University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.
HOW SANSOUCY RELATED A FAIRY TALE WITH REAL PERSONAGES,
FOR HIS FRIEND'S AMUSEMENT.

Sansoucy's face remained thus shadowed for a moment,
and his eyes seemed to wander far away to other scenes
of joy or of pain, of sorrow or of happiness—which, no
one could tell, for his brow was inscrutable.

Then sighing, he said, as his face cleared up again:

“Ah, my picture—you are looking at my picture?”

“Yes: you have often referred to it,” said Incledon,
with a slight smile, “and I think it is not a fancy piece.”

“No.”

And with the quickness habitual to him, Sansoucy
passed from smiles to thoughtfulness, from merriment to
sadness.

“Tell me who it is, Ernest!” said his friend, “it seems
to me I have seen the face before.”

“Perhaps—yes, who knows,” murmured Sansoucy

“Have I seen it?”

“It is not improbable.”

“It has a history?”

“Yes—a sort of history: for me. That, Ralph,” said
Sansoucy, with his old pensive smile, “is one of the ligaments
which bind me to the past. I often dream over
that face, and perhaps my lonely musings upon the original
have had more to do with my oddity, as you call it—

my love for my recollections, and my dreams—than I
know of.”

“You speak in riddles.”

“I am a poor Sphynx—I am not stone!” he said,
sadly.

“Speak then without enigmas.”

Sansoucy passed his hand across his brow, and the sad,
wistful smile came to his countenance again.

“Well, I will,” he said.

“I listen”

“Will a fairy tale, with real personages, suit you?”

“Perhaps.”

“Listen then; but first take a look at the drawing, and
tell me what you think of it.”

Incledon obeyed, and after gazing for some time at the
picture, said:

“I have seldom seen a face of greater or fresher beauty.
The child must have been about twelve years old.”

“Only eleven!” murmured Sansoucy.

“Her hair was probably auburn—her eyes grey,” said
Incledon, smiling.

“No, no!—she had the most beautiful golden tresses,
and her eyes were as `azure as the heavens'—as Pope said
of Swift, you you know,” he murmured.

“Ah? she must have been beautiful. There is a frank
look of candor and innocence about it, like a French
study of La Salle's I have somewhere seen.”

“In fact, that was the distinguishing characteristic of
her countenance.”

“Well, now we have seen the portrait, let us have the
story.”

“The story?”

“Did you not promise a fairy tale, with real personages?”

“True, true! Listen, then.”

And Sansoucy smiled in his old sad, wistful way.

“There was once a country where the roses always
seemed to bloom,” he said, sighing, “where the winds
were always May-day breezes—where the streams ran far
more merrily than elsewhere—and where the birds sang
more sweetly than the nightingales of Cashmere. You
see, I commence in the Oriental fashion; but I shall go on
less poetically. Well, in this beautiful country, which you
may call, if you choose, the Virgin land, a boy was born,
and a girl—the boy was older. The name of the boy
was Ernest—the name of the girl, Aurelia.”

“Ernest!” said his friend smiling. “why that is your
name.”

“Yes.”

“A striking coincidence.”

“Yes, very striking.”

“Well.”

“Well,” continued Sansoucy, smiling dimly, “the boy
and the girl, it happened, lived very near each other—indeed
their fathers' houses were in sight of each other, and
they often wandered down to the clear stream which
separated the domains.”

“Yes.”

“The girl was a mere child, but very beautiful; and

they wandered on so long together through the fairy-land
of youth, that one day Ernest found that his poor heart
had gone from him and had come into possession of the
child who wandered with him. He did not realize this as
a thing familiar to the world—the old experience of all
since Adam—but regarded it as his own dear secret—
what the children of men had never felt before. He
cherished it in his heart of hearts as his boyhood's
treasure, and all his life was changed and glorified by it,
and he felt the throb which preludes the strong passion of
the full-grown man.”

“Who knows but his feeling was all the purer,” said
Incledon.

“Perhaps it was. In truth, no sentiment could have
been more innocent, and disinterested, and elevated, than
his love. In the child's presence he was happy; away
from her, life seemed nothing to him but a poor, sad
phantasmagoria, where no sun shone, no pure music filled
the air for him.

“Wandering along the banks of the brook, hand in
hand, they advanced not over material, gross earth, but on
a carpet, softer and more splendid than that fairy tissue
unrolled by Aladdin for his beloved princess. The landscape
was not ordinary meadow, hill and forest, but the
land of illusion and romance, with a boundless horizon of
verdure and delight.”

“He must have been in love.”

“He was; and when he took the child in his arms, to
carry her across the brook, or wove the pure, faint, wildflowers
into a crown for her, and placed it on her forehead,

he thought that heaven had sent to bless his life, one of
those pure angels of our dreams, which never alight and
stay on earth.”

“Poor fellow!” said Incledon, smiling.

“Oh, no! not poor!—he was rich! Rich as the lord
of Potosi, or the fabulous splendors of the Caliphat! He
never lived when absent from her—in her presence all the
birds of spring seemed singing, and the world was dead
for him—she only in his existence!”

“What a strange feeling towards so mere a child!”

“He was but a child himself—but she was far beyond
her age. She was one of the most perfectly finished characters
I ever knew—”

“You knew her then!”

“Yes, yes!” said his friend, smiling, wistfully, “and
never have I seen such loveliness. She had the tenderest
and softest voice I have ever heard; and when she sang,
you paused to listen as to a bird of the tropics singing
from a land of unimagined beauty. I have seen a room
full of persons stop talking to listen to her; and the frank
kindness of the child's face made every one her friend who
knew her. She had the most perfect simplicity and gentleness;
and when she laughed you thought that she had
uttered the wittiest and most brilliant speech imaginable.
Poor Ernest!—what wonder that he loved his little
Aurelia! To know her was to love her; and her friendship
was a `liberal education.' See how I prose upon
the subject, wearying you with all this tirade. Well! the
day came at last, as it always comes to children, when the

world stretched out its hard, mailed hand, and pushed
them asunder.”

“They parted!”

“Yes; and their last interview was by the stream where
they had been so happy. Ernest drew well—and sitting
down, he outlined that picture, which he afterwards
filled up.”

“He gave it to you?”

“Perhaps!—the word that expresses the genius of
France—from which country my family originally came,
for we are Huguenots. Well, well; the boy placed the
picture on his heart, and for a moment he held to that
poor beating heart the tender form of one who cried and
shook, and would not part with him. Then he tore himself
away, and went to Bordeaux, and thence to Nantz,
visiting his numerous relations, who had never forgotten
their American branch. He returned in three or four
years, having travelled and `seen life'—poor life, which
was nothing to him, without a heart. He came back then,
and found the family had gone to another part of the
country. He went thither—and saw Aurelia, and was
met with cold embarrassment, as though memory to her
was only a regret. `From the double blow he did not
rise.' He returned home, and burying himself in his
chamber, reflected on the miserable texture of human
things, which made him thus a stranger to the only heart
he coveted, and which he thought was his own. She had
grown indifferent, he did not return, and so they remained
apart—but not wholly. She lived doubly—in his heart,
and yonder, before his eyes!”

Sansoucy smiled sadly, and pointed to the picture.

“You have related a very pretty little fairy tale for my
amusement—”

“A chapter of real life, which is quite as full of magic
as the Arabian Nights.”

“And I should return you my thanks,” added Incledon,
“What became of your friend Ernest?”

“He went away and became a poor journalist, and had
a friend named Incledon, who laughed at his romantic
folly.”

“That was very wrong in his friend. Now let us leave
these things of the past and return to real life. Do you
go to the ball to-night?”

“I don't know.”

“You know the scheme?”

“What?”

“That the dresses worn by the ladies are to be duly
given to the poor to-morrow.”

“Truly!”

“That is it.”

“I'm glad I'm not a paterfamilias, with a brace of
party-going daughters.”

“Oh, the dresses will be very plain.”

“Good.”

“And persons who would not go to these assemblies at
other times, will attend.”

“That is easily understood.”

“I, you know, have very little fancy for such things,
which are best avoided by professing Christians, though
there is no deadly sin involved.”

“Good! I agree with you.”

“You will go?”

“Why, yes; it will be a pretty spectacle.”

“I wish to introduce you to some lady friends.”

“Thanks—with pleasure!”

“Very well,” said Incledon, “the evening is drawing on,
and I must go and dress. Don't fail,” he said, rising, and
putting on his overcoat.

“Count upon me.”

“There will be a press; come early.”

“I am one of the press—I live in and by it. There,
my dear fellow, admire my brilliant witticism. You must
go? Well, good-bye for the present. I shall finish my
pipe!”

And they parted.