Sir Jasper Carew: His Life and Experience. Lever Charles James

‘Try Compton Basset, Caresfort, and Chirck Castle,’ I believe this is; there’s no making out the address.”

      “Plain enough, I think,” cried MacNaghten; “it is, ‘Madame la Comtesse de Carew, à son Château, ou en Ville, Irlande.’”

      “At all events, it is for me,” said my mother, breaking the seal with impatience. Scarcely had she opened the letter when she exclaimed, “Oh, la bonne chance, – only think, Walter, here is Emile de Gabriac coming to Ireland!”

      “You forget, dearest, that I have never seen him,” said my father, dryly.

      “Does that signify?” said she, with enthusiastic rapidity. “Is he not known over all Europe by reputation? That dear Emile, so good, so generous, so handsome, so full of accomplishments, – rides so perfectly, sings so beautifully. Ah, ma chère, c’est fait de vous,” said she to Polly, “when you see him.”

      Polly only smiled and bowed, with an arch look of submission, while my father broke in, —

      “But how comes it that so much brilliancy should waste itself on the unprofitable atmosphere of Ireland? What is bringing him here?”

      My mother continued to read on, heedless of the question, not, however, without showing by her countenance the various emotions which the letter excited; for while, at times, her color came and went, and her eyes filled with tears, a smile would pass suddenly across her features, and at last a merry burst of laughter stopped her. “Shall I read it for you?” cried she, “for it will save me a world of explanations. This is dated from our dear old country-house on the Loire, Château de Lesieux: —

      “‘April 20th.

      “‘Ma chère et ma belle Fifine,” – he always called me Fifine when we were children. [“Humph!” muttered my father, “read on!” and she resumed: ] ‘Ma belle Fifine, —

      “‘How the dear name recalls happy hours, gay, buoyant, and brilliant with all that could make life a paradise! when we were both so much in love with all the world, and, consequently, with each other!’ Ah, oui,” exclaimed she, in a tone so perfectly simple as to make MacNaghten burst out into a laugh, which Polly with difficulty refrained from joining. – “‘You,’” continued she, reading, “‘you, ma belle, have doubtless grown wiser; but I remain the same dreamy, devoted thing you once knew me. Well, perhaps we may soon have an opportunity to talk over all this; and so now no more of it. You may perhaps have heard – I cannot guess what news may or may not reach you in your far-away solitudes – that the Cour de Cassation has decided against me, and that, consequently, they have not only rejected my claim, but have actually questioned my right to the domain of Chasse Loups and the famous jewels which my grandfather received from Isabella of Spain.

      “‘They say – I ‘m not going to worry you with details, but they say something to this effect – that as we were engaged with Law in that great scheme of his, – the Mississippi affair they called it, – we stand responsible, in all that we possess, to the creditors or the heirs, as if we ourselves were not the greatest losers by that charlatan of the Rue Quincampoix! Perhaps you never heard of that notorious business, nor knew of a time when all Paris went mad together, and bartered everything of price and value for the worthless scrip of a mountebank’s invention. How sorry I am, dearest Fifine, to tease you with all this, but I cannot help it. They have found – that is, the lawyers – that there are two parties in existence whose claims extend to our poor old château by some private arrangement contracted between my grandfather and the then Duc d’Orléans. One of these is Louis’s own son, now living at Venice; the other – you’ll scarcely believe me – yourself! Yes, my dear cousin, you possess a part right over Chasse Loups. There was a day when you might have had the whole I – not my fault that it was not so!’”

      “Is this a lover’s letter, or a lawyer’s, Josephine?” said my father, dryly.

      “Ah, you cannot understand Emile,” said she, artlessly; “he is so unlike the rest of the world, poor fellow! But I ‘ll read on.

      “‘It all comes to this, Fifine: you must give me a release, so they call it, and Louis, if I can find him out, must do something of the same kind; for I am going to be married’ – [she paused for a few seconds, and then read on] ‘to be married to Mademoiselle de Nipernois, sister of Charles de Nipernois. When you went, remember, as a page to the Queen, you never saw ma belle Hortense, for she was educated at Bruges. Alas, oui! so is my episode to end also! Meanwhile I ‘m coming to see you, to obtain your signature to these tiresome papers, and to be, for a while at least, out of the way, since I have been unlucky enough to wound Auguste Vallaume seriously, I ‘m afraid, – all his own fault, however, as I will tell you at another time. Now, can you receive me, – I mean is it convenient? Will it be in any way unpleasant? Does le bon mari like or dislike us French? Will he be jealous of our cousinage?’”

      “On the score of frankness, Josephine, you may tell him I have nothing to complain of,” broke in my father, dryly.

      “Is it not so?” rejoined my mother. “Emile is candor itself.” She read: “‘At all hazards, I shall try, Fifine. If he does not like me, he must banish me. The difficulty will be to know where; for I have debts on all sides, and nothing but marriage will set me right. Droll enough, that one kind of slavery is to be the refuge for another. Some of your husband’s old associates here tell me he is charming, – that he was the delight of all the society at one time. Tell me all about him. I can so readily like anything that belongs to you, I ‘m prepared already to esteem him.’”

      “Most flattering,” murmured my father.

      “‘It will be too late, dear cousin, to refuse me; for when this reaches you, I shall be already on the way to your mountains. – Are they mountains, by the way? – So then make up your mind to my visit, with the best grace you can. I should fill this letter with news of all our friends and acquaintances here, but that I rely upon these very narratives to amuse you when we meet, – not that there is anything very strange or interesting to recount. People marry, and quarrel, and make love, fight, go in debt, and die, in our enlightened age, without the slightest advancement on the wisdom of our ancestors; and except that we think very highly of ourselves, and very meanly of all others, I do not see that we have made any considerable progress in our knowledge.

      “‘I am all eagerness to see you once again. Are you altered? – I hope and trust not. Neither fatter nor thinner, nor paler, nor more carnation, than I knew you; not graver, I could swear. No, ma chère cousine, yours was ever a nature to extract brightness from what had been gloom to others. What a happy inspiration was it of that good Monsieur Carew to relieve the darkness of his native climate by such brilliancy!

      “‘Still, how many sacrifices must this banishment have cost you! Do not deny it, Fifine. If you be not very much in love, this desolation must be a heavy infliction. I have just been looking at the map, and the whole island has an air of indescribable solitude and remoteness, and much further distant from realms of civilization than I fancied. You must be my guide, Fifine; I will accept of no other to all those wonderful sea-caves and coral grottoes which I hear so much of! What excursions am I already planning! what delicious hours, floating over the blue sea, beneath those gigantic cliffs that even in a woodcut look stupendous! And so you live almost entirely upon fish! I must teach your chef some Breton devices in cookery. My old tutor, who was a curé at Scamosse, taught me to dress soles “en gratin,” with two simple herbs to be found everywhere; so that, like Vincent de Paul, I shall be extending the blessings of cultivation in the realms of barbarism. I picture you strolling along the yellow beach, or standing storm-lashed on some lone rock, with your favorite pet seal at your feet.’”

      “Is the gentleman an idiot, or is he only ignorant?” broke in my father.

      My mother gave a glance of half-angry astonishment, and resumed: “‘A thousand pardons, ma chère et bonne; but, with my habitual carelessness, I have been looking at Iceland, and not Ireland, on the map. You will laugh, I’m certain; but confess how natural was the mistake, how similar the names, how like are they, perhaps, in other respects. At all events, I cannot alter what I have written; it shall go, if only to let you have one more laugh at that silly Emile,