tend to say what they were ; but certain it is that her lover sometimes could hardly comprehend her. On these occasions she sighed, and, not seldom, started and became pale; while Cabieux, knitting his brows till his plainness acquired a character of ferocity, drew his hat over his eyes, and rushed from her presence to wander along the shore, and deliver himself
to the nightmare that haunted his imagination. "il the marriage project went on, and that it was not sooner consummated was attributed to the hostility of Isabelle’s mother, a foolish old lady, who had cer- tain notions of gentility to which it seems, Cabieux, although comparativ ely a man of fortune, did not altogether come up.
The arrival of the enemy’s fleet, however, had a singular effect upon the lover. His spirits seemed to rise in proportion as those of his comrades fell. His cheek flushed ; his eyes brightened ; his manner was absent and pre-occupied ; his words few and almost fierce ; he looked like a man whose spirit was big with some great and hazardous project not yet sufficiently formed to allow his brow to grow smooth and pale, and the excitement of enthusiasm to sink into the cold, rigid, iron tranquillity of resolve. I have no doubt that he determined to gain his mistress by a coup de main—to overbalance her superiority in knowledge and refinement by his daring and its success—to drown the rough outli.e of his features in the halo that encircles the brow of a hero—or to perish, the martyr at once of honour and of love. This is evident, partly from his manner, partly from the extreme anxiety he manifested to obtain the dangerous post of serjeant of the coast-guard, and partly from the violent and desperate counsels he gave in that capacity.
On the night I have mentioned, Monsieur Cabieux parted company with his comrades full of shame and indignation. To his conscious imagination their harmless taunts seemed to advert with strange significance to his situation. He overlooked the fact that his approaching union with Isabelle was known to the whole village, and that he was now in that enviable yet ludicrous plight in which a person is placed in such rude societies, who, by the very fact of thus contemplating marriage, makes a public confession of his love.
He had not even seen Isabelle for many days; he had almost resolved never to see her again till the blow was struck which should determine his fate; but the raillery of his comrades had the effect which may be expected on a proud and determined spirit like his. A weaker man would have shrunk from his mistress with tenfold sensitiveness: Cabieux, after a few turns on the beach, walked straight to her house.
The dwelling of Isabelle was situated near the rocks which terminate yonder point of the bay. The road to it was wild and dreary; there was no moon visible in the heavens; and Cabieux stumbled on in the dark, his heart weighed down with a sadness which he could not control. Sometimes he turned a wistful glance upon the ships in the offing, and for a moment the blood would rush dancing through his veins, and his heart beat proud and high; but soon these signals of reaction disappeared, his chest fell with a heavy sigh, and he stole forward in his path like a doomed and accursed thing.
On reaching the house he passed the window of the parlour, and by the glance which an involuntary, almost convulsive, motion of the head enabled him to take, he saw that Madame Leblanc was alone. Had Isabelle retired to bed? It was almost late enough for the supposition. He walked on, however, to the hall-door, and raised the latch with a slow and trem- bling hand. He allowed it, however, to fall again without noise, and, in obedience to a new impulse, went forward to his mistress’s window. The curtains Were undrawn, and there was a light in the chamber.
She had intended to retire, then, for the night, but had returned, no doubt, to the parlour for something she had forgotten. He flew back to the parlour window as swift and noiseless as a shadow. Isabelle was not there; her mother had gathered up her things, and replaced her lofty conical cap with one of humbler composition and manufacture: she was about to withdraw to her room. Cabieux paused in a consternation which he felt to be absurd, yet could not control.
He, at length, returned to Isabelle’s window; and looked in with a curiosity which partook of alarm. The bed was undisturbed; not a chair was moved from its place; yet the wick of the candle betrayed that it had been unattended to for at least an hour! Cabieux’s first impulse was to run to the door, and knock loud enough to alarm the dead ; but his second, which he obeyed, was to walk on, he knew not wherefore, to the next window, and then to the next; and then he found himself at the end of the house.
Here a sound stole upon his ear, which he persuaded himself was only the sighing of the night-wind among the trees of the orchard; and yet he trembled from head to foot. The sound became more distinct; it was mingled with another, lower and hoarser: one was the voice of Isabelle, the other of a stranger— and a man! Cabieux stalked suddenly forward, and a faint shriek of alarm escaped from the lips of his mistress. He stood still—his limbs felt as if petrified; yet his heart beat audibly. He was behind a tree; he was within two paces of the spot of their mystic rendez- vous, and could hear even the breathing of Isabelle.
“Did you not hear a step?” whispered she. “Fly! —in this place you stand upon a grave!”
“I stand by your side, sweet Isabelle!” replied the unknown. “I am neither of a nation nor a trade to fear danger; and you know I have come here to-night through perils which only a word from your dear lips, and a touch of your beautiful hand, could adequately reward.”
“Alas, alas! that ever you should have heard that voice, or touched that hand—that voice which should have shrieked, ‘treason! France!’ that hand which should have plunged a dagger into your heart! Why, desperate and dreadful man, why have you broken in upon my solitude of heart!—why have you awakened me from the sleep of my soul? I sought you not; I called you not; I dreamed not of your face; 1 knew not your nation save in hatred and in fear. Why came you to me like a bird of evil omen from the farther side of the ocean? What brought you to my window, to wither my young life with your gentle eye, and whisper despair into my ear with your seraph’s tongue?”
“Isabelle, we have met because it was our fate? I came here to woo another mistress, and court another love—honour! glory! I was the enemy of your country; 1 sought distinction; and—and—I perilled my life for the prize!”
“In what manner? What was your purpose?” demanded Isabelle, in a hasty and choked voice. The stranger was silent.
“Speak!” continued she: “you came as a spy” —
“As a foe.”
“You came as a spoiler to seek out your prey—and you pitched upon a harmless maiden to be your accomplice in the destruction of her country!”
“You wrong me, Isabelle; God knows you wrong me! My designs, although hostile to France, were ever friendly to you. I saw you by accident—or destiny—as I stole past your window; I was, at first, smitten with your beauty; and, when I knew better, I was won for ever by the graceful dignity and guileless frankness of your mind.”
“But you still persist” —
“Hark! was not that a gun? I must not linger another moment.”
