THE SAD MISTAKE. and exalted to a degree of almost saintly dignity and sweetness. It was so with MonThe Rue d'Amsterdam, in Paris, was sieur and Madame Bouvier. Every one who once a very quiet place, but since the build- came in contact with them felt the influence ing of the magnificent terminus of the rail- of their delicate and gentle natures. Every way to Rouen and Havre, which extends a spirit bowed beneath the winning grace of considerable distance up one side of it- their behaviour-the finest and most cultieven from the bottom to the Place de vated politeness, attempered by humility l'Europe there has always been a constant and resignation. roar and rush of traffic in it. Enormous They had come to Paris to wait the arriluggage-vans and diligences, with their four val of their only daughter from America, or six great floundering horses, and their who, after years of separation, was coming supernaturally excited and vociferous dri- back to France to see them again, and was vers, go whirling up its steep incline every to bring with her her husband and two three or four hours, 'busses and cabs rattle children, none of whom had the old couple up and down, in and out, and all round, the ever, as yet, beheld. The daughter had whole day long, and sometimes, when there written to them to say that she and her is much travelling, the whole night long family would proceed from New Orleans to too; and there is an incessant rush of Havre-de-Grace, and thence to Paris by rail, pedestrians hither and thither, to and fro- and the parents had come up to Paris and people tearing to catch the train, and people taken lodgings exactly opposite the terminus hurrying home. So the Rue d'Amsterdam for the express purpose of awaiting their is by no means such a quiet place now. arrival and receiving them. This had been Exactly opposite the entrance to the agreed upon in correspondence betwixt terminus, on the other side of the way, is a themselves and their daughter, therefore they large house, No. 6, which for many years believed that all they had to do was to wait has been let out in appartements,— -a private patiently, keeping a careful watch upon all lodging-house. I have lived there for four the reports of arrivals of vessels from months at a time, and know it well. It is America, and upon all the passengers who a well-appointed, substantial building, has issued from the terminus. an entrance-passage of tesselated marble, a From morning till night the old couple staircase of polished oak, a good entresol, maintained a steady and persevering surfive ranges of premièrs and deuxièmes apart-veillance over the opposite side of the way. ments, and stories above these even to the From an early hour in the morning either sixth from the entresol, not reckoning sundry their window was open or the curtain drawn cabinets in the roof, in which airy and ex-back, in order to afford an uninterrupted alted retreats certain students of the arts view of the street, or Monsieur himself was and sciences foster their "young ambition," standing in the porte-cochère, or walking up amidst tobacco smoke, tiles, and chimneys. and down the salle d'entrée of the terminus, On the 21st of March, 1851, an elderly with his neat little ebony cane in his hand, gentleman from the country engaged a little the picture of patient expectation and hope. room on the entresol of No. 6, for himself It was not long before every employé in the and his wife. They were a quiet soft-speak- station knew who the tranquil old gentleing old couple, moving gently about, and man was, and what he was always there for, preserving towards every one that peculiar looking so anxiously and yet hopefully humility and simplicity of politeness which amongst the passengers who were brought you find sometimes in people of finely toned up by every train from Havre, even from dispositions who have suffered reverses of the early train at morn to the late train at fortune who have been reduced from af night; and every one of them entertained a fluence to a low estate. In such as these most amiable state of feeling towards him, you may, now and then, observe the effects and felt interested in the expectation he had of good breeding and education chastened so much at heart. VOL. V.-S. The last letter from America had stated near the end of the corridor through which the time at which it was expected that the all must pass, more than usually excited and vessel which was to bring their daughter, expectant. As the passengers, tired and her husband and children, would arrive at cold, crowded through, he scanned every Havre, and they, with fond simplicity, had face with eagerest perseverance. At length, come to Paris a week beforehand, in order a tall dark-looking man, coming from amidst that they might be in plenty of time, and the throng, fastened his bright eye upon that everything might be arranged for the him, stopped, regarded him attentively, and reception of the travellers. then stepped up to his side. Three weeks passed, and still the daughter came not. "I know some one," said he, "whose face is strangely like yours. Will you excuse my asking your name?" Old Madame Bouvier's face grew paler and her eyes more dim; but Monsieur 'Pardon!" exclaimed M. Bouvier, hurcheered her, and every morning repeated riedly, vexed at being interrupted in his trustfully, that "she may come to-day." scrutiny. "Pardon-one moment. I am Madame Bouvier became despondent and expecting my dear daughter, and if I do not wept at times, and mourned, fearing that watch steadily we may miss each other." she should never see her dear Julia again; "Your daughter-ah!--then I am sure I but Monsieur reproved her, and declared am not mistaken. You expect her up from that, from the lightness of his heart, he was Havre, to which place she has come from sure it could not be so. Heaven watched America-from New Orleans. Your name, over parents and children that loved each I will lay a wager is Simon Bouvier." other, and he knew that they should see her again before they died. But meanwhile his demeanour was daily losing its serenity, his step was not so light, nor his eyes so bright, as when he first came up to Paris. 66 Yes; so it is," returned the old gentleman, his interest and curiosity so strongly excited that he even ceased to watch the crowd of arrivals, and turned to inspect the stranger who addressed him. “Do you know her, then?" Is she come?" On the first day of the fourth week, as M. Bouvier was promenading, as usual, about "As to your first question, I know her the entrance and salle of the terminus, he well, and have known her for years in New was informed by a friendly commissionaire Orleans. As to your second, I can inform that a steam-ship from America had arrived you that she has arrived in Farnce, and will, at Havre the day before, and no doubt many no doubt, be in Paris in a day or two, if she of the passengers would come up to Paris has not arrived already." to-day or to-morrow. "From America?" exclaimed M. Bouvier, his face irradiating. "And the name?" To poor M. Bouvier this news was precious. What now were all the weary weeks he and Madame had waited and "L'Espérance. watched? Had they waited and watched "Ah! It is the very ship we have been for a twelvemonth, would not this assurance waiting for! A la bonne heure! I knew that their loved one was in France and all would be well, if we had but patience would be with them shortly, have been and trust." ample, joyous recompense? Tears of deHe hurried across the road and informed light started in his mild eyes, now bright Madame of the news, and was back again in and shining with happiness, so that they no time, intent upon keeping watch; indeed seemed to illuminate his whole aspect. now he would have found it impossible to neglect his vigil. "For more than three weeks we have waited her coming," said he, passing his The last train from Havre arrived at hand over his shining face; "my wife has eleven o'clock at night. It brought a large taken it to heart, has given way, mourning number of passengers and a vast quantity of and desponding, and saying that we should luggage, and the terminus was full of bustle never see Julia again; but I knew better, and noise. M. Bouvier took up his position and I have said all along that we should see her again, for that heaven was beneficent ing all joy to your reunion, I must bid you and watched over parents and children who Monsieur, adieu," said M. after him,-so to the question there was no loved each other, and is it not true, since "But you have not told me where they you are come to tell us that she is in France are, and whether well or ill?" and will be here soon? Ah! it is good news Bouvier, quickly, striving to detain his that you bear me, Monsieur," and he seized strange informant, but the latter had moved the stranger's hand and shook it warmly. away with a sharpness which seemed abrupt, "I am very happy, my dear Monsieur almost precipitate the children hurrying Bouvier, that it has been in my power to put an end to your suspence, and to bring you response. tidings which afford you much pleasure," But M. Bouvier was too much excited to ' said the stranger, appearing to be most take much notice of this. He had heard that powerfully affected by the simple and heart- his daughter was in France, and that she felt burst of joy, expressed not more in the would be in Paris shortly, and, almost giddy words of the old gentleman then his features with joy, he hurried across the street, and and demeanour. "Be assured that what I up to the entresol of No. 6, to communicate tell you is correct. She and her husband the welcome intelligence to his wife. and children are all in France." "Poor Julia! her husband and children -our little girl's husband and children!" murmured M. Bouvier, his bright eyes filling again. "How may years we have been thinking of them! and my wife reckons that her eldest must be ten years old, and the second, seven last September, for both were born in September." The following day, he was again on the look-out, now more hopeful and beaming than ever, when he was suddenly startled by a hasty tap upon the shoulder, and turning beheld the gentleman he had seen the night before, whose approach he had not observed. When M. Bouvier set eyes upon him for the first time, he was attired in travelling habiliments-wore a large cloak with a high fur As M. Bouvier said this, the stranger collar, and upon his head an oilskin cap, turned with an involuntary movement, and with flaps tied down over the back and sides cast his eyes upon two children who stood of his head. He had on now a frock-coat behind him, and who M. Bouvier now pre- and hat, and these with the rest of his ceived for the first time. The elder might have seen some ten years and the younger about seven, even as Madame Bouvier computed the ages of Julia's children to be. M. Bouvier uttered a cry of surprise." “Ah! old dotard that I am," exclaimed 66 he; clothes, were black. He had altogether the appearance of a gentleman. M. Bouvier would not have recognised him immediately had it not been for a certain peculiarity in the unsettled and anxious expression of his eyes. This M. Bouvier had noticed even in the first interview, and it now mainly served as the means of recognition. With a strange Are you not playing me a ruse all this time, forced smile, which had a painful effect upon having my daughter, perhaps, waiting be-a face apparently worn thin by care and hind upon the platform until you signal her trouble, he told M. Bouvier that he had forth? Ha! ha!" come there on purpose to see him, having no "A ruse, indeed!" muttered the stranger, doubt that if his daughter had not arrived, not without some quivering tokens of in- he should find him on the watch. He then ward disturbance; then with a smile in proceeded to say that, though he had which there seemed to lurk something of known Julia, that is, Madame Vandeau, for embarrassment and confusion, he added, many years, even before she became Madame "I am sorry to disturb your happy sus- Vandeau, he did not wish it communicated picion, Monsieur, but there is no ruse of the to her that he was in Paris-if monsieur sort you imagine. Excuse me now, I have would be good enough not to say anything told all I can, and now, heartily sympathis- about having seen him the other night, or of ing in your anticipated pleasure, and wish- his speaking about her.” "My dear friend, you have not told me your name; and, without knowing that, it is not likely I could inform her who had apprised me of her arrival," said M. Bouvier, with a wondering smile, An hour after, a train arrived from Havre, and poor old Simon Bouvier clasped his daughter to his arms. Poor thing! the voyage must have been terrible severe to her. She was extremely “Well, well, I had fancied that perhaps I thin and pale, and had a hopeless, careworn told you, and yet I could not have done lock, quite distressing to see; and her emothat," returned the stranger. "Could not-tion on returning her father's fondling could not," he repeated, seeming to be con- embrace for though a woman, was she not fused and uncertain as to what he had done, still Simon Bouvier's "little girl,"—seemed or meant to do. "Well, then, do not, I not to be entirely joyous, for she trembled entreat you, as a little favour," he went on, and wept excessively and sobbed with a as if striving to make light of the matter, vehemence and intensity by no means "do not say anything to her about me,-do reasonable or natural to excess of delight. not say that a gentleman spoke to you in She was accompanied by a gentleman and consequence of remarking the likeness be- two boys. twixt you and her, and especially do not say In reply to an inquiring look and movethat there were two children with me, or she ment of her father, she said, "That is may immediately think who I am. It will Theodore, and the children, and then again give a peculiar feeling to each of us to meet fell weeping on his shoulder, with her little unexpectedly so far away from home-for laced handkerchief pressed against her face. to meet we are sure. To her I know it will be a great surprise,-a great surprise. Promise me-not a word." The gentleman stepped forward, and shook hands with M. Bouvier, very respectfully, but somewhat coldly the warm-hearted old Ah, cheerfully I will promise, on con- gentleman thought, who then shook the dition that you also make me a promise," hands of the two boys, and patted their said M. Bouvier, too full of the excitement shoulders, declaring that they were young of his long-cherished expectation to bestow braves, and then they all went over to No. anything more than a passing wonder on 6, and ascended to Madame Bouvier. The the singularity of the stranger's manner and request. ecstasies of the old lady were even stronger than those of her husband, and many and. "Yes-what is it?" inquired the latter. many an embrace she had, before she would "A promise that you will not fail to come release Julia from her arms. Then she shook and see us, when my daughter is at home hands with Theodore, and fell into fresh paragain. The sight of a friend she has known oxysm of delight over the children, whom she abroad for years may afford her the liveliest kissed again and again. And whilst she pleasure, you know. In fact, there is noth- was doing this, M. Bouvier observed, with ing so delightful as the meeting of friends, astonishment, that Julia started, averted her unexpectedly, and at great distances away head, and darted a glance of the most from former associations." "Well, I will promise;-but tell me where shall I come to see you?" poignant agony at Theodore. In the conversation which followed, M. Theodore explained with much speciality of "At present I am living opposite, at No. manner, that it would be necessary for him 6, in this street, but in a few days, that is, to remain in Paris for some days-it might as soon as Julia is with us, we shall go home be for some weeks,—as he waited with great to St. Denis. It is only three miles from anxiety, a letter from America of much imParis, and any one will direct you to us, for we have lived there, rich and poor, many, many years." The promises were mutually made, and the stranger departed, hurrying away as he did before. portance, and until they received it, neither himself nor Julia would be at rest. "Bring it to me." exclaimed Julia, interrupting him abruptly; "bring it to me, Theodore, the moment it is in your hands.” Therefore, M. Theodore continued, he should for the present take an apartment plained how long it was to wait before a somewhere in the vicinity of the central letter came from America, and that she post-office, as the letter was to be addressed should have no rest till Theodore had reto the Poste restante. Shortly, he took his ceived one and brought it to her. departure with the boys, leaving Julia with After some days spent in this painful her parents. The latter were somewhat manner, and growing constantly thinner and surprised at the coldness betwixt their paler, she became exceedingly ill, and was daughter, her husband, and children, but obliged to be kept in her bedroom and there was something in Julia's manner nursed. which forbade questioning, so they con- The Bouviers were greatly troubled, and tented themselves with the pleasure of hav- knew not what to think or do. All was ing her with them again, and made no mysterious and sad. It seemed as if the deremark. velopement-the angry breaking forth of M. Theodore called upon them the next some inexplicable tragedy were at hand, morning, said he had been to the Poste betwixt Julia in her sick bed, Theodore in restante, but found no letter there, and then his apartment near the post-office, and the bid Julia adieu for awhile, as her parents letter coming from America. were going back to Saint Denis, and she with them. This réunion with their daughter, so long The remembrance of the stranger who had spoken of Julia at the railway terminus, came into M. Bouvier's mind. All at once anticipated with the eagerest impati- he recollected the perturbed voice and look, ence, was a strange experience to the the pallid face, and anxious eye, and the aged parents-an experience not with- thought smote him that here was another link out a secret mingling of wonder, disappoint- in the dark chain. But as yet, he said ment, and sorrow. Twenty years before, nothing, for he feared he might do no good when M. Bouvier, by a series of losses, be- in communicating the circumstances to his came straightened in his means, she was wife, and he had promised---there was sometaken by her uncle to accompany him and his thing strange in that eagerly exacted prochildren, her cousins, to America, she being mise!-to say nothing to Julia. On the then in her twelfth year, Ever since that other hand, the stranger had promised to time, one steady, long-sustained hope and come and see them, and, were it for weal desire, had formed the under-current of the or woe, that may do something towards the daily thoughts of their tranquil lives, namely, elucidation and settling of matters. As for the hope and desire of seeing her, of hearing Madame Bouvier, she was quite bewildered, her talk and sing, of being united to her but, in her own mind, believed that again. And now, at length, she had come Theodore and Julia had lost their affection home. But her coming had produced no for each other, that the former, to whom festival-either in deed or in sentiment:-it madame had taken a dislike at first sight, was a strange, incomprehensible disappoint- had behaved harshly to Julia, though Julia ment. They could not understand her, nor would say nothing about it,-that, in fact tell the meaning or sympathise with her their union had become an unhappy one, behaviour. Her life with them seemed to and that the best thing they could now do, be a stifled agony: she was like one who, at would be to separate,-he going back to the same time, loved and dreaded them. At America, or wherever he liked, and Julia times she half shrank from their endear- remaining with them. ments and caresses; at others, she would At length, however, M. Bouvier found the keep by her father's side with curious remembrance of his interview with the pertinacity, and be restless and fearful if he stranger rest so heavily upon his mind and moved away from her, and court her heart, that he could keep silence no mother's kind words, and nestle her spirit longer. To Madame Bouvier he confided betwixt theirs like one in search of comfort all, even from the stranger's first recognisand consolation. Day after day, she com- ing him by his likeness to Julia, to the |