“I will consult M. le Monnier,” said I, at last; “he shall decide what is best to be done;” and at once set out for the Rue Quincampoix.
The old lawyer received me blandly as before, and gave me a few lines for his family physician, who would see the widow and Marguerite, and pronounce his opinion on their fitness for removal. Le Monnier seemed pleased with the interest I manifested for these poor friendless people, and readily promised to aid me in their behalf.
The doctor, too, was no less benevolently disposed, and came at once with me to the house. His visit was a long one, – so long that more than once I asked Lizette if she were quite certain that he had not taken his departure. At length, however, he came forth, and, leading me into a room, closed the door behind us with all the air of great secrecy.
“There is some sad story,” said he, “here, of which we have not the clew. This is a serious affair.”
“How do you mean?” asked I.
“I mean that the state in which I find this woman is not attributable to the recent shock. It is not her husband’s death has caused these symptoms.”
“And what are they? Do they threaten her life?”
“No, certainly not; she may live for years.”
“What then? They will cause great suffering, perhaps?”
“Not even that, but worse than that. It is her intelligence is lost; she has been stunned by some terrible shock of calamity, and her mind is gone, in all likelihood forever!”
To my eager questioning he replied by explaining that these cases were far less hopeful than others in which more palpable symptoms manifested themselves; that they were of all others the least susceptible of treatment.
“When we say,” continued he, “that ‘time’ is the best physician for them, we declare in one word our own ignorance of the malady; and yet such is the simple truth! A course of years may restore her to reason, – there is no other remedy.”
“And her daughter?”
“That is not a case for apprehension, – it is a common fever, the result of a nervous impression; a few days will bring her completely about.”
I mentioned to the doctor my belief that Lizette could probably impart some explanation of the mystery; but the old woman was proof against all cross-examination, and professed to know nothing that could account for her mistress’s condition. The question was now how to act in this emergency? and the doctor pronounced that there was no other course than to obtain her admission into some maison de santé: if her fortune permitted, to one of the better class; if not, there were various humbler houses, where the patients were treated well and skilfully. As a preliminary step, however, he requested me to write again to her family, to state the opinion he had come to, and ask for their advice.
“It is little other than a form to do so,” added he, “for we live in times when the state is everything, family nothing. If I report this case to-morrow to the Bureau of Health of the ‘Quarter,’ a commission will assemble, examine, and decide upon it at once. The measures adopted will be as imperatively executed as though the law were in pursuit of a criminal; and though this be so, and we cannot help it, it will have the semblance of consideration for the feelings of her relatives, if we consult them.”
He left me, therefore, to make this sad communication, and promised to repeat his visit on the following day. By way of extorting some confession from old Lizette, I told her the course the doctor had resolved upon; but, far from exhibiting any repugnance to it, she briefly said, “It was all for the best.”
It was not till after repeated efforts I could satisfy myself with the terms of my letter. The occasion itself was a difficult one; but my sense of a mystery of which I knew nothing, added immensely to the embarrassment. I was, moreover, addressing persons I had never seen, and of whose very condition in life I was ignorant. This in itself was a circumstance that required consideration. I thought I would read my letter to Lizette, and sent for her to hear it. She listened attentively as I read it, but made no other remark than, “Yes; that will be sufficient.”
On the fourth day after I despatched this, came a letter in reply, the handwriting, style, and appearance of which were all superior to what I had expected. It was from an unmarried sister of Madame Bernois, who signed herself “Ursule,” that being the name by which she had “professed” formerly in a convent, destroyed in the early days of the Revolution. The writer, after expressing deep gratitude for the part I had taken, went on to speak of the subject of my communication. Her father’s infirmities had rendered him bedridden, and so utterly incapable of affording any help or even counsel that she hesitated about informing him of the terrible calamity that had befallen them. She perfectly concurred in the advice given by the doctor, if “only that it saved her poor sister from a return to a home now associated with nothing but sorrow, and where, of course, her chances of recovery would be diminished.” These strange expressions puzzled me much, and led me at first to suppose that Ursule believed I knew more of her sister’s story than I really was acquainted with; but as I read them again, I saw that they might possibly only have reference to her father’s sad condition. Margot, for so she called her niece, “would, of course, come back to them;” and she charged me to despatch her, under Lizette’s care, by the diligence, as soon as she was judged sufficiently well to encounter the fatigue of the journey. With regard to any property or effects belonging to them, she left all implicitly at my own discretion, believing, as she said, the same kindness that had hitherto guided me would also here suggest what was best for the interests of the widow and her child.
Some days of unremitting exertion succeeded the receipt of this letter, for there was no end to the formalities requisite before I could obtain admission for the widow into a small maison de santé, at Mont Martre. It was, indeed, a moment at which the authorities were overwhelmed with business, and many of the public functionaries were new to office, and totally ignorant of its details. The public, too, were under the influence of a terror that seemed to paralyze all powers of reason. In my frequent visits to the commissaire of the “Quarter,” when waiting for hours long in his antechamber, I had abundant opportunity to measure the extent of the fear that then dominated the mind of the capital, since every trifling incident evidenced and betrayed it.
Ladies of rank and condition would come, earnestly entreating that they might obtain leave to attend the sick in the hospitals, and nurse the “dear brothers” who had fallen in the cause of liberty. Others, of equal station, requested that materials might be distributed to them to knit stockings for the soldiers of the republic, regretting their poverty at not being able to supply them from their own resources. Shopkeepers besought the authorities that their taxes might be doubled, or even trebled; and some professed to hope that the maladies which incapacitated them from military service might be compensated by works of charity and benevolence. There was an abject meanness in the character of these petitions too revolting to endure the thought of. The nation seemed prostrated by its’ terror, and degraded to the very deepest abyss of shame and self-contempt. The horrible scenes of blood through which they had passed might, indeed, excuse much, but there were proofs of national cowardice at this juncture such as scarcely any suffering could justify or palliate.
For these considerations I had but a passing thought. My whole attention was devoted to the little circle of cares and sorrows around me; and, in addition to other calamities, poor old Lizette, my aid and help throughout all difficulties, was seized with a violent fever, and obliged to be conveyed to hospital. I do not believe that anything can sustain mere bodily strength more powerfully than the sense of doing a benevolent action. Fatigue, weariness, exhaustion, sickness itself, can be combated by this one stimulant. For myself, I can aver that I scarcely ate or slept during the ten days that these events were happening. Never had any incident of my own life so much engrossed me as the care of these unhappy people; and when once or twice Le Monnier adverted to my own story, I always replied that for the moment I had no thoughts, nor hopes, nor fears, save for the widow and her orphan daughter.
The old lawyer’s benevolence enabled me to meet all the expenses which from day to day were incurred. He supplied me with means to pay the charges of the maison de santé and the fees to the physicians, and enabled me to procure some articles of mourning for poor “Margot,” who had now sufficiently recovered from her illness to comprehend her bereavement and the desolate condition in which she was placed. It was, indeed, a sad lesson to teach the poor child; nor did I, in my own forlorn and isolated state, know what consolations to offer, nor what hopes to set before her. I could but tell her that I too was an orphan, friendless, – nay, far more so than herself; that for me the world had neither home nor country; and yet that each day, glimpses of bright hopes gleamed upon me, kind words and acts met me, and that as I lived I learned to feel that there was a brotherhood in humanity, and that amidst all the adverse incidents of fortune, warm hearts and generous natures were scattered about to sustain the drooping courage of those deserted as we were.
“And be assured, Margot,” said I, “the time will come yet when you and I will recall these dark hours with a sense of not unpleasant sorrow, to think how patiently we bore our ills, how submissively and how trustfully. Then shall we teach others, young as we are now, that even the humblest has a duty to do in this life, and that he who would do it well must bring to his task a stout heart and a steady will, and with these there are no failures.”
I do not think that Margot derived much hope from all my efforts at consolation, but she certainly felt a strong interest in the similarity of our fortunes. Again and again did she question me if I had seen and could remember my mother, and asked me a thousand questions about the dear friend whom I had ever called by that name. We talked of no other theme than this, and our isolation served to link us together, as that of two beings deserted by all, and only cared for by each other. There was a character of depression about her that seemed to come of a life of habitual gloom; the ordinary state of her mind was sad, and yet her dark, lustrous eyes could flash with sudden brilliancy; her deep color knew how to heighten; and I have seen her lip tremble with proud emotion at moments of excitement.
When sufficiently recovered to bear the journey, Le Monnier counselled me to convey her to her friends; and I yielded – shall I own it? – reluctantly; for of all the world, Margot was now the only one to whom I could speak, as youth loves to speak, of all my hopes and my dreads, my ambitions and my aspirings. So long as my duty each day revolved round her, I had no time to think of my own fate, save as a thing to weave fancies about, to speculate on a brilliant future, and imagine incidents and events at random. With what enthusiasm was I often carried away by these self-wrought fancies! – with what a sense of triumph have I seen Margot, forgetting for the instant the sad realities of her lot, listen breathlessly to me as I told of my ambitious plans! To her I was already a hero; and oh! the glorious fascination with which one first feels the thought that another’s heart has learned to beat highly for our successes, and to throb with eagerness for our triumph! I was but a boy, Margot was a child; and of love, as poets describe it, there was none between us. Still, in my devotion there was nothing I would not have dared, to please her, – nothing I would not have braved, to make her think more highly of me. It was self-love, but self-love ennobled by generous wishes and high ambitions. I strove to be worthy of her affection, that so I might be capable of doing more still to deserve it!
Is it to be wondered at if I dreaded to break this spell, and to awaken from a trance of such fascination? But there was no alternative; Margot must go, and I must address myself to the stern business of life, for I had my bread to earn! How ardently I wished it was to my dear mother’s arms that I should consign her, that her home could be that same humble home I had just quitted, and that poor Joseph could have been her teacher and her guide! Alas! I no longer knew in what part of the world to look for them, and I could only speak of these things as I spoke of the dream-wrought fancies that my hopes called up!
It was on a bright November morning, clear, sharp, and frosty, that we left Paris in the diligence for Lyons. M. le Monnier had accompanied us himself to the bureau, and given the conducteur directions to show us every attention in his power. Three days’ and nights’ travelling brought us to Valence, where poor Margot, completely worn out, was obliged to repose for some hours, during which time I strolled through the town to see its churches and other remarkable monuments. It was the hour of the table-d’hôte as I regained the inn, and the hostess advised that we should dine at the public table, as less expensive than in private. I remember well with what mingled bashfulness and pride I entered the room, with Margot holding my hand. The company was a numerous one, comprising, besides many of the townspeople, several officers of the garrison, all of whom stared with undisguised astonishment at the aspect of two travellers of our youth and palpable inexperience, while the contrast between the deep mourning of her dress and the gay colors of mine at once showed that we were not brother and sister. To my respectful salute on entering, few deigned to reply; my companion’s beauty had arrested every attention, and all eyes were turned towards her as she took her place at table.
For the incident which succeeded, I must devote a short chapter.
CHAPTER XXIX. THE INN AT VALENCE
Preceded by the waiter, who was about to point out the places destined for us at the table, I walked up the room, holding Margot by the hand. The strangers made way for us as we went, not with any of the deferential politeness so usual in France, but in a spirit of insolent astonishment at our presence there. Such, at least, was the impression their behavior produced on me; and I was only anxious that it should not be so felt by my companion.
As I drew back my chair, to seat myself at her side, I felt a hand placed on my arm. I turned, and saw an officer, a man of about six or seven and twenty, with a bushy red beard and moustache, who said, —
“This place is mine, citizen; you must go seek for one elsewhere.”
I appealed to the waiter, who merely shrugged his shoulders, and muttered something unintelligible; to which I replied by asking him to show me another place, while I assisted Margot to rise.
“La petite shall stay where she is,” broke in the officer, bluntly, as he brushed in front of me; and an approving laugh from his comrades at once revealed to me the full meaning of the impertinence.
“This young lady is under my care, sir,” said I, calmly, “and needs no protection from you.”
“The young lady,” cried he, with a burst of coarse laughter at the words, “knows better how to choose! Is it not so, citizen? I look a more responsible guardian than that thin stripling with the pale cheek.”
“I appeal to this company, to the superiors of this officer, – if there be such present, – to know are these the habits of this place, or have I been singled out specially for this insolence?”
“Insolence! insolence!” repeated every voice around me, in accents of astonishment and reprobation; while suddenly above the clamor a deep voice said, —
“Lieutenant Carrier, take a place at the foot of the table!”
“Oui, mon Colonel!” was the reply; and he who accosted me so rudely, now moved away, and I seated myself at Margot’s side.
I believe that during this brief scene the poor girl knew little or nothing of what was going forward. The fatigue, from which she had not yet recovered; the novelty of the place in which she found herself; the confusion natural to mixing with a strange company, – all contributed to engage her attention and occupy her thoughts. It was only by the deadly paleness of my features that she at last guessed that something had gone wrong. I tried by every means in my power to reassure her. I affected, as well as I might, to seem easy and unconcerned. I even essayed, by way of showing my self-possession, to engage the person next me in conversation; but a cold stare of surprise arrested the attempt, and I sat abashed and ashamed at the rebuke.
I do not know if in my whole life, I ever passed an hour of greater misery than the time of that dinner. Had I been there alone, I could have confronted manfully whatever threatened me; but the thought of involving Margot in any scene of shame – of exposing her to the rude insolence of which I saw myself the mark – was insupportably painful. I felt, besides, that I had a character to support in her eyes; nor could I yet divine what adverse turn affairs might take. If I looked down the table, it was to meet, on every side, glances of haughty or insolent meaning. It was easy to perceive, too, that the whole company was under the impression of the disagreeable incident which had occurred before sitting down to table, and which none believed was yet concluded. Instead of the noisy chit-chat so usual in such places, there was either a perfect silence, or the low murmuring sounds of a conversation maintained in whispers. At last the colonel and those around him stood up, and gathered in a group at one of the windows. The civilians of the party broke into knots, conversed for a few seconds, and separated; and, taking Margot’s hand, I arose, and prepared to withdraw. As I was leaving the room the officer who first accosted me, whispered in my ear, —
“You will come back again, I suppose?”
“Certainly, if you want me,” said I.
He nodded, and I passed out.
“I am glad it is over,” said Margot, pressing my hand; “that dinner was a tiresome affair!”
“So it was,” said I; “and I am well pleased that it is finished. I ‘ll go down now and look after this calèche they promised me they should have ready for us by this time;” and with this excuse I quitted her, and hastened downstairs again.
I was just making for the door of the salle-à-manger when the hostess overtook me.
“A word with you, monsieur, – one word!” cried she.
“At another moment, madam,” said I, trying to pass on; “I am greatly pressed for time just now.”
“It is exactly for that reason I must speak with you,” said she, firmly; and at the same instant she seized my arm and drew me into a room, of which she closed the door at once. “I suspect the object you have in view, young man,” said she, boldly, to me. “You are eager for a quarrel. The waiters have told me all that has occurred at table; and I can guess what is likely to follow. But surely it is not for one in her position that you will risk your life, or rather sell it; for Carrier would surely kill you!”
“In her position!” said I. “What do you mean? You cannot dare to throw an imputation on one who is little more than a child!”
“True; but a child of shame and infamy,” said she, sternly.
“It is a falsehood, – a damnable falsehood!” cried I. “I knew both her parents: her father died almost in my arms.”
“It is as likely that you never saw her father in your life,” rejoined she, calmly. “I see that you know little of her history; but she comes from the village of Linange, and we Auvergnats are well acquainted with her.”
“Yes, Linange is her native village, – that is true,” cried I, in a vague terror of some dreadful tidings. “Tell me, I beseech you, whatever you know of her story.”
“It is soon told, though the tale be sad enough,” said she, after a pause. “Her mother was a Mademoiselle Nipernois. She called herself De Nipernois, and not without reason; for the family had been of rank, and were Grand Seigneurs once on a time. Her father had, however, fallen into poverty, and for a livelihood was obliged to become a pharmacien in the little village of Linange, every house of which had once belonged to his family. They said he was a great chemist, which he had become for his own amusement in his prosperous days; and fortunately he could now practise the art for his support. At all events, the Blues wrecked his château, burned his books, melted down his plate, and left him penniless; so that he was fain to seek shelter amidst what once he would have styled his own ‘vilains,’ but who were now, thanks to the glorious fruits of the Revolution, his equals. That was not to be his only humiliation, however. A young noble that was betrothed to his eldest daughter, Hortense, and was to have married her just before ‘the troubles,’ joined the mildest party of the anarchists, and actually assisted at the sack of the château. Some said that he had had a dreadful altercation and quarrel with the father; some averred that he had met a contemptuous refusal from the daughter: either, or both, may have been the truth. What is certain is, that he exacted a vengeance far heavier than any injury he could have received. On the pretence of seeking for some concealed royalist, a party of the Blues, headed by the count, in disguise, broke into the old man’s house in the village, and carried off his eldest daughter, – indeed, the only child that remained to him; for his second girl was an admitted nun of the Chaise Dieu, which had hitherto escaped pillage and destruction. From that hour no trace of her could ever be obtained; but on the same day twelvemonths, as morning broke, she was found on the steps of her father’s door, with a baby in her arms. I have heard, for I have often spoken with those who discovered her, that her reason was shattered, and her memory so completely lost that she did not know her own name. An unbroken apathy settled down on her from that time.
“She cared for nothing, not even her child; and though Margot was very beautiful, and so engaging that all the neighbors loved and caressed her, her mother saw her without the slightest touch of interest or affection! After the lapse of thirteen, or almost fourteen years, a young man of the village named Bernois, who had just returned from studying at Paris, proposed to marry her. Some are of opinion that he had never heard her real history, nor knew of the relationship between her and Margot; others think differently, and say that he was aware of all, and acquitted her of everything save the misfortune that had befallen her. By what persuasion she was induced to accept him I never knew, but she did so, and accompanied him to Paris; for, strangely enough, they who had hitherto treated her with all the respect due to undeserved calamity, no sooner beheld her as a married woman, and lifted into a position of equality with them, than they vented a hundred calumnies upon her, and affected to think her beneath their condition. This persecution it was which drove Bernois to seek his fortune in Paris, where he has now met his death! The conducteur who arrived here last night told who had accompanied him from Paris, and the officers, who are all familiar with her mother’s story, were curious to see the girl. They induced me to advise you to dine at the public table, and unhappily I yielded to their solicitations, not suspecting what might ensue. The only reparation in my power now is to tell you this whole story; for of course, having heard it, you will perceive how fruitless and vain it would be for you to oppose yourself to the entire force of public opinion.
“And is it the custom of the world to insult those situated as she is?” asked I, in a voice that plainly showed I put the question in all sincerity and ignorance.
“It is assuredly the habit of young men, and more especially soldiers, to treat them with less deference than the daughters of honest women; and you must have seen but little of life, or you had not asked the question.”
I sat silent for some seconds, revolving in my mind the sad history I had just listened to, and comparing the events with what I had myself witnessed of her who had been their victim. The hostess cut short my musing by saying, —
“There, I see the calèche has just driven into the cour: lose no time in getting away at once. The officers are now at coffee in the garden, and you can escape unobserved.”
So engrossed was I by thoughts of Margot, and the necessity of shielding her from insult, that I forgot totally all about myself, and what bore reference to my own feelings exclusively. I therefore hastened from the room to make the preparations for our departure. While I was thus engaged, and occupied with seeing our luggage tied on, a young officer, touching his cap in salute, asked if I was not the stranger who dined that day at the table-d’hôte, in company with a young lady; and on my replying, “Yes,” added, —
“Are you not aware, sir, that we have been expecting the pleasure of your society in the garden for some time back?”
I answered that I was totally ignorant of their polite intentions respecting me; that I was anxious to reach my destination, still twelve leagues away, and unable to accept of their hospitality.
He gave a faint smile as I said this, and then rejoined:
“But you can surely spare a few moments to make your apologies to our colonel?”
“They must be, then, of the very briefest,” said I. “Will you kindly guide me to where he is?”
With a slight bow he walked on, and, crossing the courtyard, entered a garden; on traversing a considerable portion of which, we came out upon a kind of terrace, where a large party of officers were seated around a table, smoking, and drinking coffee. Some, too, were engaged playing at chess or dominoes, some reading, and some apparently asleep; but, however occupied, no sooner had I made my appearance than all, forgetting everything but my presence, turned their eyes upon me.
“The citizen,” cried out my guide, as we came up, “the citizen tells me that he was quite unconscious of our polite intentions in his behalf; and I can fully believe him, for he was on the eve of departure when I caught him!”
“What does he think a French soldier is made of?” shouted out the colonel, with a blow of his closed fist on the table. “He dares to make use of an expression insulting to every officer of my regiment, and then says he is unaware of any claim we have upon him!”
A new light broke upon me at these words, and, for a moment, the sense of shame at my mistake nearly overcame me. I rallied, however, enough to say, —
“It is quite as you say, Monsieur le Colonel; I was really unaware that you or your officers had any claim upon me! I had been the subject of a rudeness to-day, at the table-d’hôte, which, in my little knowledge of the world, I attributed to the underbred habits of a coarse school of manners. I now perceive that I was too lenient in my judgment.”
“Are we to listen to any more of this, messieurs?” said the colonel, rising; “or is it from me that chastisement is to come?”
“No; I have the right, I claim the place, I am the youngest subaltern, I am the ‘cadet of the corps,’” cried half-a-dozen in a breath; but Carrier’s voice overbore the others, saying, —
“Comrades, you seem to forget that this is my quarrel; I will not yield my right to any one!”
“Yes, yes,” exclaimed several voices together; “Carrier says truly. The affair is his. We fight with the sabre, citizen, in the Chasseurs-à-Cheval. Is the weapon to your liking?”
“One arm is the same to me as another,” replied I; and unfortunately this was too literally the case, since I was equally inexpert in all!
“You can claim the pistol, if you wish it,” whispered an old captain, with a snow-white moustache. “The challenged chooses his weapons.”
“The sabre be it, then,” exclaimed Carrier, catching me up at once.
“Not if the citizen prefer the pistol,” interposed the captain.
“He has already made his choice: he said all weapons were alike to him.”
“Quite true,” said I; “I did say so!”
“The greater fool you, then!” murmured the captain, between his teeth. “You might just as well have given yourself your chance. Carrier won’t be so generous to you!”
“Will you be my second?” asked I of him.
“Ma foi! if you wish it,” said he, with a shrug of the shoulders and a glance of such tender pity that could not be mistaken. “Let us follow them!”
And so saying, we strolled leisurely on after the others, who, now passing through a small wicket, entered a little wood that adjoined the garden. A few minutes more brought us to an open space, which I rightly guessed had been often before the scene of similar affairs.
I had never witnessed a duel in my life. I knew nothing of the formalities which were observed in its arrangement; and the questions which I asked the captain so palpably betrayed my ignorance that he stared at me with mute astonishment.
“Have you any friends, boy,” asked he, after a pause, “to whom I can write for you?”
“Not one,” said I.
“All the better!” rejoined he, tersely.
I nodded an assent; and from that moment we understood each other perfectly. No lengthy explanation could more plainly have declared that he thought I was doomed, and that I concurred in the foreboding.
“My sabre will be too heavy for you, boy,” said he; “I ‘ll see and borrow a lighter one from one of my comrades. Chasteler, will you lend me yours?”
“Parbleu! that will I not. I’d never wear it again if used in such a quarrel.”
“Right, Chasteler,” cried another; “I hope there is only one amongst us could forget an insult offered to the whole regiment.”
“I wore my epaulette when you were in the cradle, Lieutenant Hautmain,” said the old captain; “so don’t pretend to teach me the feelings that become a soldier. There, boy,” he added, drawing his sabre as he spoke, “take mine.”