THE FANTASTIC VISCOUNT.
Search for a jewel that too casually
Hath left mine arm: it was thy master's. Shrew me
If I would lose it for a revenue
Of any king's in Europe!--Cymbeline.
'My dear Fitzjocelyn, what is to be done? Have you heard? Delaford
says these horrid creatures are rising! There was an attack on the
Hotel de Ville last night! A thousand people killed, at least!--The
National Guard called out!'
'One of the lions of Paris, my dear aunt; Virginia is seeing it in
style.'
'Seeing it! We must go at once. They will raise those horrid
barricades;--we shall be closed in. And Isabel gone to that governess!
I wish I had never consented! How could I come here at all?
Fitzjocelyn, what is to be done?'
'Drive round that way, if you are bent on going,' said Louia, coolly.
'Meantime, Virginia, my dear, I will thank you for some coffee.'
'How can you talk of such things?' cried his aunt. 'It is all those
savage wretches, mad because the national workshops are closed.
Delaford declares they will massacre all the English.'
'Poor wretches, I believe they are starving. I think you are making
yourself ill--the most pressing danger. Come, Virginia, persuade your
mamma to sit down to breakfast, while I go to reconnoitre. Where are
the passports?'
Virginia had lost all terror in excitement, but neither she nor her
mother could bear to let him go out, to return they knew not when. The
carriage had already been ordered, but Lady Conway was exceedingly
frightened at the notion of driving anywhere but direct to the railway
station; she was sure that they should encounter something frightful if
they went along the Boulevards.
'Could not Delaford go to fetch Isabel?' suggested Virginia, 'he might
take a carriage belonging to the hotel.'
Delaford was summoned, and desired to go to fetch Miss Conway, but
though he said, 'Yes, my Lady,' he looked yellow and white, and
loitered to suggest whether the young lady would not be alarmed.
'I will go with you,' said Louis. 'Order the carriage, and I shall be
ready.'
Lady Conway, to whom his presence seemed protection, was almost
remonstrating, but he said, 'Delaford is in no state to be of use. He
would take bonjour for a challenge. Let me go with him, or he will
take care the young lady is alarmed. When we are all together, we can
do as may seem best, and I shall be able better to judge whether we are
to fight or fly.'
Outside the door he found Delaford, who begged to suggest to his
lordship that my Lady would be alarmed if she were left without either
of them, he could hardly answer it to himself that she should remain
without any male protector.
'Oh yes, pray remain to defend her,' said Louis, much amused, and
hastening down-stairs he ordered the carriage to drive to Rue ----, off
the Boulevard St. Martin.
He thought there were signs boding tempest. Shops were closed, and men
in blouses were beginning to assemble in knots--here and there the
red-cap loomed ominously in the far end of narrow alleys, and in the
wider streets the only passengers either seemed in haste like himself,
or else were National Guards hurrying to their alarm-post.
He came safely to Miss Longman's apartments, where he found all on the
alert--the governess and her nieces recounting their experiences of
February, which convinced them that there was more danger in returning
than in remaining. Miss Longman was urgent to keep Isabel and Lord
Fitzjocelyn for at least a few hours, which she declared would probably
be the duration of any emeute, but they knew this would cause dreadful
anxiety, and when Fitzjocelyn proposed returning alone, Isabel insisted
on accompanying him, declaring that she had no fears, and that her
mother would be miserable if her absence should detain them. Perhaps
she was somewhat deceived by the cool, almost ludicrous, light in which
he placed the revolution, as a sort of periodical spasm, and Miss
Longman's predictions that the railway would be closed, only quickened
her preparations.
After receiving many entreaties to return in case of alarm, they took
leave, Louis seating himself beside the driver, as well to keep a
look-out, as to free Miss Conway from fears of a tete-a-tete. Except
for such a charge of ladies, he would have been delighted at the
excitement of an emeute; but he was far from guessing how serious a
turn affairs were taking.
The dark blue groups were thickening into crowds; muskets and pikes
were here and there seen, and once he recognised the sinister red flag.
A few distant shots were heard, and the driver would gladly have
hastened his speed, but swarms of haggard-looking men began to impede
their progress, and strains of 'Mourir pour la patrie' now and then
reached their ears.
Close to the Porte St. Denis they were brought to a full stop by a
dense throng, above whose heads were seen a line of carriages, the red
flag planted on the top. Many hands were seizing the horses' heads,
and Louis leapt down, but not before the door had been opened, and
voices were exclaiming, 'Descendez citoyenne; au nom de la nation,
descendez.' The mob were not uncivil, they made way for Louis, and
bade him reassure her that no harm was intended, but the carriage was
required for the service of the nation.
Isabel had retreated as far as she could from their hands, but she
showed no signs of quailing; her eyes were bright, her colour high, and
the hand was firm which she gave to Louis as she stepped out. There was
a murmur of admiration, and more than one bow and muttered apology
about necessity and the nation, as the crowd beheld the maiden in all
her innate nobleness and dignity.
'Which way?' asked Louis, finding that the crowd were willing to let
them choose their course.
'Home,' said Isabel, decidedly, 'there is no use in turning back.'
They pressed on past the barricade for which their carriage had been
required, a structure of confiscated vehicles, the interstices filled
up with earth and paving stones, which men and boys were busily tearing
up from the trottoirs, and others carrying to their destination. They
were a gaunt, hungry, wolfish-looking race, and the first words that
Isabel spoke were words of pity, when they had passed them, and
continued their course along the Boulevards, here in desolate
tranquillity. 'Poor creatures, they look as if misery made them
furious! and yet how civil they were.'
'Were you much alarmed? I wish I could have come to you sooner.'
'Thank you; I knew that you were at hand, and their address was not
very terrific, poor things. I do not imagine there was any real
danger.'
'I wish I knew whether we are within or without the barricades. If
within, we shall have to cross another. We are actually becoming
historical!'
He broke off, amazed by Isabel's change of countenance, as she put her
hand to the arm he held, hastily withdrew it, and exclaimed, 'My
bracelet! oh, my bracelet!' turning round to seek it on the pavement.
'The ivory clasp?' asked Louis, perceiving its absence.
'Oh yes!' she cried, in much distress, 'I would not have lost it for
all the world.'
'You may have left it at Miss Longman's.'
'No, no, I was never without it!'
She turned, and made a few retrograde steps, searching on the ground,
as if conscious only of her loss, shaking off his hand when he touched
her arm to detain her.
A discovery broke on, him. Well that he could bear it!
'Hark!' he said, 'there is cannon firing! Miss Conway, you cannot go
back. I will do my utmost to recover your clasp, but we must not stay
here.'
'I had forgotten. I beg your pardon, I did not think!' said Isabel,
with a species of rebuked submission, as if impressed by the calmness
that gave authority to his manner; and she made no remark as he made
her resume his arm, and hurried her on past houses with closed doors
and windows.
Suddenly there was the sound of a volley of musketry far behind.
'Heaven help the poor wretches,' said Louis; and Isabel's grasp
tightened on his arm.
Again, again--the dropping sound of shot became continual. And now it
was in front as well as in the rear; and the booming of cannon
resounded from the heart of the city. They were again on the outskirts
of a crowd.
'It is as I thought,' said Louis, 'we are between both. There is
nothing for it but to push on, and see whether we can cross the
barricades; are you afraid to encounter it!'
'No,' said Isabel.
'There is a convent not far off, I think. We might find shelter for
you there. Yet they might break in. It might not be easy to meet. I
believe you are safer with me. Will you trust in me?'
'I will not have you endanger yourself for me. Dispose of me as you
will--in a convent, or anywhere. Your life is precious, your safety is
the first thing.'
'You are speaking in irony.'
'I did not mean it: I beg your pardon.' But she coloured and faltered.
'You must distinctly understand that this is only as Englishman to
Englishwoman.'
'As Englishman to Englishwoman,' repeated Louis, in her own formula.
'Or rather,' he added, lowering his voice, 'trust me, for the sake of
those who gave the clasp.'
He was answered by her involuntary pressure of his arm, and finally, to
set her at ease, he said, hurriedly, 'If it went wrong with me, it
would be to Lima that I should ask you to send my love.'
There was no time for more. They were again on the freshly-torn
ground, whence the pavement had been wrenched. The throng had
thickened behind them, and seemed to be involving them in the vortex.
Above their heads Louis could see in front between the tall houses, the
summit of another barricade complete, surmounted with the red flag, and
guarded by a fierce party of ruffians.
All at once, tremendous yells broke out on all sides. The rattle of a
drum, now and then, might be distinguished, shouts and shrieks
resounded, and there was a sharp fire of musketry from the barricade,
and from the adjoining windows; there was a general rush to the front,
and Louis could only guard Isabel by pressing her into the recess of
the closed doorway of one of the houses, and standing before her,
preventing himself from being swept away only by exerting all his
English strength against the lean, wild beings who struggled past him,
howling and screaming. The defenders sprang upon the barricade, and
thrust back and hurled down the National Guards, whose heads were now
and then seen as they vainly endeavoured to gain the summit. This
desperate struggle lasted for a few minutes, then cries of victory
broke out, and there was sharp firing on both sides, which, however,
soon ceased; the red flag and the blouses remaining still in
possession. Isabel had stood perfectly silent and motionless through
the whole crisis, and though she clung to her protector's arm, it was
not with nervous disabling terror, even in the frightful tumult of the
multitude. There was some other strength with her!
'You are not hurt?' said Louis, as the pressure relaxed.
'Oh no! thank God! You are not?'
'Are you ready? We must make a rush before the next assault.'
A lane opened in the throng to afford passage for the wounded. Isabel
shrank back, but Louis drew her on hastily, till they had attained the
very foot of the barricade, where a space was kept clear, and there was
a cry 'Au large, or we shall fire.'
'Let us pass, citizens,' said Louis, hastily rehearsing the French he
had been composing. 'You make not war on women. Let me take this
young lady to her mother.'
Grim looks were levelled at them by the fierce black-bearded men, and
their mutterings of belle made her cling the closer to her guardian.
'Let her pass, the poor child!' said more than one voice.
'Hein!--they are English, who take the bread out of our mouths.'
'If you were a political economist,' said Louis, gravely, fixing his
eyes on the shrewd-looking, sallow speaker, I would prove to you your
mistake; but I have no time, and you are too good fellows to wish to
keep this lady here, a mark for the Garde Nationale.'
'He is right there,' said several of the council of chiefs, and a
poissarde, with brawny arms and a tall white cap, thrusting forward,
cried out, 'Let them go, the poor children. What are they doing here?
They look fit to be set up in the church for waxen images!'
'Take care you do not break us,' exclaimed Louis, whose fair cheek had
won this tribute; and his smile, and the readiness of his reply, won
his admission to the first of the steps up the barricade.
'Halte la!' cried a large-limbed, formidable-looking ruffian on the
summit, pointing his musket towards them; 'none passes here who does
not bring a stone to raise our barricade for the rights of the Red
Republic, and cry, La liberte, l'egalite, et la, fraternite, let it fit
his perfidious tongue as it may.'
'There's my answer,' said Louis, raising his right arm, which was
dripping; with blood, 'you have made me mount the red flag!'
'Ha!' cried the friendly fishwife, 'Wounded in the cause of the nation!
Let him go.'
'He has not uttered the cry!' shouted the rest.
Louis looked round with his cool, pensive smile.
'Liberty!' he said, 'what _we_ mean by liberty is freedom to go where
we will, and say what we will. I wish you had it, my poor fellows.
Fraternity--it is not shooting our brother. Egalite--I preach that
too, but in my own fashion, not yours. Let me pass--si cela vou est
egal.'
His nonchalant intrepidity--a quality never lost on the French--raised
an acclamation of le brave Anglais. No one stirred a hand to hinder
their mounting to the banquette, and several hands were held out to
assist in surmounting the parapet of this extempore fortification.
Isabel bowed her thanks, and Louis spoke them with gestures of
courtesy; and shouts of high applause followed them as they sped along
the blood-stained street.
The troops were re-forming after the repulse, and the point was to pass
before the attack could be renewed, as well as not to be mistaken for
the insurgents.
They were at once challenged, but a short explanation to the officer
was sufficient, and they were suffered to turn into the Rue Richelieu,
where they were only pursued by the distant sounds of warfare.
'Oh, Lord Fitzjocelyn!' cried Isabel, as he slackened his pace, and
gasped for breath.
'You are sure you are not hurt?' he said.
'Oh no, no; but you--'
'It is very little,' he said--'a stray shot--only enough to work on
their feelings. What good-natured rogues they were. I will only twist
my handkerchief round to stop the blood. Thank you.'
Isabel tried to help him, but she was too much afraid of hurting him to
draw the bandage tight.
They dashed on, finding people on the watch for tidings, and meeting
bodies of the National Guard, and when at length they reached the Place
Vendome, they found the whole establishment watching for them, and
Virginia flew to meet them on the stairs, throwing her arms round her
sister, while Lady Conway started forward with the agitated joy, and
almost anger, of one who felt injured by the fright they had made her
suffer.
'There you are! What has kept you! Delaford said they were
slaughtering every one on the Boulevards!'
'I warned you of the consequences of taking me,' said Louis, dropping
into a chair.
'Mamma! he is all over blood!' screamed Virginia.
Lady Conway recoiled, with a slight shriek.
'It is a trifle,' said Louis;' Isabel is safe. There is all cause for
thankfulness. We could never have got through if she had not been
every inch a heroine.'
'Oh, Lord Fitzjocelyn, if I could thank you!'
'Don't,' said Louis, with so exactly his peculiar droll look and smile,
that all were reassured.
Isabel began to recount their adventure.
'In the midst of those horrid wretches! and the firing!' cried Lady
Conway. 'My dear, how could you bear it? I should have died of
fright!'
'There was no time for fear,' said Isabel, with a sort of scorn; 'I
should have been ashamed to be frightened when Lord Fitzjocelyn took it
so quietly. I was only afraid lest you should repeat their horrid
war-cry. I honour your refusal.'
'Of course one would not in their sense, poor things, and on
compulsion,' said Louis, his words coming the slower from the
exhaustion which made him philosophize, rather than exert himself. 'In
a true sense, it is the war-cry of our life.'
'How can you talk so!' cried Lady Conway. 'Delaford says the ruffians
are certain to overpower the Guard. We must go directly. Very likely
this delay of yours may prevent us from getting off at all.'
'I will find out whether the way be open,' said Louis, 'when I have-'
His words failed him, for as he rose, the handkerchief slipped off, a
gush of blood came with it, and he was so faint that he could hardly
reach the sofa.
Lady Conway screamed, Virginia rang the bells, Isabel gave orders that
a surgeon should be called.
'Spirits from the vasty deep,' muttered Louis, in the midst of his
faintness, 'the surgeons have graver work on hand.'
'For heaven's sake, don't talk so!' cried his aunt, without daring to
look at him; 'I know your arm is broken!'
'Broken bones are a very different matter, experto crede. This will be
all right when I can stop the bleeding,' and steadying himself with
difficulty, he reached the door, and slowly repaired to his own room,
while the girls sent Fanshawe and Delaford to his assistance.
Lady Conway, unable to bear the sight of blood, was in a state of
nervous sobbing, which Virginia's excited restlessness did not tend to
compose; and Isabel walked up and down the room, wishing that she could
do anything, looking reproachfully at her mother, and exalting to the
skies the courage, presence of mind, and fortitude of the wounded
knight.
Presently, Delaford came down with a message from Lord Fitzjocelyn that
it was of no use to wait for him, for as the butler expressed it, 'the
haemorrhage was pertinacious,' and he begged that the ladies would
depart without regard to him. 'In fact,' said Delaford, 'it was a
serious crisis, and there was no time to be lost; an English gentleman,
Captain Lonsdale, who had already offered his services, would take care
of his lordship, and my Lady had better secure herself and the young
ladies.'
'Leave Fitzjocelyn!' cried Virginia.
'Is it very dangerous, Delaford?' asked Lady Conway.
'I would not be responsible for the consequences of remaining, my
Lady,' was the answer. 'Shall I order the horses to be brought out?'
'I don't know. Is the street full of people? Oh! there is firing!
What shall I do? Isabel, what do you say!'
Isabel was sitting still and upright; she hardly raised her eyelids, as
she tranquilly said, 'Nothing shall induce me to go till he is better.'
'Isabel! this is most extraordinary! Do you know what you are saying?'
Isabel did not weaken her words by repetition, but signed to Delaford
to leave them, and he never ventured to disregard Miss Conway. Virginia
hung about her, and declared that she was quite right; and Lady Conway,
in restless despair, predicted that they would all be massacred, and
that her nephew would bleed to death, and appealed to every one on the
iniquity of all the doctors in Paris for not coming near him.
Poor Louis himself was finding it very forlorn to be left to Fanshawe,
whose one idea was essences, and Delaford, who suggested nothing but
brandy. Some aunts and cousins he had, who would not have left him to
their tender mercies. He was growing confused and feeble, speculating
upon arteries, and then starting from a delusion of Mary's voice to
realize his condition, and try to waken his benumbed faculties.
At last, a decided step was heard, and he saw standing by him a
vigorous, practical-looking Englishman, and a black-eyed, white-hooded
little Soeur de Charite. Captain Lonsdale, on hearing the calls for
surgical aid, had without a word, hurried out and secured the brisk
little Sister, who, with much gesticulation, took possession of the
arm, and pronounced it a mere trifle, which would have been nothing but
for the loss of blood, the ball having simply passed through the fleshy
part of the arm, avoiding the bone. Louis, pleased with this encounter
as a result of the adventure, was soon in condition to rise, though
with white cheeks and tottering step, and to present to Lady Conway her
new defender.
The sight of a bold, lively English soldier was a grand consolation,
even though he entirely destroyed all plans of escape by assuring her
that there was a tremendous disturbance in the direction of the
Northern Railway, and that the only safe place for ladies was just
where she was. He made various expeditions to procure intelligence,
and his tidings were cheerful enough to counteract the horrible stories
that Delaford was constantly bringing in, throughout that Saturday, the
dreadful 24th of June, 1848.
It was late before any one ventured to go to bed; and Louis, weak and
weary, had wakened many times from dreamy perceptions that some
wonderful discovery had been made, always fixing it upon Mary, and then
finding himself infinitely relieved by recollecting that it did not
regard her. He was in the full discomfort of the earlier stage of this
oft-repeated vision, when his door was pushed open, and Delaford's
trembling voice exclaimed, 'My Lord, I beg your pardon, the massacre is
beginning.'
'Let me know when it is over,' said Louis, nearly in his sleep.
Delaford reiterated that the city was bombarded, thousands of armed men
were marching on the hotel, and my Lady ought to be informed. A
distant cannonade, the trampling of many feet, and terrified voices on
the stairs, finally roused Louis, and hastily rising, he quitted his
room, and found all the ladies on the alert. Lady Conway was holding
back Virginia from the window, and by turns summoning Isabel to leave
it, and volubly entreating the master of the hotel to secure it with
feather-beds to defend them from the shot.
'Oh, Fitzjocelyn!' she screamed, 'tell him so--tell him to take us to
the cellars. Why will he not put the mattresses against the windows
before they fire?'
'I should prefer a different relative position for ourselves and the
beds,' said Louis, in his leisurely manner, as he advanced to look out.
'These are the friends of order, my dear aunt; you should welcome your
protectors. Their beards and their bayonets by gaslight are a grand
military spectacle.'
'They will fire! There will be fighting here! They will force their
way in. Don't, Virginia--I desire you will not go near the window.'
'We are all right. You are as safe as if you were in your own
drawing-room,' said Captain Lonsdale, walking in, and with his loud
voice drowning the panic, that Louis's cool, gentle tones only
irritated.
Isabel looked up and smiled, as Louis stood by her, leaving his aunt
and Virginia to the martial tones of their consoler.
'I could get no one to believe me when I said it was only the
soldiers,' she observed, with some secret amusement.
'The feather-bed fortress was the leading idea,' said Louis. 'Some
ladies have a curious pseudo presence of mind.'
'Generally, I believe,' said Isabel, 'a woman's presence of mind should
be to do as she is told, and not to think for herself, unless she be
obliged.'
'Thinking for themselves has been fatal to a good many,' said Louis,
relapsing into meditation--'this poor Paris among the rest, I fancy.
What a dawn for a Sunday morning! How cold the lights look, and how
yellow the gas burns. We may think of home, and be thankful!' and
kneeling with one knee on a chair, he leant against the shutter, gazing
out and musing aloud.
'Thankful, indeed!' said Isabel, thoughtfully.
'Yes--first it was thinking not at all, and then thinking not in the
right way.'
Isabel readily fell into the same strain. 'They turned from daylight
and followed the glare of their own gas,' said she.
So they began a backward tracing of the calamities of France; and, as
Louis's words came with more than usual slowness and deliberation, they
had only come to Cardinal de Richelieu, when Captain Lonsdale
exclaimed, 'I am sorry to interrupt you, Lord Fitzjocelyn, but may I
ask whether you can afford to lose any more blood?'
'Thank you; yes, the bandage is loosened, but I was too comfortable to
move,' said Louis, sleepily, and he reeled as he made the attempt, so
that he could not have reached his room without support.
The Captain had profited sufficiently by the Sister's example to be
able to staunch the blood, but not till the effusion had exhausted
Louis so much that all the next day it mattered little to him that the
city was in a state of siege, and no one allowed to go out or come in.
Even a constant traveller like Captain Lonsdale, fertile in resource,
and undaunted in search of all that was to be seen, was obliged to
submit, the more willingly that Fitzjocelyn needed his care, and the
ladies' terror was only kept at bay by his protection. He sat beside
the bed where lay Louis in a torpid state, greatly disinclined to be
roused to attend when his aunt would hasten into the room, full of some
horrible rumour brought in by Delaford, and almost petulant because he
would not be alarmed. All he asked of the Tricolor or of the Drapeau
Rouge for the present was to let him alone, and he would drop into a
doze again, while the Captain was still arguing away her terror.
More was true than he would allow her to credit and when the little
Soeur de Charite found a few minutes for visiting her patient's wound,
her bright face was pale with horror and her eyes red with weeping.
'Our good Archbishop!' she sobbed, when she allowed herself to speak,
and to give way to a burst of tears. 'Ah, the martyr! Ah, the good
pastor! The miserable--But no--my poor people, they knew not what they
did!'
And as Louis, completely awakened, questioned her, she told how the
good Archbishop Affre had begun that Sunday of strife and bloodshed by
offering his intercessions at the altar for the unhappy people, and
then offering his own life. 'The good shepherd giveth his life for the
sheep,' were his words, as he went forth to stand between the hostile
parties, and endeavour to check their fury against one another. She
herself had seen him, followed by a few priests, and preceded by a
brave and faithful ouvrier, who insisted on carrying before him a green
branch, as an emblem of his peaceful mission. She described how, at
the sight of his violet robes, and the white cross on his breast, the
brave boy gardes mobiles came crowding round him, all black with
powder, begging for his blessing, some reminding him that he had
confirmed them, while others cried, 'Your blessing on our muskets, and
we shall be invincible,' while some of the women asked him to carry the
bandages and lint which they wished to send to the wounded.
On he went, comforting the wounded, absolving the dying, and exhorting
the living, and at more than one scene of conflict the combatants
paused, and yielded to his persuasions; but at the barricade at the
Faubourg St. Antoine, while he was signing to the mob to give him a
moment to speak, a ball struck him, and followed by the weeping and
horror-struck insurgents, he was borne into the curate's house,
severely wounded, while the populace laid down their weapons, to sign a
declaration that they knew not who had fired the fatal shot.
'No, no, it was none of our people!' repeated the little nun. 'Not one
of them, poor lost creatures as too many are, would have committed the
act--so sacrilegious, so ungrateful! Ah! you must not believe them
wicked. It is misery that drove them to rise. Hold! I met a young
man--alas! I knew him well when he was a child--I said to him, 'Ah! my
son, you are on the bad train.' 'Bread, mother--it is bread we must
have,' he answered. 'Why, would you speak to one who has not eaten for
twenty-four hours?' I told him he knew the way to our kitchen. 'No,
mother,' he said, 'I shall not eat; I shall get myself killed.''
Many a lamentable detail of this description did she narrate, as she
busied herself with the wound; and Louis listened, as he had listened
to nothing else that day, and nearly emptied his travelling purse for
the sufferers. Isabel and Virginia waylaid her on the stairs to admire
and ask questions, but she firmly, though politely, put them aside,
unable to waste any time away from her children--her poor wounded!
On Monday forenoon tranquillity was restored, the rabble had been
crushed, and the organized force was triumphant. Still the state of
siege continued, and no one was allowed free egress or ingress, but the
Captain pronounced this all nonsense, and resolutely set out for a
walk, taking the passports with him, and promising Lady Conway to
arrange for her departure.
By-and-by he came in, subdued and affected by the procession which he
had encountered--the dying Archbishop borne home to his palace on a
litter, carried by workmen and soldiers, while the troops, who lined
the streets, paid him their military salutes, and the people crowded to
their doors and windows--one voice of weeping and mourning running
along Paris--as the good prelate lay before their eyes, pale,
suffering, peaceful, and ever and anon lifting his feeble hand for a
last blessing to the flock for whom he had devoted himself.
The Captain was so much impressed that, as he said, he could not get
over it, and stayed for some time talking over the scene with the young
ladies, before starting up, as if wondering at his own emotion, he
declared that he must go and see what they would do next.
Presently afterwards, Fitzjocelyn came down stairs. His aunt was
judiciously lying down in her own apartment to recruit her nerves after
her agitation, and had called Virginia to read to her, and Isabel was
writing her journal, alone, in the sitting-room. Lady Conway would
have been gratified at her eager reception of him, but, as he seemed
very languid, and indisposed for conversation, she continued her
occupation, while he rested in an arm-chair.
Presently he said, 'Is it possible that you could have left that
bracelet at Miss Longman's?'
'Pray do not think about it,' exclaimed Isabel; 'I am ashamed of my
childishness! Perhaps, but for that delay, you would not have been
hurt,' and her eyes filled with tears, as her fingers encircled the
place where the bracelet should have been.
'Perhaps, but for that delay, we might both have been shot,' said
Louis. 'No, indeed; I could not wonder at your prizing it so much.'
'I little thought that would be the end of it,' said Isabel. 'I am
glad you know its history, so that I may have some excuse;' and she
tried to smile, but she blushed deeply as she dried her eyes.
'Excuse? more than excuse!' said Louis, remembering his fears that it
would be thrown away upon her. 'I know--'
'He has told you!' cried Isabel, starting with bashful eagerness.
'He has told me what I understand now,' said Louis, coming near in a
glow of grateful delight. 'Oh, I am so glad you appreciate him. Thank
you.'
'You are inferring too much,' said Isabel, turning away in confusion.
'Don't you mean it!' exclaimed Louis. 'I thought--'
'We must not mistake each other,' said Isabel, recovering her
self-possession. 'Nothing amounting to what you mean ever passed,
except a few words the last evening, and I may have dwelt on them more
than I ought,' faltered she, with averted head.
'Not more than he has done, I feel certain,' said Louis; 'I see it all!
Dear old Jem! There's no such fellow in existence.' But here
perceiving that he was going too far, he added, almost timidly, 'I beg
your pardon.'
'You have no occasion,' she said, smiling in the midst of her blushes.
'I feared I had said what I ought not. I little expected such kind
sympathy.'
She hastily left him, and Lady Conway soon after found him so full of
bright, half-veiled satisfaction, that she held herself in readiness
for a confession from one or both every minute, and, now that the panic
was over, gave great credit to the Red Republicans for having served
her so effectually, and forgave the young people for having been so
provoking in their coolness in the time of danger, since it proved how
well they were suited to each other. She greatly enjoyed the
universally-implied conviction with regard to the handsome young pair.
Nor did they struggle against it; neither of them made any secret of
their admiration for the conduct of the other, and the scrupulous
appellations of Miss Conway and Lord Fitzjocelyn were discarded for
more cousinly titles.
The young hero fell somewhat in his aunt's favour when he was missing
at the traveller's early breakfast, although Delaford reported him much
better and gone out. 'What if he should be late for the train?--what
if he should be taken up by the police?' Virginia scolded her sister
for not being equally restless, and had almost hunted the Captain into
going in search of him; when at last, ten minutes before the moment of
departure, in he came, white, lame, and breathless, but his eyes
dancing with glee, and his lips archly grave, as he dropped something
into Isabel's lap.
'Her bracelet!' exclaimed Virginia, as Isabel looked up with swimming
eyes, unable to speak. 'Where did you find it?'
'In the carriage, in the heart of the barricade at the Porte St. Denis.'
'It is too much!' cried Isabel, recovering her utterance, and rising
with her hands locked together in her emotion. 'You make me repent my
having lamented for it!'
'I had an old respect for Clara's clasp.'
'I never saw a prettier attention,' said his aunt.
'It is only a pity that you cannot fasten it on for her.'
'That could only be done by the right hand,' muttered Louia, under his
breath, enjoying her blush.
'You have not told us how you got it!' said Virginia.
'It struck me that there was a chance, and I had promised to lose none.
I found the soldiers in the act of pulling down the barricade. What an
astonishing construction it is! I spoke to the officer, who was very
civil, and caused me to depose that I had hired the carriage, and
belonged to the young lady. I believe my sling had a great effect; for
they set up a shout of acclamation when the bracelet appeared, lying on
the cushion as quietly as if it were in its own drawer.'
'The value will be greater than ever _now_, Isabel,' said Lady Conway.
'You will never lose it again!'
Isabel did not gainsay her.
The Captain shrugged his shoulders, and looked sagacious at his
patient's preparation for the journey before him.
Louis gravely looked into his face as he took leave of him, and said,
'You are wrong.'
The Captain raised his eyebrows incredulously. As they left the city,
the bells of all the churches were tolling for the martyred Archbishop.
And not for him alone was there mourning and lamentation through the
city: death and agony were everywhere; in some of the streets, each
house was a hospital, and many a groan and cry of mortal pain was
uttered through that fair summer-day. Louis, in a low voice, reminded
Isabel that, on this same day, the English primate was consecrating the
abbey newly restored for a missionary college; and his eyes glistened
as he dwelt with thanksgiving upon the contrast, and thought of the
'peace within our walls, and plenteousness within our palaces.'
He lay back in his corner of the carriage, too much tired to talk;
though, by-and-by, he began to smile over his own musings, or to make
some lazily ludicrous remark to amuse Virginia. His aunt caressed her
wounded hero, and promoted his intercourse with Isabel, to his
exquisite amusement, in his passive, debonnaire condition, especially
as Isabel was perfectly insensible to all these manuoevres.
There she sat, gazing out of window, musing first on the meeting with
the live Sir Roland, secondly on the amends to be made in the 'Chapel
in the valley.' The Cloten of the piece must not even be a Vidame
nothing distantly connected with a V; even though this prototype was
comporting himself much more like the nonchalant, fantastic Viscount,
than like her resolute, high-minded Knight at the Porte St. Denis.