region was as yet untrodden by the foot of man, and that no purely human being could safely dwell on it, even on those parts uncovered by the waves.
“Such idle forebodings have chased the smiles from your pretty lips, redder than the coral around us, fair creature,” said he, playfully stroking her silken ringlets, for he had at last succeeded in persuading Zephita to seat herself beside him in the boat, and she feared him no longer now. “I am an excellent diver, and I fear nothing, and am resolved to see the wonders of this Coral Grove, for to us it appears a mere shoal or bank of branches, and if you can exist beneath the surface of the water, I can, too. You do not wish me to leave you, my Coral nymph?” said he, as he clasped her yet more closely to him, and pressed kisses on her pouting lips. “Ah, you are indeed no water-fairy, your blood flows as warmly as mine.”
“Leave me?” said Zephita. “Oh, no, no! I could not live without you now. I feel I did not know what life was till I saw you,” and she threw her beautiful arms around him.
The stranger, although he caressed and soothed her, and would willingly, had he dared, have carried off his beautiful prize to the ship, smiled inwardly at the thought that, on the morrow he should perhaps be leagues distant; but what harm could there possibly be in deceiving a sea nymph, and making the best of what chance had thrown in his way.
Zephita grew more and more infatuated, and at last yielding to his caresses and importunties, she consented to guide him to the Coral Grove, and thence to the chrysolite rock, whose wonders she had described to him.
Strange that all this time no thought of her wronged and trusting husband flashed through her vain selfish heart.
They soon gained the foot of the coral tree. Zephita, who had descended first, started back with a cry of terror when she perceived her husband approaching. She turned to her companion.
He had just reached the ground; but as his foot touched the soil it yielded to the unusual pressure,—down, down he sank rapidly as an arrow cleaves the air. The treacherous filmy mass, which no mortal foot might safely tread, closed over him for ever, leaving no trace behind.
Zephita stood paralysed with grief and terror, unconscious for some moments that Alardos was standing close beside her.
He, too, looked horror-struck, but it did not seem to be at the event just recorded, for his eyes were fixed on his wife.
All their soft expression had vanished,—a stern majesty reigned in his whole demeanour, and when at length the wretched Zephita raised her eyes; she shrank back trembling as from some avenging spirit.
Long he gazed upon her as she sank lower and lower, and finally crouched on the ground in a paroxysm of grief and shame.
Still Alardos spoke not, he seemed to try to utter sounds, but to fail in the attempt.
At length he looked down at Zephita, and pity softened the freezing horror that had petrified his senses.
“Unhappy one; have I indeed then caused you such grief that you are forced to seek consolation from a stranger,—and oh what woe your love has wrought him.”
But Zephita started up—fury gleaming in her wild eyes and distorted countenance.
“A stranger!” and she laughed frantically, “to me no stranger. He is my dearest love—my beautiful—my own mate, and I am his bride, and he is waiting for me!”
Then, as her eye rested for an instant on the sudden grave of her lover, she uttered a wild piercing cry, and struck Alardos fiercely on the breast.
“You have murdered him—you dug this pit to ensure his destruction—mean, effeminate, and foolish I ever thought you—now I see you are treacherous and cruel—dare not to blame me—my heart was free, it never felt one real throb of love for you. My only hope is that you yet care enough for me to suffer by losing me.”
She turned and fled away like the wind.
Alardos for an instant stood spell-bound by her last words; then he hastened after her, wildly calling on her to stop and hear him.
For some moments, which to him seemed hours, he saw no trace of her. At last, at the extremity of the valley, he caught a glimpse of her white robe.
He looked around, they were amid fearful precipices, the path was broken and perilous. Still, he dared not slacken his pace, for he trembled lest again he should lose sight of Zephita.
To his relief the white robe appeared stationary. At length he approached near enough to see her standing on the almost conical summit of a small rock, surrounded on every side but that on which he advanced by precipices of frightful depth.
She seemed to be only awaiting her husband’s near approach, for the instant she perceived him, she waved her arms exultingly, and with a wild cry plunged into the fathomless abyss.
Voltaire and M. Chapeau.—In No. lxxxi. of Once a Week,[1] in an article entitled, “The Heart of Voltaire living and dead,” there occurs the following passage: “The malady continuing to make alarming progress, the priests arrive, and on being denied admittance, threaten to break open the door. The Abbé Gautier, sent by the cure of St. Sulpice, is allowed to enter, and is well received, but on attempting to press the matter of confession, is requested to ‘call again.’” Reading this brought to remembrance an anecdote once told me by an old French teacher. When Voltaire was on his death-bed, many visitors called—all of whom were denied entrance to his chamber. Amongst them was a Reverend Monsieur Chapeau, who came to offer the consolations of the Church. When his name was announced by the servant, Voltaire said, “I came into the world bareheaded, and I shall leave it without a chapeau!”
