We entered the château, leaving our horses in the care of a laboring man in the court, who seemed not a bit less respectful to the master of the house than the servant of any old noble in the ancient days. This was in itself an anomaly in those times; for the vain desire of equality had completely perverted men’s judgments, and they sought not alone to sweep away the differences created by a long established social system, but even those fundamental differences produced by the will of God. I believe, in those days—amongst a great mass of the people at least—as much jealous hatred was felt toward superior intellect as toward superior wealth or superior station.
On passing the doors of the building we found some ten or twelve men seated in the eating-room drinking and talking. The master of the house passed through, nodded to them, called them citizens, and said, “Make good cheer of it. There is more where that comes from.”
A cheerful, good-humored laugh was the reply, and he walked on up the stairs, leading us to a little suite of apartments which he reserved for himself, and where his privacy was respected even by the rude men who surrounded him. There he left us, and went out to procure some refreshment for us, part of which he brought in himself. The rest, with a considerable quantity of plate, which he seemed to think in perfect security, notwithstanding open doors and strange visitors, was brought in by a servant of the old school, but not in livery. When the man was gone weate and drank and refreshed ourselves, and a conversation, not only of interest but of importance, occurred between our entertainer and Father Bonneville. The former seemed to comprehend our situation, or at least as much of it as was necessary, without any explanation; and he gave a great deal of very good and minute advice as to our conduct while traveling through France. He advised the good Father, strongly, to put on a brown coat, saying that the reputation of an abbé was worse than that of a priest. He advised him also to give up the plan of traveling on horseback, and betake himself to achaise de poste.
“I don’t ask where you are going, or what you intend to do, but by coming with post-horses, and lodging at the post-house, wherever they entertain there, you gain favor with one class of the community whose assistance is of great importance to travelers.”
Father Bonneville ventured to tell him that there were difficulties in the way of posting, as we were not furnished with those papers which were sometimes inquired for at post-houses.
“Oh, I will manage that very soon for you,” said our host. “The mayor shall furnish you with the necessary passports.”
“But he knows nothing of us,” replied Father Bonneville.
“He knows me,” replied the other, with a significant nod of his head, “he wont refuse me. It is rather a painful state of things when each man’s life is in another man’s power. There are plenty to misuse the advantage, and I have never seen why I should not employ it to better purposes. The mayor will probably be guillotined in six months. He calculates it will be longer, but I think he makes a mistake. However, he knows I could have him guillotined in six days, and is therefore very compliable.”
“And pray,” said Father Bonneville, with a somewhat rueful smile, “how long do you contemplate keeping your own head where it is?”
“It is hardly worth consideration,” replied the other; “for I say of my head, as a friend of mine said of his house which was likely to fall about his ears, ‘It will last my time.’ In truth it is of very little use to any but myself, or I dare say they would have taken it long ago. The same worthlessness may or may not protect it for a month, a year, or even till these evil times pass away; for you are not to suppose, my good friend, that this state will last for ever. It is a mere irruption of human vanity. We Frenchmen are the vainest people upon earth, the whole nation is vain, and every individual is vain. This vanity makes each man unwilling to see any other a bit higher, richer, or in any respect better off than himself; but there are certain fundamental laws of order which man may overturn for a time, but which always resume their power. The wise rule in the end. Industry and talent raise themselves in spite of resistance, forethought and care produce wealth, and if you were to take every acre of land throughout France, and every louis d’or, and divide them equally amongst the whole people, so that there should not be the difference of a sous, before fifty years had passed you would find the differences all restored, some men rich, other men poor, some men ruling, other men obeying, some enjoying, others laboring. Nay more, my belief is, that within the same time, you would find rank, titles and distinctions restored also.”
Father Bonneville shook his head.
“I am very sure of it,” replied the other, in answer to the doubtful shake. “There are many countries in which a pure democracy might exist—perhaps in England—but certainly not in France. Our very blood is feudal and chivalrous. History, which is the memory of nations, is filled with nothing but feudal and chivalrous facts. We are too light, too vain, too volatile to do without distinction for any length of time, and we have not a sufficient spirit of organization in our character to do without a king in some shape or other. I think it must be an absolute shape; but take my word for it, France will never be forty years at any one time without counts, barons and marquises, dukes, peers, stars and ribbons. You might as well attempt to make us Quakers as real republicans. A lion may perhaps be taught to dance like a monkey for an hour or two, but take my word for it, in the end he will eat his dancing-master; and you might as well attempt to change a lion’s nature as a Frenchman’s. However, you shall have the passports to-morrow, or I do not know the mayor. He is a very excellent person, but has an over-strong regard for the integrity of his neck.”
“I wish I possessed your secret of living so much at ease amidst such scenes, and exercising so much influence over such men,” said Father Bonneville.
“Mystery, mystery!” said our host with a smile. “That is the whole secret. No one knows what I am going to do next. No one knows why I am going to do it. Whenever there is any great question agitated in regard to which I am forced to take a part, I give a full and complete explanation of my views, in terms which not a man who hears me can comprehend. I use the language of the times, the cant words and pet phrases of the multitude, and generally I go one little step before any of the movements I see coming; for where millions of people are running a race, as we are in France, the man who stops even to buckle his shoe is certain to be knocked down and trampled to death. But now I will show you your sleeping place. You will find the beds good. May you never have worse.”
Our host was as good as his word in all respects. Before we woke in the morning the passports had been procured, containing a very tolerable description of Father Bonneville under the name of Citoyen Jerome Charlier, and of myself under that of Louis Lassi. Our horses were sold to no great disadvantage by the intervention of our entertainer, a little post-chaise bought from the post-master himself, at about five louis more than it was worth, and at about eleven o’clock in the day we set out on the direct road for Paris, in a manner which suited me much better, I confess, than that which we had previously pursued. I have little doubt that the good Father, too, who had not ridden for twenty years, was in the same predicament. I will only dwell upon our farther journey toward the capital so far as to state that it passed easily, and without interruption, which we attributed to the fact of having cut across the country, in such a direction as to be now traveling upon a line of high road totally different from that which led from Paris to the place of our previous residence.
——
My remembrance of the journey to Paris, and the conversations which took place upon the road, is more perfect than of any other of the events which took place at that time. But it is, perhaps, in some degree a factitious memory; for I have talked about it so frequently since, that I hardly know which are the facts supplied by my own mind, which those related to me by others. I recollect clearly and distinctly, however, our entrance into Paris on a dark and stormy night, our detention at the gates, and the examination of the carriage by lantern-light. I shall not, I think, ever forget the impression produced upon my mind by the long, tortuous streets of that great capital, with the dim lanterns swinging on chains stretched across from house to house, the enormously tall buildings on every side, and the multitude of people who thronged the streets even at that hour, and in that weather. I thought the journey through Paris would never have come to an end, but at length thechaise de postedrove into the court of a second-rate inn, in the Rue des Victoires, not far from the hospital of the Quinze-vingts. Our arrival created no sensation. No active porters, no ready waiters were there to welcome or assist. The house rose dark and gloomy, on the four sides of the court-yard, up to an amazing height in the sky, leaving us, like Truth, in the bottom of a well, and as good Father Bonneville knew not much more of the ways of Paris than I did myself, I do not know what would have become of us if it had not been necessary to pay the postillion. It was too dark in the court to see the money, and as he did not choose to take it upon trust, he said he would go and fetch the concierge and his lantern. Accordingly, he dug out of a den, at the side of the port-cochere, a very curious, antiquated specimen of humanity, with a broad belt over his shoulder, very much like one of those in which the beadles of old French churches used to stick their useless swords. He held the lantern while the money was counted out, and then was kind enough, though somewhat slowly, to lead us up a very dark and narrow stair-case to the first floor of the house, where the hotel in reality began. I never discovered what was done with the ground floor; for there were no shops in it, and it seemed to be left entirely to take care of itself. The mistress of the house—she had a husband, but poor little thing, he never presumed to interfere in any thing—was an enormously tall, and tolerably portly woman, apparently of five or six and thirty years of age, very fresh, good-looking and good-humored. She was a Fleming by birth, and bore evident traces of her origin in her fair hair, blue eyes, and brilliant complexion. She was enchanted to see us, she assured us, would provide for our accommodation as no other people had ever been provided for before, ordered some supper for us immediately, and in the meanwhile, took us to see our rooms, which were a story higher. There was a great, large, gloomy chamber, tesselated with brick well waxed, a bed in an alcove, two small closets on each side of the alcove, and a fire-place big enough to burn a forest. This was for Father Bonneville. My own room was about the size of the alcove and its two closets, and close by the side of the good Father’s chamber. To my young eyes it looked more snug and comfortable than his. But we were each contented it would seem. The bags were brought up, the post-chaise put in the remise, and my little store of clothing being placed in my room, I washed away the dust of travel, brushed the young, unfrosted hair which then curled so thickly over my head, and feeling somewhat solitary in the great world around me, found my way to the chamber of my good preceptor, who was sitting with his feet, one upon each andiron, contemplating with deep interest, as it seemed to me, the blazing logs as they fizzed and crackled on the hearth. Poor man, his thoughts, I fancy, were very far away, and he took no notice of me for a minute or two, while I meditated on the intense smell of roasting coffee and veal ragout which seemed to form the atmosphere of the house.
Father Bonneville had just wakened from his reverie, and was speaking a word or two as the commencement of a conversation, when a waiter came in to announce that our supper was ready, with as discreet and deferential an air as if we had been two aristocrats living under the ancien regime.
“Go down with him, Louis,” said Father Bonneville, “and I will join you directly.”
I followed the waiter down the stairs which I was now happy to find lighted by a single lamp, and entered thesalle à manger. How can I describe the dinginess of that strange room? It was long and not very large, with a good-sized table down the middle, and a fire-place with a broad mantlepiece in one corner. Three windows, which were supposed to give it light in the day time, but which, as they looked into the narrow court, never caught one genuine, unadulterated ray of the sun, now looked as black as ink upon the wall, although, sooth to say, that wall itself was of a hue little less sombre. Who was the inventor of painting panneling in oil, I really do not know, but I cannot imagine that any hand but his own could have so decorated that wall, or that a brush of any kind could ever have touched it afterward. I believe that there were nymphs dancing, represented on the spaces between the windows, but they certainly looked like Hottentots dancing in the dark. The furniture of the room was very scanty, consisting of nothing but the long dining-table, and chairs enough to fit it, but over the end of the table nearest the fire-place, was spread a beautifully white damask cloth, on which appeared two candlesticks, two napkins, a number of knives and forks and plates, and no less than eight dishes, from which exhaled a very savory odor, I mechanically walked up toward the fire, when suddenly, to my horror and consternation, a voice addressed me from the mantlepiece, exclaiming, “Petit coquin, petit coquin!” and the next instant there was a whirr, and I felt something brush my cheek and fall upon my shoulder. On examination, it proved to be a bird of a kind which I had never seen before, and which, in this individual instance, I probably should not have recognized, if I had seen a thousand of its species. It was a cockatoo, which had thought fit to moult in the midst of the winter, and had done it so completely, that though warmly enough robed in a covering of fine down, not a feather was to be seen upon its body, except the pen feathers of the wings, those of the tail, and a long yellow crest on the head. I call it yellow, because that is the color it ought to have been, but, to say sooth, its fondness for the chimney-corner had so completely smoked my new friend, that the general hue of its whole body was a dull but most decided gray.
It seemed an amiable and affectionate bird, however, although with its yellowish crest, and unfeathered form, it looked very much like one of those meagre dowagers whom we see at parties with dresses a great deal too much cut down for the satisfaction of the beholders. It continued repeating in a playful and endearing tone, “petit coquin, petit coquin!” as if it imagined the epithet to imply the greatest tenderness. While the words were yet in its beak, however, and before any regular conversation had begun between us, the party was augmented by another gentleman carrying in his hand a round hat with three broad bands, which was generally one of the signs or symbols of a man well provided in official situations.
He was a stout and self-important, but evidently a very keen personage. He was one of those for whom trifles have much importance, not from any peculiar capacity for dealing in details, but because a natural tendency of the mind of man to attach a certain degree of magnitude to all he observes himself had not been properly corrected in his youth. The bird was still rhyming, “petit coquin, petit coquin,” and advancing at once toward me with an air of jovial frankness, he caught me by the arm, saying, “Ah, little rogue, the bird knows you, it seems. Now, you are some young aristocrat, I will warrant.”
Now it so happened, that I made the exact answer which was required under the circumstances. Let it be understood that I had received no instructions whatever; that Father Bonneville had never even touched upon the subject of politics in his own house; that while deploring excesses, and excited and alarmed by the crimes, which he saw going on every day around him, he had never even hinted an opinion upon any of the great questions which agitated the public mind at the time. But in my walks through the town and the country, I had been so much accustomed, for the last twelve months or more, to hear the name of aristocrat applied to any one who wore a better coat than his neighbor, that I gradually learned to look upon that term as implying the basest, meanest, and most pitiful of all things. My cheek flushed, my brow contracted with an expression of anger which could not be assumed, and I replied, sharply, “No, citizen, no! Neither I, or any one I know, are aristocrats. You insult us by calling us so.”
My passion was ridiculous enough; for I had not the slightest idea in the world what the word aristocrat meant. Nevertheless, it had its effect, although that might have been lost for want of witnesses, had not Madame Michaud entered the room at the moment, to see that everything was properly provided for her honored guests.
“There, Monsieur Le Commissaire,” she said, “I think you have got your answer. You do not expect to find aristocrats in my house, I suppose.”
“I have found one,” answered the commissary, nodding his head; “and he will find soon that he is discovered. Shake hands, citizen, if you are really and truly a lover of your country and the rights of man. But mind, you don’t presume to touch my hand if you are only shamming a love of freedom.”
I placed my hand in his boldly, and shook it warmly; for I had as little idea of that in which true freedom consists as most of his patient followers in the political career, who, with very rare exceptions, were devout worshipers of words, with a very indefinite notion, indeed, of things.
He was satisfied, it seemed, and sat down to take a cup of coffee and drink a glass of liqueur with Madame Michaud—without paying for them. Indeed, he seemed upon very amicable terms with the lady, and I strongly suspect that it was good policy in all hostesses of Paris, not to refuse any thing that commissaries of police might think fit to demand.
Shortly after, Father Bonneville made his appearance, and although he answered all civil interrogatories, he played his part so discreetly, that no suspicion seemed to be aroused.
The commissary quitted the room in jovial good-humor, and the rest of the evening passed without any thing remarkable.
About this time, the images which memory presents in her long looking-glass, are somewhat vague, and ill-defined—perhaps I have not had the opportunity of refreshing my remembrance as to the minute details, and many a scene stands out in strong relief from a picture generally dark and obscure. Only one of those scenes will I notice here, before I go on to matters more immediately affecting myself.
There was what is called atable d’hôteat the inn where we stayed—a great accommodation to travelers—which is now very common, though in the time I speak of, it was more customary to lodge in what is called anhôtel garni, and to obtain one’s food from without. One day, I know not whether it was the second or third after our arrival, we were seated at the dinner-table in the hall, when the same commissary of police I have mentioned, entered the room, and slowly looked round the guests. I could see many a changing countenance at the table—some rosy faces which became white, and warm, glowing lips, which partook of on ashy paleness. The commissioner, however, fixed his eyes upon one particular gentleman, a man, perhaps, of fifty-seven or fifty-eight years of age, who had been one of the lightest and gayest of the guests. He saw the peculiar look of the officer, and probably understood its meaning completely; but he staid to finish quietly the joke which hung upon his lips, and then asked with the laugh still ringing around him—
“Mister commissary, is your business with me?”
The commissary slowly nodded his head, and our friend who was sitting next to Father Bonneville on the right, instantly rose, saying with a jocund smile—“I anticipated great things from the second course, but I must resign it, and do so with the self denial of a hermit. Ladies and gentlemen, there are three things greatly to be desired in life: a pleasant hopeful youth; a warm and genial middle life; and a short, unclouded, old age. The two first I have obtained, by the mercy of God—or of the Gods—or of any God that you like, Monsieur Commissaire—the third is very likely to be granted to me likewise. I will therefore only drink one more glass to the good health of all here present, before I drink another draught little less acceptable, and infinitely more tranquilizing.”
Thus saying, he raised a glass of wine already filled, toward his lips, bowed gracefully round the table, drank the wine, and walked out of the room with the commissary of police.
The next day, at noon, we heard he had just been guillotined.
——
Why we lingered in Paris I never knew, or have forgotten. It is very probable, there were difficulties in the way to the frontier, which good Father Bonneville feared to encounter—or, perhaps, he was sensible of the approach of severe illness, and feared to undertake the journey in such a state of health. The fatigues of our flight had been too much for the old man, and although he never appeared upon the way half as tired as I was, yet, after our labors were over, while I rallied and became as brisk and active as ever in four-and-twenty hours, he remained languid and feeble, and unwilling to stir out of his room. He would not confine me, however, to the hotel, but suffered me to visit various parts of Paris, where objects worthy of attention were to be seen. I thus acquired a tolerable knowledge of the principal leading thoroughfares of the town, and could find my way from one part of the city to another, with perfect ease.
For some time, I shut my eyes to the fact that my old friend and protector was really ill; but when we had been in Paris about a fortnight, the change which had taken place in his appearance, his pale and haggard face, and the thinness of his always delicate and beautiful hands, awoke me to a sense of his real state.
“I fear you are not well, my Father,” I said, as I sat by his side, while he leaned back in his great chair, with his feet to the fire.
Father Bonneville shook his head mournfully, and I urged him to let me go for a physician.
“I believe you must, Louis,” he answered; “for I do feel very ill, and I would fain recover strength enough at all events, to place you, my son, in safety before I die.”
“There is a physician lives close by,” I said, “I can run for him in a minute.”
“No, no,” cried the good priest, “that will not do. There was a physician here in Paris, whom I knew in days of old—a good and a sincere man, who would not betray us, but on the contrary, would give us aid and advice in other matters, besides those of mere health. Do you know the Place Du Petit Chatelet, Louis?”
I replied, that I knew it well, and Father Bonneville wrote down the name of a physician, and the number of his house, saying in the desponding tone of sickness—
“Very likely he may be dead, and then I know not what we shall do.”
Without any loss of time, I sallied out into the streets of Paris, in search of Dr. L——. It was a fine, clear, cold afternoon, with the snow lying piled up at the sides of the streets, the fountains all frozen, and the chains of the street-lamps covered with glittering frost. The wind was keen and cutting, and few people, especially of the lower orders, were in the street; for thoughsans culottismmay be a very good thing, it is by no means warm, and the worthy rulers of the destinies of France at that moment, had not great-coats enough amongst them to render them indifferent to a north-east wind. I could thus pursue my way rapidly, uninterrupted by the crowds which usually thronged the streets of the French capital, and though doubtless I did not take all the shortest ways, I soon reached the place I was seeking. The houses were tall, dirty, well-smoked, and ever open doors round the whole place, gave entrance to innumerable stair-cases which led up to the dwellings of low advocates, notaries public, physicians, artists, poor men of letters, and all that class who scrape a precarious existence from the faults, the follies, the misfortunes, the miseries of others. But now I had a very puzzling calculation to make. Father Bonneville had written down, after the name of Dr. L——, number five, Place du Petit Chatelet, but not a house was to be seen which had a number on it, and I was obliged to guess at which corner the numeration commenced. I was evidently wrong in my first essay, for no Doctor L—— could I find in the house which I fixed upon; and short and snappish were the answers I got at the various doors where I applied.
That could not be number five, and so I turned to the other side of the square, and began in the opposite direction. As I was counting the houses from the corner, I saw a little girl coming from a street nearly in face of me, with a basket in her hand, and poorly dressed. She turned suddenly into one of the door-ways, and I sprang after her, running as fast as possible and nearly overturning an old woman, who was roasting chestnuts in a tin kettle—for which I had my benediction. Little cared I, however; for my heart beat wildly, and the only thing I feared at that moment, was, that I should lose sight of that little girl with the basket; for I had taken it into my head at once that she was Mariette de Salins. She had gone up the stairs, however, when I reached the door, and without pausing for an instant I ran up after her, just in time to see her enter an apartment on the second floor, the door of which was closing as I approached. I knocked sharply, without a moment’s consideration, when an elderly man, with thin and powdered white hair, and a pleasant, though grave expression of countenance, presented himself, asking who I wanted.
A moment’s consideration had shown me that it might be dangerous to mention the name of Mariette; nor must it be supposed that such discretion was at all marvelous in a boy of my age at that time; for those were days of constant peril, when every act was to be thought of, every word weighed, and the habit of caution and reserve was inculcated as a duty upon even mere children. On the spur of the occasion, then, I replied that I was seeking Dr. L——, still keeping my eyes fixed upon a door which stood ajar heading into a room beyond.
“My name is Doctor L——,” replied the old man. “What is it you want with me, my son? And why are you looking so earnestly in there?”
“I want you to come and see a gentleman who is sick,” I replied, “in the Hotel de Clermont, close by the Quinze-vingts.”
“Is he very ill?” asked the doctor. “What is his name?”
But before I could answer either of his questions the inner door I have mentioned was drawn back, the beautiful little face peeped out, and in a moment after Mariette was in my arms.
“I thought it was you, dear Mariette,” I cried, kissing her tenderly, while she seemed never tired of hugging me. “Where is your mother? How is she?”
“Hush, hush!” said the old doctor, closing the outer door; “no questions or answers of any kind here, except medical ones. Mariette knows well that she must be silent, and answer no inquiries—and so,” he continued, after having thus stopped all explanations between us, “I suppose I am to conclude, my son, that this story of the sick man is a fiction, and that your object was to catch your little playfellow here.”
“No indeed,” I replied, with some indignation, “I have not been taught to speak falsehoods, sir. The gentleman I mentioned, does wish to see you, and is very ill. His name you will know when you see him; for you have met before—not that I mean to say I did not want to see Mariette, and indeed you must let her tell me where I can find her; for it is a long, long time since I have seen her.”
“That cannot be,” said the doctor, gravely; “she must learn to keep counsel—are you of the same town, then?”
“Oh, she lived with me for a long time,” I replied; “and the gentleman whom I want you to come and see is the same who was so kind to her there.”
“I should like to see him very much,” said Mariette, looking down.
“Well, well, I will go to him,” said the doctor, gravely, “and if it be proper that you two children should meet again, I will bring it about. Now you, Mariette, go in and empty your basket as usual. You, my son, go back to your friend, and say I will be with him in an hour.”
Thus saying, he led me gently by the arm to the door and put me out, and I hastened back with all my intelligence to Father Bonneville, asking him if it were not strange that I should find Mariette just at the house of Doctor L——.
“Perhaps not,” replied the good priest, with a faint smile. “The doctor is a native of our own province, and known to many of the good and the wise there.”
He said no more upon the subject, and made no inquiries, but remained somewhat listlessly in his chair gazing into the fire, till at length came a gentle knock at the door, and the physician entered, dressed with somewhat more care than he had been an hour before, with a three-cornered hat on his head, and a gold-headed cane in his hand. He approached Father Bonneville with an unconscious air, and without the slightest sign of recognition, till the old priest held out his hand to him, saying—“Ah, my friend, do you not remember me? You have not changed so much as I have, it would seem.”
Doctor L—— started back; for the sweet, silvery tones of the voice seemed to wake up memory, and he exclaimed—“Is it possible? my good friend, Bonneville!—Nay, nay. You are too much changed for time to have done it all. You must be really ill. Leave us, my young friend, I doubt not we shall soon set all this to rights.”
I retreated into my little room where it was cold enough, for there was no fire-place, and waited there shivering very tolerably for nearly an hour, while Dr. L—— and the good priest remained in consultation. At the end of that time Dr. L—— came and called me back, and when I re-entered Father Bonneville’s room, held me by the arm at a little distance from him, gazing very earnestly in my face, and seeming to scrutinize every line.
“Yes,” he said at length, turning to my old friend; “yes, he is very like him—Poor boy, what a fate!—Well, my young friend,” he said, suddenly changing the subject. “We must get good Citizen Charlier here, to his bed as soon as possible. He will be well soon, and would have been well by this time if he had sent for me before. But we must try and make up for lost time. I will not send him to the apothecary’s,” he said, “for drugs, for we are never sure of them at those places—one man acknowledged the other day that during twenty years he had never sold one genuine ounce of rhubarb. I have two other visits to pay; but let him come to my house in an hour and a half, and I will send what will do you good. Perhaps I may see you again to-night.”
“Shall I find Mariette with you?” I asked, looking up in the doctor’s face.
The good man shook his head, and then turning to Father Bonneville, said with a smile—“I think these two children are in love with each other; but little Mariette is so discreet that she would not even tell me who he was or who you were. She has had bitter lessons of caution for one so young—perhaps you may sometimes see her at my house, my son; but you must imitate her discretion, and neither ask any questions, nor answer them if put to you by strangers.”
“Oh, Louis is growing very discreet,” said Father Bonneville; “for we have had warnings enough since we have been in this house to prevent us from taking the bridle off our tongues for a moment—fare you well, my good friend, I shall be glad to see you again to-night if you can contrive to come; but yet I do not think it is needful for my health that you should take such trouble.”
“We will see, we will see,” replied the doctor, and shaking him by the hand he left the room.
The good Father, then, with my assistance, undressed and went to bed, where, to say sooth, he would have been much better three or four days before; and at the appointed hour I went for the medicines which had been promised, but saw no one except an old female servant, who gave me two bottles addressed to Citizen Charlier.
As I returned, I met a furious mob coming up the streets with a bloody head upon a pike, and perhaps I was in some peril, though I was not aware of it at the time. My dress, though very plain, was neat and whole, and I was seized as I attempted to pass through the mob, by a gaunt, fierce-looking man, with hardly one untattered piece of clothing on his back. He called me a cursed little aristocrat, and made the man who bore the head upon the pike, lower the bloody witness of their inhuman deeds to make me kiss it. They brought it to the level of my head, and thrust its dark, contorted features into my face. But I stoutly refused to kiss it, saying I was not an aristocrat; and why should I kiss a head that they told me had belonged to one.
“If you can make me out an aristocrat,” I exclaimed, “I will kiss it.”
“What have you got here in your hand?” cried the sans-culotte, snatching the bottles from me.
“Only medicines for a sick man,” I replied.
He tore off the paper, however, opened one of the bottles and put it to his mouth, then spat upon the ground with a blasphemous oath, exclaiming—“He is only a garçon apothecaire. Let him pass, let him pass! He will kill as many sacre aristocrats with his cursed drugs as we can with the guillotine. Let the imp pass. His is a trade that should be encouraged.”
Thus saying, he marched on, and his fierce and malignant companions followed. I cannot say that I was in reality at all frightened. Every thing had passed so quickly that I had not had time to become alarmed; but I felt bewildered, and paused for a moment to gather my senses together after the mob had passed into the Place du Petit Chatelet which was close at hand. I was still standing there when I heard a voice saying, “Louis, Louis.”
I looked round, but could see nobody, and the only place from which the sound could proceed, appeared to be one of those open doors so common in Paris at the time, with a dark passage beyond it.
“Louis, Louis,” said the voice again; “come in here, I want to speak to you.”
It was not the tongue of Mariette certainly; for her sweet, child-like tones I should have known any where; and I hesitated whether I should go in or not. I resolved not to seem cowardly, however, and walked into the passage. I could then see faintly, a tall, and as it appeared to me, graceful figure move on before me, and I followed into a little room quite at the back of the house, to which the light was admitted from a little court behind. There the figure turned as I entered, and I beheld Madame de Salins.
The room itself presented a painful picture of poverty. It could not have been above ten feet square, and in one corner, without curtains, or any shelter from the wind, was the bed of Madame de Salins herself, and close by it a little bed for her daughter. The latter, indeed, was fenced round with a shawl hung upon two chairs, which only left one in the room vacant. A table, a broken looking-glass, a few cups and glasses, with a coffee-pot standing by the fire, seemed to form all the other furniture of the chamber. I had very little time to look round me; for Madame de Salins at once began to inquire after the health of Father Bonneville.
“I saw you from a front window,” she said, as soon as I had answered her first questions, “and feared that those men would maltreat you; for they have the hearts of tigers, and spare no one.”
A sudden fear seized me, lest Mariette should be even then coming from the house of good Doctor L——, and encounter the ruffians whom I had just escaped.
“Is Mariette at the Place du Chatelet?” I asked, eagerly. “Let me go and see that no harm happens to her.”
“No, no,” replied Madame de Salins. “She is here with the old lady in the front room, who lets us sometimes sit with her, as a relief from this dark, dismal hole. You are a good, brave boy, however, Louis, and for every kind and generous act you do, depend upon it you will have your reward. Mariette, thank God, is quite safe, and she has learnt whenever she sees a crowd to avoid it. But tell me more about Father Bonneville. Does Doctor L—— think he is in danger?”
I was not able to give her any satisfactory answer, for I really did not know what was the physician’s opinion of my good preceptor’s case.
“Tell him,” said Madame de Salins, “that I will come to see him if I can do so secretly; but I am under surveillance, and all my movements, I fear, will be watched till some new change takes place in this ever-shifting government. I have several things to say to him, and could wish to see him much.”
She spoke in an anxious and thoughtful tone, and doubtless had many matters of deep and painful importance pressing upon her mind at the moment. Boy-like, however, my attention was directed principally to the more obvious inconveniencies which she suffered, and I said, “I am afraid you must be very badly off here, madame.”
The lady smiled. “Badly enough, my dear boy,” she replied. “But yet we might be very much worse—nay, we have been much worse in mind, if not in body. But I will not keep you now. Tell Monsieur de Bonneville what I have said, and add that if he has any thing to reply, he can communicate it to me through Doctor L——.”
When I reached the inn, my first task was to give good Father Bonneville the medicine prescribed for him, and then to tell him of my interview with Madame de Salins. He seemed greatly interested, and repeated once or twice, “Poor thing! poor thing! I hope she will be successful; but I can’t help her—I can do nothing to help her. I know too little to give her advice, and have no power to give her assistance.”
I did not press the subject upon him, nor make any inquiries, but sat for a long time by his bed-side reading to him both in Latin and in French. English was by this time quite forbidden between us, and we had no English books.
In the evening, toward nine o’clock, Doctor L—— came again, and felt his patient’s pulse with a cheerful air.
“The good woman of the house,” he said, “waylaid me on the stairs, to ask if you were likely to die, my good friend, and to suggest that in that case it would be as well to send you to the hospital. I have spared you that journey, however, by assuring her that in a week or ten days you will be well enough to go to the opera, if by that time they have left any singers with their heads on. They guillotined poor Benoit this morning. I ventured to suggest that they would not get such another tenor in a hurry; and so they made him sing before they put him into the cart, to try, I suppose, how they liked it. Whether he sang too well or too ill to please them, I don’t know, but they drove him off to the guillotine, while I was seeing another prisoner.”
Father Bonneville gave a shudder; but sickness is always more or less selfish, and though naturally one of the most unselfish men in the world, his thoughts speedily reverted to himself. “I trust,” he said, “that there will be no necessity for sending me to the hospital. Did you quite satisfy the good woman?”
“Quite,” replied Doctor L——. “I told her that I would be answerable for your not giving occasion to a funeral from her house, which is what all these good aubergiste fear. I told her, moreover, that when your daughter and your granddaughter arrived from the country, you would very speedily rally.”
“My daughter,” said Father Bonneville, with a faint smile. “I have no daughter but spiritual daughters, my friend.”
“Perhaps we may find you one for the occasion,” said Doctor L——, laughing. “But I will tell you more about it to-morrow; for although you must be, of course, consulted whether you will have a child or not, yet in this case, out of the ordinary course of nature, the child must first be asked whether she likes to be born. In short, I have a scheme in my head, my good friend; but it requires maturing, and the pivot upon which it all turns is your rapid recovery. So take care of yourself; cast care from your mind for the present, and you will speedily be both well and strong again.”
Thus saying, he left him, and for two or three days no event of any importance occurred, except the gradual improvement of Father Bonneville, under the kind and zealous treatment of the good physician.
——
At the period I speak of there were changes in Paris every day. True, one horror was only succeeded by another, and one fierce tyranny but made place for a tyranny more fierce and barbarous. The condemnation of the king, and his death, which followed shortly after, occupied for a time all thoughts, and filled many a bosom which had previously felt the strongest, nay, even the wildest aspirations for liberty, with gloom, and doubt, and dread. The moment, however, the head of the good king fell upon the scaffold the death-struggle began between the Mountain and the Gironde, and in the many heaves and throes of the contending factions, many persons found opportunity to escape from perils which had previously surrounded them. Although a mere boy at the time, I was quite familiar with the daily history of these events; for they were in every body’s mouth, and I might even greatly swell this little memoir, by narrating minutely the various scenes, some terrible, some ludicrous, which I myself beheld. The most terrible was the death of the king, of which, jammed in by the multitude, without a possibility of escape, I was myself present, and within a few yards of the instrument of death. But it is my object to pass as lightly as possible over these young recollections, though many of them were too deeply graven on memory ever to be effaced. I shall never forget, as long as I live, the face of a tall, gaunt man, who was close to me at the moment when the king attempted to speak to the people, and the drums were ordered to beat, to drown the voice of the royal martyr. Rage and indignation and shame were written in every line, and I heard him mutter between his teeth, “Oh, were there but an hundred men in Paris true to France and to themselves!”
My own belief is, that a very few acting at that moment in concert, and fearless of their own safety, might not only have saved the effusion of the king’s blood, but might have given a different direction to the revolution, and saved the lives of thousands. However that might be, I went away from the scene with horror, and shut myself up for the rest of the day with good Father Bonneville, who was now able to rise. The physician saw him twice during the day, and once I was sent out of the room for a short time. Doctor L—— spoke jokingly more than once in my presence, of the good priest’s daughter and granddaughter, and though I did not see the point of the jest, I imagined it was one way he had of amusing himself.
Father Bonneville, however, seemed to me to humor him strangely, answering him in the same strain, and inquiring when he thought his daughter would arrive.
“I really cannot tell,” replied the physician. “But, of course, you will have a letter from her before she comes.”
Three days afterward a letter was brought from the post-office, and Father Bonneville examined the seal with a smile. It had not been considered inviolable, that was clear; for either at the post-office or in the hotel, they had thought fit to open the letter without even taking the decent precaution of resealing it again. The contents of the epistle I saw, and they certainly puzzled me a good deal when first Father Bonneville gave the paper into my hand.
The letter began, “My dear Father,” and went on in the usual strain of a child writing to a parent, telling him how much grieved she was to hear that he had been sick in Paris, expressing fears that he had over-fatigued himself in seeking for news of her dear husband, and informing him that she would soon be in Paris herself, with her little girl, to pursue the inquiry. The letter throughout was filled with a great number of the cant expressions of republicanism, then common, and it ended with declaring that if the writer’s dear husband was dead, she could console herself with the thought that he had died in defense of his country, though she could not bear the idea that he might be lingering ill of his wounds without any affectionate hands to tend him. The letter was addressed to “Citizen Jerome Charlier,” was dated from a provincial town in Poitou, and was signed “Clarisse Bonfin.”
Father Bonneville smiled as he marked the expression of my face in reading the letter; and when I had done, he asked me if I knew who these relations of his were. I replied in the negative, and he answered, nodding his head, “Some whom you know very well; but you must remember, Louis, you are only to know them as my daughter and granddaughter, and as your own aunt and cousin. Call the lady ‘Aunt Clarisse,’ or ‘Aunt Bonfin,’ and the little girl, ‘Mariette Bonfin.’ ”
The last words threw a ray of light upon the whole affair—and I was delighted. There is nothing, I believe, that children love so much as a little mystery, especially boys of thirteen or fourteen; but I had the additional satisfaction of having to play a part in the drama—a task always charming to a child brought up in France. I acted my character rather well, I flatter myself; and when Father Bonneville, well knowing that the letter had been read before it reached him, sent me to talk to our good hostess about rooms for our expected relations, I gave the buxom dame quite enough of Aunt Bonfin and Cousin Mariette, and described them both so accurately, that she could have no doubt of my personal acquaintance with these supposed connections. She thought it best, however, to deal with Citizen Charlier himself in regard to the apartments to be engaged, and visited him in his room for that purpose.
The old gentleman was very taciturn, and seemed to think it a part of his character to drive a hard bargain.
“His daughter,” he said, “was not rich: she had a great deal of hard-work and traveling before her to find out what had become of her husband, who had been wounded if not killed at Jenappes, and she could not afford to throw her money away in inns.” There was a good deal of skirmishing on these points, and a good deal of laughter and jest upon the part of our hostess, who seemed as well contented, and as comfortable as if there were no such thing as a guillotine in the world, though her table d’hôte rather suffered from time to time, in consequence of her guests being deprived of the organs of mastication amongst others. The whole, however, was settled at length, and two days afterward, I was informed that Madame Bonfin had arrived with her daughter in a little post-chaise.
The good priest was not yet well enough to quit his room, but I ran down the dingy stair-case into the court-yard, and as I expected, found Madame de Salins and Mariette just getting out of a dirty little vehicle, with a wooden apron, which bore the name of a cabriolet. Madame de Salins embraced me kindly, and I did not forget to call her Aunt Clarisse, while Mariette literally sprang into my arms, and I thought would have smothered me with caresses. If there had been any doubts previously in the minds of the people of the inn, they were all dissipated by the tenderness of this meeting, and Madame de Salins and her daughter followed me up stairs to the room of good Father Bonneville. One of the waiters accompanied us, but there the meeting was conducted as naturally as it had been below, and the words, “my daughter” and “my father,” passed habitually between the good priest and the high-born lady without any pause or hesitation.
Her own apartments were next shown to Madame de Salins, and her baggage was brought up from below, when I remarked that every thing had been carefully marked with the initials C. B., to signify Clarisse Bonfin.
Oh what actors every body in Paris became at that period! Some were so by nature; for very nearly one half of the world is always acting a part. Others did it because it was the tone of the day; and these formed the heroic or tragic band, who did every thing with Roman dignity and firmness, and carried the farce of representation into the very last act of the tragedy. Others were driven to act parts which did not belong to them, by the perils or necessities of their situation; and amongst these, was Madame de Salins, who, dressed somewhat in themode paysanne, was out frequently, went boldly to police offices, and to military authorities, inquiring diligently after her husband, John Bonfin, and demanded intelligence regarding the state and condition of a man who had never existed. A change in the direction of civic affairs, and the decapitation of two or three gentlemen, who had watched her diligently while in her lodging near the Place du Petit Chatelet, had now set her comparatively free, and she used her powers of persuasion, and her liberty, so well, that she obtained letters of recommendation to the medical officers of the armies of Dumouriez and Kellerman, with a satisfactory pass for herself, and her father, with two children. Upon what pretence she made her traveling party so large, I do not know; but she certainly carried her point. She was out more than once at night, too, and I remarked that Mariette was now sent daily to the house of Doctor L——, to bring the bottles of medicine which were still required by Father Bonneville—a task, which I always previously fulfilled.
As the distance was considerable, and the way somewhat intricate, I was permitted to accompany and guide my little companion, as far as the street leading into the Place du Chatelet, but was directed to go no farther, and wait there for her return. I had learned by this time to ask no questions, but I could not help thinking that Mariette often stayed a long time.
I do not know that I was of a very observing disposition, or inclined to be particularly censorious, but one thing I remarked which surprised me a good deal, and I recollect, quite well, that it gave me uncomfortable feelings. In my first interview with Madame de Salins, she had appeared overwhelmed with grief and terror, her clothes stained with her husband’s blood, and a look of wild, almost frantic horror in her face, which was never to be forgotten. Now, however, she had not only completely recovered her composure, but was generally cheerful, and sometimes even gay. Clouds of anxiety, indeed, would occasionally float over her beautiful brow, and she would fall into deep fits of thought; but it often seemed to me very strange that she should have so soon and so completely forgotten the husband, for whom she had seemed to mourn so sincerely. Indeed, there is nothing which so shocks—I might say, so terrifies, the earnest heart of youth, as to perceive how transient are those feelings of which to them life is made up, in the bosoms of persons older, of more experience, and more world-hardened than themselves. I loved Mariette, however, and Mariette loved me, and that was a feeling which I then fondly fancied could never decay or alter.
At length, one day, Father Bonneville declared himself strong enough to go out, and as there was a slight lull at the time in the political storm, we went to see—that is he and I—some places of public interest. I recollect an elderly gentleman coming up and joining in conversation with us, in a very mild and placable tone. The good Father was very much upon his guard, however, and in answer to some questions, said he had been very ill since he had come to Paris, and had enjoyed no opportunity of seeing the sights of the capital till the time of his stay was nearly expired. Whether the old gentleman considered us as very stupid or not I do not know, but he soon left us, and we found afterward that he was one of those worthy public denunciators, who at that time brought so many heads under the axe of the guillotine. He lived to a good old age, and I saw him afterward in London, playing at cards with great devotion, and furnished with a handsome diamond snuff-box.
This little incident, which I have only mentioned as characteristic of the times, had no result that I know of upon our fate. Three days afterward, the two post-chaises were got in order, horses were brought from the post-house, and to my infinite satisfaction we all rolled away together out of that grim city of Paris, which will ever remain associated in my mind with memories of blood and crime. It was a fine day—one of those days in February which come as if to bid us prepare for summer, long ere summer is near, and which I think are more beautiful and striking in France, than in any other country I know. The sunshine lay softly upon the face of the country, and on the top of a tall, bare tree, near the post-house, where we first stopped to change horses, a thrush was pouring forth its evening song, and making the air thrill with melody. I got out of our own little post-chaise to call Mariette’s attention to the bird, but when I looked into their cabriolet, to my surprise I saw that Madame de Salins was weeping bitterly. The post-master approached and looked in likewise; but she had great presence of mind, and instantly beckoning the man up, she asked him some questions regarding the movements of the armies, and whether he could give her any news of Citizen Bonfin, who commanded a company in Davoust’s volunteers. The man, who seemed to compassionate her greatly, replied that he could not, and asked if she had any apprehensions regarding him. She answered that the last she had heard of her husband, was, that he had been very severely wounded, but that careful nursing might yet save his life. The good post-master was not a Parisian, nor a litterateur, and so without affecting atheism, he prayed God to bless her endeavors, and we rolled on upon our way.
We went on for two or three hours after dark, and lodged as we found it expedient, at a post-house some little distance from Clermont. There, however, our landlord, the post-master, proposed a change in our arrangements, which was a very agreeable one to me. He laughed at four persons of one family traveling in two post-chaises, assured us that it would be much more convenient for us to go in a larger vehicle, having one to dispose of which would exactly suit us, and that we should save a good deal of money by the number of post-horses. His arguments seemed quite conclusive both to Father Bonneville and Madame de Salins, although he demanded two hundred livres, and our two carriages, for the one he intended to supply, which was not worth two hundred livres in itself. I was surprised at their acquiescence; for I did not believe they had much money to spare; but I rather imagine that they were afraid to oppose any thing he thought fit to suggest, and that if he had known their exact situation, he might have taxed them still more largely. By one contrivance or another, however, the papers of the family had been put into such good order, that no suspicion seems to have been excited any where. Perhaps, indeed, we were too insignificant to attract much attention, and at the end of a four days’ journey, we found ourselves rapidly approaching the frontiers of France, somewhat to the right of our then victorious army. This was, perhaps, the most dangerous point of our whole expedition, and at a spot where two hours more would have placed us in security beyond the limits of France, we paused for the night, in order to consider carefully the next step, lest we should lose the fruit of all our exertions at the very moment that it seemed within our grasp.
——
It was decided to drive right toward the frontier, beyond which the advance of the French army has already been considerable. All the country, almost to the banks of the Rhine was virtually in the hands of France; but no general system of administration had been thought of. The people were foreign, monarchical and anti-Gallican, and were ready enough to give every assistance to fugitives from a system which they hated and condemned.
This decision was taken, like all desperate ones, upon the calculation, right or wrong, of the chances. I was in the room when all points were discussed between Father Bonneville and Madame de Salins. Mariette lay sleeping in a corner of her mother’s bed, looking like a cherub; but I, more anxious perhaps, and more alive to the real perils of our situation than any one of my age could have been, not disciplined by the scenes which I had gone through during the last two months, was still up, and listening eagerly for every word. The order was given for the post-horses to be put to, the next morning, and as was necessary, the route was stated.
The post-master showed some little hesitation, saying that the road we proposed to go was directly that to the head-quarters of the army, and that we were none of us military people.
“But I am the wife of a soldier,” replied Madame de Salins, at once, and with a tone of dignity, “and these letters are for the surgeons-general of that army, to whom I must deliver them.”
She laid her hand upon the packet of letters which she possessed, as she spoke, and the post-master replied in a more deferential tone—“Very well, citoyenne, I dare say it is all right, and I can send you to the frontier; but whether you can get horses beyond or not, I can’t tell. Mind, I am not responsible beyond the frontier.”
The next morning at the hour appointed the horses were put to the carriage. They were three in number—we had previously had four—and they were harnessed, as was very common then in France, and is now, abreast. The postillion, instead of getting into his great jack-boots, as I had always previously seen, got upon the front seat of the carriage, gathered up the reins, and with the crack of a long whip set out toward the frontier. He was a sullen-looking, dull, uncommunicative person of that peculiar race found in the neighborhood of Liege, and called Walloons; and I, who was sitting with my shoulder close to his, though with my back toward him, and with nothing to intercept our communication—for the carriage was open in front—endeavored in vain to make him speak a word or two, addressing him frequently but obtaining no reply.
At first I supposed that he could speak no French, and at last gave up the undertaking. But I soon found that he could speak French enough when it suited his purpose.
We drove along for about seven miles without meeting a single human being, and seeing very few cultivated fields; for as frontier districts generally are, the land was left nearly untended, nobody caring much to plant harvests that they were never sure of reaping.
We at length came to a rude stone pillar, upon as bleak and desolate a spot as I ever remember to have seen. The ground was elevated, but sloped gently down to the neighboring country both before and behind us. At least three miles of desolate marsh, which retained its moisture, heaven knows how, swept around us on every side, and the only object which denoted human habitation was the outline of a village, with some trees, seen at the distance of some four or five miles on the plain which lay a little below us in advance. When we reached the rude sort of obelisk I have mentioned, the driver drew in his reins, and the horses stopped to breathe, as I supposed, after climbing the hill: but the next moment the man got down from the front seat, and approaching the side at which Father Bonneville sat, demanded his drink-money.
“I will give it you when we reach the next post-house,” said Father Bonneville.
“This is the only post-house I shall take you to,” replied the man sullenly, but in very good French, “I am not bound to go an inch beyond the line.”
The good priest remonstrated mildly, but the postillion answered with great insolence, threatening to take out the horses and leave us there.
Father Bonneville answered without the slightest heat, that he must do so if he pleased; that we were at his mercy; but that he was bound, if possible to take us to the next post-house.
Seeing that this menace had produced no effect upon the quiet and gentle spirit of the good old man, the postillion now determined to try another manœuvre, and grumbled forth that he knew very well we were aristocrats, seeking to fly from the country, and that therefore, like a good citizen, he should turn his horses round, drive us back, and denounce us at the municipality.
I had listened anxiously to the conversation, with a heart beating with the fear of being stopped, and indignation at the man’s conduct. At length a sudden thought struck me—what suggested it I do not know—nor how it arose, nor whether indeed thought had any thing to do with it, though I have called it a thought. It was more an impulse—an instinct—a sudden determination taken without reason, which made me clamber with the activity of a monkey over the back of the seat on which I was sitting, and snatch up the reins and the whip which the postillion had laid down upon the foot-board. I was determined to be out of France at all events, whoever staid behind; and I cut the horses on either flank without waiting to give notice or ask permission. I had once or twice driven a cart, loaded with flour, from the mill by the banks of the stream, up to Father Bonneville’s house and back again. I had not the slightest fear in the world; Father Bonneville cried, “Stop, stop!” but I drove on.
Madame de Salins gave a timid cry of surprise and fear, but I drove on. The postillion ran shouting and blaspheming after the carriage and tried to catch the reins; but I gave him a tremendous cut over the face with the whip, and drove on.
I know not what possessed me; but I seemed as if I was suddenly set free—free from the oppressive shackles of everlasting fear, and forethought and anxiety. The frontier of France was behind me. I was in a land where there were no guillotines—no spies, as I thought—no denouncers—no sans-culottes with bloody heads upon their pikes. I was free—to act, and to think, and to speak, and to come, and to go, as I liked. The cold, leaden, heavy spell of terror which had hung upon me was broke the moment I passed that frontier line, and the first use I made of my disenchantment was to drive the horses down that hill like a madman. Father Bonneville held tight on by the side of the carriage. Madame de Salins caught up Mariette, and clasped her tightly in her arms; but still I drove on without trepidation or pause; not that I disregarded the commands of my good preceptor: not that I was insensible to the alarm of Madame de Salins; but a spirit was upon me that I could not resist. I had no fear, and therefore I saw not why they should have any. The course I was pursuing seemed to my young notions to offer the only chance of safety, and therefore I thought they ought to rejoice as well as myself; and on I went, making the dry dust of a March day fly up into clouds along our course, and leaving the unhappy postillion, cursing and swearing, far, far behind us.
Happily for me, the horses were docile, and had been long accustomed to run between the two post-houses. If they had had a will of their own, and that will had been contrary to mine, I am very much afraid the majority of heads and legs would have carried the question; but they comprehended the object of which I aimed, and though unaccustomed to the hand that drove them, yielded readily to its direction—which was lucky—for about half-way down the hill there was an enormous stone in the middle of the road, which would have inevitably sent us rolling down into the middle of the valley if either of the off wheels had come in contact with it. The third horse puzzled me a little; but it did not matter. They had but one way to go, and we got to the bottom of the hill without accident.
“Stop them, stop them, Louis,” cried Father Bonneville, when all danger was in reality passed.
“I cannot just yet, Father,” I replied, tugging a little at the reins, “but they will go slower in a moment themselves;” and for nearly a mile we went on at a full gallop. Then the good beasts fell easily into a canter, with the exception of one, who shook his head and tugged at the rein when I attempted to bring him in, but soon yielded to the influence of example, and was reduced to a trot as speedily as the other two.
When our pace was brought to a speed of about eight miles an hour, I looked round joyously into the carriage, saying—“We have left that rogue far behind.”
“Louis, Louis, you should not have done this!” exclaimed Father Bonneville, shaking his head.
But Madame do Salins put her hand on his arm, saying, “He has saved us, Father. Do not—do not check such decision and presence of mind. Remember he is to be a man, and such qualities will be needful to him.”
I was very proud of her praise: got the horses easily into a quiet, ordinary pace, and drove directly into the village which we had seen from above, and where, as I had expected, the post-house was to be found.
The horses stopped of their own accord at the door, and we soon had two or three people round us. Thanks to Father Bonneville’s peculiar skill in acquiring languages, the people who seemed good and kindly disposed, were soon made acquainted with as much of our story as was necessary to tell. They entered into our cause warmly; but the post-master—or rather the post-mistress’s son—a little in awe of the French army, some thirty or forty miles distant, strongly advised that we should proceed without delay, lest our French postillion should come up, and embarrass the authorities by demanding our apprehension.
The advice was very palatable to us all; the French horses wereunharnessed in a few minutes; four fresh ones—somewhat fat and slow, indeed—were attached to the carriage; and Father Bonneville conscientiously deposited with the post-master the “pour boire,” or drink-money, for our abandoned postillion, with a couple of livres additional for the long walk he had to take.
It mattered little now whether we went fast or slow; for we were in a hospitable country, and amongst friendly people, and ere nightfall we were many miles beyond pursuit.
[To be continued.