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The Child Wife
Chapter Thirty Three.
A Nation’s Murder
“By Jawve!” exclaimed Swinton. “It’s that fellaw, Maynard. You remember him, ladies? The fellaw who, at Newpawt, wan away after gwosely insulting me, without giving me the oppawtunity of obtaining the satisfaction of a gentleman?”
“Come, come, Mr Swinton,” said Lucas, interposing. “I don’t wish to contradict you; but you’ll excuse me for saying that he didn’t exactly run away. I think I ought to know.”
The animus of Lucas’s speech is easily explained. He had grown rather hostile to Swinton. And no wonder. After pursuing the Fifth Avenue heiress all through the Continental tour, and as he supposed with fair prospect of success, he was once more in danger of being outdone by his English rival, freshly returned to the field.
“My deaw Mr Lucas,” responded Swinton, “that’s all vewy twue. The fellaw, as you say, wote me a lettaw, which did not weach me in proper time. But that was no weason why he should have stolen away and left no addwess faw me to find him.”
“He didn’t steal away,” quietly rejoined Lucas.
“Well,” said Swinton, “I won’t argue the question. Not with you, my deaw fwend, at all events – ”
“What can it mean?” interposed Mrs Girdwood, noticing the ill feeling between the suitors of Julia, and with the design of turning it off. “Why have they arrested him? Can any one tell?”
“Pawhaps he has committed some kwime?” suggested Swinton.
“That’s not likely, sir,” sharply asserted Cornelia.
“Aw – aw. Well, Miss Inskip, I may be wong in calling it kwime. It’s a question of fwaseology; but I’ve been told that this Mr Maynard is one of those wed wepublicans who would destwoy society, weligion, in shawt, evewything. No doubt, he has been meddling heaw in Fwance, and that’s the cause of his being a pwisoner. At least I suppose so.”
Julia had as yet said nothing. She was gazing after the arrested man, who had ceased struggling against his captors, and was being hurried off out of sight.
In the mind of the proud girl there was a thought Maynard might have felt proud of inspiring. In that moment of his humiliation he knew not that the most beautiful woman on the Boulevard had him in her heart with a deep interest, and a sympathy for his misfortune – whatever it might be. “Can nothing be done, mamma?”
“For what, Julia?”
“For him,” and she pointed after Maynard. “Certainly not, my child. Not by us. It is no affair of ours. He has got himself into some trouble with the soldiers. Perhaps, as Mr Swinton says, political. Let him get out of it as he can. I suppose he has his friends. Whether or not, we can do nothing for him. Not even if we tried. How could we – strangers like us?”
“Our Minister, mamma. You remember Captain Maynard has fought under the American flag. He would be entitled to its protection. Shall we go the Embassy?”
“We’ll do nothing of the kind, silly girl. I tell you it’s no affair of ours. We shan’t make or meddle with it. Come! let us return to the hotel. These soldiers seem to be behaving strangely. We’d better get out of their way. Look yonder! There are fresh troops of them pouring into the streets, and talking angrily to the people?”
It was as Mrs Girdwood had said. From the side streets armed bands were issuing, one after the other; while along the open Boulevard came rolling artillery carriages, followed by their caissons, the horses urged to furious speed by drivers who appeared drunk!
Here and there one dropped off, throwing itself into battery and unlimbering as if for action. Before, or alongside them, galloped squadrons of cavalry, lancers, cuirassiers, and conspicuously the Chasseurs d’Afrique – fit tools selected for the task that was before them.
All wore an air of angry excitement as men under the influence of spirits taken to prepare them for some sanguinary purpose. It was proclaimed by a string of watchwords passing occasionally between them, “Vive l’Empereur! Vive l’armée! À bas les canailles de députés et philosophes!”
Each moment the turmoil increased, the crowd also augmenting from streams pouring in by the side streets. Citizens became mingled with the soldiery, and here and there could be heard angry shouts and speeches of remonstrance.
All at once, and as if by a preconcerted signal, came the crisis. It was preconcerted, and by a signal only entrusted to the leaders.
A shot fired in the direction of the Madeleine from a gun of largest calibre, boomed along the Boulevards, and went reverberating over all Paris. It was distinctly heard in the distant Bastille, where the sham barricades had been thrown up, and the sham-barricaders were listening for it. It was quickly followed by another, heard in like manner. Answering to it rose the shout, “Vive l’République – Rouge et Démocratique!”
But it was not heard for long. Almost instantaneously was it drowned by the roar of cannon, and the rattling of musketry, mingled with the imprecations of ruffians in uniform rushing along the street.
The fusillade commencing at the Bastille did not long stay there. It was not intended that it should; nor was it to be confined to the sans culottes and ouvriers. Like a stream of fire – the ignited train of a mine – it swept along the Boulevards, blazing and crackling as it went, striking down before it man and woman blouse and bourgeoise, student and shopkeeper, in short all who had gone forth for a promenade on that awful afternoon. The sober husband with wife on one arm and child on the other, the gay grisette with her student protector, the unsuspicious stranger, lady or gentleman, were alike prostrated under that leaden shower of death. People rushed screaming towards the doorways, or attempted to escape through side streets. But here, too, they were met by men in uniform. Chasseurs and Zouaves, who with foaming lips and cheeks black from the biting of cartridges, drove them back before sabre and bayonet, impaling them by scores, amidst hoarse shouts and fiendish cachinnation, as of maniacs let forth to indulge in a wild saturnalia of death!
And it continued till the pave was heaped with dead bodies, and the gutters ran blood; till there was nothing more to kill, and cruelty stayed its stroke for want of a victim!
A dread episode was that massacre of the Second of December striking terror to the heart, not only of Paris, but France.
Chapter Thirty Four.
“I’ll Come to you!”
In the balconied window of a handsome house fronting on the Tuileries Gardens were two female figures, neither of which had anything to pronounce them Parisian. One was a young girl with an English face, bright roseate complexion, and sunny hair; the other was a tawny-skinned mulatto.
The reader will recognise Blanche Vernon and her attendant, Sabina.
It was not strange that Maynard could not find Sir George at any of the hotels. The English baronet was quartered as above, having preferred the privacy of a maison meublée.
Sir George was not at home; and his daughter, with Sabina by her side, had stepped out upon the balcony to observe the ever-changing panorama upon the street below.
The call of a cavalry bugle, with the braying of a military band, had made them aware that soldiers were passing – a sight attractive to women, whether young or old, dark or fair.
On looking over the parapet, they saw that the street was filled with them: soldiers of all arms – infantry, cavalry, artillery – some halted, some marching past; while officers in brilliant uniforms, mounted on fine horses, were galloping to and fro, vociferating orders to the various squadrons they commanded.
For some time the young English girl and her attendant looked down upon the glittering array, without exchanging speech.
It was Sabina who at length broke silence.
“Dey ain’t nowha longside ow British officas, for all dat gildin’ an’ red trowsas. Dey minds me ob a monkey I once see in ’Badoes dress’ up soja fashion – jes’ like dat monkey some o’ ’em look?”
“Come, Sabby! you are severe in your criticism. These French officers have the name of being very brave and gallant.”
The daughter of Sir George Vernon was a year older than when last seen by us. She had travelled a great deal of late. Though still but a child, it was not strange she should talk with the sageness of a woman.
“Doan blieve it,” was the curt answer of the attendant. “Dar only brave when dey drink wine, an’ gallant when de womans am good-looking. Dat’s what dese French be. Affer all dey’s only ’publicans, jess de same as in dem ’Meriky States.”
The remark seemed to produce a sudden change in the attitude of the young girl. A remembrance came over her; and instead of continuing to gaze at the soldiers below, she stood abstracted and thoughtful.
Sabina noticed her abstraction, and had some suspicion of what was causing it. Though her young mistress had long since ceased to be a communicative child, the shrewd attendant could guess what was passing through her thoughts.
The words “Republic” and “America,” though spoken in Badian patois, had recalled incidents, by Blanche never to be forgotten.
Despite her late reticence on the subject of these past scenes, Sabina knew that she still fondly remembered them. Her silence but showed it the more.
“’Deed yes, Missy Blanche,” continued the mulatto, “dem fellas down dar hab no respeck for politeness. Jess see de way dey’s swaggerin’! Look how dey push dem poor people ’bout!”
She referred to an incident transpiring on the street below. A small troop of Zouaves, marching rapidly along the sidewalk, had closed suddenly upon a crowd of civilian spectators. Instead of giving fair time for the latter to make way, the officer at the head of the troop not only vented vociferations upon them, but threatened them with drawn sword; while the red-breeched ruffians at his back seemed equally ready to make use of their bayonets!
Some of the people treated it as a joke, and laughed loudly; others gave back angry words or jeers; while the majority appeared awed and trembling.
“Dem’s de sojas ob de ’public – de officas, too!” exultingly pursued the loyal Badian. “You nebba see officas ob de Queen of England do dat way. Nebba!”
“No, nor all republican officers, Sabby. I know one who would not, and so do you.”
“Ah! Missy Blanche; me guess who you peakin’ of. Dat young genlum save you from de ’tagin’ ob de steama. Berry true. He was brave, gallant offica – Sabby say dat.”
“But he was a republican!”
“Well, maybe he wa. Dey said so. But he wan’t none ob de ’Meriky ’publicans, nor ob dese French neida. Me hear you fadda say he blong to de country ob England.”
“To Ireland.”
“Shoo, Missy Blanche, dat all de same! Tho’ he no like dem Irish we see out in de Wes’ Indy. Dar’s plenty ob dem in ’Badoes.”
“You’re speaking of the Irish labourers, whom you’ve seen doing the hard work. Captain Maynard – that’s his name, Sabby – is a gentleman. Of course that makes the difference.”
“Ob course. A berry great diff’rence. He no like dem nohow. But Missy Blanche, wonda wha he now am! ’Trange we no mo’ hear ob him! You tink he gone back to de ’Meriky States?”
The question touched a chord in the bosom of the young girl that thrilled unpleasantly. It was the same that for more than twelve months she had been putting to herself, in daily repetitions. She could no more answer it than the mulatto.
“I’m sure I cannot tell, Sabby.”
She said this with an air of calmness which her quick-witted attendant knew to be unreal.
“Berry trange he no come to meet you fadda in de big house at Seven Oak. Me see de gubnor gib um de ’dress on one ob dem card. Me hear your fadder say he muss come, and hear de young genlum make promise. Wonda wha for he no keep it?”
Blanche wondered too, though without declaring it. Many an hour had she spent conjecturing the cause of his failing to keep that promise. She would have been glad to see him again; to thank him once more, and in less hurried fashion, for that act of gallantly, which, it might be, was the saving of her life.
She had been told then that he intended to take part in some of the revolutions. But she knew that all these were over; and he could not be now engaged in them. He must have stayed in England or Ireland. Or had he returned to the United States? In any case, why had he not come down to Sevenoaks, Kent? It was but an hour’s ride from London!
Perhaps in the midst of his exalted associations – military and political – he had forgotten the simple child he had plucked from peril? It might be but one of the ordinary incidents of his adventurous life, and was scarce retained in his memory?
But she remembered it; with a deep sense of indebtedness – a romantic gratitude, that grew stronger as she became more capable of appreciating the disinterestedness of the act.
Perhaps all the more, that the benefactor had not returned to claim his reward. She was old enough to know her father’s position and power. A mere adventurer would have availed himself of such a chance to benefit by them. Captain Maynard could not be this.
It made her happy to reflect that he was a gentleman; but sad to think she should never see him again.
Often had these alternations of thought passed through the mind of this fair young creature. They were passing through it that moment, as she stood looking out upon the Tuileries, regardless of the stirring incidents that were passing upon the pavement below.
Her thoughts were of the past: of a scene on the other side of the Atlantic; of many a little episode on board the Cunard steamer; of one yet more vividly remembered, when she was hanging by a rope above angry hungering waves, till she felt a strong arm thrown around her, that lifted her beyond their rage! She was startled from her reverie by the voice of her attendant, uttered in a tone of unusual excitement.
“Look! Lookee yonder, Missy Blanche! Dem Arab fellas hab take a man prisoner! See! dey fotch im this way – right under de winda. Poor fella! Wonda what he been an’ done?” Blanche Vernon bent over the balcony, and scanned the street below. Her eye soon rested on the group pointed out by Sabina.
Half a dozen Zouaves, hurrying along with loud talk and excited gesticulation, conducted a man in their midst. He was in civilian dress, of a style that bespoke the gentleman, notwithstanding its disorder.
“Some political offender!” thought the daughter of the diplomatist, not wholly unacquainted with the proceedings of the times.
It was a conjecture that passed, quick as it had come; but only into a certainty. Despite the disordered dress and humiliating position of the man the young girl recognised her rescuer – he who, but the moment before, was occupying her thoughts!
And he saw her! Walking with head erect, and eyes upturned to the heaven he feared not to face, his glance fell upon a dark-skinned woman with a white toque on her head, and beside her a young girl shining like a Virgin of the Sun!
He had no time to salute them. No chance either, for his hands were in manacles!
In another instant he was beneath the balcony, forced forward by the chattering apes who were guarding him.
But he heard a voice above his head – above their curses and their clamour – a soft, sweet voice, crying out: “I’ll come to you! I will come!”
Chapter Thirty Five.
To the Prison
“I’ll come to you! I will come!”
True to the intention thus proclaimed, Blanche Vernon glided back into the room; and, hastily laying hold of hat and cloak, was making for the stair.
“You mad, missa!” cried the mulatto, throwing herself into the doorway with the design of intercepting her. “What will you fadda say? Dat’s danger outside ’mong dem noisy sojas. For lub ob de good Jesus, Missy Blanche, doan tink ob goin’ down to de ’treet?”
“There’s no danger. I don’t care if there is. Stand out of the way, Sabby, or I’ll be too late. Stand aside, I tell you!”
“Oh, Mass Freeman!” appealed Sabina to the footman, who had come out of his ante-chamber on hearing the excited dialogue, “you see what you young misress agoin’ to do?”
“What be it, Miss Blanche?”
“Nothing, Freeman; nothing for Sabby to make so much of. I’m only going to find papa. Don’t either of you hinder me!”
The command was spoken in that tone which the servants of England’s aristocracy are habituated to respect; and Blanche Vernon, though still only a child, was accustomed to their obedience.
Before Freeman could make reply, she had passed out of the room, and commenced descending the escalier.
Sabina rushed after, no longer with the design of intercepting but to accompany her. Sabby needed no bonnet. Her white toque was her constant coiffure, outdoors as in. Freeman, laying hold of his hat, followed them down the stair. On reaching the street, the young girl did not pause for an instant; but turned along the footway in the direction in which the prisoner had been conducted. Soldiers were still passing in troops, and citizens hurrying excitedly by, some going one way, some another. Dragoons were galloping along the wide causeway, and through the Tuileries Gardens; while the court inside the iron railing was alive with uniformed men.
Loud shouting was heard near at hand, with the rolling of drums and the sharp calling of trumpets.
Further off, in the direction of the Boulevards, there was a constant rattling, which she knew to be the fire of musketry, mingled with the louder booming of cannon!
She had no knowledge of what it could all mean. There were always soldiers in the streets of Paris and around the Tuileries. The marching of troops with beating drums, screaming bugles, and firing of guns, were things of every day occurrence; for almost every day there were reviews and military exercises.
This only differed from the rest in the more excited appearance of the soldiery, their ruder behaviour toward the pedestrians who chanced in their way, and the terrified appearance of the latter, as they rushed quickly out of it. Several were seen hastening, as if for concealment or refuge. The young girl noticed this, but paid no regard to it. She only hurried on, Sabina by her side, Freeman close following.
Her eyes were directed along the sidewalk, as if searching for some one who should appear at a distance before her. She was scanning the motley crowd to make out the Zouave dresses.
An exclamation at length told that she had discovered them. A group in Oriental garb could be distinguished about a hundred yards ahead of her. In their midst was a man in civilian costume, plainly their prisoner. It was he who had tempted her forth on that perilous promenade.
Whilst her eyes were still on them, they turned suddenly from the street, conducting their captive through a gateway that was guarded by sentinels and surrounded by a crowd of soldiers – Zouaves like themselves.
“Monsieur!” said she, on arriving in front of the entrance, and addressing herself to one of the soldiers, “why has that gentleman been taken prisoner?”
As she spoke in his own tongue the soldier had no difficulty in understanding her.
“Ho – ho!” he said, making her a mock salute, and bending down till his hairy face almost touched her soft rose-coloured cheek, “My pretty white dove with the chevelure d’or, what gentleman are you inquiring about?”
“He who has just been taken in there.”
She pointed to the gateway now closed.
“Parbleu! my little love! that’s no description. A score have been taken in there within the last half-hour – all gentlemen, I have no doubt. At least there were no ladies among them.”
“I mean the one who went in last. There have been none since.”
“The last – the last – let me see! Oh, I suppose he’s been shut up for the same reason as the others.”
“What is it, monsieur?”
“Par dieu! I can’t tell, my pretty sunbeam! Why are you so interested in him? You are not his sister, are you? No; I see you’re not,” continued the soldier, glancing at Sabina and Freeman, becoming also more respectful at the sight of the liveried attendant. “You must be une Anglaise?”
“Yes, I am,” was the reply.
“If you’ll stay here a moment,” said the Zouave, “I’ll step inside and inquire for you.”
“Pray, do, monsieur!”
Drawing a little to one side, with Sabina and Freeman to protect her from being jostled, Blanche waited for the man’s return.
True to his promise he came back; but without bringing the required information.
He could only tell them that “the young man had been made prisoner for some political offence – for having interfered with the soldiers when upon their duty.”
“Perhaps,” added he, in a whisper, “monsieur has been incautious. He may have called out, ‘Vive la République!’ when the parole for to-day is ‘Vive l’Empereur!’ He appears to be an Anglais. Is he a relative of yours, mam’selle?”
“Oh, no!” answered the young girl, turning hastily away, and without even saying “merci” to the man who had taken such trouble to serve her.
“Come, Sabina, let us go back to the house. And you, Freeman, run to the English Embassy! If you don’t find papa there, go in search of him. All over Paris if need be. Tell him he is wanted – that I want him. Bring him along with you. Dear Freeman! promise me you will not lose a moment’s time. It’s the same gentleman who saved my life at Liverpool! You remember it. If harm should come to him in this horrid city – go quick, sir! Take this! You may need a coach. Tell papa – tell Lord C – . You know what to say. Quick! quick!”
The handful of five-franc pieces poured into his palm would of itself have been sufficient to stimulate the footman; and, without protest, he started off in the direction of the English Embassy.
His young mistress, with her attendant, returned to the maison meublée– there to await the coming of her father.
