FAINT HEART NEVER WON FAIR LADY.

A MODERN STORY.

BY DUDLEY COSTELLO.

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

BAD NEWS.

THE vicissitudes of a life of labour had taught Monsieur Perrotin philosophy. He had learned how to bear with personal privation, and could suffer for himself alone without a murmur. But philosophy had not yet instructed him in the art-which many acquire so easily-of not feeling for the privations and sufferings of others, and his attachments, where he formed them, were deep and enduring. It was not in the heyday of young blood, nor with the fervour of youthful passion, that he had courted Rachel Loring; he was attracted towards her by the calm conviction that in marrying her his happiness would be secured, and this conviction had not deceived him. The closer his acquaintance grew, the stronger became his affection, till the common but unreasoning process was reversed, and that which began in esteem ended in love, and this without any jealous alloy, for what Rachel loved, Monsieur Perrotin loved also. Hence his fondness for Walter was second only to his fondness for his wife. The departure of the boy, on whose education he had bestowed so much care, was a pang to him, but still greater was the enforced journey of Rachel, though his loneliness was relieved by the letters which came from both. When, however, these communications ceased, and days of expectation went by without any tidings from either of them, Monsieur Perrotin's philosophy was rather severely tested. Walter's silence might, indeed, be accounted for by the numerous distractions of his new mode of life, but that of his wife was a painful enigma. Her last letter told him of her arrival in Yorkshire and of the accidental meeting with Matthew Yates, and she then promised to keep him au courant of everything that befel her, day by day as it occurred, -yet now a whole week had gone by without a single line!

As long as he could, Monsieur Perrotin kept his apprehensions to himself, but the heart-even of a philosopher-demands expansion, and one morning, after waiting for a full hour beyond the postman's accustomed time, and waiting as usual in vain, he sallied forth to take counsel with Monsieur and Madame Vermeil.

It was a fine, autumnal day, and the golden sun, the clear blue sky, and the freshly-blowing air, seemed to invigorate and enliven all the outof-door world, as Monsieur Perrotin passed on his way to the Rue des Carmes. There, too, the sun shone brightly, casting his strongest rays on the confectioner's glowing shop, and leaving the other side of the street in darkest shadow. For conformity's sake, it ought, perhaps, to

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have been otherwise, but Nature delights in contrasts, and often wears the gayest aspect when man's heart is at the saddest. That of Monsieur Perrotin was heavy enough at the moment, but was destined soon to be much heavier.

The functions of demoiselle de boutique were generally performed by Mademoiselle Cécile, when that young lady was at home from school, but on this occasion the care of the shop had been confided to a neighbour, a somewhat sweet-toothed old personage, who, in reply to Monsieur Perrotin's inquiry after Madame Vermeil, said, as well as a mouth full of strawberry-jam would allow her to speak, that a great misfortune had just happened to the family.

Good Heavens! What could it be? To whom did it relate? were Monsieur Perrotin's instant questions.

That, the old lady, still hampered by the strawberry-jam, could not take upon herself exactly to say. Madame Vermeil's bonne had only summoned her five minutes before, while she herself ran for the doctor, because her mistress was in violent hysterics. She had been requested to mind the confectioner's shop, and she was doing so (after her own fashion) when Monsieur came in.

Whatever concerned the Vermeil family affected Monsieur Perrotin ; moreover, a vague fear impressed him, and he stopped to ask no more questions, but ran hastily up-stairs, leaving the substitute of Mademoiselle Cécile to diminish the confectioner's stock at her leisure.

The hysterics had not been overstated. Madame Vermeil was lying on a sofa in her husband's arms, sobbing and laughing wildly, while Cécile, pale as a sheet, knelt on the floor, with difficulty retaining one of her mother's hands in hers. This was the scene that met Monsieur Perrotin's view as he entered the room.

"Ah, my friend!" said Vermeil, looking round as Cécile pronounced their visitor's name- -"I am glad—and sorry, too-to see thee."

Say what has happened!" cried Perrotin.

"Čécile, give that letter. Ah, calm thyself, my angel, my cherished one! Thy child will yet be restored to thee!"

But the husband's words were unavailing; Madame Vermeil still sobbed and struggled, a prey to the strongest emotion.

Monsieur Perrotin would have withdrawn, but the confectioner begged him to remain, while Cécile placed in his hands the letter of which her father had spoken. Thus urged, he read as follows:

"MY DEAR COUSIN,-A sad calamity, difficult to relate, has overtaken us all. Noël, for whose life I have had fears, is still lying on a bed of sickness, and the children- -ah, there, mon Dieu, that is what is the most afflicting-how shall I tell you things which I do not myself understand! But yet all that I know must be told. Listen then! A week ago we all went to the Fête des Loges in the forest of Saint-Germain— it is four leagues from Paris, and everybody goes there-in the company of a newly-made acquaintance, Monsieur Delablague, a so-called Norman gentleman, who, indeed, invited us to be of his party. He had with him a person named Courapied, the intendant of his estates, who alone acted as his servant. The fete was brilliant; your dear Jules and his friend, for whom I have an equal regard, enjoyed all they saw, the spectacles above

everything else. At a late hour of the afternoon we repaired to dine in a part of the forest called the Carrefour of the Châsse de Saint Fiacre, and scarcely was the dinner over when Noël was attacked by a stupefaction which threw him into a sudden swoon, the cause of which it was impossible for me then to divine, though, since, its real nature has been established. On this event arriving, all, except Walter, who stayed with me, went off quickly in search of medical assistance, your dear child Jules accompanying Monsieur Delablague, while the other person took a different direction. For a long time we waited, Noël always in the same state of prostration, but nobody returned. At length cries of distress came to our ears; we heard the voice of Jules calling for help, and then Walter ran to find and save his friend. Faintly, after a while, I heard other sounds, and then all was once more still. I was in despair! Impossible for me to leave Noël, who lay on the ground like a person dead; useless that I should search in the depth of night in that forest for those dear boys! I could only kneel in my tears and pray to the bon Dieu for help, which was granted at last, but-I dare not conceal it from you-to me only. It was daylight: I had passed the night in fruitless attempts to restore my husband-in vainly screaming the names of the lost children-when a garde champêtre came to the spot. What we had desired the night before on Noël's account was then procured a conveyance to remove him to the nearest surgeon, who at once declared that my husband had been made the victim of an infamous plot, the wine given him to drink having caused his stupefaction, from which it needed the utmost skill to recover him. But the darkest part of the affair consisted not in this so cowardly project-it showed itself in the disappearance of the darling boys, of whom we could obtain no news, though for what purpose they have been carried away it is not possible to imagine. At once researches were made in the forest, but all to no purpose, and since that time the police of the department and of Paris are making constant inquiry, hitherto, however and my heart bleeds that I should have to say So without success. I am lost in astonishment not less than is my sorrow at this so cruel bereavement. Be of some comfort, notwithstanding, for it is certain as the police observe-that the boys have sustained no personal injury. Had they worn fine clothes, with rings and watches and much money, it might have been different, but this, they say, is an abduction for some particular purpose, which time, and the opportunities that the police always have, will bring to light. I embrace you both, and dearest Cécile, with all my heart; and Noël-from his bed-does the Your desolate but devoted friend for life,

same.

"ROSALIE CLOVIS.

"Be persuaded that if we receive intelligence of the lost ones I write immediately."

Monsieur Perrotin's dismay on reading this letter was little less than that of his unhappy friends. His first thought was for Rachel. What would be the effect on her of this distressing news? The entire object of her journey to England-that journey which she had undertaken at so much risk-was through this unlooked-for misadventure completely frustrated! And by what means? Who were this Norman and his

Intendant? No mention was made by Madame Clovis of any third person, or the suspicions of Monsieur Perrotin would naturally have fallen on the Englishman Yates. But he knew that Yates was in England, a fact which had already awakened his fears on Rachel's own account. Then, what motive had these men for carrying off Jules-the disappearance of Walter being apparently only the consequence of his courageous interference? In the midst, however, of his own distress he could not witness the grief of Madame Vermeil without endeavouring to add to the consolation which her husband offered. By degrees, and by the aid of Monsieur Bellegueule, the pharmacien, who came and administered a tisane, the universal French remedy whether sorrow or stomach-ache afflict the patient, she became more composed, and consented to lie down with Cécile at her side, while Vermeil and Monsieur Perrotin took counsel together as to the course they should pursue. The discussion was a long one, many plans were proposed and rejected, but eventually they came to the conclusion that the confectioner should go at once to Paris, while the Teacher of Languages remained in Rouen. If, at the end of a week, no tidings of the boys were obtained, and nothing was heard of Rachel, Monsieur Perrotin announced his intention of proceeding direct to England, not only for the purpose of finding his wife, but for that of exposing the whole situation respecting Walter, fearlessly and without reserve, to Sir James and Lady Tunstall.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE.

ON the night that proved so disastrous to poor Walter the forest of Saint-Germain was traversed by two travellers in a cabriolet, who, somewhat belated, were making the best of their way along the high road from Pontoise to Versailles. Their journey that day had been a long one for a single horse, and the animal, with that aptitude for crawling which distinguishes French horses the moment they feel the collar, took advantage of a very slight inequality in the ground to proceed at his most leisurely pace. This characteristic was impatiently commented on by one of the travellers, who spoke with a strong Irish accent.

"See there now, doctor," he exclaimed, "the confounded baste is at it again! I give you my word of honer the road's as level as a billiardtable, there's not the rise of an inch in a hundred yards; but it's my belief that the garrons in this country, bad luck to 'em, have their forelegs longer than their hind ones: they're only made for going down hill. Sure we'll never get home to-night!"

"Give him the whip again, colonel," said his companion.

"The whip is it? faith, he minds that no more than he would a sermon. I declare to you, doctor, I'm quite sore with bating him."

"That ought to be his case, not yours," replied the other, "though I must say he's not very thin-skinned."

"Thin-skinned! his hide is as tough as an alligator's. Stay, what's the matter with Carlo? What's he about there? Hark to him how he's giving tongue!"

Carlo was a large Irish setter, whose impatience seemed to resemble that of his master, for until then he had been ranging some distance in

front of the cabriolet, but, not being followed so rapidly as he expected, had come swiftly back, and now stood with his feet firmly planted on a mound by the roadside, and his head raised high in the air, awaking the echoes of the forest with a protracted howl.

"Pull up, colonel!" said the doctor.

"That's soon done," returned the colonel. "I never saw a creature take a hint so quickly. Good dog, Carlo! What is it, my fine fellow ?" The travellers both jumped from the cabriolet and approached the spot where the setter was standing. The moonlight enabled them to see a dark object lying across a heap of leaves, and, stooping down with outstretched hands, he who was called "the Doctor" pronounced it to be a human body.

"what is it you say-a body?"

"Be still, Carlo," cried the colonel ; "Yes, and warm,-help me to raise it-carefully-so, rest his back against the heap-turn his face to the light-ah, quite a lad-wet-and with blood too!"

"Murdered, doctor ?"

"Wounded to a certainty-perhaps killed! No! that moan is a sign of life."

"Poor boy! How came he this way, I wonder! What's to be done ?"

"Give me your flask. Keep his head that way. We must make him swallow a few drops. That's well. Now mind him till I get my case. Lucky it's handy-I have it in my great-coat pocket."

He ran to the cabriolet and soon returned with lint and bandages. They untied the boy's neckcloth, opened his shirt, and with a skilful hand the doctor stanched the blood which was still oozing from his wounded breast.

"How far do you call it from here to your house?" asked the doctor.

"At the next turn of the road, which leads direct to it—rather more than a mile."

"We may manage, I hope, for that distance. He must be kept in a recumbent position. I will hold him in the carriage while you lead the horse."

The doctor got in first, and with little effort, for he was of stalwart frame; the colonel placed the suffering boy in the attitude required. They then slowly moved on, Carlo, who had been an attentive observer of all the proceedings, keeping close to his master's side. Half an hour sufficed to bring them to the pretty village of Maisons-sur-Seine, where the colonel rented a small château. He had been expected some time, and the servants were all in attendance, so that no delay took place in carrying Walter in-doors, where an immediate and careful examination was made of his wound. It was deep and severe, and caused the doctor to return a grave reply to his friend's anxious inquiry as to the probability of the boy's recovery. If inflammatory action did not supervenebut there is no necessity for us to be technical; indeed, the doctor himself was very little given to use the jargon of his profession, being a straightforward person who always went direct to his purpose. Let it suffice, then, if we say, that though Walter did not die, his condition for some weeks was one of great uncertainty, and that what the Nor