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"Behold her there

As I beheld her ere she knew my heart,

My first, last love, the idol of my youth." .... Tennyson.

IN the full clear warmth of the noon-day, while the spring sunshine lit up the grey towers at Renonçeux, and sparkled on the new opened buds and tender leaves, a carriage drove up the broad gravelled drive, and stopped at the entrance of the château. The door was thrown hastily open, and Raoul de Verdreuil, all bronzed and dusty with his long, swift journey back to Lorraine, alighted, and ran up the broad steps with eager impatience visible in his face.

"The family were all in Paris,"—that was the first news he heard in answer to his inquiries.

An exclamation of impatience fell from Raoul's lips.

"Monsieur Hoffmann—was he not at Renonçeux, then?"

"Oh, yes! monsieur was in the music-room. Should he announce Monsieur le Comte's arrival?" asked the footman.

"No; don't trouble," said Raoul carelessly. "I will go and seek him myself; meantime see to my luggage and take it to my room."

The man bowed and turned to assist the young count's valet, while his master walked on through the quiet galleries and deserted rooms on his way to the music-gallery at the farthest end of the château. As he stood outside the heavy velvet doors, he paused to listen for the familiar sound of the organ; but all was silent, and, half doubting whether Albert was really there, he opened the door and went in quietly.

One rapid glance showed him his friend. He was sitting at the organ, but not playing; his arms rested on the key-board, and his head was bent forward on his hands. There was something in the weary grace of the slight figure so expressive of dejection that Raoul's heart gave a swift throb of fear. Had anything happened, he wondered.

He crossed the oak floor lightly, and stood beside him. Albert started at the touch on his arm, and, seeing who it was, gave a cry of astonishment and delight.

"Why, Raoul, is it really you? Dear old fellow, how glad I am to see you! But what a surprise! Why did you not write to me?"

"Three questions in as many seconds!" said his friend, laughing. "How am I to answer them all? Yes, it is really myself. I was summoned back from Turin suddenly, and, of course, being in Paris, I came down here as soon as possible. I find, however, the château deserted except by you—you solitary hermit. When did they go to Paris, Albert?"

"Only yesterday morning. You have just missed each other; what a pity! But you won't go back just yet, Raoul, will you? I am so dull here now, and you will have so much to tell me of all that you have been doing these two years past. How well you look, Raoul, only so brown, and let me see—older—yes, certainly older. You don't carry your years so well as you ought to do, in my opinion at least."

Raoul de Verdreuil laughed carelessly. "I suppose not, but what does it matter after all? Besides, you see me at a disadvantage. I have been travelling all night, and have not even waited to remove the stains and dust of my long journey before coming to see you. That reminds me, though, I have not been able to get a good look at you yet; just come out of that shadowy corner now, and let me see what these two years have done for you."

Albert laughed and obeyed, colouring still with the old boyish bashfulness, as the searching eyes of his friend met his own. He was changed, Raoul saw; taller certainly, but the slight figure had still the same delicate, shrinking appearance that was so inexpressibly painful to him; he would have liked to see it with more vigour, more strength apparent in its youthful proportions; but the face was still the same frank, guileless face as of old, only the smooth brow bore now many lines of care, and the clear deep-blue eyes had the faint shadow of pain or longing in their depths. What had changed him? Involuntarily Raoul's hand tightened its grasp on his shoulder, and his eyes looked pained as he spoke out his thoughts.

"Albert, this won't do; either you have been working too hard or something has been troubling you, and you have kept it from me. Tell me, what is it?"

The face before him flushed a hot dusky red, and for the first time in his life Albert answered his friend pettishly, almost angrily,—

"What absurd nonsense, Raoul! nothing of the kind has happened. I assure you I am perfectly well and happy, and, as far as work is concerned, I have been very lazy the last twelve months. I have scarcely written anything."

Raoul de Verdreuil shook his head. "You can't deceive me, so don't try; but I don't wish to force your confidence; you shall tell me just what you please about yourself, and I will ask no more questions. Now let me go and make myself a more presentable figure, and then we will have a stroll through the park after lunch is over. I confess my journey has given me an appetite."

So, lightly turning the conversation off, he passed his arm through that of his friend, and they left the room together; but Raoul felt hurt at this first restraint—this first appearance of withheld confidence on the part of Albert. It was so new, so unusual for the boy to be in any way reserved or cold to him, and in his heart crept a faint anger—a sudden indignation as he whispered to himself this change was the work of a woman—the woman who had come between him and his friend's love—whose power was now greater than his own. But he would not let Albert see how pained and hurt he was; he chatted and laughed so gaily and freely that no suspicion entered the boy's mind of the real cause of that assumed gaiety; far less did the thought cross him that those few impatient words had bared to Raoul's eyes the secret of his own changed looks, his restless, feverish manner, his sudden fits of depression at one moment, alternating with the forced and unnatural merriment he assumed at other times.

They talked of many things—of Raoul's travels, of the countries he had visited, the sights he had seen; but of one subject Albert would not speak, and that was of Vivienne St. Maurice; he was so shy and reticent about her, that his friend hardly liked to press his own curiosity on his notice, though he longed to hear about the new inmate of the château.

All through that afternoon, while they strolled through the park and visited all the old familiar spots they both had loved since their boyhood, Albert evidently avoided any but the merest allusions to Vivienne. He talked freely enough of the countess and her increasing love of gaiety and amusement; her dislike to anything in the shape of quiet or retirement; of how, when she was not in Paris, the château was always filled with guests; and her extravagance and recklessness were the theme of wonder to the whole country round.

A dark shadow rested on Raoul's brow as he listened to this, and his lips curled with mingled scorn and contempt.

"I wonder my father allows it," he said bitterly; "surely he has still some authority in his own hands, and such a life can scarcely be pleasant to him now. Do you know, Albert," he continued sadly, "that during these two years of absence I have only heard from him once? and he used to write to me so often before—before this marriage."

"I think you ought to look after your own interests more than you do, Raoul," said his friend; "I have heard more than one of the visitors here remark on your long, strange absence, and say, too, how great an influence the countess is acquiring over her husband; and I wish you would remember too, Raoul, how much power is vested in your father's hands—how a wily and skilful enemy could injure you. When you see the count again, you will be able to understand my meaning better. He is more infatuated about his wife, more blind to her faults than ever; his mind is not so clear, nor his health so good as they were two years ago, and I think, if I were you, Raoul, I would not leave Renonçeux again for so long as you have just done."

"It seems to me, mon cher, that you have managed to pick up some worldly wisdom too, in these years of my absence," said Raoul, laughing a little, though the anxiety in his eyes deepened at the words he had heard; "however,"—he went on speaking more earnestly now—"however, it appears to me that it is indeed necessary to see for myself how the land lies; and I think, after resting here a day or two, I shall go up to Paris and pay my respects to the fair countess, while I keep my eyes open to her tactics at the same time. And has she taken this protégée of hers up with her too?"

"Mademoiselle St. Maurice has gone for the first time to Paris," said Albert, flushing like a girl, in spite of his efforts at self-control. "The countess is going to introduce her, I believe. She has been talking about doing so for the last twelve months; but Vivienne did not seem to care about it; however, at last she went, and——"

"Is now fascinating all Paris, I suppose?" interrupted Raoul, smiling. "But what a wonderful young lady she must be not to care about the delights of the great world! I thought all girls were, as a rule, quite elated at the bare idea of mixing with all the follies and gaieties of social life—of tasting the glories of conquests and the sweets of dissipation."

"Oh! but Vivienne is so unlike all other girls," cried Albert eagerly, his tongue at last unloosed on this delicious subject, and his previous restraint and bashfulness forgotten in his desire to proclaim the marvellous perfections of his divinity. "She is so coy and proud, so lovely, yet so perfectly unconscious of her loveliness; so gifted, yet so humble in her opinion of her own genius. I think, in the whole world, there lives not another woman who could equal Vivienne St. Maurice."

"You make me feel quite anxious to see this wonder of the nineteenth century," said Raoul, subduing his mocking tones out of consideration for Albert's enthusiasm. "A girl who is beautiful, yet not vain; gifted, yet humble; shy, yet proud; poor and of no pretensions, yet graceful and dignified as any aristocrat in the world of fashion; truly she must be a marvel, Albert, if she is all you say she is."

"I cannot say one half of it," cried Albert, with a strange, sudden despair in his glad young voice, "I can only worship her as the fairest vision that ever haunted a poet's dreams, or made the world below the Elysium they have painted it."

Raoul was silent for a moment; then he turned to his friend with the old, caressing grace, so sweet and rare with him.

"Dear Albert! if, indeed, she be all this, I shall not grudge her your love, although I look upon her as my first rival in your heart now."

The fair boyish face coloured with glad surprise, and the blue eyes, so clear and guileless in their happy youth, looked up as lovingly as ever at the dark grave face above them.

"No one could rival you, Raoul; surely you know that without my telling it. It is true this new love has crept upon me unawares; how, I cannot say, but I keep it a secret from all; from her most of all: for she does not even guess its existence."

"If you have not told her, she certainly cannot know; but it seems to me, Albert, that her very reluctance to go to Paris shows there was some strong attraction at Renonçeux, and what could that be but yourself?"

Albert shook his head.

"We will not speak of it any more, Raoul," he said sadly; "I do not think it interests you, and it pains me a little."

A little! There was sharpest torture in Vivienne's name now—now that she had gone from his side, and he could only picture her lovely and courted and happy, dazzling all eyes—bewildering all hearts as she had dazzled and bewildered his—the centre of every gaiety and pleasure that could fascinate and draw her heart from its quiet, peaceful memories of him, from the solitude and penance he was enduring from day to day—the solitude born of his own vain love and her absence.

"It does interest me," said Raoul gently; "pray don't think that because I have so often mocked at love and called it folly, that I cannot feel for you now. But believe me, Albert, you despair too soon; you have kept your feelings a close secret, and yet you fancy the girl does not return them. You must be a bolder wooer if you wish to win a woman's heart. You will see, if I am not mistaken very much, that Vivienne will come back to Renonçeux unharmed by the gay world after all, and true to her first champion still. Absence is the truest test of love, you know, and absence will teach her the value of a love and a heart so loyal and steadfast as yours, Albert."

Albert looked up with such fervent hope in his eyes, that Raoul felt more than repaid for his words, though they were spoken more to cheer his friend than because he himself believed them. The ice once broken, however, Albert forgot his reticence and even his unwillingness to discuss the subject, and poured out his love-tale from beginning to end in Raoul's ears. To any one else Raoul would have listened with ill-concealed impatience, and no small amount of scorn; but to Albert he gave such patient attention, such perfect sympathy as could only spring from friendship long and close and true as that friendship of theirs had been, as could only exist with love that loves at all times—the love of one man for another, when "it passes the love of women."

Such friendships are rare indeed; but when they exist they form a bond so close, so deep, that neither trial, nor absence, nor death itself can ever again unsever it.

The hours passed swiftly enough now all coldness and restraint had vanished, and the old brotherly cordiality revived again, undisturbed by any doubts, unshadowed by any clouds, and the cheery words of his friend made the young artist's heart more hopeful, and taught him to look with braver trust and manlier courage into the future before him.

Day after day passed, and still Raoul de Verdreuil lingered at Renonçeux. Albert clung to him so eagerly, and shrank with such evident pain from the idea of his leaving him to his solitude again, that he stayed on until days lapsed into weeks, and the visit to Paris was still postponed. One day Albert met him with a face of eager delight and intense excitement.

"Look here, Raoul," he said; "Vivienne has written to me at last! such a long, delightful letter! but you shall read it yourself if you please; and you are right, really right, Raoul. She does not forget Renonçeux; she thinks of it always. Amidst the gaiety and pleasure and constant excitement of her new life—amidst all the wonder and delights of Paris—she says, 'Ah, Albert, I was happier in the dear old music-room with you than I am now!'"

"Oh, 'young lord lover,' how foolish you are!" said Raoul, laughing at his excitement. "No, don't offer it to me; those pages of enchantment, as you deem them, are simply four closely-written sheets of feminine calligraphy which I don't care about deciphering at present. I would rather have my breakfast, shocking as the confession appears; but I won't object to your telling me as much as you please about your inamorata's confessions, if it's any relief to your feelings to do so—only spare me the tender bits, there's a good fellow! Now fire away!"

"Really, Raoul, you are too bad," said his friend, half-laughing; "I have a great mind not to tell you anything about the letter at all; it will just serve you right."

"It won't distress me very much, I fear," said Raoul philosophically; "women's letters are all very much alike, I know. Read me the postscript, though; that's sure to be something worth hearing."

"There isn't one," said Albert triumphantly "I told you she was different from most girls; am I not right!"

"You're joking, I know," said Raoul, proceeding with his breakfast in his usual leisurely fashion; "a woman write a letter without a P.S.! Impossible!"

"For most women, perhaps," said Albert, proud that his divinity had not even one failing for Raoul to discover as yet. "But she tells me in this last page——"

"You're sure it's not in the P.S.?" interrupted Raoul.

"No, you unbeliever, you may look for yourself if you like. She tells me here that the countess is going to give a costume ball or masked ball at her hotel, half the elite of Paris will be there. There has been a grand debate on the subject of costumes, and Vivienne is going to appear as 'Elaine.'"

"Why not her namesake, 'Vivien the Enchantress'?" said Raoul carelessly. "I'll be bound she would work her spells on many a Merlin there before the evening was over."

"Oh, Raoul!" cried Albert, pained and shocked at such irreverent mention of his lady-love, "how can you suggest such a character for one so young and innocent as Vivienne? If you were only to see her once, you would know how impossible——"

"It would be for me to fall in love with her—eh, Albert? Yes, dear old fellow, I know all that. We won't have the rhapsodies just yet, please. Go on with the letter."

"It does interest you for all your mockery, I see," said Albert, beginning to peruse his precious document again. "Where was I? Oh, I see! 'Elaine.' Well, she says, 'The Countess de Verdreuil decided on this, and she is going to appear as Guinevere'"—(" Trust Blanche for making the most of herself," growled Raoul in an undertone)—"'and she wishes the count to be King Arthur.'"

"Now, by Jove! this is too bad," cried Raoul, springing to his feet; "making my father go in for all this mummery at his time of life. What can the woman be thinking of? My dear boy," he continued more calmly, "I shall have to go to Paris and look after him myself. Masked balls at seventy years of age! Why, she will want him to dance a hornpipe for her guests' amusement next. Well, what more foolery follows this?"

"'The countess thought it would be a good idea to have the whole of King Arthur's court represented,'" continued Albert, reading on, "'so we shall have Sir Tristam and Sir Bedivere, and Galahad and Percival, and Lancelot du Lac, who is to be impersonated by the Marquis d'Orvâl, the reigning star of fashion here, as Blanche is always informing me, and in my opinion one of the most conceited and effeminate dandies in all Paris. His anxiety about his costume was worthy of any woman, and he and Blanche took three days to agree about it. What do you think it is to be? A baldric (whatever that may be) of black velvet studded with gold and gems, chain armour, and mantle of cloth of gold, fastened on one shoulder; a shield—blank—and a helmet encrusted with gold and precious stones. This is considered the appropriate costume for this valiant and far-famed knight. He is very handsome, this Marquis d'Orvâl, and I daresay will look very well. I asked him if he did not think it would be inconvenient to dance in his warlike garb of shield and helmet and breastplate, but he said he would of course lay aside these appendages then; still I think the mantle will be in his way, unless he persuades his partner to envelope herself in its cumbersome folds. How funny that would look, wouldn't it?"

"Well, any more?" asked Raoul, as Albert paused and looked up.

"I thought you would not care to hear it," said Albert a little mischievously.

"Oh! now we come to sentiment, I suppose? Well, you can miss that and go on to the next paragraph. Does she say when this ball is to come off?"

"No. Stay—yes; here is some more about it again: 'The bal masqué is to take place on the 25th'—that's three days from this, Raoul—' and I am looking forward to it eagerly, as it will be my first. I have only been to the opera and to two or three quiet parties as yet, but I am to come out really on this occasion. I wish you could see my dress, Albert. But there, I don't suppose you would understand it if you did. I will only tell you it is pure white entirely, and my only ornaments will be white flowers. Shall I look like the "lily maid," do you think?'"

"There stop, for goodness' sake," cried Raoul. "Spare me all those feminine hints about dress. Your ideal is very human and very like a woman after all; those last sentences were as good as a P.S."

Albert folded up his letter and put it carefully away in the breast-pocket of his velvet morning coat.

"Laugh away as much as you like now," he said composedly. "As long as she has not forgotten me, I don't mind your making fun of us."

"And I haven't time to do it either," said Raoul, rising from the table. "Now to study these trains out. Just ring the bell for me Albert, and tell Felix to pack my valise. I must be off to Paris by the next train. I suppose you won't come with me?"

"No," he answered half-doubtfully, half-shrinkingly, as though the suggestion pleased and pained him at one and the same moment. "No; I think not, Raoul, much as I should like it for some things; perhaps it is best for me to stay here. Shall you stop long?"

"It all depends on how I find things going on," said Raoul, turning to give his instructions to the servant who just entered.

"I suppose you'll see me off, Albert?" he continued presently, as the man left the room to prepare the carriage, and, receiving a ready affirmation, he went off to hasten the preparations for his instant departure. A very short time elapsed before both the young men were driving rapidly down to the station a mile distant from the château; and in a few minutes from the time of his arrival there, Raoul was whirling off to Paris as fast as the train could take him. There was a look of suppressed excitement on his face very unusual for it to wear, and he laughed once outright, as if some inward thought amused him.

"A capital plan!" he said half-aloud in the solitude of his compartment. "Not much time to manage it, though. I must remember the costume exactly. Black velvet, cloth of gold, helmet, and shield. Ha! ha! it will be a comedy in real life, and enable me to penetrate into certain little mysteries as well;" and he leant back on the seat and gave vent to a burst of hearty and genuine laughter.

The train dashed on through fair bright villages, past budding vineyards, and blossoming orchards, never stopping on its way to the great capital; and Raoul de Verdreuil, scarcely noting the beauty of the fair spring landscape around, only stretched himself full length on his carriage-seat, and dwelt thoughtfully on a plan which he had decided upon executing—a plan fired in his brain by a few chance words in Vivienne St. Maurice's letter.