The Maid of Honour

CHAPTER I.

ON THE VOLCANO, 1789.

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Although there was no cash in silken fob or broidered pocket, the Elect denied themselves no luxury. Bejewelled Fashion was sumptuously clad: my ladies quarrelled and intrigued, danced and gambled--my lords slept off the fumes of wine, and mopped the wounds begot of midnight brawl; then drank and fought again.

Money? No credit even. Trade was at a standstill, yet the court was uproariously gay.

Money and credit--sinews of pleasure as well as business--having flitted from lively Paris, you might suppose that the wheels of Society would cease to turn--that the flower-decked car of gilded Juggernaut would come creeping to a standstill. Not yet. Impelled by the impulse of its own velocity, it continued to crush on awhile. Those who knew were numbed by the chill shadow of the inevitable, or rendered callous by the knowledge of their helplessness. Those who were deaf and blind groped blissfully on in their lighthearted ignorance. Selfish all, depraved most, the blue-blooded sang in merry chorus, Let us eat and drink that the worms may grow fat on us. Not so the gaunt crowds whose blood was but mud and water. As their long-suffering ancestors had monotonously done, they groaned in unison, crying to God for death, as the only release from misery.

What if whole villages were decimated by famine? What if plague and starvation stalked through the towns? My lords and my ladies cared not, for they were poised too high to see. Were the grovelling creatures slaves or insects? Slaves, for they delved patiently, with moans that were vain bleatings as of sheep; whereas outraged insects for the most part sting.

We all know that the first duty of serfs is to labour for their betters: their second, when the worn machinery is out of gear, to retire underground with promptitude. How unseemly--nay, revolting, therefore, is their conduct when, weary of groaning and of teeth-gnashing, they belabour with fists instead!

The scene we look upon is a tranquil and a pretty one, despite certain vague and ominous rumours which, intangible, permeate the air. The favourite saloon of Her Majesty, Marie Antoinette, in the Palace of the Tuileries, is a small, square chamber decorated with raised garlands, flutes, and tambourines in carved wood, painted a dead white, mellowed now by the glimmer of many candles, shaded. Curtains and furniture are yellow, embroidered with gold; the bare floor is waxed and polished, reflecting the costly and varied rainbow garb of some forty assembled guests. Through open casements--it is a warm evening in July--we mark the majestic outline of the venerable Louvre cut black against the blue--a calm unclouded blue, loftily oblivious of angry curls of darkling smoke which two days since uprose from the ruins of the stormed Bastile. Doors as well as windows are spread wide to woo the air; a bevy of ladies, glittering with gems, are fanning themselves languidly. Through the portals on the right you obtain a glimpse of the remains of supper: a dainty repast, fit for fastidious fairies; such an ideal cosy feast as the queen loved to conjure for her familiars. Through the left door we may perceive an array of green tables with gilt legs, at which gentlemen clad in satins of delicate hue are squabbling over the devil's books. Their voices from time to time grow angry, their talk unduly loud. But for the adjacent presence of the queen, swords might be drawn and blood spilt. Young Monsieur de Castellane, officer in the Swiss Guard, has just lost his paternal acres to the Marquis de Gange, a fact which, in the latter, seems to evoke no sign of interest. With the usual luck of players who are quite indifferent, Fortune had befriended the marquis, and yet, as things were, the prize was an empty bauble--a mere meaningless array of lands with high-sounding names which looked vastly well--on paper.

The Marquis de Gange was an absentminded person, given to reverie and the contemplation of the infinite, and it is somewhat annoying to lose even paper property to one so utterly unappreciative.

Roused by the congratulations of the surrounding group of butterflies, the marquis descended for a moment to earth, and laughed lightly.

A profitable stake to win, in sooth, he observed, with a yawn. Castellane! I hereby resign your empty title-deeds, having quite enough such foolish lumber of my own. Your part of the country is a caldron, mine is a furnace. Thank heaven, my wife's estates are in a land of peace, or, like many more, we should be beggars.

It is not given to everyone to mate with a great heiress, remarked rueful Castellane, feeling in his empty pocket.

You should look out for one, said the marquis, serenely smiling, for you know that since the Third Estate has raised its ugly head, you don't dare to show your nose at Castellane. The tenants would growl of rights of man, and prod your silk stockings with their pitchforks.

That's true enough, sighed the young scapegrace, with a puzzled air. Though they deserve the galleys for their temerity, they are patted on the back by our too lenient sovereign--a mob of insolent ragamuffins! Last time I travelled south, I was worried to fiddle-strings by deputations whom I declined to see--a parcel of unpractical idiots, who, when I demanded rents, babbled of redress of grievances. Really, de Gauge, you may keep the title-deeds, for, since no one will lend a louis on them, they are no better than a musty mockery.

The butterflies enjoyed the jest and laughed in chorus. There was something delightfully whimsical about the fact that the acres for which heroes had bled, and which had been enjoyed in majestic fashion by a long line of noble ancestors, should--as in the fairy tale--be transmuted into heaps of dead and mouldy leaves.

After the laugh came silence, for were they not all in the same battered boat? No matter. Whate'er betide, they must sink or swim together.

Awkward customers, the Third Estate, some one remarked presently. That untoward matter of the Bastile may prove an evil precedent.

Pooh! yawned a stout old gentleman, whose weatherbeaten visage was round and of a bluish red. A flash in the pan--a paltry riot--a piece of low impertinence which ministers, if they were not hopelessly idiotic, should have foreseen and smothered. Stick to the title-deeds, son-in-law. If you live long enough, they will be useful some day.

No, replied de Gange, carelessly. Thanks to you, maréchal, my nest's well feathered. Gabrielle has enough for both.

The wealthy old Maréchal de Brèze looked pleased. When you have hit on a suitable match for your heiress during an epidemic of impecuniosity, it is well to be assured that the fortunate spouse is not a greedy gold-seeker. Clovis! he cried heartily, give me your hand. You are queer and dreamy, beyond my poor comprehension; but I believe--yes, I do!--that you are an upright and honest man!

Treason, maréchal! High treason! How dare you say rude things of ministers? Come and join the ladies. We affect learning, remember, nowadays, and can bandy wisdom with the best of you!

It was the magical voice of Marie herself, whose silver tones had fluttered so many hearts to their undoing; whose radiant beauty and light spirits had given rise to such dark intrigues. The gentlemen, obeying the merry summons, streamed into the saloon, and were soon bowing, with bent spines and squared elbows, over the tiny cups of coffee, which, as her wont was, she distributed with her own hands. The king was not present, for he abhorred gambling and late hours, and on the soirées intimes of his consort invariably sought refuge in his study.

Louise de Savoye, commanded the queen in mock tragic tones, hand round the cakes. Perform your office of mistress of the household. From your fair fingers they will taste all the sweeter.

"Promise, then, not to talk of the horrid tiers état, replied the lady addressed, with a little shudder. Those who saw the dreadful women dancing and shouting like fiends as they marched in triumph from the Bastile, will not forget the spectacle."

Madame la Princesse de Lamballe was always nervous, laughed M. de Castellane.

Yes, replied the princess, simply. I don't know why, but I am desperately afraid of a mob.

We were all a little frightened at first, observed the queen; for when we heard the booming of artillery which sounded so terribly close, and beheld the infatuated madcaps carrying away their dead, we could not comprehend the freak. 'Tis a pity it was crowned with success, for it will put foolish ideas into ignorant minds. But it will lead to nothing, I am assured, and all's well that ends well. When the king announced this morning that he was going to the Assembly, without guards or escort, I thought he must have lost his wits; but events showed that he was wise, as he always is. His confidence in the loyalty of the deputies combined with his simple and touching address, excited the keenest enthusiasm. The shouting throng escorted him on foot all the way hither to the palace. I am not ashamed to say that as from a balcony Lamballe and I contemplated the affecting scene of warm devotion, we clasped each other and wept.

For every precious tear, murmured de Castellane, we'll have the life-drops of the canaille!

God forbid! ejaculated the queen, with sudden pallor. I wish them no ill if they would spare his majesty their vagaries. Love them I cannot, for I am not Christian enough to love my enemies. I wonder--I wonder----

What, dear mistress? inquired a tall young lady plainly dressed in white, who was the most beautiful member even of that favoured circle. What causes our queen to wonder?

I wonder what will be the end--that's all, dear Gabrielle, laughed the volatile Marie, recovering her spirits. What will happen to me; to our precious Lamballe; to you; to your shocking pedant of a husband there, who as usual is in cloudland?

The beautiful lady whom she called Gabrielle, glanced at the abstracted Marquis de Gange, who was her husband, and shivered. There was an odd look upon his face sometimes which she had not the wit to decipher. What was he doing in cloudland so far removed from her? Then, when he dropped down to earth again, he would smile vaguely but pleasantly enough, and the strange impression would fade from her mind. Her wistful eyes were more often fixed on him than his on hers, which is curious, considering her beauty.

The veil which hides the future is a precious boon, reflected the queen, and yet we all burn to pierce it.

That is because we should not, observed Madame de Lamballe, with conviction, on the principle of Eve and the apple, you know. A fortune-teller once took my hand to read my fortune, and what she read on my palm was so appalling that she fainted. I have had the discretion never to inquire further.

Pooh, I am not so prudent, mused her majesty. Three times have I sought to pierce the veil, with the same result--repentance.

I pray you in pity--hush! implored the Marquise de Gange. My husband dragged me once to see a horrible old hag who lived like a savage in a den somewhere--I know not where. She performed incantations and drew my horoscope. It makes my flesh creep to think of it!

Was it so ghastly? inquired Marie Antoinette in a low tone of awe. So was mine. Horoscopes are nightmares. And so it seems was that of our beloved Louise. I wonder--how I wonder what will be the end of it?

She glanced around at the company, and all looked sympathetically glum. If the gipsies had with one accord been so audaciously rude to the three beauties as to hint at unpleasant things in the future, what was to be done? Was a crusade to be preached, for the annihilation of the peccant race? Fat old de Brèze might pay expenses, and, like Peter the Hermit, rally the avenging force. Old de Brèze was a soldier who had won his spurs, yet instead of sounding a clarion and calling squires to arm him cap-a-pie, he only shuffled in his chair and snuffled uneasily while de Castellane snorted with ardour. Clearly the crusade was not likely to answer; it was a trifle out of date; and yet the fact remained that the fiat of the Fates had gone forth against the lovely trio. The Marquis de Gange was a mystic, well acquainted with the tortuous ways and spiteful tricks of the fatal three. Perhaps he would kindly elucidate the situation? No. His wife gazed wistfully at him. He looked furtively at her, then, smiling, lowered his eyes, and again sank into his accustomed reverie. The marquise sighed deeply, and concealed her face behind her fan.

The April visage of the queen was sombre; then the cloud cleared.

Are we not silly, she exclaimed, to sit trembling before a bogey? A fig for the gipsies! Despite their lugubrious hints here am I, after over fifteen years of prosperous wedded life, queen of the land most favoured by nature in the world, adored by my husband and my children. What can woman desire more than complete domestic bliss? What say you, Gabrielle?

The Marquise de Gange, target for a circle of inquiring eyes, blushed crimson and turned away.

This is too good! cried the queen in glee, drawing her friend towards her to imprint a kiss upon her brow. You naughty, wayward girl! You are wicked and tempt Providence. A blush and something like a tear--ay, and a sigh, from the bosom of Gabrielle, Marquise de Gange--the only woman in the country who has any money--the most beautiful girl in France, whose wonderful complexion has gained for her the sobriquet of 'the Lily.' Yes, you are, and I admit it without envy. Blessed with a passable husband and two lovely babes, and an admirable mother and a doting father! Fie! You are ungrateful, but we must not see you punished.

Marie Antoinette's enjoyment increased as she poured forth her raillery, and marked the confusion of the marquise.

Monsieur de Gange. Descend to earth and come into court! she cried. "Confess! What have you done to Gabrielle? Have you lost heavily at cards? No? You are jealous that her name should be the toast on every lip? No? You are put out because she understands nothing of the philosopher's stone? Not even that? I give it up. Fortune has spoiled you, child. As Figaro says, 'Qu'avez vous fait pour tants de biens? Vous vous êtes donnée la peine de naître--rien de plus!'"

The marquis made a low bow and contemplated his fair wife with a moonlit kind of satisfaction, but answered nothing.

He disdains to plead! laughed Madame de Lamballe.

Guilty or not guilty--say! cried Marie Antoinette. Dumb? Maréchal de Brèze! we surrender to you the prisoner that you may investigate and do your duty. We have respectful confidence in that strange phenomenon, a rich man, at a time when all others are paupers. Look after Gabrielle, Mr. Money-bag! Shield her from a designing husband who, I begin to believe, conceals the raffish vices of a rake under the mask of recondite erudition.

The Marquise de Gange was unnecessarily perturbed by the lively sally, and tapped her wooden heel upon the floor.

Alack, madam! declared the marquis, compelled to speak, I regret to be so unmodish as to have few of the fashionable vices. Instead of pleading in my own behalf, I would, if I dared, take up the cudgels for another. Doctor Mesmer----

The arch charlatan! exclaimed the queen, raising both hands in protest.

Not so. Others have aped his ways; have draped themselves in tawdry frippery which bore some semblance to his robes. In spite of calumny, and persecution, and fraudulent imitation and roguish arts, the master remains the master still, although he be unjustly banished by those whom he has benefited.

The statue has come to life! tittered Madame de Lamballe. Cagliostro was unmasked as a cheat, so the one who went before wisely shook off his dust at him. Let us all agree to be convinced that Mesmer is a persecuted saint. We have the marquis's word for it. Let us have Mesmer back at once from banishment. Perchance he will employ his occult essences to calm the Parisian mob!

The king will not permit him to return to France, the queen said doubtfully; yet as an empiric he was fascinating.

When your majesty deigns to say I am in cloudland, remarked the marquis, with a high-bred courtesy, in which was a tinge of scorn, you will understand that my spirit is on earth--at Spa--the refuge in exile of the master.

I see it all! said Madame de Lamballe, flourishing her fan. "It is Gabrielle who is jealous--and of Mesmer! What singular complications are produced by mystical alliances. A husband has a lovely wife, for whom everyone else is sighing, and is no whit jealous of her because he is an absorbed neophyte at the fount of wisdom. The prophet usurps his soul and his will. Where is the poor wife then?"

What cruel things are said in jest! Gabrielle cried hotly, breaking her silence at last. I am not unhappy; and if I were, it would be no one's concern but mine. I care no sou for Mesmer or Cagliostro, or any of the conjuring rout. Jealous of such creatures--faugh!

A shrunken dame who had been slumbering in a corner awoke with a start, and guiltily conscious of a nap, became garrulous in a weak piping treble like the irresponsible murmur of a rivulet.

Your majesty is misinformed, she babbled plaintively. People will say such things, and go to mass o' Sundays. Our daughter Gabrielle is happy as the day is long--why not? Clovis isn't jealous one bit, and quite right too. He lets her do as she likes, go where she likes, doesn't care where she goes. Perfect trust is a fine thing, but I often tell him that it is rash to throw so fair a creature into temptation, for who knows what they'll do until they are tempted? Gabrielle, I must admit, though quite a saint, can be as provoking as saints often were. And they, the saints, were so dreadfully frail sometimes, and so easily forgiven, and then held up to us as patterns. I can't quite make it out. If I had ever dreamed of doing half the shocking things that the canonized saints did, I should---- Eh?--oh!

With that the rivulet ceased to flow as abruptly as it had begun, and the queen, who had with difficulty curbed her merriment, looked round for the cause of interruption. She beheld a little stout gentleman, with a round, blue-red face, in a state of imminent explosion. He whom she had declared to command the respect due to wealth, showed signs of choking from exasperation. His features had swelled till his bead-like eyes were scarcely visible; his finger nails were clenched into his palms. It was some seconds ere he could splutter out his spleen. Then with a deprecating look at her majesty, he gasped out--

Majesté, pardon her. A fool! Always and for ever a fool--and my wife too.

Then, forgetting the presence in which he sat, he continued in white heat--

I'll dash your stupid head against the wall when we get home. To dare to make your own daughter ridiculous before this company! To make your own flesh and blood absurd, through your incorrigible idiocy! Not that you can do it, for she's an angel straight from heaven. Provoking, forsooth! My darling--the idol of my heart! The Marquis de Gange knows better than to ill-treat his wife. If he did--well; old battered soldier though I am, I'd be even with him in a way he'd not forget.

Oh--so harsh--always so harsh! whimpered the rivulet in choking gasps. Quite like dear M. Montgolfier's fire-balloon! I did not mean----

Hold your tongue! snorted the maréchal in a menacing whisper--and wait till we get home.

The situation, like many born of jesting, grew embarrassing. Old soldiers, especially when rich, may be allowed a certain freedom. But the ways of the barrack-yard may not be introduced into palaces. Marie Antoinette was not averse to a certain licence, which should banish for the time being the buckramed etiquette that she so loathed. But a family skeleton suddenly popping out of ambush to shake all its joints and grin with all its teeth! How uncomely a spectacle at the Tuileries! The assembled company, too, evidently enjoyed the fun, and would surely spread the story all over Paris on the morrow as the style of repartée that obtained at the queen's gatherings. If the episode, harmless in itself, were to reach the king's ears, he would be annoyed, and justly in such times as these, when everybody's hand was beginning to clutch his neighbour's throat. How many an innocent jest of Marie Antoinette's had already been built by malice into the proportions of a mountain? Unwittingly, she had, as it appeared, set fire to a mine. Gabrielle looked sorely distressed; her husband sullen, in that his pleading had failed, and that he could do nothing on behalf of the savant whom he worshipped. Her mother hazily perceived that it would be well to cork down the ebullient effervescence of her prattle, while the beady eyes of the maréchal, moving from the husband to the wife and back again, seemed to have detected the trace of something that was new, the discovery of which was disconcerting.

CHAPTER II.

HUSBAND AND WIFE.

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When it is so plain to lookers-on that people ought to be happy, how perverse it is of them to be miserable! As the queen had declared, Gabrielle Marquise de Gange had no ostensible excuse for wretchedness. The specks on the sun of her good fortune were so tiny as to be well-nigh invisible. Upon the background of her portrait by Madame le Brun, that ingenious artist had inscribed in a hand so clear that all who ran might read, The fairest woman of her time.

Mademoiselle Gabrielle de Brèze, when she appeared at court in the capacity of maid of honour, took the town by storm. Veteran lady-killers withdrew gold toothpicks from their gums to vow that so brilliant a complexion, such melting eyes that changed like the moody sea, from blue to deepest violet, such a bewitching little nose, and such deliciously fresh lips, had never been seen before; and her figure! and her ankle!! and her arm and shoulder!!! chimed in the younger swains whose hearts were already in their hands to be flung down as a palpitating carpet for her dainty little shoes.

The queen was enchanted with the success of her protégée, who was speedily surrounded by an increasing circle of danglers who minced with toes turned out, shook back their costly ruffles, and lisped the most honeyed compliments from morn to dewy eve. She enjoyed her new position vastly, was blithe as a young bird, and gazed fearlessly on into a future, which seemed an interminable vista paved with roses. Nor was she the least spoilt by adulation. She liked flattery, as every pretty woman does, but looked forward at no very distant period to the sober, substantial enjoyment of calm domestic happiness. When it pleased her parents to provide a spouse, she was prepared to take him to her heart as a dutiful daughter should, and lavish on him all the treasures of a young and guileless affection.

The king was glad of her success, because she was the child of the Maréchal de Brèze, a veteran of the good old school, whose body had been improved and beautified by honourable scars won in his country's battles. As for Madame de Brèze, people endured her existence. She was a fool and a chatterbox, and wrinkled to boot, with an extraordinary capacity for seeing things awry, and sagely commenting on them after the fashion of a Greek chorus. No one took heed of her, but all liked and respected the red-visaged old soldier whose rough rind covered a generous nature, and whose purse-strings were always slack.

For the Maréchal de Brèze was no mere soldier of fortune with naught in his valise except a bâton. He was rich in moneys safely banked with Necker at Geneva; possessed estates in smiling Touraine; and, moreover, was afflicted with the possession of an ancient and dismal chateau on the Loire, whose waters mirrored a labyrinth of high-pitched roofs, gaunt turrets, and grim gargoyles.

Of noble birth, entrancingly lovely, and an heiress. Heavens! what a combination; and at a time, too, as the queen had remarked, when everyone was out at elbows. It was evident that such a phenomenon must be snapped up at once; and straightway--helter-skelter up the wide stairs of the Hotel de Brèze rushed a mob of needy suitors--a hungry pack, yelling in full cry, whose ravenous ardour so scared madame that she forgot to improve the occasion. They had never loved till now, they cried in unison. Their quarterings were legion, their rent-rolls were miles long. The tenants never paid, and the ermine was somewhat mud-stained, but these were trifling details. They all adored the divine Gabrielle for herself--her angel form alone; that she should happen to be an heiress was another detail, and of course rather a drawback than otherwise.

The maréchal laughed till his round red face was blue, for these disinterested persons oozed with ravening greed. The queen looked grave. To save her favourite from the maw of vultures was a responsibility she would not shirk. A spouse must be found for Gabrielle who might be trusted not to be outrageously bad to her. In these days a good husband of fitting rank was an extinct animal. Warily scanning the horizon, Marie Antoinette fixed, as the fitting swain, on Clovis, Marquis de Gange, and de Brèze agreed with her majesty that Clovis was just the man.

So far as family went, the De Ganges could compete with the noblest. Acres had dwindled; tenants were recalcitrant; Clovis's income was little more than nominal, but nowadays poverty was modish in the highest circles; and, besides, it is well that the husband of a great heiress should be kept under due control. The cunning old soldier had settled long ago that the spouse of his daughter should not make ducks and drakes of her broad pieces, at least without her full consent. He had arranged in his own mind that he would bind up the money tight, and place it in her hands, hedged about with safeguards when called to another world. Till then he would himself dispense his fortune as his darling should wish and dictate. To this arrangement de Gange was quite agreeable, knowing that the maréchal was no skin-flint who would need abject suing. The old gentleman, who flattered himself that he was a judge of character, scanned the young man's features with keen scrutiny, and on the smooth surface could detect nothing of the ravenous wolf. The marquis was a tall, well-built, handsome fellow, dreamy and absent in manner, pedantic in his ways, a trifle too much enamoured of the crotchets of his day.

In the waning eighteenth century, while ladies were hopelessly frivolous or else weighed down with pedantry, the gentlemen came for the most part under three categories. There was the debauched voluptuary, ruined alike in health, purse, and reputation, whose honour was perforce upon his sleeve, since there was no room in his body for aught but selfishness. Then there was a feeble imitator who was as artistically unsatisfactory as nondescripts always are, for his fragment of conscience pulled him one way, and his envious admiration of stupendous wickedness another. He was always on the see-saw between vice and virtue, barely within touch of either. The third class was the most interesting, for it was clothed in mystery and draped in paradox. The dark and uncanny and incomprehensible engrossed the minds of this set. Revealed religion having been voted out of date by the encyclopædists and others, it was necessary to replace the broken idol with another. It was affirmed that Nature was moved by secret springs, governed by a world of spirits whom it was possible to coerce and bring under man's dominion. It was discovered that talismans, astrology, magic sciences, were not the vulgar impostures denounced by a jealous priestcraft; that the genus homo was composed of two distinct organisms, one visible and one invisible, the latter of which was privileged to roam freely about the universe, paying morning calls in remote planets, communing with angelic hosts. This was a fascinating theory for many reasons. The spirits who pulled our world-strings were good and bad, and alike vulnerable. Clearly, then, it was the distinct duty of philanthropists to fight and conquer those who were responsible for human ills. How delightful a sensation to seize a naughty spirit by the hair and administer a sound drubbing! To wrestle with the one, for instance, who is responsible for gout, and return him tweak for tweak! The yoke of the evil ones must be thrown off, that humanity, comfortably free from pain and sorrow, might sit down and enjoy millennium.

Hence, the dreamy people who vaguely wished well to their fellows, joined the train of mystics, laid claim to superior virtue, and titillated their petty vanity by posing cheaply as philanthropists.

Then think of the refreshing variety which might be introduced into one's amours! A weariful succession of mundane mistresses is so palling to a jaded palate. But according to the new creed, as your earthly tenement was occupied, faute de mieux, by commonplace lovemaking and intrigue, your more fortunate other self was blessed by an ethereal Affinity. While, in the flesh, you dallied, for want of something more amusing to do, at the feet of Phryne, your soul was flirting with a seraph somewhere in rarified space. It is gravely and seriously related of the visionary Swedenborg that while he resided in London, his fleshly frame was continually being refreshed. And how? His ethereal essence was in constant communion with that of a noble lady in Gutemburg. Their entwined spirits sat on a satin sofa in a boudoir illumined by wax candles--which candles were punctually lighted by respectful footmen at the accustomed hour of the rendezvous.

The high priest of the new creed was Mesmer, a Swabian doctor, who was conspicuously successful in waging war against the envious elves who undermine the health. As to his career of victory there was no doubt whatever, for by hocus-pocus and laying on of hands, he succeeded in curing a variety of nervous complaints which the enemy said were due to diseased imagination. It was idle to deny that somehow or other he did work miracles. Even St. Thomas, arch-doubter, could believe what he saw and felt. Under Mesmer's influence the sick took up their beds and walked, the halt flung away their crutches. The streets about his dwelling were choked with blazoned coaches. The frivolous and the earnest alike lost their heads. Considering the peculiarities of his temperament--too timid and too lazy to act, and therefore easily satisfied with theory--it was in the nature of things that Clovis, Marquis de Gange, should be Mesmer's most fervent pupil.

At a period when the peccadilloes of high-born aspirants to eligible maidens were apt to be somewhat deep-dyed, it would have been absurd to object to a suitor on the frivolous score of mysticism. The most exacting of wives could hardly be jealous of a passing flirtation with the crystal ball of Doctor Dee. Nor could she fairly take umbrage at delicate attentions to a crucible. Clovis and Gabrielle were married in the royal chapel, the bride being given away by the most amiable and unsinning of hard-used monarchs, and the world (who ought to know) said that the future of the happy pair could not be otherwise than rosy. They were a model couple, for Clovis was serious and reflective beyond his years, with a graceful turn for music, while the lovely face of Gabrielle beamed with affectionate pride. She was quiet, steady, and domestic, quite smothered under a heap of virtues.

Unfortunately, there were spirits at work who should have been detected at once in their mischievous game if Mesmer had not been napping, and duly routed by that prophet for the behoof of his dear pupil. They should have been carefully exorcised by the Master for his benefit, and sent packing into space to worry some one else; but as ill-luck would have it, the prophet was no longer present. All the medicos of the French capital uprose with one accord, like one large man, and sent the great Mesmer flying. If the new creed was to be accepted, where would all the doctors be? It was altogether a pestilent affair. Bread must not be snatched out of the mouths of doctors by designing quacks. Deputations of furious physicians rushed to the Tuileries, charging the luckless Swabian with egregious misdemeanours, and the king, as was his wont, gave way on the wrong occasion. Mesmer fell a victim to professional jealousy and ignorance, and was banished from France. He paid clandestine visits to Paris between 1785 and 1793, and to the end his following was great, but for all that, like many another illustrious pioneer, he was kicked and buffeted by ignorance.

The spirits, whom he was too busy in his absence and his anxieties to exorcise, played havoc in the new ménage. Clovis, who took very kindly to the fleshpots, was proud of his wife's beauty and success, and in no wise jealous of the danglers. In truth, she was no more to him than the chef-d'œuvre of a great painter, which we admire as our own until we weary of it; while we take pleasure in listening to the praises of the critics thereanent, because it chances to be our property; a noble work whose beauties we appreciate for a time with the eye of the connoisseur, then--since it is always with us--cease to contemplate at all. She was perfect, of course; every one knew that. Her husband, however, found little enjoyment in her society, and soon came to prefer the contemplation of the over-vaunted charms from a respectful distance.

Accustomed as the spoilt beauty was to lavish showers of admiration from morning till night, the unexpected coldness of Clovis surprised and offended Gabrielle. Had she not in her artless way said, as it were, You are my partner, chosen by the wise ones. I am pure, and true, and full of love, and you shall have it all? It was not within her experience to suppose that the chosen partner would care nothing for her. How could she suppose that the angel direct from heaven (which she was assured that she was at least a dozen times a day) was no more to the bone of her bone than a statue to be dusted and approved? Gabrielle was extremely proud; had been pampered much. She was--alas, that so fair a jewel should be flawed--quite ignorant of female wiles. So distressing and blunt an innocence was probably her mother's gift. Uncompromisingly straightforward, the young bride, who, from the first, was genuinely fond of the handsome marquis, roundly accused him of indifference. What had