Tracks of a Rolling Stone

was the chiefcontroller of my youthful destiny. His first wife was asister of the Lord Grey of Reform Bill fame, in whoseGovernment he filled the office of War Minist

alth, combined to make him popular. His house inArlington Street, and his shooting lodg

ingstatesmen of France. He was intimately acquainted with LouisPhilippe, with Talleyrand, with Guizot, with Thier

dow - an old lady betweenseventy and eighty - with three maiden daughters, alladvanced in years, lived upon the remnant of their estates ina small village called Larue, close to Bourg-la-Reine, which,it may be remembered, was occupied by the Prussians duringthe si

ing impression on my memory. One might expect, perhaps,from such a prelude, to find in the old Marquise traces ofstately demeanour, or a regretted superiority. Nothing ofthe

When inthe garden, where she was always busy in the

ied andcourteous to everyone. To her daughters and to myself shewas gentle and affectionate. Her voice wa

lambs' tails,) that she had had an AFFAIRE DE COEUR withan Englishman, and that the perfidious islander had removedfrom the Continent with her misplaced affections. She was atrifle bitter, I thought - for I applied her insinuations tomyself - against Englishmen generally. But, though cynicalin theory, sh

ngest, had been the

ng! showed every symptom of it. Sherarely left her room except for meals; and although it wassummer when I was there, she never moved without h

saffron teeth ever much in evidence. Herspeciality, as I soon discovered, was sentiment. Like hersisters, she had had her 'affaires' in the plural. A Greekprince, so far as I could make o

eme assez.' From Miss Aglae's point of viewa lover was a lover. As to the superiority of one overanother, this was - nay, is - purely

eof me. She tucked me up at night, and used to send for me i

ich I copiedin roundhand from a volume of French poems. Once I drew, andcoloured with red ink, two hearts pierced with an arrow, acopious pool of red ink beneath, emb

-AU-FEU. She made melittle delicacies in pastry - swans with split almonds forwings, comic little pigs with cloves in their eyes - for allof which my affection and my liver duly acknowledged receiptin full. She taught me more provincial pronunciation and badgrammar than ever I could unlearn. She was very intelligent,and radiant with good humour. One peculiarity especiallytook my fancy - the yellow bandana in which she enveloped herh

! One could hear her singing, and himwhistling, at it all day. Yet they seemed

If he thought the family were out ofhearing, he would grow very animated and declamatory. ButRose, who also had hopes, though perhaps faint

the GRANDE ARMEE. He enthralled me with hair-raising accounts of his exploits: how, when leading astorming party - he was always the leader - one dark andterrible night, the vivid and inces

dsmen he had annihil

'Lep'tit caporal.' There were many, whose deeds were not t

uck was bad. 'Pas d'

ssed my unbounded admiration, his voice would grow moreand more s

had for a short time been a drummer in theNational Guard, but had never been a soldier. This was ablow to me; moreover, I was troubled by the composure of theMarquise. Monsieur Benoit had ac

onthe other three one of the ushers came up to Larue for acouple of hours of private tuition. At the school itself

y on thechest, are indispensable elements of the French idiom. Theindiscriminate use of the word 'parfaitement' I

in spite of my endeavours, he persisted in pronouncingin his own way. I have since got quite used to the most ofthem, and their only effect is to remind me of my own rashventures in a foreign tongue. There are one or two wordswhich recall the pain it gave me to control my emotions. Hewould produce his penknife, for instance; and, contemplatingit with a despondent air, would declare it to be the mostdifficult word in the English language to pronounce. 'Ow yousay 'im

hour have I since spent

our each way. Occasionally Aglae and Iwent in the Bourg-la-Reine coucou. But Mr. Ellice hadarranged that a carriage should be hired for me. Probably hewas not unmindful of the convenience of the old ladies. Theywere not. The carriage was always filled. Even MademoiselleHenriette managed to go sometimes - aided b

enlike Monsieur le Cure at Larue, and took such a prodigiousquantity of snuff up their noses and under their finger-nails. The ladies did a good deal of shopping, and wefinished off at the Flower Market by the Madeleine, where I,through the agency of Mademoiselle Aglae, bought plants

here were such pretty trellises, covered withroses and clematis; such masses of bright flowers and sweetmignonette; such tidy gravel walks and clipped box edges;such floods of sunshine; s

he was amidst thisquietude, - she who

pleasure that was! Thescores of little jets from the perforated rose, the gushingsound, the freshness and the sparkle, the gratitude of theplants, to say nothing of one's own wet legs. 'Maman' didnot approve of

essed her. She was not very quick-witted, but I thinkshe a little resented my familiarity, and retaliated bycomparisons between her compatriots and mine, always in atone derogatory to the latter. She informed me as a matterof history, patent to all nurses, that the English race werenotoriously bow-legged; and that this was due to the viciouspractice of allowing children to use their legs before thegristle had

ts was to set brick

this osier bed was a favouritegame covert for the sportsmen of the chateau; and what was mydelight and astonishment when one morning I found a dead harewith its head under the fallen brick of my trap. Howtriumphantly I dragged it home, and showed it to Rose andAuguste, - who more than the rest had 'mocked themselves' ofmy traps, and then carried it in my arms, all bloody as itwas (I could not make out how both its hind legs were

sCIVET and as PUREE that I discovered the truth. I was not atall grateful to the gentlemen of the chateau whose dupe I h

ould temptme to visit Larue. So it is with me. Often have Iquestioned the truth of the NESSUN MAGGIOR DOLORE than thememory of happy times in the midst of sorry ones. Thethought of happiness, it would seem, should surely make ushappier, and yet - not of happiness for ever lost. And aren

nds are dead. The daisies and the snows whiten by turnsthe grave of him or her - the dearest I have loved. Shall Imake a pilgrimage to that sepulchre? Drop fut