Needless to say, nothing happened. Reeves, the divine tenor, laughed at the bare idea of singing Pylades, and Jullien quitted London shortly after, leaving his theatre to go to pieces. XXXI MY FATHER’S DEATH--MEYLAN Already saddened on my return to Paris by the havoc and ruin caused by the Revolution, it was but my usual fate to suffer in addition, the terrible sorrow of losing my father. My mother had died ten years before, and, bitter as was that blow, it was but light in comparison with the wrench of parting with this dearly loved and sympathetic friend. We had so much in common, our tastes were similar in so many ways, and, since he had gladly acknowledged himself in the wrong over my choice of a profession, we had been so entirely at one. Ah! that I could have gratified his ardent wish to hear my _Requiem_, but it was not to be. I pass over the sorrow of my home-coming, the meeting with my grief-worn sisters, the sight of his empty chair, of his watch--still living, though he was dead! A strange wish to indulge the luxury of grief crept over me; I must drink this wormwood cup to the dregs; I must revisit Meylan--the early home of my Mountain Star--and live over again my early love and sorrow. Even now my heart beats faster as I recall my journey. Thirty-three years ago and I, a ghost, come back to my early haunts! As I climb through the vineyards the thoughts, the aspirations, the desires of my childish days crowd in upon me. Here did I sit with my father, playing _Nina_ to him on my flute; there did Estelle stand. I turn and take in the whole picture; that blessed house, the garden, the valley, the river, and the far-off Alpine glaciers. Once more I am young; life and love--a glorious poem--lie before me; on my knees I cry to the hills, the valleys, the heavens: “Estelle! Estelle!” Bleed, my heart, bleed! but leave me still the power to suffer! I rise and wander on, noting each familiar point. Here is her cherry tree; there still flowers the plant of everlasting pea from which she plucked blossoms. Sweet plant! bloom on in thy solitude! Good-bye! good-bye! Good-bye to my childhood, to my lost love--Time sweeps me on; Stella! Stella! The cold hand of Death lies heavy on my heart, yet around me are soft sunlight, solitude, and silence. * * * * * Next day I asked my cousin Victor: “Do you know Madame F----?” “The lovely Estelle D----, do you mean?” “Yes, I loved her so when I was twelve--I love her yet.” “You idiot,” said Victor, laughing, “she is fifty-one, and has a son of twenty-two.” He laughed again, and I laughed too, but mine was the cry of despair, an April gleam through the rain. “Nevertheless I want to see her.” “Hector, I beg you will do no such thing. You will make a fool of yourself and upset her.” “I want to see her,” I repeated doggedly, with clenched teeth. “Fifty-one!” he cried again, “you had much better keep your bright, fresh, youthful memory of her.”