# The Knickerbocker Gallery/Marie Lefrette

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J. L . McConnel
Marie Lefrette.
A STORY OF KASKASKIA.
By J. L. M'CONNEL.
LE MAÌTRE A DANSER.
Kaskaskia, (properly written Cascasquia,) founded, according to the best authorities, about 1688, by the good Father Allouez, is probably the oldest settlement on the waters of the Mississippi. For a long time the head-quarters of the French in the Great Valley: successively a military post of some importance, and the capital of the growing State of Illinois, it possessed, for many years, the distinction of a frontier metropolis; but its site was chosen without regard to that geography which ultimately develops its own foci; and every new farm opened in the country hastened the decay of its factitious prosperity. A few miles in any direction from the true focus are sufficient to seal the obscurity of the most promising town; and he who fortunately pitches his cabin upon the converging point of the lines of commerce may safely await the lapse of time, secure that his corn-fields will eventually become city-lots, and his modest dwelling give place to palaces of trade.
In accordance with this geographical principle, as the country to the northward was settled and improved Kaskaskia decreased in importance; and, as St. Louis began to emerge into the light, the shadow of her wings deepened the growing twilight around her elder sister. The removal of the seat of government withdrew the only remaining element of prosperity; and, in 182–, the period of our ​story, the venerable old town was rapidly subsiding to her natural level of obscurity.
On a bright June morning, in the year last mentioned, a woman of thirty-five or six sat at the bow-window of a house in the decrepid old town. Like the little capital of which it formed a part, the tenement "had seen better days;" for it was somewhat dilapidated now, and wore that threadbare aspect which distinguishes most men who have fallen into the same lamentable category. The gloom which attends decay was, however, in some degree relieved by the cheerful notes of two or three song-birds that hung above the woman's head, and the fresh green vines which tenderly concealed the ravages of time. The occupant herself did not disturb the harmony of character which made the place so pleasing to the eye; for the scrupulous neatness of her dress was apparently designed to compensate for plainness of material; and though the touch of years had evidently been upon her figure, the memory of its youthful contour yet lingered in its well-preserved and flowing outline.
The street upon which she looked was a straggling thoroughfare, that seemed to have been formed by a tumultuous and disorderly recession of the crowd of many-gabled houses. As the whole town was quaint, dingy, irregular, and crumbling, so the street was of no particular width, full of odd corners, crooked, interrupted, and not very well swept. But also, as the town was cheerful, vine-clothed, redolent of flowers, and jubilant with the songs of unnumbered birds, so the street was vocal with the silvery voices of bright-eyed and half-naked children, who played merrily with whole packs of sleek and worthies but good-natured curs; while fist and delighted grand-mères gazed smiling from the open windows, on the gambols of their bare-legged posterity. Gay, light-hearted groups passed to and fro along the crooked passages, and black-eyed girls in dishabille flashed flittingly from house to house, or, singing sweetly as their charges, fed troops of gayly-plumed Canaries, or vied in liquidness of tone with that full-blooded Frenchman, the mocking-bird. The morning sun streamed down the openings, and gilding rusty porticos, and penetrating tangled vine-clusters, sharply defined the peaked shadows, and poured in golden richness into open casements.
​All Kaskaskia seemed in a joyful mood that morning, save only the solitary occupant of that window, who contemplated, absently and sadly, the animated scene before her. The antic gambols of the lively French children called up no smile to her patient face: she even slightly turned her head while merry groups were passing; and once or twice, in the very midst of loud bursts of laughter, she rose from her seat and slowly crossed and re-crossed the room. At each turn she paused for a moment to listen at a door opposite to the window. No sound came forth, however, and at last she resumed her seat with an air of weariness which seemed to forbid her again leaving it.
Scarcely had she done so, when a quaint little figure, in a rusty but well-brushed black coat, and a very large beaver hat, frisked round the corner of the house, and paused in the attitude of a dancing-master, beaver in hand, directly before the open window.
"Ah! Madame Lefrette!" he exclaimed, in a voice of delighted briskness, and with a salutation whose profundity he would have equally devoted to peer or peasant, lady or laundress, "Bon jour, Madame!"
"Good morning, Mr. Maillefert," the lady quietly returned, and was about to add some further common-place; but the vivacious little Frenchman would not allow it.
"I sall see you at mi fête this night, Madame, certainement? Eh? You come?" he broke in rapidly.
"I fear not, Monsieur," she replied.
"Non? Pourquoi? Pardon; eh?"
"My husband is quite ill," she said.
"Est-il malade!" he interrupted. "C'est mal; vraiement!"
He pondered a moment, as if feelingly contemplating her affliction; but suddenly lifting his head, he naïvely exclaimed:
"Mais, Madame, who sall chaperon La Belle Marie?"
"I do not know," she replied with a smile, " that Marie will wish to go. If she should, however, shall I place her in your charge, Monsieur?"
A bow of profound obligation, and a broken speech, expressing his deep sense of the honor, was all the overpowered artist could ​produce, before a light footstep and a silvery voice announced the entrance of Marie herself.
A gleam of the yellow sunlight which bathed the street in front, would not more suddenly or cheerfully have illumined the room. The sweet songsters who occupied the cage above her mother's head enriched the air with no mellower or clearer notes; no foot in Monsieur Maillefert's dancing-school was lighter, no figure more graceful, no eyes brighter, no face more beautiful. Light auburn hair, clear, dark-blue eyes, a nose of Grecian truth, and a mouth combining all the attractions of pearl and ruby; a throat as full, and neck as flexible as the dream of a sculptor; shoulders white and round, with a bust as faultless as the statue of the "Slave," completed the beauty of a face and form as perfect as ever wore the youthful graces of sweet seventeen.
She was arrayed in a loose though neatly-fitting morning-dress of cross-barred muslin, white as the lily. This was confined at the waist by a silken cord of pale pink hue; around her neck was tied a narrow velvet ribbon, of the same becoming color; and her hair was simply dressed in the fashion of the time, with a band and flowers.
Her appearance was the signal for the recommencement of the little Monsieur's universal salutations, elaborate and profound, as if given to a whole ball-room, marshaled for the dance; and in his twinkling black eye there was a ray of light which showed that age, though now approaching his fiftieth year, had not deprived him of the Frenchman's greatest pleasure—admiration of female beauty.
"Souhaits le bon jour, Ma'm'selle!" he exclaimed with all the artist's grace, as she came to the window, and received his salutation with a smile which would have revived one of his nation, though he were in the article of death.
"Monsieur Maillefert has called to inquire whether you will attend his fête this evening, Marie," said her mother, "and I have placed you under his protection."
"I am sure no better chaperon could be chosen," said Marie, smiling in reply to the repeated bows of her whimsical protector; "but how is my father this morning?"
"He is sleeping," her mother answered, glancing at the door at ​which she had listened, "and, though he passed a somewhat restless night, he now seems much better."
"What time will you call for me, then, Monsieur?" she asked.
"At seven, Ma'm'selle, exactement;" and, gallantly touching his lips with his fingers, with another flourish of his beaver, he took his leave, and went on tip-toe up the street, by far the happiest man in all Kaskaskia.
"Sit down here for a few moments, Marie," said Madame Lefrette, pointing to a seat beside her own. Marie obeyed without speaking; and while the daughter leaned upon her mother's lap, and the mother placed her arm caressingly across the daughter's shoulders, both gazed in silence for some minutes at the cheerful scene before them. The elder was the first to speak.
"Marie," she said, drawing the girlish form nearer to her bosom, as if to compensate the harshness of a duty with increased affection, "if you go to Monsieur Maillefert's fête this evening, I must warn you against an error that I fear you are falling into."
Marie looked up in surprise.
Do n't alarm yourself," her mother continued with a smile; "I do not apprehend any great danger—to you, my dear; but you are young and impulsive, and may thus unconsciously do a very great injury to another."
"I? Why, mother mine, what can you mean?"
"I mean, my daughter," said her parent, gravely, "that at M. Maillefert's you will probably meet Coron de Cheville."
Marie's eyes fell as if a blow had been threatened her, and the blood mantled in a deep blush to her very temples, while her frame trembled as the young alder in a wandering wind.
"I do not wish to give you pain, Marie," her mother continued, placing her arms about her neck; "but the circumstances of your position render it necessary that I should guard you against an error of manner which may be fraught with evil to yourself—and others."
"What would you have me do, mother?" she asked, without raising her eyes, which were now ready to overflow.
"Nothing but what your own good sense will teach you. Receive him courteously and kindly, but not warmly. Let your father's faith ​be kept, by showing him that you are willing to accept his friendship, but will not encourage one step that leads toward the forfeiture of any obligation."
"I am sure, mother," she said, hastily lifting her head, "if he knew it he would not take such a step, however much encouragement I might give him."
"Is it possible you have left him in ignorance, Marie?"
Again she dropped her eyes, and was silent.
"Well, well, my daughter," she resumed, replacing the arm, which for a moment she had withdrawn, "I will not reproach you. It is not too late, I hope. Let him know your position without delay. It will be better for all parties. And now, I must go to your father. You will have some preparations to make, and"—after a pause—"I hope we may never have occasion to return to this subject."
She turned away as she spoke, and entered the sick-chamber of her husband, leaving her daughter occupied with reflections the most unhappy her young life had yet known.
The "circumstances" referred to by the mother are essential to our story.
Among the French customs which the shifting of population and consequent change of social manners had not entirely abrogated, was that of affiancing children in their infancy—a blind, pernicious system of anticipation, which mortgages the Future to the mercenary wants or conveniences of the Present, and plants the seeds of superfluous immorality, whereof spontaneous growth is sure to yield a sufficient harvest. In accordance with this custom, Marie had been, in her sixth year, affianced to young Napoleon Le Vert, then a youth of ten summers, the son of M. Lefrette's partner in business. During the eleven years which had since elapsed, each had been reared and taught to look upon the other as the companion of the future; and though, after reaching those years which gave them a place in society, neither had shown much attachment to the other, the only effect of this indifference had been to conceal the knowledge of their fiançailles from their acquaintance, or to let it die to their remembrance; for the parents of both still viewed the contract as irrevocable.
This arrangement had been ratified—perhaps suggested—by ​Marie's grandfather, who, although at this period some years dead, must figure modestly in our narrative. He was a Virginian, who had emigrated to Kentucky with some of the foremost pioneers, when that country belonged to the venerable "Old Dominion." Having made a settlement, and, by proper charters, secured the territorial rights which accrued upon the act, his roving spirit had led him to Kaskaskin. Here he became enamored of, and soon married Josephine Le Vert, a young Frenchwoman, the sister of the elder M. Le Vert, of our story. Lingering for some months, attracted by the primitive simplicity of the people among whom he found himself domesticated, a daughter was born to him; and this daughter was the mother of Marie Lefrette. As soon after this event as his wife could endure the journey, he returned to Kentucky. But, upon searching for his land, he found that the man whom he had left in possession had sold the most valuable portion of it, under a claim which he had set up by virtue of actual residence! To add to his discomfiture, on examining his papers to find the original grant to himself, he discovered that that was lost or destroyed! The books of records, which might have supplied its place, had been either burnt or carried away by the Indians in some murderous foray; and all muniments of title were thus obliterated.
He resorted, however, to the desperate expedient of a suit at law, endeavoring to show that the grantor under whom the occupants claimed, was a tenant, and could not be allowed to deny his landlord's title. But no lease could be produced; indeed, he had forgotten whether a lease was ever made; and, in the absence of any paper to support it, his suit failed, and his land was lost. Soured and disgusted, he returned to Kaskaskin, where, at the age of fifteen, his daughter was married to Monsieur Lefrette. Of this marriage, the only issue was our Marie, whose grandfather lived just long enough to confirm her fiançailles with the son of his brother-in-law, claiming the Episcopal right of confirmation in virtue of his will, which made her sole heir to the lands he had lost!
By these possessions, which might just as well have been "castles in Spain," no body save the poor old man set very great store; and the fact that Marie's father was a large stockholder in various land-​companies, and was accounted rich, (prospectively,) probably had more influence in inducing the elder Le Vert, who was supposed to value good lands higher than good hearts, to seek the betrothing of his son with his partner's daughter.
One other character noticed, and the story may march on.
Coron de Cheville, a young man two or three years the senior of Marie's fiancé, was a descendant of M. Rocheblave, the last French governor of Kaskaskia. Having inherited a moderate fortune, he had, to some extent, enjoyed the advantages of travel, and of an education which this country did not then afford. At the age of twenty-four he had returned to his native town, and now divided his time about equally between Kaskaskia and St. Louis.
Mingling freely in the unconstrained society of the former place, he could not fail to meet Marie Lefrette; and, just at that age, when all such impressions are more vivid and definite than at any other, he was at once attracted by her beauty, grace, and simple refinement of manner. Ignorant of her engagement, he prosecuted a series of delicate but unconcealed attentions, which, in a circle more thoroughly organized, would have been at once set down as indications of a desire to make her his wife. Even here, observations had been made upon his assiduity, in so much as to excite the jealousy of Napoleon Le Vort, Marie's intended husband—a young man of morose and haughty temper, who, although incapable of loving any thing very deeply, was yet, of all men, most likely to resent what he supereiliously deemed a trespass. Nothing but Coron's self-control, and the manly contempt he felt for the other's boyish demonstrations, prevented a collision; for, we are bound to say, the conduct of Marie, guided only by her feelings, and tempered by no respect for Napoleon's half-formed character, was not calculated to avert it. She took little pains to conceal her preference for the free and open bearing of the former to the arrogant and sullen manner of the latter; probably reflecting, if she ever thought seriously of the matter, that she would have quite enough of his vapors after her marriage, and willing, while ​she was yet free, to obey an impulse, of whose whole force she was ignorant. It was this imprudence against which her mother warned her.
II. MONSIEUR MAILLEFERT'S FETE.
M. Maillefert's house was situated almost in the heart of the town, but was surrounded by a garden carefully and elegantly cultivated, and containing, perhaps, two acres of land. Overlooking this on three sides was a broad, wooden corridor, which contained more space than lay within the walls; though the omnipresent vine, which hung in masses from the eaves, and clambered, richly laden with the choicest flowers, up every column, and along the balustrade, inclosed it from the sun and rain almost as effectually as the rude carpentry which marked its inner limit. The whole edifice looked as we might imagine a Chinese pagoda, which had been crushed toward the earth by a steady pressure from above; not falling into ruin, but expanding horizontally in proportion as it subsided vertically. Its peaked gables and projecting eaves; its triangular attic windows, and broad, low doors; its "sway-backed" roof and narrow flights of steps, all encouraged the illusion. But the presence of an elegant and ornate taste, everywhere visible in the arrangement of flowers and the training of a thousand creepers, fenced out the idea of decay; while the merry notes of the little Monsieur's fiddle, heard from within, or the cheerful tones of his bird-like voice, banished all gloom, and peopled the rooms with gayety.
In those old days, when a morose and mistaken puritanism had not given dancing to the devil, and then denounced it for belonging to him, the dancing-master was no unimportant personage, at the worst; and on this great occasion—the closing fête until the cooler weather of the autumn—the moral stature of the character was not diminished. When M. Maillefert, proud of his charge, as a young emperor of the conquest of a capital, marched up with Marie to the gate, the little crowd assembled there respectfully gave way for him to pass, but affectionately closed in upon his heels, and followed him within the house.
A narrow hall ran through from front to rear, dividing a large ​saloon and a suite of rooms; and these, notwithstanding their low ceilings, unlevel floors, and bare walls, presented an appearance quite elegant and imposing. The planks had either been diligently rubbed smooth for the purpose, or worn so by the friction of many feet. Garlands of evergreens, and wreaths of flowers, and quaint devices made of various leaves, adorned the window-frames, or drooped gracefully between; while bouquets and choice single flowers were scattered on the unobtrusive little tables, or strewed along the divans. Green branches of the delicate pine were fixed against the wall, as brackets to support the numerous lights; and the radiance of these was a-tempered, not diminished, by the veil through which it was filtered.
As the company entered, little negro girls, with their wide mouths full of ivory and fun, attended to receive the hoods and mantles, while two boys of the same shining sable were already "tuning up" their fiddles. These were the Monsieur's musicians; pupils of his own, whose proficiency reflected as much honor on his musical ability as the graceful dancing of the active 'demoiselles, upon his standing as a master of the "art of motion."
One long, complaining cry from both instruments, to try their tone, and then a sudden shifting to the rapid notes of a dancing tune, "put life and mettle" in the expectant company. The little Monsieur led his partner, Marie, to the head of the saloon, and at his signal the figures were speedily filled up. His shrill voice was now heard from end to end, and, as if instantly affected by some volatile gas, the whole array began to move with as much agility as art, and more grace than either. Round and round, to and fro, up and down, the dancers went; the flashing of light drapery, the wreathed smiles of pleasure, the flitting of fair forms through mazy order, and the changing lights and shadows, furnished forth a scene of animation far more common then than now. The tripping of light feet, the exhilarating music, the hurried chat and merry laughter, pervaded with a careless gayety the perfumed air; while the hurried alto of the maître shot, like a sunbeam, through the mazes of the figure, and illumined all with the light of discipline and order.
The rooms gradually filled up with old and young; and many a ​fat little dame danced with her eyes, though she might not with her feet, and gazed in envy on the figures, remembering her own gay days of youth. The fathers of the village, too, were gathered in; and boys and girls, who now impatiently awaited the coming of that time, whose passage they were destined to regret. After the first "set," the master, having given the example, consigned Marie to another partner, and devoted himself to the comfort and enjoyment of others. Cool, light beverages and delicate spicy-cakes, were passed about from time to time by the little negroes; and, at eleven, a supply of strong hot coffee, accompanied by viands more substantial, was served to every guest.
While the dancers were standing in their places, to do honor to this favorite stimulant, two gentlemen advanced from the line of spectators, and approached the spot where Marie was chatting with her partner. The younger of these, who was a rather handsome man of perhaps five-and-twenty, with an air of quiet grace and thorough good breeding, pressed the hand which Marie timidly extended him, glanced for a moment at the rapidly-changing color in her face, and then introduced his companion—a tall, middle-aged man, with the keen look of an attorney.
"Mr. Beman," said De Cheville, "informs me that he knew your grandfather, in Kentucky, and ———"
"And," interrupted the elder, with a somewhat elaborate bow, "desired this introduction as much on account of his grand-daughter's own attractions, as of her relation to his old friend."
Marie inclined her head rather coldly; for she was somewhat shocked at the breadth of the opening compliment; but hastened to say, as if conscious of the ungraciousness of her manner:
"I am always glad to meet any one from Kentucky; and my mother will be happy to see you at our house."
"He was just asking me to take him thither," said De Cheville, "when I told him you were here."
"And justified his ardent praises," added Beman, with a laugh, "by pointing you out."
De Cheville glanced at Marie with a conscious blush; but she turned away her face, to cover a confusion, which, however, gave him ​more pleasure than a look of frank directness. At the same moment, the tap of the bow upon the fiddle announced the re-commencement of the dance. Coron had only time to make a hurried engagement for the next figure, and retire with his companion from the floor, when the master's voice again set all in motion.
At the same moment, Napoleon Le Vert—a young man who might have been called well-looking but for a certain fullness about the corners of the mouth, which invariably indicates a hot but selfish temper—pushed rudely through the crowd, and forced Marie to pause in the movement.
"Shall we dance the next figure together, Marie?" he asked in a tone which sounded more like command than request.
"I am engaged to Monsieur de Cheville for the next," said Marie, timidly; "but the following one ———"
"I am engaged for that, myself," he interrupted, and abruptly turned away. A flush of anger rose to her face; but, without otherwise noticing his rudeness, she recommenced the dance.
It so happened, that she had been arrested very near the place where De Cheville and his companion had taken their stand among the spectators; and, though the former did not overhear the words of the brief conversation, he comprehended the pantomime sufficiently to see that Napoleon was uncivil and offensive, and that Marie was distressed. His blood boiled with indignation. He was about to intercept and accost Le Vert, when the latter pushed past, and roughly jostled him, evidently on purpose. Coron put out his hand and stopped him.
"What do you mean by pushing me thus?" he asked, in as calm a voice as he could command.
"If you are so dull as not to understand it," answered the other, "perhaps you will know what this means!" And he struck him on the check with his open hand.
The insult was scarcely complete, when De Cheville seized him by the throat, and, jerking him from his feet, pitched him headlong through the open window upon the corridor. Beman grasped his arm, and the crowd rushed forward to interfere; but, shaking them off, he sprang through the casement, almost upon the prostrate Le ​Vert. Two or three of the men hurriedly followed him; but, before they could interpose, Le Vert had risen, bruised and bleeding, and, with the spring of a cat, buried a knife in De Cheville's side! The latter reeled for a moment, but recovered himself; and, as the blow was about to be repeated, grasped his assailant's arm, and, wresting the knife from his hand, would have sheathed it in his bosom. But now came a rush of men, accompanied by the clamor of many voices; and, at the same moment, Coron's hand dropped, his eyes closed, and he sank lifeless into the arms of his friend Beman.
"He is dead!" shouted the latter. "Seize the murderer!"
The crowd swayed to and fro, and, in the obscurity, several persons were arrested; but Le Vert was nowhere to be found. Marie, with several other ladies, without knowing the cause, were involved in the confusion, unable to ascertain what had happened, until she heard Berman's exclamation.
"What is the matter? Who is dead?" she asked, but without eliciting an answer, until some one clambered into the window, and, after looking out upon the corridor, turned to announce
"It is Coron de Cheville!"
A scream rang through the saloon, of such intense and sudden agony, as to silence the clamors of the crowd; and, dashing both hands against her temples, Marie reeled, fainting, to the floor! Monsieur Maillefert raised her, placed her tenderly upon a divan, and called frantically for water. While it was being brought, he stood disconsolately wringing his hands, and repeating, in a voice of ruin and despair:
"Ah! Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! Mi fête is spoil! mi fête in spoil!"
The women clustered about the prostrate girl, and, dashing water into her face, soon brought her back to partial consciousness. She sat up and looked, bewildered, about her, unable to recall the meaning of the scene. But, when some one came in from the room where De Cheville had been carried, and said that the doctor pronounced the wound dangerous, but not mortal, she threw herself into the arms of the woman who knelt beside her, and burst into tears, exclaiming:
"Thank God! Oh! thank God!"
​Monsieur Maillekers now bustled forward, as if suddenly recolleting himself, and said:
"Ma'm'selle, votre mère have send um messenger in ver' mosh hurry—I take you, then?"
"A messenger!" exclaimed Marie, lifting her tearful face. "For what?"
"Ma'm'selle, I know nothing," the master replied, with a shake of the hand, which, however, contradicted his words.
"My father! My father!" she cried; and, springing to her feet, hastily put on her mantle, and, taking the master's arm, hurried eagerly homeward.
Her fears had been but too will founded. Her father, whose illness had been considered serious by no one but his wife, had grown suddenly worse. The physician had been called, and, by his direction, Marie was sent for at once. It was impossible, he said, that Monsieur Lefrette could survive the following day; and, though he made no such admission in words, it was plain that the sudden turn in the disease took him as much by surprise as it did Marie herself He was not mistaken now, however. His patient lingered, free from pain, until near noon on the morrow; when, without a struggle, be passed from life.
Two days afterward, the kind-hearted people of the good old ville attended his remains to their last resting-glace; and, having done him this final service, turned away toward home, speculating upon the extent of his widow's dower, and the amount of his daughter's inheritance. The prevailing opinion was that. Lefrette had died wealthy; and if the supposition was based rather too exclusively upon his part-ownership of certain company land-grants, whose value lay chiefly in the future, this fact only served to rebut one argument against the hypothesis, by accounting for the plain manner in which the deceased had lived.
Mr. Beman, who walked homeward with a knot of gossips, listened to the discussion in silence; but, on learning that all these castles were founded upon stock in the "——— Land and Emigration Company," Incontinently broke into a loud laugh, which not a little scandalized his grave companions. He gave no reason for his mirth, but, ​turning aside, down a quiet road, drew a bundle of papers from his ample pocket. Of these he selected three, and opening the first, as if to assure himself that he had not laughed too soon, glanced with a recurring inward chuckle, down the ample folio pages.
Folding this carefully, he opened in succession the other two, and read them gravely from end to end. Replacing the whole in his pocket, he turned upon his steps, and walked slowly back into the quiet town.
The first and most amusing of these papers was a full and complete assignment of all the effects, "goods and chattels, lands and tenements, rights and credits," of the aforesaid "——— Land and Emigration Company;" setting forth, in elaborate legal verbiage, that their title to certain tracts, upon which their speculations were based, had been declared invalid by the courts, and providing as effectually as possible for the safety of certain creditors, by declaring a trust in their favor, and appointing Beman assignee. Then followed a short inventory of property, and a long list of creditors; and the footings showed a very large balance on the side of insolvency! A ruin more complete and irretrievable never overtook a company or individual! No whisper, however, of the failure had ever reached Kaskaskia; and among all who had curiously speculated upon Beman's business there, none had ever approached the truth. The lawyer, himself, had as yet kept his own counsel.
The nature of the other papers, which he perused with such grave interest, we shall see in the sequel.
III. REVERSES.
Several weeks passed away, bringing little that is essential to be told. Marie and her mother remained in the homestead, mourning, as a mother and daughter only can mourn, for the departed. Monsieur Lefrette had not been a very domestic husband or demonstrative father; yet the hand which had snatched him away had touched his memory with gold; and his death seemed more a loss than his return would have seemed a gain. They did not yield weakly to lamentation, however; for each was a support to the other. And ​had it not been for the unutterable sense of loneliness and the constant impulse to wait for some one's arrival, before engaging in any thing, they might, after the first burst of grief, have at once regained their cheerfulness.
Many of their friends and neighbors came to the house with such condolence as occurred to them; and kindness to the widow and orphan was far more delicate and genuine among the simple villagers than often it is among the more artificial denizens of cities. Had their loss not been irreparable, the fountains of sympathy and affection which were now opened for the first time, might well have renewed the greenness that was withered; and, as it was, the repeated and unprompted offers of kind service did much to assuage the sense of desolation which always accompanies the sudden death of a long-trusted protector.
Among those who called with these and other motives was the elder Le Vert—a man whose delicacy was in an inverse ratio to his business capacity, and who, therefore, in proportion as he over-valued money, under-valued kindness and affection. No one would have suspected him of attempting to console a mourner, or of sympathizing with a sorrow; and Madame Lefrette was, accordingly, not mistaken, when, upon his entrance, she concluded that she owed the visit to some matter of business.
"It will be necessary, Madame," he commenced almost as soon as he had deposited his heavy person in the chair offered him, "that letters of administration on your late husband's estate be taken out as soon as convenient———"
True; she had not thought of that, as yet.
"And," he continued, wiping his damp forehead, and speaking in the tone of a man who had already settled the affair in his own mind, "I have determined that, as his partner in trade, the duty will most properly devolve upon me."
It was precisely what she would have requested, she said.
"You perceive," he went on, graciously affording a reason, when the arrangement had been sanctioned without it, "I shall be allowed by the law, a certain time in which to settle up the partnership business———"
​"Can you tell me what the state of the business is likely to be?" she asked, with some interest. "I ask because, from the anxiety he expressed, I was led to apprehend some embarrassment."
"Well," said the man of business, "he is somewhat in debt to the concern, for funds drawn out in his land speculations; but that is well invested; and, as I was about to observe, since Napoleon and Marie are to be married, that will make no difference."
"Ah!" she said, "that reminds me; is Monsieur de Cheville out of danger?"
"I am not advised," Le Vert replied drily; "but Doctor Lutin has notified Napoleon that he need not keep out of the way any longer; so I suppose the fellow is considered convalescent."
Madame Lefrette made no articulate reply; though the aspiration with which she acknowledged the information was probably quite as much an exclamation of surprise that Coron de Cheville should be classed as a "fellow."
The heavy gentleman rose after a pause, and, making a ceremonious bow, took his leave, graciously informing the widow, that his son Napoleon would do her and Marie the honor to call in the evening. A curl of scorn bent her lip for a moment, and it was her only acknowledgment of the condescending announcement; but it was softened immediately by the reflection, that loyalty to the memory of her departed husband required her to keep the faith he had pledged, and for this purpose, if necessary, even submit to be "patronized" by a pompous blockhead. She therefore faintly smiled a pleasure which she faintly felt, and the dull man's shadow was removed.
Marie entered by another door, as the first closed upon her intended father-in-law. Her step was not so light as when we saw her at the fête, nor her face so blooming; but the pensiveness of sorrow but added an element of interest to her beauty, and quietness of bearing detracted nothing from her grace.
"Monsieur Le Vert has been here?" she said inquiringly.
"Yes," her mother answered, "and left word that Napoleon will call this evening."
"Is Napoleon, like his namesake, a great sovereign," she asked ​with a faint smile, "that his progresses must be announced by so dignified an avant-courier?"
"Neither he nor his father, Marie," said her mother, somewhat severely, " is the proper subject of a jest—from you."
Marie smiled again, as if the qualification "from you" implied only a special prohibition. But the rebuke was too sadly true to afford amusement; and without replying, she walked to the window, with her lip quivering from far different emotions. Her mother watched her for some moments, as if waiting for her to speak, but at last broke the silence herself.
"You do not ask," said she, "how it is that Napoleon can reäppear openly, without risk?"
"I suppose he has been tried," Marie answered, with a curl of the lip, "and acquitted on the usual plea of self-defense."
"No," her mother replied, glancing keenly at her; "it is because Monsieur de Cheville is out of danger."
"Scarcely, I should suppose," returned Marie, "so long as the man lives whose hatred could prompt such an assault!"
"It does not become you to say so, Marie!"
Again the daughter's head drooped in acknowledgment of the just rebuke. Napoleon Le Vert was her affianced husband; and whatever would have been her feelings toward Coron de Cheville, had she given them sway, she was under a bond, whose penalty was her dead father's faith, to justify, or at least not to condemn, the acts of him to whom the solemn compact had assigned her. We will not undertake to inquire how her heart rebelled against this hard necessity, nor how much Le Vert's offense was increased in enormity to her view, by the fact that it had been committed against De Cheville. Let it be sufficient that, in spite of all her mother's exhortations, and the severe schooling of her own best reason, it was thus increased; and that, before the effort to repress her indignation was required, she could never have conceived its difficulty.
The shadows were lengthening when she went to the window; and while she stood, buried in thought of no pleasant nature, the sun dropped below the horizon, and the shades of evening gathered on the street before her. The day had been intensely warm, but now ​a gentle breeze sprang up, and laughing groups assembled on piazzas, or in front of open doors; strolled leisurely among flowerbeds, and gayly promenaded on the walks. The hum of business was suspended, but the hum of pleasure filled the air instead; for the light-hearted people of the place were almost all without their doors. As the sun-light faded out, the moon rose on the scene; the shadows which had pointed toward the east were now turned westward; and the sheen lay on the quaint old town like a silvery mantle. Sweet music floated on the wind, and perfumes from a hundred gardens, exhaled by the sun, now settled toward the earth, and mingled with the coolness of the closing night.
Marie stood at the window until the gathering darkness made her figure but a shadow. Her mother had left the room, and she was alone with her thoughts. A knock at the front door startled her from reverie; and had there been an observer present, even the moonlight would have revealed the flush that overspread her face on suddenly recalling the promised visit of Le Vert. It must be, she thought, Napoleon's knock; and its alarum had scattered from her mind a crowd of images, among which the figure of her future husband had filled a place. She reproached herself with this; but it augured ill for time to come, that it was only sense of duty that prompted the censure.
She had scarcely time to gain a seat, and still the fluttering of her heart, when the door was opened, and, instead of Napoleon, Mr. Beman was shown in. A sigh of relief, still less promising for future happiness, escaped her, as she rose and welcomed the lawyer.
"I fear I am liable to the charge of intrusion," said the latter, courteously, as he took the seat offered him; "but as my time in Kaskaskia is somewhat limited, and I could not think of going away without seeing my old friend's daughter, I determined to take the risk."
"We should be more unsociable than grief ought to make us," said Marie, warmly, "if we were not glad to see you; and I am sure my mother will say the same."
"She is well, I hope?" he said, in a tone of interest.
"She has not recovered from the shock of my father's death," Marie answered, sadly, "and I am fearful———"
​The sentence was arrested by the entrance of Madame Lefrette herself, whose feeble step and pale face gave but too evident ground for the fear her daughter was about to express. She received Mr. Beman, of whom Marie had spoken as a friend of her father, with a grace which always marked her manner; and as that gentleman, referring to events which had taken place in her girlhood, mentioned names and recalled circumstances about which she had not thought since her father's death, a conversation ensued, which Marie was delighted to see gave her great pleasure. He seemed to have been intimately acquainted with all the difficulties, law-suits, arbitrations, and controversies, whose result had been the return of her parents to Kaskaskia; and from these, as from a common center, his recollections radiated in all directions, returning from time to time, until the contributions of the two presented a clear summary of the whole disastrous business.
"My uncle," said he, "was your father's counsel in these affairs; and having been a junior partner in the office at the time, I well recollect the zeal and industry with which he endeavored to unravel the complicated transaction. But, if my memory serve me well, he was met at every point by the loss of certain papers, and the disappearance of a witness, named, I think, Miller McAllen."
"I have heard something of the kind," said Madam Lefrette. "And up to the very day of his death my father clung to the hope, which I suppose was desperate, that these papers might finally be found. Indeed," she added, sadly, "the thought went with him to the grave; for in his will he made my daughter heir to these same lost estates."
This information seemed rather to take Mr. Beman by surprise; and from the momentary working of his expressive features, one would have supposed it of more importance than he had apparently attached to the subject.
"Pardon me," he said, "may I ask whether that will has ever been regularly proven?"
"I think no legal steps were ever taken in the matter," said Madam Lefrette. "The will itself was preserved as a testimony of ​my father's affection for Marie, and not for any pecuniary value it was ever presumed to have."
"Nevertheless," returned the lawyer, "even as such testimonial it was worth placing upon record; and if you will pardon the officiousness, I would advise that it be done yet."
"If I thought it could be of advantage to Marie———" she commenced.
"I do not know that it would," Mr. Beman interposed; "but my experience as a lawyer has taught me the wisdom of allowing no paper, which on its face conveys a right, to remain imperfect for want of legal authentication."
"I am sure, mother," said Marie, "the gentlemen of the law understand these things better than we can."
"Of course," the widow said; "and I have often thought that something ought to have been done in the affair, out of respect for your grandfather's memory, if for no other reason."
"If you will allow me to do you this service, then," said Mr. Breman, "I will undertake to make the probate immediately."
By her mother's direction, Marie brought the will and gave it to Mr. Beman, who opened and perused it carefully from beginning to end. After ascertaining that it was all in due form, and learning that the subscribing witnesses, one of whom was the elder Le Vert, were still resident in Kaskaskia, he placed the paper in his pocket and resumed the conversation.
"I met this M. Le Vert a while ago," he said, "and shall have occasion to call on him again to-morrow, if, indeed, the communication I made to him do not bring him to me first; so there need be no delay."
"The communication must have been a very important one," said Marie with a smile, "if its effect is likely to be the unbending of his dignity so far."
"It was rather so," said the lawyer drily; and the conversation flowed in another channel.
Two or three hours passed pleasantly away. Mr. Beman was a man of varied observation, keen humor, and a kindness of heart, which had survived the assaults of years, and the hard experiences of ​professional life. This toned his manner, as well as tinged his thoughts, giving to both a quaint bonhommie, which kindly forbore to censure, yet could not fail to penetrate, the absurdities before it. A propriety of anecdote, and an unobtrusive cheerfulness, which gently interposed itself between his listeners and all gloomy thoughts, gave wings to moments, which condolence would have loaded. It was not until he rose to go, and she glanced out of the window, where the waning moon was tardily clearing the eastern horizon, and the stillness of the village indicated the approach of midnight, that Madame Lefrette became aware of the lapse of time.
"I ought to apologize for staying so long," said he; "but it is the nature of all apologies to be too late."
"An acknowledgment of the pleasure you have given us is in time, however," said Marie.
"And we shall always be glad to see you, Mr. Beman," said the widow, "without requiring apologies for pleasant visits."
The lawyer received the invitation as cordially as it was given; and then a pause ensued, during which he seemed debating within himself whether to go or sit down.
"Before I leave you," he said at last, as if his mind had settled upon his course, "I ought, perhaps, to say a few words on business. I would not trouble you with it at such a moment, but it is necessary you should hear the truth."
Madame Lefrette turned deadly pale. "I am sure," she said, "that you would———"
"Say nothing unpleasant," he interrupted, finishing the sentence, "except for imperative reasons: you are right. In a day or two, I shall set off for St. Louis, to be absent some weeks; and before my return you could not fail to hear what I am going to say—perhaps in a distorted form. Do n't be alarmed," he continued, with a smile to reassure her, "at my awkward way of preparing you for information, which, after all, requires no preparation."
"I suppose I know what you refer to," said the widow, faintly.
"I judged so, from some expressions you used a while ago. The 'Land and Emigration Company,' in which your husband held a large amount of stock, is, as I see you suspect, insolvent. But I am the ​assignee, and you may rest secure that your rights—and the rights of my young friend here—shall be protected."
"I would not have troubled you with this communication," he continued after a pause, "except to give you this assurance, and a little piece of advice: Let some acute and reliable friend immediately take out letters of administration upon your husband's estate; and let him, without delay, proceed to examine the accounts of the late partnership."
"Mr. Le Vert has undertaken to do so," said Madame Lefrette.
"I am aware of that," said the lawyer; "but it will be, as I told him this evening, taxing his good-will too far, to place him in circumstances of such temptation."
"Temptation!" exclaimed the widow, in surprise.
"Temptation," repeated the lawyer, decidedly. "I do not know that he would use the pen otherwise than for its legitimate purpose of rendering fair accounts; but the only means of making honesty certain, is to remove all temptation from its path."
After some further conversation, and a promise by Madame Lefrette to think seriously of his advice, Mr. Beman left them.
As the sound of his footsteps died away on the street, and his figure grew dim in the moonlight, Marie turned from the door, to which she had attended him, and approached the chair where her mother still sat, dejected and sorrowing.
"Mother, my dear," said she, placing her arms about the widow's neck, and smiling in her face, "you must not be cast down by these tidings; for I have a firm faith that this will turn out to be a blessing rather than a misfortune."
"It is not on account of the insolvency of this company, my daughter," said her mother, drawing her down upon a seat, "that I am cast down; for I have expected that result for a long time. It is only for your sake that I have ever wished to realize your father's visions; and it is now solely on your account that I regret their failure."
"If it have no worse effect than it has had to-night," said Marie, gayly, "I shall not quarrel with Fortune about it, mother. We have both spent a far more pleasant evening than we would have done ​otherwise; and for the future, Mr. Beman whispered two words to me at the door, which I shall adopt as a motto."
"What were they?" asked her mother.
"Courage and Patience."
The cloud floated away from her mother's brow, and she folded her daughter in her arms, with one of those caresses which express relief as well as affection.
"What communication do you suppose it was," asked Marie, after a pause, "that Mr. Beman made to M. Le Vert!"
"The same as that to us, I presume," her mother answered.
"And do you think that had any thing to do with Napoleon's failure to meet his father's engagement?" said she smilingly.
"I should hope not, indeed, Marie!"
"So should I," said the daughter, "for his sake, however."
"We must not do him injustice," urged the widow.
"Of course not." And Marie walked to the window, and stood gazing, her face radiant with smiles, upon the quiet, moonlit street.
The sudden announcement of De Cheville's death, at the fête, had given her a glimpse into the depths of her own heart. But duty and the exhortations of her mother had produced an effort which she had supposed effectual. And yet, when he, for whose sake she had thus struggled, and conquered, as she thought, remained absent even after announcing his coming, and contemptuously neglected to send reason or apology, she was far more rejoiced at her exemption from the visit, than offended at the slight.
Her conquest, it would seem, was not complete.
IV. A NEW HOME.
Two days after Mr. Beman's visit to the Lefrettes, it was gene rally known in Kaskaskia, that the "——— Land and Emigration Company" had made an assignment; and, in the absence of definite information, the most absurd rumors were in circulation. The names of various people were confidently mentioned as involved in the failure, who never owned a dollar of the stock, nor bought an acre of the land. It was stated that Le Vert was the assignee; that he had been ​made so, and had, also, sued out letters of administration, in order to save a portion of his deceased partner's estate; but that, on examination, he had discovered this to be impossible, since Lefrette's property would not pay five cents in the dollar of his liabilities.
Every body agreed in crediting these latter accounts; the more especially, as Le Vert was careful not to contradict, even if he did not encourage them. A little hesitation on the part of Madame Lefrette, growing out of an unwillingness to accept the suspicion for which she saw no reason but Beman's advice, had enabled him to secure the possession of his partner's property; and when he filed his inventory, which he did without delay, its statements consisted but too well with the current rumors. It appeared, from a careful examination of the partnership-books, that Lefrette, in his land speculations, had largely overdrawn his stock; and, so far from having any assets there, was, in fact, considerably in debt to the concern. Even the homestead, which sheltered his widow and daughter, had been mortgaged for more than its value; and, to make the ruin complete, Madame Lefrette had joined in the conveyance. Poverty, unmitigated by the saving of even a plank from the wreck, stared them inexorably in the face.
When the administrator, Le Vert, made his report of the state of affairs, he did so in the cold, business-like manner, which had always distinguished him; but Madame Lefrette imagined he was even more pompous than usual, as if expecting, and prepared to repel, an imputation of having produced rather than discovered the insolvency. She made no observation, however, and the important official was fain to depart, without even guessing what effect his announcement had upon the widow. He must have been considerably overawed, too—if the word be applicable to so dignified a gentleman—by her perfect freedom from agitation; for a declaration, which he had fully determined in his own mind to make in her actual presence, died upon his lips. On his way home, he wondered what could have possessed him. It could not have been shame for the intended meanness; for, whatever his pride or will resolved, his judgment approved, as both prudent and proper. Could it be the spiritual rebuke, which the presence of the injured always gives the wrong-doer? And was ​it for a wrong, not meditated, but accomplished, that his conscience now exacted tribute from his rigid manhood?
Madame Lefrette was a strong-minded woman, and was not cast down by the intelligence of her sudden reduction to poverty. She was not a masculine woman, however—one of those double-gendered animals, who, having over-ridden and disregarded all the proprieties of their station, and being, notwithstanding their hybrid nature, dimly conscious of the falsehood of their position—like the fox, who sought to have every body else's tail cut off because he had lost his own—now seek to make deformity a law, and hide their own disgrace, by degrading the whole sex; but a woman of true womanly instinets, whom affliction braced to fortitude, who recognized the Christian duty of endurance, and despised all weak repining. She calmly surveyed her position, estimated its inconveniences, accepted its necessities, and formed her resolution.
"We must leave this house immediately, Marie," said she, "and surrender it to the creditors."
"Had we not better wait," suggested Marie, "until Mr. Beman's return?"
"And be thrust out by process of law? Oh! no! And beside, I am sure it will discharge a larger debt if given up quietly, than if yielded only to vexatious litigation. We are very poor, it seems; but this must not make us dishonest."
Marie thought her mother was taking rather higher ground than the circumstances required. She was a woman; and, like all her sex, regarded dishonesty more as meanness than immorality; so that, in endeavoring to avoid it, she approached generosity more nearly than justice. Her daughter made no remark, however; and, on the following day, their preparations were begun for leaving the roof which had sheltered them for so many years. Before the end of the week the house was closed, and the mother and daughter were occupying a single small room in the modest residence of Madame Dupley—a widowed sister of the late M. Lefrette. The plump little figure of this lady was but the type of a heart well preserved; and, though like her sister-in-law, she had been left in poverty by the death of her husband, kindness and content remained. She bustled round so ​cheerfully to make her guests comfortable, and welcomed them so cordially to the room which she had hastily got ready for them, that it seemed that she was the obliged party, and not they to whom she was giving shelter.
"We shall live like three princesses," she said cheerily, at breakfast on the morning after the removal; "and," she added, glancing smilingly at Marie, "one of these bright mornings, some knight in rich armor will ride up to our castle-gate, and demand one of us in marriage. Which of us do you think it will be, Marie?"
"I hope he will have taste enough to ask for you, aunt," Marie answered with a laugh.
"No doubt he will," said the little woman, "if he don't see you first. But I hope he will not come soon,"
"He's not very likely to, I think," said Marie quietly; and a sudden look from her mother denoted that their thoughts were tending in the same direction.
Monsieur Lefrette had now been dead about seven weeks; and during the whole of that time Napoleon Le Vert had not once called. His father, as the reader knows, had once announced his coming. But on his way homeward, the same evening, that gentleman had met Mr. Beman, who informed him of Lefrette's insolvency, and Napoleon did not make his appearance. His absence could not be accounted for now, as it had been for a few days, by the necessity for keeping out of the way; for De Cheville was nearly recovered, and had declared his intention to give no further notice to the assault. The elder Le Vert came frequently to consult with the widow about the business of his administration; but at no time had he ever mentioned his son's name, or hinted at the engagement between him and Marie. Once, when Madame Lefrette alluded to it, he coldly changed the subject; and when he went away, the impression was left upon the widow's mind, that he had determined wholly to ignore the contract. She did not speak of this to her daughter, however; and the glance which passed between them at the breakfast-table, as we have related, was their first communication on the subject.
The insult thus evidently meditated was the more offensive be cause the affray between Le Vert and De Cheville had made the ​marriage-contract public talk; and while the meanness of the slight was thus made more conspicuous, the affront became more decided. As yet no observation had been made upon it; and judging from Marie's increasing cheerfulness, as week after week passed away without her seeing her future husband, it seemed that the person most interested was in truth the most indifferent. After the first shock of grief for her father, her spirits rose, as it appeared, in an inverse ratio to her reverses of fortune; and on the morning of which we are writing, when she left the table and went, singing, into the garden, it was with a joyousness which suggested, if it did not fully justify, the reflection of her mother. "She rejoices in our poverty, because it seems to have freed her from an irksome bond." She might lament the want of pride which thus quietly accepted the affront; but the mother's heart could not but feel happy in the happiness of her daughter.
Time passed more rapidly with the afflicted in their humble abode, and brought more speedily its healing influences than they had ever hoped. Their reduction to poverty had been so complete and irretrievable, that not even the usual effort to save a portion of the wreck harassed them with its sordid and recurring struggles. All was given up, without a murmur or a day's delay; and having thus severed their bonds with what was past, they were free, with energy and composure, to address themselves to that which was still before them.
The means of procuring at least the necessaries of life were soon furnished; for offers of service, which, however, they declined, except in the shape of such work as they were able to do, poured in from many, whose friendship thus took the course in which only it could benefit them. A few of their former friends had forgotten them; but of this they took no thought; and every succeeding day produced new proof that those who worthily deport themselves in prosperity will not be deserted in adversity.
Among the first who called upon them in their new home, and afterward the most frequent visitor, was our friend Monsieur Maillefert. It was he who first gave employment to their needles. But it subsequently transpired, through the garrulous and simple-minded ​Madam Dupley, who seemed to take great pleasure in descanting upon the Monsieur's kindness, that he had taken this step only after an ineffectual attempt to convey assistance to them, by placing money in her hands under an injunction of strict secrecy. Madam Lefrette blushed with offended pride when this came to her knowledge; but her attention was forcibly attracted by the warm praises bestowed upon the Frenchman by her enthusiastic sister-in-law; and it was remarked by both Marie and herself that these had more general reference to the little Master's character than to the generosity of this particular act. They observed also, that, although he never failed toward them in that delicate politeness which was his by the three-fold propriety of national, individual, and professional character, toward her his manner was far more impressive and devoted; and the fact that they had several times seen him leave the house when his entrance had not been notified to them, led them silently to suspect that the brisk little widow's commendations were as much the expression of a personal interest in him as of gratitude for friendly offices to them. This suspicion they never intruded upon their kind-hearted relative, however; and thus the quiet household went on for nearly two months.
Mr. Beman was still absent in St. Louis, or, at all events, not in Kaskaskia; although his proceedings, in the matters of his trust, were yet in progress, in both places. He had once written to De Cheville, who was now entirely recovered, in regard to some business, requesting at the same time that the young man would call upon the Lefrettes, before answering, and give him reliable information of their circumstances. But the latter had heard of Marie's engagement to young Le Vert; and being thus able to account for the assault upon him, believed that his visit could not be viewed otherwise than as an intrusion. He therefore contented himself with making minute inquiries of Monsieur Maillefert, on whose shady premises he spent much of his time, and communicating the result to his correspondent.
Notwithstanding this well-considered delicacy, however, De Cheville could not help haunting the neighborhood of her whom he loved; and this attraction might not only account for his remaining in Kaskaskia, but also for the singular intimacy which had grown up ​between him and the little maítre; for that polite gentleman's house was almost directly opposite to that of Madam Dupley. During the slow weeks of his convalescence the shaded garden-walks and airy corridors had given him a pleasant retreat; and now that he no longer needed such, habit and the nameless attraction stronger than habit, led him as constantly as ever to seek the tempered air and quiet precinct.
The subject of his conversations with M. Maillefert was far more frequently the widow and her daughter than comported with the prudence which had forbidden his calling, as Beman had requested. His friend needed little prompting on the theme; and had De Cheville been in daily intercourse with the household he could not have been better informed of every circumstance surrounding them.
Among all these, nothing disquieted him so much, and yet gave him so much unconscious pleasure, as the fact that, since her father's death Marie had not once seen her promised husband! As day after day and week after week passed by, and the indignant Monsieur still repeated that the absence was not yet broken, the impulse to seek her and offer a more faithful heart, which he had formed on first hearing of the young man's neglect, gained strength, and had now almost become a settled purpose. He still hesitated, however; and his resolution was but half-formed more than a month after his health was fully restored.
One afternoon toward the end of August, the friends were sitting on the eastern corridor, sheltered by vines and flowers from the glare of the summer day, and enjoying that most unalloyed of luxuries, a genuine Habana cigar, in a cool and balmy atmosphere. They had been speaking of Marie Lefrette, and the Monsieur was wondering, in his peculiar mosaic of English and French, how she could tamely and even cheerfully endure a neglect which had grown marked and offensive. He had, indeed, just come to a conclusion which made him start from his chair, and walk hastily from one end of the corridor to the other, as if the revelation of his own logic had been a startling communication.
"Ah!" he exclaimed, folding his arms and nodding his head, as if ​to some invisible interlocutor, "Oui! certainement! Of co'rse! Pourquoi, what for I not see, eh? d'avance?"
"See what, Monsieur? What is it you have not seen before?" asked his companion, smiling at his excitement.
"Dat she not love; she, Marie love Napoleon; non!"
"Do you really think so?" exclaimed De Cheville, almost rising to his feet, as if the thought had suddenly occurred to him also. "Re'ly! assurément! Ah! what you call? certainly!" he answered with great vehemence, striding rapidly toward the end of the corridor, and still nodding his head in growing conviction, as one circumstance after another arose to his memory. De Cheville sank back into his seat, and covered his face with his hands, while visions of happiness, which he had schooled himself to reject and discourage came thronging through his excited imagination.
He was recalled by the sound of a strange voice; and on looking up, perceived a middle-aged gentleman, wearing the unmistakable air and dress of a clergyman, who stepped upon the corridor and inquired for Monsieur Maillefert.
"Je suis l'homme, Monsieur," said that gentleman, halting before him with a courtly bow.
"My name is McAllen, Sir," the stranger said, returning his salutation. "I have some business with a Madame Lefrette, who lives near here, and have been referred to you, as a person probably willing to accompany me to her. I knew her father," he added, apologetically, "in my boyhood, but am not personally acquainted with her."
"I go with mosh plaisure, Sare," said M. Maillefert. "You stay, mon ami?" he added, to De Cheville. "I return—what you call!—forthwith! Allons, Monsieur!"
The two walked away toward Madame Dupley's, leaving De Cheville pacing, with an unquiet step and perplexed face, up and down the half-covered corridor. He paused from time to time at the end next the street, and once stepped down upon the walk, as if to follow Monsieur Maillefert and the stranger; but the next moment a shade of irresolution crossed his brow, and he reluctantly and slowly retraced his steps. He felt as if drawn by an almost irresistible ​attraction toward the house just entered by his friend; yet the timidity of strong affection, and the delicacy of his character, restrained the impulse.
The stranger bowed low as he entered the presence of Madame Lefrette; and as M. Maillefert introduced him, the name awakened recollections, vague, however, and indefinite. She received him with quiet politeness; but was somewhat disturbed when the little monsieur declined the seat offered him, and left them evidently under the impression that there was something in the visit which required privacy.
"I believe, Madam," said the clergyman, "that you are the daughter of the late Lee Farrington, formerly of B——— county, in Kentucky?"
"I am, Sir," she said, inclining her head.
"I was sorry to learn," he resumed, "on my arrival here, that he was no longer living; for I had hoped to do an act of justice which was but too long delayed. Do you recollect ever to have seen Miller McAllen?"
"I have heard the name frequently," said she, "but was too young when I was in Kentucky to remember him, if I had seen him, which I did not."
"He was my father," resumed the stranger. "He died a few months ago, in New-Orleans, where he had been residing since my boyhood. With almost his last breath," he continued, drawing a paper from his pocket, "he directed me to place this dying declaration in your father's hands, and to ask his forgiveness for a grievous wrong done many years ago. It now belongs to you."
She took the paper, and without opening it waited for explanation. It was evidently an unpleasant duty to the stranger; and this rendered his narrative somewhat rambling and involved. We had better, therefore, simply state the contents of the paper.
It set out that the declarant, Miller McAllen, had been many years before a trusted agent of Mr. Farrington, a young man of fortune, from Virginia, who had emigrated to Kentucky, and become the owner of a large amount of property there, consisting chiefly of a very extensive grant of land. Farrington was careless and roving, ​easily disgusted with the details of business, and trusting his affairs implicitly to agents. About the year 179–, he had gone on a visit to the Western frontier settlements, leaving his affairs in great confusion. Before going, he had executed a lease for the term of five years, conveying about two-thirds of his land to one Robert Crabell, and placing him in possession. This lease had been executed in duplicate, one copy being given to Crabell, and the other retained, as Farrington's agent, by the declarant, who was the only witness. With this, was also left in McAllen's possession the original grant, upon which Farrington's title rested.
The proprietor himself remained so long in the West that a rumor gained credence that he had been killed by the Indians; and the rapid influx of emigration enhanced the value of the land so much as to present a strong temptation to those in whose power it thus seemed, to possess themselves of the legal title. The accidental destruction of the public records of the district strengthened the purpose, and rendered it safe. The two papers in McAllen's keeping were the only existing muniments of title.
Crabell and his two brothers-in-law, who were in possession, were aware of this state of things, and immediately opened a negotiation with McAllen to secure the papers. He declined to part with them on any terms; but, after several weeks of hesitation, finally agreed, for a bribe of ten thousand dollars, to destroy them. Crabell and his confrères had not so much money; and it thus became necessary to take into their counsel other persons, willing to furnish the cash. It was these other persons with whom Farrington afterward, carried on his ineffectual and ruinous legal controversies.
The iniquitous bargain was concluded; but in the very moment of its execution, one of those sudden and unaccountable "accesses of conscience" which sometimes come to the greatest villains, arrested McAllen's hand. Instead of burning the papers, as he assured his conspirators he had done, he placed them securely in his own strong box. Subsequently, disturbed by their possession, and pressed by conscience, he disposed of them in a way which quieted him with the fallacious hope that they might one day fall into the proper hands, but which, it seemed, had resulted in a loss as total as if they had ​been burnt. He had them built into the chimney of a house, then being erected for an office, and thus effectually concealed.
"This house," the declaration went on to say, "is the one now occupied by Mr. Beman as an office, in P———, Kentucky; and the papers will be found in the chimney, on the south side, five courses of brick from the floor."
"But," said the clergyman, at this point, "I have been to P———, according to my father's direction, and found that the old building has been torn away for more than six months, and a new house is now in process of erection on the same site."
"If I am not mistaken," said Madame Lefrette, "I hear the voice of this same Mr. Beman." And a moment afterward that gentleman was ushered into the room.
CONCLUSION.
Monsieur Maillefert, as we have said, declined the seat offered him, and went in search of the brisk little widow Dupley. He found her without difficulty; and, in view of his age and well-accredited character for steadiness, I grieve to relate that his first movement was to throw his arm, with a graceful flourish, around her plump figure, and sans cérémonie, snatch two or three kisses from her full red lips. The robbery was, however, not very fiercely resisted; and an observer might even have suspected that it was not the first depredation. A merry laugh and a volley of French raillery, discharged as only a Frenchwoman can manage such a fusillade, were his only punishment. She did not remove the hand which grasped her waist until, after half an hour spent in walking, like two younger lovers, up and down the floor, they were interrupted by the knock of Mr. Beman. A little vexed, even then, at the interruption, she ran to the door, and having shown the lawyer to Madame Lefrette's room, came hastily back to her youthful swain.
The brief interlude, however, had given him time to recollect himself; and he was about to take his leave, excusing himself upon the ground that he had left De Cheville waiting for him, when she ​suggested that he call the latter over, declaring that she had not seen him for an age, and always did love him infiniment!
It needed but this to overcome De Cheville's wavering resolution; and when the pair came to the gate and beckoned him across, the alacrity with which he obeyed the summons but faintly evinced his pleasure. He might not see Marie; but even to stand at the threshold of her residence was a happiness not to be foregone.
His foot had hardly passed the gateway when the little widow almost overwhelmed him with voluble questions and congratulations upon his recovery.
"Blood-letting must agree with me," he said, with a smile, "if your compliments are as true as they would be addressed to yourself."
Monsieur Maillefert grasped his hand cordially.
"Mon ami," he cried, "you speak true—vary—Eh? Madame is my vife, sare—dat is—vary soon!"
"Why! listen to the crazy little man!" exclaimed the merry widow, with a twinkle in her bright black eye, which contradicted her denial. "I assure you I have just rejected him tout de bon!"
"Call me as a witness against her!" suddenly cried Marie Lefrette, springing, with a laugh, from the shelter of some shrubbery, toward which De Cheville's back had been turned. She had mistaken him for some one else, through the leafy screen; and was now advancing with a quick step and smiling face, when he suddenly turned toward her. An exclamation of surprise, and a blush to the very temples, accompanied the recognition. She hastily paused, and seemed about to fly, when De Cheville advanced, and, with an eager, though respectful gesture, took her hand.
"You seem surprised to see me," said he, in a low tone, "and perhaps I ought to apologize for the intrusion; but———"
"Oh! no, indeed!" she interrupted, eagerly.
"Oh! no, indeed!" repeated her aunt, laughing; "she is only a little vexed because you did not come sooner!"
"Aunt Dupley," said Marie, recovering her self-possession, and shaking her finger playfully at the merry little bride-expectant, "would you like to have me tell what I saw in the parlor half an hour ago?"
​"We will not stay to hear it," she answered, with an affectation of disdain, which, however, did not conceal the blush that covered her rosy cheek. "Come, Monsieur," she continued, taking his arm, "I have never shown you my new flower-beds; will you go to see them now?"
The Monsieur bowed a courtly acquiescence, and the pair set off toward the garden.
"Will you not let us admire them too, aunt?" said Marie, hastily, as if afraid of being left alone.
"Oh! yes," she answered; " you may come along, if Monsieur De Cheville will pledge himself for your good behavior."
"I'll give you a bond if you wish it," said De Cheville, offering Marie his arm. This, however, she declined, and walked on by his side, talking rapidly, and with some excitement in her manner, as if fearful of the introduction of some unpleasant subject. De Cheville observed this, but, with a sigh, endeavored to reply to her in her own strain. They followed her aunt and the Monsieur, pausing from time to time, as the former directed their attention to various improvements in her tasteful plats and beds, until they had nearly reached the lower end of the garden. Here two or three native trees of the forest had been surrounded by a circle of exotic shrubs and plants; these had reared their luxuriant heads to the lower branches, and formed within a cool pavilion of green foliage. A narrow entrance had been left on the southern side, and within were erected several rustic benches. At this point Madame Dupley and her cavalier suddenly disappeared; and Marie and De Cheville, supposing they had entered, passed in and found themselves secluded and alone!
"Why! where can they have gone?" she exclaimed, calling loudly, but tremulously, her aunt's name.
No answer was returned, save the echoes of her own voice, coming back from the surrounding solitude.
"They are somewhere near," she said, trembling in every limb; "let us search for them." And she approached the entrance.
"Marie," said De Cheville, all his resolutions melting away before the temptation of opportunity, "will you not remain here with me for a few moments?"
​He took her hand as he spoke, and gently drew her, yielding reluctantly, to a seat. Then, without premeditation, he dropped upon one knee before her, and poured forth that eloquence which gushes from a full and loving heart. She covered her face with her hands as he proceeded, and tears of mingled happiness and sorrow evinced the conflict of her emotions.
In the mean time Mr. Beman had been introduced to McAllen, and had listened attentively to his story, and carefully read the declaration.
"You say," said he, "that you have carefully examined the place of deposit indicated here, which, singularly enough, seems to have been my office?"
"Yes, sir," McAllen answered; "and the workmen said they had seen nothing of any papers in taking down the chimney. I even had the floors lifted, and a strict search made; but was reluctantly forced to the conclusion that the papers had been destroyed."
"If we had those documents," said Beman, musingly, "this declaration would be, though not strictly legal evidence, of great service. By establishing the fact of your father's death we might be permitted to prove his hand-writing. But, as it is, this seems only to ascertain that a great wrong has been done, without giving the means of righting it."
He was interrupted by the entrance of the elder Le Vert, who accompanied his announcement with a stately bow first, to Madame Lefrette, and then to the two gentlemen, and, declining the seat offered him, at once addressed the former.
"I have but a few moments to spare," he said, in that tone which seemed to declare his time more valuable and his business more important than those of any one else; "will you allow me to speak with you in private, Madam?"
Madame Lefrette rose, and without replying, led the way into another room. Here be again declined a seat, and without preface, with the rashness which always indicates the trepidation of fear or of conscious meanness, declared his business.
"My son, Napoleon," he commenced, "informed me to-day that he has not seen your daughter for several weeks."
​"He informed you truly, Sir," said Madame Lefrette, calmly; "he has not seen her since her father's death disclosed her poverty."
Le Vert had the grace almost to blush, but went on:
"I had for some time suspected something of the sort———"
Madame Lefrette smiled quietly in his face; she knew he had been fully aware of it.
"———and," he continued, more rapidly, "what Napoleon told me, only confirmed my apprehension, that "his engagement with Marie had become somewhat irksome to both parties; and that, in short———"
"In short," she interposed, calmly, "it were better broken off. Is not that what you mean?"
"Well—that is———" he began.
"I quite agree with you," she interrupted. "And now let it be considered ended, expressly, as it has been tacitly, for some time."
"Nay," said the old gentleman, "its end must date from this moment—as a mutual agreement—neither party being liable to the charge of bad faith."
"Let it be so, then," she said with a scornful smile; for she divined his thoughts. "Legal proceedings, in such matters, are not to my taste."
"It is settled, then," he returned, unbending his dignity a little, "and I hope without unkind feeling?"
"With heartfelt rejoicing, rather," she replied, accepting his hand for a moment, and returning his profound salutation, as he bade her a stately adieu.
Madame Dupley and M. Maillefert entered the room as he left it.
"Can you tell me where Marie is?" asked Madame Lefrette. "We have just left her in the garden," the little widow replied, with a glance of merry intelligence toward Monsieur Maillefert, which that gentleman returned with a twinkle of his laughing eye. Madame Lefrette did not observe this telegraphing, but went immediately in search of her daughter. Passing along the main walk, a few moments brought her near the natural summer-house, where we left De Cheville and Marie. Here the tones of his voice, not loud, but impassioned and trembling, came, softened by the leafy screen, ​but still distinctly audible. The mother paused to listen; and, as she recognized the voice, a flush of surprise and pleasure crossed her handsome face.
"But I must speak now," De Cheville said, apparently in reply to her imploring for delay. "I have been silent until the words will no longer be restrained; my heart is too full, and I must speak now. You know how I have loved you how long, and how well. I will not believe—nay, I can not believe—that you have been indifferent to that love. Let me, at least, hear you say that I have not built my hopes altogether upon the sand; that, whatever your feelings may be to-day, in times past you have known, and felt, and appreciated, the devotion I have given you!"
"But, De Cheville," she sobbed, "you know I am not free; you know I am———"
"Engaged to another. I know it; I do know it!" he exclaimed impetuously. "But I know, also, that you have not seen him during all the afflictions through which you have passed. I know that he shuns you like a stranger, leaving you to bear your burden alone! This engagement no longer binds you! You can not—I am sure, you can not—give up the devotion I offer you, for a hand which, if ever given at all, will be as cold as ice!"
Marie's convulsive sobbing could no longer he restrained; it became audible even where her mother stood, and seemed the very bursting of her heart. A tear of maternal sympathy filled the eye of the latter; a tear of sympathy, yet, also, of happiness. "This is too great a trial for her," she thought; and, advancing toward the arbor, called her daughter's name. Marie sprang to her feet, and was hastily drying her tears when her mother appeared at the door.
"You need not wipe them away, Marie," said she, smiling with an expression which made De Cheville's heart spring to his throat. "I have overheard enough to satisfy me that you had better let them flow; for I am sure they are as much tears of joy as of sorrow."
Marie threw herself in her mother's arms, and gave way to her weeping. Madame Lefrette placed her hand tenderly upon her bead, and looked at De Cheville.
"You love her, then?" she said.
​"I do," he replied fervently, "better than life!"
"And wish to make her yours?" she continued.
"I do," he again replied. "She has told me———"
"I heard what she said," interrupted the mother. "And now I must have some conversation with her. Will you continue in the same mind till to-morrow, think you?"
De Cheville smiled faintly. "I fear I shall," said he.
"Very well, then," Madame Lefrette continued; "come to us at three to-morrow, and Marie shall give you your answer. Can you curb your impatience so long?"
"I will try," he said, and with a bow, left the mother and daughter alone together.
In justices' courts, it is always two o'clock till the third hour is complete; but among the suitors in the courts of Cupid, the "practice" is reversed; and no lover ever had an appointment which he did not meet before the time. De Cheville was no exception to the remark.
At least half an hour before three o'clock, on the following day, his patience was exhausted, and his nervous eagerness beyond resistance. He walked resolutely to the house where the great question of his life was to be solved, and was archly shown into the parlor by Madame Dupley. Marie's mother sat near the window, alone. It was with a sinking heart that he took the seat to which she directed him. His voice was hardly sufficient to reply to her grave observation upon the fineness of the weather.
Other common-places followed, solemn as a funeral. A quarter of an hour passed, and De Cheville believed himself older by, at least, a twelve-month. He was about to rise and retire—deeming this only a delicate way of conveying a negative—when the voice of Marie was heard upon the corridor, and Madame Lefrette suddenly turned toward him.
"Your mind has not changed, Monsieur?" she asked hastily.
De Cheville began awkwardly to protest his undying fidelity, when Marie's entrance interrupted him.
​"Enough, I understand," said Madame Lefrette; and, rising, she approached her daughter, who had paused suddenly, in surprise at seeing him already present. Her mother took her hand, and placed it in his.
"This is her answer," she said, and glided from the room, leaving the pair, with joined hands, gazing bewildered into each other's eyes. De Cheville was the first to recover himself; with a sudden and passionate gesture, he caught her to his bosom. Madame Lefrette closed the door.
To her infinite surprise, almost at the threshold, she met Monsieur Le Vert and Mr. Beman! To the latter she gave her hand; to the former, a salutation as stately, though not so eager, as his own.
"Walk into this room, gentlemen," said she, leading them away from the parlor, which she deemed already sufficiently tenanted.
"I have called to-day," M. Le Vert commenced, as soon as they were seated, "to correct a mistake into which I unfortunately fell yesterday; and I do so at the request of Napoleon, who is very much distressed———"
"Indeed!" said Madame Lefrette, in surprise.
"He is, indeed, Madame: Mr. Beman will confirm it."
"I believe what he says is quite true," said that gentleman, with, however, an equivocal smile.
"I asked him to accompany me," continued Le Vert, "in order to avouch the distress of my son———"
"And to be a witness of your conversation," interpolated Beman.
"And—yes—to hear me acknowledge how much mistaken I have been," the anxious father continued, "and to propose, for the happiness of my son, and, I trust, of your daughter, that the engagement between them may be reinstated on its former footing. Napoleon would have come in person; but he insisted that I should first undo the evil I alone had done."
"Is there any thing behind all this, Mr. Beman?" asked the widow, appealing to him as if at a loss what to say.
"Only half-a-million of dollars," drily answered the lawyer.
"Villain!" exclaimed Le Vert, springing to his feet as if to strike him.
​"Keep cool, Monsieur," calmly remonstrated Beman, "until I explain. You are aware, Madame," he continued, turning quietly to the widow, "that the recovery of your father's estates would have been easy, but for the loss of two papers and the disappearance of one witness. Those two papers I have for some time had in my possession. I did not mention the fact to you, because the witness was still to be found, and I did not wish to raise hopes that might be disappointed. The grant, or warrant, alone, was not sufficient; for the 'Statute of Limitations'—which enacts that if you can continue a wrong for a certain number of years, the law will perpetuate it by pronouncing it a right—would have cut us off; and the rules applying to the lease—a part of whose meaning is, that no wrong can be righted until you have first proven that no wrong has been committed—would have enabled the other party to put us upon the proof of the signatures. But for the opportune appearance of Mr. McAllen, this would have been impossible. Now, we shall be able to recount for the witness, and for the custody of the papers; and shall, also, be able to introduce other testimony, which would otherwise have been excluded.
"All this, you will say," continued the lawyer, "does not explain the sudden revolution disclosed in the sentiments of Napoleon Le Vert and his father. But listen a few moments. About two thousand dollars will be necessary in order to prosecute the affair to a successful issue. I knew you could not raise this; but I had heard that the young man and Marie were to be married, and I therefore, this morning, told him the whole story. I must do him and his father the justice to say, that they promptly offered to furnish the money—informing me, at the same time, of the mistake of yesterday, and exacting a promise that I would accompany Monsieur Le Vert hither, and throw my weight into the scale."
"Your weight will hardly be sufficient, Sir," said. Madame Lefrette, waving her hand to silence Le Vert, who was about to speak.
"I am aware of that," said Beman calmly, "and rejoice that it is ​so. Sinee this morning, I have had a conversation with Monsieur Maillefert, who made no scruple to tell me of Marie's preference for De Cheville. He, also, at once furnished the requisite money, for which I gave him a receipt, as your attorney; but not until he had established his right to do this kindness, by informing me that he is about to become your brother-in-law!"
"Is this true, Madame?" exelaimed Le Vert, purple with passion, and hardly able to wait for Beman to conclude. "Is my son jilted for this upstart?"
"I can not permit this language here, Sir," said she, with eyes flashing the ire of insulted pride.
"Let me represent you," said Beman quietly. "Monsieur, I think your negotiation has failed, and you had better let me escort you to the door. And," he added in a low tone, as the discomfited old gentleman allowed himself to be gently ejected, "you may consider yourself well off, if I do not too closely scan your accounts as administrator!"
A look of consternation was his only reply; at least, if he intended any other, Beman did not wait for it, but closed the door and returned to the window.
About the middle of October—when the "Indian summer" had veiled the prairies, and the distant woods wore a hazy blue, and the sky seemed charged with rain that never fell—one pleasant evening, when the winds were low, and the moon rose dusky red, and the stars shone faintly through the gauzy screen—after sunset, when the darkness had come in, yet the daylight lingered still, when the gay Kaskaskians were all upon the street, and care was driven out by laughter—a stream of guests, of every age and sex, began to pour into the house of Monsieur Maillefert. The master and mistress, who had been married a month, at the close of the carnival-honeymoon, were celebrating a sort of "Pancake Tuesday;" but the brightness of their faces, and their unaffected joyousness of manner, gave no token of the matrimonial Lent, which the world supposes invariably to follow that ​festival. Ash Wednesday never came in the nuptial calendar of that simple pair.
The Monsieur's closing fête, but for the sad affray between De Cheville and Le Vert, had been a grand affair; but this occasion quite eclipsed its grandeur. Female hands had now been busied with the preparations; female taste had twined the wreaths, and arranged the flowers, and decorated the rooms; and not a guest, of all that company, came in without admiring the proofs of female presence.
Before eight o'clock the house was full; and yet, although the buzz of animated conversation and the ring of merry laughter filled the air, the stated pleasures of the evening had not yet commenced. Monsieur Maillefert and his joyous little wife had quietly slipped away for half an hour or more, but no body was surprised at their absence. They had crossed the street to witness the marriage ceremony between Marie Lafrette and De Cheville, and all knew that they would soon return, bringing with them the happy pair, in whose honor the company was assembled.
Their absence seemed protracted to the waiting throng; but at length the word was passed that they were coming, and a little procession of about a dozen persons, all decked with wreaths and flowers, and in bridal and holiday attire, came marching, in a shadowy though shining train, across the moonlit street. Gay groups of friends assembled at the gate, and welcomed the bride and bridegroom, who led the little cortège. Then came the mother, cheerful and calm, leaning upon the arm of Mr. Beman. The active aunt, with her springing step, kept even pace with her laughing husband. Kisses and congratulations were showered on them all, and jest and laugh went round the groups, as if each were striving to be merrier than all others.
The host's clear voice was now heard calling them within, and—a summons quite as moving—notes of preparation from the fiddles came mellowed through the windows. The company in the large saloon retired to the walls; the Monsieur led De Cheville and his bride, with a grace unrivalled, to the head of the room; the dancers took their places. At a signal from the master, the fiddlers drew their bows with a vigor known only to those primitive days. De ​Cheville took Marie's hand, and all admired the lithe and bending figures, as they floated down the room. Close after them came Monsieur Maillefert and his active bride, with rapid feet and cloudless faces; and then such crossing in and out, such swinging right and left, such airy harmony of movement, such natural grace and deep enjoyment have not been seen in Kaskaskia since the Monsieur's school was closed.
With a delicate, though healthy, bloom upon her cheeks, with eyes sparkling happiness and love, the young bride seemed wafted through the figure; and when, with one bright glance into his eyes, she placed her arm within De Cheville's, and retired from the floor, a murmur of unenvying admiration passed along the ranks of pleased spectators.
As they approached the window, and stood leaning there, a passing figure, muffled in a cloak, paused for a moment, and looked in. Could they have seen the fierce hatred of that look, so happy as they were, they could but have pitied him from whose heart such bitterness could rise. They saw him not, however; and, with that devilish glance, he gathered up his cloak, and passed on. It was Napoleon Le Vert, who thus gazed on what his mercenary soul had lost him.
After midnight the fête broke up; but the memory of that evening did not pass away with the night; for many an old Kaskaskian can recall this brilliant commencement of the happy married life of De Cheville and his peerless bride.
And so to conclude. Soon after his marriage, De Cheville discovered that he had acquired, unawares, one of the greatest fortunes then in the West; but, as the prospect had not influenced, the possession did not injure, him. Both he and his yet lovely wife have borne themselves meekly in their prosperity; and if an austere economist might carp at the style of their living, he could, at least, never reproach them with vulgar ostentation, of reckless profusion in unworthy pursuits or for unworthy objects, nor instance any refusal of assistance to the needy and deserving. De Cheville occupies a high federal station; and his ​wife, in the very bloom of her matronly beauty, is still one of the fairest ornaments of her brilliant circle.
A year after Marie's nuptials, the attachment which had quietly grown up between her mother and Mr. Beman, but which had never been expressed, was spoken and acknowledged; and when she had given a few more months to her weeds, in the beginning of the Christmas feasts, she exchanged them for new bridal ornaments.
The light-hearted and amiable Monsieur Maillefert and his kind and active spouse have both gone to their rest; but a son and a daughter faithfully bring down their memories, and honor them by blameless lives.
But two of our dramatis persona remain to be accounted for; the elder and younger Le Vert.
The former settled up the business of his administration, without interference from any quarter, and, it is to be hoped, to his own satisfaction. His trade was rapidly increased, and streams of affluence poured in upon him for several years, precisely as if his capital had been honestly acquired. But the evil propensities of his son, developed by enlarged means of dissipation, were a fountain of bitterness in his later years; and the consequences of a brawl, in which the latter had committed a homicide, during one of his annual visits to New-Orleans, gave a blow to both the health and fortune of the former, from which he never recovered. Napoleon escaped the penalty of his crime; but it was at the cost of nearly all his father's hard-earned and ill-gotten gains; and as, after this, the elder sank rapidly into poverty and imbecility, the younger speedily reached the depths to which gambling and drunkenness drag their votaries. He finally died in a disgraceful rencontre in the streets of the same city where he had so narrowly escaped a death but little different.
The quaint old town of Kaskaskia still holds a place upon the map; and light hearts and simple lives are as numerous there as ever. She has long been overshadowed by her neighbors; but if, in her quiet streets, she miss the active bustle of the marts of commerce, and lose something of the exhilaration of enterprise, she gains far more in amiable cheerfulness, whose calm is not broken by the heated passions, and sordid schemes of more engrossing pursuits.
* ↑ Whose wife, on the taking of the place in 1778, by Gen. George R. Clarke, concealed or destroyed all his public papers; and by the loss of many grants and charters, was the cause of infinite confusion in land-titles.
* ↑ Id est, before you can avoid the operation of the "Statute" named in the text, (in matters of ejectment,) you must prove that there has been no "adverse," or wrongful, "possession."