Lucile Part 8

ALFRED.

Some compatriot of mine, do I then understand, With a cold Northern heart, and a rude English hand, Has injured your Rosebud of France?

STRANGER.

Sir, I know But little, or nothing. Yet some faces show The last act of a tragedy in their regard: Though the first scenes be wanting, it yet is not hard To divine, more or less, what the plot may have been, And what sort of actors have pa.s.s'd o'er the scene.

And whenever I gaze on the face of Lucile, With its pensive and pa.s.sionless languor, I feel That some feeling hath burnt there... burnt out, and burnt up Health and hope. So you feel when you gaze down the cup Of extinguish'd volcanoes: you judge of the fire Once there, by the ravage you see;--the desire, By the apathy left in its wake, and that sense Of a moral, immovable, mute impotence.

ALFRED.

Humph!... I see you have finished, at last, your cigar; Can I offer another?

STRANGER.

No, thank you. We are Not two miles from Luchon.

ALFRED.

You know the road well?

STRANGER.

I have often been over it.

XVI.

Here a pause fell On their converse. Still musingly on, side by side, In the moonlight, the two men continued to ride Down the dim mountain pathway. But each for the rest Of their journey, although they still rode on abreast, Continued to follow in silence the train Of the different feelings that haunted his brain; And each, as though roused from a deep revery, Almost shouted, descending the mountain, to see Burst at once on the moonlight the silvery Baths, The long lime-tree alley, the dark gleaming paths, With the lamps twinkling through them--the quaint wooden roofs-- The little white houses.

The clatter of hoofs, And the music of wandering bands, up the walls Of the steep hanging hill, at remote intervals Reached them, cross'd by the sound of the clacking of whips, And here and there, faintly, through serpentine slips Of verdant rose-gardens deep-sheltered with screens Of airy acacias and dark evergreens, They could mark the white dresses and catch the light songs Of the lovely Parisians that wander'd in throngs, Led by Laughter and Love through the old eventide Down the dream-haunted valley, or up the hillside.

XVII.

At length, at the door of the inn l'HERISSON, Pray go there, if ever you go to Luchon!

The two hors.e.m.e.n, well pleased to have reached it, alighted And exchanged their last greetings.

The Frenchman invited Lord Alfred to dinner. Lord Alfred declined.

He had letters to write, and felt tired. So he dined In his own rooms that night.

With an unquiet eye He watched his companion depart; nor knew why, Beyond all accountable reason or measure, He felt in his breast such a sovran displeasure.

"The fellow's good looking," he murmur'd at last, "And yet not a c.o.xcomb." Some ghost of the past Vex'd him still.

"If he love her," he thought, "let him win her."

Then he turn'd to the future--and order'd his dinner.

XVIII.

O hour of all hours, the most bless'd upon earth, Blessed hour of our dinners!

The land of his birth; The face of his first love; the bills that he owes; The twaddle of friends and the venom of foes; The sermon he heard when to church he last went; The money he borrow'd, the money he spent;-- All of these things, a man, I believe, may forget, And not be the worse for forgetting; but yet Never, never, oh never! earth's luckiest sinner Hath unpunish'd forgotten the hour of his dinner!

Indigestion, that conscience of every bad stomach, Shall relentlessly gnaw and pursue him with some ache Or some pain; and trouble, remorseless, his best ease, As the Furies once troubled the sleep of Orestes.

XIX.

We may live without poetry, music, and art: We may live without conscience, and live without heart; We may live without friends; we may live without books; But civilized man cannot live without cooks.

He may live without books,--what is knowledge but grieving?

He may live without hope,--what is hope but deceiving?

He may live without love,--what is pa.s.sion but pining?

But where is the man that can live without dining?

XX.

Lord Alfred found, waiting his coming, a note From Lucile.

"Your last letter has reach'd me," she wrote.

"This evening, alas! I must go to the ball, And shall not be at home till too late for your call; But to-morrow, at any rate, sans faute, at One You will find me at home, and will find me alone.

Meanwhile, let me thank you sincerely, milord, For the honor with which you adhere to your word.

Yes, I thank you, Lord Alfred! To-morrow then.

"L."

XXI.

I find myself terribly puzzled to tell The feelings with which Alfred Vargrave flung down This note, as he pour'd out his wine. I must own That I think he, himself, could have hardly explain'd Those feelings exactly.

"Yes, yes," as he drain'd The gla.s.s down, he mutter'd, "Jack's right, after all.

The coquette!"

"Does milord mean to go to the ball?"

Ask'd the waiter, who linger'd.

"Perhaps. I don't know.

You may keep me a ticket, in case I should go."

XXII.

Oh, better, no doubt, is a dinner of herbs, When season'd by love, which no rancor disturbs, And sweeten'd by all that is sweetest in life, Than turbot, bisque, ortolans, eaten in strife!

But if, out of humor, and hungry, alone, A man should sit down to a dinner, each one Of the dishes of which the cook chooses to spoil With a horrible mixture of garlic and oil, The chances are ten against one, I must own, He gets up as ill-temper'd as when he sat down.

And if any reader this fact to dispute is Disposed, I say... "Allium edat cicutis Nocentius!"

Over the fruit and the wine Undisturb'd the wasp settled. The evening was fine.

Lord Alfred his chair by the window had set, And languidly lighted his small cigarette.

The window was open. The warm air without Waved the flame of the candles. The moths were about.

In the gloom he sat gloomy.

XXIII.