Frankish nobility seems to have utterly perished under the ravage of that dreadful time; there is not a trace of it left, but châteaus here and there, like this one, mere empty shells. They were a wonderful race, to judge from record, in spite of their haughtiness; France has ever felt their want; and ever will." think of it, monsieur, with regret. Our to the château, and looking in vain for a symptom of interest on his countenance; he would merely shake his head incredulously, and turn away. I would shout at him-dance before him, all in vain. I merely became conscious that a crowd had collected behind us, and was making unsympathetic remarks. Then I attempted to flee-and woke up. It was not unnatural, therefore, when I did come face to face with him, that I should have been for the moment unmanned. He looked so uncommonly like the phantom of my dream, limely indifferent to everything and every one near him. I had chosen the time of day when the thoroughfare was least frequented, at least so far as errand-boys were concerned, and I was the only man within hail, except the eternal policeman, as I advanced across the street to his place. I knelt down close to him and said the three words, "Gascogne, Serenne, Thericourt." His words sank into my soul like flakes of molten iron. My search was rewarded at last, and the reward-I need have expected none other to look helplessly at the ruins of the Château Thericourt, and think of its rightful possessor as a wretched street artist, an outcast in a strange city, telling mechanically to himself the story of the downfall of his race. The miracle of his existence faded into insignificance before the stronger reality of that grey roofless building standing out against the fading light. There was the gateway-the very gateway in which he had played-half-choked with briars. I pushed my way through them to the courtyard-the curé following at my elbow-and walked on to where the nettles were growing rankest. "The fountain stood somewhere here," I said dreamily. "He was looking out of one of those windows when it stopped." The curé looked hard at me. "You must excuse these wanderings on my part," I cried. "These old legends interest me so much, you know. I am more obliged to you than I can say for this information about it, and I hope you will let me contribute something for the benefit of your poor." He bowed and accepted my alms with much grace. If the seeking out of the Château Thericourt had been a toilsome affair, I felt that the task of announcing my success to the street artist would require infinite tact. His unearthly smile and strange method of narration had filled me with a distrust of myself. I was haunted perpetually, on my way back to England, with a waking vision of myself modestly mentioning my visit sub He started as if he had been suddenly waked from a deep sleep, and rose slowly to his feet. We stood facing one another without speaking, and I watched, for the first, and doubtless the last time in my life, the eyes of a man gradually lighting up with the fire of a rekindling memory. In uttering those words I had applied the match, and the pile was already ablaze. The expression of careworn indifference faded away, the hard drawn lines round his mouth relaxed, his frowning forehead was smoothed down. A distant clock struck half past something, and its chimes brought me back to a sense of where I stood, and the risk I ran of looking ridiculous. It immediately occurred to me that this was the golden opportunity to do as I pleased with the man, that was to say before the whirl of returning memories had subsided. I took him by the arm and began to lead him towards the cabrank; he came a few steps, but turned and went back to his picture, which he carefully rubbed out. Then he rejoined me of his own accord. The cabman seemed surprised when I engaged him to drive the baron and myself; not unnaturally either, as he did not know the facts of the case. Seeing this, I said with much presence of mind: "The poor fellow is unwell; yes-well -drive me home, 27 Welgrave Street; it's nearer than the hospital." My friend the baron sat silent beside me in the hansom, and I dared not look at him, until I had got him safely indoors. He sank, at my bidding, into an armchair, and fell fast asleep. It was the exhaustion following restored animation-mental, however, in this case, not physical. The week following was tantalizing experience for me. I did not like to press him for an account of his mysterious existence, for fear of entirely unhinging his already overstrained intellect. He would sit motionless for hours in the armchair, which he had occupied after his arrival, and think, or appear to think. Sometimes he walked up and down the room, murmuring to himself incoherently. My patience was at last rewarded when one evening he began to question me about my visit to Thericourt. He spoke in the same snatchy English as usual, and I was often obliged to assist him by suggesting words, or reducing my own replies to simpler language. By degrees, however, I managed to explain to him the circumstances of my interview with the curé, and the appearance of the château. He accepted all I said, and yet I could see that it was a hard struggle with him to believe that I had really been there. While I contemplated his perplexed look, I remembered that I had brought a relic of the place with me a little fragment of marble carved with a fleur-de-lys, which I had picked up in the courtyard. I fetched it from a desk and handed it to him. He caught it out of my hand and looked it over closely. "Above the fire," he said, "there were those in a row." He pointed to the chimney-piece. The ice was now entirely broken. He spoke of his childhood, of his dim remembrance of his stern father, and of his priestly tutor, whom he adored; of the stag-hunt in the forest, and of the visit of the king and queen, who smiled on and caressed him; of his pale mother and timid sister, who played apart from him with her dolls; of his faithful friend the steward, who wore the livery with the fleur-de-lys on it, a privilege granted by the king; of the crowd of begging country-folk and the murmuring peasantry; of the sudden inroad of the rough hideous republican guards, and the general destruction. There was silence after the series of disjointed sentences which the foregoing recountal implies, as if he had told all he knew. "Nay," I said, "that is not the end though. You took refuge in the crack which the earthquake made in the wall, and fell asleep." "Yes," he replied thoughtfully-"yes; that is so. Yet I do not know more than that. I can only say that I came to stand on the bank of a pool near the château; it was early morning, and I knew that I saw the light again after years, so many that I could not think of them. I was cold because I was naked, except for a few rags, and a string round my neck. A little image was fastened to the string; it was of gold. They found me wandering there, and I was taken to a dreadful place, with bare walls, and I had no liberty there. I ran away at last, and an Italian man brought me to this place. He had an organ, and I gathered money for him. When he died, I sat by him and starved, and thought of Thericourt. I had forgotten the name, as you know, so I made a picture of it. There was a man who also lived in that room who made pictures like mine, but in colors. He took me to a place where I could buy them." "That was some years ago, I suppose?" "Ten years, perhaps. Well, well, I cannot say. I have moved from street to street, and forget the time." "I was chiefly struck by your costume,' I said. He laughed softly. "I know it myself now," said he, "but I did not then. I used to see, in some sort of a dream, people that I loved, and I would try in vain to make my clothes like theirs." "Well, I understand that. But how new-old world, and trying to make it did you make your story out. There are words in it your knowledge of which now surprises me." "I ask again and again of any one who would listen to me in the evening, or hearing a word I would know it was the one I wished for." I suppose that is all I shall ever know about it; the baron has never been able to remember more, and one cannot expect additional revelations now. I was a fool (I know it now) not to put further questions at once, but instead to go aside after my crude notions of modernizing him in dress and appearance. There was little difficulty in effecting this, except when it came to cutting his hair. He sat with his head between his hands and sighed unutterable sighs at the idea of losing it. "They would not know me at Thericourt," he moaned. Argument, however, prevailed at last. I A fortnight later we set out for Serenne. The baron behaved like a child -an obedient child, perhaps, but nothing more. He stared and listened. felt a strong desire to set him down quickly on the spot to which his earliest remembrances belonged, without garbling his mind with strange and irrelevant impressions. It seemed to me that he ought to be brought back to the right end and begin where he left off. Thus I experienced relief at his not asking questions, or becoming excited. As we neared the little wayside railway station from which Serenne is reached, I debated how to ensure our entering the village without spoiling my plans. The château stands on rising ground, and is visible from the highroad; so wishing to avoid the possibility of ne baron catching sight of his ancestral home from the top of a crazy diligence, surrounded by the malodorous descendants of his father's peasantry, I engaged a private carriage, and waited until darkness was setting in, before leaving the railway. As we sat together in the little hostel after our supper, I watched his face narrowly. His mind was working at something, groping, so to speak, round this dark spot in his But out. He started, when the servant spoke to me, as if it concerned him to hear the language again and not understand it. Then he gazed at the wals, which were papered-they disconcerted him; at the floor, which was carpeted— he shrugged his shoulders at it. the ceiling seemed to pacify him. It was crossed by beams of chestnut of various sizes and at irregular intervals, and hung with dried herbs. He lay back in his chair and muttered to it gently and confidingly. The maid bustled in and out of the room singing, as she cleared away our meal. The baron took no notice until the song was changed for one beginning— Zadan, Zadan, amiable Zadan. He turned round and gasped out: "The words are wrong." She stopped her work and looked at me inquiringly. "He says you are singing the wrong words," I said. "Ah," she laughed, "and he is right. It should go: Serenne, Serenne, ma belle Serenne! Then the baron returned his gaze to the ceiling, and was satisfied. "What did she say?" he said to me a moment later, without stirring. I repeated the line. "It means-what?" he muttered. "My beautiful Serenne!" "That old nurse, the one that opens the window for my father's spirit, she sings it, while I fall asleep, but a little differently. And I see another thingshe sits at a wheel and winds while she sings." This was the new shred of memory which the song had kindled in the baron's brain. It set me cogitating deeply as to how much more might not be elicited by judicious introduction to old things like it. Another song or two of the same date, the noise of the diligence on the stony pavement, the call of the goat-herd in the early morning, there were a thousand sounds which would be identically the same as when he lived and played here a hundred years ago. The sights would come of themselves, too, on the morrow. I saw him to bed in high hope. or I was up betimes next morning, fearing that the baron might feel restless, and rise early. But he slept late, and seemed weary still when he appeared. After breakfast we went, as my appointed plan was, to the curé, to whom I reintroduced myself and explained my desire to show my friend the beau ties of Thericourt. We sallied forth together; the curé talked fast on alien topics, politics mostly-all people who live in out-of-the-way places have strong political notions-while I vouchsafed monosyllabic replies, and kept a watchful eye on the baron. He walked close beside me, his eyes on the ground and his fingers twitching. Once twice he looked up, but it was only for a moment; the nervousness appeared to get more and more accentuated, as we went on; I thought of going back once more and putting off the visit to the château for a few days, but the sin of curiosity overcame me. We went on in this way to the dividing of the road, half-way up the hill. It is a peculiarly beautiful spot. The tiny valley which Serenne lies was spread out before us, a picture of a southern French village in its antique perfection; marred by a single modern building. Behind us the slope steepened up to a scar on which the dark green of pines stood out sharply against the sky. The curé took my arm and pointed out some objects of interest visible beyond the village, where the valley leaves the plain. This occupied a fraction of a minute, but when we turned again, the baron was well ahead of us, walking quickly along the narrow lane which leads from the highroad to Thericourt. "Come," I said hurriedly to the curé, "the baron will be out of sight." in un He stepped out by my side, without making reply, that good curé of Serenne, but his mind was deep in my last remark. "The baron," he said at last contemplatively-"the baron. Is your friend then a baron?" cause we were just approaching the château, and the baron's pace had quickened almost to a run. "Great Heaven!" I cried, "I can't miss this; it's the climax of the whole thing." So saying I ran ahead. The baron had already passed through the gateway when I overtook him. He was crouching down in a corner of the overgrown courtyard, and his face was buried in his hands. The curé joined us a minute later, much out of breath. "What is the matter?" said he. your friend the baron ill?" "Oh, my good man," I cried in heedless excitement, "can't you see te place ought to belong to him, and he is rather overcome. Good Heavens! what have I said? No, I don't know why he is upset. Yes, I do. Well. Yes, he isn't well." said, "I cannot "Alas!" the curé understand. You speak English and French mixed together. Do not scruple to confide in me, if I can be of help. As a priest, I am accustomed to confidences." The baron raised himself from his crouching attitude, and leant against the wall; then he began gradually to look about him. "He has had some kind of fit from walking too fast, I suppose," said the curé gently. "No doubt," I replied, intently watching the baron. The curé stepped forward and laid his hand on the baron's shoulder. "Cheer up, my friend," he said; "It is merely a passing faintness. You will recover altogether in another minute. Turn your thoughts away from yourself; you are pleased with Thericourt, I hope. Ha, ha, I wonder what the great baron of Fleuraye-Thericourt would say, if he found He did not finish his sentence; the "great baron's" son, who had stood during the whole exhortation motionless and with downcast eyes, now turned and faced him, and said in a low voice,"That is myself!" The curé stepped back and wrung his I did not answer his question, be- hands. "Oh, what is it-what is it?" he cried. "Your friend you call baron, and he is so terribly affected by the sight of this place. Yes, and he has the golden hair and features of the Fleurayes. I could believe he was the very man whose portrait used to hang in the inn." "It has passed before me, all my life, in a moment; and it is gone foreverforever." It was the baron who said this: but the tones were so low and sepulchral that I doubted for the moment whence they came. In spite of the almost insuperable agony of disappointment which was growing over me, I pulled myself together, and led the curé aside. "It is a long story," I said, "and I have spoilt it by my hideous impatience. At least I think I have. Let us go back. I asked you to act as our guide because I wanted an impartial witness; I apologize for having brought you here for nothing." Then, in single file and headed by the baron we walked silently back to Serenne. Eight months later, I sat alone with the curé in the best room of his little dwelling. His face wore a thoughtful smile, and he beat his foot on the floor softly. "So it is settled," said he. "Settled at last,” I replied; "the deeds were signed yesterday afternoon." scious pride; "this part of the world is an interesting one. We are, as I have often said, a volcanic race living in a volcanic region. Just now it is the earth's turn. Lately we have felt it shake, the first time for many years. Yesterday there was quite a sharp shock but no damage, thank God!" We walked through the gateway, and found the baron looking hard at the heap of earth and crumbling stone in the centre of the courtyard. The reason of his intentness became immediately apparent; a fountain of water was gushing up among the stones and running away in a rivulet toward the western wall. "The water of Serenne," said the baron, "taste it. It is the half of my patrimony. And the other half is here." We followed him to the gateway, and there he singled out a place under the wall covered with grass. It was the hiding place of his father's moneybags. The water cure of Serenne is becoming better known and appreciated with every season. The baron rules all, and consults the tastes and fancies of his richer clients with excellent judgment. But the poor are his chief care. In my own heart I dwell chiefly on the fact that it has occurred to no one to question his right to the title of Baron of "But what will you and the baron do Fleuraye-Thericourt. with the place?" merely the money-lender. And as for that I don't know what he will do with it. but he seems confident in the future." "Ha, ha! the sanguine baron; where is he now?" "Walking up to his château. I have promised to follow, and you shall come with me." We walked briskly up to the château through the keen air of the hills, the curé talking volubly according to his wont. "Both ethnologically and physically," he said, using the words or rather his equivalent French idiom, with con From The Contemporary Review. AFTER THE FAMINE IN MY GARDEN. When there was snow on the ground and famine in the garden the birds flocked to my food, but the thaw came, and not one of them all has ever been back to say "Thank you." It may be that the blackbird and thrush now singing from the fir-tops are grateful, and that the short, bright chants of the robin are canticles in acknowledgment of a timely kindness. But I wish they would sometimes come back to the tables that I spread for them when they |