it is He flower, as the poet sucks the sweets of dreams, and Not only has Rückert a free spirit, but he has that which discovers analogies, — a sort of feeler for the reason. Thus is he one of the most ingenious interpreters of nature; but of history he does not seem to have the intelligence, nor a like interest for it. In fine, Pantheism is better justified by the physical than by the moral world, where the semblance of liberty is at variance with the divine ordinance. Moreover, like all lyrical poets, he receives a more profound impression from what he sees and dreams than from what has been. Therefore he does not succeed so well in the ballad, and fails completely in the drama. Such would naturally be the case with one whose temperament induced him to avoid opportunely the ways of politics, to pursue a road that gradually led him to Oriental repose. But this insulation has not been without its results. Like the rose, drinking the sun and getting its color with its draught, he has sought to embellish as well as to perfume the garden. In making his poems for the pleasure of it, in studying for his own behoof, in seeking foreign utterances under a merely personal curiosity, Rückert has not the more been a stranger to his own time and country. He has opened wider and wider to the strong and large intelligence of his compatriots, the world of the Orient, and helped to make Germany what she is, its intercessor with the rest of the nations. So went the limping son As they had bid him do, The deaf boy listened long, The lame one quick to dancing went Among the German critics, some have been able only to see in Rückert an artist of the mere forms of poetry, and very uneven at that. Indeed, rhythm and rhyme, words and the turns of phrases, are on his part the objects of an indefatigable research, of the boldest experiment; and it may be as well acknowledged, that sometimes they have been absolute failures. The German language, in emerging from a great literary epoch, no longer possesses the ductility which it had in the sixteenth century; and is not now so perfectly subservient to the caprices of a writer. But this is only a partial phase of Rückert's muse. And what if he does show sometimes that he is too much occupied with the outward seeming? Have we a right to demand of a poet to distinguish thus clearly between the thought and its form? And has this distinction, so dear to serious blockheads, such a great value? Do we see other things than forms in the world? In politics, in technology, in religion, as well as in art and fashion, what is that which allures and repels, which most engages us, which incites us, if it be not this very matter of forms? BLANCHE. I. I WAS SO unfortunate whilst a student in Paris as to fall ill with ague, and, like all bachelors, sought care and cure in a Maison de Santé. Tourists, however, so rarely hear of this truly Parisian institution, that before commencing my story I preface a word or two concerning it. Still it is pretty evident that this solitary culture has paled the star of Rückert's fame. Besides, he has always lived apart from coteries and schools, doing nothing to secure the favor of such as conduct the popular will. Smiling at the extravagances of the romantic school, he could never participate in its glories. Without imitating any one, even the greatest, at a time when it was the fashion to abuse Goethe, he clasped his statue, sure of enduring A Maison de Santé is neither more nor less than under such protection or at least of falling with a hospital conducted on æsthetic principles; in othhim. Such independence can scarcely be preserved er words, illness beautified; for whether you are with impunity, and he was accordingly neglected.jaundiced or palsied, have broken a limb or lost a Though he had no excessive pride, he knew himself, lung, you are made to feel that such a visitation is and he dared predict, that, when he was no more, the best possible luck in the world. Tender nurses Germany would learn to value him. Meanwhile he smooth your pillow, courteous physicians discuss the would be avenged for such injustice in railing, news of the day, pretty valetudinarians bring you though without bitterness, at the public and its roses and feuilletons. I selected the Maison de idols. Santé Municipale. Any one who has walked from the monster railway station of the Calais terminus to the Faubourg St. Denis would remember an imposing-looking façade which extends the length of an ordinary street. Enter, and you are lost in admiration of the breadth and elevation and symmetry of the building, and the brilliancy and airiness of its entourage. Open porticoes lead from spacious salons to flowery pastures; there are fountains playing, caged birds singing, and every ornamental element of outdoor life. One path curls round an artificial height covered with daisies, another ends A dumb man asked a blind, To listen to his song; I only wish him for this boy, Who 's deaf now very long." The blind man said, "Indeed! My limping son shall make all speed in a laurel-grove and rustic seat, a third climbs a terrace of well-kept flowers. Groups of cheerful valetudinarians sit here and there, carriages come and go at one's bidding, servants are ready to fly at a signal, and the distant noise of the streets gives a pleasant dolce far niente feeling. I was spending my last day of convalescence at the Maison de Santé. To-morrow I should no longer talk politics with the rheumatic monsieur, bellesletters with the asthmatical monsieur, social science with the dropsical monsieur, agriculture with the monsieur who had broken his leg, art with the monsieur who had dislocated his collar-bone, love and romance with the ladies who had had the measles. The only person whom I really regretted was a young man not mentioned in this category. His name was Félicien des Essarts, and his illness had arisen, as the illnesses of many young authors arise, from mental over-excitation, irregular hours, and insufficient food. "I'll just tell you the thought of my mind, Browne," he said, as we reclined on a well-cushioned bench out of doors. "If I am not strong enough to leave this place in a few days, I shall never leave it at all." "Nonsense, Des Essarts, you ate half a fowl for your breakfast." He shook his head. "You students don't know how we poor feuilletonists exist. Do you remember Marius in Les Misérables.' He purchased a chop, and on the first day ate the lean, on the second the fat, on the third gnawed the bone. I've surpassed that economy many a time, and am feeling the evil effects of it now." I tried, first to laugh, then to reason away his fears, but in vain. He was possessed with the idea that he should never leave the walls of the sanatorium alive. "I "What matters!" he laughed, recklessly. have had some good days. One of my pieces was acted at the Variétés, ay, acted for twenty-one nights in succession, a year or two back. What a festival we had! There was Victor, and Etienne, and François, and Emilie of the black eyes. Pretty, pretty Emilie! would she cry if she heard that I were laid in the cemetery of Montmartre ? Perhaps; but it does not matter to me. Look here." He took from his bosom a small painted photograph of a young girl, whose beauty consisted in her rare complexion and sweet, pensive expression. The auburn air, the violet eyes, the glowing lips, combined to make such a face as one seldom sees. "Well?" he said. "If I were not betrothed to one of my own countrywomen I should envy you," I answered. "She is not an Emilie," he went on impetuously. "She is pure as an angel, and would mourn for me till her hair grew gray. Will you promise me a favor, Browne?" I promised. "You will be free to-morrow, oh, my God! strong and free, and a man again! You must go to her instead of me." "I could n't rest in my grave if she stayed at home. There is a man who calls himself Henriette's lover (Henriette is the name of the step-sister), but he hates her, and loves Blanche, - loves Blanche as the miser loves money, as beasts love prey, as gourmands love fine dishes. The man has no soul,-do you understand?" I understood quite well, and he saw it; grasping my arm with the strength of fury, he muttered between his teeth, "The man is rich, in good health, and has no heart. When I think of my own condition I long to curse him if curses could save Blanche." Here the resident physician came up, and observing Félicien's flushed cheeks and excited manner, he divided us under some special pretext. I saw my friend no more that day, and though on the next we breakfasted in company, the presence of the convalescents hindered us from speaking freely. He merely gave me a card, containing the following address: I wrung his hand, and feigned not to see the tears that had gathered in his eyes. But the delicate transparency of the complexion, the unnatural lustre of the dark eyes, the wasted hands, the drooping figure, all pointed to one conclusion, and made me afterwards sorry for what I had said. Almost a miracle were needed to prolong the life of Blanche's lover. And now in what way was I to fulfil my promise? Here was a young girl whom I had never seen, threatened by all kinds of dangers and insults by people I must learn to know. Surely I had the strangest of duties, and the most difficult of guardianships! I thought over the matter steadily for half an hour, and by the end of that time had come to the following conclusions:— First, it would be prudent to enter the pension as a simple boarder, in no wise disclosing my acquaintance with Félicien. Secondly, it would be as well for me to consult an old friend of mine, an ex-governess of my sister's, residing in the Rue St. Honoré, as to Blanche's fu ture. Thirdly, I resolved to feign admiration for Henriette, and kick her unworthy lover out of doors the very first opportunity. "See what he is, this poor Goupil, Monsieur! The child I speak of is his step-daughter, and he cannot bear to hear her praised. Fire and water, fire and water are not nearly so antagonistic as these two, Monsieur, and I have to bear the brunt of it all." Madame chatted on, I too much perplexed to answer or even follow her. She mentioned only one child, distinctly negativing the existence of any other. Where then was Blanche? That very evening I went to the Rue de Buffon. Quitting the omnibus at the entrance of the Jardin des Plantes, I followed what seemed to be a bystreet, cast into deep shadow by high garden walls, and chestnut-trees overtopping them. Here and there a little iron gate broke the white monotony, and the last of these was distinguished by a plate bearing these words, "Pension Bourgeoise." The The sound of the first dinner-bell relieved me of bell-cord being broken, I entered unceremoniously, my hostess's unwelcome presence, and I strolled and found myself in a long, narrow garden, over-into the garden by way of obtaining quiet. Hardly grown with grass, flowers, and vegetables. At the had I set foot on the turf, however, before a footlower end stood some hen-coops and a round table; step sounded close behind me, and, looking up, I at the upper, the house presented a front of bow-beheld the little chicken-feeder. windows open to the ground, low dormers above, and a side entrance, with kitchen and red-bricked staircase. A little old lady in black satin was busily feeding chickens as I entered, but quitted her occupation to follow me inquisitively towards the house. On catching sight of the lady proprietress, however, she vanished with the agility of a nymph. she She was a strange little personage, with pink cheeks, pale yellow hair blowing to the four winds, restless blue eyes, and a habit of pecking her looks at you as a timid bird afraid of being driven away. And she had a somewhat foggy understanding. "Does Monsieur like feeding chickens? asked, nervously; "because here is some grain." I assented, to please her, and she brought from under her apron a handful of barley. Smiling at my look of astonishment, she whispered, Clever police make clever thieves, Monsieur, voilà tout." Madame Goupil was florid, sleepy-eyed, and wore a yellow cap. She certainly had nothing of the fiend in her looks, unless an indolent, languid air" of cunning, or the wearing of a yellow cap, may be called so. But she was not quite a pleasant person. Something indescribable in her voice and manner made you feel as if she should not take any trouble about you, unless she found it worth her while. "So, Monsieur would join our little circle?" she said in a monotonous undertone. "The air is so pure, and the family arrangements so friendly, that Monsieur can but be charmed. And then, Monsieur, Goupil is the most amiable of men. Only yesterday he walked to the Halles on purpose to procure beans for one of our ladies, because she asked for them. A child in his ways, but an angel at heart, is my poor Goupil, Monsieur." I caught sight of a tall gray-haired man, wearing a velvet skull-cap and shabby surtout, cleaning salad in the kitchen, and was not wrong in supposing this to be the poor Goupil. After a few minutes, he entered by another way, and we were soon busily discussing terms. I noticed that Madame, though avowedly estimating her husband's abilities at a very low rate, appealed to him upon every point. "You hear this, Bernard? You understand the gentleman to intend that, Bernard?" she said, if once, twenty times, Bernard looking very much in awe of his wife all the time. Our arrangements were made without much ado, and I entered the pension from that very hour. Monsieur will not find the time pass heavily," said Madame; "removed from the din of the city, we live an idyllic life, occupying our leisure with music, dancing, and the rural pursuits of the poultryyard. Our daughter Henriette brightens us old folks with her wit, and Monsieur her lover brings us the news of the great world. Truly a happy family, Monsieur." “You have a daughter?" I asked. "We have a daughter," said Madame, eying her husband significantly; "and such a daughter, Monsieur!" We sat down under the chestnut-trees, and soon had a hungry brood around us. The little lady chuckled over the feast that her cunning had provided for them. "Ah," she said, apparently thinking herself alone, "if Blanche were here you'd peck out of her hands, you pretty dears!" Hardly were the words said than she recollected my presence. Dismayed and crestfallen, she was fain to explain away her words, but lacked the power. "I was thinking of some one else; don't pay any heed to me," she whispered. some things one must n't talk about in every house, -you understand." "There are And then, as if fearful of betraying herself, she shook the remaining corn from her apron, and walked quickly towards the house. I was getting into a maze. Evidently some fate had befallen Blanche of which my poor friend knew nothing. Her existence was denied; her very name was under a ban. Had she fallen into some snare set by her sister's lover? Had she been driven to desperation by the tyrannies of her home? Was she dead? In the midst of these disturbing thoughts the final gong sounded for dinner, and I recollected that I had forgotten my toilette. To rush to my room, to change my clothes, to perfume my handkerchief, was the work of a minute. When I entered the salon, with a voluminous apology, Madame was still ladling out the soup. I was formally introduced to Mademoiselle Henriette, Monsieur Colin, her fiancée, the rest of the party en masse, and then took the seat assigned me. The better to fulfil my purpose, I feigned a countrified, somewhat unsophisticated mien and manner, thus procuring myself the drainings of the winebottle, the untempting limbs of the fowl, the most meagre modicum of dessert, and, what was quite compensatory, perfect oblivion of every one present except of Mademoiselle Henriette. That young lady never forgot a single element of the small society around her for an instant. She was as keenly alive to each little weakness, and as keenly appreciative of each little idiosyncrasy, as a writer of Balzac's school might be; and naturally, at a private table d'hôte of this kind, food was not wanting for such mental appetite. Of the fourteen members composing Madame's family circle, ten were ladies of an uniform age and presence, but varying strongly in those slight shades that only quick observers can detect. One motive had evidently driven them all to seek the sheltering wing of Madame Goupil, namely, economy; and one passion evidently kept them from ennui, namely, jealousy of each other. My little friend the chickenfeeder seemed the enfant gâté of all, and the only centre of cordiality and good feeling. Among the men, it suffices to particularize Monsieur Colin, Henriette's lover. He was about fifty, and still possessed that florid kind of beauty so admired by women of a certain type. Well made, with regular features, and a bright black, close-cut beard, he lacked nothing but intellectuality to recommend him among women of all types. He spoke well, and had a sweet voice; he had a certain indolent way of paying tender little courtesies; he never said or looked a rude or sarcastic or unwelcome truth. But for all that, as my poor friend had said, the man was without a soul. When Henriette used that stinging little whip, her tongue, so pitilessly, Monsieur Colin was the first to smile; when Henriette browbeat her timid, trembling old step-father, Monsieur Colin encouraged her with a glance of admiration; when Henriette lashed one inoffensive middle-aged lady after the other into silence, Monsieur Colin tried no mediation, offered no apology, and evidently enjoyed the scene from the bottom of his heart. How I hated the man! How I hoped that Henriette would turn against him one day! This admirable young lady was not handsome, and had passed the Rubicon so awful to French women, namely, the thirtieth birthday. Though wanting, however, in youthful softness and bloom, she had attractions of a more startling and uncommon kind. Her figure was tall and symmetrical as a statue; her eyes were the finest I had ever seen, and wonderful for their power of expression; her wit was ever ready and ever new. II. THE evening passed pleasantly on the whole. As soon as the cloth was removed, we adjourned to a little salon opening on to the garden, parties were formed for whist and dominoes, whilst those who loved music drew round Mademoiselle Henriette's piano. She played fairly, and sung one or two songs with no little execution, Monsieur Colin smoking his cigar at her elbow all the time. Once I saw him kiss her hand, but the act was done so indolently and formally that I could not understand Henriette's triumphant acknowledgment of it. She blushed, faltered, and smiled, like an ingénue of seventeen. About ten o'clock Monsieur Colin took his leave, and the little household separated for the night. One circumstance that occurred amid the universal jargon of parting compliments struck me. It was this: There seemed to be a tacit division of domestic duties between Mademoiselle Henriette and her parents. Madame went through the kitchen and butteries, trying the locks and surveying the stores; Henriette extinguished the lights and stowed away the plate; Monsieur, having put on his hat and boots, lighted a lantern and stepped out into the garden. "I am going to lock up the chickens," he said, explanatorily. "If Monsieur wishes for a turn in the moonlight I shall be delighted to have his company." I was about to fetch my hat, when I heard Henriette's laugh close at my ear. "Afraid of the bogeys, poor little papa?" she said, sneeringly; "shall it be eaten up by goblins, then, and frightened out of its little wits!" "I merely invited Monsieur to join me," answered the old man, shrinking away; "I-am-not — frightened—” But the tremor of his voice, and the timidity of his gesture, betrayed him. Pitying the poor old man, I laughingly deprecated Henriette's sarcasm. I followed Monsieur bareheaded across the turf, singing a snatch of Béranger about love and moonlight. When we had reached the end of the garden where the thickly interleaved chestnut boughs made a deep shadow, Monsieur stopped short. "It's very kind of you to come with me," he said, holding up his lantern so as to see my face; “Henriette - Mademoiselle makes fun of everything I say; but, in very truth, Monsieur, I saw something unearthly here last night." He looked round, shuddered, and bending down, began locking the fowl-coops hurriedly. "Be so kind as to hold the lantern for me, Monsieur," he began again. "It is chilly, and my hands shake. What is that moving in the trees?" "Nothing is moving in the trees but the wind," I said, with difficulty repressing a smile. The last key was turned, and Monsieur rose, with an effort of cheerfulness. "We all have our fancies, my dear Monsieur, have we not? N'importe. Were it not for each other's little weaknesses, where would be the need of divine charity?" I feigned perfect faith in Monsieur's vigorous bravery, and tried to lead the conversation back to its original source. "You saw something unearthly?" I began. "One must seek to drive away such painful impressions, Monsieur; and Mademoiselle Henriette declares that I had muddled my brain by drinking too much coffee. The fact is, I am getting old, and have had many troubles." "Your daughter is a splendid creature, and ought to console you," I said. "What a sparkling wit she has, and, by St. Cupid, what a figure!" I felt my arm caught as in a vice, and heard a low, senile chuckle. 66 My daughter! Monsieur calls her my daughter!" he said, adding in an almost inaudible voice, "I had a daughter once, but her name was not Henriette." "And you lost her? She is dead?" "Monsieur must n't ask questions. She displeased Madame, and was sent away, do you understand? I could not save her; but, indeed, we are both breaking rules. Many thanks for Monsieur's society. Good night; good night." And saying this, he shuffled towards the kitchen, lantern in hand, leaving me to grope my way up stairs as best I could. Two other days passed, and by the end of that time I had fallen into the routine of the Pension. Madame's rigorous economics, Henriette's tyrannic behavior to everybody but her lover, Monsieur Colin's selfish acceptance of her homage, poor Goupil's submission, the little quarrels of the ladies, all these things repeated themselves without any especial variety. I took good care to spend every evening at home, and by that means Every Saturday, BLANCHE. Henriette tried won the good grace of every one. to coquet with me by way of provoking Monsieur Colin to jealousy; Madame liked a leaven of gentlemen's society in her establishment; she said it looked well and sounded well; Monsieur was grateful for such waifs and strays of kindness as I ventured to show him; whilst Monsieur Colin seemed really relieved to have Henriette's attentions a little divided. I believe he was almost as fond of this girl as it was in his nature to be, but he admired beauty, and in his eves she had none. with pitiful meekness, "there are little caprices to "Blanche had a spirit, but Henriette broke it. "Poor Henriette will make a good wife," he would say to me over coffee and cigars; "and has extraordinary talents. But what are talents with-playout a pretty face?" "Mademoiselle has glorious eyes, and the figure of a Juno," I put in. "Bah! you should have seen the eyes of the little sister, Blanche!" "But I am especially interested in Mademoiselle "Félicien? Why did he go away? he?" I answered his questions one by one. And then the subject would be put off abruptly, and just as I deemed myself on the edge of a great discovery, all became blank and inscrutable as be-ture of Félicien sick, Félicien lonely, Félicien all He grew coherent and selffore. At the end of a week I had learned nothing. but broken-hearted for the loss of Blanche, struck Not caring to carry so unsatisfactory a story to and subdued him. my poor friend in the Maison de Santé, I wrote in- possessed, and he told me what he knew without One night, during his temporary absence, Blanche None could tell whither she had stead, touching upon Blanche's absence and the any effort at concealment. common acceptation of it, as cheerfully as was posgone or the reason of her going, but Madame and sible. I received in reply the following pencilled had disappeared. Henriette forbade the mention of her name from that hour. note: "I am only able to crawl from my bed to the window, or would leave this place at the risk of my I know life and seek Blanche. I cannot tell you the terror with which your letter has inspired me. Henriette and her mother too well to doubt some foul injustice-Heavens! crime would seem the proper word is at the bottom of this mystery. What is best for you to do I know not; all that I is to do something. How can I die implore of in this fearful suspense? Inside the envelope was scrawled by way of postscript, 66 you Goupil is harmless and good-hearted. He would tell you all he knew." Acting upon the hint, I took every opportunity of improving my acquaintance with Monsieur Goupil. But he was so childlike, so helpless, and so terribly in awe of his wife and step-daughter, that all our little confidences had to be obtained by stealth. Sometimes I made a point of meeting him, for he was the as if by accident, in the markets, boot-cleaner, scullery-maid, and errand-boy of the establishment, sometimes I volunteered my assistance in digging up potatoes, or gathering peas. Sometimes I presented him with half a dozen cigars, and once I took him to the play. "I don't think Blanche would willingly have left "She knew me so," added the old man, tearfully. that I had no one else to comfort me; she knew how I should weep for her." I caught his arm, and cried eagerly, "You do not suspect that they drove her away, or anything more unnatural and wicked?" 66 I suspect nothing. I have n't mind enough left I were dead." for suspicion, Monsieur. I only know that I wish My companion was too overcome, and I too beWhen we reached the wildered, to say any more. gate of the Pension, both were striving after selfsame thought, towards the chestnut-trees. composure, and both were looking, perhaps with the Was dreaming? Had I imbibed the phantasmagoria of "Les Pilules du Diable" so strongly as to see unreal things in a real world? I stood by the little iron gate, I heard Mademoiselle Henriette playing in the salon, I saw the shabby little figure of the poor Goupil beside me, and yet I had lost my a something moved amid A shadow,- -a shape, senses, and knew not where I was. the chestnut-trees. One moment, and I felt that the We went to the Porte St. Martin, and saw "Les diaphanous drapery was tangible, and the figure it Pilules du Diable," surely the most gorgeous, rollick-covered was living; another, and I caught, or iming, captivating extravaganza that the ingenuity of man ever contrived. The poor old man laughed, wept, and embraced me from very rapture; but when we adjourned to a café close by, and supped as I suspect he had not supped for many a year, the cup of his gratitude was full. He called me his fils bien-aimé, his friend, his protector, pledged himself to everlasting affection and remembrance; finally, opened his heart to me. head; a third, and Monsieur Goupil was clinging to agined that I caught, the gleam of a woman's golden my knees, pallid and palsied with fear, and about "O Monsieur, Monsieur! that is what I saw once the chestnut-grove were darkness and silence only. before. It is my Blanche, and yet is not she. Surely such sights as these portend terrible things!" he cried; and it was a long time before I could soothe him. To satisfy myself was more difficult still. I put It was a sad story. He had married because he needed bread, and the bread thus obtained was the matter before me in every possible light. I acdealt out in niggardly portions, and steeped in bit-counted for the old man's hallucination and my own terness beyond the bitterness of asphodel. "Of course, when a man marries a lady because she has a house and some hundred francs," he said, Still it by various plausibilities. I reduced the mystery to |