“In the hurry of the moment I scarce knew what I did. I bade the
housekeeper put up every delicacy she had, in order to tempt the
invalid, whom yet I hoped to bring back with me to our house. When the
carriage was ready, I took the good woman with me to show us the exact
way, which my coachman professed not to know; for, indeed, they were
staying at but a poor kind of place at the back of Leicester Square, of
which they had heard, as Clément told me afterwards, from one of the
fishermen who had carried them across from the Dutch coast in their
disguises as a Friesland peasant and his mother. They had some jewels of
value concealed round their persons; but their ready money was all spent
before I saw them, and Clément had been unwilling to leave his mother,
even for the time necessary to ascertain the best mode of disposing of
the diamonds. For, overcome with distress of mind and bodily fatigue,
she had reached London only to take to her bed in a sort of low,
nervous fever, in which her chief and only idea seemed to be, that
Clément was about to be taken from her to some prison or other; and if
he were out of her sight, though but for a minute, she cried like a
child, and could not be pacified or comforted. The landlady was a kind,
good woman, and though she but half understood the case, she was truly
sorry for them, as foreigners, and the mother sick in a strange land.
“I sent her forwards to request permission for my entrance. In a moment
I saw Clément--a tall, elegant young man, in a curious dress of coarse
cloth, standing at the open door of a room, and evidently--even before
he accosted me--striving to soothe the terrors of his mother inside. I
went towards him, and would have taken his hand, but he bent down and
kissed mine.
“‘May I come in, madame?’ I asked, looking at the poor sick lady, lying
in the dark, dingy bed, her head propped up on coarse and dirty pillows,
and gazing with affrighted eyes at all that was going on.
“‘Clément! Clément! come to me!’ she cried; and when he went to the
bedside she turned on one side, and took his hand in both of hers, and
began stroking it, and looking up in his face. I could scarce keep back
my tears.
“He stood there quite still, except that from time to time he spoke to
her in a low tone. At last I advanced into the room, so that I could
talk to him, without renewing her alarm. I asked for the doctor’s
address; for I had heard that they had called in some one, at their
landlady’s recommendation: but I could hardly understand Clément’s
broken English, and mispronunciation of our proper names, and was
obliged to apply to the woman herself. I could not say much to Clément,
for his attention was perpetually needed by his mother, who never seemed
to perceive that I was there. But I told him not to fear, however long I
might be away, for that I would return before night; and, bidding the
woman take charge of all the heterogeneous things the housekeeper had
put up, and leaving one of my men in the house, who could understand a
few words of French, with directions that he was to hold himself at
Madame de Créquy’s orders until I sent or gave him fresh commands, I
drove off to the doctor’s. What I wanted was his permission to remove
Madame de Créquy to my own house, and to learn how it best could be
done; for I saw that every movement in the room, every sound, except
Clément’s voice, brought on a fresh access of trembling and nervous
agitation.
“The doctor was, I should think, a clever man; but he had that kind of
abrupt manner which people get who have much to do with the lower
orders.
“I told him the story of his patient, the interest I had in her, and the
wish I entertained of removing her to my own house.
“‘It can’t be done,’ said he. ‘Any change will kill her.’
“‘But it must be done,’ I replied. ‘And it shall not kill her.’
“‘Then I have nothing more to say,’ said he, turning away from the
carriage-door, and making as though he would go back into the house.
“‘Stop a moment. You must help me; and, if you do, you shall have reason
to be glad, for I will give you fifty pounds down with pleasure. If you
won’t do it, another shall.’
“He looked at me, then (furtively) at the carriage, hesitated, and then
said: ‘You do not mind expense, apparently. I suppose you are a rich
lady of quality. Such folks will not stick at such trifles as the life
or death of a sick woman to get their own way. I suppose, I must e’en
help you, for if I don’t, another will.’
“I did not mind what he said, so that he would assist me. I was pretty
sure that she was in a state to require opiates; and I had not forgotten
Christopher Sly, you may be sure, so I told him what I had in my head.
That in the dead of night,--the quiet time in the streets,--she should
be carried in a hospital litter, softly and warmly covered over, from
the Leicester Square lodging-house to rooms that I would have in perfect
readiness for her. As I planned, so it was done. I let Clément know, by
a note, of my design. I had all prepared at home, and we walked about my
house as though shod with velvet, while the porter watched at the open
door. At last, through the darkness, I saw the lanterns carried by my
men, who were leading the little procession. The litter looked like a
hearse; on one side walked the doctor, on the other Clément: they came
softly and swiftly along. I could not try any farther experiment; we
dared not change her clothes; she was laid in the bed in the landlady’s
coarse night-gear, and covered over warmly, and left in the shaded,
scented room, with a nurse and the doctor watching by her, while I led
Clément to the dressing-room adjoining, in which I had had a bed placed
for him. Farther than that he would not go; and there I had refreshments
brought. Meanwhile, he had shown his gratitude by every possible action
(for we none of us dared to speak): he had kneeled at my feet, and
kissed my hand, and left it wet with his tears. He had thrown up his
arms to Heaven, and prayed earnestly, as I could see by the movement of
his lips. I allowed him to relieve himself by these dumb expressions, if
I may so call them,--and then I left him, and went to my own rooms to
sit up for my lord, and tell him what I had done.
“Of course, it was all right; and neither my lord nor I could sleep for
wondering how Madame de Créquy would bear her awakening. I had engaged
the doctor, to whose face and voice she was accustomed, to remain with
her all night: the nurse was experienced, and Clément was within call.
But it was with the greatest relief that I heard from my own woman, when
she brought me my chocolate, that Madame de Créquy (Monsieur had said)
had awakened more tranquil than she had been for many days. To be sure,
the whole aspect of the bed-chamber must have been more familiar to her
than the miserable place where I had found her, and she must have
intuitively felt herself among friends.
“My lord was scandalized at Clément’s dress, which, after the first
moment of seeing him, I had forgotten, in thinking of other things, and
for which I had not prepared Lord Ludlow. He sent for his own tailor,
and bade him bring patterns of stuffs, and engage his men to work night
and day till Clément could appear as became his rank. In short, in a few
days so much of the traces of their flight were removed, that we had
almost forgotten the terrible causes of it, and rather felt as if they
had come on a visit to us than that they had been compelled to fly their
country. Their diamonds, too, were sold well by my lord’s agents, though
the London shops were stocked with jewellery, and such portable
valuables, some of rare and curious fashion, which were sold for half
their real value by emigrants who could not afford to wait. Madame de
Créquy was recovering her health, although her strength was sadly gone,
and she would never be equal to such another flight, as the perilous one
which she had gone through, and to which she could not bear the
slightest reference. For some time things continued in this state;--the
De Créquys still our honoured visitors,--many houses besides our own,
even among our own friends, open to receive the poor flying nobility of
France, driven from their country by the brutal republicans, and every
freshly-arrived emigrant bringing new tales of horror, as if these
revolutionists were drunk with blood, and mad to devise new atrocities.
One day Clément;--I should tell you he had been presented to our good
King George and the sweet Queen, and they had accosted him most
graciously, and his beauty and elegance, and some of the circumstances
attendant on his flight, made him be received in the world quite like a
hero of romance: he might have been on intimate terms in many a
distinguished house, had he cared to visit much; but he accompanied my
lord and me with an air of indifference and languor, which I sometimes
fancied, made him be all the more sought after: Monkshaven (that was the
title my eldest son bore) tried in vain to interest him in all young
men’s sports. But no! it was the same through all. His mother took far
more interest in the on-dits of the London world, into which she was far
too great an invalid to venture, than he did in the absolute events
themselves, in which he might have been an actor. One day, as I was
saying, an old Frenchman of a humble class presented himself to our
servants, several of whom understood French; and, through Medlicott, I
learnt that he was in some way connected with the De Créquys; not with
their Paris-life; but I fancy he had been intendant of their estates in
the country; estates which were more useful as hunting-grounds than as
adding to their income. However, there was the old man; and with him,
wrapped round his person, he had brought the long parchment rolls, and
deeds relating to their property. These he would deliver up to none but
Monsieur de Créquy, the rightful owner; and Clément was out with
Monkshaven, so the old man waited; and when Clément came in, I told him
of the steward’s arrival, and how he had been cared for by my people.
Clément went directly to see him. He was a long time away, and I was
waiting for him to drive out with me, for some purpose or another, I
scarce know what, but I remember I was tired of waiting, and was just in
the act of ringing the bell to desire that he might be reminded of his
engagement with me, when he came in, his face as white as the powder in
his hair, his beautiful eyes dilated with horror. I saw that he had
heard something that touched him even more closely than the usual tales
which every fresh emigrant brought.
“‘What is it, Clément?’ I asked.
“He clasped his hands, and looked as though he tried to speak, but could
not bring out the words.
“‘They have guillotined my uncle!’ said he at last. Now, I knew that
there was a Count de Créquy; but I had always understood that the elder
branch held very little communication with him; in fact, that he was a
vaurien of some kind, and rather a disgrace than otherwise to the
family. So, perhaps, I was hard-hearted; but I was a little surprised at
this excess of emotion, till I saw that peculiar look in his eyes that
many people have when there is more terror in their hearts than they
dare put into words. He wanted me to understand something without his
saying it; but how could I? I had never heard of a Mademoiselle de
Créquy.
“‘Virginie!’ at last he uttered. In an instant I understood it all, and
remembered that, if Urian had lived, he too might have been in love.
“‘Your uncle’s daughter?’ I inquired.
“‘My cousin,’ he replied.
“I did not say, ‘your betrothed,’ but I had no doubt of it. I was
mistaken, however.
“‘O madame!’ he continued, ‘her mother died long ago--her father
now--and she is in daily fear,--alone, deserted----’
“‘Is she in the Abbaye?’ asked I.
“‘No! She is in hiding with the widow of her father’s old concièrge. Any
day they may search the house for aristocrats. They are seeking them
everywhere. Then, not her life alone, but that of the old woman, her
hostess, is sacrificed. The old woman knows this, and trembles with
fear. Even if she is brave enough to be faithful, her fears would betray
her, should the house be searched. Yet, there is no one to help Virginie
to escape. She is alone in Paris.’
“I saw what was in his mind. He was fretting and chafing to go to his
cousin’s assistance; but the thought of his mother restrained him. I
would not have kept back Urian from such an errand at such a time. How
should I restrain him? And yet, perhaps, I did wrong in not urging the
chances of danger more. Still, if it was danger to him, was it not the
same or even greater danger to her?--for the French spared neither age
nor sex in those wicked days of terror. So I rather fell in with his
wish, and encouraged him to think how best and most prudently it might
be fulfilled; never doubting, as I have said, that he and his cousin
were troth-plighted.
“But when I went to Madame de Créquy--after he had imparted his, or
rather our plan to her--I found out my mistake. She, who was in general
too feeble to walk across the room save slowly, and with a stick, was
going from end to end with quick, tottering steps; and, if now and then
she sank upon a chair, it seemed as if she could not rest, for she was
up again in a moment, pacing along, wringing her hands, and speaking
rapidly to herself. When she saw me, she stopped: ‘Madame,’ she said,
‘you have lost your own boy. You might have left me mine.’
“I was so astonished--I hardly knew what to say. I had spoken to Clément
as if his mother’s consent were secure (as I had felt my own would have
been if Urian had been alive to ask it). Of course, both he and I knew
that his mother’s consent must be asked and obtained, before he could
leave her to go on such an undertaking; but, somehow, my blood always
rose at the sight or sound of danger; perhaps, because my life had been
so peaceful. Poor Madame de Créquy! it was otherwise with her; she
despaired while I hoped, and Clément trusted.
“‘Dear Madame de Créquy,’ said I, ‘he will return safely to us; every
precaution shall be taken, that either he or you, or my lord, or
Monkshaven can think of; but he cannot leave a girl--his nearest
relation save you--his betrothed, is she not?’
“‘His betrothed!’ cried she, now at the utmost pitch of her excitement.
‘Virginie betrothed to Clément?--no! thank heaven, not so bad as that!
Yet it might have been. But Mademoiselle scorned my son! She would have
nothing to do with him. Now is the time for him to have nothing to do
with her!’
“Clément had entered at the door behind his mother as she thus spoke.
His face was set and pale, till it looked as gray and immovable as if it
had been carved in stone. He came forward and stood before his mother.
She stopped her walk, threw back her haughty head, and the two looked
each other steadily in the face. After a minute or two in this attitude,
her proud and resolute gaze never flinching or wavering, he went down
upon one knee, and, taking her hand--her hard, stony hand, which never
closed on his, but remained straight and stiff:
“‘Mother,’ he pleaded, ‘withdraw your prohibition. Let me go!’
“‘What were her words?’ Madame de Créquy replied, slowly, as if forcing
her memory to the extreme of accuracy. ‘My cousin,’ she said, ‘when I
marry, I marry a man, not a petit-maître. I marry a man who, whatever
his rank may be, will add dignity to the human race by his virtues, and
not be content to live in an effeminate court on the traditions of past
grandeur.’ She borrowed her words from the infamous Jean-Jacques
Rousseau, the friend of her scarce less infamous father,--nay! I will
say it,--if not her words, she borrowed her principles. And my son to
request her to marry him!’
“‘It was my father’s written wish,’ said Clément.
“‘But did you not love her? You plead your father’s words,--words
written twelve years before,--and as if that were your reason for being
indifferent to my dislike to the alliance. But you requested her to
marry you,--and she refused you with insolent contempt; and now you are
ready to leave me,--leave me desolate in a foreign land--’
“‘Desolate! my mother! and the Countess Ludlow stands there!’
“‘Pardon, madame! But all the earth, though it were full of kind hearts,
is but a desolation and a desert place to a mother when her only child
is absent. And you, Clément, would leave me for this Virginie,--this
degenerate De Créquy, tainted with the atheism of the Encyclopédistes!
She is only reaping some of the fruit of the harvest whereof her friends
have sown the seed. Let her alone! Doubtless she has friends--it may be
lovers--among these demons, who, under the cry of liberty, commit every
licence. Let her alone, Clément! She refused you with scorn: be too
proud to notice her now.’
“‘Mother, I cannot think of myself; only of her.’
“‘Think of me, then! I, your mother, forbid you to go.’
“Clément bowed low, and went out of the room instantly, as one blinded.
She saw his groping movement, and, for an instant, I think her heart was
touched. But she turned to me, and tried to exculpate her past violence
by dilating upon her wrongs, and they certainly were many. The Count,
her husband’s younger brother, had invariably tried to make mischief
between husband and wife. He had been the cleverer man of the two, and
had possessed extraordinary influence over her husband. She suspected
him of having instigated that clause in her husband’s will, by which the
Marquis expressed his wish for the marriage of the cousins. The Count
had had some interest in the management of the De Créquy property
during her son’s minority. Indeed, I remembered then, that it was
through Count de Créquy that Lord Ludlow had first heard of the
apartment which we afterwards took in the Hôtel de Créquy; and then the
recollection of a past feeling came distinctly out of the mist, as it
were; and I called to mind how, when we first took up our abode in the
Hôtel de Créquy, both Lord Ludlow and I imagined that the arrangement
was displeasing to our hostess; and how it had taken us a considerable
time before we had been able to establish relations of friendship with
her. Years after our visit, she began to suspect that Clément (whom she
could not forbid to visit at his uncle’s house, considering the terms on
which his father had been with his brother; though she herself never set
foot over the Count de Créquy’s threshold) was attaching himself to
Mademoiselle, his cousin; and she made cautious inquiries as to the
appearance, character, and disposition of the young lady. Mademoiselle
was not handsome, they said; but of a fine figure, and generally
considered as having a very noble and attractive presence. In character
she was daring and wilful (said one set); original and independent (said
another). She was much indulged by her father, who had given her
something of a man’s education, and selected for her intimate friend a
young lady below her in rank, one of the Bureaucracie, a Mademoiselle
Necker, daughter of the Minister of Finance. Mademoiselle de Créquy was
thus introduced into all the free-thinking salons of Paris; among people
who were always full of plans for subverting society. ‘And did Clément
affect such people?’ Madame de Créquy had asked, with some anxiety. No!
Monsieur de Créquy had neither eyes nor ears, nor thought for anything
but his cousin, while she was by. And she? She hardly took notice of his
devotion, so evident to every one else. The proud creature! But perhaps
that was her haughty way of concealing what she felt. And so Madame de
Créquy listened, and questioned, and learnt nothing decided, until one
day she surprised Clément with the note in his hand, of which she
remembered the stinging words so well, in which Virginie had said, in
reply to a proposal Clément had sent her through her father, that ‘When
she married she married a man, not a petit-maître.’
“Clément was justly indignant at the insulting nature of the answer
Virginie had sent to a proposal, respectful in its tone, and which was,
after all, but the cool, hardened lava over a burning heart. He
acquiesced in his mother’s desire, that he should not again present
himself in his uncle’s salons; but he did not forget Virginie, though
he never mentioned her name.
“Madame de Créquy and her son were among the earliest proscrits, as they
were of the strongest possible royalists, and aristocrats, as it was the
custom of the horrid Sansculottes to term those who adhered to the
habits of expression and action in which it was their pride to have been
educated. They had left Paris some weeks before they had arrived in
England, and Clément’s belief at the time of quitting the Hôtel de
Créquy had certainly been, that his uncle was not merely safe, but
rather a popular man with the party in power. And, as all communication
having relation to private individuals of a reliable kind was
intercepted, Monsieur de Créquy had felt but little anxiety for his
uncle and cousin, in comparison with what he did for many other friends
of very different opinions in politics, until the day when he was
stunned by the fatal information that even his progressive uncle was
guillotined, and learnt that his cousin was imprisoned by the licence of
the mob, whose rights (as she called them) she was always advocating.
“When I had heard all this story, I confess I lost in sympathy for
Clément what I gained for his mother. Virginie’s life did not seem to me
worth the risk that Clément’s would run. But when I saw him--sad,
depressed, nay, hopeless--going about like one oppressed by a heavy
dream which he cannot shake off; caring neither to eat, drink, nor
sleep, yet bearing all with silent dignity, and even trying to force a
poor, faint smile when he caught my anxious eyes; I turned round again,
and wondered how Madame de Créquy could resist this mute pleading of her
son’s altered appearance. As for my Lord Ludlow and Monkshaven, as soon
as they understood the case, they were indignant that any mother should
attempt to keep a son out of honourable danger; and it was honourable,
and a clear duty (according to them) to try to save the life of a
helpless orphan girl, his next of kin. None but a Frenchman, said my
lord, would hold himself bound by an old woman’s whimsies and fears,
even though she were his mother. As it was, he was chafing himself to
death under the restraint. If he went, to be sure, the ---- wretches
might make an end of him, as they had done of many a fine fellow; but my
lord would take heavy odds that, instead of being guillotined, he would
save the girl, and bring her safe to England, just desperately in love
with her preserver, and then we would have a jolly wedding down at
Monkshaven. My lord repeated his opinion so often, that it became a
certain prophecy in his mind of what was to take place; and, one day
seeing Clément look even paler and thinner than he had ever done
before, he sent a message to Madame de Créquy, requesting permission to
speak to her in private.
“‘For, by George!’ said he, ‘she shall hear my opinion, and not let that
lad of hers kill himself by fretting. He’s too good for that. If he had
been an English lad, he would have been off to his sweetheart long
before this, without saying with your leave or by your leave; but being
a Frenchman, he is all for Æneas and filial piety,--filial
fiddle-sticks!’ (My lord had run away to sea, when a boy, against his
father’s consent, I am sorry to say; and, as all had ended well, and he
had come back to find both his parents alive, I do not think he was ever
as much aware of his fault as he might have been under other
circumstances.) ‘No, my lady,’ he went on, ‘don’t come with me. A woman
can manage a man best when he has a fit of obstinacy, and a man can
persuade a woman out of her tantrums, when all her own sex, the whole
army of them, would fail. Allow me to go alone to my tête-à-tête with
madame.’
“What he said, what passed, he never could repeat; but he came back
graver than he went. However, the point was gained; Madame de Créquy
withdrew her prohibition, and had given him leave to tell Clément as
much.
“‘But she is an old Cassandra,’ said he. ‘Don’t let the lad be much with
her; her talk would destroy the courage of the bravest man; she is so
given over to superstition.’ Something that she had said had touched a
chord in my lord’s nature which he inherited from his Scotch ancestors.
Long afterwards, I heard what this was. Medlicott told me.
“However, my lord shook off all fancies that told against the fulfilment
of Clément’s wishes. All that afternoon we three sat together, planning;
and Monkshaven passed in and out, executing our commissions, and
preparing everything. Towards nightfall all was ready for Clément’s
start on his journey towards the coast.
“Madame had declined seeing any of us since my lord’s stormy interview
with her. She sent word that she was fatigued, and desired repose. But,
of course, before Clément set off, he was bound to wish her farewell,
and to ask for her blessing. In order to avoid an agitating conversation
between mother and son, my lord and I resolved to be present at the
interview. Clément was already in his travelling-dress, that of a Norman
fisherman, which Monkshaven had, with infinite trouble, discovered in
the possession of one of the emigrés who thronged London, and who had
made his escape from the shores of France in this disguise. Clément’s
plan was, to go down to the Coast of Sussex, and get some of the
fishing or smuggling boats to take him across to the French Coast near
Dieppe. There again he would have to change his dress. O, it was so well
planned! His mother was startled by his disguise (of which we had not
thought to forewarn her) as he entered her apartment. And either that,
or the being suddenly roused from the heavy slumber into which she was
apt to fall when she was left alone, gave her manner an air of wildness
that was almost like insanity.
“‘Go, go!’ she said to him, almost pushing him away as he knelt to kiss
her hand. ‘Virginie is beckoning to you, but you don’t see what kind of
a bed it is----’
“‘Clément, make haste!’ said my lord, in a hurried manner, as if to
interrupt madame. ‘The time is later than I thought, and you must not
miss the morning’s tide. Bid your mother good-bye at once, and let us be
off.’ For my lord and Monkshaven were to ride with him to an inn near
the shore, from whence he was to walk to his destination. My lord almost
took him by the arm to pull him away; and they were gone, and I was left
alone with Madame de Créquy. When she heard the horses’ feet, she seemed
to find out the truth, as if for the first time. She set her teeth
together. ‘He has left me for her!’ she almost screamed. ‘Left me for
her!’ she kept muttering; and then, as the wild look came back into her
eyes, she said, almost with exultation, ‘But I did not give him my
blessing!’”