A thorough Bohemienne

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On the northern coast of Brittany, facing a deeply indented bay, stands an old chateau, or, to use the language of the country, a manor-house, the greater part of which dates from the early part of the sixteenth century, when the Duchess Anne reigned over Brittany and over France. The great feudal wars then were terminated, and the nobility no longer intrenched their dwellings with those formidable defenses which imparted to seigniorial mansions so much of the aspect of a prison.

The chateau of Kerbsejean, built by one of the officials of the court of the queen-duchess, has neither donjon nor keep, drawbridge nor moat. The fa9ade, flanked by two slender towers, is pierced by small windows, with lozengeshaped panes ; and at the end of the vaulted passage, which serves a vestibule, rises a spiral staircase ascending to the top of the house.

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In front of the principal entrance is a hroad terrace shaded by magnificent lindens. A solid wall upholds this terrace, while through an arch below passes the road which leads to Saint-Pol-de- Leon. The wall is surmounted by a stone parapet which gives a monumental air to the whole building.

At the time of the spring tides the sea rises as high as the terrace ; and at all times can be heard from under the lindens the swash and murmur of the waves as they break on the rocks with which the shores are covered.

Kot far from the chateau of Kerbsejean lies a long line of half-tumble-down houses, following the shore of the bay. These represent the little

village of R the port where smugglers and

pirates formerly landed their booty. Once a numerous population enlivened this spot, but it disappeared or died out when maritime v>^ars ceased ; and in our day few of these houses have either windows or doors. Piles of rubbish indicate the direction in which the streets formerly ran, while it is with difficulty that one can find a sign of the wharves whereon so many fine cargoes were deposited. It is now no more than a miserable fishing village.

One morning in the beginning of July, some few years since, a young girl — almost a child indeed — and a middle-aged woman, with the air of a governess, were seated near the parapet, in the

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shadow of the lindens. The governess worked steadily and silently at her embroidery, while her pupil was drawing with quaint precision the outlines of the landscape and the bay.

The girl was very beautiful. She had the dazzling complexion, blue eyes, and abundant fair hair of the daughters of the soil. Living in this old manor, it was easy to divine that she was a Kerbsejean. The governess too was a Bretonne. She had the calm, gentle features and the honest countenance of the women of that land.

Suddenly the girl stopped to listen, with pencil uplifted.

“ Hark ! Madame Gervais,” she said, “ do you not hear music ?

“ Some one has a tamborine under the ten-ace, my dear ; that is all,” answered the governess.

Mademoiselle de Kerbsejean rose and leaned over the parapet.

“ Oh ! dear Gervais,” she said in a tone of suppressed amazement, ‘‘ come and look quickly ! ”

Two persons, a man of forty and a very young girl, were resting against the wall, by the side of a little babbling brook that bravely crossed the road at this point. Their costume was mo^t conspicuous and eccentric. The man wore a silk coat covered with spangles and faded embroidery ; a tow wig did duty instead of hat, and some artificial flowers were jauntily stuck in his button-hole. His breeches were short and of somewhat equivo-

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cal whiteness, while the soles of his low shoes were split and worn. He was wiping his face with a blue checked handkerchief, so old that it was full of holes. He was evidently one of those mountebanks, one of those perambulating musicians, to whom the public frequenting the inns at the cross-roads have agreed to give that most preposterous title of ‘Hhe Marquis of Artichokes.”

The girl was attired in much the same style. Her white cotton dress was very short, and trimmed around just above the knees with a soiled ribbon which had been originally of a pale blue. A much-worn velvet waist and high-laced boots completed her costume. We must not omit to mention her ornaments, which consisted of a sort of diadem trimmed with gold lace ; it served to keep her brown curls in comparative order. Brass rings hung from her ears, and a huge chain of the same metal was passed twice around her throat ; while pewter and brass rings were on every finger of her small brown hands. This strange-looking creature shook her tamborine and hummed a Tyrolean air as she sat and watched ^ the coming in of the tide.

Meanwhile the man in the wig had taken a piece of bread from his pocket, a handful of cherries, and a tiny gourd.

“Well ! Mimi,” he said, breaking the bread in two equal portions, “ do you not think it quite time for breakfast ? ”

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“ Eat, father,” she answered without turning her head. Eat ; I am not in the least hungry.”

‘‘ Our feast to-day does not amount to much, my poor child,” said the man with a sigh ; “ but yesterday was really a very bad day ! only thirtyfive centimes did we make. But we shall do better at Morlaix, which is a commercial town. I think, too, I will try my luck in the village over there. We will spread that carpet down before the coast-guard station. You will dance, , and I win execute some of my feats of legerdemain ; and it will be hard luck if a silver piece or two does not fall into your saucer. Come, Mimi, eat a bit and cheer up. We will dine well to-night.”

“ Can we have soup ? ” asked Mimi earnestly.

“ Certainly, little girl ; but in the mean time you had best not scorn your breakfast,” murmured the father with a sigh.

“ I do not scorn it,” answered Mimi ; “ bread and cherries are two very good things, I am sure ! ”

It is because the piece of bread is so small then,” said the mountebank, with tears in his eyes ; ‘‘ you think it is no more than I want myself.”

Mimi shrugged her shoulders.

Never mind, papa ! ” she exclaimed as she shook the bells of her tamborine. “Eat your breakfast ; you must be very hungry ! ”

Mademoiselle de Kerbsejean had heard all this

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conversation unseen by the speakers. She now turned toward Madame Gervais with tears in her eyes. '

“ Poor things ! ” she exclaimed. “ Poor things ! They must have a good breakfast sent out to them at once ! ”

“Very weU, my dear,” answered the governess ; “ I will go and give the necessary orders.”

“No,” answered the girl impulsively, eager to relieve this uncomplaining poverty — a poverty which bore so proudly, too, all this strange frippery instead of common-place rags — “No, I will go myself.”

A few minutes more, and a servant was seen going down the road with a basket on his arm and a bottle in his hand.

The mountebank placed the cherries before Mimi and began to eat his dry bread with a hearty relish.

“ There is far more than I want, as you will see, my dear ; and I do nqt choose that my daughter shall deny herself to pamper her old father. There are two swallows of brandy left in the gourd ; we will divide those, my dear ! It is not as good as a glass of good wine, but it is at all events better than pure water ! Just think, Mimi, what a delicious breakfast we could have on this grass, with a little cold meat and a bottle of wine between us ! ”

At that moment the servant appeared as by magic, and, placing before them the basket and bottle of wine, said, as he took off his laced cap : •

‘‘ Here are a few provisions. I trust you will enjoy them. I will come back after a while for the basket and napkin.”

And he disappeared as rapidly as he had come.

Mimi and her father looked at each other in utter stupefaction.

“ Let us see ! ” cried Mimi, lifting the white napkin which covered the basket.

“ Cold veal, cheese, and fresh bread ! ” said her father, rubbing his hands in ecstasy.

‘‘Yes, that is good, very good!” murmured Mimi gravely ; and, taking a small knife from her pocket, she proceeded to cut the meat into slices. This done, both father and daughter began to eat eagerly, like people absorbed in the satisfaction of an imperious need. When their first hunger was in some degree appeased, the mountebank recovered his speech —

“ Ho you know,” he said, “ that I feel as if it were a fairy tale ? ”

“Yes, isn’t it strange?” answered Mimi.

“ Who could have sent this basket ? ” resumed her father. “ It may have been the master of the chateau — the old gentleman who saw us through the gate, and who returned our bow with so much politeness. Who knows,” he added with ingenuous vanity, “ that he did not see us yesterday at

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Saint-Pol-de-Leon on the square ? He liked your dancing.”

‘‘^ery likely!” murmured Mimi indifferently. “ But look here, papa ; there is another glass in the bottle ; take it.”

“ No, indeed,” he replied ; ‘‘ this good wine is going to my head.” Then crossing his hands over his stomach, he added with a blissful look : My dear, I have breakfasted like a king ! And the dessert, Mimi — have you forgotten the dessert ? We have some cherries, you know ; now eat them.”

Mimi took some, but murmured presently in a regretful tone, ‘‘ What a pity ! I cannot eat another mouthful.”

“ What a pity ! ” repeated the mountebank. “ There is still a good bit of meat and some bread left. Suppose I put them in paper for us to-night ? ”

Pshaw ! we should have to carry them.”

‘‘ But I don’t think it would be polite to put the leavings back in the basket,” remonstrated her father.

Mimi without a word tossed the debris of their meal some little distance away among the grass, covered the basket with the napkin, and then leaned back against the wall with folded arms.

“ I am sleepy,” she murmured with half-closed eyes.

“And so am I,” replied the mountebank.

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stretching himself out at full length upon the turf.

‘‘ Au revoir, papa,” said the girl with a laugh;

A few moments later, when the servant came for the basket, he found the two soundly sleeping ; and a poor woman passing by had gathered up the remains of their repast from the grass.

II

The same day, in the afternoon, the Kerbs6- jean family were all assembled in a large salon which had much the appearance of a museum. Thanks to the isolated position, the manor had not been visited by the soldiery of the French Republic, and no revolutionary hand had ever been laid upon the heraldic emblems or the pictures of saints, lords, and ladies which hung upon the walls. Although the furniture of this salon had been in some degree renewed, and deliciously comfortable sofas and chairs stood all about, and a piano and jardiniere of extremely modern style were also there, the general air of the apartment and its decorations belonged to the time of Queen Anne. The Kerbsejean coat of arms was sculptured in high relief over the enormous chimney, where tall dogs of iron elaborately wrought supported noble logs of oak. The cipher of the Queen-Duchess and the arms of Brittany shone

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above tbe windows, and again in tbe center of the ceiling.

The Kerbsejean family was by no means numerous. In the salon were only three persons : the pretty Irene, her father, the Count Jean de Kerbs4jean, and the Count’s uncle, another Kerbsejean, formerly a Knight of Malta, but who since the suppression of the order resided at the manor. Those members of this family circle who had been prematurely removed by death seemed not to have altogether quitted their old home, for traces of them were to be seen in every direction. It was as if Irene’s mother and her dead brothers were expected momentarily to resume their places in the salon. The young mother’s embroidery frame was still in the corner by the window, in front of the chair where it had been her habit to sit. Her favorite books were on the 6tag^re within reach of her hand, and her light straw hat which she was in the habit of wearing when she went into the garden hung on the curtain hook. A pile of children’s toys lay heaped in the same corner, as if they had been used an hour before. Opposite the chimney there was a large picture of Madame de Kerbs4jean and her sons ; and these charming youthful faces seemed to smile from the canvas.

This home circle presented strange contrasts. Count de Kerbsejean was a man of forty, and looked older. His complexion had lost its fresh-

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ness, and he was acquiring an embonpoint which threatened to terminate in absolute obesity. He was beginning to be negligent in his dress, to wear a loose coat and pantaloons. This costume added to his years, and whoever saw him now for the first time would have had much difficulty in crediting that he had once been called ‘‘ the handsome Kerbsejean.”

The old Chevalier of Malta was, on the contrary, erect and alert. His costume, which was almost that of a naval officer, suited his proud face and carriage. His figure was almost as slender and his bearing quite as haughty as when he sailed in the Levant upon one of the Maltese galleys.

The uncle and his nephew were finishing a game of chess, and the youthful Ir(^ne, with both elbows on the table, was trying to follow the shrewd combinations of th-e two adversaries. After a quarter of an hour of profound silence, the Count swept the men off the board with a resigned air.

You had a chance still,” said the Chevalier with a smile. “ Will you have your revenge ? ”

“ l^ot just now, uncle,” replied the Count ; “ I am going outside with a cigar until dinner is ready.”

With these words he took his hat and stick and lounged out of the room. Irene slipped into her father’s chair at the chess table, deftly ar-

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ranged the men, and sat with an expectant look on her pretty face, waiting for her uncle to ask her to play with him. But the Chevalier sat leaning his head on his hand, pensive or moody, it was hard to tell which. After a long silence the child said, in a low voice and in a caressing tone :

“ Uncle Pierre, you are sad.”

I am anxious,” he replied with a sigh.

‘‘ Is it that business about the will ? ” she asked sympathetically.

“ Yes, dear,” said her uncle.

But his words were not altogether true. The death of a relative in the colonies, and the will made by this relative bequeathing his property to him, certainly crowded upon him many business cares ; but with these he was far less occupied and harassed than by a matter which was going on under his eyes. He realized with inexpressible pain that Irene’s father was falling into a sort of moral deterioration or decay, the progress of which was becoming daily more rapid.

The Count de Kerbs4jean was of limited intellectual development, with neither elevated tastes nor aims — altogether weak and facile in character. But a careful education and the watchful influence of his family had modifled the development of low tastes, and Count Jean, as he had been called before his father’s death, passed for rather an elegant and distinguished personage, with suffiicient sense and education for ordinary every-day life.

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At a very early age he married a clever and charming woman, whom he loved with his whole heart, and she soon acquii’ed over him a moral ascendancy. The change in him, his decadence, dated from the day of her death. After the first transports of uncontrolled despair, the Count lapsed into stolid resignation, which induced those around him to think that he was soon consoled. His habits of life changed entirely. He shut himself up from the world, and, instead of spending his winters at Brest or Paris, he remained the entire year at Kerbsejean. He spent most of his time within doors, at first occupying himself with the education of his daughter, and finding sufficient gentle excitement in conversing with the Chevalier. By degrees, however, he acquired the habit of mixing with his inferiors, where unfortunately he soon felt himself thoroughly at home.

This man, who had lived in the best circles in France, spent his mornings lounging on the beach, seeking some companion with whom he could exchange his views upon the weather while he smoked his pipe. He wandered along the shore until he reached the village and an establishment honored by the mythological name of the Cafe de Neptune, but which was in reality a miserable taharet, where far more brandy was consumed than Mocha. There he was certain of finding a half dozen loungers who did him the honor of smok-

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ing and drinking with him ; and in their society he passed the greater part of the day. In the afternoon he went to the beach again, and lingered at the little coast-guard station ; and in the evening he regularly returned to the Cafe de hTeptune. It was even rumored that more than once he had been seen at midnight coming home with a very uncertain step, and had found considerably difficulty in climbing the steps of the manor-house.

The Chevalier had noticed this change in his nephew’s mode of life from the very beginning, and had done his best to prevent it, and to check the formation of these evil habits. He soon, however, realized the futility of his efforts, and contented himself with quietly looking on with an aching heart.

Ir^ne, up to the time of which we v/rite, had noticed nothing. At times it seemed to her that her father had grown much older, and that she remembered him handsomer and more elegant in manners and appearance. Her tenderness and respect for him were very great ; but she had no especial desire to be with him, and preferred the society of her dear uncle Pierre, of whom she rarely spoke without employing some term of endearment in addition to his name.

He, in his turn, had concentrated upon her all the affections of the loving nature of an old bachelor who had naught else to care for. She was the joy and the happiness of his old age, the

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comfort of his declining years, the consolation in many hours of secret anxiety and bitter disappointment occasioned him by his nephew.

On this especial day the Chevalier and his grandniece were alone in the salon just before dinner, as was their habit. Ir^ne advanced a pawn with a coaxing look, and the game began. While Irene laughed gayly at having driven her uncle into a corner, where he was defending his queen, the Count reentered hastily, with a disturbed countenance, a reddened nose, and a brow bathed in perspiration.

He leaned on the back of his uncle’s chair, breathing very hard, like a man who has been running.

“Ah, Jean, you have come back again then?” said the Chevalier, not turning round.

“ Yes, uncle,” he answered. “ I have been the spectator of a scene which has made a terrible impression upon me.”

“ An accident ? ” asked the Chevalier, with a bishop suspended between thumb and finger.

“A most extraordinary one ! And by some strange fatality I reached the spot just in time to witness it. When I left you half an hour ago, I went at once to the village. A little crowd had gathered before a cafe to listen to a traveling musician who was playing on the guitar and singing some gay songs.”

“ A poor devil in masquerading costume,” in- 2

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teiTupted the Chevalier. I saw him this morning. He passed the gate with a gypsy girl.”

“ The very same — a poor thing about the age of Ir^ne. She danced while her father played. I gave them some money — more, I fancy, than they are in the habit of receiving, for the man overwhelmed me with thanks. As the crowning touch to their performance, he spread an old carpet down and turned a few double somersaults, and stood on his head, and all that sort of thing. He finally sprang on the back of a chair and stood for a minute with one foot in his hand, uttering some poor joke. Unfortunately one of the legs of the chair cracked ; the man lost his balance, and fell with his arms extended, striking his head on the ground. His tow wig fell off. Ho one was startled at first, for we all supposed that the fall was perfectly natural ; but as he did not move some one went to assist him, and then it was seen that he was dead ! ”

“ Dead ! And his poor child ? ” cried Ir^ne. She had gone into the caf4, and had not even seen her father fall ; but she came out just as the men were lifting him, and she heard them say that he was dead. The scream she uttered still rings in my ears. Hever did I see such despair and grief ! ” Poor child ! She loved her father,” said Ir^ne, with her eyes full of tears.

“ How do you know that ? ” asked the Chevalier in astonishment.

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“ I saw them this morning,” his niece answered. ‘‘ They were lying by the side of the road, and, as I was on the terrace, I could hear them talk. The father urged the girl to eat, and she refused because there was not enough bread for both.”

“ Oh, my child ! you heard that — ^you saw hungry people at our very door, and said nothing ! ” interrupted the Chevalier reproachfully.

“ Do not be troubled, dear uncle,” answered the girl with an expression that went right to the heart of the good man. “ They did not go away hungry,” she added slowly.

Her uncle drew her fair face down to his, and kissed her brow with tears in his eyes, saying in a low voice, “ Forgive me, sweet.”

“ The body of this unfortunate man was carried into Cattel Piolot’s house,” continued the Count ; “ I gave them money that they might do all that was necessary, and bade them take care of the child.”

“We will see what we can do for her,” said the Chevalier.

“ I know,” said Ir^ne, before whose eyes flitted a vision of the clanking gilt chains and diadem above a weeping face. “ First, we must give her a black dress.”

“You are right, my child,” answered her Uncle Pierre. “Go find Madame Gervais, and beg her to occupy herself at once with that.”

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“ They will only have to look in the wardrobe,’’ said Ir^ne with a sigh ; it is such a little while since I left off mourning that my dresses will fit the poor thing.”

III

The next day the body of the mountebank was borne to the cemetery, and the charitable person who had paid the funeral expenses placed a black cross at the head of the grave.

This man, like all such who adopt a traveling profession, had all his papers perfectly correct. In a small tin case concealed among his clothing were his certificate of birth and that of his daughter, and other documents, all going to prove that he had been married and that the mother of the child now left alone in the world had been some time dead. After the funeral the Chevalier and his grandniece went to the house that sheltered poor Mimi. A toothless old woman sat spinning in front of the door.

“ Good morning, Cattel Piolot,” said the Chevalier as he came near.

“ May God for ever bless you, sir, and the young lady,” she answered in her Breton patois, “ I expected to see you to-day.”

“We came to see what we could do to console the poor little gii'l, and we brought her also a

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black dress,” said Ir6ne, showing a package that she had taken the trouble to bring herself.

“ That is very charitable,” murmured the old woman. “ You are like one of God’s holy angels.” Then, turning to the Chevalier, she added crossly : “I have been driven crazy by that gypsy girl. When I speak she neither hears nor understands. All day long she has done nothing but scream. Listen and you will hear her.”

And at that moment a long melancholy wail rang through the small house.

Ah ! uncle, we came none too soon,” murmured Ir^ne, her heart fiUed with profound pity, as she drew the Chevalier into the corridor of Cattel Piolot’s house. This dark passage opened into a little court-yard whose high walls were covered with ivy and moss.

“ She is in here,” said Cattel Piolot, stopping in front of a door on the left and drawing out a wooden peg that held the latch down. “ When they came to remove the body she was so violent that we were obliged to hold her, and then to fasten her in here, to prevent her from rushing to the cemetery.”

Mimi was crouched in the corner with her face against the wall, and arms limply hanging at her sides. The habit that she had necessarily acquired of fastening all her fineries very tightly to prevent them falling during her violent exercise had now kept everything steady in its place, and

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nothing in her fanciful costume was disarranged. Her necklace with its triple chains was still displayed over her shabby velvet waist, and on her head she wore the diadem with its jingling pendants. It was evidently to this room that the body of the poor mountebank had been brought, and here that preparations had been made for the funeral. A portion of the poor man’s clothing lay in a corner ; his bunch of faded artificial flowers and his guitar were on a table ; while his spangled coat hung on a nail behind the door.

At this moment, the poor child was silent from exhaustion, and but for an occasional sob that shook her shoulders one might have thought her dead. At this sorrowful sight Ir^ne burst into tears and hid her face on her uncle’s shoulder. The Chevalier, deeply touched, leaned over the girl, and said in a compassionate voice :

“ My child, try and submit to the will of God. Have courage ; you are not entirely friendless and abandoned. Charitable persons have come to your assistance, and will do all in their power for you.”

Mimi took no notice of these kind words, but uttered a heavy sigh and turned her head away, as if annoyed by these marks of interest.

Irene bent over her and said, as she laid the bundle of clothing by her side :

“ There, poor little soul, is a black dress for you. Would you not like to put it on at once ? ”

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Mimi repulsed her with a wild gesture ; then, in a new transport of grief, she uttered cry after cry of agonized despair, interspersed with incoherent words.

“ This is the way she has gone on,” said Cattel Piolot, shrugging her shoulders. “Instead of shedding tears like a Christian, and praying on her knees for the soul of her dead father, she has conducted herself in this heathen fashion. You have spoken too gently to her, sir, by far ; he a little rough with her, and perhaps she may come to her senses. If she understood a word I said, I would try.”

“ Kot while I am here,” interrupted Irene, indignantly.

“ She is in no state to understand us,” said the Chevalier, looking at the unfortunate creature, who, in spite of her frantic gestures and heavy sighs, looked only half alive.

“ She is not so much out of her senses as you fancy,” murmured the old woman. “It is because she does not choose to speak, not because she does not understand, that she does not answer.”

“ Poor soul ! ” said Ir^ne, sadly ; “ would that it were in my power to comfort her. How gladly would I do anything for her ! ”

Again she stooped over Mimi and tried to take her hand ; but the girl, turning suddenly around, pushed her violently away, crying out at the same time :