[Decoration]
V.
_PHASES IN THE LIFE OF JOHN POLLEXFEN._
PHASE THE FIRST.
There are but three persons now living who can truthfully answer thequestion, "How did John Pollexfen, the photographer, make his fortune?"
No confidence will be violated, now that he is dead, and his heirsresidents of a foreign country, if I relate the story of that singularman, whose rapid accumulation of wealth astonished the whole circle ofhis acquaintance.
Returning from the old man's funeral a few days since, the subject ofPollexfen's discoveries became the topic of conversation; and mycompanions in the same carriage, aware that, as his attorney andconfidential friend, I knew more of the details of his business than anyone else, extorted from me a promise that at the first leisure moment Iwould relate, in print, the secret of that curious invention by whichthe photographic art was so largely enriched, and himself elevated atonce to the acme of opulence and renown.
Few persons who were residents of the city of San Francisco at an earlyday, will fail to remember the site of the humble gallery in whichPollexfen laid the foundations of his fame. It was situated on MerchantStreet, about midway between Kearny and Montgomery Streets, in an oldwooden building; the ground being occupied at present by the solid brickstructure of Thomas R. Bolton. It fed the flames of the great May fireof 1851, was rebuilt, but again consumed in December, 1853. It wasduring the fall of the latter year that the principal event took placewhich is to constitute the most prominent feature of my narrative.
I am aware that the facts will be discredited by many, and doubted atfirst by all; but I beg to premise, at the outset, that because they areuncommon, by no means proves that they are untrue. Besides, should thequestion ever become a judicial one, I hold in my hands such _writtenproofs_, signed by the parties most deeply implicated, as will at onceterminate both doubt and litigation. Of this, however, I have at presentno apprehensions; for Lucile and her husband are both too honorable toassail the reputation of the dead, and too rich themselves to attempt topillage the living.
As it is my wish to be distinctly understood, and at the same time to beexculpated from all blame for the part I myself acted in the drama, thestory must commence with my first acquaintance with Mademoiselle LucileMarmont.
In the spring of 1851, I embarked at New York for Panama, or ratherChagres, on board the steamship "Ohio," Captain Schenck, on my way tothe then distant coast of California, attracted hither by the universaldesire to accumulate a rapid fortune, and return at the earliestpracticable period to my home, on the Atlantic seaboard.
There were many hundred such passengers on the same ship. But littlesociability prevailed, until after the steamer left Havana, where it wasthen the custom to touch on the "outward bound," to obtain a freshsupply of fuel and provisions. We were detained longer than customary atHavana, and most of the passengers embraced the opportunity to visitthe Bishop's Garden and the tomb of Columbus.
One morning, somewhat earlier than usual, I was standing outside therailing which incloses the monument of the great discoverer, and hadjust transcribed in my note-book the following epitaph:
"O! Restos y Imagen Del Grande Colon: Mil siglos durad guardados En lare Urna, Y en la Remembranza De Nuestra Nacion,"
when I was suddenly interrupted by a loud scream directly behind me. Onturning, I beheld a young lady whom I had seen but once before on thesteamer, leaning over the prostrate form of an elderly female, andapplying such restoratives as were at hand to resuscitate her, for shehad fainted. Seeing me, the daughter exclaimed, "_Oh, Monsieur! y-a-t-ilun medecin ici?_" I hastened to the side of the mother, and was about tolift her from the pavement, when M. Marmont himself entered thecathedral. I assisted him in placing his wife in a _volante_ thenpassing, and she was safely conveyed to the hotel.
Having myself some knowledge of both French and Spanish, and able toconverse in either tongue, Lucile Marmont, then sixteen years of age,and I, from that time forward, became close and confidential friends.
The steamer sailed the next day, and in due time anchored off theroadstead of Chagres. But Mme. Marmont, in the last stages ofconsumption when she embarked at New York, continued extremely ill untilwe passed Point Concepcion, on this coast, when she suddenly expiredfrom an attack of hemorrhage of the lungs.
She was buried at sea; and never can I forget the unutterable anguish ofpoor Lucile, as her mother's body splashed into the cold blue waters ofthe Pacific.
There she stood, holding on to the railing, paler than monumentalmarble, motionless as a statue, rigid as a corpse. The whole scenearound her seemed unperceived. Her eyes gazed upon vacancy; her head wasthrust slightly forward, and her disheveled tresses, black as Plutoniannight, fell neglected about her shoulders.
Captain Watkins, then commanding the "Panama"--whom, may God bless--weptlike a child; and his manly voice, that never quailed in the dreadpresence of the lightning or the hurricane, broke, chokingly, as heattempted to finish the burial rite, and died away in agitated sobs.
One by one the passengers left the spot, consecrated to the grief ofthat only child--now more than orphaned by her irreparable loss. Liftingmy eyes, at last, none save the daughter and her father stood before me.Charmed to the spot was I, by a spell that seemed irresistible. Scarcelyable to move a muscle, there I remained, speechless and overpowered.Finally the father spoke, and then Lucile fell headlong into his arms.He bore her into his state-room, where the ship's surgeon was summoned,and where he continued his ministrations until we reached this port.
It is scarcely necessary to add, that I attended them ashore, and sawthem safely and commodiously lodged at the old Parker House, before Ionce thought of my own accommodations.
Weeks passed, and months, too, stole gradually away, before I sawanything more of the bereaved and mourning child. One day, however, as Iwas lolling carelessly in my office, after business hours (and thatmeant just at dark in those early times), Lucile hastily entered. I wasstartled to see her; for upon her visage I thought I beheld the samestolid spell of agony that some months before had transfixed my verysoul. Before I had time to recover myself, or ask her to be seated, sheapproached closer, and said in a half whisper, "Oh, sir, come with mehome."
On our way she explained that her father was lying dangerously ill, andthat she knew no physician to whom she could apply, and in whose skillshe could place confidence. I at once recommended Dr. H. M. White (sincedead), well knowing not only his great success, but equally cognizant ofthat universal charity that rendered him afterwards no less beloved thanillustrious. Without a moment's hesitation, the Doctor seized his hat,and hastened along with us, to the wretched abode of the sick, and, asit afterwards proved, the palsied father. The disease was pronouncedapoplexy, and recovery doubtful. Still, there was hope. Whilst we wereseated around the bedside, a tall, emaciated, feeble, but very handsomeyoung man entered, and staggered to a seat. He was coarsely and meanlyclad; but there was something about him that not only betokened thegentleman, but the well-bred and accomplished scholar. As he seatedhimself, he exchanged a glance with Lucile, and in that silent look Iread the future history of both their lives. On lifting my eyes towardhers, the pallor fled for an instant from her cheek, and a traitor blushflashed its crimson confession across her features.
The patient was copiously bled from an artery in the temple, andgradually recovered his consciousness, but on attempting to speak weascertained that partial paralysis had resulted from the fit.
As I rose, with the Doctor, to leave, Lucile beckoned me to remain, andapproaching me more closely, whispered in French, "Stay, and I will tellyou all." The main points of her story, though deeply interesting to me,at that time, were so greatly eclipsed by subsequent events, that theyare scarcely worthy of narration. Indeed, I shall not attempt to detailthem here fully, but will content myself with stating, in few words,only such events as bear directly upon the fortunes of John Pollexfen.
As intimated above,
Lucile was an only child. She was born in Dauphiny,a province of France, and immigrated to America during the disastrousyear 1848. Her father was exiled, and his estates seized by the officersof the government, on account of his political tenets. The familyembarked at Marseilles, with just sufficient ready money to pay theirpassage to New York, and support them for a few months after theirarrival. It soon became apparent that want, and perhaps starvation, werein store, unless some means of obtaining a livelihood could be devised.The sole expedient was music, of which M. Marmont was a proficient, andto this resource he at once applied himself most industriously. He hadaccumulated a sufficient sum to pay his expenses to this coast, up tothe beginning of 1851, and took passage for San Francisco, as we havealready seen, in the spring of that year.
Reaching here, he became more embarrassed every day, unacquainted as hewas with the language, and still less with the wild life into which hewas so suddenly plunged. Whilst poverty was pinching his body, grief forthe loss of his wife was torturing his soul. Silent, sad, almost moroseto others, his only delight was in his child. Apprehensions for herfate, in case of accident to himself, embittered his existence, andhastened the catastrophe above related. Desirous of placing her in asituation in which she could earn a livelihood, independent of his ownprecarious exertions, he taught her drawing and painting, and had justsucceeded in obtaining for her the employment of coloring photographs atPollexfen's gallery the very day he was seized with his fatal disorder.
Some weeks previous to this, Charles Courtland, the young man beforementioned, became an inmate of his house under the followingcircumstances:
One evening, after the performances at the Jenny Lind Theatre (where M.Marmont was employed) were over, and consequently very late, whilst hewas pursuing his lonely way homewards he accidentally stumbled over animpediment in his path. He at once recognized it as a human body, andbeing near home, he lifted the senseless form into his house. A severecontusion behind the ear had been the cause of the young man'smisfortune, and his robbery had been successfully accomplished whilstlying in a state of insensibility.
His recovery was extremely slow, and though watched by the brightestpair of eyes that ever shot their dangerous glances into a human soul,Courtland had not fully recovered his strength up to the time that Imade his acquaintance.
He was a Virginian by birth; had spent two years in the mines on FeatherRiver, and having accumulated a considerable sum of money, came to SanFrancisco to purchase a small stock of goods, with which he intended toopen a store at Bidwell's Bar. His robbery frustrated all these goldendreams, and his capture by Lucile Marmont completed his financial ruin.
Here terminates the first phase in the history of John Pollexfen.
PHASE THE SECOND.
"Useless! useless! all useless!" exclaimed John Pollexfen, as he dasheda glass negative, which he had most elaborately prepared, into theslop-bucket. "Go, sleep with your predecessors." After a moment'ssilence, he again spoke: "But I know _it exists_. Nature has the secretlocked up securely, as she thinks, but I'll tear it from her. Doesn'tthe eye see? Is not the retina impressible to the faintest gleam oflight? What telegraphs to my soul the colors of the rainbow? Nothing butthe eye, the human eye. And shall John Pollexfen be told, after he haslived half a century, that the compacted humors of this little organ cando more than his whole laboratory? By heaven! I'll wrest the secret fromthe labyrinth of nature, or pluck my own eyes from their sockets."
Thus soliloquized John Pollexfen, a few days after the events narratedin the last chapter.
He was seated at a table, in a darkened chamber, with a light burning,though in the middle of the day, and his countenance bore anunmistakable expression of disappointment, mingled with disgust, at thefailure of his last experiment. He was evidently in an ill-humor, andseemed puzzled what to do next. Just then a light tap came at the door,and in reply to an invitation to enter, the pale, delicate features ofLucile Marmont appeared at the threshold.
"Oh! is it you, my child?" said the photographer, rising. "Let me seeyour touches." After surveying the painted photographs a moment, hebroke out into a sort of artistic glee: "Beautiful! beautiful! an adept,quite an adept! Who taught you? Come, have no secrets from me; I'm anold man, and may be of service to you yet. What city artist gave you thecue?"
Before relating any more of the conversation, it becomes necessary topaint John Pollexfen as he was. Methinks I can see his tall, rawboned,angular form before me, even now, as I write these lines. There hestands, Scotch all over, from head to foot. It was whispered about inearly times--for really no one knew much about his previous career--thatJohn Pollexfen had been a famous sea captain; that he had sailed aroundthe world many times; had visited the coast of Africa under suspiciouscircumstances, and finally found his way to California from the thenunpopular region of Australia. Without pausing to trace these rumorsfurther, it must be admitted that there was something in the appearanceof the man sufficiently repulsive, at first sight, to give themcurrency. He had a large bushy head, profusely furnished with hairalmost brickdust in color, and growing down upon a broad, low forehead,indicative of great mathematical and constructive power. His brows werelong and shaggy, and overhung a restless, deep-set, cold, gray eye, thatmet the fiercest glance unquailingly, and seemed possessed of thatmagnetic power which dazzles, reads and confounds whatsoever it looksupon. There was no escape from its inquisitive glitter. It sounded thevery depths of the soul it thought proper to search. Whilst gazing atyou, instinct felt the glance before your own eye was lifted so as toencounter his. There was no human weakness in its expression. It was aspitiless as the gleam of the lightning. But you felt no less that highintelligence flashed from its depths. Courage, you knew, was there; andtrue bravery is akin to all the nobler virtues. This man, you at oncesaid, may be cold, but it is impossible for him to be unjust, deceitfulor ungenerous. He might, like Shylock, insist on a _right_, no matterhow vindictive, but he would never forge a claim, no matter howinsignificant. He might crush, like Caesar, but he could never plot likeCatiline. In addition to all this, it required but slight knowledge ofphysiognomy to perceive that his stern nature was tinctured with genuineenthusiasm. Earnestness beamed forth in every feature. His soul was assincere as it was unbending. He could not trifle, even with the mostinconsiderable subject. Laughter he abhorred. He could smile, but therewas little contagion in his pleasantry. It surprised more than itpleased you. Blended with this deep, scrutinizing, earnest andenthusiastic nature, there was an indefinable something, shading thewhole character--it might have been early sorrow, or loss of fortune, orbaffled ambition, or unrequited love. Still, it shone forth patent tothe experienced eye, enigmatical, mysterious, sombre. There was danger,also, in it, and many, who knew him best, attributed his eccentricity toa softened phase of insanity.
But the most marked practical trait of Pollexfen's character was hisenthusiasm for his art. He studied its history, from the humble hints ofNiepce to the glorious triumphs of Farquer, Bingham, and Bradley, withall the soul-engrossing fidelity of a child, and spent many a midnighthour in striving to rival or surpass them. It was always a subject ofastonishment with me, until after his death, how it happened that arough, athletic seaman, as people declared he was originally, shouldbecome so intensely absorbed in a science requiring delicacy of taste,and skill in manipulation rather than power of muscle, in its practicalapplication. But after carefully examining the papers tied up in thesame package with his last will and testament, I ceased to wonder, andsought no further for an explanation.
Most prominent amongst these carefully preserved documents was an olddiploma, granted by the University of Edinburgh, in the year 1821, to"John Pollexfen, Gent., of Hallicardin, Perthshire," constituting himDoctor of Medicine. On the back of the diploma, written in a round,clear hand, I found indorsed as follows:
Fifteen years of my life have I lost by professing modern quackery. Medicine is not a science, properly so called. It is at most but an art. He best succeeds who creates his own sys
tem. Each generation adopts its peculiar manual: Sangrado to-day; Thomson to-morrow; Hahnemann the day after. Surgery advances; physic is stationary. But chemistry, glorious chemistry, is a science. Born amid dissolving ruins, and cradled upon rollers of fire, her step is onward. At her side, as an humble menial, henceforth shall be found
JOHN POLLEXFEN.
The indorsement bore no date, but it must have been written long beforehis immigration to California.
Let us now proceed with the interview between the photographer and hisemployee. Repeating the question quickly, "Who gave you the cue?"demanded Pollexfen.
"My father taught me drawing and painting, but my own taste suggestedthe coloring."
"Do you mean to tell me, really, that you taught yourself, Mlle.Marmont?" and as he said this, the cold, gray eye lit up with unwontedbrilliancy.
"What I say is true," replied the girl, and elevating her own lustrouseyes, they encountered his own, with a glance quite as steady.
"Let us go into the sunlight, and examine the tints more fully;" andleading the way they emerged into the sitting-room where customers werein the habit of awaiting the artist's pleasure.
Here the pictures were again closely scrutinized, but far moreaccurately than before; and after fully satisfying his curiosity on thescore of the originality of the penciling, approached Lucile veryclosely, and darting his wonderful glance into the depths of her owneyes, said, after a moment's pause, "You have glorious eyes."
Lucile was about to protest, in a hurried way, against such adulation,when he continued: "Nay, nay, do not deny it. Your eyes are the mostfathomless orbs that ever I beheld--large, too, and lustrous--the veryeyes I have been searching for these five years past. A judge of color;a rare judge of color! How is your father to-day, my child?"
The tone of voice in which this last remark was made had in it more ofthe curious than the tender. It seemed to have been propounded more as amatter of business than of feeling. Still, Lucile replied respectfully,"Oh! worse, sir; a great deal worse. Doctor White declares that it isimpossible for him to recover, and that he cannot live much longer."
"Not live?" replied Pollexfen, "not live?" Then, as if musing, hesolemnly added, "When your father is dead, Lucile, come to me, and Iwill make your fortune. That is, if you follow my advice, and placeyourself exclusively under my instructions. Nay, but you shall earn ityourself. See!" he exclaimed, and producing a bank deposit-book from hispocket, "See! here have I seven thousand five hundred dollars in bank,and I would gladly exchange it for one of your eyes."
Astonishment overwhelmed the girl, and she could make no immediatereply; and before she had sufficiently recovered her self-possession tospeak, the photographer hastily added, "Don't wonder; farewell, now.Remember what I have said--seven thousand five hundred dollars just forone eye!"
Lucile was glad to escape, without uttering a syllable. Pursuing her wayhomewards, she pondered deeply over the singular remark with whichPollexfen closed the conversation, and half muttering, said to herself,"Can he be in earnest? or is it simply the odd way in which an eccentricman pays a compliment?" But long before she could solve the enigma,other thoughts, far more engrossing, took sole possession of her mind.
She fully realized her situation--a dying father, and a sick lover, bothdependent in a great measure upon her exertions, and she herself not yetpast her seventeenth year.
On reaching home she found the door wide open, and Courtland standing inthe entrance, evidently awaiting her arrival. As she approached, theireyes met, and a glance told her that all was over.
"Dead!" softly whispered Courtland.
A stifled sob was all that broke from the lips of the child, as she felllifeless into the arms of her lover.
I pass over the mournful circumstances attending the funeral of theexiled Frenchman. He was borne to his grave by a select few of hiscountrymen, whose acquaintance he had made during his short residence inthis city. Like thousands of others, who have perished in our midst, hedied, and "left no sign." The newspapers published the item the nextmorning, and before the sun had set upon his funeral rites the poor manwas forgotten by all except the immediate persons connected with thisnarrative.
To one of them, at least, his death was not only an important event, butit formed a great epoch in her history.
Lucile was transformed, in a moment of time, from a helpless, confiding,affectionate girl, into a full-grown, self-dependent, imperious woman.Such revolutions, I know, are rare in everyday life, and but seldomoccur; in fact, they never happen except in those rare instances wherenature has stamped a character with the elements of inborn originalityand force, which accident, or sudden revulsion, develops at once intofull maturity. To such a soul, death of an only parent operates like thesummer solstice upon the whiter snow of Siberia. It melts away theweakness and credulity of childhood almost miraculously, and exhibits,with the suddenness of an apparition, the secret and hitherto unknowntraits that will forever afterwards distinguish the individual. Theexplanation of this curious moral phenomenon consists simply in bringingto the surface what already was in existence below; not in theinstantaneous creation of new elements of character. The tissues werealready there; circumstance hardens them into bone. Thus we sometimesbehold the same marvel produced by the marriage of some characterlessgirl, whom we perhaps had known from infancy, and whose individuality wehad associated with cake, or crinoline--a gay humming-bird of sociallife, so light and frivolous and unstable, that, as she flitted acrossour pathway, we scarcely deigned her the compliment of a thought. Yet aweek or a month after her nuptials, we meet the self-same warbler, notas of old, beneath the paternal roof, but under her own "vine andfig-tree," and in astonishment we ask ourselves, "Can this be thebread-and-butter Miss we passed by with the insolence of a sneer, ashort time ago?" Behold her now! On her brow sits womanhood. Upon herfeatures beam out palpably traits of great force and originality. Shemoves with the majesty of a queen, and astounds us by taking a leadingpart in the discussion of questions of which we did not deem she everdreamed. What a transformation is here! Has nature proven false toherself? Is this a miracle? Are all her laws suspended, that she mighttransform, in an instant, a puling trifler into a perfect woman? Not so,oh! doubter. Not nature is false, but you are yourself ignorant of herlaws. Study Shakspeare; see Gloster woo, and win, the defiant,revengeful and embittered Lady Anne, and confess in your humility thatit is far more probable that you should err, than that Shakspeare shouldbe mistaken.
Not many days after the death of M. Marmont, it was agreed by all thefriends of Lucile, that the kind offer extended to her by Pollexfenshould be accepted, and that she should become domiciliated in hishousehold. He was unmarried, it is true, but still he kept up anestablishment. His housekeeper was a dear old lady, Scotch, like hermaster, but a direct contrast in every trait of her character. Herduties were not many, nor burdensome. Her time was chiefly occupied infamily matters--cooking, washing, and feeding the pets--so that it wasbut seldom she made her appearance in any other apartment than thoseentirely beneath her own supervision.
The photographer had an assistant in his business, a Chinaman; and uponhim devolved the task of caring for the outer offices.
Courtland, with a small stock of money, and still smaller modicum ofhealth, left at once for Bidwell's Bar, where he thought of trying hisfortune once more at mining, and where he was well and most cordiallyknown.
It now only remained to accompany Lucile to her new home, to see hersafely ensconced in her new quarters, to speak a flattering word in herfavor to Pollexfen, and then, to bid her farewell, perhaps forever. Allthis was duly accomplished, and with good-bye on my lips, and asorrowful sympathy in my heart, I turned away from the closing door ofthe photographer, and wended my way homewards.
Mademoiselle Marmont was met at the threshold by Martha McClintock, thehousekeeper, and ushered at once into the inner apartment, situated inthe rear of the gallery.
After remov
ing her veil and cloak, she threw herself into an arm-chair,and shading her eyes with both her hands, fell into a deep reverie. Shehad been in that attitude but a few moments, when a large Maltese catleaped boldly into her lap, and began to court familiarity by purringand playing, as with an old acquaintance. Lucile cast a casual glance atthe animal, and noticed immediately that it had but _one eye_!Expressing no astonishment, but feeling a great deal, she cast her eyescautiously around the apartment.
Near the window hung a large tin cage, containing a blue African parrot,with crimson-tipped shoulders and tail. At the foot of the sofa, asilken-haired spaniel was quietly sleeping, whilst, outside the window,a bright little canary was making the air melodious with its happywarbling. A noise in an adjoining room aroused the dog, and set itbarking. As it lifted its glossy ears and turned its graceful headtoward Lucile, her surprise was enhanced in the greatest degree, byperceiving that it, too, had lost an eye. Rising, she approached thewindow, impelled by a curiosity that seemed irresistible. Peering intothe cage, she coaxed the lazy parrot to look at her, and her amazementwas boundless when she observed that the poor bird was marred in thesame mournful manner. Martha witnessed her astonishment, and indulgedin a low laugh, but said nothing. At this moment Pollexfen himselfentered the apartment, and with his appearance must terminate the secondphase of his history.
PHASE THE THIRD.
"Come and sit by me, Mademoiselle Marmont," said Pollexfen, advancing atthe same time to the sofa, and politely making way for the young lady,who followed almost mechanically. "You must not believe me as bad as Imay seem at first sight, for we all have redeeming qualities, if theworld would do us the justice to seek for them as industriously as forour faults."
"I am very well able to believe that," replied Lucile, "for my dearfather instructed me to act upon the maxim, that good predominates overevil, even in this life; and I feel sure that I need fear no harmbeneath the roof of the only real benefactor----"
"Pshaw! we will not bandy compliments at our first sitting; they are theprelude amongst men, to hypocrisy first, and wrong afterwards. May I sofar transgress the rules of common politeness as to ask your age? Notfrom idle curiosity, I can assure you."
"At my next birthday," said Lucile, "I shall attain the age of seventeenyears."
"And when may that be?" pursued her interlocutor. "I had hoped you wereolder, by a year."
"My birthday is the 18th of November, and really, sir, I am curious toknow why you feel any disappointment that I am not older."
"Oh! nothing of any great consequence; only this, that by the laws ofCalifornia, on reaching the age of eighteen you become the sole mistressof yourself."
"I greatly fear," timidly added the girl, "that I shall have toanticipate the law, and assume that responsibility at once."
"But you can only contract through a guardian before that era in yourlife; and in the agreement _between us, that is to be_, no third personshall intermeddle. But we will not now speak of that. You must consideryourself my equal here; there must be no secrets to hide from eachother; no suspicions engendered. We are both artists. Confidence is theonly path to mutual improvement. My business is large, but my ambitionto excel greater, far. Listen to me, child!" and suddenly rising, so asto confront Lucile, he darted one of those magnetic glances into thevery fortress of her soul, which we have before attempted to describe,and added, in an altered tone of voice, "The sun's raybrush paints therainbow upon the evanescent cloud, and photographs an iris in the skies.The human eye catches the picture ere it fades, and transfers it withall its beauteous tints to that prepared albumen, the retina. The soulsees it there, and rejoices at the splendid spectacle. Shall insensatenature outpaint the godlike mind? Can she leave her brightest colors onthe dark _collodion_ of a thunder-cloud, and I not transfer the blush ofa rose, or the vermilion of a dahlia, to my _Rivi_ or _Saxe_? No! no!I'll not believe it. Let us work together, girl; we'll lead the age welive in. My name shall rival Titian's, and you shall yet see me snatchthe colors of the dying dolphin from decay, and bid them live forever."
And so saying, he turned with a suddenness that startled his pupil, andstrode hastily out of the apartment.
Unaccustomed, as Lucile had been from her very birth, to brusquemanners, like those of the photographer, their grotesqueness impressedher with an indefinable relish for such awkward sincerity, and whettedher appetite to see more of the man whose enthusiasm always got thebetter of his politeness.
"He is no Frenchman," thought the girl, "but I like him none the less.He has been very, very kind to me, and I am at this moment dependentupon him for my daily bread." Then, changing the direction of herthoughts, they recurred to the subject-matter of Pollexfen's discourse."Here," thought she, "lies the clue to the labyrinth. If insane, hismadness is a noble one; for he would link his name with the progress ofhis art. He seeks to do away with the necessity of such poor creaturesas myself, as adjuncts to photography. Nature, he thinks, should lay onthe coloring, not man--the Sun himself should paint, not the humanhand." And with these, and kindred thoughts, she opened her escritoire,and taking out her pencils sat down to the performance of her dailylabor.
Oh, blessed curse of Adam's posterity, healthful toil, all hail!Offspring of sin and shame--still heaven's best gift to man. Oh,wondrous miracle of Providence! divinest alchemy of celestial science!by which the chastisement of the progenitor transforms itself into apriceless blessing upon the offspring! None but God himself couldtransmute the sweat of the face into a panacea for the soul. How manymyriads have been cured by toil of the heart's sickness and the body'sinfirmities! The clink of the hammer drowns, in its music, thelamentations of pain and the sighs of sorrow. Even the distinctions ofrank and wealth and talents are all forgotten, and the inequalities ofstepdame Fortune all forgiven, whilst the busy whirls of industry arebearing us onward to our goal. No condition in life is so much to beenvied as his who is too busy to indulge in reverie. Health is hiscompanion, happiness his friend. Ills flee from his presence asnight-birds from the streaking of the dawn. Pale Melancholy, and hersister Insanity, never invade his dominions; for Mirth stands sentinelat the border, and Innocence commands the garrison of his soul.
Henceforth let no man war against fate whose lot has been cast in thathappy medium, equidistant from the lethargic indolence of superabundantwealth, and the abject paralysis of straitened poverty. Let them toilon, and remember that God is a worker, and strews infinity withrevolving worlds! Should he forget, in a moment of grief or triumph, ofgladness or desolation, that being born to toil, in labor only shall hefind contentment, let him ask of the rivers why they never rest, of thesunbeams why they never pause. Yea, of the great globe itself, why ittravels on forever in the golden pathway of the ecliptic, and nature,from her thousand voices, will respond: Motion is life, inertia isdeath; action is health, stagnation is sickness; toil is glory, torporis disgrace!
I cannot say that thoughts as profound as these found their way into themind of Lucile, as she plied her task, but nature vindicated her ownlaws in her case, as she will always do, if left entirely to herself.
As day after day and week after week rolled by, a softened sorrow, akinonly to grief--
"As the mist resembles the rain"--
took the place of the poignant woe which had overwhelmed her at first,and time laid a gentle hand upon her afflictions. Gradually, too, shebecame attached to her art, and made such rapid strides towardsproficiency that Pollexfen ceased, finally, to give any instruction, oroffer any hints as to the manner in which she ought to paint. Thus herown taste became her only guide; and before six months had elapsed afterthe death of her father, the pictures of Pollexfen became celebratedthroughout the city and state, for the correctness of their coloring andthe extraordinary delicacy of their finish. His gallery was dailythronged with the wealth, beauty and fashion of the great metropolis,and the hue of his business assumed the coloring of success.
But his soul was the slave of a single thought. Turmoil brooded there,like darkne
ss over chaos ere the light pierced the deep profound.
During the six months which we have just said had elapsed since thedomiciliation of Mlle. Marmont beneath his roof, he had had many longand perfectly frank conversations with her, upon the subject which mostdeeply interested him. She had completely fathomed his secret, and bydegrees had learned to sympathize with him, in his search into thehidden mysteries of photographic science. She even became the frequentcompanion of his chemical experiments, and night after night attendedhim in his laboratory, when the lazy world around them was buried in theprofoundest repose.
Still, there was one subject which, hitherto, he had not broached, andthat was the one in which she felt all a woman's curiosity--_the offerto purchase an eye_. She had long since ascertained the story of theone-eyed pets in the parlor, and had not only ceased to wonder, but wasmentally conscious of having forgiven Pollexfen, in her own enthusiasmfor art.
Finally, a whole year elapsed since the death of her father, and noextraordinary change took place in the relations of the master and hispupil. True, each day their intercourse became more unrestrained, andtheir art-association more intimate. But this intimacy was not the tieof personal friendship or individual esteem. It began in the laboratory,and there it ended. Pollexfen had no soul except for his art; no loveoutside of his profession. Money he seemed to care for but little,except as a means of supplying his acids, salts and plates. Herigorously tested every metal, in its iodides and bromides;industriously coated his plates with every substance that could bealbumenized, and plunged his negatives into baths of every mineral thatcould be reduced to the form of a vapor. His activity was prodigious;his ingenuity exhaustless, his industry absolutely boundless. He was asfamiliar with chemistry as he was with the outlines of the geography ofScotland. Every headland, spring and promontory of that science he knewby heart. The most delicate experiments he performed with ease, and thegreatest rapidity. Nature seemed to have endowed him with a nativeaptitude for analysis. His love was as profound as it was ready; infact, if there was anything he detested more than loud laughter, it wassuperficiality. He instinctively pierced at once to the roots andsources of things; and never rested, after seeing an effect, until hegroped his way back to the cause. "Never stand still," he would oftensay to his pupil, "where the ground is boggy. Reach the rock before yourest." This maxim was the great index to his character; the key to allhis researches.
Time fled so rapidly and to Lucile so pleasantly, too, that she hadreached the very verge of her legal maturity before she once deigned tobestow a thought upon what change, if any, her eighteenth birthday wouldbring about. A few days preceding her accession to majority, a largepackage of letters from France, _via_ New York, arrived, directed to M.Marmont himself, and evidently written without a knowledge of his death.The bundle came to my care, and I hastened at once to deliver it,personally, to the blooming and really beautiful Lucile. I had not seenher for many months, and was surprised to find so great an improvementin her health and appearance. Her manners were more marked, herconversation more rapid and decided, and the general contour of her formfar more womanly. It required only a moment's interview to convince methat she possessed unquestioned talent of a high order, and a spirit asimperious as a queen's. Those famous eyes of hers, that had, nearly twoyears before, attracted in such a remarkable manner the attention ofPollexfen, had not failed in the least; on the contrary, time hadintensified their power, and given them a depth of meaning and adazzling brilliancy that rendered them almost insufferably bright. Itseemed to me that contact with the magnetic gaze of the photographer hadlent them something of his own expression, and I confess that when myeye met hers fully and steadily, mine was always the first to droop.
Knowing that she was in full correspondence with her lover, I askedafter Courtland, and she finally told me all she knew. He was stillsuffering from the effect of the assassin's blow, and very recently hadbeen attacked by inflammatory rheumatism. His health seemed permanentlyimpaired, and Lucile wept bitterly as she spoke of the poverty in whichthey were both plunged, and which prevented him from essaying the onlyremedy that promised a radical cure.
"Oh!" exclaimed she, "were it only in our power to visit _La belleFrance_, to bask in the sunshine of Dauphiny, to sport amid the lakes ofthe Alps, to repose beneath the elms of Chalons!"
"Perhaps," said I, "the very letters now unopened in your hands mayinvite you back to the scenes of your childhood."
"Alas! no," she rejoined, "I recognize the handwriting of my widowedaunt, and I tremble to break the seal."
Rising shortly afterwards, I bade her a sorrowful farewell.
Lucile sought her private apartment before she ventured to unseal thedispatches. Many of the letters were old, and had been floating betweenNew York and Havre for more than a twelvemonth. One was of recent date,and that was the first one perused by the niece. Below is a freetranslation of its contents. It bore date at "Bordeaux, July 12, 1853,"and ran thus:
EVER DEAR AND BELOVED BROTHER:
Why have we never heard from you since the beginning of 1851? Alas! I fear some terrible misfortune has overtaken you, and overwhelmed your whole family. Many times have I written during that long period, and prayed, oh! so promptly, that God would take you, and yours, in His holy keeping. And then our dear Lucile! Ah! what a life must be in store for her, in that wild and distant land! Beg of her to return to France; and do not fail, also, to come yourself. We have a new Emperor, as you must long since have learned, in the person of Louis Bonaparte, nephew of the great Napoleon. Your reactionist principles against Cavaignac and his colleagues, can be of no disservice to you at present. Napoleon is lenient. He has even recalled Louis Blanc. Come, and apply for restitution of the old estates; come, and be a protector of my seven orphans, now, alas! suffering even for the common necessaries of life. Need a fond sister say more to her only living brother?
Thine, as in childhood,
ANNETTE.
"Misfortunes pour like a pitiless winter storm upon my devoted head,"thought Lucile, as she replaced the letter in its envelope. "Parentsdead; aunt broken-hearted; cousins starving, and I not able to affordrelief. I cannot even moisten their sorrows with a tear. I would weep,but rebellion against fate rises in my soul, and dries up the fountainof tears. Had Heaven made me a man it would not have been thus. I havesomething here," she exclaimed, rising from her seat and placing herhand upon her forehead, "that tells me I could do and dare, and endure."
Her further soliloquy was here interrupted by a distinct rap at herdoor, and on pronouncing the word "enter," Pollexfen, for the first timesince she became a member of his family, strode heavily into herchamber. Lucile did not scream, or protest, or manifest either surpriseor displeasure at this unwonted and uninvited visit. She politelypointed to a seat, and the photographer, without apology or hesitation,seized the chair, and moving it so closely to her own that they came incontact, seated himself without uttering a syllable. Then, drawing adocument from his breast pocket, which was folded formally, and sealedwith two seals, but subscribed only with one name, he proceeded to readit from beginning to end, in a slow, distinct, and unfaltering tone.
I have the document before me, as I write, and I here insert a full andcorrect copy. It bore date just one month subsequent to the time of theinterview, and was intended, doubtless, to afford his pupil fullopportunity for consultation before requesting her signature:
|=This Indenture=|, Made this nineteenth day of November, A. D. 1853, by John Pollexfen, photographer, of the first part, and Lucile Marmont, artiste, of the second part, both of the city of San Francisco, and State of California, WITNESSETH:
WHEREAS, the party of the first part is desirous of obtaining a living, sentient, human eye, of perfect organism, and unquestioned strength, for the sole purpose of chemical analysis and experiment in the lawful prosecution of his studies as photograph chemist. AN
D WHEREAS, the party of the second part can supply the desideratum aforesaid. AND WHEREAS FURTHER, the first party is willing to purchase, and the second party willing to sell the same:
Now, THEREFORE, the said John Pollexfen, for and in consideration of such eye, to be by him safely and instantaneously removed from its left socket, at the rooms of said Pollexfen, on Monday, November 19, at the hour of eleven o'clock P. M., hereby undertakes, promises and agrees, to pay unto the said Lucile Marmont, in current coin of the United States, in advance, the full and just sum of seven thousand five hundred dollars. AND the said Lucile Marmont, on her part, hereby agrees and covenants to sell, and for and in consideration of the said sum of seven thousand and five hundred dollars, does hereby sell, unto the said Pollexfen, her left eye, as aforesaid, to be by him extracted, in time, place and manner above set forth; only stipulating on her part, further, that said money shall be deposited in the Bank of Page, Bacon & Co. on the morning of that day, in the name of her attorney and agent, Thomas J. Falconer, Esq., for her sole and separate use.
As witness our hands and seals, this nineteenth day of November, A. D. 1853.
(Signed) JOHN POLLEXFEN, [L. S.] .............. [L. S.]
Having finished the perusal, the photographer looked up, and the eyes ofhis pupil encountered his own.
And here terminates the third phase in the history of John Pollexfen.
PHASE THE FOURTH.
The confronting glance of the master and his pupil was not one of thosecasual encounters of the eye which lasts but for a second, andterminates in the almost instantaneous withdrawal of the vanquished orb.On the contrary, the scrutiny was long and painful. Each seemeddetermined to conquer, and both knew that flight was defeat, andquailing ruin. The photographer felt a consciousness of superiority inhimself, in his cause and his intentions. These being pure andcommendable, he experienced no sentiment akin to the weakness of guilt.The girl, on the other hand, struggled with the emotions of terror,curiosity and defiance. He thought, "Will she yield?" She, "Is this manin earnest?" Neither seemed inclined to speak, yet both grew impatient.
Nature finally vindicated her own law, that the most powerful intellectmust magnetize the weaker, and Lucile, dropping her eye, said, with asickened smile, "Sir, are you jesting?"
"I am incapable of trickery," dryly responded Pollexfen.
"But not of delusion?" suggested the girl.
"A fool may be deceived, a chemist never."
"And you would have the fiendish cruelty to tear out one of my eyesbefore I am dead? Why, even the vulture waits till his prey is carrion."
"I am not cruel," he responded; "I labor under no delusion. I pursue nophantom. Where I now stand experiment forced me. With the rigor of amathematical demonstration I have been driven to the proposition setforth in this agreement. Nature cannot lie. The earth revolves becauseit _must_. Causation controls the universe. Men speak of _accidents_,but a fortuitous circumstance never happened since matter moved at thefist of the Almighty. Is it chance that the prism decomposes a ray oflight? Is it chance, that by mixing hydrogen and oxygen in theproportion of two to one in volume, water should be the result? How canNature err?"
"She cannot," Lucile responded, "but man may."
"That argues that I, too, am but human, and may fall into the commoncategory."
"Such was my thought."
"Then banish the idea forever. I deny not that I am but mortal, but manwas made in the image of God. Truth is as clear to the perception of thecreature, _when seen at all_, as it is to that of the Creator. What isman but a finite God? He moves about his little universe its solemonarch, and with all the absoluteness of a deity, controls its motionsand settles its destiny. He may not be able to number the sands on theseashore, but he can count his flocks and herds. He may not create acomet, or overturn a world, but he can construct the springs of a watch,or the wheels of a mill, and they obey him as submissively as globesrevolve about their centres, or galaxies tread in majesty themeasureless fields of space!
"For years," exclaimed he, rising to his feet, and fixing his eagleglance upon his pupil, "for long and weary years, I have studied thelaws of light, color, and motion. Why are my pictures sharper inoutline, and truer to nature, than those of rival artists around me?Poor fools! whilst they slavishly copied what nobler natures taught, Iboldly trod in unfamiliar paths. I invented, whilst they traveled on thebeaten highway, look at my lenses! They use glass--yes, commonglass--with a spectral power of 10, because they catch up the childishnotion of Dawson, and Harwick, that it is impossible to prepare the mostbeautiful substance in nature, next to the diamond--crystalizedquartz--for the purposes of art. Yet quartz has a power of refractionequal to 74! Could John Pollexfen sleep quietly in his bed whilst suchan outrage was being perpetrated daily against God and His universe? No!Lucile; never! Yon snowy hills conceal in their bosoms treasures farricher than the sheen of gold. With a single blast I tore away a ton ofcrystal. How I cut and polished it is my secret, not the world's. Theresult crowds my gallery daily, whilst theirs are half deserted."
"And are you not satisfied with your success?" demanded the girl, whoseown eye began to dilate, and gleam, as it caught the kindred spark ofenthusiasm from the flaming orbs of Pollexfen.
"Satisfied!" cried he; "satisfied! Not until my _camera_ flashes backthe silver sheen of the planets, and the golden twinkle of the stars.Not until earth and all her daughters can behold themselves in yonmirror, clad in their radiant robes. Not until each hue of the rainbow,each tint of the flower, and the fitful glow of roseate beauty,changeful as the tinge of summer sunsets, have all been captured,copied, and embalmed forever by the triumphs of the human mind! Least ofall, could I be satisfied now at the very advent of a nobler era in myart."
"And do you really believe," inquired Lucile, "that color can bephotographed as faithfully as light and shade?"
"Believe, girl? _I know it._ Does not your own beautiful eye print uponits retina tints, dyes and hues innumerable? And what is the eye but alens? God was the first photographer. Give me but a living, sentient,perfect human eye to dissect and analyze, and I swear by the holy bookof science that I will detect the secret, though hidden deep down in theprimal particles of matter."
"And why a human eye? Why not an eagle's or a lion's?"
"A question I once propounded to myself, and never rested till it wassolved," replied Pollexfen. "Go into my parlor, and ask my pets if Ihave not been diligent, faithful, and honest. I have tested every eyebut the human. From the dull shark's to the imperial condor's, I havetried them all. Months elapsed ere I discovered the error in myreasoning. Finally, a little boy explained it all. 'Mother,' said achild, in my hearing, 'when the pigeons mate, do they choose theprettiest birds?' 'No,' said his mother. 'And why not?' pursued the boy.Because, responded I, waking as from a dream, _they have no perceptionof color_! The animal world sports in light and shade; the human onlyrejoices in the apprehension of color. Does the horse admire therainbow? or does the ox spare the buttercup and the violet, because theyare beautiful? The secret lies in the human eye alone. An eye! an eye!give me but one, Lucile!"
As the girl was about to answer, the photographer again interposed, "Notnow; I want no answer now; I give you a month for reflection." And sosaying, he left the room as unceremoniously as he had entered.
The struggle in the mind of Lucile was sharp and decisive. Dependentherself upon her daily labor, her lover an invalid, and her nearestkindred starving, were facts that spoke in deeper tones than the thunderto her soul. Besides, was not one eye to be spared her, and was not asingle eye quite as good as two? She thought, too, how glorious it wouldbe if Pollexfen should not be mistaken, and she herself should conduceso essentially to the noblest triumph of the photographic art.
A shade, however, soon overspread her glowing face, as the unbidden ideacame forward: "And will my lover still be faithful to a mutilated bride?Will not my beaut
y be marred forever? But," thought she, "is not thissacrifice for him? Oh, yes! we shall cling still more closely inconsequence of the very misfortune that renders our union possible." Oneother doubt suggested itself to her mind: "Is this contract legal? Canit be enforced? If so," and here her compressed lips, her dilatednostril, and her clenched hand betokened her decision, "_if so, Iyield_!"
Three weeks passed quickly away, and served but to strengthen thedetermination of Lucile. At the expiration of that period, and just oneweek before the time fixed for the accomplishment of this cruel scheme,I was interrupted, during the trial of a cause, by the entry of myclerk, with a short note from Mademoiselle Marmont, requesting myimmediate presence at the office. Apologizing to the judge, and to myassociate counsel, I hastily left the court-room.
On entering, I found Lucile completely veiled. Nor was it possible,during our interview, to catch a single glimpse of her features. Sherose, and advancing toward me, extended her hand; whilst pressing it Ifelt it tremble.
"Read this document, Mr. Falconer, and advise me as to its legality. Iseek no counsel as to my duty. My mind is unalterably fixed on thatsubject, and I beg of you, as a favor, in advance, to spare yourself thetrouble, and me the pain, of reopening it."
If the speech, and the tone in which it was spoken, surprised me, I neednot state how overwhelming was my astonishment at the contents of thedocument. I was absolutely stunned. The paper fell from my hands asthough they were paralyzed. Seeing my embarrassment, Lucile rose andpaced the room in an excited manner. Finally pausing, opposite my desk,she inquired, "Do you require time to investigate the law?"
"Not an instant," said I, recovering my self-possession. "This paper isnot only illegal, but the execution of it an offense. It provides forthe perpetration of the crime of _mayhem_, and it is my duty, as a goodcitizen, to arrest the wretch who can contemplate so heinous and inhumanan act, without delay. See! he has even had the insolence to insert myown name as paymaster for his villainy."
"I did not visit your office to hear my benefactor and friend insulted,"ejaculated the girl, in a bitter and defiant tone. "I only came to getan opinion on a matter of law."
"But this monster is insane, utterly crazy," retorted I. "He ought, thismoment, to be in a madhouse."
"Where they did put Tasso, and tried to put Galileo," she rejoined.
"In the name of the good God!" said I, solemnly, "are you in earnest?"
"Were I not, I should not be here."
"Then our conversation must terminate just where it began."
Lucile deliberately took her seat at my desk, and seizing a pen hastilyaffixed her signature to the agreement, and rising, left the officewithout uttering another syllable.
"I have, at least, the paper," thought I, "and that I intend to keep."
My plans were soon laid. I sat down and addressed a most pressing letterto Mr. Courtland, informing him fully of the plot of the lunatic, for soI then regarded him, and urged him to hasten to San Francisco without amoment's delay. Then, seizing my hat, I made a most informal call on Dr.White, and consulted him as to the best means of breaking through theconspiracy. We agreed at once that, as Pollexfen had committed no overtact in violation of law, he could not be legally arrested, but thatinformation must be lodged with the chief of police, requesting him todetail a trustworthy officer, whose duty it should be to obey usimplicitly, and be ready to act at a moment's notice.
All this was done, and the officer duly assigned for duty. His name wasCloudsdale. We explained to him fully the nature of the businessintrusted to his keeping, and took great pains to impress upon him thenecessity of vigilance and fidelity. He entered into the scheme withalacrity, and was most profuse in his promises.
Our settled plan was to meet at the outer door of the photographer'sgallery, at half-past ten o'clock P. M., on the 19th of November, 1853,and shortly afterwards to make our way, by stratagem or force, into thepresence of Pollexfen, and arrest him on the spot. We hoped to find suchpreparations on hand as would justify the arrest, and secure hispunishment. If not, Lucile was to be removed, at all events, andconducted to a place of safety. Such was the general outline. During theweek we had frequent conferences, and Cloudsdale effected an entrance,on two occasions, upon some slight pretext, into the room of the artist.But he could discover nothing to arouse suspicion; so, at least, heinformed us. During the morning of the 19th, a warrant of arrest wasduly issued, and lodged in the hands of Cloudsdale for execution. Hethen bade us good morning, and urged us to be promptly on the ground athalf-past ten. He told us that he had another arrest to make on theSacramento boat, when she arrived, but would not be detained fiveminutes at the police office. This was annoying, but we submitted withthe best grace possible.
During the afternoon, I got another glimpse at our "trusty." The steamerleft for Panama at one P. M., and I went on board to bid adieu to afriend who was a passenger.
Cloudsdale was also there, and seemed anxious and restive. He told methat he was on the lookout for a highway robber, who had been tracked tothe city, and it might be possible that he was stowed away secretly onthe ship. Having business up town, I soon left, and went away with aheavy heart.
As night approached I grew more and more nervous, for the party mostdeeply interested in preventing this crime had not made his appearance.Mr. Courtland had not reached the city. Sickness or the miscarriage ofmy letter, was doubtless the cause.
The Doctor and myself supped together, and then proceeded to mychambers, where we armed ourselves as heavily as though we were about tofight a battle. We were both silent. The enormity of Pollexfen'scontemplated crime struck us dumb. The evening, however, wore painfullyaway, and finally our watches pointed to the time when we should takeour position, as before agreed upon.
We were the first on the ground. This we did not specially notice then;but when five, then ten, and next, fifteen minutes elapsed, and theofficer still neglected to make his appearance, our uneasiness becameextreme. Twenty--_twenty-five_ minutes passed; still Cloudsdale wasunaccountably detained. "Can he be already in the rooms above?" weeagerly asked one another. "Are we not betrayed?" exclaimed I, almostfrantically.
"We have no time to spare in discussion," replied the Doctor, and,advancing, we tried the door. It was locked. We had brought astep-ladder, to enter by the window, if necessary. Next, we endeavoredto hoist the window; it was nailed down securely. Leaping to the groundwe made an impetuous, united onset against the door; but it resisted allour efforts to burst it in. Acting now with all the promptitude demandedby the occasion, we mounted the ladder, and by a simultaneous movementbroke the sash, and leaped into the room. Groping our way hurriedly tothe stairs, we had placed our feet upon the first step, when our earswere saluted with one long, loud, agonizing shriek. The next instant werushed into the apartment of Lucile, and beheld a sight that seared ourown eyeballs with horror, and baffles any attempt at description.
Before our faces stood the ferocious demon, holding in his arms thefainting girl, and hurriedly clipping, with a pair of shears, the lastmuscles and integuments which held the organ in its place.
"Hold! for God's sake, hold!" shouted Dr. White, and instantly grappledwith the giant. Alas! alas! it was too late, forever! The work had beendone; the eye torn, bleeding, from its socket, and just as the Doctorlaid his arm upon Pollexfen, the ball fell, dripping with gore, into hisleft hand.
This is the end of the fourth phase.
PHASE THE FIFTH, AND LAST.
"Monster," cried I, "we arrest you for the crime of mayhem."
"Perhaps, gentlemen," said the photographer, "you will be kind enough toexhibit your warrant." As he said this, he drew from his pocket with hisright hand, the writ of arrest which had been intrusted to Cloudsdale,and deliberately lighting it in the candle, burned it to ashes before wecould arrest his movement. Lucile had fallen upon a ready prepared bed,in a fit of pain, and fainting. The Doctor took his place at her side,his own eyes streaming with tears, and his very soul heaving withagitation.
<
br /> As for me, my heart was beating as audibly as a drum. With one hand Igrappled the collar of Pollexfen, and with the other held a cockedpistol at his head.
He stood as motionless as a statue. Not a nerve trembled nor a tonefaltered, as he spoke these words: "I am most happy to see you,gentlemen; especially the Doctor, for he can relieve me of the duties ofsurgeon. You, sir, can assist him as nurse." And shaking off my hold asthough it had been a child's, he sprang into the laboratory adjoining,and locked the door as quick as thought.
The insensibility of Lucile did not last long. Consciousness returnedgradually, and with it pain of the most intense description. Still shemaintained a rigidness of feature, and an intrepidity of soul thatexcited both sorrow and admiration. "Poor child! poor child!" was all wecould utter, and even that spoken in whispers. Suddenly a noise in thelaboratory attracted attention. Rising I went close to the door.
"Two to one in measure; eight to one in weight; water, only water,"soliloquized the photographer. Then silence, "Phosphorus; yellow incolor; burns in oxygen." Silence again.
"Good God!" cried I, "Doctor, he is analyzing her eye! The fiend isactually performing his incantations!"
A moment elapsed. A sudden, sharp explosion; then a fall, as if a chairhad been upset, and----
"Carbon in combustion! Carbon in combustion!" in a wild, excited tone,broke from the lips of Pollexfen, and the instant afterwards he stood atthe bedside of his pupil. "Lucile! Lucile! the secret is ours; oursonly!"
At the sound of his voice the girl lifted herself from her pillow,whilst he proceeded: "Carbon in combustion; I saw it ere the light diedfrom the eyeball."
A smile lighted the pale face of the girl as she faintly responded,"Regulus gave both eyes for his country; I have given but one for myart."
Pressing both hands to my throbbing brow, I asked myself, "Can this bereal? Do I dream? If real, why do I not assassinate the fiend? Doctor,"said I, "we must move Lucile. I will seek assistance."
"Not so," responded Pollexfen; the excitement of motion might bring onerysipelas, or still worse, _tetanus_.
A motion from Lucile brought me to her bedside. Taking from beneath herpillow a bank deposit-book, and placing it in my hands, she requested meto hand it to Courtland the moment of his arrival, which she declaredwould be the 20th, and desire him to read the billet attached to thebanker's note of the deposit. "Tell him," she whispered, "not to love meless in my mutilation;" and again she relapsed into unconsciousness.
The photographer now bent over the senseless form of his victim, andmuttering, "Yes, carbon in combustion," added, in a softened tone, "Poorgirl!" As he lifted his face, I detected a solitary tear course downhis impressive features. "The first I have shed," said he, sternly,"since my daughter's death."
Saying nothing, I could only think--"And this wretch once had a child!"
The long night through we stood around her bed. With the dawn, Martha,the housekeeper, returned, and we then learned, for the first time, withwhat consummate skill Pollexfen had laid all his plans. For even thehousekeeper had been sent out of the way, and on a fictitious pretensethat she was needed at the bedside of a friend, whose illness wasfeigned for the occasion. Nor was the day over before we learned withcertainty, but no longer with surprise, that Cloudsdale was on his wayto Panama, with a bribe in his pocket.
As soon as it was safe to remove Lucile, she was borne on a litter tothe hospital of Dr. Peter Smith, where she received every attention thather friends could bestow.
Knowing full well, from what Lucile had told me, that Courtland would bedown in the Sacramento boat, I awaited his arrival with the greatestimpatience. I could only surmise what would be his course. But judgingfrom my own feelings, I could not doubt that it would be both desperateand decisive.
Finally, the steamer rounded to, and the next moment the pale, emaciatedform of the youth sank, sobbing, into my arms. Other tears mingled withhis own.
The story was soon told. Eagerly, most eagerly, Courtland read thelittle note accompanying the bankbook. It was very simple, and ran thus:
MY OWN LIFE'S LIFE: Forgive the first, and only act, that you will ever disapprove of in the conduct of your mutilated but loving Lucile. Ah! can I still hope for your love, in the future, as in the past? Give me but that assurance, and death itself would be welcome.
L. M.
We parted very late; he going to a hotel, I to the bedside of thewounded girl. Our destinies would have been reversed, but the surgeon'sorder was imperative, that she should see no one whose presence mightconduce still further to bring on inflammation of the brain.
The next day, Courtland was confined to his bed until late in theafternoon, when he dressed, and left the hotel. I saw him no more untilthe subsequent day. Why, it now becomes important to relate.
About eight o'clock in the evening of the 21st, the day after hisarrival, Courtland staggered into the gallery, or rather the den of JohnPollexfen. He had no other arms than a short double-edged dagger, andthis he concealed in his sleeve.
They had met before; as he sometimes went there, anterior to the deathof M. Marmont, to obtain the photographs upon which Lucile wasexperimenting, previous to her engagement by the artist.
Pollexfen manifested no surprise at his visit; indeed, his mannerindicated that it had been anticipated.
"You have come into my house, young man," slowly enunciated thephotographer, "to take my life."
"I do not deny it," replied Courtland.
As he said this, he took a step forward. Pollexfen threw open his vest,raised himself to his loftiest height, and solemnly said: "Fire! orstrike! as the case may be; I shall offer no resistance. I only beg ofyou, as a gentleman, to hear me through before you play the part ofassassin."
Their eyes met. The struck lamb gazing at the eagle! Vengeanceencountering Faith! The pause was but momentary. "I will hear you," saidCourtland, sinking into a chair, already exhausted by his passion.
Pollexfen did not move. Confronting the lover, he told his storytruthfully to the end. He plead for his life; for he felt the proudconsciousness of having performed an act of duty that bordered upon theheroic.
Still, there was no relenting in the eye of Courtland. It had thatexpression in it that betokens blood. Caesar saw it as Brutus lifted hisdagger. Henry of Navarre recognized it as the blade of Ravillac sankinto his heart. Joaquin beheld it gleaming in the vengeful orbs of HarryLove! Pollexfen, too, understood the language that it spoke.
Dropping his hands, and taking one stride toward the young man, hesorrowfully said: "I have but one word more to utter. Your affiancedbride has joyfully sacrificed one of her lustrous eyes to science. Indoing so, she expressed but one regret, that you, whom she loved betterthan vision, or even life, might, as the years roll away, forget to loveher in her mutilation as you did in her beauty. Perfect yourself, shefeared mating with imperfection might possibly estrange your heart. Yoursuperiority in personal appearance might constantly disturb the perfectequilibrium of love."
He ceased. The covert meaning was seized with lightning rapidity byCourtland. Springing to his feet, he exclaimed joyfully: "The sacrificemust be mutual. God never created a soul that could outdo CharlesCourtland's in generosity."
Flinging his useless dagger upon the floor, he threw himself into thealready extended arms of the photographer, and begged him "to be quickwith the operation." The artist required no second invitation, and erethe last words died upon his lips, the sightless ball of his left eyeswung from its socket.
There was no cry of pain; no distortion of the young man's features withagony; no moan, or sob, or sigh. As he closed firmly his right eye, andcompressed his pallid lips, a joyous smile lit up his whole countenancethat told the spectator how superior even human love is to the body'sanguish; how willingly the severest sacrifice falls at the beck ofhonor!
I shall attempt no description of the manner in which I received theastounding news from the lips of the imp
erturbable Pollexfen; norprolong this narrative by detailing the meeting of the lovers, theirgradual recovery, their marriage, and their departure for the vales ofDauphiny. It is but just to add, however, that Pollexfen added twothousand five hundred dollars to the bank account of MademoiselleMarmont, on the day of her nuptials, as a bridal present, given, nodoubt, partially as a compensation to the heroic husband for hisvoluntary mutilation.
Long months elapsed after the departure of Lucile and her lover beforethe world heard anything more of the photographer.
One day, however, in the early spring of the next season, it wasobserved that Pollexfen had opened a new and most magnificent galleryupon Montgomery Street, and had painted prominently upon his sign, thesewords:
+----------------------------------------------------+ | JOHN POLLEXFEN, PHOTOGRAPHER. | | | | _Discoverer of the Carbon Process, | | By which Colored Pictures are Painted by the Sun._ | +----------------------------------------------------+
The news of this invention spread, in a short time, over the wholecivilized world; and the Emperor Napoleon the Third, with the liberalitycharacteristic of great princes, on hearing from the lips of Lucile afull account of this wonderful discovery, revived, in favor of JohnPollexfen, the pension which had been bestowed upon Niepce, and whichhad lapsed by his death, in 1839; and with a magnanimity that would haverendered still more illustrious his celebrated uncle, revoked the decreeof forfeiture against the estates of M. Marmont, and bestowed them, witha corresponding title of nobility, upon Lucile and her issue.
This ends my story. I trust the patient reader will excuse its length,for it was all necessary, in order to explain how John Pollexfen madehis fortune.
[Decoration]