CHAPTER XI.

HIS MAJESTY THE KING OF THE ISLES.

“A merry madman this!”—_Prout._

——“Though this be madness, yet There’s method in’t!”—_Shakspeare._

While Lord Montressor pursues his search for Estelle, we must take up the fortunes of some other persons who are concerned in our narrative. But first a brief review of Victorie L’Orient’s course seems necessary to the reader’s better understanding of what follows:—

“Tis hard for human actions to account, Whether from reason, or from impulse only,”

writes the lamented Thomas Hood.

It would certainly be difficult to explain satisfactorily the motives of the course of conduct pursued by Victoire L’Orient toward the hapless lady whose evil fortune had placed her peace, if not her destiny, in his power. One would have naturally supposed that, being released from his penal life, he would have proceeded directly to England, and while her hand was yet free, would have openly demanded possession of the woman whom he claimed as his wife. Why he did not do so—why, on the contrary, he chose to wait for the hour when she should bestow her hand on another, to humble her before the whole world, is the unresolved problem. Of course every theory of his motives must be purely speculative.

Judging, however, from what we have already seen of his character and have heard of his history, it is neither unreasonable nor uncharitable, to suppose the following to have been the case:

A man like Victoire L’Orient, of depressed moral and intellectual nature, usually feels a strong antagonism to a woman who is brought into constant and rebuking comparison with himself, especially when that woman is his own wife, whom he deems should of right be in all respects his inferior and subordinate. Very soon must Monsieur Victoire have discovered the moral and intellectual excellence of the young creature whom he had ensnared, and consequently the wide disparity of character between himself and her. This alone was sufficient to have galled a spirit so egotistical as his own. And when we remember that in addition to this, Estelle inevitably detected his utter unworthiness, and that, notwithstanding her sweet patience and forbearance, she must unavoidably, through the very truthfulness and ingenuousness of her character, have revealed the low estimation in which she held him, we need not feel any degree of surprise that his selfish passion for her was largely alloyed with hate, and that his desire to possess, was quite equalled by his wish to humble her.

With these feelings and purposes, having been pardoned, or having served out his time in Algiers, he embarked in the “Duc D’Anjou” for France. Picked up by an Algerine corsair from the wreck of that vessel, he had been reconveyed to the Barbary States. Escaping thence, he once more returned to Europe.

He came to England to claim the hand of Estelle, or, failing to obtain it, to extort money from her parents as the price of silence and absence.

But on arriving at Exeter, and hearing of her approaching nuptials with the Viscount Montressor, and being ignorant of the good and sufficient reasons she possessed for supposing himself to be deceased, all the most malignant passions of his heart were enkindled, and all the most cunning faculties of his mind were employed to enable him to meet the exigency in a manner that should at the same time punish Estelle and profit himself.

Feeling no doubt of the legality of that rite by which he supposed he had secured her person and fortune, yet fearing, nevertheless, that in the event of his _then_ claiming her hand, her father would interfere, and, by means of his vast wealth and influence, contrive to invalidate, or in some other manner break the bond that united them, he, with a demon’s art, resolved to reserve himself, to conceal the fact of his existence for awhile, to allow her—unconscious of his presence in the country—to go to the altar, and then, armed with a warrant for her arrest, spring a trap upon her.

Not that he intended she should suffer the extreme penalty of the law; but that he wished to degrade her in the eyes of the whole world, so that even her haughty parents should be willing, as their only resort, to resign her, with her fortune, to his possession. To accomplish this end, it had been his purpose, after the interruption of the nuptials by the arrest of the bride, to have had an explanation, and come to a compromise with Estelle’s family, and in the event of their closing with his terms, to have withdrawn his witnesses, so that at the trial before the Judge of the Assizes, there should be no evidence against her, who, being then free, though ruined, would fall to his undisputed possession.

Fortunately for Estelle, her advocate, Lord Dazzleright, at once detected the policy of the prosecuting party. And the manner in which the charge was met and the defense conducted at the preliminary investigation, disabused Monsieur Victoire of the false hope of obtaining possession of Estelle, and at the same time aroused all the vindictive passions of his nature, that instigated him to have her prosecuted to the utmost extent of the law.

Upon the occasion of the trial before the Assizes, the charge of the Judge to the jury—in which his lordship distinctly declined to pronounce upon the validity of the alleged first marriage, declaring that to be a matter for the adjudication of the spiritual courts—had again, however irrationally, revived his hopes.

At the conclusion of the trial, he determined to keep trace of Estelle, and to file a petition to be heard upon his claim, before the Court of Arches.

He soon discovered the flight of Estelle to London, and subsequently her embarkation for Baltimore.

In pursuit of her he took passage on the Mercury bound for the same port.

But Monsieur Victoire had still another motive, (which shall be revealed,) for his voyage to America.

The most debased and unfortunate of wretches possibly have some friends whom they love or by whom they are beloved. And this miserable Victoire had his mother, who doted on him, and a fellow voyager on whom he doted. The name of the last mentioned was Julius Luxmore. How he had first become acquainted with this young man it is not necessary now to relate. It is sufficient to say that he had known him intimately for about two years.

From the moment of Victoire L’Orient’s embarkation on board the Mercury, his spirits had suffered a reaction into gloom and apathy, to which those of his volatile nation are frequently subject. And this despondency increased with every league of the voyage, until, when half across the Atlantic ocean, it amounted to absolute despair. He passed much of the day in leaning over the bulwarks of the vessel, gazing gloomily into the sea, and sometimes muttering to himself:

“I shall never see Etoile! I shall never see Etoile!”

One afternoon he was thus standing in the stern of the vessel with his elbow resting on the taffrail, his chin leaning upon his hand, and his eyes fixed intently upon the foaming sea in the wake of the vessel, when his friend came up to his side, touching his elbow, and said, cheerily:

“Come, come, shipmate! Do you think we are near a sunken reef? And are you making leaden plummets of your eyeballs to take the soundings? What are you gazing at?”

“_Mon tombeau_,” answered the Frenchman, gloomily.

“‘These things must not be thought on after these ways so, it will make us mad,’ as the tender-hearted Lady Macbeth says.”

“_Mais, mon Dieu!_ I shall never see Etoile! I shall never see Etoile!”

“‘Consider it not so deeply!’ I think you have every thing to hope. You must not judge her inclinations by the action of her counsel. Reflect; she has fled from Lord Montressor, not from you!”

“Grand heaven! who talks of her? It is not of Estelle, my demon of a wife, that I speak!” exclaimed Victoire, shrugging his shoulders.

“Of whom then? Etoile—Etoile—I never heard the name. Has Monsieur Victoire perhaps _consoled_ himself for the absence of Madame Estelle?” inquired Luxmore in a tone of raillery.

“Ah! no, no,” replied the Frenchman in the same mournful tone—“I speak of my child—my daughter—my pretty little Etoile!”

“Your child!” exclaimed Luxmore in astonishment.

“Yes, my friend. Mon Dieu! Yes, my daughter, my dear Etoile!”

“But you never told me you had a child?”

“But yes, mon Dieu! I have! I did from all the fact conceal. Listen you. You shall hear. That woman of perdition, Estelle, had a child—a daughter?”

“Is it possible! and that child lives?”

“Yes, yes! my beautiful Etoile! My princess of the Isle! My star of the sea!” exclaimed the Frenchman, with real or feigned enthusiasm.

“You astonish me. And her mother——?”

“Does not know she lives. Attend you. I will, from you, nothing hide. She has an uncle—the King of the isle.”

“Eh? What?” exclaimed the other in perplexity.

“I have an uncle—the King of the Isle.”

“My poor Victoire, has grief unsettled your reason?”

“Why?”

“Just now you spoke of your daughter as princess of the Isle, but as you also called her a star of the sea, I considered both phrases figurative. Now, however, when you talk gravely of your uncle, who is the King of the Island——”

“But grand Dieu! my dear and good friend, you comprehend not. I have one uncle who is a bachelor—old and rich, and resident for a long time upon an island in the sea. But, mon Dieu! he is foolish, imbecile, idiotic,” said Victoire, in a tone of real or assumed grief.

“I am sorry, since it distresses you; but I cannot see what your mad uncle has to do with the life of your daughter or the ignorance of her mother.”

“But, my faith! it has a great deal to do with both the one and the other. Attend you. I shall nothing conceal. Regard you. You shall know all. Listen you, then, my dear friend!”

And Monsieur Victoire L’Orient commenced an explanation which I beg leave to disembarrass from his idiomatic French and broken English and give in less unintelligible language.

It seems from the representations of Monsieur Victoire that the family of “L’Orient” really once belonged to the ancient seignory of Provence. The younger and of course poorer branch of that family, were of the company of French Roman Catholics who went out with Lord Baltimore’s emigrant troop, and settled the province of Maryland.

This particular family fixed upon one of the loveliest and loneliest of the Islands of the Chesapeake, and from that day, through several successive generations, held it in their exclusive possession. Indeed, their greatest desire, their hereditary passion, seemed to be to keep this beloved and beauteous Island in the family.

In all these years the intercourse between the European and the American branches of the old house was not suffered to wane. On the contrary, several successive intermarriages had revived and consolidated the relationship. Thus when an heir of the Island reached man’s estate, his choice of a bride was limited by the number of his marriageable female cousins in France. Or if a daughter happened to be the sole heiress, a husband was found for her among the males of the same.

The American branch of the house were called for distinction L’Oriens _de l’Ile_ (or, of the Island). But this term in the course of time became a second surname, or a sort of title, so that the owners of the Island were always called Monsieur L’Orient De L’Ile. And any European L’Orient who married a sole heiress of the Island became in her right, also Monsieur L’Orient De L’Ile;—though by his American neighbors of the coast, he was called simply Mr. De L’Ile.

We all know that successive intermarriages are not favorable to any race. Hence it is not surprising that the family of L’Oriens De L’Ile gradually died out. And the last lineal descendant, Monsieur Hubert De L’Ile, who married his first cousin, had neither son nor daughter to succeed him.

The European branch of the house that had remained in France, and had married into other families, continued, on the contrary, to be a handsome and vigorous race.

And of such was the father of Monsieur Victoire.

But Monsieur Victoire had, as he says, an uncle, the elder brother of his father. This man, Monsieur Henri L’Orient, was socially a bachelor and an oddity, and politically a royalist and a Bourbonist. He had one grand passion, and that was for—islands! or perhaps I should say for the family Island in the Chesapeake, to which he was heir presumptive. During the lifetime of Monsieur and Madame Hubert De L’Ile, he made several voyages to the Chesapeake, and spent many months on the Island. His love of the place was immense, his praise of it extravagant, his compliments to the proprietors as sincere as they were overwhelming.

“You are like a king and queen here! you are in your insular domain! Your kingdom is only bounded by the infinite sea!”

Thus he became a great favorite with the childless old people, who would laughingly reply:

“Ah, well! if it is so, if we are a king and queen, then you are the prince and the heir of the kingdom.”

And at their death they left a will bequeathing the Island to Monsieur Henri L’Orient, and in case the latter should die without children, to Monsieur Victoire L’Orient and his heirs forever.

Monsieur Henri L’Orient was sixty years old when he “came to his kingdom.” It was not likely that he would take a wife and become the father of sons and daughters at that age. So he invited his younger brother, with his family, to accompany him to his insular domain. But Madame, his sister-in-law, who was at that time young, pretty, fashionable and extravagant, preferred the saloons of Paris to the loveliest Island in the world. And so Monsieur Hubert took leave of his relatives, and departed alone for his “kingdom.”

And years passed, during which the old man was too much attached to his Island, and his relatives in Paris too much devoted to pleasure, to permit an exchange of visits.

But fifteen years after the separation, Madame was a widow without youth, beauty or riches. And her good brother-in-law wrote, proposing that she should come and bring her son and take up her residence with him.

But oh, horror! Madame could not think of such a thing! She infinitely preferred to trust to her own resources in Paris, rather than to go out to live among “mulattos and mud turtles on his Island in the Bay.”

And with the help of friends, Madame opened her Pensionnat des Demoiselles.

Five more years passed, and old Monsieur Henri grew older in the solitude of his insular “kingdom.” Now, whether it were the effect of his strange and lonely life, the approach of extreme old age, or the misfortunes of his beloved Bourbons, or all of these causes combined, I know not, but the mind of the old man became deranged upon one subject, his grand passion became a monomania, his jest grew earnest, his ownership of the Island appeared the sovereignty of a kingdom, and his letters to his sister-in-law and nephew were signed—with more rigid formality of course than a real monarch would have used—

“HENRI, BY GRACE OF GOD, KING OF THE ISLES.”

For as his monomania grew, he imagined that his sovereign sway extended over all the Islands of the Bay. At first, as his letters betrayed no other sign of the writer’s mental alienation, his sister-in-law deemed this signature an odd piece of pleasantry, as indeed in the first instance it might have been; but when letter after letter came, gravely signed in this manner, and when, in addition, he expressed his great anxiety to see her son, the “Prince,” his nephew—Madame’s eyes were opened!

“This unfortunate old beast is mad!” she said; “we must look after him!”

But just as Madame came to this conclusion, her own especial family affairs demanded her exclusive attention. Her son Monsieur Victoire was on trial for treason; Victoire’s baby-bride had a baby of her own that must be concealed; her “pensionnat” was broken up; her character was impeached; and finally the necessity of a change of residence was for all these reasons imperative. She only waited the result of Victoire’s trial, and when he was condemned to Algiers, she gathered together the remnants of her property, turned the whole into cash, took her stolen grandchild, whom she chose, for private reasons of her own, to represent, for the present, to its mother, as dead,—and went down to Dijon. Thence she wrote to her brother-in-law, “His Majesty, the King of the Isles,” that her son, the “Prince,” his nephew, had experienced unheard-of misfortunes, through his devotion to his allies, the Bourbons; and that he was now banished to Algeria. But that his “Highness” had left a child, an infant daughter, an angel of beauty; and—what should she do with this child?

The course of months brought back the old man’s answer. The “King of the Isles” expressed the most exalted admiration of his nephew, the Prince’s heroism, and the most profound sorrow for his misfortunes; and ended by entreating his unhappy sister-in-law to bring the “Princess,” her granddaughter, to be educated at his own court.

“Great Heaven! that old animal is very mad! I hope he is not dangerous! Very well! if he should be, his negro slaves are strong enough to bind him at my command. And who will have a better right to command than I when I get there?” said Madame, who being a prompt as well as courageous woman, immediately wrote to the “Island King,” saying that she should quickly follow her letter, and have the honor of presenting the “Princess” at the court of His Majesty. And so in the course of a few weeks Madame, having in charge the yearling child, embarked on board the “Sirene,” bound from Havre to Baltimore, engaging the captain to put her on shore at L’Orient, or East Island.

It was after a prosperous voyage of two months, and upon a most beautiful morning in May, that Madame was early aroused from her berth to get ready to go on shore. Upon occasion she could be quick in making her toilet, so in twenty minutes from the opening of her eyes she stood upon the deck, looking out for the long-talked of, the beloved, the beauteous Island.

There it lay before her, in its more than ideal loveliness! There it lay like an emerald on the bosom of the bay! A beautiful green island, dimpled with hill and valley, veined with limpid streams, studded with gray and mossy rocks, shaded with tall groves, and environed by the blue waters that leaped and sparkled in the morning sun like a living sea of liquid sapphires! There was a vivid and delicate freshness of hue in the luxuriant vegetation of the Isle, as peculiar as it was delightful. Far in the interior, from amidst the green beauty of the grove, arose the many tall, white chimneys of the Island mansion. Scattered about in picturesque groups, were the white cottages of the negro servants. Down on the beach was a white boat-house, built in the shape of a Chinese pagoda.

Madame gazed in a sort of enthusiasm upon the scene.

“It is a magnificent place, after all! My faith! those comical De L’Iles did well to adore it! As for me, I shall take that old madman in hand! I shall assume the direction of affairs. I shall introduce a new order of things. I shall form the acquaintance of the gentry on the main land. I shall give _fetes_ and dances! My Heaven! I must amuse myself, or else I shall die of grief for poor Victoire, or go mad like His Majesty, the King of the Isles! And at last Victoire will come back; or at least my little Etoile will grow up; and by-the-by, it is very fortunate, my faith! that I have this child as a passport to acceptance!” soliloquised Madame.

And she had scarcely had time thus to lay out her future before the long-boat came around to the starboard gangway, and her trunks were lowered into it.

“The boat awaits the pleasure of Madame,” said the captain, offering himself to assist her in the descent. Madame was carefully seated, the babe was put in her arms, the six sailors plied their oars, and the boat skimmed like a sea-bird the surface of the sparkling waters.

Ten minutes brought them to the landing-place on the Isle—a little pier beside the boat-house, painted white, and ascended by three steps.

From this pier an avenue of half a mile in length, shaded by beautiful trees, led up through fields and pleasure grounds, toward the house. All this, Madame saw at a glance, while the boat was pushed up and moored.

But upon the pier stood a most interesting group—namely, “His Majesty, the King of the Isles,” and the chief ministers of his court—in other words, Monsieur Henri De L’Isle and a half dozen of his negro men.

Madame gazed in a sort of consternation—she had expected to find a very aged, decrepit, driveling madman. “His Majesty,” on the contrary, though eighty years of age, was still one of the finest looking men she had ever set her eyes upon—tall, broad shouldered, and erect in form, with a fresh, handsome, noble countenance, surrounded by a thick growth of hair and beard as white as snow. He wore a purple cashmere morning-gown folded like a royal robe about his person. His manner was dignified and courteous, as he stood waiting to receive his guests. The half-dozen negro men that were with him were neatly dressed in white trousers and pink shirts, and were remarkable for their healthful and joyous appearance.

“Very good! the madman and his familiars are not so ill to look upon!” said Madame, as with the child in her arms she left the boat.

Monsieur Henri, with the air of the Grand Monarque, came down to meet her.

“Welcome, illustrious lady and beloved sister! welcome to our court, our kingdom, and our heart!” he said, holding out both his hands.

“I thank you, Monsiegneur!” replied Madame. But as she was embarrassed with the babe in her arms, she could not accept his offered courtesy.

“Why, how then! is Madame, my sister, left without her retinue? And has the Princess, my niece, no attendance?” exclaimed Monsieur Henri, looking excessively shocked.

“Madame the Duchesse de Berri had no more, when she wandered in La Vendee!” said our Madame, demurely.

“Oh, miserable country!—oh, unfortunate princes!” exclaimed the old man, lifting his hands and raising his eyes to heaven. Then—“Give me the illustrious babe,” he said; and taking the child in his arms with the solemn air of a bishop, who was about to baptize it, he called to one of his negroes—“Come hither, Monsieur Louis.”

A tall, aged man, with a very black skin, and very white hair, who was clothed like the others, in a pink shirt and white trousers, approached and bowed respectfully.

“This is my High Constable of the Kingdom, Madame,” said Monsieur De L’Ile, introducing the new-comer.

Then placing the infant solemnly in the arms of the old negro, he charged him, saying—

“Receive your Princess, Monsieur Louis! and bear her on before us to the palace! I follow with Madame.”

Without suffering a muscle of his very intelligent face to change, the old negro received the babe, and led the way up the shaded avenue toward the house.

“August lady, and dear sister, will you accept my arm?” said Monsieur Henri, bowing and offering his services with the air of Chevalier Bayard.

“I thank you, Monsiegneur,” said the ‘august lady,’ suffering him to draw her arm within his own, and lead her on, up the lovely, shadowy walk, through the shrubberies, the pleasure grounds, and the flower gardens. There were so many flowers! especially roses!—‘roses, everywhere roses’—they flushed all the green island with their bloom, and filled all the air with their perfume. They clustered thicker as you approached the white house with its many tall chimneys, and its central front portico. They climbed its posts, and ran along its eaves and cornices, and shaded its windows.

“What a beautiful, beautiful place!” said Madame, in rapture.

Monsieur Henri led her up the white stone stairs of the portico, through the front door, and into a broad central hall from which several half-open doors on either side revealed glimpses of many spacious rooms in their summer array of straw matting, white curtains, linen covers, and many flowers; while the wide open doors at the back of the hall exposed a pleasant view of gardens, vineyards, and orchards, sloping down to the shore.

“Welcome to my court, illustrious Madame,” said Monsieur De L’Ile, opening the first door on his right, and ushering his guest into a pleasant, airy parlor. He led her to an arm-chair, placed her in it, and then rang for attendance.

The bell was answered by the appearance of a handsome and even very intellectual-looking mulatto woman, of about thirty years of age, who courtesied and stood waiting.

“This is Mademoiselle Madeleine, the first lady of your bed-chamber, Madame,” said Monsieur Henri, presenting the woman to her new mistress.

“And now, Mademoiselle, conduct your august mistress to her apartment. Monsieur Louis? Ah, you are there! Deliver the Princess into the charge of Mademoiselle.”

The woman took the babe, and bowing to Madame, led the way up stairs to a suite of apartments on the right side of the central hall, whose many windows looked out upon the beautiful pleasure grounds of the Island and upon the surrounding sea, and whose summer furniture was arranged with the nicest regard to comfort and elegance.

“My faith, the lunatic knows how to keep house,” thought the lady. Then turning to her attendant, she inquired:

“Does your master ever become violent?”

“Madame?”

“I ask you, does your master ever become ungovernable—dangerous?”

“Pardon, I do not understand Madame,” said the woman, gravely and respectfully.

“You _will_ not, I suspect,” muttered the lady; then aloud, she asked:

“How long has your master been mad?”

“Pardon. Madame has been misinformed; my master is not mad.”

“Your master is not mad!” exclaimed the lady, in astonishment.

“No, Madame,” replied the mulatto, calmly.

“You tell me that your master, Monsieur Henri De L’Ile, is not mad?”

“Yes, Madame.”

“Then, if he is not mad, I should not wonder if you told me next that he is King of the Isles.”

“Certainly, Madame, he is King of the Isles.”

“How? Your master, Monsieur De L’Ile, King of the Isles?”

“Assuredly, Madame, since he says it.”

“Oh, then, since this is so, I see how it is. I have arrived at Bedlam, and we are all lunatics together!” exclaimed the visitor, highly provoked.

“Has Madame any orders?” inquired the woman, humbly.

“Yes; lay that child on the bed, and go and send Louis to me.”

“Yes, Madame.” And the woman left the room to do her errand.

In a few moments, Louis appeared at the chamber door, bowed and stood waiting.

“Louis, how long has your master been mad?” inquired the lady, peremptorily.

“Forgive, but Madame has been deceived; my master is not mad.”

“Then I suppose that he is really King of the Isles?” questioned the guest, ironically.

“Undoubtedly, Madame, since he says.”

“And he is not mad?”

“Assuredly not, Madame.”

“Then I am, that is all.”

“Has Madame any orders?”

“No—yes; tell Madeleine to return to me.”

The old man bowed deeply and retired.

Madame clasped her temples with both hands.

“Yes,” she said; “it is I, without doubt, who am mad, or shall soon become so. Here I arrive at the extremity of the civilized world—the very jumping-off place, and what do I find? a courtly madman, who calls himself King of the Isles, and a pair of mulatto savages, who address me in the elegantly turned phrases of the Tuileries, and confirm his title——Ah, in a good hour! here comes Mademoiselle, my maid of honor!”

The entrance of the mulatto put an end to Madame’s soliloquy, and suggested the propriety of arranging her toilet. With the assistance of Madeleine, her black satin dressing-gown was arranged, her well-dyed black ringlets smoothed, the white lace collar and mits put on, and Madame was ready to go down to breakfast.

Madeleine remained to take care of the child.

Louis stood outside the door, bowed, and preceded the lady to show her the way to the breakfast parlor.

It was a delightful room on the right hand of the hall, with its floor covered with straw matting. Its many muslin-draped windows were open to a view of rolling green meadows, covered with tender spring vegetation, and variegated with apple, peach, and cherry trees, all in full bloom. And beyond, the wide expanse of sparkling, leaping blue water stretched away until its boundaries were lost under the purple, crimson, and gold of the morning horizon.

The breakfast table, covered with fine white damask, and adorned with a service of silver and white Sevres, was laden with all the luxuries of the season.

Monsieur De L’Ile (unless the reader prefers that I should call him the King of the Isles) stood ready to hand Madame to the table—an act of gallantry that he performed with the stately courtesy of a Guise or a Medici.

Louis took his stand at a sideboard that stood between two of the open windows, and from whence he served coffee, tea, or chocolate.

Madame had enough to do to watch her host. She engaged him in conversation, hoping to be able to measure the extent of his insanity, and to find out whether, and how best, she could wrest from his aged hands the control of his own property: first, whether she could not do it without having _recourse_ to law; secondly, whether she could do it even _through_ law. Of the first there was little hope; the old man’s mind upon every subject but the one, acted with a vigor, clearness, and directness that proved him to be a very unlikely subject for even the most artful woman’s government; of the second there was no certainty, for, though upon one idea he was undoubtedly mad, yet, upon the first suspicion of her purpose to subject him to a medical or a judicial examination, he would assuredly have the cunning to conceal his madness—a measure in which he would be supported by his two educated slaves, Louis and Madeleine, who, for whatever reason, were certainly flatterers of his mania.

However, Madame was not a woman rashly to resign a purpose, or grow hopeless of its accomplishment.

And all this time, while her head was busily brewing plots, the old man, the purposed victim of her machinations, was loading her with compliments and attentions.

When breakfast was over, Madame set herself to arrange her own personal attendance. Madeleine was retained as her maid. And a pretty mulatto girl named Coralie, the younger sister of Madeleine, was appointed nurse to the “Princess Etoile.” Frivole, the boy brother of those girls was brought from the garden into the house as page and messenger. And Madame’s establishment was complete.

The next day was the Sabbath. Madame was a devout Roman Catholic, and a scrupulous attendant upon mass. Here was a difficulty not thought of before. Where and how should she attend mass? She early rang her bell.

Her maid answered the summons.

“Madeleine, how far are we from the main land?”

“About fifty miles.”

“Very good. How far is the nearest Catholic chapel from this?”

“St. Inigoes, the nearest, Madame, is fifty miles.”

“Better! Madeleine, my brother-in-law, your master, his Majesty the King of the Isles, when he was simply Monsieur Henri, used to be a good Catholic.”

“And he is so still, Madame.”

“But good Catholics are under obligations to hear mass once every Sunday.”

“Yes, Madame.”

“‘Yes, Madame.’ It is very well to say, ‘Yes, Madame,’ but how upon earth do you reconcile the neglect of that duty on the part of your master with your declaration that he is still a good Catholic?”

“But Madame will pardon me. She hastens to conclusions. My master does not neglect his Christian duties.”

“Then I should be glad to know how he performs them. You do not mean to say that he goes fifty miles to hear mass at St. Inigoes?”

“No, Madame.”

“How then?”

“His Holiness the Pope offers up Mass here every Sunday, before breakfast.”

“EH?”

“His Holiness the Pope offers up Mass here every Sunday, before breakfast, in the chapel fitted up for that purpose.”

“Oh! my head! my head!” cried the poor woman, wildly clapping her hands to her temples.

“Is Madame ill?” coolly inquired the mulatto.

“ILL? Is all the world raving mad? You tell me, you impertinent! you impudent! you insolent! outrageous——! You tell me that the Pope says Mass here every Sunday!”

“Madame can assure herself of that fact,” replied Madeleine, with an humble, but injured look.

“I shall go mad! I got over your King of the Isles, your Lord High Constable, and your Princess Etoile—but his Holiness the Pope saying Mass here every Sunday—no! I won’t endure that!”

“Madame undoubtedly has the privilege to object!”

“Begone!”

“Yes, Madame. But pardon me for delaying long enough to say my master bade me inform you, that High Mass would be celebrated in the chapel this morning; and that Louis would be in attendance to conduct you thither.”

“Begone, I say, while I have some rationality left!”

“Certainly, Madame.”

“Stop! come back; help me to dress; I will go to the chapel that the dream may be finished, and I may wake up the sooner.”

Madeleiene obediently came back.

Madame quickly made her toilet and left her chamber, at the door of which she found Louis waiting to attend her.

“Louis, is it true that Mass will be celebrated here this morning?”

“Yes, Madame.”

“But who will officiate?”

“Our Most Holy Father, the Pope!”

“Go to the——. I mean go on before me.”

Madame had nearly permitted herself, in her indignation, to use profane language.

Louis, undisturbed by his mistress’s excitement, walked down before her, until he paused before the door of the chapel, which was one of those pleasant rooms on the first floor.

Madame entered, and found herself in an apartment fitted up as a church.

At the upper extremity stood an altar adorned with sacred pictures and statuettes, wreathed with flowers, and lighted with many wax candles. From a silver censer burning before it, arose a rich aroma that filled the air. Dark, rich transparencies pulled down before the windows produced something of the effect of stained glass, and threw over the scene an atmosphere at once brilliant and solemn. Between every window was some picture of saint, or angel. Rows of neat white benches supplied the place of pews. All the slaves of the Island plantation, dressed in their summer Sunday suits of pure white, were here assembled, with a quiet and devout demeanor. Before the altar, with his back to the congregation, stood a very tall and dignified old man in the triple-crowned mitre and the pontifical robes and vestments of his Holiness the Pope.

Madame sank into the nearest seat through the sheer exhaustion produced by an overwhelming astonishment. What did this mean? Who was this person? How dared any subordinate priest, bishop, or archbishop, or even cardinal, assume the pontifical robes?

The strains of an organ now arose, swelling on the air. She looked around—saw the organ, it was behind her, and beside the door by which she had entered, but a screen reaching half way up the instrument, concealed the organist from her view. What _did_ it all mean?

But the Mass had commenced, and Madame was too devout a Catholic to stop to think when it was time to pray. So down she dropped upon her knees, and began in the form of the ritual, and in her case, no doubt, with the exactest truth, to accuse herself of every sin in the catalogue. And in her devotions she forbore to look about or raise her eyes again to the mysterious old man who officiated, at the altar.

At last at the conclusion of the solemnities, when the celebrant turned round toward the people, and solemnly extending his venerable hands, intoned “Deus Gratias,” (Thanks be to God,) Madame raised her eyes, and to her inexpressible scandalization, recognized Monsieur Henri.

“Good! This is better than the rest! He is a king all the week and the Pope on Sunday. But it would be a mortal sin in me to allow _this_ madness to go on any longer! I would put up with the king for six days, but the Pope, Holy Virgin! no, that must be stopped. I’ll make an excuse of an errand to town, get him to let me have a barque, and go to the mainland, and to the County seat, and take out a writ of lunacy against him. I will lose no time. I will do this to-morrow.”

While Madame thus resolved, the congregation were quietly dispersing. As there was but one outlet to this room, the officiating priest himself came down; and in passing by his guest, he paused, extended his hands over her head in the most solemn and benignant manner, and said, gravely and slowly—

“Benedicite, illustrious daughter,” and then in measured steps passed out.

Sunday, on the Sunrise Island, was a day of Heaven—as the Isle itself was a terrestrial paradise.

The fifty servants, entirely freed from labor at the time, and dressed in their festive garments, wandered about with their children, in couples, trios or groups—over the green fields, beside the singing streams, or along the silvery sanded beach; or they sat in groups under the shady groves; or reposed, stretched at length, beneath some gigantic tree; or gathered in some large arbor around some one of their number, who had been taught to read, and who read to them from the Book of books; or else they united their voices in a psalm of thanksgiving that arose joyously from that green and blooming Island of the sea, filling all the sunny air with music. And the lovely day was followed by a moonlight night, and their Sabbath recreations were closed by the assembling of the whole band of servants, and the singing of an evening hymn. Then, after partaking of the simple Sunday supper of coffee, cakes and fruit, served under the trees, they separated for the night.

And Monsieur Henri, no longer pope, but king, sat upon his front piazza, with his niece upon his knee, his sister-in-law beside him, and his two favorite servants Madeleine and Louis near at hand, and watched the departing figures of his people as they defiled off in twos and threes and larger groups, toward their respective neat, white cabins.

“My subjects are happy, I think, my dear sister! At least it is my study to make them so! And they love me! Yes, they love me! That is what keeps my old age green,” said the old man.

And assuredly no people in the world were happier as a community than these dependants of the good old man—these subjects of a self-styled king.

“They seem contented and prosperous,” said Madame.

“They have nothing left to wish for, and on their side leave me nothing to desire. Neither have I any cares of government—Louis manages all my affairs,” said the old man with a look of infinite content.

The next day, Monday, “His Majesty” requested a private interview with his “august sister,” in which he begged that she would give him a full and particular account of her illustrious son, “the Prince,” his nephew’s misfortunes. And Madame gave a distorted version of the truth—relating that Monsieur Victoire had been condemned to the colonies for conspiring in favor of the Bourbons, and that his young wife, an English Lady of high rank, had abandoned him in his misfortunes. The mind of the old man in attending to this story seemed divided between exalted admiration for the heroism, and profound sorrow for the misfortunes of his nephew.

They then talked of the affairs of the Island. And Madame learned from all she heard and saw, that Monsieur Henri De L’Ile, notwithstanding his monomania, and perhaps even _because_ of it, was one of the best of masters and wisest of rulers—truly deserving to be called by the threefold titles that he claimed of King, Priest, and Father of his people.

He had, on first coming to the Island, found Louis and Madeleine—a bright intelligent brother and sister, the former twenty, the latter ten years of age. He had taught them both to read, write, and keep accounts. They were both perfectly devoted to his person and interests, and in the twenty years of his residence on the Island, an attachment had grown up between himself and them, that more nearly resembled the confidential friendship of equals, than the relative regard of master and servants. Yet their reverential affection for their master amounted to idolatry. No absurdity of which the old man through his monomania might be guilty, could provoke from their respectful countenances a smile. They seemed really to wish to believe him to be a king, rather than to admit him to be a madman. Never for an instant was their guarded reverence for him surprised or betrayed. No matter how sudden, startling, and perplexing the questions, put by Madame upon the subject of their master’s madness—their answers were always ready, grave, respectful, and uncompromising.

“Pray, how long has it been since Monsieur Henri has enjoyed the dignity of being a king all the week and a pope on Sunday?” inquired Madame of Louis that identical Monday morning.

“To us, ever since he first announced himself as such, Madame,” replied Louis, with an humble bow.

“Pray, has Monsieur Henri friends and neighbors on the main land?” questioned the lady of Madeleine.

“Very many, Madame.”

“And do they know that he is mad?”

“They cannot know that since he is not, Madame,” replied the woman deferentially.

And Madame never could surprise either Louis or Madeleine, or any other servant on the plantation into the slightest betrayal of a suspicion that any thing was amiss with their master’s brain.

This brother and sister were the mainstays of their old master. Louis managed his farm, orchard, vineyard, garden and fishery, and attended to the sale of the products of the whole. Madeleine kept his house, table and wardrobe in order, and nursed him through any indisposition. Madame saw at once that she herself was a supernumerary in the establishment; that the position assigned to her was that of a most honored guest, most welcome to remain forever, but neither expected nor desired to take any trouble, or assume any responsibility in the government of the family. Now this position was by no means acceptable to her feelings, and she resolved to carry into immediate execution her purpose of going that day to the mainland to apply for a writ of lunacy in behalf of her brother-in-law. Having ascertained from Monsieur Henri that the Island belonged to the County of Northampton, and that the county-town was Eastville, she begged that he would allow her the use of the barque and the men to work it to take her to that town, where she said she wished to make some purchases of summer clothing for herself and the child.

Monsieur Henri, with the most cordial politeness, at once assented, adding that he should do himself the honor of attending his beloved sister.

Now this was quite an unexpected difficulty. His presence must defeat her object. She therefore begged that he would not take the trouble to accompany her, and entreating that he would regard his ease and health.

But Monsieur De L’Ile was not to be exceeded in politeness. He assured his sister-in-law that to attend her to Eastville would afford him unmixed gratification. And he further informed her that he himself had business at the court-house, that required his immediate attention.

There was therefore nothing for her to do but to submit to necessity and trust to circumstances to favor her design. And since he was really himself going to the court-house, that very event might so turn out as to enable her, without difficulty, to deliver him into the hands of the proper authorities for his safe custody. She therefore affected to accept his proffered services with great thankfulness.

He informed her, however, that it would require a whole day to go and return from Eastville, and that therefore, if she pleased, he would give orders for the barque to be made ready for service by sunrise next morning.

To that feature of the plan, also, she assented with seeming gratitude.