The commissary snatched up his hat and ran to the door.
“Go thy ways!” he cried. “Myself, I will conduct you through the village. For the rest, when the Englishman is found, and if he denies thee——”
He did not finish the sentence. In a moment we were all in the rainy street. My accuser was vanished from the neighbourhood of the barrier. A single patriot only was in evidence. This man made a feint of bringing his musket to the charge.
“Qui va là?” he grunted. “Est-ce qu’il se sauve, ce cochon!”
Fear lent the commissary anger.
“To thy post!” he shouted. “Am I to be made answerable to every dog that barks!”
Red-bonnet fell back muttering. We hurried forward, splashing over the streaming cobbles. The street, by luck of weather, was entirely deserted. Only a horselesslimonière, standing at the porch of the village inn, gave earnest of some prospective interest.
Suddenly I felt Carinne’s little clutch on my arm.
“The Englishman!” she whispered, in a gasp.
My teeth clicked rigid. I saw, ahead of us, a tall careless figure lounge into the open and stop over against the door of the carriage. At the same moment inspiration came to the commissary. His gaze was introspective. He had not yet noticed the direction of ours. He slapped his hand to his thigh as he hurried forward.
“Mon Dieu!” cried he, “it is simple. Why did I not think of it sooner? Prove, then, thy knowledge of this Englishman by giving me his name!”
With the very words I set off running. A startled cry, to which I paid no heed, pursued me.
“I hold a hostage! I hold a hostage!” screamed the commissary; and immediately, as I understood, nipped Carinne by the elbow.
But by then I was come up with the stranger. He turned and received me straddle-legged, his eyes full of a passionless alertness. I lost not an instant.
“Monsieur,” I panted, “we are fugitive aristocrats. In the name of God, help us!”
I could have adored him for his reception of this astounding appeal. He never moved a muscle.
“Tout droit!” said he; “but give us the tip!”
“Riouffe is dead” (his eyelids twitched at that)—“I have his passports. I am Riouffe—and this is madame, my wife.”
Simultaneously, in the instant of my speaking, the frantic commissary brought up Carinne, and, to a metallic clang of hoofs, our fateful post-boy issued from the inn-yard in charge of his cattle. For a moment the situation was absolutely complete and dramatic,—the agonised suitor proposing; the humorous and heroicnonchalantdisposing; the petrified jockey, right; the hostagechevalièrein the grasp of the heavy villain, left. Then all converged to the central interest, and destroyed the admirable effectiveness of the tableau.
“Goddam milor’ the Englishman!” shrieked the commissary; “he does not know thy name!”
The stranger put out a hand as he stood, and clapped me on the shoulder so that I winced.
“Riouffe!” he cried, in a very bantering voice—“not know his friend Jack Comely!” (“ne savoir pas son ami Jack Comely—pooh!”)
“That he will swear to, my Jack,” said I.
The commissary released Carinne, and fell back gasping.
“Pardon! les bras m’en tombent!” he muttered, in dismayed tones, and went as white and mottled as a leg of raw mutton.
But the stranger advanced to Carinne, with a blush and a gallant bow.
“Madame,” said he, “I cannot sufficiently curse my impatience for having cut you out of a stage. It was an error.Entrez, s’il vous plait.”
He spoke execrable French, the angel! It was enough that we all understood him. We climbed into thelimonière; the stranger followed, and the door was slammed to. The landlord, with a hussy or so, gaped at the inn-door. The post-boy, making himself infinitesimally small to the commissary, limbered up his cattle—three horses abreast. One of these he mounted, as if it were a nightmare. In a moment he was towelling his beasts to a gallop, to escape, one would think, the very embarrassment he carried with him. From time to time he turned in his saddle, and presented a scared face to our view.
“Well?” said the stranger, looking at us with a smile.
He was a fair-faced young man, bold-mouthed, and ripe with self-assurance. His dress was of the English fashion—straight-crowned beaver hat, with the band buckled in front, green tabinet kerchief, claret-coloured coat tight-buttoned,—altogether a figure very spruce and clean, like apiqueur d’écurie.
I regarded him in solemn amazement. The whole rapid incident had been of a nature to make me doubt whether I was awake or dreaming.
“Ma mie,” said Carinne, reproachfully; “Milord awaits your explanation.”
I rose a little and bowed.
“Monsieur,” said I, stupidly, “we are Jorinde and Joringel.”
* * * * * * *
Sir Comely, a fine scapegrace, had journeyed to Paris out of curiosity to witness a guillotining. With him, in the packet, crossed Monsieur Tithon Riouffe, anémigréreturning, under safe-conduct of the ineffective Barrère, to snatch his wife from the whirlpool. The two gentlemen met, hobnobbed, and shared a four-wheeled carriage as far as the tragic city, whence (as agreed between them) on a certain day of the fifteen during which the vehicle remained at theRemiseat their disposition, they—accompanied, it was to be hoped, by madame—were to return in it to Calais. The day arrived; M. Riouffe failed to keep his appointment. The other awaited him, so long as a certain urgency of affairs permitted. At length—his own safety being a little menaced—he was driven to start on the return journey alone.
All this we learned of him, and he of us the broad outline of our story. A full confidence was the only policy possible to our dilemma. He honoured iten prince.
He was quite admirably concerned to hear of the fate of his fellow-traveller—le malheureux chevreuil! he called him. The extraordinary concatenation of chances that had substituted us for that other two did not, however, appear to strike him particularly. But he “strapped his vitalities!” (that is, as we understood it, “lashed himself into merriment”), in the insular manner, very often and very loudly, over this chance presented to him of hoodwinking the authorities.
“It’s rich, it’s royal, it’s rare!” he cried, “thus to double under the nose of the old cull of a bigwig, and to be sport in the next county while he’s hunting for a gate through the quickset. I pledge you my honour, monsieur, to see the two of you through with this; but, egad! you must draw upon my portymanteau at the next post if you are to win clear!”
Grâces au Cielfor the merry brave! It was like endeavouring to read inscriptions in the Catacombs to interpret his speech; but one phrase he had trippingly, and that in itself was a complete index to his character—
“Je ne me mouche pas du pied”—I know better than to blow my nose with my feet.
And now, if for nothing else, I loved him for his boyish, shy, but most considerate attitude towards Carinne.
* * * * * * *
And thus was our escape accomplished. Winged with our passports, and cheered to the finish by the assurance of this gay and breezy islander, we came to the coast on a memorable afternoon, and bade adieu for ever to the family despotism of Fraternity.
* * * * * * *
“Tell me,ma belle épousée—for five days (the guests, the property, theprotégés—what thou wilt—of this Sir Comely, this excellent Philippe le Bel) we have shut our eyes, here in this immeasurable London, to our necessitous condition and the prospect that faces us. Carinne,mon enfant, it is right now to discuss the means by which we are to live.”
“I have thought of it, little Thibaut. I will paint portraits.”
I started.
“Oh!” I cried, “I am very hungry! Let us signalise this last consumption of the poor Crépin’s purse by a feast of elegance. Be assured his ghost will call the grace.”
We entered an inn, opportunely near the spot whither we had wandered. It was in an important part of the town, close by the lion-surmounted palace of some monseigneur; and coaches and berlines discharged themselves in frequent succession in its yard. We walked into thesalle à manger, sat down, and endeavoured to make our wishes known to the waiter. The room was fairly empty, but a party of half-a-dozen young “bloods”—hommes de bonne compagnie—sitting at a neighbouring table, seemed moved with a certain curiosity about us, and by-and-by one of these rose, crossed over, and, addressing me in very good French, asked if he could be of service in interpreting my desires—“For,” says he, with a smile, “I perceive that monsieur is from over the Channel.”
“Alas, monsieur!” I answered. “We are, indeed, of that foundered vessel,La Ville de Paris, the worthless wreckage of which every tide washes up on your coasts.”
Some compliments passed, and he withdrew to join his companions. A little whispering was exchanged amongst them, and then suddenly our dandy arose and approached us once more, with infinite complaisance.
“Monsieur,” he said, “I cannot, I find, convince my friends of the extent to which your nation excels in the art of making salads. Would you do us the favour to mix one for us?”
I hesitated.
“It is one of thy accomplishments,” said Madame la Comtesse, at a hazard.
It was, indeed, though she could not have known it; or that Brillat-Savarin himself had once acknowledged me to be his master in the art.
“I shall be charmed,” I said.
I called for oil, wine, vinegar, sweet fruits, the sauces of soy and ketchup, caviare, truffles, anchovies, meat-gravy, and the yolks of eggs. I had a proportion and a place for each; and while I broke the lettuces, my company sat watching, and engaged me in some pretty intimate conversation, asking many questions about Paris, my former and present conditions, and even my place of abode.
I answered good-humouredly on account of my dear Philippe, who was of the very complexion and moral of these frank rascals; and presently they pronounced my salad such a dish as Vitellius had never conceived; and, from their table, they drank to its author and to the beautiful eyes of Madame la Comtesse.
It was all comical enough; but, by-and-by when, having finished our meal, we found ourselves in the street again, Carinne thrust a folded slip of paper into my hand.
“What is this,mignonne?”
“Look, then,” said she. “It was conveyed by theélégantunder thy plate.”
I opened and examined it. It was a note for five pounds.
“Au diable!” I murmured, flushing scarlet.
Carinne placed her hand on my arm. She looked up in my face very earnest and pitiful.
“Jourdain,” she said, “makes his living by turning his knowledge of weaving to account; De Courcy begs his by ‘parfilage.’ Which is the better method,mon ami? Is it not well to face the inevitable courageously by taking thy accomplishments to market?”
“I will become a salad-dresser,” said I.
* * * * * * *
On the following day arrived a very courteous note from mypetit-maîtreof the dining-room, entreating me, as a special favour, to come that evening to a certain noble house and make the salad for a large dinner-party that was to be given therein. I went, was happy in confirming the great opinion formed of my powers, and was delicately made the recipient of a handsome present in acknowledgment of my services. From that moment my good little fortunes rolled up like a snow-ball. Within a period of eighteen months I had accumulated, by the mere “art of selection,” a sum of near a hundred thousand francs—truly a notable little egg’s-nest.
* * * * * * *
One morning, not so very long ago, Madame de Crancé came to me with her eyes shining.
“Little Thibaut,” said she, “thou hast a great heart. Yet—though doubtless thou wert right to insist that the husband should be the bread-winner—it has grieved me to stand by and watch my own particular gift rusting from disuse. Well, sir, for thy rebuke I have at last a surprise for thee. Behold!” and with that she fetched a canvas from behind her back, where she had been secreting it, and presented it to my view.
“Is it not like?” she said, her throat swelling with joy and pride.
I made my eyes two O’s,—I “hedged,” as the sportsmen say.
“It is, indeed,ma mie. It is like nothing in the world except, of course——”
I stopped, sweating with apprehension. She relieved me at once.
“Ah!” she cried, “is it not baby himself—the dear, sweet rogue! I threw all my soul into it for thy sake.”
“Carinne!” I exclaimed, passionately grateful; “I knew I could not be mistaken.”
[The End]
[1]“Nothing would appear to more graphically illustrate the moral influence of the ‘Terror’ than that common submission to a force that was rather implied than expressed. Now it seems a matter for marvel how a great many thousands of capable men, having nothing to hope from the intolerable tyranny that was massing them in a number of professed slaughter-houses, should not only have attempted no organised retaliation, but should, by unstiffening their necks (in a very heroic fashion, be it said) to be the footstools to a few monstrous bullies, have tacitly allowed the righteousness of a system that was destroying them to go by implication. Escapes from durance were, comparatively speaking, rare; resistance to authority scarcely ever carried beyond the personal and peevish limit. Yet it is a fact that many of the innumerable prisons—of which, from my own observation, I may instance St Pélagie—were quite inadequately guarded, and generally, indeed, open to any visitor who was prepared to ‘tip’ for the privilege of entry.”—Extracted from an unpublished chapter of the Count’s Reminiscences.
[2]Décadithe Revolutionary Sabbath.—Ed.
The cover from the Dodd, Mead and Co. edition (New York, 1898) was used for this ebook. This edition was also consulted for the changes listed below.
Minor spelling inconsistencies (e.g.caldron/cauldron, say’st/sayst, wineshop/wine-shop, etc.) have been preserved.
[Text edition only]#is used to indicate bolded text.
Alterations to the text:
Convert footnotes to endnotes, and add a corresponding entry to the TOC.
Silently correct a few punctuation errors.
[CHAPTER II]
Change “with her priestesses of theSalpétrière” toSalpêtrière.
[CHAPTER XIV]
“cockt as it had been to theout-cry” tooutcry.
[End of text]