The Pilgrims of the Rhine

  CHAPTER IV. THE MAID OF MALINES.

  IT was noonday in the town of Malines, or Mechlin, as the Englishusually term it; the Sabbath bell had summoned the inhabitants todivine worship; and the crowd that had loitered round the Church of St.Rembauld had gradually emptied itself within the spacious aisles of thesacred edifice.

  A young man was standing in the street, with his eyes bent on theground, and apparently listening for some sound; for without raising hislooks from the rude pavement, he turned to every corner of it with anintent and anxious expression of countenance. He held in one hand astaff, in the other a long slender cord, the end of which trailed onthe ground; every now and then he called, with a plaintive voice, "Fido,Fido, come back! Why hast thou deserted me?" Fido returned not; the dog,wearied of confinement, had slipped from the string, and was at playwith his kind in a distant quarter of the town, leaving the blind man toseek his way as he might to his solitary inn.

  By and by a light step passed through the street, and the youngstranger's face brightened.

  "Pardon me," said he, turning to the spot where his quick ear hadcaught the sound, "and direct me, if you are not much pressed for a fewmoments' time, to the hotel 'Mortier d'Or.'"

  It was a young woman, whose dress betokened that she belonged to themiddling class of life, whom he thus addressed. "It is some distancehence, sir," said she; "but if you continue your way straight on forabout a hundred yards, and then take the second turn to your righthand--"

  "Alas!" interrupted the stranger, with a melancholy smile, "yourdirection will avail me little; my dog has deserted me, and I am blind!"

  There was something in these words, and in the stranger's voice, whichwent irresistibly to the heart of the young woman. "Pray forgive me,"she said, almost with tears in her eyes, "I did not perceive your--"misfortune, she was about to say, but she checked herself with aninstinctive delicacy. "Lean upon me, I will conduct you to the door;nay, sir," observing that he hesitated, "I have time enough to spare, Iassure you."

  The stranger placed his hand on the young woman's arm; and thoughLucille was naturally so bashful that even her mother would laughinglyreproach her for the excess of a maiden virtue, she felt not the leastpang of shame, as she found herself thus suddenly walking through thestreets of Malines along with a young stranger, whose dress and airbetokened him of rank superior to her own.

  "Your voice is very gentle," said he, after a pause; "and that," headded, with a slight sigh, "is the only criterion by which I know theyoung and the beautiful!" Lucille now blushed, and with a slight mixtureof pain in the blush, for she knew well that to beauty she had nopretension. "Are you a native of this town?" continued he.

  "Yes, sir; my father holds a small office in the customs, and my motherand I eke out his salary by making lace. We are called poor, but we donot feel it, sir."

  "You are fortunate! there is no wealth like the heart'swealth,--content," answered the blind man, mournfully.

  "And, monsieur," said Lucille, feeling angry with herself that she hadawakened a natural envy in the stranger's mind, and anxious to changethe subject--"and, monsieur, has he been long at Malines?"

  "But yesterday. I am passing through the Low Countries on a tour;perhaps you smile at the tour of a blind man, but it is wearisomeeven to the blind to rest always in the same place. I thought duringchurch-time, when the streets were empty, that I might, by the help ofmy dog, enjoy safely at least the air, if not the sight of the town;but there are some persons, methinks, who cannot have even a dog for afriend!"

  The blind man spoke bitterly,--the desertion of his dog had touchedhim to the core. Lucille wiped her eyes. "And does Monsieur travel thenalone?" said she; and looking at his face more attentively than she hadyet ventured to do, she saw that he was scarcely above two-and-twenty."His father, and his _mother_," she added, with an emphasis on the lastword, "are they not with him?"

  "I am an orphan!" answered the stranger; "and I have neither brother norsister."

  The desolate condition of the blind man quite melted Lucille; never hadshe been so strongly affected. She felt a strange flutter at the heart,a secret and earnest sympathy, that attracted her at once towards him.She wished that Heaven had suffered her to be his sister!

  The contrast between the youth and the form of the stranger, and theaffliction which took hope from the one and activity from the other,increased the compassion he excited. His features were remarkablyregular, and had a certain nobleness in their outline; and his framewas gracefully and firmly knit, though he moved cautiously and with nocheerful step.

  They had now passed into a narrow street leading towards the hotel,when they heard behind them the clatter of hoofs; and Lucille, lookinghastily back, saw that a troop of the Belgian horse was passing throughthe town.

  She drew her charge close by the wall, and trembling with fear forhim, she stationed herself by his side. The troop passed at a full trotthrough the street; and at the sound of their clanging arms, and theringing hoofs of their heavy chargers, Lucille might have seen, hadshe looked at the blind man's face, that its sad features kindledwith enthusiasm, and his head was raised proudly from its wonted andmelancholy bend. "Thank Heaven!" she said, as the troop had nearlypassed them, "the danger is over!" Not so. One of the last two soldierswho rode abreast was unfortunately mounted on a young and unmanageablehorse. The rider's oaths and digging spur only increased the fire andimpatience of the charger; it plunged from side to side of the narrowstreet.

  "Look to yourselves!" cried the horseman, as he was borne on to theplace where Lucille and the stranger stood against the wall. "Are yemad? Why do you not run?"

  "For Heaven's sake, for mercy's sake, he is blind!" cried Lucille,clinging to the stranger's side.

  "Save yourself, my kind guide!" said the stranger. But Lucille dreamednot of such desertion. The trooper wrested the horse's head from thespot where they stood; with a snort, as it felt the spur, the enragedanimal lashed out with its hind-legs; and Lucille, unable to save_both_, threw herself before the blind man, and received the shockdirected against him; her slight and delicate arm fell broken by herside, the horseman was borne onward. "Thank God, _you_ are saved!" waspoor Lucille's exclamation; and she fell, overcome with pain and terror,into the arms which the stranger mechanically opened to receive her.

  "My guide! my friend!" cried he, "you are hurt, you--"

  "No, sir," interrupted Lucille, faintly, "I am better, I am well. _This_arm, if you please,--we are not far from your hotel now."

  But the stranger's ear, tutored to every inflection of voice, toldhim at once of the pain she suffered. He drew from her by degrees theconfession of the injury she had sustained; but the generous girl didnot tell him it had been incurred solely in his protection. He nowinsisted on reversing their duties, and accompanying _her_ to her home;and Lucille, almost fainting with pain, and hardly able to move, wasforced to consent. But a few steps down the next turning stood thehumble mansion of her father. They reached it; and Lucille scarcelycrossed the threshold, before she sank down, and for some minutes wasinsensible to pain. It was left to the stranger to explain, and tobeseech them immediately to send for a surgeon, "the most skilful, themost practised in the town," said he. "See, I am rich, and this is theleast I can do to atone to your generous daughter, for not forsakingeven a stranger in peril."

  He held out his purse as he spoke, but the father refused the offer; andit saved the blind man some shame, that he could not see the blush ofhonest resentment with which so poor a species of renumeration was putaside.

  The young man stayed till the surgeon arrived, till the arm was set; nordid he depart until he had obtained a promise from the mother that heshould learn the next morning how the sufferer had passed the night.

  The next morning, indeed, he had intended to quit a town that offers butlittle temptation to the traveller; but he tarried day after day, untilLucille herself accompanied her mother, to assure him of her recovery.

  You know, at least I do, dearest Gertrude, that t
here is such a thing aslove at the first meeting,--a secret, an unaccountable affinity betweenpersons (strangers before) which draws them irresistibly together,--asif there were truth in Plato's beautiful fantasy, that our souls werea portion of the stars, and that spirits, thus attracted to each other,have drawn their original light from the same orb, and yearn for arenewal of their former union. Yet without recurring to such fancifulsolutions of a daily mystery, it was but natural that one in the forlornand desolate condition of Eugene St. Amand should have felt a certaintenderness for a person who had so generously suffered for his sake.

  The darkness to which he was condemned did not shut from his mind's eyethe haunting images of Ideal beauty; rather, on the contrary, in hisperpetual and unoccupied solitude, he fed the reveries of an imaginationnaturally warm, and a heart eager for sympathy and commune.

  He had said rightly that his only test of beauty was in the melody ofvoice; and never had a softer or more thrilling tone than that of theyoung maiden touched upon his ear. Her exclamation, so beautifullydenying self, so devoted in its charity, "Thank God, _you_ are saved!"uttered too in the moment of her own suffering, rang constantly upon hissoul, and he yielded, without precisely defining their nature, to vagueand delicious sentiments, that his youth had never awakened to tillthen. And Lucille--the very accident that had happened to her on hisbehalf only deepened the interest she had already conceived for one who,in the first flush of youth, was thus cut off from the glad objects oflife, and left to a night of years desolate and alone. There is, to yourbeautiful and kindly sex, a natural inclination to _protect_. This makesthem the angels of sickness, the comforters of age, the fosterersof childhood; and this feeling, in Lucille peculiarly developed, hadalready inexpressibly linked her compassionate nature to the lot of theunfortunate traveller. With ardent affections, and with thoughts beyondher station and her years, she was not without that modest vanitywhich made her painfully susceptible to her own deficiencies in beauty.Instinctively conscious of how deeply she herself could love, shebelieved it impossible that she could ever be so loved in return. Thestranger, so superior in her eyes to all she had yet seen, was the firstwho had ever addressed her in that voice which by tones, not words,speaks that admiration most dear to a woman's heart. To _him_ she wasbeautiful, and her lovely mind spoke out, undimmed by the imperfectionsof her face. Not, indeed, that Lucille was wholly without personalattraction; her light step and graceful form were elastic with thefreshness of youth, and her mouth and smile had so gentle and tenderan expression, that there were moments when it would not have beenthe blind only who would have mistaken her to be beautiful. Her earlychildhood had indeed given the promise of attractions, which thesmallpox, that then fearful malady, had inexorably marred. It had notonly seared the smooth skin and brilliant hues, but utterly changed eventhe character of the features. It so happened that Lucille's family werecelebrated for beauty, and vain of that celebrity; and so bitterly hadher parents deplored the effects of the cruel malady, that poor Lucillehad been early taught to consider them far more grievous than theyreally were, and to exaggerate the advantages of that beauty, the lossof which was considered by her parents so heavy a misfortune. Lucille,too, had a cousin named Julie, who was the wonder of all Malines forher personal perfections; and as the cousins were much together, thecontrast was too striking not to occasion frequent mortification toLucille. But every misfortune has something of a counterpoise; and theconsciousness of personal inferiority had meekened, without souring, hertemper, had given gentleness to a spirit that otherwise might have beentoo high, and humility to a mind that was naturally strong, impassioned,and energetic.

  And yet Lucille had long conquered the one disadvantage she most dreadedin the want of beauty. Lucille was never known but to be loved.Wherever came her presence, her bright and soft mind diffused a certaininexpressible charm; and where she was not, a something was absent fromthe scene which not even Julie's beauty could replace.

  "I propose," said St. Amand to Madame le Tisseur, Lucille's mother,as he sat in her little salon,--for he had already contracted thatacquaintance with the family which permitted him to be led to theirhouse, to return the visits Madame le Tisseur had made him, and his dog,once more returned a penitent to his master, always conducted hissteps to the humble abode, and stopped instinctively at the door,--"Ipropose," said St. Amand, after a pause, and with some embarrassment,"to stay a little while longer at Malines; the air agrees with me, andI like the quiet of the place; but you are aware, madam, that at a hotelamong strangers, I feel my situation somewhat cheerless. I have beenthinking"--St. Amand paused again--"I have been thinking that if I couldpersuade some agreeable family to receive me as a lodger, I would fixmyself here for some weeks. I am easily pleased."

  "Doubtless there are many in Malines who would be too happy to receivesuch a lodger."

  "Will you receive me?" asked St. Amand, abruptly. "It was of _your_family I thought."

  "Of us? Monsieur is too flattering. But we have scarcely a room goodenough for you."

  "What difference between one room and another can there be to me? Thatis the best apartment to my choice in which the human voice sounds mostkindly."

  The arrangement was made, and St. Amand came now to reside beneath thesame roof as Lucille. And was she not happy that _he_ wanted so constantan attendance; was she not happy that she was ever of use? St. Amand waspassionately fond of music; he played himself with a skill that wasonly surpassed by the exquisite melody of his voice, and was not Lucillehappy when she sat mute and listening to such sounds as in Malineswere never heard before? Was she not happy in gazing on a face to whosemelancholy aspect her voice instantly summoned the smile? Was she nothappy when the music ceased, and St. Amand called "Lucille"? Did not herown name uttered by that voice seem to her even sweeter than the music?Was she not happy when they walked out in the still evenings of summer,and her arm thrilled beneath the light touch of one to whom she wasso necessary? Was she not proud in her happiness, and was there notsomething like worship in the gratitude she felt to him for raising herhumble spirit to the luxury of feeling herself beloved?

  St. Amand's parents were French. They had resided in the neighbourhoodof Amiens, where they had inherited a competent property, to which hehad succeeded about two years previous to the date of my story.

  He had been blind from the age of three years. "I know not," said he,as he related these particulars to Lucille one evening when they werealone,--"I know not what the earth may be like, or the heaven, or therivers whose voice at least I can hear, for I have no recollectionbeyond that of a confused but delicious blending of a thousand gloriouscolours, a bright and quick sense of joy, A VISIBLE MUSIC. But it isonly since my childhood closed that I have mourned, as I now unceasinglymourn, for the light of day. My boyhood passed in a quiet cheerfulness;the least trifle then could please and occupy the vacancies of my mind;but it was as I took delight in being read to, as I listened to thevivid descriptions of Poetry, as I glowed at the recital of great deeds,as I was made acquainted by books with the energy, the action, the heat,the fervour, the pomp, the enthusiasm of life, that I gradually openedto the sense of all I was forever denied. I felt that I existed, notlived; and that, in the midst of the Universal Liberty, I was sentencedto a prison, from whose blank walls there was no escape. Still, however,while my parents lived, I had something of consolation; at least I wasnot alone. They died, and a sudden and dread solitude, a vast and emptydreariness, settled upon my dungeon. One old servant only, who hadattended me from my childhood, who had known me in my short privilege oflight, by whose recollections my mind could grope back its way throughthe dark and narrow passages of memory to faint glimpses of the sun,was all that remained to me of human sympathies. It did not suffice,however, to content me with a home where my father and my mother's kindvoice were _not_. A restless impatience, an anxiety to move, possessedme, and I set out from my home, journeying whither I cared not, so thatat least I could change an air that weighed upon me like a palpableburden. I too
k only this old attendant as my companion; he too diedthree months since at Bruxelles, worn out with years. Alas! I hadforgotten that he was old, for I saw not his progress to decay; and now,save my faithless dog, I was utterly alone, till I came hither and found_thee_."

  Lucille stooped down to caress the dog; she blessed the desertion thathad led him to a friend who never could desert.

  But however much, and however gratefully, St. Amand loved Lucille,her power availed not to chase the melancholy from his brow, and toreconcile him to his forlorn condition.

  "Ah, would that I could see thee! would that I could look upon a facethat my heart vainly endeavours to delineate!"

  "If thou couldst," sighed Lucille, "thou wouldst cease to love me."

  "Impossible!" cried St. Amand, passionately. "However the world may findthee, _thou_ wouldst become my standard of beauty; and I should judgenot of thee by others, but of others by thee."

  He loved to hear Lucille read to him, and mostly he loved thedescriptions of war, of travel, of wild adventure, and yet theyoccasioned him the most pain. Often she paused from the page as sheheard him sigh, and felt that she would even have renounced the bliss ofbeing loved by him, if she could have restored to him that blessing, thedesire for which haunted him as a spectre.

  Lucille's family were Catholic, and, like most in their station, theypossessed the superstitions, as well as the devotion of the faith.Sometimes they amused themselves of an evening by the various legendsand imaginary miracles of their calendar; and once, as they were thusconversing with two or three of their neighbours, "The Tomb of the ThreeKings of Cologne" became the main topic of their wondering recitals.However strong was the sense of Lucille, she was, as you will readilyconceive, naturally influenced by the belief of those with whom she hadbeen brought up from her cradle, and she listened to tale after taleof the miracles wrought at the consecrated tomb, as earnestly andundoubtingly as the rest.

  And the Kings of the East were no ordinary saints; to the relics ofthe Three Magi, who followed the Star of Bethlehem, and were the firstpotentates of the earth who adored its Saviour, well might the piousCatholic suppose that a peculiar power and a healing sanctity wouldbelong. Each of the circle (St. Amand, who had been more than usuallysilent, and even gloomy during the day, had retired to his ownapartment, for there were some moments when, in the sadness of histhoughts, he sought that solitude which he so impatiently fled from atothers)--each of the circle had some story to relate equally veraciousand indisputable, of an infirmity cured, or a prayer accorded, or a sinatoned for at the foot of the holy tomb. One story peculiarly affectedLucille; the narrator, a venerable old man with gray locks, solemnlydeclared himself a witness of its truth.

  A woman at Anvers had given birth to a son, the offspring of an illicitconnection, who came into the world deaf and dumb. The unfortunatemother believed the calamity a punishment for her own sin. "Ah, would,"said she, "that the affliction had fallen only upon me! Wretch that Iam, my innocent child is punished for my offence!" This, idea hauntedher night and day; she pined and could not be comforted. As the childgrew up, and wound himself more and more round her heart, his caressesadded new pangs to her remorse; and at length (continued the narrator)hearing perpetually of the holy fame of the Tomb of Cologne, sheresolved upon a pilgrimage barefoot to the shrine. "God is merciful,"said she; "and He who called Magdalene his sister may take the mother'scurse from the child." She then went to Cologne; she poured her tears,her penitence, and her prayers at the sacred tomb. When she returned toher native town, what was her dismay as she approached her cottage tobehold it a heap of ruins! Its blackened rafters and yawning casementsbetokened the ravages of fire. The poor woman sank upon the groundutterly overpowered. Had her son perished? At that moment she heardthe cry of a child's voice, and, lo! her child rushed to her arms, andcalled her "mother!"

  He had been saved from the fire, which had broken out seven days before;but in the terror he had suffered, the string that tied his tongue hadbeen loosened; he had uttered articulate sounds of distress; the cursewas removed, and one word at least the kind neighbours had alreadytaught him to welcome his mother's return. What cared she now thather substance was gone, that her roof was ashes? She bowed in gratefulsubmission to so mild a stroke; her prayer had been heard, and the sinof the mother was visited no longer on the child.

  I have said, dear Gertrude, that this story made a deep impression uponLucille. A misfortune so nearly akin to that of St. Amand removed by theprayer of another filled her with devoted thoughts and a beautiful hope."Is not the tomb still standing?" thought she. "Is not God still inheaven?--He who heard the guilty, may He not hear the guiltless? Is Henot the God of love? Are not the affections the offerings that pleaseHim best? And what though the child's mediator was his mother, caneven a mother love her child more tenderly than I love Eugene? But if,Lucille, thy prayer be granted, if he recover his sight, _thy_ charmis gone, he will love thee no longer. No matter! be it so,--I shall atleast have made him happy!"

  Such were the thoughts that filled the mind of Lucille; she cherishedthem till they settled into resolution, and she secretly vowed toperform her pilgrimage of love. She told neither St. Amand nor herparents of her intention; she knew the obstacles such an announcementwould create. Fortunately she had an aunt settled at Bruxelles, to whomshe had been accustomed once in every year to pay a month's visit, andat that time she generally took with her the work of a twelvemonths'industry, which found a readier sale at Bruxelles than at Malines.Lucille and St. Amand were already betrothed; their wedding was shortlyto take place; and the custom of the country leading parents, howeverpoor, to nourish the honourable ambition of giving some dowry with theirdaughters, Lucille found it easy to hide the object of her departure,under the pretence of taking the lace to Bruxelles, which had been theyear's labour of her mother and herself,--it would sell for sufficient,at least, to defray the preparations for the wedding.

  "Thou art ever right, child," said Madame le Tisseur; "the richer St.Amand is, why, the less oughtest thou to go a beggar to his house."

  In fact, the honest ambition of the good people was excited; their pridehad been hurt by the envy of the town and the current congratulations onso advantageous a marriage; and they employed themselves in countingup the fortune they should be able to give to their only child, andflattering their pardonable vanity with the notion that there wouldbe no such great disproportion in the connection after all. They wereright, but not in their own view of the estimate; the wealth thatLucille brought was what fate could not lessen, reverse could not reach;the ungracious seasons could not blight its sweet harvest; imprudencecould not dissipate, fraud could not steal, one grain from its abundantcoffers! Like the purse in the Fairy Tale, its use was hourly, itstreasure inexhaustible.

  St. Amand alone was not to be won to her departure; he chafed at thenotion of a dowry; he was not appeased even by Lucille's representationthat it was only to gratify and not to impoverish her parents. "And_thou_, too, canst leave me!" he said, in that plaintive voice which hadmade his first charm to Lucille's heart. "It is a double blindness!"

  "But for a few days; a fortnight at most, dearest Eugene."

  "A fortnight! you do not reckon time as the blind do," said St. Amand,bitterly.

  "But listen, listen, dear Eugene," said Lucille, weeping.

  The sound of her sobs restored him to a sense of his ingratitude. Alas,he knew not how much he had to be grateful for! He held out his armsto her. "Forgive me," said he. "Those who can see Nature know not howterrible it is to be alone."

  "But my mother will not leave you."

  "She is not you!"

  "And Julie," said Lucille, hesitatingly.

  "What is Julie to me?"

  "Ah, you are the only one, save my parents, who could think of me in herpresence."

  "And why, Lucille?"

  "Why! She is more beautiful than a dream."

  "Say not so. Would I could see, that I might prove to the world how muchmore beautiful thou art! Th
ere is no music in her voice."

  The evening before Lucille departed she sat up late with St. Amand andher mother. They conversed on the future; they made plans; in the widesterility of the world they laid out the garden of household love, andfilled it with flowers, forgetful of the wind that scatters and thefrost that kills. And when, leaning on Lucille's arm, St. Amand soughthis chamber, and they parted at his door, which closed upon her, shefell down on her knees at the threshold, and poured out the fulness ofher heart in a prayer for his safety and the fulfilment of her timidhope.

  At daybreak she was consigned to the conveyance that performed the shortjourney from Malines to Bruxelles. When she entered the town, insteadof seeking her aunt, she rested at an _auberge_ in the suburbs, andconfiding her little basket of lace to the care of its hostess, sheset out alone, and on foot, upon the errand of her heart's lovelysuperstition. And erring though it was, her faith redeemed its weakness,her affection made it even sacred; and well may we believe that the Eyewhich reads all secrets scarce looked reprovingly on that fanaticismwhose only infirmity was love.

  So fearful was she lest, by rendering the task too easy, she mightimpair the effect, that she scarcely allowed herself rest or food.Sometimes, in the heat of noon, she wandered a little from the roadside,and under the spreading lime-tree surrendered her mind to its sweet andbitter thoughts; but ever the restlessness of her enterprise urgedher on, and faint, weary, and with bleeding feet, she started up andcontinued her way. At length she reached the ancient city, where aholier age has scarce worn from the habits and aspects of men the Romantrace. She prostrated herself at the tomb of the Magi; she proffered herardent but humble prayer to Him before whose Son those fleshless heads(yet to faith at least preserved) had, eighteen centuries ago, bowed inadoration. Twice every day, for a whole week, she sought the same spot,and poured forth the same prayer. The last day an old priest, who,hovering in the church, had observed her constantly at devotion, withthat fatherly interest which the better ministers of the Catholic sect(that sect which has covered the earth with the mansions of charity)feel for the unhappy, approached her as she was retiring with moist anddowncast eyes, and saluting her, assumed the privilege of his order toinquire if there was aught in which his advice or aid could serve.There was something in the venerable air of the old man which encouragedLucille; she opened her heart to him; she told him all. The good priestwas much moved by her simplicity and earnestness. He questioned herminutely as to the peculiar species of blindness with which St. Amandwas afflicted; and after musing a little while, he said, "Daughter,God is great and merciful; we must trust in His power, but we mustnot forget that He mostly works by mortal agents. As you pass throughLouvain in your way home, fail not to see there a certain physician,named Le Kain. He is celebrated through Flanders for the cures he haswrought among the blind, and his advice is sought by all classes fromfar and near. He lives hard by the Hotel de Ville, but any one willinform you of his residence. Stay, my child, you shall take him a notefrom me; he is a benevolent and kindly man, and you shall tell himexactly the same story (and with the same voice) you have told to me."

  So saying the priest made Lucille accompany him to his home, and forcingher to refresh herself less sparingly than she had yet done since shehad left Malines, he gave her his blessing, and a letter to Le Kain,which he rightly judged would insure her a patient hearing from thephysician. Well known among all men of science was the name of thepriest, and a word of recommendation from him went further, where virtueand wisdom were honoured, than the longest letter from the haughtiestsieur in Flanders.

  With a patient and hopeful spirit, the young pilgrim turned her back onthe Roman Cologne; and now about to rejoin St. Amand, she felt neitherthe heat of the sun nor the weariness of the road. It was one day atnoon that she again passed through Louvain, and she soon found herselfby the noble edifice of the Hotel de Ville. Proud rose its spiresagainst the sky, and the sun shone bright on its rich tracery andGothic casements; the broad open street was crowded with persons of allclasses, and it was with some modest alarm that Lucille lowered her veiland mingled with the throng. It was easy, as the priest had said, tofind the house of Le Kain; she bade the servant take the priest's letterto his master, and she was not long kept waiting before she was admittedto the physician's presence. He was a spare, tall man, with a baldfront, and a calm and friendly countenance. He was not less touchedthan the priest had been by the manner in which she narrated herstory, described the affliction of her betrothed, and the hope that hadinspired the pilgrimage she had just made.

  "Well," said he, encouragingly, "we must see our patient. You can bringhim hither to me."

  "Ah, sir, I had hoped--" Lucille stopped suddenly.

  "What, my young friend?"

  "That I might have had the triumph of bringing you to Malines. I know,sir, what you are about to say, and I know, sir, your time must be veryvaluable; but I am not so poor as I seem, and Eugene, that is, M. St.Amand, is very rich, and--and I have at Bruxelles what I am sure isa large sum; it was to have provided for the wedding, but it is mostheartily at your service, sir."

  Le Kain smiled; he was one of those men who love to read the humanheart when its leaves are fair and undefiled; and, in the benevolenceof science, he would have gone a longer journey than from Louvain toMalines to give sight to the blind, even had St. Amand been a beggar.

  "Well, well," said he, "but you forget that M. St. Amand is not the onlyone in the world who wants me. I must look at my notebook, and see if Ican be spared for a day or two."

  So saying, he glanced at his memoranda. Everything smiled on Lucille; hehad no engagements that his partner could not fulfil, for some days; heconsented to accompany Lucille to Malines.

  Meanwhile, cheerless and dull had passed the time to St. Amand. He wasperpetually asking Madame le Tisseur what hour it was,--it was almosthis only question. There seemed to him no sun in the heavens, nofreshness in the air, and he even forbore his favourite music; theinstrument had lost its sweetness since Lucille was not by to listen.

  It was natural that the gossips of Malines should feel some envy at themarriage Lucille was about to make with one whose competence report hadexaggerated into prodigal wealth, whose birth had been elevated from therespectable to the noble, and whose handsome person was clothed, by theinterest excited by his misfortune, with the beauty of Antinous. Eventhat misfortune, which ought to have levelled all distinctions, was notsufficient to check the general envy; perhaps to some of the damselsof Malines blindness in a husband would not have seemed an unwelcomeinfirmity! But there was one in whom this envy rankled with a peculiarsting: it was the beautiful, the all-conquering Julie! That the humble,the neglected Lucille should be preferred to her; that Lucille, whoseexistence was well-nigh forgot beside Julie's, should become thussuddenly of importance; that there should be one person in the world,and that person young, rich, handsome, to whom she was less thannothing, when weighed in the balance with Lucille, mortified to thequick a vanity that had never till then received a wound. "It is well,"she would say with a bitter jest, "that Lucille's lover is blind. To bethe one it is necessary to be the other!"

  During Lucille's absence she had been constantly in Madame le Tisseur'shouse; indeed, Lucille had prayed her to be so. She had sought, with anindustry that astonished herself, to supply Lucille's place; and amongthe strange contradictions of human nature, she had learned during herefforts to please, to love the object of those efforts,--as much atleast as she was capable of loving.

  She conceived a positive hatred to Lucille; she persisted in imaginingthat nothing but the accident of first acquaintance had deprived herof a conquest with which she persuaded herself her happiness had becomeconnected. Had St. Amand never loved Lucille and proposed to Julie, hismisfortune would have made her reject him, despite his wealth and hisyouth; but to be Lucille's lover, and a conquest to be won from Lucille,raised him instantly to an importance not his own. Safe, however, in hisaffliction, the arts and beauty of Julie fell harmless on the
fidelityof St. Amand. Nay, he liked her less than ever, for it seemed animpertinence in any one to counterfeit the anxiety and watchfulness ofLucille.

  "It is time, surely it is time, Madame le Tisseur, that Lucille shouldreturn? She might have sold all the lace in Malines by this time," saidSt. Amand, one day, peevishly.

  "Patience, my dear friend, patience; perhaps she may return to-morrow."

  "To-morrow! let me see, it is only six o'clock,--only six, you aresure?"

  "Just five, dear Eugene. Shall I read to you? This is a new book fromParis; it has made a great noise," said Julie.

  "You are very kind, but I will not trouble you."

  "It is anything but trouble."

  "In a word, then, I would rather not."

  "Oh, that he could see!" thought Julie; "would I not punish him forthis!"

  "I hear carriage wheels; who can be passing this way? Surely it is the_voiturier_ from Bruxelles," said St. Amand, starting up; "it is hisday,--his hour, too. No, no, it is a lighter vehicle," and he sank downlistlessly on his seat.

  Nearer and nearer rolled the wheels; they turned the corner; theystopped at the lowly door; and, overcome, overjoyed, Lucille was claspedto the bosom of St. Amand.

  "Stay," said she, blushing, as she recovered her self-possession, andturned to Le Kain; "pray pardon me, sir. Dear Eugene, I have broughtwith me one who, by God's blessing, may yet restore you to sight."

  "We must not be sanguine, my child," said Le Kain; "anything is betterthan disappointment."