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had locked the door. Young Nick had escaped. It would have been a flying in the face of Providence had he not seized the happy chance and turned the key upon his enemy.

This done, the fugitive sat down upon the floor of the canvas, drumming his heels with delight and waiting the course of events. He had not long to wait. The next moment he heard the scuffling of his victim, as he freed himself from the table-cloth, the angry turning of the door-handle, the discovery that the door was locked, and the ringing of the bell. Upon this, young Nick sprang to his feet and rushed to the stair-head. He met the footman leisurely mounting the stairs to answer it.

"You need not disturb yourself, Charles," he said softly. "Go on with your dinner; I know what my uncle wants."

the whole house, opened the hall-door first. The visitors were the two partners of the firm, Augustus Hamblin and William the Silent, with Mr. Billiter, the family solicitor. Young Nick, at the top of the stairs, in readiness for flight, observed the arrival of this group with considerable curiosity. Something important was in the wind. He connected it with the row of the day before.

Kick-kick. "Open this door!" roared Stephen, adding a volley of oaths strong enough to throw into shudders the immortal gods who heard them. "Open this door!"

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The footman tried the handle of the door. It was locked, but the key was in it. He caught Charles descended. Young Nick watched sight of young Nick as he turned the key, and him till he had returned to the kitchen, and then, at once divined the whole history. He, too, had sliding noiselessly down the banister, mounted a the presence of mind, as Stephen emerged, ragchair and unshipped the study-bell. ing, cursing, and swearing, to retreat behind the "Now he can ring as long as he likes," said portly form of Mr. Augustus Hamblin. the boy.

After this, he composed his features and went up stairs to his mother, who was sitting sadly with Alison, both of them far too dejected to have noticed the small disturbance which had just taken place. Here he took a book and sat sweetly reading, in silent calculation as to the time during which his uncle should be a prisoner. Presently, there was heard a noise as of one kicking or hammering against a door, with a roaring as of an angry wild beast. The two ladies did not for some time notice this disturbance. Young Nick, who did, put up the book before his face to hide the unbidden smile of satisfaction. It was Uncle Stephen, kicking at the study-door and swearing at the top of his voice.

"Dear me!" cried Mrs. Cridland, "what can be the matter? Who is that making this terrible noise?

For a moment Stephen, who was blind and speechless with wrath, did not see who were grouped before him, as he stood and stamped, hurling incoherent oaths at all the world. Young Nick had dropped down to the lowest step of the stairs, which just left his eyes half an inch above the level of the hall-floor. Thus, from a comparatively safe spot, he enjoyed a complete view of the proceedings, which interested him profoundly.

"What does this mean?" asked Augustus. "Is the man mad?"

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should be allowed to remain here, under the him with cold and severe eyes, while he scowled same roof as Miss Hamblin."

"And if I choose to remain ?"

as fiercely as any villain in stage-story. But there comes a time when severity must relax and

Black Hamblin looked dark as midnight. Mr. scowling becomes oppressive. The more SteBilliter laughed, and rubbed his hands.

"Really," he said, "one hardly likes to contemplate such an emergency. You see, nothing is yours until you prove your case. Meantime everything is presumably ours. It makes one think of physical force. No doubt-but it is absurd-no doubt, the footman, gardener, and grooms could, between them, be able to effect an-ha! ha!-an ejectment."

"I go," said Stephen, "but under protest. I go from here to my own lawyers. If I am advised that I am entitled to live here, I shall return."

Young Nick slowly mounted the stairs. A delicious surprise awaited him. The coat which he had mistaken for the doctor's belonged to Stephen. Here was a joyful chance!

Stephen, with a face as full of dignified remonstrance as could be compassed on so short a notice, and after half an hour of such unrestrained wrath, took down his coat, and began, in a slow and stagelike way, to put it on. The action in itself is capable of being filled with "business" and effect, as my readers have often observed upon the stage.

"You will all of you," said Stephen, taking the coat by the collar, and adjusting it with the left, so as to bring that sleeve into position-"you will all of you regret the tone which you have been pleased to adopt toward me." Then he thrust his hand into the sleeve half-way, and brought the coat round with a swing to the right. "I claim, as any man would, his bare rights. Let justice be done." Then he thrust his right arm into the corresponding sleeve. "I am met with unworthy and undeserved accusations." Then he hitched the coat higher up, and perceived, but without alarm for the moment, that there was some obstacle in both the sleeves.

The faces of his three opponents watched him with grave and solemn looks.

It was the grandest spectacle which this world offers-that of baffled villainy. The virtuous, rejoicing in their virtue, were for the moment triumphant. Nothing better was ever invented in fiction than this situation of real life. And to think that it was all fooled away by such a paltry trick as sewing up a coat-sleeve !

Having delivered himself, Stephen wished only to retreat with dignity. There was only one drawback. He could not get his arms through the sleeves. The unrelenting three gazed upon

(To be continued.)

VOL. VII.-16

phen plunged at his coat-sleeves, the more they resisted.

"Damn_the_coat!" he cried, losing his pa-.

tience.

Charles, the footman, came to his assistance. He it was, instructed by experience, who discovered the truth.

"I think it's Master Nicolas, sir," he said; "he's sewed you up, sir. If you have a penknife-"

The two partners smiled: the lawyer smiled: severity vanished. Stephen swore: the partners laughed aloud; the dignity of the revengeful bravo disappeared. It was with a very poor flourish that he finally put on his hat and left the house.

“You will understand, Charles," said Augustus, "that under no circumstances is Mr. Stephen allowed to enter this house again, until you hear again from us or from Mr. Billiter."

He led the way into Alison's room.

You had my letter, Cousin Augustus, you have heard the dreadful news?" asked the girl, who was standing at the window, wondering what all the talk and noise in the hall meant.

"I have heard, my dear. We are here, your cousins, to protect you. Your Uncle Stephen has left the house, and will not return to it."

"Oh! tell me you do not believe it—what he says!"

'We certainly do not," said Augustus. "We do not know what case he has, if any; but we hold his position to be impossible. We believe in your late father, my dear: we are confident that we shall establish your claims to be what he always led us to believe you, his legal daughter and his heiress."

He kissed her on the forehead, a rare distinction with a man so grave as Augustus Hamblin. "I concur," said William the Silent, and kissed her too.

"And as for me," said Mr. Billiter, taking her hand, "you see in me, my dear young lady, your most faithful and obedient servant. Never doubt that we shall succeed."

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THE SOUVENIRS OF MADAME VIGÉE LE BRUN.*

THER

HERE are superior persons who object to what they are pleased to call "light reading." And they not only include in their condemnation novels, but also those pleasant memoirs which they loftily designate as mere gossip. They seem to imagine that books which may amuse can not by any possibility instruct. The proper study of mankind, according to the selfelected wise men of the nineteenth century, is

to solve questions which are practically insoluble. The lost spirits who reasoned high and found themselves in wandering mazes lost, probably realized their situation; but we do not think metaphysicians of the present day are in the slightest degree aware when they are floundering. Mrs. Charles Kemble, whose character is so charmingly described in that delightful book, "The Records of a Girlhood," used to say of the sages of her day, "When A talks to B and C, and B and C do not understand him, and A does not understand himself, that's metaphysics." Here are the specimen articles of the magazine of the period: "The Place of Will in Evolution,"

"The Place of Conscience in Evolution," "The Reasonable Basis of Certitude," "Philosophy of the Pure Sciences," "Psychometrical Facts." Then

in the midst of these awful lucubrations comes an article entitled "Is Insanity on the Increase?" A very suggestive question, in answer to which we can only sorrowfully imagine that, while there are writers and readers of brain-puzzling articles like these, it is impossible that insanity can be altogether on the wane. And then how conceited young gentlemen patronize and bore mankind with their "schools of thought" and "aims of life"! How pleasant, perhaps superior persons would say how degrading, to turn from celestial talk and "psychometrical facts" to the sunny souvenirs of Madame Vigée Le Brun !

What a pleasant picture is here given of French society just before the whirlwind which scattered it for ever! Madame Le Brun, as an

artist patronized by royalty, naturally saw kings, queens, and princes through rose-colored specta

cles. Her accounts of Marie Antoinette are flat

tering in the extreme, but they coincide with the general impression left by the memoirs of the period.

Madame Le Brun writes:

It was in the year of 1779, my dear friend, that I took the Queen's portrait for the first time. She

was then in all the brilliancy of her youth and beauty. Marie Antoinette was tall and admirably proportioned, her arms were lovely, her hands small and beautifully formed, and her feet charming. She walked better than any woman in France; carrying her head with a majesty which denoted the sovereign in the midst of her court without detracting in the least from the sweetness and grace of her whole aspect. In short, it is very difficult to give an idea, to those who have not seen the Queen, of so much grace and dignity combined. Her features were not regular: she inherited from her family the long, ovalshaped face peculiar to the Austrian nation; her eyes, which were nearly blue, were not large, but their expression was at once lively and soft; her nose was small and well-formed, and her mouth was not large although the lips were rather thick. But the most remarkable thing about her was the brilliancy of her complexion. I never saw anything like it, and brilliant is the only word to express what it was; her skin was so transparent that it allowed of no shadow. I never could obtain the effect I desired; paint could not represent the freshness, the delicate tints of that charming face, which I never beheld in any other

woman.

At the first sitting, the Queen's imposing air began by intimidating me extremely, but her majesty spoke to me with so much goodness that her kind manner soon dissipated this impression. It was then that I made the portrait which represents her with a large hoop, dressed in white satin and holding a rose in her hand. This picture was destined for her brother, the Emperor Joseph II., and the Queen ordered two copies of it; one for the Empress of Russia, the other for her apartments at Versailles or at Fontainebleau.

It was at this first sitting that Marie Antoinette replied to Madame Le Brun, in answer to her remark how much l'élévation de sa tête added to the nobleness of her aspect: “If I were not Queen, they would say that I have an air of insolence; is not that true?" The supposed haughtiness of the Queen made her an object of hatred to the French people, and, the more she dispensed with etiquette and entered into society, the more her unpopularity increased.

In an unpublished memoir of the time, it is stated that the parties at the Duchess of Polignac's gave great offense to a portion of the nobility. The Queen was supposed to preside at these soirées. Those who were not invited were furious, those who were asked and were not sufficiently noticed were malignant. Hence arose those false and cruel libels which spread from

* Souvenirs of Madame Vigée Le Brun. London, the highest to the lowest classes of society. With what result is too well known. One is almost

1879.

forced to agree with the Greek dramatists that fate is the great agent pervading life. Marie Antoinette was born on a day of evil omen, Le jour des Morts, and there is no record in history of a woman who suffered such prolonged tortures and who endured them so nobly.

Madame Le Brun writes:

One day it so happened that I failed to appear at the time appointed for my sitting, because, owing to my health being very delicate at the time, I was taken suddenly ill. I hastened the next day to Versailles to make my excuses. The Queen had not expected me, and had ordered her carriage to go for a drive, and this carriage was the first thing I saw on entering the courtyard of the château. Nevertheless, I went up and spoke to the gentlemen-inwaiting. One of them, M. Campan, received me very stiffly, and said angrily, in his stentorian voice: "It was yesterday, madame, that her Majesty expected you, and of course she is going out driving, and she will certainly not give you a sitting." On my saying that I merely came to take her Majesty's orders for another day, he went to find the Queen, who immediately sent for me into her cabinet. She was finishing her toilet; and held a book, from which she was teaching her daughter, the young madame. My heart beat, for I felt nervous, knowing I had been in the wrong. The Queen turned and said kindly: "I waited for you all yesterday morning; what happened to you?" "Alas! madame," I replied, "I was so ill that I was unable to attend your Majesty's commands. I come to-day to receive them, and will leave directly." "No! no! do not go away," she rejoined; "I will not let you have your journey for nothing." She countermanded her carriage, and gave me a sitting. I recollect that, in my anxiety to make amends for her goodness, I seized my box of colors with such haste that I up set them all, and my brushes and paints were strewed

over the floor; I stooped down to repair my awkwardness. "Let them alone, let them alone," said the Queen, “you are not in a condition to stoop "; and, in spite of all that I could say, she picked them all up herself.

In the "Memoirs of the Baroness d'Oberkirch," which are as pleasant as those of Madame Le Brun, many anecdotes are given illustrating Marie Antoinette's kindness of heart. The Queen in the education of her children endeavored to instill in them kindness and consideration for others.

Madame Le Brun writes:

The Queen never neglected an opportunity of teaching her children the gracious and affable manners which so endeared her to all who surrounded her. I have seen her making madame, then a child of six years old, dine with a little peasant-girl, whom she protected, serving her first, and saying to her daughter, "You must do her the honors."

Nothing could be more perfect in theory than an education of this kind, but we fear in practice it resulted in the pride that apes humility; for Madame d'Oberkirch, who piqued herself on her knowledge of court etiquette, received the following setting down from the child of seven. Madame d'Oberkirch writes:

I was struck by the beauty and grace of the child, and accustomed to the freedom of German courts I said so; this liberty displeased her; an expression of anger spread itself over her face as with a proud and dignified air she replied:

"I am charmed, baroness, that you think me so; but I am surprised to hear you say it." I was stunned.

However, the governess came to the rescue. The gracious and affable Princess relented, held out her hand to be kissed, and restored the bewildered Baroness to her senses.

Madame Le Brun gives a curious account of the way she was treated by the Princesse de Conti:

One day while Madame de Montesson* was sitting to me, the old Princesse de Conti paid her a visit, and this Princess in speaking to me always called me miss. It made the thing more remarkable that I was immediately expecting the birth of my first child. It is true that formerly all the great ladies so addressed their inferiors, but this fashion had ceased with Louis XV.

Madame Le Brun was passionately fond of the theatre. In the days of her girlhood the opera was her constant resort:

In the summer the performance finished at halfbefore it was over to walk in the garden. It was past eight, and the most fashionable people left even then the custom to carry enormous bouquets, the odor of which, added to that of the strongly-scented hair-powder which every one wore, actually embalmed the air that we breathed. Later on, but before the Revolution, I have known these réunions prolonged until two o'clock in the morning, with music in the open air by moonlight. Many artists and amateurs sang there, among others Garat and Alsevido. It was crowded with people, and the famous St. Georges often played there on his violin.

The Comédie Française was then in its glory. "The actors were so admirable," writes Madame Le Brun, "that they have never been excelled." There is a most animated description of them in these memoirs. She was present at a representation of the " Mariage de Figaro" by the actors of the Comédie Française at the residence of Count Vaudreil, the intimate friend of Marie Antoinette. Nothing shows more the blindness

* Mistress of the Duke of Orleans.

of the French aristocracy than their encouragement of an author who was writing them down.

The last play acted in the theatre at Gennevilliers was a representation of the "Mariage de Figaro" by the actors of the Comédie Française. I remember that Mademoiselle Sainval played the countess, and Mademoiselle Olivier the page; and that Mademoiselle Contat was charming as Susanna ; nevertheless Beaumarchais must have worried M. de Vaudreuil into permitting such a very doubtful play to be performed at this theatre. Dialogue, couplets, all were directed against the Court, of which the audience chiefly consisted, without speak ing of the presence of our excellent Prince. Every one felt this want of tact; but Beaumarchais was wild with delight. He rushed about like a madman, and, on some one complaining of the heat,* instead of allowing time for the windows to be opened, he broke all the panes with his cane.

Madame d'Oberkirch thinks that "the nobility showed a great want of tact in applauding it, which was nothing else than giving themselves a slap in the face. They will repent it yet." And they did repent it; in a short time the greater part of that brilliant audience was in exile or prison. Even the actresses were not spared.

Madame Roland writes from her prison just before her execution:

I write this on the 4th of September at eleven at night, the apartments next to me resounding with peals of laughter. The actresses of the Théâtre Française were arrested yesterday. To-day they were taken to their own apartments to witness the ceremony of taking off the seals, and are now returned to prison, where the peace-officer is supping and amusing himself in their company. The repast is noisy and frolicsome. I catch the sound of coarse jests, while foreign wines sparkle in the goblet. The place, the object, the persons, and my own occupation form a contrast not a little curious.

The rage for theatricals was extreme. Amateur acting was the order of the day. The Queen herself acted, among other characters Rosine in the "Barbier de Séville," but alas, she acted badly, and sang out of tune! The royal princes also acted and sang "spicy" songs; Monsieur, afterward Louis XVIII., while sitting to Madame Le Brun, sang such vulgar songs that Madame Le Brun wondered where he had learned them.

Madame Le Brun writes: "His voice was never in tune. 'How do you think I sing?' he asked one day.

* The actors and actresses of the Comédie Française are now at the Gayety Theatre. Their performances are wonderful, but the heat is extreme. Would that there were a Monsieur Beaumarchais to give us a little air!

"Like a prince, Monseigneur,' I replied." A most courtly answer. Royal princes, whether they command an army, sing, fiddle, or shoot, should do it well or not at all. George III., who once took lessons on the violin, abandoned the pursuit when, in answer to a question as to how he was getting on, his master replied: "There are three classes of performers. Those who play well, those who play badly, and those who can not play at all. Your Majesty is just entering the second class." The Prince of Wales also prided himself on his singing, and quarreled with his chaplain, the witty "Dean" Cannon, because he would not agree with him that he sang a certain song better than any one in London. Another royal duke of the period, who piqued himself on his shooting, having deprived his equerry of half his sight, complained that the wretched unfortunate made such a "fuss about his eye."

As in Edinburgh in the olden time, so in Paris the suppers were the chief charm of society.

No one can imagine [writes Madame Le Brun] what society was like in France in those days when business was over, and twelve or fifteen people would visit at different friends' houses, and there finish the evening. It was at the suppers that Parisian society showed its superiority over all Europe.

Madame Le Brun's salon seems to have been one of the most popular in Paris. Her suppers were merely a simple repast—a fowl, a fish, a dish of vegetables, and a salad; but everybody was gay, good-tempered, and the hours passed like minutes. Here is the account of one which was such a grand success, and it only cost a few francs, although it was reported to have cost sixty thousand :

Here, my dear friend, is an exact account of the most brilliant suppers I ever gave:

One evening I had invited twelve or fifteen friends to hear a reading of the poet Le Brun ; while I was resting, before they arrived, my brother read to me some pages of the "Travels of Anacharsis." When he reached the part describing Greek dinners, and the different sauces and food they had, he said, "We ought to try some of those things to-night." I immediately spoke to my cook and told her what to do, and we decided that she should make one sauce

for the fowl and another for the eels. As I was expecting some very pretty women, I thought we might all dress up in Greek costumes so as to create a surprise for M. de Vaudreuil and M. Boutin, who we knew could not arrive before ten. My studio, full of things with which I draped my models, provided me with several clothes, and the Comte de Parois, who lodged in my house, had a fine selection of Etruscan vases. He came to see me that day, as it happened; I informed him of my project, and he

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