"Nothing in the world could please us more. Oh, how happy Jules will be, how glad we will all be!"
"Yes, you will all be pleased, doubtless; but my happiness can never be perfect, Blanche, unless you will consent to make it so by giving me your hand. I love – "
The girl sprang to her feet as if an adder had stung her. With trembling lips and pale with anger, she cried:
"You offend me, Captain de Lochiel! You have not considered the cruelty of the offer you are making me! Is it now you make me such a proposal, when the flames that you and yours have lighted in my unhappy country are hardly yet extinguished? Is it now, while the smoke yet rises from our ruined homes, that you offer me the hand of one of our destroyers? There would, indeed, be a bitter irony in lighting the marriage torch at the smoking ashes of my unhappy country! They would say, Captain de Lochiel, that your gold had bought the hand of the poor Canadian girl; and never will a D'Haberville endure such humiliation. O Archie! Archie! I would never have expected it of you, you the friend of my childhood! You know not what you are doing!" And Blanche burst into tears.
Never had the noble Canadian girl appeared so beautiful in Archie's eyes as now, when she rejected with proud disdain the hand of one of her country's conquerors.
"Calm yourself, Blanche," answered Lochiel. "I admire your patriotism. I appreciate the exalted delicacy of your sentiments, however unjust they may be toward the friend of your childhood. Never would a Cameron of Lochiel give offense to any lady, least of all to the sister of Jules D'Haberville, to the daughter of his benefactor. You know, Blanche, that I never act without due reflection. For you to reject with scorn the hand of an Englishman so soon after the conquest would be but natural in a D'Haberville; but as for me, Blanche, you know that I have loved you long – you could not be ignorant of it, in spite of my silence. The penniless young exile would have failed in every honorable sentiment had he declared his love for the daughter of his rich benefactor. Is it because I am rich now, is it because the chance of war has made us victorious in the struggle, is it because fate made of me an unwilling instrument of destruction, is it because of all this that I must bury in my heart one of the noblest emotions of our nature, and acknowledge myself defeated without an effort? No, Blanche, you surely can not think it; you have spoken without reflection; you regret the harsh words which have escaped you. Speak, Blanche, and say that you did not mean it."
"I will be candid with you, Archie," replied Blanche. "I will be as frank as a peasant girl who has studied neither her feelings nor her words – as a country girl who has forgotten the conventionalities of that society from which she has so long been banished – and I will speak with my heart upon my lips. You had all that could captivate a girl of fifteen years – noble birth, wit, beauty, strength, and a generous and lofty heart. What more could be needed to charm an enthusiastic girl? Archie, if the penniless young exile had asked my parents for my hand, and they had granted his request, I should have been proud and happy to obey. But, Captain de Lochiel, there is now a gulf between us which I will never cross." And again the girl's voice was choked with sobs.
"But I implore you, my brother Archie," continued she, taking his hand, "do not alter your intention of settling in Canada. Buy property in our neighborhood, so that we can see you continually. And if, in the ordinary course of nature (for you are eight years older than I), I should have the unhappiness to lose you, be sure that you would be mourned as bitterly by your sister Blanche as if she had been your wife. And now it is getting late, Archie, and we must return to the house," she added, pressing his hand affectionately between both of hers.
"You will never be so cruel toward me and toward yourself," cried Archie, "as to persist in this refusal! Yes, toward yourself, Blanche, for the love of a heart like yours does not die out like a common passion; it resists time and all vicissitudes. Jules will plead my cause on his return, and his sister will not refuse him his first request. Oh, tell me that I may hope!"
"Never, Archie, never," said Blanche. "The women of my family, as well as the men, have never failed in their duty – have never shrunk from any sacrifice, however painful. Two of my aunts, while yet very young, said one day to my father: 'You have no more than enough, D'Haberville, to maintain the dignity of the house. Our dowry would make a considerable breach in your means. To-morrow we shall enter a convent, where all is prepared to receive us.' Prayers, threats, the fury of my father – all proved vain; they entered the convent, where they have not wearied of good deeds to this day. As for me, Archie, I have other duties to perform – duties very dear to me. I must sweeten life as far as possible for my parents, must help them to forget their misfortunes, must care for them in their old age, and must close their eyes at the last. My brother Jules will marry; I will nurse his children, and share alike his good and evil fortune."
Lochiel and Blanche walked toward the house in silence. The last rays of the setting sun, mirrored in the swelling tide, lent a new charm to the enchanting scene; but to their eyes the loveliness of nature seemed to have suddenly faded out. The next day, toward evening, a favorable wind arose. The vessel which had brought Lochiel weighed anchor at once, and M. D'Haberville instructed José to convey his young friend to Quebec.
During the journey there was no lack of conversation between the two travelers; their subjects were inexhaustible. Toward five o'clock in the morning, however, as they were passing Beaumont, Lochiel said to José:
"I am as sleepy as a marmot. We sat up late yesterday, and I was so feverish that I got no sleep for the rest of the night. Do sing me a song to keep me awake."
He knew the hoarseness and vigor of his companion's voice, and he put great faith in it as an anti-soporific.
"I can not refuse," answered José, who, like many others blessed with a discordant voice, prided himself greatly on his singing. "The more sleepy you are the more risk you run of breaking your head on the rocks, which have never been cleared away since La Corriveau's memorable trip; but I hardly know what to begin with. How would you like a song on the taking of Berg-op-Zoom?"
"Berg-op-Zoom will do," said Archie, "though the English were pretty badly treated there."
"Hem! hem!" coughed José. "Nothing like a little revenge on the enemy that handled us so roughly in '59." And he struck up the following:
"A Te Deum for him who was born the doom (repeat)
Of the stout-walled city of Berg-op-Zoom (repeat).
By'r lady, he wants the best that's going,
Who can do up a siege in a style so knowing."
"How charmingly naïve!" cried Lochiel.
"Is it not, captain?" said José, very proud of his success.
"Indeed, yes, my dear José; but go on. I am in a hurry to hear the end. Do not halt upon so good a road."
"Thank you, captain," said José, touching his cap.
"Like Alexander who lived of old (repeat),
His body is small, but his heart is bold (repeat).
God gave him all Alexander's wit,
And Cæsar's wisdom on top of it!"
"'His body is small but his heart is bold,'" repeated Archie, "is a very happy touch! Where did you pick up this song?"
"A grenadier who was at the siege of Berg-op-Zoom sang it to my late father. He said that it was terribly hot work there, and he carried the marks of it. He had only one eye left, and the skin was torn off his face from his forehead to his jaw-bone; but, as all these damages were on the left side, he still could manage his gun properly on the right. But let us leave him to look out for himself. He is a jolly lad who would dance a jig on his own grave, and I need not concern myself about him. Here's the third and last verse:
"Oh, we combed the hides of the English well (repeat),
A very bad lot, as I've heard tell! (repeat)
They'll shake, by'r lady, till they get home,
For fear of our boys and their curry-comb."
"Delightful, 'pon honor!" cried Lochiel. "These English who were a very bad lot! These soldiers armed with the curry-comb! How exquisitely naïve! Charming!"
"By our lady, though, captain," said José, "they are not always so easy to comb, these English. Like our good horse Lubine here, they are sometimes very bad-humored and ugly to handle if one rubs them too hard. Witness the first battle of the Plains of Abraham!"
"It was the English, was it not, who carried the curry-comb then?" remarked Archie.
For reply, José merely lifted up the stump of his arm, around which he had twisted the leather of his whip.
For a time our travelers journeyed on in silence, and again Archie grew heavy with sleep. Perceiving this, José cried:
"Captain, captain, you're nearly asleep! Take care, or you're going to break your nose, begging your pardon. I think you want another song to wake you up. Shall I sing you the Complaint of Biron?"
"Who was Biron?" inquired Lochiel.
"Uncle Raoul, who is so learned, told me that he was a prince, a great warrior, the relative and friend of our late King Henry IV; which did not prevent the latter from having him executed just as if he was a nobody. When I made my lament upon his death, Uncle Raoul and the captain told me that he had proved a traitor to the king, and forbid me even to sing the complaint in their presence. This struck me as rather droll, but I obeyed them all the same."
"I have never heard of this lament," said Archie; "and as I am not particularly sensitive in regard to the kings of France, I wish you would sing it for me."
Thereupon José struck up, in a voice of thunder, the following lament:
"The king he had been warned by one of his gens d'armes,
(His name it was La Fin, that gave him the alarm,)
'Your Majesty, I pray you, of Prince Biron beware,
For he's plotting wicked deeds, and there's treason in the air.'
"La Fin had hardly spoke when Prince Biron came in,
His cap was in his hand, and he bowed before the king.
Said he: 'Will't please Your Majesty to try your hand at play?
Here's a thousand Spanish doubloons that I have won this day.'
"'If you have them with you, prince,' replied His Majesty,
'If you have them with you, prince, go find the queen, and she
Will play you for the Spanish gold you have not long to see!'
"He had not played two games when the constable came in,
And bowing, cap in hand, right courtly said to him:
'Oh, will you rise up, prince, and come along with me?
This night in the Bastile your bed and board shall be!'
"'Oh, had I but my sword, my weapon bright and keen,
Oh, had I but my saber, my knife of golden sheen,
No constable could capture me that ever I have seen!'
"It might have been a month, or may be two weeks more,
That no friends came to see him or passed his prison door;
At last came judges three, pretending not to know,
And asked of him, 'Fair prince, oh, who has used you so?'
"'Oh, they who used me so had power to put me here;
It was the king and queen, whom I served for many a year;
And now for my reward my death it draweth near!
"'And does the king remember no more the Savoy War?
And has the king forgotten the wounds for him I bore?
And is it my true service now that I must suffer for?
"'And has the king forgotten that if I have to die,
The blood of Biron may to Heaven for vengeance cry?
Or does the king remember I have a brother yet?
But when he sees the king he will not me forget.'"
By this time Lochiel was thoroughly awake. The tremendous voice of José would have awakened the sleeping beauty herself from the depths of her hundred years' slumber.
"But you, sir," said José, "you who are nearly as learned as Uncle Raoul, you could perhaps tell me something of this wicked king who so ungratefully put this poor M. Biron to death."
"Kings, my dear José, never forget a personal offense, and, like a great many smaller people who can not overlook the faults of others, no matter how well atoned for, for faithful services, their memory is very short."
"Well, now, but that seems very queer to me, when I was thinking that the good God had given them everything that heart could wish! A short memory! But that is droll."
Smiling at his companion's innocence, Archie replied:
"King Henry IV, however, had an excellent memory, although it failed him in that one instance. He was a good prince and loved his subjects as if they were his own children, and he did all he could to make them happy. It is not surprising that his memory is cherished by all good Frenchmen, even after a lapse of one hundred and fifty years."
"By our lady," exclaimed José, "there's nothing surprising in that, if the subjects have a better memory than their princes! It was cruel of him, however, to hang this poor M. Biron."
"The nobility of France were never hung," said Archie. "That was one of their special privileges. They simply had their heads cut off."
"That was indeed a privilege. It may perhaps hurt more, but it is much more glorious to die by the sword than by the rope," remarked José.
"To return to Henry IV," said Archie; "we must not be too severe in our condemnation of him. He lived in a difficult period, a period of civil war. Biron, his kinsman and former friend, turned traitor, and was doubly deserving of his fate."
"Poor M. Biron!" said José; " but he speaks finely in his lament."
"It is not always they who speak the best who have most right on their side," remarked Archie. "There is no one so like an honest man as an eloquent knave."
"All very true, Mr. Archie. We have one poor thief in our district, and as he doesn't know how to defend himself, everybody is continually getting his teeth into him, while his brother, who is a hundred times worse than he, has so smooth a tongue that he passes himself off for a little saint. Meanwhile, yonder is Quebec! But no more the white flag waving over her," added José, sighing.
To hide his emotion, he went searching in all his pockets for his pipe, grumbling to himself and repeating his old refrain:
"Our good folk will come again."
José spent two days in Quebec, and returned loaded with all the presents that Archie thought would find acceptance at D'Haberville Manor. Such rich gifts as he would have sent under other circumstances he dared not send now, for fear of wounding his friends. In bidding José farewell, he said:
"I left my prayer-book at the manor house. Beg Miss Blanche to take care of it till I return. It was a keepsake."
CHAPTER XVI.
THE FAMILY HEARTH
Many a calamity had swept over the land since the day when the relations and friends of Jules had gathered at the manor house to bid him farewell before his departure for France. Among the old men time had made his customary inroads. The enemy had carried fire and sword into the peaceful dwellings of the habitants. The famine numbered its victims by the hundred. The soil had been drenched with the blood of its brave defenders. Wind and sea had conspired against many of those brave officers from whom sword and bullet had turned aside. Nature was satiated with the blood of the children of New France. The future was dark indeed for the upper classes, already ruined by the havoc of the enemy, for those who, in laying by the sword, were compelled to lay by the main support of their families, and for those who foresaw that their descendants, reduced to a lower walk in life, would be compelled to till the soil which their valiant ancestors had made illustrious.
The city of Quebec, which of old had seemed to brave, upon its hill summit, the thunders of the heaviest guns and the assaults of the most daring battalions, the proud city of Quebec, still incumbered with wreckage, raised itself with difficulty out of its ruins. The British flag streamed triumphant from its overbearing citadel, and the Canadian who, by force of habit, used to raise his eyes to the height in expectation of seeing the lily banner, would drop them again sadly, repeating with a sigh these touching words, "But our good kin will come again."
The reader will doubtless be gratified to see his old acquaintances, after so many disasters bravely endured, once more gathered together at a little banquet. This was a feast given by M. D'Haberville in honor of his son's return. Even "the good gentleman" himself, though nearing the close of his century, had responded in person to the summons. Captain des Ecors, a comrade of M. D'Haberville, a brave officer who had been brought to ruin by the conquest, formed with his family a congenial addition to the gathering. One of Jules's kinsfolk who perished in the wreck of the Auguste had left him a small legacy, which brought a new comfort to the D'Habervilles, and enabled them to exercise a hospitality from which they had been long and reluctantly debarred.
All the guests were at table, after vainly waiting for the arrival of Lochiel, who was as a rule the most punctual of men.
"Well, my friends," said M. D'Haberville, "what think you now of the omens which so saddened me ten years ago? What is your opinion, Monsieur the Curé, of those mysterious warnings which Heaven appeared to send me?"
"I think," answered the priest, "that every one has had, or imagined himself to have, more or less mysterious warnings, even in the most remote epochs. But, without going too far back, Roman history is rife with prodigies and portents. Occurrences the most insignificant were classed as good or bad omens. The soothsayers consulted the flight of birds, the entrails of the sacrificial victims, and what not! Further, they say that no two of these holy and veracious personages could look at each other without laughing."
"And you conclude from this – ?" queried M. D'Haberville.
"I conclude," said the priest, "that we need not greatly concern ourselves about such manifestations. Supposing Heaven were pleased, in certain exceptional cases, to give visible signs as to the future, this would but add one more to the already numberless ills of poor humanity. We are by nature superstitious, and we should be kept in a state of feverish apprehension, far worse than the actual evils supposed to be foreshadowed."
"Well," said M D'Haberville, who, like many more, consulted others merely as a matter of form, "my own experience compels me to believe that such omens are very often to be trusted. To me they have never played false. Besides those which you yourselves have witnessed, I could cite you a host of others. For instance, about fifteen years ago I was leading a war party against the Iroquois. My band was made up of Canadians and Huron Indians. We were on the march, when suddenly I felt a sharp pain in my thigh, as if I had been struck by some hard substance. The pang was sharp enough to make me halt a moment. I told my Indians about it. They looked at each other uneasily, consulted the horizon, and breathed deeply, sniffing the air in every direction, like dogs in quest of game. Then, certain that there were no enemies in the neighborhood, they resumed their march. I asked Petit-Étienne, the chief, who appeared uneasy, if he was dreading a surprise. 'Not that I know of,' said he, 'but at our first encounter with the enemy you will be wounded just where you felt the pain.' Of course I laughed at the prediction; but for all that, not two hours later an Iroquois bullet went through my thigh at the spot in question, fortunately escaping the bone. No, gentlemen; omens have proved faithful in my own case."
"And what thinks Monsieur the Chevalier?" asked the priest.
"I think," said Uncle Raoul, "that there is good wine on the table, and that it is our pressing duty to attack it."
"An admirable decision!" cried everybody.
"The wine," remarked Jules, "is the most faithful of presages, for it announces happiness and mirth. In proof of it, here is our friend Lochiel coming up the avenue. I am going to meet him."
"You see, my dear Archie," said the captain, greeting him warmly, "you see that we have treated you without ceremony, as a child of the family. We only waited for you half an hour. Knowing your soldierly punctuality, we feared that some unavoidable business had prevented your coming."
"I should have been much grieved if you had treated me otherwise than as a child of the family," answered Archie. "I had planned to be here quite early this morning, but I did not make sufficient allowance for your fine quagmire at Cap St. – Ignace. First of all, my horse got into a bog-hole, whence I extricated him at the cost of the harness, which I had to do without as best I could. Then I broke a wheel of my carriage, whereupon I had to go and seek help at the nearest house, about a mile and a half away. For most of the distance I was wading through mud up to my knees, and when I got there I was half dead with fatigue."
"Ah, my dear Archie," said Jules, the ceaseless mocker, "quantum mutatus ab illo, as Uncle Raoul would have said if I hadn't got ahead of him. Where are your mighty legs, of which you were once so proud in that same morass? Have they lost their agility since the 28th of April, 1760? They served you admirably in that retreat, as I predicted they would."
"It is true," replied Lochiel, laughing heartily, "that they did not fail me in the retreat of 1760, as you so considerately call it, but, my dear Jules, you had no reason to complain of your own, short as they are, in the retreat of 1759. One compliment deserves another you know, always with due regard to a soldier's modesty."
"Ah, but you're all astray there, my dear fellow. A scratch which I had received from an English bullet was interfering very seriously with my flight, when a tall grenadier who had somehow taken a fancy to me, threw me over his shoulder with no more ceremony than as if I were his haversack, and, continuing his retreat at full speed, deposited me at length within the walls of Quebec. It was time. In his zeal, the creature had carried me with my head hanging down his rascally back, like a calf on the way to the butcher's, so that I was almost choked by the time he landed me. Would you believe it, the rascal had the audacity some time afterward, to ask me for a pour-boire for himself and his friends, who were so glad to see their little grenadier once more upon his feet; and I was fool enough to treat the crowd. You see, I never could keep up a grudge. But here is your dinner, piping hot, which your friend Lisette has kept in the oven for you. To be sure, you deserve to take your dinner in the kitchen, for the anxiety that you have been causing us; but we'll let that pass. Here is José bringing you an appetizer, according to the custom of all civilized nations. The old fellow is so glad to see you that he is showing his teeth from ear to ear. I assure you that he is not one-handed when he is giving his friends a drink, and still less so when, like his late father, he is taking one himself."
"Our young master," answered José, putting the empty plate under his arm in order to shake Archie's hand, "our young master is always at his jokes; but Mr. Archie knows very well that if there was only one glass of brandy left in the world I should give it to him rather than drink it myself. As for my poor late father, he was a very systematic man; so many drinks a day and not a drop more – always barring weddings and festivals and other special occasions. He knew how to live with propriety, and also how to take his little recreations from time to time, the worthy man! All I can say is, that when he entertained his friends he didn't keep the bottle under the table."
In The Vicar of Wakefield Goldsmith makes the good pastor say:
"I can't say whether we had more wit among us than usual, but I'm certain we had more laughing, which answered the end as well."
The same might be said of the present gathering, over which there reigned that French light-heartedness which seems, alas, to be disappearing in what Homer would call these degenerate days.
"Neighbor," said Captain D'Haberville to Captain des Ecors, "if your little difficulty with General Murray has not spoiled your throat for singing, please set a good example by giving us a song."
"Indeed," said Archie, "I heard that you had great difficulty in escaping the clutches of our bad-tempered general, but I am unacquainted with the particulars."
"When I think of it, my friend," exclaimed Captain des Ecors, "I feel something of a strangling sensation in my throat. I should not complain, however, for in my case the general conducted affairs in due order; instead of hanging me first and trying me afterward, he came to the wise conclusion that the trial had better precede the hanging. The fate of the unhappy miller Nadeau, my fellow-prisoner, who was accused of the same crime as myself, and who was not tried until after his execution – the sad fate of this respectable man, whose innocence he heard too late, led him to hesitate before hanging me untried. In my captivity I passed many a bad quarter of an hour. All communication with the outside world was forbidden me. I had no means of learning what fate was in store for me. Every day I asked the sentinel who was walking up and down beneath my window if he had any news for me, and ordinarily I received in answer a cordial 'goddam.' At last a soldier, more accessible and good-humored, who could jabber a scrap of French, replied to my question, 'Vous pendar sept heures le matingul!' I believe this jolly and sympathetic creature put all his knowledge of French into that one phrase, for to every other question I asked I received the same reply – 'Vous pendar sept heures le matingul!' It was easy to gather from this that I was to be hung some morning at seven o'clock, but what morning I could not learn. The outlook was anything but cheerful. For three whole days I had seen the body of the unfortunate Nadeau hanging from one of the arms of his wind mill, the plaything of the gale. Every morning I expected that I should be called to take his place on this novel and ingenious gibbet."
"Infamous!" cried Archie. "And the man was innocent!"
"This was proved at the inquest which was held after the execution," replied Captain des Ecors. "I should add that General Murray appeared to repent with bitterness for this murder, which he had committed in his haste. He heaped Nadeau's family with benefits, and adopted his two little orphan daughters, whom he took with him to England. Poor Nadeau!"
All the company echoed the words "Poor Nadeau!"
"Alas!" said Des Ecor philosophically, "if we were to set ourselves lamenting for all who have lost their lives by – But let us change a subject so painful." Then he sang the following song:
"The new Narcissus am I named,
Whom all men most admire;
From water have I been reclaimed,
In wine to drown my fire.
When I behold the rosy hue
That gives my face renown,
Enraptured with the lovely view,
I drink my image down.
"In all the universe is naught
But tribute pays to thee;
Even the winter's ice is brought
For thy benignant glee.
The Earth exerts her anxious care
Thy nurture to assist;
To ripen thee the sun shines fair;
To drink thee I exist."
The songs and choruses succeeded each other rapidly. That contributed by Madame Vincelot wrought up the merriment of the party to a high pitch.
"This festal board, this royal cheer,
They clearly tell
(They clearly tell)
Our host is glad to have us here,
And feast us well
(And feast us well);
For even he permits that we
Make Charivari! Charivari! Charivari!
"Now pour me out a glass, kind host,
Of this good wine (repeat),
I would drink a loving toast —
This wife of thine (repeat),
smilingly permits that we
Make Charivari! Charivari! Charivari!"
To this Madame D'Haberville added the following impromptu stanza:
"If our endeavor to make your cheer
Be not in vain (repeat),
Consider you're the masters here,
And come again (repeat),
And it shall be your care that we
Make Charivari! Charivari! Charivari!"
Then Jules added a verse:
"Without a spice of rivalry
Dan Cupid nods (repeat),
challenge him to cups, and he
'Ll accept the odds (repeat).
Bacchus and he, as well as we,
Make Charivari! Charivari! Charivari!"
At the end of each stanza every one pounded on the table with their hands or rapped on the plates with their forks and spoons, till the din became something indescribable.
Blanche, being asked to sing her favorite song of Blaise and Babette, endeavored to excuse herself and substitute another; but the young ladies insisted, crying: "Let us have Blaise and Babette by all means; the minor is so touching."
"Yes," said Jules, "that is a minor, with its 'My love it is my life'; a minor to touch the tenderest chord in the feminine heart. Quick, let us have the sweet minor, to touch the hearts of these charming young ladies!"
"We'll make you pay for that in blindman's buff," said one of them.
"And in the game of forfeits," said another.
"Look out for yourself, my boy," said Jules, addressing himself, "for in the hands of these young ladies you stand no better chance than a cat without claws would in – hades! No matter. Sing away, my dear sister. Your voice, perhaps, like that of Orpheus, will assuage the fury of your enemies."
"The wretch!" chorused the young ladies, "to compare us – But, never mind, we'll settle with you later. Meanwhile, sing us the song, Blanche, dear."
The latter still hesitated. Then, fearing to attract attention by her refusal, she sang the following song with tears in her voice. It was the cry of a pure love finding utterance, in spite of all her efforts to bury it in her heart:
"For thee, dear heart, these flowers I twine.
My Blaise, accept of thy Babette
The warm rose and the orange-flower,
And jessamine and violet.
Be not thy passion like the bloom,
That shines a day and disappears.
My love is an undying light,
And will not change for time or tears.
"Dear, be not like the butterfly
That knows each blossom in the glades,
And cheapen not thy sighs and vows
Among the laughing village maids.
Such loves are but the transient bloom
That shines a day and disappears.
My love is an undying light,
And will not change for time or tears.
"If I should find my beauty fade,
If I must watch these charms depart,
Dear, see thou but my tenderness —
Oh, look thou only on my heart!
Oh, look thou only on my heart!
Remember how the transient bloom
Shines for a day and disappears.
My love is an undying light,
And will not change for time or tears."
Every one was moved by her touching pathos, of which they could not guess the true cause. They attributed it, lamely enough, to her emotion on seeing Jules thus brought back to the bosom of his family. To divert their attention, Jules hastened to say: