turn 
 round.' 
 
 ' Oh ! very well.' And when she came round, 
 he saw her colour was high. Flattery is sweet. 
 
 This child of nature was pleased, and ashamed it 
 should be seen that she was pleased — and so he 
 drew her ; and kept looking off the paper at her, 
 and had a right in his character of artist to look 
 her full in the face : and he did so with long 
 lingering glances beginning severe and business- 
 like, and ending tender, that she poor girl hardly 
 knew which way to look not to be scorched up by 
 his eye like a tender flower, or blandly absorbed 
 like the pearly dew. Ah! happy hour! ah!
 
 238 WHITE LIES. 
 
 happy days of yoiitli, and innocence, and first 
 love ! 
 
 * Here is my sister. Something is the matter !' 
 Josephine came towards them, pale and panting. 
 ' Oh ! my children,' she cried, and could not 
 
 speak a moment for agitation. They came round 
 her in anxiety. 
 
 ' A great misfortune has fallen on us, and I am 
 the cause.' 
 
 'Oh! Heaven!' 
 
 'We have an enemy now, a deadly enemy. 
 Perrin the notary ; Laure — Monsieur — he insulted 
 us — he insulted my mother — I could not bear that 
 — I insulted him J 
 
 ' You, Josephine ?' 
 
 'Yes ! you may well wonder. How little we 
 know ourselves ! but our mother was trembling in 
 her chair, her noble, her beloved face all pale — all 
 pale — and she put up her hands before her sacred 
 head, for the ruffian was threatening her with his 
 loud voice and brutal gesture.' 
 
 * Sacr-r-re canaille ! — and I not there !' 
 
 ' Then in a moment, I know not how, I was 
 upon him, and I cried, " Back, wretch !" ' 
 
 ' Well done.' 
 
 ' With my hand over his head. Oh ! if he had 
 faced me a moment, I should struck him with all 
 my soul, and in the face. I should have killed 
 him. I was stronger than lions, and as fierce. I 
 was not myself. I knew no fear ; I who now am
 
 WHITE LIES. 239 
 
 all fear again. It was but a single coward — had it 
 been a regiment of braves, I should have flung 
 myself upon them — for my mother. Mad woman 
 that I was !' 
 
 ' You noble creature — you goddess — I only loved 
 you, and honoured you — now I adore you.' 
 
 * Oh ! Edouard, you do not see what my violence 
 has done. Alas ! I who love my sister so, have 
 ruined her. I have ruined the mother I tried to 
 protect. I have ruined the house of Beaurepaire. 
 For that shrinking coward has the heart of a fiend. 
 He told us he had never forgiven an affront — and 
 he holds our fate in his hands. " You turn me out 
 of the room," he yelled, (I turn cold now when I 
 think of his words,) " I will turn you out of the 
 room, and out of the house as well. You stand 
 here and say to me * Sortez V In a little while I 
 will stand here — here, and say to you ' Sortez /' " 
 He will do it. It is written in my heart, so hot 
 with rage a moment ago, so cold with terror now 
 — he will do it — he will come armed with the law 
 — the iron law — and sav to us poor debtors — 
 " Sortezr ' 
 
 'And if he does,' said Edouard firmly, and 
 cutting each word with his clenching teeth, ' this 
 is what will happen. I will cut his liver out with 
 my dog whip before you all, and you will not go 
 at all.' 
 
 ' That is spoken like a man !' cried Laure 
 warmly. 
 
 ' You talk like a child, said Josephine. ' Yet
 
 240 WHITE LIES. 
 
 perhaps you might do something. Will you do 
 something for me ?' 
 
 ' Did yon do nothing for me to-day that you put- 
 such a question ?' 
 
 * We will not speak of that, my friend/ 
 
 * No/ cried the boy, trembling with emotion, 
 * we will not talk of it ; these are not things to talk 
 of; but we will — ' And for lack of words he 
 seized upon both her hands and kissed them 
 violently, and then seized her gown and kissed 
 that. 
 
 ' You know Bonard the farmer — he lives about a 
 league from this,' asked Josephine. 
 
 'Yes! yes!' 
 
 ' Run thither across the meadows, and find out 
 whether Perrin has been to him since leaving the 
 chateau. He has only a few minutes' start ; you 
 will perhaps arrive before he leaves.' 
 
 ' Before he leaves ! I shall be there before him. 
 Do you think a dun cow can carry a scoundrel 
 towards villainy as fast as I can go to please an 
 angel ?' 
 
 ' You will come back to Beaurepaire and tell me T 
 
 ' Yes ! yes !' and he was gone. 
 
 The sisters followed slowly to the gate and 
 watched the impetuous boy run across the park. 
 
 ' He does not take the path.' 
 
 ' Oh !' said Laure, ' what are paths to him. He 
 has no prejudice in favour of beaten tracks. He is 
 going the shortest way to Bonard, that we may be 
 sure of.'
 
 WHITE LIES. 241 
 
 * How gallantly he runs, Laure ; bow high he 
 holds his head ; how easily he moves ; and yet how 
 he clears the ground — already at the edge of the 
 jDark.' 
 
 ' Yes, but Josephine, the strong bramble hedge — 
 there is no gap there — no stile. What will he do ? 
 Ah!' 
 
 Edouard had solved the riddle of the hedge ; by 
 a familiar manoeuvre unknown to those ladies until 
 that moment, he increased his pace and took a 
 flying leap right at the hedge, but, turning in the 
 air, came at it with his back instead of his face, 
 and, by his weight and impetus, burst through 
 Briareus in a moment, and was next seen a 
 furlong beyond it. The girls looked at one 
 another. Josephine smiled sadly. Laure looked 
 up hopefully. 
 
 ' All our lives we have thought that hedge a 
 barrier no mortal could pass — he didn't make 
 much of it. Have courage then, sister." 
 
 ' Laure, go in and comfort our mother.' 
 
 ' Yes, my sister — alone ? Where are you going ?' 
 
 'To the oratory.' 
 
 ' Ah ! you are right.' 
 
 ' Oh ! Laure, the blessing and the comfort of 
 believing the God of the Fatherless is stronger 
 than wicked men. Dark days are coming ni}- 
 sister.' 
 
 Laure tried to comfort her mother; the con- 
 soling topic she chose was young Kiviere. She 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 242 WHITE LIES. 
 
 described his zeal, his determination to baffle the 
 enemy, how, she did not know, but she was sure 
 he would somehow ; and, to crown all, his jumping 
 through the hedge. 
 
 The baroness listened like a wounded porcupine 
 round whom a fly buzzes. The notary was her 
 wound ; the statesman her worrying fly. When 
 her patience was exhausted, she lashed out against 
 him. Now, capricious imps, whom their very 
 nature seems to impel to tease and flout, and even 
 quarrel with a lover to his face, are balanced by 
 another strong impulse — viz., to defend him be- 
 hind his back, ay with more spirit than those do 
 who have more loving natures. Perhaps they feel 
 they owe him this reparation. Perhaps to abuse 
 him is to infringe their monopoly, and they can't 
 stand that. 
 
 Laure defended Edouard so warmly, that, be- 
 tween her mother's sagacity and her own vexation 
 at his being sneered at by anybody but her, and 
 also at her being called once or twice in the course 
 of the argument by the hateful epithet ' a child,' it 
 transpired she was the young lady Edouard came 
 to Beaurepaire for. The baroness was so shocked 
 at this that Laure repented bitterly her unguarded 
 tongue. ' Oh mamma ! don't look so — pray, don't 
 look so ! Mamma dear, be angry again, do pray 
 be very angry : but don't look so at your Laure. 
 I could not help growing up. I could not help 
 being like you mamma. So then they call that 
 being pretty, and come teasing me. But I am not
 
 WHITE LIES. 243 
 
 obliged to love him mamma, do pray remember 
 that. I don't care for him the least in the world, 
 not as I do for you and Josephine, and if he brings 
 dissension here I shall hate him ! ah yes ! you could 
 easily make me hate him — poor boy !' 
 
 ' I was wrong ; it is a weakness of parents never 
 to see that their children are young women.' 
 
 ' I am nineteen and a half, mother, and he is 
 only twenty-one. So, you see, it is very natural.' 
 
 * Yes ! it is very natural — there, go and tell the 
 doctor all that has happened this miserable day ; 
 for I am w^orn out — quite worn out. Let me have 
 some one of my own age to talk to. Ah ! how 
 unhappy I am !' 
 
 Never since our story commenced did a sadder 
 gloomier party sit round the little table and its one 
 candle in the corner of that vast saloon. 
 
 Josephine filled with gloomy apprehensions, and 
 accusing herself of the ruin of the family. The 
 doctor sharing her anxieties and bitterly mortified 
 at the defeat of reason and St. Aubin : at having 
 been deceived by a notary in sheep's clothing. 
 Laure sad, for now for the first time they were 
 not all united in opinion, as w^ell as in trouble, and 
 she herself the cause. The baroness in a state of 
 prostration, and looking years older than in the 
 morning. 
 
 ' You are w^orn out madam,' said the good 
 doctor ; ' let me persuade you to retire to rest a 
 little earlier than usual.' 
 
 ' No my friend, I want to sit and look at you all 
 
 M 2
 
 244 WHITE LIES. 
 
 a little longer. Who knows how long we shall 
 be together ?' 
 
 There was a heavy silence. 
 
 Laure whispered to Josephine — * Tell our mother 
 she can dismiss him whenever she pleases : it is all 
 one to me.' 
 
 * No ! no !' said Josephine, ' that is not what she 
 is thinking of. She is right : I have ruined you 
 all.' ' Monsieur Riviere,' cried Jacintha : and a 
 moment after the young man shone in the door-way. 
 
 ' Is this an hour — ?' began the baroness. 
 
 ' He comes by my request,' whispered Josephine 
 hastily. 
 
 ' That is a different thing.' 
 
 Edouard came down the saloon with a brisk step 
 and a general animation, and joined the languid 
 group like a sunbeam struggling into thick fog. 
 He bowed all round. 
 
 ' Mademoiselle, he has been there. As I jumj^ed 
 over the last stile, that dun pony trotted into the 
 yard ; I say, how he must have spurred him.' 
 
 Josephine, who had risen all excited to hear his 
 report, sat down again with a desponding mien. 
 
 ' I waited in ambush to see what became of him. 
 He was with the farmer a good hour — then he 
 went home. I followed him ; but I did nothing — 
 you understand — because I had not precise orders 
 from you : but I went hence, and got my dog whip 
 - — here it is : whenever you give the w^ord, or hold 
 up your little finger to that effect, it shall be ap- 
 plied, and with a will ' — crack ! and the ex-school
 
 WHITE LIES. 245 
 
 boy smacked liis whip, meaning to make a little 
 crack, but it went off like a pistol shot. 
 
 ' Ah !' cried the baroness, and nearly jumped out 
 of her seat. Edouard was abashed. * The young 
 savage !' said Laure, and smiled approvingly, 
 
 'It is no question of dog whips,' objected St. 
 Aubin with dignity. 
 
 ' And the man is enough our enemy without our 
 giving him any real cause to hate us,' remonstrated 
 Josephine. 
 
 * We shall not lye here long,' muttered the 
 baroness gloomily. 
 
 * Forgive me if I venture to contradict you 
 madam.' 
 
 * We are ruined — and no power can save us.' 
 
 * Yes madam, there is one who can.' 
 
 * Who can save me now ?' asked the iDaroness 
 with deep despondency. 
 
 ' I ! if you will permit me.' 
 
 This frantic announcement took them so by sur- 
 prise that they had not even the presence of mind 
 to exclaim against its absurdity, but sat looking ot 
 one another. 
 
 The statesman took advantage of their petrifac- 
 tion, and began to do a little bit of pomposity. 
 ' Madam the Baroness, and you monsieur, who 
 have honoured me with your esteem, and you 
 Mademoiselle de Beaurepaire whom I adore, and 
 you Mademoiselle Laure whom I — whom I hope 
 to be permitted — whom I — listen all. You have 
 this day done me the honour to admit me to an
 
 246 WHITE LIES. 
 
 intimacy I have long sought in vain : let me then 
 this day try to make you some small return, and to 
 justify in some degree Monsieur St. Aubin my kind 
 advocate. Madam, it is your entire ignorance of 
 business, and imfortunate neglect of your property, 
 that make vou fancy yourself ruined.' 
 
 The baroness smiled bitterly. Then her head 
 drooped. 
 
 ' Let us come to facts. You are living now 
 upon about one thousand two hundred francs a 
 year : the balance of your rents after the interest 
 of your loans is paid/ 
 
 Oh ! — and they were astounded and terrified at 
 his knowledge of their secret, and blushed in silence 
 for their poverty. 
 
 ' Your real balance, after paying your creditors 
 is — that is, ought to be — five thousand two hun- 
 dred francs. Your farms are let a good forty per 
 cent, below their value : your tenants are of two 
 classes — those who never had any leases, and those 
 whose leases have long been run out. The tenants 
 are therefore in your power, and whenever you 
 can pluck up resolution to have your real income, 
 say the word and I will get it you.' 
 
 * Monsieur, you are right, I understand little of 
 business ; but this I know, that the farms are let 
 too high, not too low. They all say so.' 
 
 ' Who says so madam ?' 
 
 ' They who should know best— the tenants them- 
 selves. Two of their wives came here last week 
 and complained of the hard times,'
 
 WHITE LIES. r247 
 
 * What ! the smooth-faced cheats, the liars whose 
 interest it is to chant that tune. Give me better 
 evidence.' 
 
 ' That man, the notary — he said so. And in 
 that point at least I see not what interest — ' 
 
 ' You — don't — see — what — interest — he has !' 
 cried Edouard. 
 
 * On me coupe la parole^'* said the fine lady dole- 
 fully, looking round with an air of piteous surprise 
 on them all, 
 
 * Forgive me madam : zeal for you boiled over ; 
 but now is it possible you don't see what interest 
 that canaille of a pettifogger has ?' 
 
 ' What phrases!* 
 
 ' In humbugging you on that point !' 
 
 * It is a whole vocabulary ! ! !' 
 
 ' Blame the things and the people, not me 
 madam, since I do but call both by their true 
 names.' ' Which if not so polite as to call them 
 by other names, is more scientific,' suggested St. 
 Aubin. 
 
 ' Madam, pray see the thing as it is, and if you 
 insist on elegant phrases, well then ; Beaurej^aire 
 is a dying kid that all the little ravens about here 
 are feeding on, and all the larger vultures, or 
 Perrins, are scheming to carry away to their own 
 nests. The estate of Beaurepaire is the cream of 
 the district. The first baron knew how to choose 
 land ; perhaps he took the one bit of soil on which 
 he found something growing by the mere force of 
 
 * He takes the words out of mv mouth.
 
 248 WHITE LIES. 
 
 natui'e, all being alike uncultivated in that bar- 
 barous time ; it is a rich clay watered by half a 
 dozen brooks. Ah ! if you could farm it yourself 
 a« my uncle does his, you micrht be wealthy in 
 spite of its encumbrances.' 
 
 ' Farm it ourselves ! Is he mad ?' 
 
 ' No, madam ; it is not I who am mad. Why if 
 you go to that it requires no skill to deal with 
 meadow land, especially such land as yours, in 
 which the grass springs of itself. " Fundit humo 
 facilem victuin ju^tissima tellus,'" doctor. There, I 
 will back Jacintha to farm it for you, witliout 
 spoiling the dinner. She has more intelHgence 
 than meadow land asks. In that case your income 
 would be twelve thousand francs a-year. The 
 very idea makes you ill. Well I withdraw it : 
 and there go seven thousand francs per annum ; but 
 the three thousand francs I must and will force upon 
 you for the young ladies' sake ; and justice's and 
 common sense's — do you consent ? Monsieur, the 
 baroness is ill — she does not answer me ! her lips 
 are colourless ! Oh what have I done ? I have 
 killed her by my hrusquerie,'' 
 
 ' It is nothing my child,' said the baroness 
 faintly : ' too much trouble — too much grief — and 
 she was sinking back in her chair, but Laure's 
 arm was already supporting her, and Josephine 
 holding salts to her.' ' It is fatigue,' said the 
 doctor. ' The baroness should have retired to rest 
 earlier, after so trying a day.' 
 
 * He is right my children. At my age ladies
 
 WHITE LIES. 240 
 
 cannot defy their medical adviser with impunity. 
 Your arm my youngest/ and she retired slowly, 
 leaning upon Laure. This little shade of prefer- 
 ence was a comfort to Laure after the shortlived 
 differences of the day, and Josephine, it would 
 seem, did not think it quite accidental, for she 
 resisted her desire to come on her mother's other 
 side, and only went slowly before them with the 
 light. 
 
 On the young ladies return they were beset with 
 anxious inquiries by Edouard. St. Aubin inter- 
 rupted them. 
 
 ' They will not tell you the truth,' said he, 
 * perhaps they do not even know it. It is partly 
 fatigue, partly worry : but these would not kill her 
 so fast as they are doing — if — if — her food was 
 more generous — more — more nutritious !' and the 
 doctor groaned. ' Oh ! doctor,' cried Laure, ' we 
 give her the best we have.' 
 
 * I know you do, little angel, but you give her 
 delicacies — she wants meat ; you give her spiced 
 and perfumed slops — she wants the essence of 
 soup ; and what are grapes, and apples, and pears, 
 and peaches ? — water : what are jellies ? — sticky 
 water, water and glue, but not fibre : what are 
 salads ? — water : what are nearly all vegetables ? 
 ninety-six parts in the hundred water ; this has 
 been lately proved by analysis in Paris, by a friend 
 of mine. Nature is very cunning, she disguises 
 water with a hundred delicious flavours : and then 
 we call it food. Farina and flesh are food : the 
 
 M 3
 
 250 WHITE LIES. 
 
 rest are water, air, nothing. The baroness is at 
 an age when people ought to eat Httle at a time, 
 but often, and only sovereign food.' ' She shall 
 have it from this day,' cried Edouard. 'Let us 
 conspire.' 
 
 ' Oh, yes,' cried Laure, ' let us conspire !' 
 
 ' Let us be kinder to her than she wnll ever be to 
 herself. You saw how prompt she w^as to oppose 
 my plans for baffling her enemies ? Let us act 
 without her knowledge.' 
 
 'But how?' 
 
 ' Let me see. First let us think of her health.' 
 
 ' Ah ! thank you Edouard,' cried Josephine 
 warmly. 
 
 ' Well then we must begin thus. One of you 
 young ladies must ask to be allowed to manage the 
 household matters. You can say you wish to 
 prepare yourself for the day w^hen you shall your- 
 self be mistress of an establishment. Perhaps, 
 Mademoiselle Laure, you would make the pro- 
 posal ?' 
 
 ' Me ! I shall never be mistress of an establish- 
 ment,' said Laure, dolefully and pettishly. She 
 added, in quite a different key, ' I do not mean to : 
 I would not for the world.' 
 
 ' What a violent disclaimer,' said Josephine ; 
 'it will be best for me to make the proposal. I 
 will be apparent mistress of the house, but as Laure 
 rules me in all things, she will be the real mistress. 
 Will you meet my friend's views ?' 
 
 ' Provided she can be got to obey me,' was
 
 WHITE LIES. 251 
 
 Edouard's answer. * May I ask for another candle ?' 
 The bell was rung. ' Another candle, Jacintha.' 
 
 Meantime, Edouard, too eager to wait for any- 
 thing long, took out of his pocket a map, and 
 spread it all over the table : Jacinth a came in, and 
 being tormented with curiosity, took a long time 
 lighting the candle, with a face made stolid for the 
 occasion. 
 
 ' Now you all know what this is a map of ?' 
 
 'No!' said Laure, 'it is not France; but what 
 country it is I don't know.' 
 
 'Oh fie ! Jacintha knows I'll be bound. What 
 map is this, Jacintha ?' 
 
 ' It is Italy,' replied Jacintha firmly, and without 
 any of that hesitation which in some minds ac- 
 companies entire ignorance of a subject. Edouard 
 groaned. 
 
 ' Well, I did think she would have known Beau- 
 repaire when she saw it.' Jacintha tossed her head 
 incredulously. 
 
 ' How can it be Beaurepaire ? Beaurepaire is in 
 Brittany, and this country is bigger than Brittany. 
 Brittany is down stairs.' ' Ah 1' cried Laure, ' here 
 is the chateau !' 
 
 ' Saints preserve us, so it is, mademoiselle, I 
 declare, and here is the park, and two ladies walk- 
 ing in it, but I don't see monsieur : nevertheless 
 he is as often there as you are mesdemoiselles.' 
 
 ' What an unfortunate omission !' said Laure 
 ironically. 
 
 ' I am glad you think so : it is easily supplied,'
 
 252 WHITE LIES. 
 
 and with his pencil he rapidly inserted a male 
 figure walking with the ladies, and its body paying 
 them a world of obsequious attention. Jacintha 
 retired with a grin. The map was warmly ad- 
 mired. 
 
 ' Oh, I used always to get a prize for them at 
 the Polytechnic.' ' And so beautifully coloured : 
 but what are all these names ?' said Josephine, 
 ' the Yirgin's Coppice ? 1 never heard of that.' 
 * Oh ! oh !' exclaimed Edouard, * she never heard 
 of the Virgin's Coppice — what is it ? why it is a 
 sort of marsh : I shot a brace of snipes in it the 
 other day.' 
 
 ' But you have not painted any trees on it to 
 show it is a coppice.' 
 
 ' Trees ? there is not a tree in it and has not been 
 this two or three hundred years.' 
 
 ' Then why do we call it a coppice still ?' 
 
 'I don't know: all I know is, there are snipes 
 in it— no small virtue.' 
 
 Laure. — ' The Deer Park — I never heard of 
 that.' 
 
 Edouard (lifting up his hands) . — ' They don't 
 know their own fields : the Deer Park is a ploughed 
 field not far from Dard's house, which you may 
 behold. Now give me your attention.' The young 
 man then showed them the homesteads of the 
 several tenants, and pointed out the fields that 
 belonged to each farm, and the very character of 
 the soil of each field. They gazed at him in half 
 gtupified wonder, and at the mass and precision of
 
 WHITE LIES. 253 
 
 his knowledge on a subject where they were not 
 only profoundly ignorant, but had not even deemed 
 knowledge accessible to ladies and gentlemen. 
 He concluded by assuring them, that he had care- 
 fully surveyed and valued every field on the estate, 
 and that the farms w^ere let full forty per cent, 
 below their value. ' Now mesdemoiselles, your 
 mother has a claim upon the estate for her jointure, 
 but you are the true proprietors.' 
 ' Are we ?' 
 
 * Oh ! gracious Heavens, they did not even know 
 who their estate belonged to. Well, give me an 
 authority, on this paper, to act as your agent, or 
 we shall never get our forty per cent. Neither 
 you nor your mother are any match for these sheep- 
 faced rustics — leeches who have been sucking your 
 blood this fifty years — crying hyenas that have 
 been moaning and whining because they could not 
 gnaw your bones as well.' 
 
 * My friend,' said Josephine, * I would do this 
 with pleasure, but mamma would be so hurt, it is 
 impossible.' 
 
 * Mademoiselle — Josephine — you saw how your 
 mother received my proposals for her good and 
 yours. Consider, I am strong enough to defeat 
 your enemies — provided I have none but enemies 
 to battle : but if I am to fight the baroness and her 
 prejudices as well as Perrin and the tenants, then 
 failure is certain, and I wash my hands of it.' 
 
 ' But consider, impetuous boy, we cannot defy 
 our mother, whom we love so.'
 
 254 WHITE LIES. 
 
 ' Defy her ? no ! But you need not go and tell 
 her everything you do.' 
 
 ' Certainly not. You know, doctor, we kept 
 from her Bonard's threat till the danger seemed 
 passed.' 
 
 ' And we did well,' cried Laure ; ' think if she 
 had known what was hanging over her all that 
 time !' 
 
 ' What do you say, doctor ?' asked Josephine. 
 
 'I don't know, my dear. It is a hard alternative. 
 As a general rule I don't like deception.' 
 
 ' I do not propose deception,' said the young man 
 blushing ; * only a wise reticence ; and without this 
 reticence, this reserve, even my plan for improving 
 her diet must fail.' 
 
 ' In that case I take the sin of reticence on me. 
 I claim the post of honour !' cried Laure with great 
 agitation and glistening eyes. 
 
 ' I consent !' exclaimed Josephine ; * this child so 
 young, so pure, cannot be wrong.' ' All I know 
 is,' said the doctor, ' that the more roast meat she 
 haB, and the less worry, the longer my poor friend 
 will live.' 
 
 ' Give me the paper Edouard, we will both au- 
 thorize you — and thank you for letting us.' 
 
 * Yes ! yes ! and we will do whatever he advises 
 us, that is, you shall — I'll see about it.' 
 
 'And oh! doctor,' said Josephine, 'what a 
 comfort it is to have some one about us who has 
 energy and decision, and, above all, takes the 
 command !'
 
 WHITE LIES. 255 
 
 The next day Edouard came into the kitchen and 
 adopted Jacintha into the conspiracy : consulted 
 her how to smuggle nutriment into the baroness, 
 and bar the tenants from all access to her for a 
 Avhile. He told her why. 
 
 * Canaille of tenants,' she cried, * this then has 
 been your game all these years : good — wait till 
 the next of you comes here pulling a long face — 
 crocodiles, I'll tell you my mind !' 
 
 ' No ! no ! they would say it was you who kept 
 us from the baroness, and they would write to her 
 or try a dozen artifices to gain her ear.' 
 
 * You are right, my son : I was stupid : no, it 
 shall be diamond cut diamond, I'll meet them with 
 a face as smooth as their own, and say to them — 
 what shall I say to the canaille T 
 
 ' Say the baroness in her failing state sees no 
 one on business : say she has made over the control 
 of the property to her daughters and their agent : 
 — add that — ahem — she is dying !' 
 
 * Yes ! that is the best of all to say, but stay, no 
 — it is not lucky. Perhaps in that case she will 
 die, and I shall have killed her.' 
 
 ' Stuff! people don't die to make other people's 
 words good^ that would be too stupid : cut me 
 forty bunches of grapes.' Jacintha looked rueful. 
 
 ' My dear it is not for me to deny you.' 
 
 ' I don't ask you to deny me.' 
 
 *Well, but forty bunches!' * Order from the 
 mistress !' said the young man pompously drawing 
 out a paper.
 
 256 WHITE LIES. 
 
 * Jacintha, do whatever Monsieur Riviere bids 
 you I 
 
 ' Josephine de Beaurepaire.' 
 
 * Well, to be sure. I say you have not lost much 
 time. At least tell me what you want forty 
 bunches of grapes for T Before he could answer 
 came a clatter, and a figure hopped in with a 
 crutch. 
 
 ' Why Dard ! a sight of you is good for sore eyes. 
 Who would have thought you could have got so 
 far as this ?' 
 
 ' I am going farther than this. I am going down 
 to the town to sell your grapes, and such like belly 
 vengeance, and bring back grub — aha !' 
 
 ' Oh, that is the game, is it my lads ?' 
 
 * That, and no other,' replied Dard. 
 
 ' If the baroness comes to hear of it won't you 
 catch it, that is all !' 
 
 ' But she never will hear of it unless you tell 
 her.' 
 
 * Oh ! I shan't tell her. I durstn't. She would 
 faint away. Here is a down-come. Selling our 
 fruit. Ah ! well a day. What is Beaurepaire 
 coming to ?' 
 
 * Will you go and cut them ?' cried Riviere, 
 stamping with impatience. ' Well, I am going,' 
 snapped Jacintha. 
 
 Dard had got a little cart outside, and his grand- 
 mother's jackass. ' Citizen, if you will bring the 
 hampers out of my cart into the garden, I will help
 
 WHITE LIES. 257 
 
 her cut tlie fruit : it is all I am fit for at the pre- 
 sent. I am no longer a man. Behold me a robin 
 redbreast, hop-ping a-bout !' 
 
 * We may as well be killed for a sheep as a 
 lamb,' said Jacintha dolefully. *I have pulled a 
 few dozen peaches. It is a highway robbery. 
 They would have rotted on the tree. Oh Dard ! 
 you won't ever let the folks know where they come 
 from ?' 
 
 ' No, no ! he has got his lessons from me.' 
 
 * What would they say if they knew ? Why, that 
 we are at our last gasp ! Selling our very fruit off 
 our walls !' and the corner of her apron was lifted 
 to her eye, ' You great baby,' cried Edouard ; 
 * don't you see this is the beginning of common 
 sense, and proper economy, and will end in riches ?' 
 Dard shrugged his shoulders. 'Eeason is too 
 good a thing to waste : let her snivel !' 
 
 'Now Dard,' said Jacintha cheerfully, 'what I 
 want most is some lard, some butter, some meal, a 
 piece of veal, a small joint of mutton, and a bit of 
 beef for soup ; but a little chocolate would not be 
 amiss, our jDotatoes are very short, and you can 
 bring up some white beans, if you see any good 
 ones.' * Nothing more ?' inquired Dard. 
 
 'Yes. Was I mad? Coffee is wanted most 
 dismally.' 
 
 * Buy it if you dare !' cried Riviere. ' No, Dard, 
 that is my affair, and mine alone.' Presently there 
 was a fresh anxiety. Dard would be recognised, 
 and, by him, the folk would know out of what
 
 258 WHITE LIES. 
 
 garden came his merchandise. * All is provided 
 for,' said Edouard. ' Dard embellish thyself.' 
 
 Dard drew out of his pocket a beard and put it 
 on. 
 
 * Is he Dard now ?' 
 
 * My faith no !' 
 
 * Is he even human ?' 
 
 ' Not too much so, ha ! ha ! — well Beaurepaire 
 is alive since you come into it my gaillard /' 
 
 ' Now you know,' said Dard, ' if I am to do this 
 little job to-day, I must start.' 
 ^ * Who keeps you !' 
 
 Thus these two loved. 
 
 Edouard had no sooner embellished, primed, and 
 started Dard by fencing with a pointed stick at his 
 jackass, which like a ship was a good traveller but 
 a coy starter, than he went round to all the tenants 
 with St. Aubin. He showed them his authority, 
 and oifered them leases at forty per cent, advance 
 on the present rent. They refused to a man. 
 
 Most of them had been about to propose a reduc- 
 tion, but had forborne out of good feeling towards 
 the baroness. And that same feeling would perhaps 
 give them the courage to go on under the burden 
 a year or two longer, but as for advancing the 
 rent a sou — never ! ! 
 
 Others could not be got to take a grave view of 
 so merry a proposal. They were all good humour 
 with satire underneath at the jolly audacity of pro- 
 posing to raise the Beaurepaire rents : with one 
 and all Riviere was short and clear. ' There is
 
 WHITE LIES. 259 
 
 my card : the leases await you at my house : you 
 must come and sign in three days !' 
 
 * And if I should happen not to come my little 
 monsieur ?' 
 
 ' A writ of ejectment will be served on you 
 before sunset of the third day. Adieu !' 
 
 ' All the better for me,' sang out one as Edouard 
 retired. The doctor was discouraged. 
 
 ' This universal consent surely goes to prove — ' 
 
 ' That they have a common interest in deceiv- 
 
 * You are very young to think so ill of men.' 
 
 ' I have been months in a government office. 
 Monsieur I have seen men too near : I. left the 
 Polytechnic with illusions about honesty and sin- 
 cerity among men — puff! — they are gone.' 
 
 ' Are they ? then accursed be the hour you ever 
 saw a government office.' 
 
 * No, no : but for my experience under govern- 
 ment I should not be sharp, and if I was not sharp 
 I could not serve our sacred cause.' 
 
 ' Still at your age to have lost all confidence in 
 men and women !' 
 
 'I beg your pardon,' cried the misanthropist 
 eagerly, ' not in women : they have none of the 
 vices of men ; no selfishness, no heartlessness. I 
 see in them some little tendency to fib — I mean in 
 the uneducated ones ! but dear me, their fibs are 
 so innocent. Women ! ! we men are not worthy 
 to share the earth with them.' The doctor smiled. 
 For the last thirty or forty years he had no longer
 
 260 WHITE LIES. 
 
 been able to see this prodigious difference between 
 the sexes. ' And can all these honest male faces 
 be deceiving us ?' asked he. 
 
 ' Honest ! What ? because they are round ! 
 Well, I too, used to picture to myself a sharper 
 with a sharp face — eyes close together — foxy : 
 but I soon found your true Tartuffe is the round- 
 visaged or square-faced fellow. He seems a lump 
 of candour : he is a razor keen and remorseless. 
 There are no better actors in the Theatre Franqais 
 than these frank peasants. You will see. Good- 
 bye ; I must run to the town for drafts of leases, 
 Mocha coffee, and writs of ejectment,' 
 
 There were in the little town in question two 
 notaries, Perrin and Picard, on good terms with 
 each other outwardly. 
 
 Though young and impetuous, and subject to 
 gusts of vanity, Edouard was not so shallow as to 
 despise an enemy of whom he knew nothing, but 
 that he was a lawyer. No. He said to himself— 
 ' We have a notary against us. I must play a 
 notary.' He went to Picard, and began by re- 
 questing him to draw up seven agreements for 
 leases, and to have ready three or four writs of 
 ejectment. Having thus propitiated the notary 
 by doing actual business with him, he began 
 cautiously to hint at the other notary's enmity to 
 Beaurepaire. ' You surprise me,' said Picard, ' I 
 really think you must be mistaken. Monsieur 
 Perrin owes all to that family. It was the baron 
 who launched In'm. How often have I seen him,
 
 WHITE LIES. 261 
 
 when a boy, hold the baron's horse, and be re- 
 warded by a silver coin. Oh ! no, Monsieur Perrin 
 is a man that bears a fair character : I cannot 
 believe this of him.' 
 
 This defence of his competitor looked so like an 
 asp in a basket of figs, that Edouard hesitated no 
 longer, but gave him the general features of the 
 case, and went by rapid gradations into a towering- 
 passion. Picard, proposed to him to be cool. *I 
 cannot,' said he, ' enter into your feud with Perrin 
 for the best of all reasons : I do business with him.' 
 Edouard looked blank. ' He is also a respectable 
 man.' Edouard looked blanker. 
 
 ' But, on the other hand, you are now my client, 
 monsieur, and he is not my client. You under- 
 stand ?' 
 
 ' Perfectly. You are an honest man,' cried 
 Edouard not stopping to pick his epithets, and 
 seized the notary's hand, and shook it : it let itself 
 be shaken, and was in that and other respects like 
 cold jelly. Its owner invited him to tell the whole 
 story. ' Never have any reserves with your no- 
 tary,' said he severely ; ' that is the grand folly of 
 clients : and then they come and blame us if we 
 make a mistake : they forgot that it is they who 
 mislead us.' 
 
 On this theme he rose to tepid. He dwelt on 
 this abominable practice of clients till Edouard 
 found out that lawyers are the worst-used people 
 living. 
 
 But who is not that ?
 
 262 WHITE LIES. 
 
 When he was gone, Picard went into his clerk's 
 room and gave him an order to draw up agree- 
 ments for leases, leaving blanks for the names : 
 then he added — 
 
 ' What do you think ? The rascal is scheming 
 to get hold of Beaurepaire now.' 
 
 ' Is it possible ? But it is just like him.' 
 
 * But I'll put a spoke in his wheel.' 
 
 Josephine was now household* queen at Beaure- 
 paire ; Laure viceroy over her. This young lady 
 was born to command, and Nature prevailed over 
 seniority. The young statesman elected himself 
 prime minister to the lady-lieutenant ; and so 
 great was his deference to her judgment, even on 
 points where she was unfathomably ignorant, that 
 he was for ever seeking grave conferences with her. 
 
 The leading maxim with them all was that the 
 baroness was on no account to be worried or 
 alarmed, nor her prejudices shocked ; where these 
 stood between her comfort, and her own friend's 
 plans for that comfort, the governing powers made 
 a little detour and evaded collisions with them. 
 
 For instance, the baroness would never have 
 consented to sell a Beaurepaire grape. She would 
 have starved sooner, or lived on the grapes; if 
 diarrhoeing can be called living. So when she 
 demanded of Queen Josephine how there came 
 such an influx of beef, mutton, and veal into the 
 chateau. Lieutenant Laure explained that Edouard 
 had begged Josephine to give him some fruit that 
 was rotting on the walls, and she had consented.
 
 WHITE LIES. 263 
 
 * It seems mamma that these government officers 
 interchange civilities with the tradespeople. So 
 he made presents of fruit to those he deals with, 
 and they sent him in return — he ! he ! — specimens 
 of their several arts. And he never dines at home 
 now, but always here. So he sent them over, and 
 do you know I think it is as well he did, for that 
 boy eats like a wolf, doesn't he Josephine T 
 
 ' Yes love. What did you say dear ? I was full 
 
 of my thoughts, my forebodings.' 
 
 ' Then what right had you to say '' yes ?" ' 
 
 ' Because it was you who appealed to me, sister.' 
 
 ' No, no, no ! it is your nature to say that silliest 
 
 of words — that is why.' 
 
 The l)aroness took no notice of this byetalk. 
 
 * I should not like Idm not to have enough,' 
 said she witli some hesitation. In short Doctors 
 Laure and Josephine so gilded the meat pills that 
 the baroness swallowed them, and was none the 
 worse for them, actually. 
 
 Another day dead chickens flooded the larder. 
 
 * Mamma, come and see what the tenants have 
 sent us !' 
 
 ' The good souls ! and these are the people 
 whose rents he talked of raising.' 
 
 ' Who minds what he says mamma — a young 
 madman !' 
 
 Another fine day it rained eggs. These too 
 were fathered upon the tenants. Hope then to 
 escape false accusations ! ! 
 
 In these and many other ways they beguiled
 
 264 WHITE LIES. 
 
 the old lady for her good. The baroness was not 
 to see or hear anything but what she would like 
 to see and hear. 
 
 ^ Do not deceive her unnecessarily. But deceive 
 her rather than thwart or vex her.' 
 
 This was the leading maxim of the new Queen- 
 craft and all played their part to perfection — 
 none better than Jacintha, who, besides a ready 
 invention and an oily tongue, possessed in an 
 eminent degree the vultus clausus of the Latins — - 
 volto sciolto of their descendants : in English, a 
 close face. And though they entered on this 
 game with hesitation, yet they soon warmed in it. 
 The new guile was charming. To defraud a 
 beloved one of discomfort — to cheat her into a 
 good opinion of all she wished to think well of — - 
 to throw a veil, of silver tissue of innocent fibs, 
 between her and trouble — to smuggle sovereign 
 food into her mouth and more sovereign hope into 
 her heart. Pious frauds ! and many a holy man 
 has justified these in writings dedicated to the 
 Church, and practised them for the love of God 
 and the good of man. 
 
 •» The baroness's health, strength and spirits im- 
 proved visibly. 
 
 On the third day a tenant called on Riviere, 
 hemm'd and haw'd, and prepared to draw distant, 
 but converging, lines of circumvallation round the 
 subject of Rent.
 
 WHITE LIES. 265 
 
 Riviere cut tlie process short. 
 
 * I am a public man, and have no time to waste 
 in verbiage. On that table is a seven years' lease, 
 with blanks ; you can sign it at forty per cent, 
 increased rent, or at thirty per cent, by paying a 
 bonus of one thousand francs.' 
 
 The man attempted to remonstrate. Riviere 
 cut him dead short this time. 
 
 The farmer then lowered his voice. ' I have got 
 a thousand francs in my pocket.' 
 
 ^ Oh ! you prefer the thirty per cent, and the 
 bonus. Yery well.' 
 
 ' That is not what I mean. You and I might 
 do better than that. We will say nothing about a 
 bonus ; you shall clap on ten per cent, to show 
 your zeal to the landlord, and this,' lowering his 
 voice, ' will be for you, and no questions asked.' 
 Riviere's first impulse was to hit him ; the next 
 was to laugh at him, which he accordingly did. 
 ' My man,' said he, ' you must be very much in 
 love with dishonesty. Now listen ; if I report 
 that little proposal of yours at Beaurepaire, you 
 will never get a lease upon any terms.' 
 
 ' But you won't ! you won't !' 
 
 * Won't I ? if you don't come to book in five 
 minutes I will !' 
 
 ' Give me ten, and I will see about it/ 
 ' Humph ! I don't see what you want with ten 
 minutes — but take them.' 
 
 The farmer retired, and very soon after voices 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 266 WHITE LIES. 
 
 were heard and heavy feet, and in came four 
 farmers. 
 
 Riviere grinned. No. 1 had been secretly a 
 deputation. The little band had been all under 
 the window, waiting till the agent should have 
 taken the bribe, and made them all right with 
 Beaurepaire. But when No. 1 came down with 
 his hair standing on end, to tell them that he had 
 fallen in ' with a monster, a being unknown, 
 fabulous, incredible, an agent that would not 
 swindle his master, they succumbed as the bravest 
 spirits must, even Macbeth, before the super- 
 natural. 
 
 They came up stairs, and sorrowfully knuckled 
 down ; only No. 1 put in a hope that they were 
 not to be treated worse than those who had not 
 come to him at all. 
 
 ' Certainly not.' 
 
 ' Because two or three are gone to the chateau.* 
 
 'They shall gain nothing by that.' 
 
 ' But we said why plague the baroness : she is 
 old. She is at death's door. Lastly she has got 
 an honest agent ; let us go to him.' N. B. — They 
 had all been at the chateau; but Jacintha had 
 fooled the lot. 
 
 Eiviere opened a door and beckoned. Out 
 popped M. Picard's clerk, brisk, and smiling. 
 
 ' You have got the writs in your pocket.' 
 
 ' Seven of them,^ monsieur .*^ The farmers looked 
 at each other.
 
 WHITE LIES. 267 
 
 * The moment we have settled these leases, run 
 np to the chateau, and, if you catch any farmers 
 prowling about, serve them — he ! he ! Now 
 messieurs.' 
 
 A rustling of parchments — a crushing of pens 
 to death on the table to see w^hat they would stand 
 on paper — a putting out of tongues to write well 
 — a wanting ill — a looking at the work after it was 
 done — a wrenching out of bags of silver from the 
 breeches pocket like molars from the jaws — a sigh- 
 ing — a making of bows — a clattering down the 
 stair — a dying away of feet and voices — and 
 nothing was left but the four money bags dispersed 
 at intervals over the floor, and the statesman 
 dancing a Saraband among them. 
 
 Wildish conduct. But sixty years ago when a 
 man w^as a boy he was young. And besides the 
 gaillard was not born in the isle of fogs. 
 
 Such relaxations are brief with busy men . In 
 another five minutes he was off to the chateau. 
 He went the shortest way across the park, and as 
 he drew near the little gate, lo ! the Pleasance was 
 full of people. He was soon among them. Besides 
 the doctor and the two young ladies there were 
 three farmers and two farmers' wives. Failing in 
 their attempts to see the baroness, and believing 
 Jacintha's story that she never came down stairs, 
 but employed herself on the second floor in pious 
 offices and in departing this life, they had been 
 
 N 2
 
 268 WHITE LIES. 
 
 sore puzzled what to do : but catching a sight of 
 the young ladies going out for a walk they had 
 boldly rushed into the Pleasance and intercepted 
 them, and told them the tale of their wrongs so 
 glibly and with such heartiness and uniformity of 
 opinion, and in tones so mellow and convincing, 
 that both the ladies and the doctor inclined to their 
 view. * We will talk to Monsieur Riviere,' said 
 Josephine kindly — ' ah ! here he is.' 
 
 ' Yes, here I am. I thought I should find you 
 here good people. Well have you piped your 
 tune ? are you overburdened with rent already ? is 
 your part of the estate cold and sour, and does it 
 lie low &c. &c. &c. &c. &c. &c. eh ?' 
 
 ' Yes,' cried Laure, ' they have. La !' 
 
 ' And it is too true monsieur.' 
 
 Chorus. — ' Too true.' 
 
 'Jacques Pirot, last market day you broke a 
 bottle of wine, I use your own phrase, with the 
 man who bought your calves/ 
 
 ' Well, monsieur, was that a sin ?' 
 
 'When you had broken that, and spilled the 
 wine into your gullet, you broke another.' 
 
 ' And that is what brings you home from market 
 the face red and the tongue stuttering,' cackled 
 Pirot's wife, there present. ' Silence !' cried 
 Edouard. ' When the wine is in, the truth comes 
 out, even of a farmer. You bragged that Grapinet 
 had offered you fifteen hundred francs to change 
 farms with him, and that you had laughed in his 
 face.'
 
 WHITE LIES. 269 
 
 * Do not believe it mademoiselle ; it is not 
 true/ 
 
 * I heard jou. You too were there, Eennacon, 
 drunk and truthful — two events that happen to you 
 once a week — thanks to Bacchus, not to Rennacon. 
 You boasted that Braconnier had offered to change 
 with you and give you two thousand francs.' ' I 
 lied ! I lied !' cried Hennacon eagerly. 
 
 ' Unjust to thyself! it was thy half hour for 
 speaking the truth/ ' Now mademoiselle, deign 
 to cast your eyes on these parchments. These are 
 leases. Grapinet and Pepin and Braconnier have 
 just signed ; their rent is advanced thirty per cent.' 
 General exclamation of the doctor and ladies. 
 Looks of surprise and dismay from the others. 
 
 ' For w^hich favour — ' 
 
 * He calls that a favour.' 
 
 ' They have just paid me one thousand francs 
 apiece. You, by your own showing, can pay me 
 two thousand five hundred francs instead of a 
 thousand. Now I will make a bargain with you. 
 Sign similar leases here in three minutes, and I 
 will let you off for one thousand francs each ; 
 hesitate, and I will have two thousand francs.' 
 
 * I will not sign at all, for one.' 
 ' Nor I.' 
 
 ' Nor I.' 
 
 Chorus of women — * We will sign away our 
 lives sooner.' 
 
 ' Jacintha — Jacintha !' 
 
 Jacintha appeared with suspicious celerity the
 
 270 WHITE LIES. 
 
 distance from the kitchen to the Pleasance con- 
 sidered. 
 
 ' Fetch me a good pen and some ink.' 
 
 ' But they say they will not sign/ said Laure. 
 
 'They will sign mademoiselle. Monsieur 
 Chose, approach — serve the ejectments.' The 
 clerk, who had just arrived, hut stood aloof, drew 
 out three slips of stamped paper, and made three 
 steps forward. The effect was like a pistol pre- 
 sented at each head. The whole party set up 
 their throats ' Wait a moment, for Heaven's sake ! 
 Mademoiselle, it is for you to speak. This is to 
 usurp your place. Do not let them persecute 
 honest men, who have paid their rent faithfully, 
 they and their forhears to you and yours, in quiet 
 times and troubled times, in good harvests and bad 
 harvests.' 
 
 ' Messieurs,' replied Josephine, * M. Riviere, my 
 good friend, has deigned to act as our agent. It 
 would be little delicate on my part were I, after 
 the trouble he has taken, to interfere with his pro- 
 ceedings. Settle then this affair with him, who 
 appears to understand your sentiments, whereas 
 my sister and I do not understand you.' And she 
 withdrew quietly a little way like an angel gently 
 evading moral pitch. 
 
 * Are you satisfied ? is every door shut ? here is 
 Jacintha ! In one word, will you sign or will you 
 not sign?' 
 
 Jacintha, with characteristic promptitude, took 
 Riviere's part, without knowing what it was about.
 
 WHITE LIES. 271 
 
 ' Oh they will sign it fast enough/ she criecL 
 
 * Come to the scratch, my masters !' cried she 
 cheerfully, and held out a pen. ' Mon Dieu ! mon 
 Dieu I mon Dieu 1 but where are we to find a 
 thousand francs ?' cried one. 
 
 ' Mo7i Dieu ! mon Dieu ! mon Dieu ! in your left 
 hand breeches pocket,' said Riviere laughing. 
 
 ' I see it bulge,' screamed Jacintha. 
 
 Three hands went by a foolish impulse to three 
 breeches pockets, to hide the swelling. It was 
 too late. 
 
 ' Allons r laughed Jacintha like a merry trumpet, 
 
 * come forth five franc pieces !' 
 
 * It is a sorcerer then !' cried one of the 
 w^omen. 
 
 'No madam,' said Riviere, politely, 'it is only 
 an observer. You left your dens armed at all 
 points. The first game was to come here and 
 throw dust in mademoiselle's eyes. Had you 
 failed there the thousand francs was to bribe me 
 to swindle my principals.' 
 
 ' Decidedly he is a sorcerer ! My good mon- 
 sieur, say no more. We sign.' 
 
 ' They sign,' said the doctor, ' it is incredible.' 
 And he joined the ladies, who were walking 
 slowly up and dowm the Pleasance, abstaining 
 upon a principle of delicacy from interfering wath 
 Edouard, but, as may well be supposed, keenly 
 though furtively attentive. When the farmers 
 had signed. Riviere signed the duplicates. ' Are 
 we not to have your name to it mademoiselle?'
 
 272 WHITE LIES. 
 
 asked a farmer. Josephine moved toward Riviere 
 thinking he might require her. 
 
 ' No !' he cried haughtily. ' / have got her 
 name on this authority, hut my name is good 
 enough for you. She shall not sign, and you 
 shall not speak to her. You may look at her : 
 that is no small thing. Good ! you have looked 
 at her. Now decamp rogues and jades.' 
 
 They went off muttering. They felt deeply 
 wronged. Each a shade more so than the other. 
 Rennacon vented the general sentiment of ill- 
 usage thus — ' Cursed he interlopers ! Another 
 year or two and I should have put aside enough 
 to huy my farm : it will take me ten years at this 
 rate.' 
 
 * Come Jacintha, hold your apron for the bags : 
 lock them in one of your cupboards. Away with 
 you.' 
 
 Then his friends all came round Edouard, and 
 shook his hand warmly, and thanked him with 
 glistening eyes again, and again, and again, Laure 
 and all. 
 
 Now this young gentleman was so formed, that 
 if one did not see his merit he swelled with 
 bumptiousness like a peacock, but if one praised 
 him too much, straightway he compared himself 
 with his beau ideal, his model, say the Chevalier 
 Bayard, and turned modest and shame-faced : so 
 now he hung his head and stammered as they 
 showered praise and admiration on him.
 
 WHITE LIES. 273 
 
 * No more words,' said Josephine, ^ they make 
 him blush. I must crown him. Run Laure, and 
 bring me some bay leaves.' 
 
 ' No ! mesdemoiselles ! no ! there is more work 
 to be done before I dare triumph. I must take 
 your money down to the town, and pay that cre- 
 ditor off. Then my heart will be at ease about 
 you all, and then I should like to wear a crown — - 
 for half an hour.' 
 
 ' Come back to supper, Edouard, and wear it/ 
 
 ' ! thank you.' 
 
 ' There he goes without being measured, the 
 giddy child. Take off your hat, monsieur.' 
 
 Then there was a mysterious gliding of soft 
 palms and delicate fingers about his brow and 
 head, and the latter was announced to be mea- 
 sured. And oh ! reader, what botheration might 
 be saved if every man was measured before a 
 crown was clapped on him ! He is for a hat. 
 
 ' They can measure the outside,' said the doctor 
 saucily ; ^ their art goes so far.' Edouard ran off. 
 ' He quits us every minute,' said Laure to Jose- 
 phine ; ' that is why I detest him.' 
 
 * You don't detest him,' objected the doctor, as 
 gravely as if he was announcing a fact in physics, 
 ' That is why I like him then,' said saucebox. 
 
 Edouard ran to Jacintha for two out of the 
 three money bags, took them home, converted the 
 six thousand francs into bank paper (not assignats) 
 and pelted down to the town. 
 
 He went at once to his notary to ask him what 
 
 N 3
 
 274 
 
 WHITE LIE3. 
 
 forms were to be complied with in discharging the 
 creditor. To this question, asked with eagerness 
 and agitation, the notary answered with perfect 
 coolness — 
 
 ' The thing to do now is to take the money to 
 the mayor. Perhaps you had better go to him at 
 once : on your return I have something to say to 
 you.' 
 
 Edouard ran to the Mairie ; in front of it he 
 found forty or fifty idlers collected, and gaping at 
 a placard on the wall. 
 
 Edouard's eye followed theirs carelessly, and 
 saw a sight that turned him cold, and took the 
 pith out of his body. 
 
 A great staring notice, the paste behind which 
 was scarce dry, glared him in the face. 
 
 *FoR SALE. The laxds of Beaurepaire, 
 
 WITH the chateau AND OTHER THE BUILDINGS 
 MESSUAGES AND TENEMENTS. 
 
 'At THE REQUISITION OF JaCQUES BoNARD, 
 CREDITOR. By order OF THE DIRECTORY, 
 
 ' Armand, Mayor.' 
 
 This was the brightest afternoon Beaurepaire had 
 seen for years. These young women whose lives 
 had so few pleasures, denied themselves the luxury 
 of telling their mother the family triumph. Un- 
 selfish and innocent they kept so sacred a pleasure 
 from their friend. But though their words w^ere 
 guarded, their bird-like notes and bright glances 
 were free, and chirped and beamed in tune with
 
 WHITE LIES. 275 
 
 their hearts. Their very breath was perfumed 
 gaiety and hope. The baroness felt herself 
 breathing a lighter, brighter, and more musical 
 air. She said — ' Are better days in store, my 
 children ? For to-day, I know not how or why, 
 the cloud seems less heavy on us all.' 
 
 ' So it does mamma, I smile at Josephine, and 
 Josephine smiles at me, and neither of us have the 
 least idea why — have we, my elder? and here is 
 your coffee, dear, dear mamma.' 
 
 ' Good ! and what an aroma this has too, to-day, 
 and a flavour ? if this is from Arabia, what I have 
 been drinking for months must have been a nearer 
 neighbour, I think.' 
 
 ' Let me taste, mamma,' said Laure. She tasted 
 and was thunderstruck. She drew Josephine into 
 the dark part of the room. ' Some one has been 
 drugging my coffee — it tastes of Mocha — was it 
 you, love ? — traitress, I mean ? — tell me dear.' 
 
 ' No. Guess.' 
 
 * That is enough, the imp ! ! I'll — ' 
 
 * I would,' replied Josephine. ' He said to me, 
 " Mademoiselle Laure deceives her mother : let us 
 deceive her,'' I told him I would betray him, and 
 I have kept my word.' 
 
 ' Yes, after cheating me : double traitress ! ! kiss 
 me, quick ! quick ! !' 
 
 Supper was ready. No Edouard. 
 His crown of bay leaves was on the table : but 
 no Edouard. They were beginning to fear he
 
 276 WHITE LIES. 
 
 would not come at all, when he arrived in haste, 
 and sank into a chair, fatigued partly by a long 
 day's work, partly by the emotions he had passed 
 through. Through all this peeped an air of self- 
 content. 
 
 ' Forgive me, madam — it has been a long day.' 
 
 ' Be seated, monsieur,' said the baroness cere- 
 moniously. She was not best pleased at his making 
 himself so at home. ' Or rather let us offer you 
 something to restore you.' 
 
 ' Nothing, madam, but a tumbler of wine with a 
 little water — thank you. Mesdames, great events 
 have occurred since I left you.' 
 
 ' Oh, tell ! tell !' Eyes, bright as sword blades 
 in the sun with interest and curiosity were fastened 
 on him, and their lovely proprietors held their 
 breath to hear him. 
 
 He glanced round with secret satisfaction, 
 paused, relished their curiosity, and then he told 
 them how he rode down to the town, and went to 
 his notary : and his notary had sent him to the 
 Mairie, and there he had seen a placard offering 
 the chateau and lands of Beaurepaire for sale. 
 
 ' Oh ! Heaven ! oh Edouard !' 
 
 ' Be calm — there, I meant to keep you a moment 
 or two in suspense, but I have not the heart. I 
 went into the Mairie : I saw the mayor : it was 
 Bonard's doing, set on, of course, by Perrin : I 
 paid your six thousand francs into the mayor's 
 hands for Bonard. Here ladies, is the mayor's 
 receipt ; from that moment Beaurepaire was yours
 
 WHITE LIES. 277 
 
 again, and that accursed placard mine. I tore it 
 down before all the crowd ; they cheered me.' 
 
 * Heaven bless them !' cried the doctor. 
 
 ' Dard was there in his donkey cart : he put his 
 cap on his crutch, and waved it in the air, and 
 cried — " Long live the Baroness and the Demoi- 
 sellesde Beaurepaire :" and they all joined — aha! 
 — well, as I made my way through the crowd, who 
 should I run against but Perrin.' 
 
 * The wretch.' 
 
 ' The pieces of the placard were in my hand : I 
 hurled them with all my force into the animal's 
 face.' 
 
 * Oh you good boy !' 
 
 ' It was the act of a young man.' 
 
 * You are right, monsieur : I am almost sorry I 
 did it.' 
 
 ' Monsieur Edouard,' cried the baroness, rising, 
 the tears in her eyes, ' I scarcely understand all you 
 are doing, and have done for us : but you are a 
 worthy young man : and I have not till now had 
 the discernment to see all your value !' 
 
 ' Oh, madam, do not speak to me so : it makes 
 me ashamed : let me continue my story.' 
 
 ' Yes ! but first tell me, this six thousand francs 
 ■ — oh, how my heart beats ! my children, how near 
 ruin we have been — oh dear ! oh dear !' 
 
 ' Dear mamma, do not tremble : it is all our own, 
 thanks to our guardian angel,' said Josephine. 
 * Edouard, I think our mother wishes to learn how 
 we came to have so much money,'
 
 278 WHITE LIES. 
 
 * What, have you not told her ? 
 
 ' No ! Laure said you should have that pleasure : 
 it was your right.' 
 
 * Ah ! thank you, Mademoiselle Laure. Madam, 
 the tenants paid you seven thousand francs to-day 
 for leases at a rent raised thirty per cent, from 
 this day.' 
 
 ' Lowered, my child, you mean.' 
 
 * No thank you, raised.' 
 
 * Is it possible ? — the good creatures ! !' 
 *Eh? ah! humph! yes!' 
 
 * But is it really true ? Can this be true ?' 
 
 ' Jacintha holds a thousand francs at your dis- 
 posal, madam, and this receipt is your voucher for 
 the other six thousand ; and the leases signed are 
 in the house.' 
 
 ' And these are the people you had hard thoughts 
 of, monsieur.' 
 
 ' See how unjust I was ! ! !' 
 
 ' Did they volunteer all this ?' 
 
 * Not exactly. It was proposed to them, and 
 within three days — ' 
 
 * They fell into it?' 
 ' They fell into it.' 
 
 * May Heaven reward them !' 
 ' Humph !' 
 
 ' As they deserve.' 
 
 * Amen ! amen !' 
 
 * Such actions do the heart good as well as the 
 house. I cannot but be affected by the sympathy 
 of these humble people, who have known how to
 
 WHITE LIES. 279 
 
 show their good feeling, and may I venture to say 
 their gratitude.' 
 
 ' Call it by any fine name you please, madam ; 
 they will not contradict you.' 
 
 * Their gratitude, then, at a moment wdien it was 
 80 needed. After all, the world is not so ill. I 
 seem to have gone back to the days of my youth, 
 when such things were common. Ah ! how happy 
 I am ! and how much I thank you for it, my young 
 friend.' Eiviere hung his head. ' May I continue 
 my story ?' 
 
 ' Oh yes,' cried Laure, ' pray, go on. I guess 
 you went next to the honest notary.' 
 
 ' The what ? ? ! !' 
 
 ' The notary that is on our side.' 
 
 ' I did, and what do you think his news was ? 
 That for two days past Perrin had been at him to 
 lend him money upon Beaurepaire.' 
 
 ' And he did not turn him out of the room ?' 
 
 * No ; he spoke him fair.' 
 
 ■ But I thought he was our friend.' 
 
 *He is our notary. Perhaps all the better 
 champion for having no heart, and therefore no 
 temper. He had been very civil to Perrin, had 
 promised to try and get him the money, and so 
 was keeping him from going elsewhere. Oh ! 
 this glacier gave me wiser advice than flesh and 
 blood could have given. I am never five minutes 
 with Picard, but I come away iced and wiser.' 
 
 Laure. — ' And wickeder.' 
 
 Edouard (with sublime indifference). — ' Clearly.
 
 280 WHITE LIES. 
 
 He said — " I liave a liundred and twenty thousand 
 francs : I will lend yon tliem on Beaurepaire. Go 
 to some other capitalist for a similar sum. The 
 total will pay all the debts. Capitalists will not 
 refuse you : for this rise in the rents plus the six 
 thousand francs you have paid off alters the face 
 of the security, and leaves a fair margin. Get the 
 money while I amuse Perrin with false hopes." 
 Here was a stroke of policy beyond poor little 
 Edouard Riviere to have invented. Notary cut 
 notary ! ! So to-morrow I ride to Commandant 
 Raynal for a week's leave of absence, and the next 
 day I ride to my uncle, and beg him to lend a 
 hundred and twenty thousand francs on Beaure- 
 paire. He can do it if he likes. Yet his estate is 
 scarce half so large as yours, and not half so rich 
 but he has never let anyone share it with him. 
 " I'll have no go-between," says he, " to impoverish 
 us both." ' 
 
 ' Both whom ?' 
 
 ' Self and soil — ha ! ha ! " The soil is always 
 grateful," — says my uncle — " makes you a return 
 in exact proportion to what you bestow on it in 
 the way of manure and labour — men don't." Says 
 he, " the man that has got one hand in your pocket 
 shakes the other fist in your face ; the man that 
 has got both hands in your pocket spits in your 
 face." Asking excuse of you, madam, for quoting 
 my uncle, w^io is honest and shrewd, but little 
 polished. He is also a bit of a misanthrope, and 
 has coloured me : this you must have observed.'
 
 WHITE LIES. 281 
 
 * But if lie is a misanthrope, Monsieur Edouard, 
 he will not sympathize with us — will he not de- 
 spise us, who have so mismanaged Beaurepaire T 
 
 * Permit me, Josephine,' said the doctor. ' Natu- 
 ral history steps in here, and teaches by me, its 
 mouth-piece — ahem ! A misanthrope hates all 
 mankind, but is kind to everybody — generally too 
 kind. A philanthrope loves the whole human 
 race, but dislikes his wife, his mother, his brother, 
 and his friends and acquaintances. Misanthrope 
 is the potato — rough and repulsive outside, but 
 good to the core. Philanthrope is a peach — his 
 manner all velvet and bloom, and his words sweet 
 juice, but his heart of hearts a stone. Let me read 
 philanthrope's book, and fall into the hands of 
 misanthrope.' 
 
 * He is right, ladies. My uncle will say plenty 
 of biting words, which, by the by, will not hurt 
 you, who will not hear them — only me. He will 
 lash us and lend us the money, and Beaurepaire 
 will be free : and I shall have had some little hand 
 in it — hurrah !' 
 
 Then came a delicious hour to Edouard Riviere. 
 Young and old poured out their glowing thanks 
 and praises upon him till his cheeks burned like 
 fire. 
 
 Josephine. — ' And besides he raises our spirits 
 so : does he not, my mother ? Now, is not the 
 house changed of late, doctor ? I appeal to you.* 
 
 St. Aubin. — ' I offer a frigid explanation. 
 Among the feats of science is the infusion of
 
 282 WHITE LIES. 
 
 blood. I have seen it done. Boiling blood from 
 the veins of the healthy and young is injected into 
 old or languid vessels. The effect is magical. 
 "Well, Beaurepaire was old and languishing. Life's 
 warm current entered it with Edouard ; its languid 
 pulses beat, and its system swells and throbs, and 
 its heart is warm once more, and leaps w^ith the 
 blood of youth, and dances in the sunshine of 
 hope : I also am young again, like all the rest. 
 Madame the Baroness, gavottonsl — you and I — tia 
 la la la lah, tra la la la lah !' 
 
 Laure. — ' Ha ! ha ! ha ! Down with science, 
 doctor.' 
 
 St. Aubin. — ' What impiety ! Some one will 
 say, down with young ladies next.' 
 
 Laure. — ' No ! That would be punishing them- 
 selves. Hear my solution of the mystery. Injec- 
 tion of blood and infusion there is none. Monsieur 
 is nothing more or less than a merry imp that has 
 broken into paradise.' 
 
 Josephine. — * The fine paradise that it was be- 
 fore the imp came. No : it is that a man has 
 come among a parcel of weak women, and put 
 spirit into them.' 
 
 St. Aubin. — ' Item into an old useless dreamer.' 
 
 Josephine. — ' Fie ! It was you who read him 
 at sight. We babble and he remains uncrowned.' 
 
 Edouard. — * No ! no ! There are no more Kings 
 in France !' 
 
 Josephine. — * Excuse me, there is the King of 
 Hearts ! And we are going to crown him. Come,
 
 WHITE LIES. 283 
 
 Laure. Mamma, since monsieur has become diffi- 
 dent, would it be very wrong of us to use force 
 just a little T 
 
 ' Xo, provided monsieur permits it,' said the 
 baroness wdth some hesitation. Laughter like a 
 chime of bells followed this speech, and to that 
 sw^eet music Eiviere, spite of his mock dissent, w^as 
 crowned. And in that magic circlet the young 
 Apollo's beauty shone out bright as a star. The 
 green crown set off the rich chesnut hair, the 
 shapely head, the rich glowing cheek, and the 
 delicate white brow. Blushes mantled on his face, 
 and triumph beamed in his ardent eyes. He 
 adorned his crown in turn. 
 
 ' Is it permitted to be so handsome as that?' 
 inquired the baroness with astonishment. ' And 
 to be as good as pretty ?' demanded Josephine. 
 
 Whilst he thus sat in well earned triumph, 
 central pearl set round by loving eyes and happy 
 faces that he had made shine, Jacintha came in 
 and gave him a letter. 
 
 ' Dard brought it up from the town,' said she. 
 
 Edouard, after asking permission, opened the 
 letter, and the bright colour ebbed from his cheek. 
 
 ' No ill news, I trust !' said the baroness kindly. 
 ' No relation, no friend — ' ' No, madam,' said the 
 young man. ' Nothing serious ; a temporary an- 
 noyance. Do not let it disturb your happiness for 
 a moment.' And with these words he dismissed 
 the subject, and was very gay and rather louder
 
 284 WHITE LIES. 
 
 than before. Soon after he took his leave. He 
 went into the kitchen, and, after a few earnest 
 words with Jacintha, went into the stable and 
 gave his horse a feed. 
 
 The baroness retired to rest. In taking leave of 
 them all, she kissed Lanre with more than usual 
 warmth, and putting her out at arm's length, 
 examined her, then kissed her again. 
 
 * Stay doctor,' said Josephine, who was about to 
 retire too. ' What is it ? What can it be ? Did 
 you see what a struggle the poor boy went through 
 the moment he read it ; he took off his crown too, 
 and sighed, oh so sadly, as he laid it down.' 
 
 * Mademoiselle,' said Jacintha softly at the door, 
 * may he come in ?' 
 
 * Yes ! — yes !' Edouard came sadly. ' Is she 
 gone to bed happy ?' 
 
 ' Yes dear ! thanks to you, and we will be firm. 
 Keep nothing from us.' Edouard just gave her 
 the letter, and leaned his head sorrowfully on his 
 hand. 
 
 They all read it together. It was from Picard. 
 Perrin, it seems^ had already purchased one of the 
 claims on Beaurepaire, value sixty thousand francs, 
 and now demanded in his own name the sale of 
 the property, upon the general order from the 
 directory. The mayor had consented and the 
 affiche was even now in the printer's hands. The 
 letter continued — 
 
 * It is to he regretted that you insulted Perrin, at this
 
 WHITE LIES. 285 
 
 stage of the business. Had you consulted us on this 
 point, we should have advised you not to take any 
 steps of that sort until after the estate- should be abso- 
 lutely safe. We think he must have followed you to 
 our place and so learned that you are our client in this 
 matter, for he has sent a line to say he icill not trouble 
 us, but will get the money elsewhere' 
 
 * That is what cuts me to the heart !' 
 
 ' It is I who ruin you after all. Oh ! how hard 
 it is for a young man to be wise !' The girls came 
 and sat beside Edouard, and, without speaking, 
 glided each a kind hand into his. The doctor 
 finished the letter. 
 
 ' But if you will send us down the new leases in a 
 parcel, we shall perhaps be able to put a spoke in his 
 wheel still ; meantime, ive advise you to lose no time in 
 raising a hundred and twenty thousand francs. We 
 renew our offer of a similar sum ; but you must give 
 us three days' notice,' 
 
 ' Good bye then.' 
 
 * Stay a little longer.' 
 
 ' No 1 I am miserable till I repair my folly.' 
 
 * We will comfort you.' 
 
 ' Nothing can comfort me, but repairing the ill 
 I have done.' 
 
 ' The ill you have done ! But for you, all would 
 have been over long ago !' 
 
 ' Thank you for saying that — oh ! thank you : 
 will you see me off. I feel a little daunted — for 
 the moment ?'
 
 286 WHITE LIES. 
 
 ' Poor boy, yes, we will see you off.' 
 
 They went down ^with him. He brought his 
 horse round, and they walked together to the 
 garden gate in silence. 
 
 As he put his foot in the stirrup, Josephine 
 murmured : ' Do not vex yourself little heart. 
 Sleep well to-night after all your fatigues, and 
 come to us early in the morning.' 
 
 Edouard checked his horse, who wanted to start ; 
 and turning in the saddle cried out with surprise — 
 * Why where do you think I am going ?' 
 
 * Home to be sure.' 
 
 * Home ? while Beaurepaire is in peril ; sleep 
 while Beaurepaire is in peril. What ! don't you 
 see I am going to my uncle, twenty leagues from 
 here.' 
 
 ' Yes but not now.' 
 
 ' What ? fling away half a day ! — no not an 
 hour, not a minute — the enemy is too keen, the 
 stake is too great.' 
 
 * But think Ed — Monsieur Edouard,' said Laure, 
 ' you are so tired.' 
 
 ' I was. But I am not now.' 
 
 ' But 711071 Dieu ! you will kill yourself — one 
 does not travel on horseback in the dark by night.' 
 
 ' Mademoiselle, the night and the day are all 
 one to a man when he can serve those he loves.' 
 With the very words his impatient heel pricked 
 the willing horse, who started forward, striking 
 fire in the night from the stones with his iron
 
 WHITE LIES. 287 
 
 heels, that a moment after rang clear and sharp 
 down the road. They listened to the sounds as 
 they struck, and echoed along, and then rang 
 fainter and fainter, and fainter, in the still night. 
 AYhen at last they could hear him no more, they 
 went slowly and sadly back to the chateau. 
 Laure was in tears.
 
 288 WHITE LIES, 
 
 CHAPTEE IX. 
 
 The French league in those days was longer than 
 now ; it was full three miles English. Edouard 
 baited his horse twenty miles from Beaurepaire : 
 he then rode the other forty miles judiciously, but 
 without a halt. 
 
 He reached his uncle's at three in the morning : 
 put his horse in the stable, and not to disturb the 
 inmates, got in by the kitchen window, which he 
 found left open as in the golden age : the kitchen 
 fire was smouldering ; he made it up, and dropped 
 asleep on a chair as hard — as hard as a philanthro- 
 pist's heart, doctor. He seemed to have been 
 scarce a minute asleep, when a sound as of Eed 
 Indians screeching all around woke him with a 
 start, and there stood his uncle's housekeeper, who 
 screamed again at his jumping up, but died away 
 into an uncertain quaver, and from that rose 
 crescendo to a warm welcome. 
 
 * But saints defend us, how you frightened me !' 
 
 * You had yom- revenge. I thought a legion of
 
 WHITE LIES. 289 
 
 fiends were yelling right into my ear. My uncle 
 — is he up ?' 
 
 ' Your uncle ! What don't you know ?' 
 
 * No ! how should* I know ? What is the matter ? 
 Oh ! Heaven, he is dead !' 
 
 ' Dead ? No ! Would he die like that, without 
 settling his affairs ? No, but he is gone/ 
 
 * Where ?' 
 
 * We don't know. Took one shirt, a razor, and 
 a comb, and off without a word — just like him.' 
 
 Edouard groaned. 
 
 ' When did he go ?' 
 
 ' Yesterday, at noon.' 
 
 Edouard swore. 
 
 ' Oh ! don't vex yourself like that. Master 
 Edouard.' 
 
 *But Marthe it is life and death. I shall go 
 mad ! I shall go mad !' 
 
 * No, don't ye — don't ye ; bless you, he will 
 come back before long.' 
 
 ' So he will Marthe ; he must be back to-day — 
 he took but one shirt.' 
 
 ' Hum !' said Marthe doubtfully, ' that does not 
 follow. I have seen him wear a shirt a good deal 
 more than a day.' 
 
 Edouard walked up and down the kitchen in 
 great agitation. To spirits of his kind to be 
 compelled to be passive and wait for others, unable 
 to do anything for themselves, is their worst 
 torture ; it is fever plus paralysis. 
 
 VOL. I. o
 
 290 WHITE LIES. 
 
 The good woman soothed him and coaxed him. 
 
 ' Have a cup of coffee. See — I have warmed it, 
 and the milk and alL' 
 
 ' Thank you my good Marthe. I have the 
 ajDpetite of a wolf.' 
 
 ' And after that go to bed, and the moment your 
 uncle comes I will wake you.' 
 
 ' Ah ! thank you good Marthe. Oh ! yes ; bed 
 by all means. Better be asleep than twiddling 
 one's thumbs awake.' 
 
 So Marthe got him to bed ; and once there, 
 Nature prevailed, and he slept twelve hours at a 
 stretch. 
 
 Just at sunset he awoke, and took it for sunrise. 
 He dressed himself hastily and came down. His 
 unele had not arrived. He did not know w^hat on 
 earth to do. He had a presentiment that while his 
 hands were tied the enemy was working. 
 
 * And if not,' said he, ' why then chance is 
 robbing me of the advantage zeal ought to be 
 gaining me.' 
 
 ' Wait till to-morrow,' said Marthe ; * if he does 
 not come I shall have a letter.' 
 
 Edouard sat down and wrote a line to Doctor 
 St. Aubin, telling him his ill-luck, and begging the 
 doctor to send down the leases to Picard, as he had 
 requested. 
 
 ' Picard is wiser than I am,' said he. 
 
 The morning came — no letter. Then Edouard 
 had another anxiety — he w^as away from his post.
 
 WHITE LIES. 291 
 
 Commandant Eaynal was a Tartar. He had better 
 ride over and ask for a week's leave of absence ; 
 and now was the time to do it. On his return 
 perhaps his uncle would be at home. 
 
 ' Yes ! I'll saddle Mirabeau and ride over : 
 then I shall not be twiddling my thumbs all 
 day.' 
 
 Commandant Eaynal lived about half way be- 
 tween his uncle's farm and Beaurepaire. 
 
 As Edouard came in sight of the house a dun 
 pony was standing voluntarily by the door, and 
 presently the notary issued forth, got into the 
 saddle, and ambled towards Edouard. Edouard 
 felt a chill at sight of him, but this was soon fol- 
 lowed by a burning heat and a raging desire to go 
 at him like the whirlwind, and ride both him and 
 his beast of a pony into the dust. 
 
 He was obliged to keep saying to himself, ' wait 
 a day or two, wait a day or two,' and did not trust 
 himself to look at the man as they passed one 
 another. 
 
 The other looked at him though, through his 
 half-open lids, a glance of bitter malignity. Meet- 
 ing his enemy so suddenly and at his commandant's 
 house discomposed Edouard greatly, perplexed 
 him greatly. 
 
 ' Can these notaries divine one's very plans before 
 they are formed,' said he to himself, * can these 
 practised villains ? — no. He has come here simply 
 to do me some general mischief: to set my com-
 
 292 WHITE LIES. 
 
 mandant against me : lie lias timed the attack 
 well, now that I have a favour to ask him, and he 
 such a disciphnarian.' 
 
 Edouard came before Eaynal despondently, and 
 after the usual greeting said — 
 
 ' I have a favour to ask you commandant/ 
 
 ' Speak !' rang out the commandant. 
 
 ' A short leave of absence.' 
 
 * Humph !' 
 
 ' On pressing affairs : oh, monsieur, do not refuse 
 me!' 
 
 ' Who tells you that I shall refuse you ?' asked 
 the commandant roughly. 
 
 ' No one monsieur, but I have enemies : and I 
 feared one of them might have lately maligned me 
 behind my back.' 
 
 ' Citizen Kiviere,' rephed the other sternly, * if a 
 man came to me to accuse any one of my officers 
 behind his back, I should send for that officer and 
 say to his accuser — " Now there is the man, look 
 him in the face and say your say." ' 
 
 * I was a fool,' cried the young man : ' my noble 
 commandant — ' 
 
 ' Enough !' said the commandant rudely. ' No- 
 body has ever said a word against you in my hear- 
 ing. It is true,' he added satirically, 'very few 
 have ever mentioned you at all.' 
 
 ' My name has not been mentioned to you to-day 
 commandant ?' 
 
 ' No ! — halt !' cried the exact soldier, ' except by
 
 WHITE LIES. 293 
 
 tlie servant who announced you. Read that de- 
 spatch while I give an order outside.' 
 
 Edouard read the despatch and the blood rushed 
 to his brow at one sentence in it : — ' Edouard 
 Riviere is active zealous and punctual. In six 
 months more you can safely promote him.' This 
 was all : but not a creature besides was praised at 
 all. 
 
 The commandant returned. 
 
 * Oh commandant, what goodness !' 
 
 * Citizen, I rose from the ranks — how ? — guess !' 
 
 * By valour, by chivalry, by Spart — ' 
 
 ' Gammon ! — by minding my business : there is 
 the riddle key : and that is why my eye is on those 
 who mind their business — you are one : I have 
 praised you for it — so now, how many days do you 
 want to w^aste ? Speak.' 
 
 * A few, a very few.' 
 
 ' Are ye in love ? That is enough — you are — 
 more fool you. Is it to go after her you fall to the 
 rear ?' 
 
 ' Xo indeed commandant.' 
 
 ' Look me in the face ! There are but two men 
 in the world — the man who keeps his word, and 
 the man who breaks it. The first is an honest 
 man, the second is a liar, and waiting to be a thief : 
 if it is to run after a girl take a week : anything 
 else, a fortnight. No! no thanks! I have not 
 time for chit chat. March.' 
 
 Edouard rode away in triumph. 
 
 o 2
 
 294 WHITE LIES. 
 
 ' Long live tlie Commandant Raynal!' lie sliouted. 
 ' He is not flesh and blood. He is metal : lie rings 
 loud and true. His words are not words, they are 
 notes of some golden trumpet ; and after being with 
 him five minutes, one feels like beating all the 
 notaries on earth.' 
 
 He reached his uncle's place. 
 
 ' Not come home, Master Edouard.' 
 
 The cold fit fell on him. 
 
 The next morning came a letter from his uncle, 
 dated Paris. 
 
 Edouard was ready to tear his hair. 
 
 ' Gone to Paris with one shirt ! Who could 
 foresee a human creature going from any place but 
 Bicetre to the capital of the w^orld wdth one shirt ! 
 Order my horse, Martlie. He will turn it, I 
 suppose, after the first week. That will be a com- 
 pliment to the capital — ten thousand devils ! I 
 shall go mad. Order my horse.' 
 
 ' Where are you going my young monsieur ?' 
 
 ' To Paris. Equip me ; lend me a shirt. He 
 has one left, has he not ?' 
 
 Marthe did not even deign to notice this skit. 
 
 * But he is coming home ! — he is coming home !' 
 she cried ; ' you don't read the letter.' 
 
 ' True : he is coming home to-day or to-morrow 
 Heaven above, how these old men talk ! as if to-day 
 and to-morrow were the same thing, or anything 
 like the same thing. I shall ride to Paris.' 
 
 * Then you will miss him on the road.'
 
 WHITE LIES. 295 
 
 * Give me paper and ink, Marthe. I will write 
 letters all day. Ah ! how unlucky I am '/ 
 
 He wrote a long letter to St. Aubin, telling him 
 all he had done and suffered. He wrote also to the 
 notary, conjuring him again to watch the interests 
 of Beaurepaire keenly while he should be away. 
 Then he got his horse and galloped round and 
 round his uncle's paddock, and suffered the tortures 
 that sluggish spirits never feel and cannot realize. 
 The next afternoon — oh joy ! — his uncle's burly 
 form appeared, and gave him a hearty welcome. 
 
 The poor boy wanted to open his business at 
 once, but he saw there was no chance of his being 
 listened to, till a good score of farm questions had 
 been put and answered. 
 
 In the evening he got his uncle to himself and 
 told him his story, and begged his uncle to advance 
 the two hundred and forty thousand francs on 
 mortgage. 
 
 His uncle received the proposal coldly. ' I don't 
 see my way to it Edouard,' said he. ' I must draw 
 my money out of the public funds, and they are 
 rising fast. No ; I can't do it.' 
 
 Edouard implored his uncle not to look on it in 
 that light, but as a benevolent action, that would 
 be attended with less loss than actions of such 
 merit usually are. 
 
 ' But why should I lose a sou for those aristo- 
 crats ?' 
 
 ' If you knew them — but you do not, uncle :
 
 296 WHITE LIES. 
 
 do it for me ! — for me whose heart is tied to them 
 for ever!' 
 
 ' Pheugh ! Well look here Edouard, if you 
 have really been fool enough to fall in love there, 
 and have a mind to play Georges Dandin, I'll find 
 you some money for the part ; but I can't afford 
 so much as this, and I wash my hands of your 
 aristos.' 
 
 * Enough, uncle. I have not then a friend in 
 the world but those whom you call aristos.' 
 
 * You are an ungrateful boy. It is I w^ho have 
 no friend : and I thought he came to see me out 
 of love : old fool ! it was for money, like all the 
 rest.' 
 
 ' You insult me, uncle. But you have the right. 
 I do not answer. I go away.' 
 
 ' Go to all the devils, nephew !' 
 
 Edouard was interrupted on his way to the stables 
 by old Marthe. 
 
 ' No my young monsieur, you do not leave us 
 like that.' 
 
 ' He insulted me Marthe.' 
 
 ' Ah bah ! he insults me three times a week, and 
 I him for that matter : but we don't part any the 
 more for that. He shall apologise. Above all, he 
 shall lend your aristocrats the money. It won't 
 ruin us.' 
 
 * Why Marthe, you must have listened.' 
 
 * Parhleu ! and a good thing too. You keep 
 quiet. You will see he has had his bark, and
 
 WHITE LIES. 297 
 
 there is not much bite in him poor man, though 
 he thinks he is full of it.' 
 
 ' Oh ! my good Marthe I know his character, 
 and that he is good at bottom, but to come here 
 and wait, and wait, and lose days when every hour 
 was gold, and then to be denied. Mon Dieu ! 
 where should I come for help but to my mother's 
 brother ? Alas ! I have no other kindred.' 
 
 Marthe prevailed on him to stay. 
 
 This done, she went and attacked her master. 
 
 ' Are you content ?' asked she calmly, dusting a 
 chair, or pretending to. ' He weeps.' 
 
 ' Who weeps ?' 
 
 ' Our guest — our. nephew — our pretty child.' 
 
 * All the worse for him. You don't know then 
 — he insulted me.' 
 
 ' To whom do you tell that ? I was at the key- 
 hole.' 
 
 ' Ugh !' 
 
 ' The boot is on the other leg ; it is you who 
 treated him cruelly. He weeps, and he is going 
 away.' 
 
 ^ Going? Where?' 
 
 * Do I know ? Where you bade him go ! ! ! ! ! !' 
 
 ' That gives me pain, that he should go like 
 that.' 
 
 ' I knew it would, our master, so I stopped him. 
 sore against his will.' 
 
 ' You did well ; that will be worth a new gown 
 to you. What did you say to him ?'
 
 298 WHITE LIES. 
 
 ' I said — " You must not take things to heart 
 like that ; our master is a vile temper — " ' 
 
 * Ye lied !' 
 
 * " But he has a good heart." * 
 
 ' You spoke the truth ; I am too good.' 
 ' " He is your mother's brother," said I, " and 
 though he is a little wicked he does not hate you 
 at bottom. Stay with us, and don't talk about 
 money," said I, " that nettles him." For all that, 
 master, I could not help thinking to myself, we are 
 old, and we can't take our money away with us ; 
 our time will soon come when we must go away as 
 bare as we came.' 
 
 * That is true, confound it !' 
 
 * As for my dirt of money, and I have rolled up 
 a good bit in your service, for you know you were 
 never stingy to me,' 
 
 ' Because I never caught you robbing me, you 
 old jade !' 
 
 * I shall let him have that any way.' 
 
 ' If you dare to say such a word to him I'll wring 
 your neck round ; who are you to come with your 
 three coins between my sister's son and me ; be off 
 and cook the dinner.' 
 
 * I go, our master.' 
 
 Uncle and nephew met at dinner : and nephew 
 after his rebuff talked anything but money. After 
 dinner, which Mar the took care should be much to 
 his taste, the old man leaned back in his chair, and 
 said with a good humour large as the ocean —
 
 WHITE LIES. ^99 
 
 * Now nephew about this little affair of yours? 
 Now is the tinie to come to a man for money ; after 
 dinner I feel like doing anything, however foolish, 
 to make all the world happy before I die/ 
 
 Edouard finding him in this humour, told the 
 story of Beaurepaire more fully, and laid bare 
 his own feelings to an auditor who, partly from good 
 humour, partly remorse, exhibited an almost ludi- 
 crous amount of sympathy, real or fictitious, with 
 every sentiment, however dehcate, Edouard exhi- 
 bited to him. 
 
 He concluded by vowing they should have the 
 money if the security was sound : ' and it must be/ 
 said he, ' because the rents are raised, and you have 
 paid off one of the mortgages. How long can you 
 give me ?' 
 
 ' Oh ! my dear uncle, we have a deadly enemy. 
 Time is gold.' 
 
 * Let us see : to-morrow is market day, and the 
 next day is the fair.' 
 
 Edouard sighed. 
 
 ' The day after — we will see about it.' 
 
 Edouard groaned. 
 
 * I mean we will go down to the Mairie in my 
 cabriolet.' 
 
 *Ah!' 
 
 * And the money in our pocket.' 
 
 * Ah ! let me embrace you, uncle.' 
 
 Thus a term was put to Edouard's anxieties. In 
 three davs his uncle would be the sole creditor of
 
 300 WHITE LIES. 
 
 Beaurepaire. Still lie could not help counting tte 
 hours, and he did not really feel safe till Thursday 
 evening came, and his uncle showed him an apo- 
 plectic pocketbook, and ordered his Xorman horse, a 
 beast of singular power and bottom, to be fed early 
 for the journey. 
 
 The youth was in a delicious reverie : the old 
 man calmly smoking his pipe : when Marthe 
 brought a letter in that the postman had just left. 
 It was written in a lady's hand. His heart 
 throbbed : Marthe watched him with a smile, and 
 found an excuse for hanging about. He opened it 
 — his eye went like lightning to the signature. 
 
 Laure Aglae Eose de Beaurepaire. 
 
 The sweet name was on its way to his eager 
 lips, when he caught sight of a word or two above 
 it that struck him like some icy dagger. He read 
 and the colour left his very lips. He sat with the 
 letter, and seemed a man turned into stone, all but 
 his quivering lip, and the trembling hands that 
 held that dear handwriting. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 London: printed by vr. clo^tes and sons, stamford street.
 
 t-^^} 

 
 . ( 
 
 fN