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A REMINISCENCE OF MARSEILLES.

It was on the first day of July that I arrived at Marseilles, in company with my friend Tom Rushton. July and Marseilles ! The asso

ciations connected with the two words can only be appreciated by those who have visited in that sultry month the Athens of the Gauls, as old Cicero styled the city, which, even in his day, was celebrated, but which now is the most flourishing of French sea-ports. Thirty-two degrees of Reaumur dust over the ancles without the town, flagstones on which beef-steaks might be broiled, within it-massive fountains shooting up attenuated streamlets of water into the blaze of sunshine-meagre alleys of thirsty-looking trees-date merchants from Tafilat, fig merchants from Smyrna, Greeks and Levantines, Arabs and Egyptians, in the costumes of their respective countries, drinking coffee and lemonade, and smoking long pipes of odoriferous tobacco, beneath the awnings in front of the numerous and splendid coffeehouses such is Marseilles in the month of July, when even the dogs cross over to the shady side of the street, if there is one; whilst perspiring clerks toil in darkened counting-houses, and lucre-loving merchants risk a coup-de-soleil in traversing the quays and the Canébière on their way to 'Change.

We were returning from a trip to Naples, and paused at Marseilles, as well to see the town as to replenish our purses, which had been considerably lightened by the extortions of hotel-keepers and vetturinos, to say nothing of the cost of various antique gems and cameos, manufactured for the most part in the nineteenth century, whereof friend Rushton had thought it advisable to make the acquisition. Our sojourn at Marseilles was originally intended not to exceed forty-eight hours, which space of time we considered would be amply sufficient to see every thing worth seeing in that city. We arrived in the afternoon; and after calling upon the banker on whom we had letters of credit, and enjoying one of the luxurious table d'hôte dinners for which the hotel des Ambassadeurs is celebrated, we proceeded to the theatre to hear the opera of Belisario, given in very excellent style by an Italian company then at Marseilles. It was their last performance; the house was crowded to the roof, and the weather being exceedingly warm, the heat in the theatre was something unparalleled in my experience. In the course of the evening several ladies were carried out fainting; and the Marseillais by whom we were surrounded, accustomed though they were to the almost African heat of that part of France, declared that they had never known so suffocating a temperature. Nevertheless, seduced by the charm of the music, we sat out the whole opera, a piece of obstinacy, not to say temerity, which had no bad consequences for me, although poor Rushton was destined to pay dearly for it. On returning to the hotel he complained of pain and swimming in the head, and after drinking with avidity a large draught of iced water, he retired to bed. Early the next morning I was summoned to his room. He was suffering greatly, and it was necessary to send for a physician, who pronounced his malady to be a violent bilious fever.

For a fortnight Rushton continued seriously ill. At the end of that time he was pronounced convalescent; and, although at least ten days more must elapse before he could undertake the journey to Paris,

which was our next halting place, he soon found himself able to leave the house and take drives in the vicinity of the town. During the period of his illness, the banker to whom we were recommended had been unremitting in his attentions, constantly sending, and himself daily calling, to enquire the state of the invalid. Monsieur St. Flourens was a man of two or three and thirty, a bachelor, and a very gentlemanly and agreeable person; no mere drudging son of commerce, but a bon vivant and considerable epicurean. From the very first day of our arrival he had overwhelmed me with invitations to his house; but I was unwilling to leave Rushton to the care of nurses and hotel servants, and had only once availed myself of his hospitality by partaking with him of that noon meal which the Marseillais designate as breakfast, but which, from its composition and solidity, fully deserves the name of an early dinner. Now that Rushton was better,-well, indeed, with the exception of the weakness which the fever had left behind it, St. Flourens insisted that good living and fresh air were the very things he required, and began planning excursions and parties of pleasure, which, had they all been put into execution, would have kept us at Marseilles till winter. One of his projects, however, we willingly agreed to, and that was a visit to his bastide, which was situated about ten miles from the town.

Marseilles was, at the time I speak of, and perhaps still continues to be, any thing but an agreeable summer residence for an idle man. After the first novelty has worn off, when he has visited the port, the Aygalades, the park of St. Pons, and the few other objects worthy of notice in and around the town, the mere pleasure-seeking tourist must either evacuate the place or resign himself to a daily and by no means diminutive dose of ennui, only to be partially mitigated by the perusal of the thousand and one newspapers and periodicals that lie upon the tables at the sumptuous Cercle des Phocéens, or by a stroll upon the Cours, where a band occasionally plays, and whither the fashionables of the place resort for their evening lounge. The population of Mar seilles is almost exclusively commercial; from eight or nine in the morning till noon, and again from two till seven or eight o'clock, everybody is in the counting-house, buried amongst ledgers and correspondence, and an idler has difficulty in finding any one to talk to, unless he is disposed to content himself with the conversation of a valet de place. The floating population of unoccupied strangers which exists in most large continental towns, is wanting here, few travellers remaining more than a day or two, unless business be the object of their visit. As some compensation, however, for their unremitting attention to moneygetting, many of the Marseillais of the more wealthy classes have a bastide, or country house, within a short distance of the town, whither they can repair on Sundays or for an occasional holiday, and where their families sometimes pass the more sultry portion of the summer. These bastides, which vary in dimension from cottages of a very humble description to spacious and elegant villas, are usually surrounded by an attempt at a garden, and shaded by such trees as can be prevailed upon to grow in the parched and arid district adjacent to Marseilles. Long before the end of the summer, however, the foliage is apt to lose its verdancy and become brown and discoloured under the burning Provençal sun, and by the action of the sand and dust which the noxious breeze of the mistral sends careering in clouds across the plain. Most of these maisons de plaisance are in the occupation of fami

lies, but some few belong to rich bachelors, who give in them fêtes and dinners to their friends, and occasionally, if report speaks true, make them the scene of festivities bordering upon orgies.

On our acceptance of his invitation, St. Flourens occupied himself in getting together an agreeable party; and when on the appointed day we repaired to his town house, which was the place of rendezvous fixed upon, we found three carriages at the door and nine or ten guests in the drawing-room. Most of the latter were already known to Rushton and myself as friends and intimates of our Amphitrion. To those whom we had not yet seen we were now introduced, and amongst them were two strangers who had only arrived at Marseilles the night before, on their way to Italy, and one of whom had brought a letter of introduction to St. Flourens from a banker at Paris. I was a good deal struck by the appearance of these two gentlemen, who, each in his respective style, were certainly remarkable looking persons. The bearer of the letter of recommendation, a German baron of the name of Von Paukenheim, was altogether one of the most extraordinary figures I had ever set eyes upon. Upwards of six feet high, narrow-shouldered, awkward and shambling, his arms and legs appeared as if they had been badly hooked on his body: his eyes were of a greenish tint, his hair flaxen, and his complexion that of a newly singed porker. His nose had a considerable affinity to the snout of the same animal, and his mouth-but no simile can do justice to his mouth. It reached completely across his face, was garnished with a row of huge carnivorous teeth that resembled proofs of tombstones before the letters, and when he held it open, which he was apt to do with a sort of stupid startled air when any one addressed him, one felt inclined to dart forward and hold on the upper part of his head lest it should fall off.

The companion of this curious description of Yahoo was a Frenchman, named De Bellechasse, a man of seven or eight and twenty, small and slight in person, with regular features, a very dark complexion, and long curling hair of a jet black colour, in which a slight streak of grey was here and there already perceptible. His face was very handsome when in repose, but his smile, or the mere act of talking, greatly took away from its agreeableness. There was then something peculiarly unpleasant in the lines about the mouth and in the expression of the eye; something treacherous, and at the same time cold and cruel, which involuntarily reminded me of a portrait I had seen at Rome of a celebrated bravo of the last century. I at first thought I detected something Jewish in the contour of his features; but as St. Flourens informed me that he belonged to an old and well known family in the north of France, I concluded that this could only be fancy. His dress was plain and gentlemanly, his demeanour perfectly self-possessed, and his whole manner that of a man accustomed to mix largely in society; but nevertheless the sinister look above alluded to caused me to give the preference to the baron, in spite of his desperate awkwardness and ugly physiognomy. There was a bonhommie and simplicity about Paukenheim that rather prepossessed me in his favour. Although he must have been a dozen years older than De Bellechasse, I observed that he looked to the latter with a sort of affectionate deference, and seemed to listen and yield to his opinions, an ascendancy which the young Frenchman had probably gained by his more decided and preremptory character and greater knowledge of the world.

At the Bastide St. Flourens, which we reached after a two hours* drive, a most agreeable surprise was reserved for those of the party who had not yet visited it. Instead of the modest cottage, barely sheltered under half a dozen dusty pine trees, which our host had led us to expect, we found a luxurious villa situated in the midst of a small but delightful park. The house, which was raised only one story high,. contained on the ground floor two spacious marble-floored saloons, a billiard room, and a pistol gallery, all decorated in the most elegant. and fanciful manner. The park, through the shady walks of which we proceeded to stroll whilst waiting for the dinner hour, comprised some three or four acres, and was one large bower of foliage and flowers. The air was scented with the orange blossom; and there were whole thickets of almond trees and groves of olives, the latter looking pretty and silvery enough, although, as I thought to myself, they were no more to be compared with the beech woods and hazel copses of England than the parched soil we trod upon with the elastic green turf of English meadows and riversides. Not that there was here an absolute lack of grass. A stream that flowed through the park had been diverted into fifty diminutive rills, which rippled their way noisily through a paddock "as brightly green" as the emeralds that Tom Moore somewhere talks about. The same small river supplied a fountain, which fell with refreshing splash over the piles of rock-work around it, and sprinkled with its spray the blue and white blossoms of the pervenches and other flowering plants that grew about its brim.

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On benches at the foot of the trees by which this fountain was shaded, we whiled away some time in an agreeable and desultory chat, which was at last interrupted by a summons to dinner. The repast did infinite credit to the skill and taste of St. Flourens's cook. huge masses of meat, making the table groan again, and of which the sight and smell, however acceptable to hungry men in more northerly lands, would have been almost disgusting in that climate. Delicious fish from the Mediterranean, ortolans and beccaficos from the plains of Provence and Lombardy, magnificent fruits and vegetables from the Balearic isles, were the more tempting food here set before us, accompanied by the most delicate French and Spanish wines. The guests were gay and well selected, and the sun had set before any one thought of seeking other pastime than was to be found in the lively sallies and sparkling decanters that were kept briskly circulating. Paukenheim furnished us with a great deal of amusement. Without annoying him or making him a butt, one or two persons of the party managed to draw him out and exhibit his eccentricities. The worthy German, not in the least suspecting that he was a subject of amusement, told us his whole history-no very eventful one, by the bye. Possessed of a handsome estate in Westphalia, he had lived upon it, phlegmatic and contented, till his present age of forty-two, his only change of sceno consisting in an occasional visit to some petty German court or bathing place. Suddenly, however, he had been bitten by the travelling mania, had left Germany and passed three months in Paris, whence he was now proceeding on an Italian tour.

At last, the company beginning to wax more silent and less thirsty, a move was made, card-tables were spread, and a game at écarté proposed, in which the majority seemed disposed to join. I, with one of the Frenchmen, repaired to the billiard table. We were both

enthusiastic lovers of the game, and nearly two hours elapsed before we left off playing.

When we returned to the dinner room, we were struck by the dead silence that prevailed. The card-players were grouped round a table in the middle of the apartment, the windows were all open, admitting the pleasant breath of evening and delightful fragrance of the flowers, and occasionally affording ingress to some heavy-winged night-moth or glittering firefly, the latter of which soon "paled its ineffectual fire" before the glare of the wax lights, reflected fifty fold from the large mirrors on the walls of the apartment, and speedily retreated to flit and sparkle amongst the sombre leaves of the myrtle and arbutus trees. On approaching the table, we at once saw that an interesting game and high play was going on. The stakes, which before our absence were very moderate, had greatly increased, there was a fair sprinkling of gold upon the green cloth, and a few thousand-franc notes; besides which, from some expressions that were used, I perceived that more was being played for than was actually produced. I inquired of Rushton what had been going on.

"A most extraordinary run of luck," replied my friend. "Monsieur de Bellechasse is carrying every thing before him. At the beginning of the evening he was unfortunate, and generally lost, but during the last hour he has kept the cards, and nobody can turn him out."

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"Quel bonheur insolent!" was at that moment exclaimed close to me by one of the Frenchmen. Cela fait douze fois qu'il a passé.” De Bellechasse had won again. It was for the twelfth time.

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Cela ira jusqu'à treize," said one of the winners.

"Impossible," cried an opponent, and the bets were made for the thirteenth time. St. Flourens took the place of the man who had just been beaten, those who had backed that side sat near him, and I took a chair in a position that enabled me to see his cards. The players were all more or less excited; St. Flourens especially, perhaps from a dislike to having such high play in his house, but more probably on account of his losses, appeared flurried and discomposed, bungled in shuffling the cards, and made errors in calculating the amount staked. His losses could be nothing really important to a man of his fortunehe was playing stakes of a thousand francs, I think-but persons who are not accustomed to gamble, and even some who are, play less coolly for hundreds than for tens. The only man at the table who appeared entirely free from excitement was the principal winner, Monsieur de Bellechasse, who dealt, played, proposed, or refused, won and took up his money, with the most immovable sangfroid and in difference. Although the night was very sultry, not a sign of heat or perspiratiou was visible upon his dark immovable countenance, and his long slender hands looked as white and cold as marble. Paukenheim was sitting at one side of the table, with his mouth open, looking on in great admiration at his friend's success, and backing him with five-franc pieces.

The game began. De Bellechasse dealt first. The preceding game had been a very hard contested one, but this time, after two hands had been played, St. Flourens had marked four, and De Bellechasse only two. The cards were dealt a third time: St. Flourens played without proposing. De Bellechasse marked the king, made the first trick, and threw down king and queen of trumps. He had won again.

I was sitting, as already mentioned, nearly opposite to De Belle