“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 Clement 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 Clement 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 Clement 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 Clement—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.
“‘Clement! Clement! 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 Clement’s broken
English, and mispronunciation of our proper names, and was obliged to
apply to the woman herself. I could not say much to Clement, 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
Crequy’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
Crequy 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 Clement’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 Clement 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 Clement; 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
Clement 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 Crequy 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 Clement 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 Crequy (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 Clement’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 Clement 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
Crequy 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 Crequys
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 Clement—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 them, understood
French; and through Medlicott, I learnt that he was in some way connected
with the De Crequys; 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 Crequy, the rightful owner; and
Clement was out with Monkshaven, so the old man waited; and when Clement
came in, I told him of the steward’s arrival, and how he had been cared
for by my people. Clement 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, Clement?’ 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 Crequy; 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 Crequy.
“‘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 concierge. 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 on 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 Crequy—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 Clement
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 coarse, 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 Crequy! it was otherwise with her; she
despaired while I hoped, and Clement trusted.
“‘Dear Madame de Crequy,’ 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 Clement?—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!’
“Clement 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 Crequy 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-maitre. 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 Clement.
“‘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, Clement, would leave me for this Virginie,—this
degenerate De Crequy, tainted with the atheism of the Encyclopedistes!
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, Clement! 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.’
“Clement 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
Crequy property during her son’s minority. Indeed, I remembered then,
that it was through Count de Crequy that Lord Ludlow had first heard
of the apartment which we afterwards took in the Hotel de Crequy; 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 Hotel de Crequy, 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 Clement (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 Crequy’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 Crequy was thus introduced into all the
free-thinking salons of Paris; among people who were always full of
plans for subverting society. ‘And did Clement affect such people?’
Madame de Crequy had asked with some anxiety. No! Monsieur de Crequy
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 Crequy
listened, and questioned, and learnt nothing decided, until one day she
surprised Clement 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 Clement had sent her through her father, that ‘When she
married she married a man, not a petit-maitre.’
“Clement 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 Crequy 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 Clement’s belief at the time of quitting the Hotel de Crequy
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 Crequy 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
Clement what I gained for his mother. Virginie’s life did not seem to me
worth the risk that Clement’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 Crequy 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 Clement look even
paler and thinner than he had ever done before, he sent a message to
Madame de Crequy, 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 AEneas 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 tete-a-tete 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 Crequy
withdrew her prohibition, and had given him leave to tell Clement 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 Clement’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 Clement’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 Clement 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. Clement 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 emigres who thronged London, and who had made
his escape from the shores of France in this disguise. Clement’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. Oh, 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—’
“‘Clement, 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 Crequy. 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!’”