by an enthusiast.
Originally published in Reynolds's Miscellany of Romance, General Literature, Science, and Art (John Dicks) vol.8 #193 (20 Mar 1852).
One day, loitering about the streets of London, in the neighbourhood of Waterloo Bridge, I had my attention suddenly arrested by a band of strange music. I advanced towards the spot from whence the sounds proceeded, and found a large crowd of persons assembled to witness the performances of a family of mountebanks. The family consisted of four persons. First there was a short, stout woman in a deep mourning dress, whose peculiarly small head contrasted singularly, with her body, the circumference of which was increased by a drum fastened to her waist; and this instrument she beat with great strength and vivacity. The second person of this party was a dwarf, dressed as a French marquis of the old regime, with embroidered coat and long-tailed wig. He was playing the triangle. The third person was a young girl of fifteen, of ethereal beauty, dressed as a youth, in blue silk jacket and pantaloons. With her clear olive complexion, rich black hair and brilliant eyes, she stood looking, with apparent disdain, on the performances of the fourth member of the band. This fourth member was neither more nor less than a learned dog, who had just formed with wooden letters the name of Wellington, to which he had added the epithet of "hero." As the whole family were from France, the English lookers-on were very well satisfied to see their general finding among French dogs that recognizance which was denied him by other French creatures. After the dog, the dwarf introduced himself as Monsieur le Marquis Tourlutu. He spoke in French, and so quickly, and with such animated gestures, that he amused the English, even those who could not understand a word. Emperors, kings, and princes had been his friends, he assured the company. When only eight years of age, he said, he had held a conversation with Louis XVI, to whom he had given some very important councils, but which that monarch, to his own sorrow, had not listened to. He had taken refuge in flight when the revolution broke out, and did not return to his beloved country till after the establishment of the Empire; he then went back in order to have his share in the glory of the Great Nation. He (the dwarf) had never been much loved by Napoleon, "the little corporal"—but he had been idolised by the Pope. The Emperor of Russia, he said, had presented him with sweetmeats, and the empress had taken him on her imperial lap. He had lived with, and had been brought up, amongst monarchs, and considered them his equals, and when any of them departed this life, he mourned the deceased as a relative. A long, shrill cry, imitating the cock-a-doodle-doo of the Gallic cock, ended his eloquent speech.
Monsieur le Marquis Tourlutu was one of the most curious specimens of a dwarf I had ever met with: his old head and wrinkled physiognomy contrasted strangely with his boyish body, and his boyish body with the war-like attitude which he was now assuming. With an immense sword he was cutting the air in all directions. He swore "upon his honour" that no one could parry his quart or tierce, and he challenged any one of the whole company to enter into a combat with him. As no one accepted the challenge, he bowed with French grace, thanked the assembly for the applauses they had bestowed on him, and asked permission to announce another performance, which he promised was to be the most extraordinary one ever exhibited on the English soil. He then, with the gallantry of a true Frenchman, introduced into the midst of the circle the young girl of whom we have before spoken. "Gentlemen," he said, "this young lady is Mademoiselle Laurence, the only daughter of that respectable person whom you see playing the drum, and who is still in mourning for her beloved husband, the most famous ventriloquist in Europe. You will now admire the dancing of Mademoiselle Laurence." He again concluded his speech with the cry of the Gallic cock.
The dwarf was playing his triangle, the elder female the drum, and, midst this monotonous harmony the young girl, who had hitherto been standing motionless as a statue, performed the most fantastic dance. It had not the classic character of a ballet-dance: no declamatory jumps—no antithetical chassezs—not even any of those extravagant pirouettes which on the stage consummate the success of a ballet-dancer. Mademoiselle Laurence was not a taught dancer; she had not the pliability of foot, nor did she make any of those contortions of figure which are considered so essential in artistic dancing. She danced as nature had taught her. Her steps were in harmony with all her other movements. Sometimes she bowed her head to the ground, and listened, as if she heard a voice from beneath; then she became pale, trembled like an aspen-leaf, and quickly turning her head to the other side, she burst into wild bacchantic movements, as if to overpower that voice which seemed to have spoken to her from beneath. Her black hair, parted on her brow, and thrown back, flew out like the outspread wings of a raven. Monsieur Tourlutu was still striking his triangle—the mistress still beating most vigorously the drum—and my eyes were rivetted on the girl and her mysterious movements. Was it her own private history which she embodied in the dance? At the end of the pantomimic display, her looks became so supplicating, so imploring—it appeared as if they were directed to me!
The whole of the night, I thought of nothing else but the girl and her dancing; and on the following day, when I was again walking through the streets of London, I desired nothing more than to meet with the singular group, and kept listening, expecting every moment to hear the sound of the drum and triangle. I was just leaving the Tower, where I had been viewing the axe with which Anne Boleyn was beheaded, the crown jewels, and the armouries, when, on the open space on Tower Hill, I beheld Madame with the drum, and heard Monsieur le Marquis crowing like a cock. The learned dog composed again the eulogium of Wellington; the dwarf again showed his dexterous quart and tierce; and Mademoiselle Laurence again begun her fantastic dance. There were again the same enigmatical movements, the same listening on the earth, the same trembling, and the same frantic dancing by which she dispelled her anxiety; and at last the same suppliant looks which were certainly this time directed to me, and remained fixed longer than before!
Young girls as well as women are always aware when they attract the attention of men. Her look, which on the first occasion might have been accidental, had this time an intent and signification as incomprehensible to me as the dance itself. I was enchanted, fascinated. For three weeks I thought of nothing but running about the streets of London, and stopping wherever Mademoiselle Laurence was dancing. Notwithstanding the noise which is always prevailing in the streets of London, my ear had become so accustomed to the sounds of the drum and triangle that I could have distinguished them at a great distance. Every time Monsieur Tourlutu beheld me approach he always sent forth his most joyous crow. Though I never addressed a word either to him, Madame Mademoiselle, or even the dog, yet from my constant attendance I appeared to belong to the family. When Teurtulu was collecting the money, he always conducted himself, when he approached me, with the greatest tact and delicacy; always turning aside his head when he presented his three-cornered hat, into which I dropped my money. Indeed his manners in general were most aristocratic, and reminded me of the high breeding of the past time. It was quite evident that this little man had really been brought up with or near royalty; and it was most astonishing that he could so compromise his dignity as to give vent to such a low-bred cry as the crowing of a cock.
It is impossible to describe my feelings when, after three days' search I could not find the group any more in the London streets. I felt quite certain that they must have left the town; I became melancholy, and took leave of the "Lions of London," in order to run after the dog. In travelling on the Continent the figure of Mademoiselle Laurence was always dancing before my eyes, and the sounds of the triangle ever tingling in my ears. Thus I made a stay at Paris for a few years. The distraction which I could not find in the society of the perfect English ladies, I might perhaps find in the company of the Parisian belles. The Parisian girls are indeed born with all possible defects, but some good fairies took pity on them, and changed their defects into charms. These kind fairies were none other than the Graces. The English ladies display their exquisite grace and beauty chiefly in the retirement of their own homes. The French ladies, seen in their homes, are like dead and faded butterflies attached to paper. In the same manner as butterflies are to be admired when fluttering about in the gay sunshine from flower to flower, so the French ladies are the most to be admired in the brilliantly illuminated saloon, arrayed in their gauzes, silks, and pearls. When I see them almost consumed by the desire of enjoyment, and dancing as if they had not an hour to live, I cannot help thinking of the dead dancers of the German legend,—the young betrothed who die before their marriage, and who have preserved the love of the dance in their hearts with so much enthusiasm, that they come out of their graves in the night, and, assembling in the churchyards, abandon themselves to the wildest dances. Apparelled in the wedding-dress, with the garland on their brow and golden rings on their deathly hands, the beautiful Willis (as the dead ones are called in German) dance in the moonshine; and dance too all the more impetuously as they feel the break of day approaching, when they are obliged to descend again into their cold graves.
But to continue my tale. It was a brilliant soirée in the Chausee d'Antin. I was almost blinded by the splendour which surrounded me. Nothing was wanting—lights, mirrors, and hundreds of ladies, who were dancing with the impetuosity of the German Willis. I took refuge in an adjoining saloon where some parties were at play. A few ladies were sitting on armchairs, apparently watching the game. I passed these ladies, and when in passing my arm came in contact with the robe of one of them, I felt as if an electric shock had run from my hand to my heart. Was it she, or not? There was the same complexion, the same black flowing hair; and when my look met her's—which was so well known to me—I could no longer doubt the identity: it was Mademoiselle Laurence!
Reclining elegantly on an arm-chair, holding in one hand a bouquet of flowers, and allowing the other to rest negligently on the back, Laurence seemed to give her whole attention to the game. Her dress, though aristocratic, was simple; and she shone in this distinguished circle with a magnificent beauty. I stood behind her chair burning with a desire to speak to her, but still restrained by delicacy.
I don't know how long I had remained in that position, when she quietly took a flower from her bouquet, and putting her hand over her shoulder presented it to me without turning her head. This flower had a singular perfume: by inhaling it I felt as if I became exempted from every formality observed in society. With that sort of negligence which is customary between friends I leant over the back of the chair, and whispered a few words to the young lady.
"Mademoiselle Laurence, where is your mother with the drum?"
"She is dead," she replied in the same tone, quietly and indifferently.
After a short pause I again leant over the chair and whispered in her ear, "Mademoiselle Laurence, where is the learned dog?"
"He has gone into the wide world," she answered in the same indifferent tone.
After another short pause, leaning again over the chair, I asked, "Where is Monsieur Tourlutu?"
"He is with the giant, on the Boulevard du Temple," answered she.
She had scarcely uttered these words when a respectable-looking, elderly man of military appearance advanced towards her, and announced that the carriage was waiting. Rising slowly from her seat and taking his arm without once looking at me, she left the room.
The lady of the house, of whom I made inquiries respecting Mademoiselle Laurence, could not satisfy me, and referred me to a young man, who could give me the necessary information.
"Oh, yes," said the young man, "I know her very well. I have spoken with her in many soirées:" and he then repeated many of the insignificant things which he had said to her. What astonished him was that she always answered his compliments by a serious look. He wondered also very much that she invariably refused to dance with him, urging as an excuse that she could not dance at all. He could not give me her name, or tell me her station in life. All my other inquiries were fruitless, and though I obtained access to the most brilliant soirées of Paris, I could not again meet with Laurence.
There is in Paris a district called the Quartier-Latin, a locality where all the students reside, and where the University is situated. One day, as I was passing, a dog ran out of the gates, followed by a dozen students armed with sticks, who were crying, "The dog is mad, the dog is mad!"
In the dog's expression of agony there was something of human suffering; and as he ran by me I recognised my old friend, the eulogist of Wellington! Had he become really mad by endeavouring to pursue his studies in the University? or was it that the professor, taking his growl for a mark of disapprobation, proclaimed him so? I only know that the poor dog fell a martyr to erudition.
The dog reminded me of the dwarf, who Mademoiselle Laurence had told me was being exhibited with the giant on the Boulevard du Temple. I directed my steps thither, and arriving at the place where the show was to be seen, entered, and without taking any notice of the giant, who presented himself, asked directly for Monsieur Tourlutu. I was told that he was not exhibited any more, as he had been ill for three weeks past, but if I consented to pay double I could see him. Could I pay too dear for the pleasure of seeing again an old friend? But, alas! this friend I found on his death-bed, and this death-bed of the marquis was nothing more than a cradle, in which the dwarf was lying. A little girl of five or six years was sitting rocking the cradle with her foot, and singing, in an almost jesting tone, "Sleep, little Tourlutu, sleep!"
When the poor dwarf caught sight of me, he opened widely his glassy, lustreless eyes, and a melancholy smile moved convulsively his blue lips. He instantly recognised me, and extending his little dry hand, whispered slowly and cordially, "Ah! old fellow!"
It was indeed a sad and afflicting position in which I found that man, who, when only eight years old, had held a conversation with Louis XVI, received bon-bons from the hand of the Czar, been caressed by the empress, idolized by the Pope, and disliked by Napoleon. This last circumstance afflicted him the most, but he wept at the fate of the emperor, who, though he had never loved him (the dwarf) had ended his life so deplorably at St. Helena—"just as I now end my life," added he, "abandoned by kings, princes, and every one,—a fallen image of past glory!"
Though I did not understand the comparison of the dwarf to the great emperor, I was touched by the words of the poor little man and his desolate condition. I could not help wondering why Mademoiselle Laurence, who had become a great lady, had not taken care of him. On hearing the name of Laurence, the dwarf started convulsively. "Ungrateful child!" he whimpered. "I have brought her up; I was willing to make her my wife; I taught her how to behave herself amongst the grandees of this world, and how to smile, and bow to the Court. Ungrateful child! through my instructions you have become a great lady; you have a carriage, a groom, much money, much pride, and no heart. You let me starve, and die solitary and miserable, just like Napoleon at St. Helena! On, Napoleon, you never loved me—"
He did not finish his sentence, but raised his head and moved his hands, just as if he were fighting. The poor man was indeed fighting against death; but his quarts and tierces were powerless against so powerful an antagonist. Exhausted and over-powered, the dwarf drooped his head, looked at me with an almost spectral expression in his countenance, suddenly uttered a shrill, crowing sound—and expired!
His death at that moment afflicted me the more, as he was the only one who could have given me some information by which I could find Laurence.
The dwarf, the dog, Laurence, and her mother occupied my thoughts exclusively. I thought of them in the theatre, at the soirées, in the retirement of my home; but the image of Laurence was most deeply impressed on my mind.
One evening I came out of the Italian Opera, which had ended later than usual. It was past midnight, and the rain was falling in torrents. I looked for a hackney-coach, but there was no such vehicle to be seen: nothing but equipages, which were waiting to take home their rich owners. "You may have a seat in my carriage," said a lady, enveloped in a black mantilla, and who after having waited some minutes at my side, was just about to enter one of the equipages. This voice resounded in my ears; the look which accompanied it exercised its old charm; and I felt almost in a dream when I found myself sitting by the side of Laurence in a superb, luxurious carriage.
Not a word was exchanged between us. At last the carriage stopped at the gate of a magnificent mansion. Footmen and valets in brilliant liveries, and with lighted candelabras, led us up the long staircase. A maid came towards Laurence, making many excuses for there only being a fire in the "red saloon." Laurence, waving her hand, motioned the servant to depart; and turning to me, she said, smilingly, "Hazard has made you my guest this evening."
We entered a magnificent apartment. The furniture and decorations belonged to the period of the Empire, the splendour of which the little nephew of the great uncle is now so stupidly endeavouring to imitate and renew.
We were sitting before a bright, cheerful fire, talking familiarly. Laurence told me, sighing, that she was married to a man who had been one of the generals of Napoleon, and who entertained her every day with the account of one of his battles. A few days before his departure he had described to her the battle of Jena, and had promised on his return to tell her about the retreat of Moscow. She added, "That will be his last tale, for his health becomes worse daily."
When I asked about her mother, and how long her father had been dead, she replied that the woman I meant was not her mother, and that she had never been married.
"Not married!" exclaimed I; "but did I not see her in London in a widow's mourning?"
"Oh, yes; she wore mourning for twelve years, to excite the sympathy of the world, or to gain a husband; but death put an end to her project. I never loved her, for she ill-treated me; and I should have been starved if it had not been for Monsieur Tourlutu, who from time to time gave me in secret a bit of bread. But the dwarf expected me to marry him, as a compensation for this kindness; and when he found that his hopes would not be realised, he leagued himself with my pretended mother, and both tortured me in common. They used to say that I was quite a useless creature, and that the learned dog did more service with his feats than I with my dancing. Then they caressed the dog and gave him cakes, while they threw me the crumbs. I was much less regarded than the dog, who was considered as earning my subsistence. Oh, the wretched dog—"
"Do not be angry with him," said I to the indignant lady: "he is dead. I saw him die."
"Is he indeed?" said she, starting up with a cheerful expression.
"And the dwarf is dead, too," I added.
"Monsieur Tourlutu?" she answered; and a cloud passed over her face. "Poor Tourlutu!"
When I described to her the death bed of the dwarf, she told me that she had offered him a pension. "But the dwarf," she continued, "was ambitious; he would not leave Paris; he requested to live in my mansion, as he could through my influence renew his connexions in the Faubourg St. Germain, and occupy his former brilliant position in society. As I refused him this wish, he told me that I was a spectre—a vampyre—"
Laurence suddenly ceased speaking, as if struck by some remembrance. "Oh!" she exclaimed, "how I wish they had left me in my grave with my mother!"
As I insisted on her explaining the meaning of her mysterious words, she burst into a flood of tears, and, in a voice broken by sobs, she commenced thus:—
In the village in which I passed my first years, I was considered as the daughter of a rich count, who had always ill-treated his wife while living but, at her death, he caused her to be interred with great pomp. In the night after the funeral, thieves went to rob the dead; but, on opening the grave, they found the countess just awoke from her trance, and in great agony. She was, indeed, about to become a mother, and immediately gave birth to a child, and then died. The thieves replaced the countess in her grave, and took the child away with them. The accomplice of the thieves was the woman who pretended to be my mother, and who lived with the ventriloquist. These people were entrusted with the child, and on account of its having been buried before it was born, was called the Daughter of Death!
You cannot understand the grief I felt as a little girl when I was called by this name. Every time the ventriloquist was cross, he would exclaim, "Cursed child! I wish I had never taken you out of the grave!" As he was clever in his art, he could change and modulate his voice quite at his own pleasure, and he often spoke to me in tones which appeared to proceed from the grave, and would tell me that it was the voice of my deceased mother; and he really imitated her voice, as he used to live footman to the count, and therefore knew it well. His greatest delight was in witnessing the terror with which this unearthly voice struck me. Dreadful were the stories which he used to tell me in that voice; they used to return to my memory when I was dancing; and when I put my ear to the ground, I always fancied that I could hear the same voice speaking to me--the voice of my mother!"
Laurence, while thus speaking, was standing before the fire, and I was sitting in the arm-chair of the old general, her husband. This lily grown out of the grave, this Daughter of the Dead, seemed to me so full of life, so young, so beautiful that I sat in silent admiration. She turned upon me an inquiring look, as if she expected me to speak: but as I was thinking that the old general, her husband, had been describing the battle of Jena a few days since, and I was sitting in his place, I mechanically pursued--"After the battle of Jena all the fortresses yielded without making any resistance. Magdebourg rendered first, though it was the strongest fortress, and had three hundred cannons. Was not that shameful?"
Laurence did not let me finish. All her melancholy fled; she laughed like a child. Supper was how served up, and I passed an hour with her in cheerful conversation. I then returned to my hotel, thinking over all she had told me. A few days afterwards I left Paris, because my mind was too deeply impressed with her image to allow me to see her again, she being the wife of another.
Two years afterwards I revisited Paris, not upon business, nor yet in search of pleasure, but attracted thither by a power that was stronger than myself. I called upon Laurence: she was in widow's weeds--but looking, oh! how grandly beautiful! Her husband had been dead some time, leaving her sole heiress of his immense wealth. She received me cordially--and I called again. My visits grew more frequent, and they were not discouraged by her. At length I elicited from her the confession that the very first time she ever beheld me, her heart experienced a feeling in my favour; and the poor, ill-treated, half-starved dancing-girl had then secretly wished that she was a rich lady in order to become the bride of me, a rich gentleman! Now she was a rich lady--far, far wealthier than I--But wherefore should I say more? Laurence is my wife, and I am supremely happy!