43. CHAPTER XLIII.
IN WHICH A CHARIOT ARRIVES.
“Well friend,” said the stranger, issuing forth with St.
John from the Apollo chamber of the “Raleigh,” “you see
the game's afoot! the leashes are loosed, and the dogs of
war bay on the track!”
“Your prophecies rush to their fulfillment truly!”
“They were not such—they were mere announcements.
And now, friend, I must go. My work calls me. Events
tread on each other's heels, and minutes grow to days. I
have told you where to find me, if you wish, in the capital.”
And saluting his companion, the stranger turned away
and was lost in the depths of the crowd.
St. John returned slowly to his lodgings, and sitting
down remained for a long time buried in thought. In the
two days which had just elapsed he had received so many
new and vivid impressions that he needed silence and reflection.
He had heard the moving accents of a mysterious
agent of revolution; he had seen the representatives of the
people defy the authority of the government; he felt the
ground shake beneath him as it were, with the tramp of a
nation slowly advancing toward the gulf of war.
On that other more painful event of recent hours, he tried
not to let his mind dwell. At first he succeeded, but soon
his resolution succumbed, and, with a bitter sigh, he went
over every detail of his misfortune.
“Well, well,” he said at length, rising, “let the dead days
bury the dead, I'll not touch the corpse. I'll not whine
and moan, let what will come! Patience! 't is all in a lifetime!”
And going to the window, he gazed sorrowfully into the
street. As he did so, a chariot stopped before the door of
the large house opposite, the residence of his friend, Mr.
Burwell. He started as he saw Bonnybel issue from it. She
was followed by the gouty old colonel and the rest of the
family, and the great traveling trunks, containing doubtless
the ball costumes of the ladies, having been removed, old
Cato whipped up his four long-tailed horses, and the chariot
drove to the stables.
The visitors were received at the door by Mr. Burwell;
a beautiful young lady, with sunny curls, embraced and
kissed Bonnybel; it was she whom the girl called “Bellebouche”—and
the door closed upon the party.
St. John returned to his sofa and his reflections. They
busied themselves with the query whether he should attend
the assembly. At last he seemed to have made up his mind.
“Yes, I'll go,” he muttered, “and not act the part of the
Knight of the Forlorn Countenance! I'll go dance, and
laugh, and be as hypocritical as the best of them. What a
world it would be if every luckless fellow turned hermit!
if every heavy heart did not mask its anguish with a laugh!”
And looking with a sardonic smile at a picture resembling
Bonnybel, which hung on the wall, he added:
“The fallen salutes his victor!”
