LITMIR.BIZ

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by a Royalist brother of Marie-Joseph Chenier, the Revolutionary leader. All Angouleme, except Mme. de Rastignac and her two daughters and the Bishop, who had really felt the grandeur of the poetry, were mystified, and took offence at the hoax. There was a smothered murmur, but Lucien did not heed it. The intoxication of the poetry was upon him; he was far away from the hateful world, striving to render in speech the music that filled his soul, seeing the faces about him through a cloudy haze. He read the sombre Elegy on the Suicide, lines in the taste of a by-gone day, pervaded by sublime melancholy; then he turned to the page where the line occurs, “Thy songs are sweet, I love to say them over,” and ended with the delicate idyll Neere.

      Mme. de Bargeton sat with one hand buried in her curls, heedless of the havoc she wrought among them, gazing before her with unseeing eyes, alone in her drawing-room, lost in delicious dreaming; for the first time in her life she had been transported to the sphere which was hers by right of nature. Judge, therefore, how unpleasantly she was disturbed by Amelie, who took it upon herself to express the general wish.

      “Nais,” this voice broke in, “we came to hear M. Chardon’s poetry, and you are giving us poetry out of a book. The extracts are very nice, but the ladies feel a patriotic preference for the wine of the country; they would rather have it.”

      “The French language does not lend itself very readily to poetry, does it?” Astolphe remarked to Chatelet. “Cicero’s prose is a thousand times more poetical to my way of thinking.”

      “The true poetry of France is song, lyric verse,” Chatelet answered.

      “Which proves that our language is eminently adapted for music,” said Adrien.

      “I should like very much to hear the poetry that has cost Nais her reputation,” said Zephirine; “but after receiving Amelie’s request in such a way, it is not very likely that she will give us a specimen.”

      “She ought to have them recited in justice to herself,” said Francis. “The little fellow’s genius is his sole justification.”

      “You have been in the diplomatic service,” said Amelie to M. du Chatelet, “go and manage it somehow.”

      “Nothing easier,” said the Baron.

      The Princess’ private secretary, being accustomed to petty manoeuvres of this kind, went to the Bishop and contrived to bring him to the fore. At the Bishop’s entreaty, Nais had no choice but to ask Lucien to recite his own verses for them, and the Baron received a languishing smile from Amelie as the reward of his prompt success.

      “Decidedly, the Baron is a very clever man,” she observed to Lolotte.

      But Amelie’s previous acidulous remark about women who made their own dresses rankled in Lolotte’s mind.

      “Since when have you begun to recognize the Emperor’s barons?” she asked, smiling.

      Lucien had essayed to deify his beloved in an ode, dedicated to her under a title in favor with all lads who write verse after leaving school. This ode, so fondly cherished, so beautiful—since it was the outpouring of all the love in his heart, seemed to him to be the one piece of his own work that could hold its own with Chenier’s verse; and with a tolerably fatuous glance at Mme. de Bargeton, he announced “TO HER!” He struck an attitude proudly for the delivery of the ambitious piece, for his author’s self-love felt safe and at ease behind Mme. de Bargeton’s petticoat. And at the selfsame moment Mme. de Bargeton betrayed her own secret to the women’s curious eyes. Although she had always looked down upon this audience from her own loftier intellectual heights, she could not help trembling for Lucien. Her face was troubled, there was a sort of mute appeal for indulgence in her glances, and while the verses were recited she was obliged to lower her eyes and dissemble her pleasure as stanza followed stanza.

      TO HER.

       Out of the glowing heart of the torrent of glory and light,

       At the foot of Jehovah’s throne where the angels stand afar,

       Each on a seistron of gold repeating the prayers of the night,

       Put up for each by his star.

       Out from the cherubim choir a bright-haired Angel springs,

       Veiling the glory of God that dwells on a dazzling brow,

       Leaving the courts of heaven to sink upon silver wings

       Down to our world below.

       God looked in pity on earth, and the Angel, reading His thought,

       Came down to lull the pain of the mighty spirit at strife,

       Reverent bent o’er the maid, and for age left desolate brought

       Flowers of the springtime of life.

       Bringing a dream of hope to solace the mother’s fears,

       Hearkening unto the voice of the tardy repentant cry,

       Glad as angels are glad, to reckon Earth’s pitying tears,

       Given with alms of a sigh.

       One there is, and but one, bright messenger sent from the skies

       Whom earth like a lover fain would hold from the hea’nward flight;

       But the angel, weeping, turns and gazes with sad, sweet eyes

       Up to the heaven of light.

       Not by the radiant eyes, not by the kindling glow

       Of virtue sent from God, did I know the secret sign,

       Nor read the token sent on a white and dazzling brow

       Of an origin divine.

       Nay, it was Love grown blind and dazed with excess of light,

       Striving and striving in vain to mingle Earth and Heaven,

       Helpless and powerless against the invincible armor bright

       By the dread archangel given.

       Ah! be wary, take heed, lest aught should be seen or heard

       Of the shining seraph band, as they take the heavenward way;

       Too soon the Angel on Earth will learn the magical word

       Sung at the close of the day.

       Then you shall see afar, rifting the darkness of night,

       A gleam as of dawn that spread across the starry floor,

       And the seaman that watch for a sign shall mark the track of their flight,

       A luminous pathway in Heaven and a beacon for evermore.

      “Do you read the riddle?” said Amelie, giving M. du Chatelet a coquettish glance.

      “It is the sort of stuff that we all of us wrote more or less after we left school,” said the Baron with a bored expression—he was acting his part of arbiter of taste who has seen everything. “We used to deal in Ossianic mists, Malvinas and Fingals and cloudy shapes, and warriors who got out of their tombs with stars above their heads. Nowadays this poetical frippery has been replaced by Jehovah, angels, seistrons, the plumes of seraphim, and all the paraphernalia of paradise freshened up with a few new words such as ‘immense, infinite, solitude, intelligence’; you have lakes, and the words of the Almighty, a kind of Christianized Pantheism, enriched with the most extraordinary and unheard-of rhymes. We are in quite another latitude, in fact; we have left the North for the East, but the darkness is just as thick as before.”

      “If the ode is obscure, the declaration is very clear, it seems to me,” said Zephirine.

      “And the archangel’s armor is a tolerably thin gauze robe,” said Francis.

      Politeness demanded that the audience should profess to be enchanted with the poem; and the women, furious because they had no poets in their train to extol them as angels, rose, looked bored by the reading, murmuring, “Very nice!” “Charming!” “Perfect!” with frigid coldness.

      “If

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