But Jacqueline did _neither_, so day after day stole on, until my love for her became a part of my existence, for without her, life seemed so valueless! My passion was tender and true--so tender that I could have worshipped her, and in my secret soul I did so. The most simple words spoken by Jacqueline--the most casual smile on her lip, dwelt long in my memory, and sank deep in my heart. Fancies I have had for others; but this was the passion that seemed to satisfy _every illusion_--to be the love of all loves that a poor human heart could desire; at least I thought so _then_. And so, amid the wild and gloomy scenery around that old and secluded chateau in Bretagne our companionship ripened from esteem and friendship into love--but oh what a hopeless passion for both! Her image came ever, unbidden, when she was absent; it pursued me and became a part of myself; and where she was not, what pleasure had I? and as my mind became filled with this new idol, my country, my duty as a loyal subject, my honour as a soldier--liberty, all were forgotten in worshipping Jacqueline. Alas! I was not yet twenty! Years have come and gone since then, but never shall I forget the joy of the time, when she first sunk on my breast, and whispered in my ear, while her tears fell hot and fast-- "Yes, I love you, Basil--oh, I _do_ love you! But in what can our passion end, but destruction and despair?" CHAPTER VIII. I BECOME A SOUBRETTE. Amid all this, we were somewhat flurried, when, one morning in August, Madame de Bourgneuf unexpectedly drove up the long avenue to the gate of the chateau, in her old-fashioned carriage, which resembled a huge game-pie, or an antique tea-caddy on wheels, and brought tidings that the coast, from the Isle d'Ouessant to Ostend, was more than ever closely watched, as another descent of those insolent heretics, the English, was expected, for the express and envious purpose of demolishing the elegant fortifications erected by Marshal Vauban at Cherbourg, and burning his Most Christian Majesty's fleet, then ignobly blocked up in Brest by the squadrons of Lord Anson, Sir Edward Hawke, and Commodore Howe, who, as an additional insult to France, carried brooms at their mastheads, in token that they swept the sea!