“All night Madame de Crequy raved in delirium. If I could I would have
sent for Clement back again. I did send off one man, but I suppose my
directions were confused, or they were wrong, for he came back after my
lord’s return, on the following afternoon. By this time Madame de Crequy
was quieter: she was, indeed, asleep from exhaustion when Lord Ludlow and
Monkshaven came in. They were in high spirits, and their hopefulness
brought me round to a less dispirited state. All had gone well: they had
accompanied Clement on foot along the shore, until they had met with a
lugger, which my lord had hailed in good nautical language. The captain
had responded to these freemason terms by sending a boat to pick up his
passenger, and by an invitation to breakfast sent through a
speaking-trumpet. Monkshaven did not approve of either the meal or the
company, and had returned to the inn, but my lord had gone with Clement
and breakfasted on board, upon grog, biscuit, fresh-caught fish—‘the
best breakfast he ever ate,’ he said, but that was probably owing to the
appetite his night’s ride had given him. However, his good fellowship
had evidently won the captain’s heart, and Clement had set sail under the
best auspices. It was agreed that I should tell all this to Madame de
Crequy, if she inquired; otherwise, it would be wiser not to renew her
agitation by alluding to her son’s journey.
“I sat with her constantly for many days; but she never spoke of Clement.
She forced herself to talk of the little occurrences of Parisian society
in former days: she tried to be conversational and agreeable, and to
betray no anxiety or even interest in the object of Clement’s journey;
and, as far as unremitting efforts could go, she succeeded. But the
tones of her voice were sharp and yet piteous, as if she were in constant
pain; and the glance of her eye hurried and fearful, as if she dared not
let it rest on any object.
“In a week we heard of Clement’s safe arrival on the French coast. He
sent a letter to this effect by the captain of the smuggler, when the
latter returned. We hoped to hear again; but week after week elapsed,
and there was no news of Clement. I had told Lord Ludlow, in Madame de
Crequy’s presence, as he and I had arranged, of the note I had received
from her son, informing us of his landing in France. She heard, but she
took no notice, and evidently began to wonder that we did not mention any
further intelligence of him in the same manner before her; and daily I
began to fear that her pride would give way, and that she would
supplicate for news before I had any to give her.
“One morning, on my awakening, my maid told me that Madame de Crequy had
passed a wretched night, and had bidden Medlicott (whom, as understanding
French, and speaking it pretty well, though with that horrid German
accent, I had put about her) request that I would go to madame’s room as
soon as I was dressed.
“I knew what was coming, and I trembled all the time they were doing my
hair, and otherwise arranging me. I was not encouraged by my lord’s
speeches. He had heard the message, and kept declaring that he would
rather be shot than have to tell her that there was no news of her son;
and yet he said, every now and then, when I was at the lowest pitch of
uneasiness, that he never expected to hear again: that some day soon we
should see him walking in and introducing Mademoiselle de Crequy to us.
“However at last I was ready, and go I must.
“Her eyes were fixed on the door by which I entered. I went up to the
bedside. She was not rouged,—she had left it off now for several
days,—she no longer attempted to keep up the vain show of not feeling,
and loving, and fearing.
“For a moment or two she did not speak, and I was glad of the respite.
“‘Clement?’ she said at length, covering her mouth with a handkerchief
the minute she had spoken, that I might not see it quiver.
“‘There has been no news since the first letter, saying how well the
voyage was performed, and how safely he had landed—near Dieppe, you
know,’ I replied as cheerfully as possible. ‘My lord does not expect
that we shall have another letter; he thinks that we shall see him soon.’
“There was no answer. As I looked, uncertain whether to do or say more,
she slowly turned herself in bed, and lay with her face to the wall; and,
as if that did not shut out the light of day and the busy, happy world
enough, she put out her trembling hands, and covered her face with her
handkerchief. There was no violence: hardly any sound.
“I told her what my lord had said about Clement’s coming in some day, and
taking us all by surprise. I did not believe it myself, but it was just
possible,—and I had nothing else to say. Pity, to one who was striving
so hard to conceal her feelings, would have been impertinent. She let me
talk; but she did not reply. She knew that my words were vain and idle,
and had no root in my belief; as well as I did myself.
“I was very thankful when Medlicott came in with Madame’s breakfast, and
gave me an excuse for leaving.
“But I think that conversation made me feel more anxious and impatient
than ever. I felt almost pledged to Madame de Crequy for the fulfilment
of the vision I had held out. She had taken entirely to her bed by this
time: not from illness, but because she had no hope within her to stir
her up to the effort of dressing. In the same way she hardly cared for
food. She had no appetite,—why eat to prolong a life of despair? But
she let Medlicott feed her, sooner than take the trouble of resisting.
“And so it went on,—for weeks, months—I could hardly count the time, it
seemed so long. Medlicott told me she noticed a preternatural
sensitiveness of ear in Madame de Crequy, induced by the habit of
listening silently for the slightest unusual sound in the house.
Medlicott was always a minute watcher of any one whom she cared about;
and, one day, she made me notice by a sign madame’s acuteness of hearing,
although the quick expectation was but evinced for a moment in the turn
of the eye, the hushed breath—and then, when the unusual footstep turned
into my lord’s apartments, the soft quivering sigh, and the closed
eyelids.
“At length the intendant of the De Crequy estates—the old man, you will
remember, whose information respecting Virginie de Crequy first gave
Clement the desire to return to Paris,—came to St. James’s Square, and
begged to speak to me. I made haste to go down to him in the
housekeeper’s room, sooner than that he should be ushered into mine, for
fear of madame hearing any sound.
“The old man stood—I see him now—with his hat held before him in both
his hands; he slowly bowed till his face touched it when I came in. Such
long excess of courtesy augured ill. He waited for me to speak.
“‘Have you any intelligence?’ I inquired. He had been often to the house
before, to ask if we had received any news; and once or twice I had seen
him, but this was the first time he had begged to see me.
“‘Yes, madame,’ he replied, still standing with his head bent down, like
a child in disgrace.
“‘And it is bad!’ I exclaimed.
“‘It is bad.’ For a moment I was angry at the cold tone in which my
words were echoed; but directly afterwards I saw the large, slow, heavy
tears of age falling down the old man’s cheeks, and on to the sleeves of
his poor, threadbare coat.
“I asked him how he had heard it: it seemed as though I could not all at
once bear to hear what it was. He told me that the night before, in
crossing Long Acre, he had stumbled upon an old acquaintance of his; one
who, like himself had been a dependent upon the De Crequy family, but had
managed their Paris affairs, while Flechier had taken charge of their
estates in the country. Both were now emigrants, and living on the
proceeds of such small available talents as they possessed. Flechier, as
I knew, earned a very fair livelihood by going about to dress salads for
dinner parties. His compatriot, Le Febvre, had begun to give a few
lessons as a dancing-master. One of them took the other home to his
lodgings; and there, when their most immediate personal adventures had
been hastily talked over, came the inquiry from Flechier as to Monsieur
de Crequy
“‘Clement was dead—guillotined. Virginie was dead—guillotined.’
“When Flechier had told me thus much, he could not speak for sobbing; and
I, myself, could hardly tell how to restrain my tears sufficiently, until
I could go to my own room and be at liberty to give way. He asked my
leave to bring in his friend Le Febvre, who was walking in the square,
awaiting a possible summons to tell his story. I heard afterwards a good
many details, which filled up the account, and made me feel—which brings
me back to the point I started from—how unfit the lower orders are for
being trusted indiscriminately with the dangerous powers of education. I
have made a long preamble, but now I am coming to the moral of my story.”
My lady was trying to shake off the emotion which she evidently felt in
recurring to this sad history of Monsieur de Crequy’s death. She came
behind me, and arranged my pillows, and then, seeing I had been
crying—for, indeed, I was weak-spirited at the time, and a little served
to unloose my tears—she stooped down, and kissed my forehead, and said
“Poor child!” almost as if she thanked me for feeling that old grief of
hers.
“Being once in France, it was no difficult thing for Clement to get into
Paris. The difficulty in those days was to leave, not to enter. He came
in dressed as a Norman peasant, in charge of a load of fruit and
vegetables, with which one of the Seine barges was freighted. He worked
hard with his companions in landing and arranging their produce on the
quays; and then, when they dispersed to get their breakfasts at some of
the estaminets near the old Marche aux Fleurs, he sauntered up a street
which conducted him, by many an odd turn, through the Quartier Latin to a
horrid back alley, leading out of the Rue l’Ecole de Medecine; some
atrocious place, as I have heard, not far from the shadow of that
terrible Abbaye, where so many of the best blood of France awaited their
deaths. But here some old man lived, on whose fidelity Clement thought
that he might rely. I am not sure if he had not been gardener in those
very gardens behind the Hotel Crequy where Clement and Urian used to play
together years before. But whatever the old man’s dwelling might be,
Clement was only too glad to reach it, you may be sure, he had been kept
in Normandy, in all sorts of disguises, for many days after landing in
Dieppe, through the difficulty of entering Paris unsuspected by the many
ruffians who were always on the look-out for aristocrats.
“The old gardener was, I believe, both faithful and tried, and sheltered
Clement in his garret as well as might be. Before he could stir out, it
was necessary to procure a fresh disguise, and one more in character with
an inhabitant of Paris than that of a Norman carter was procured; and
after waiting indoors for one or two days, to see if any suspicion was
excited, Clement set off to discover Virginie.
“He found her at the old concierge’s dwelling. Madame Babette was the
name of this woman, who must have been a less faithful—or rather,
perhaps, I should say, a more interested—friend to her guest than the
old gardener Jaques was to Clement.
“I have seen a miniature of Virginie, which a French lady of quality
happened to have in her possession at the time of her flight from
Paris, and which she brought with her to England unwittingly; for it
belonged to the Count de Crequy, with whom she was slightly acquainted.
I should fancy from it, that Virginie was taller and of a more
powerful figure for a woman than her cousin Clement was for a man. Her
dark-brown hair was arranged in short curls—the way of dressing the
hair announced the politics of the individual, in those days, just as
patches did in my grandmother’s time; and Virginie’s hair was not to my
taste, or according to my principles: it was too classical. Her large,
black eyes looked out at you steadily. One cannot judge of the shape of
a nose from a full-face miniature, but the nostrils were clearly cut
and largely opened. I do not fancy her nose could have been pretty; but
her mouth had a character all its own, and which would, I think, have
redeemed a plainer face. It was wide, and deep set into the cheeks at
the corners; the upper lip was very much arched, and hardly closed over
the teeth; so that the whole face looked (from the serious, intent look
in the eyes, and the sweet intelligence of the mouth) as if she were
listening eagerly to something to which her answer was quite ready, and
would come out of those red, opening lips as soon as ever you had done
speaking, and you longed to know what she would say.
“Well: this Virginie de Crequy was living with Madame Babette in the
conciergerie of an old French inn, somewhere to the north of Paris,
so, far enough from Clement’s refuge. The inn had been frequented by
farmers from Brittany and such kind of people, in the days when that
sort of intercourse went on between Paris and the provinces which had
nearly stopped now. Few Bretons came near it now, and the inn had
fallen into the hands of Madame Babette’s brother, as payment for a bad
wine debt of the last proprietor. He put his sister and her child in,
to keep it open, as it were, and sent all the people he could to occupy
the half-furnished rooms of the house. They paid Babette for their
lodging every morning as they went out to breakfast, and returned or
not as they chose, at night. Every three days, the wine merchant or his
son came to Madame Babette, and she accounted to them for the money she
had received. She and her child occupied the porter’s office (in which
the lad slept at nights) and a little miserable bed-room which opened
out of it, and received all the light and air that was admitted through
the door of communication, which was half glass. Madame Babette must
have had a kind of attachment for the De Crequys—her De Crequys, you
understand—Virginie’s father, the Count; for, at some risk to herself,
she had warned both him and his daughter of the danger impending over
them. But he, infatuated, would not believe that his dear Human Race
could ever do him harm; and, as long as he did not fear, Virginie was
not afraid. It was by some ruse, the nature of which I never heard,
that Madame Babette induced Virginie to come to her abode at the very
hour in which the Count had been recognized in the streets, and hurried
off to the Lanterne. It was after Babette had got her there, safe shut
up in the little back den, that she told her what had befallen her
father. From that day, Virginie had never stirred out of the gates,
or crossed the threshold of the porter’s lodge. I do not say that
Madame Babette was tired of her continual presence, or regretted the
impulse which made her rush to the De Crequy’s well-known house—after
being compelled to form one of the mad crowds that saw the Count de
Crequy seized and hung—and hurry his daughter out, through alleys and
backways, until at length she had the orphan safe in her own dark
sleeping-room, and could tell her tale of horror: but Madame Babette
was poorly paid for her porter’s work by her avaricious brother; and
it was hard enough to find food for herself and her growing boy; and,
though the poor girl ate little enough, I dare say, yet there seemed
no end to the burthen that Madame Babette had imposed upon herself:
the De Crequys were plundered, ruined, had become an extinct race,
all but a lonely friendless girl, in broken health and spirits; and,
though she lent no positive encouragement to his suit, yet, at the
time, when Clement reappeared in Paris, Madame Babette was beginning
to think that Virginie might do worse than encourage the attentions
of Monsieur Morin Fils, her nephew, and the wine merchant’s son. Of
course, he and his father had the entree into the conciergerie of the
hotel that belonged to them, in right of being both proprietors and
relations. The son, Morin, had seen Virginie in this manner. He was
fully aware that she was far above him in rank, and guessed from her
whole aspect that she had lost her natural protectors by the terrible
guillotine; but he did not know her exact name or station, nor could he
persuade his aunt to tell him. However, he fell head over ears in love
with her, whether she were princess or peasant; and though at first
there was something about her which made his passionate love conceal
itself with shy, awkward reserve, and then made it only appear in the
guise of deep, respectful devotion; yet, by-and-by,—by the same process
of reasoning, I suppose, that his aunt had gone through even before
him—Jean Morin began to let Hope oust Despair from his heart. Sometimes
he thought—perhaps years hence—that solitary, friendless lady, pent up
in squalor, might turn to him as to a friend and comforter—and then—and
then—. Meanwhile Jean Morin was most attentive to his aunt, whom he
had rather slighted before. He would linger over the accounts; would
bring her little presents; and, above all, he made a pet and favourite
of Pierre, the little cousin, who could tell him about all the ways
of going on of Mam’selle Cannes, as Virginie was called. Pierre was
thoroughly aware of the drift and cause of his cousin’s inquiries; and
was his ardent partisan, as I have heard, even before Jean Morin had
exactly acknowledged his wishes to himself.
“It must have required some patience and much diplomacy, before Clement
de Crequy found out the exact place where his cousin was hidden. The old
gardener took the cause very much to heart; as, judging from my
recollections, I imagine he would have forwarded any fancy, however wild,
of Monsieur Clement’s. (I will tell you afterwards how I came to know
all these particulars so well.)
“After Clement’s return, on two succeeding days, from his dangerous
search, without meeting with any good result, Jacques entreated Monsieur
de Crequy to let him take it in hand. He represented that he, as
gardener for the space of twenty years and more at the Hotel de Crequy,
had a right to be acquainted with all the successive concierges at the
Count’s house; that he should not go among them as a stranger, but as an
old friend, anxious to renew pleasant intercourse; and that if the
Intendant’s story, which he had told Monsieur de Crequy in England, was
true, that mademoiselle was in hiding at the house of a former concierge,
why, something relating to her would surely drop out in the course of
conversation. So he persuaded Clement to remain indoors, while he set
off on his round, with no apparent object but to gossip.
“At night he came home,—having seen mademoiselle. He told Clement much
of the story relating to Madame Babette that I have told to you. Of
course, he had heard nothing of the ambitious hopes of Morin Fils,—hardly
of his existence, I should think. Madame Babette had received him
kindly; although, for some time, she had kept him standing in the
carriage gateway outside her door. But, on his complaining of the
draught and his rheumatism, she had asked him in: first looking round
with some anxiety, to see who was in the room behind her. No one was
there when he entered and sat down. But, in a minute or two, a tall,
thin young lady, with great, sad eyes, and pale cheeks, came from the
inner room, and, seeing him, retired. ‘It is Mademoiselle Cannes,’ said
Madame Babette, rather unnecessarily; for, if he had not been on the
watch for some sign of Mademoiselle de Crequy, he would hardly have
noticed the entrance and withdrawal.
“Clement and the good old gardener were always rather perplexed by Madame
Babette’s evident avoidance of all mention of the De Crequy family. If
she were so much interested in one member as to be willing to undergo the
pains and penalties of a domiciliary visit, it was strange that she never
inquired after the existence of her charge’s friends and relations from
one who might very probably have heard something of them. They settled
that Madame Babette must believe that the Marquise and Clement were dead;
and admired her for her reticence in never speaking of Virginie. The
truth was, I suspect, that she was so desirous of her nephews success by
this time, that she did not like letting any one into the secret of
Virginie’s whereabouts who might interfere with their plan. However, it
was arranged between Clement and his humble friend, that the former,
dressed in the peasant’s clothes in which he had entered Paris, but
smartened up in one or two particulars, as if, although a countryman, he
had money to spare, should go and engage a sleeping-room in the old
Breton Inn; where, as I told you, accommodation for the night was to be
had. This was accordingly done, without exciting Madame Babette’s
suspicions, for she was unacquainted with the Normandy accent, and
consequently did not perceive the exaggeration of it which Monsieur de
Crequy adopted in order to disguise his pure Parisian. But after he had
for two nights slept in a queer dark closet, at the end of one of the
numerous short galleries in the Hotel Duguesclin, and paid his money for
such accommodation each morning at the little bureau under the window of
the conciergerie, he found himself no nearer to his object. He stood
outside in the gateway: Madame Babette opened a pane in her window,
counted out the change, gave polite thanks, and shut to the pane with a
clack, before he could ever find out what to say that might be the means
of opening a conversation. Once in the streets, he was in danger from
the bloodthirsty mob, who were ready in those days to hunt to death every
one who looked like a gentleman, as an aristocrat: and Clement, depend
upon it, looked a gentleman, whatever dress he wore. Yet it was unwise
to traverse Paris to his old friend the gardener’s grenier, so he had to
loiter about, where I hardly know. Only he did leave the Hotel
Duguesclin, and he did not go to old Jacques, and there was not another
house in Paris open to him. At the end of two days, he had made out
Pierre’s existence; and he began to try to make friends with the lad.
Pierre was too sharp and shrewd not to suspect something from the
confused attempts at friendliness. It was not for nothing that the
Norman farmer lounged in the court and doorway, and brought home presents
of galette. Pierre accepted the galette, reciprocated the civil
speeches, but kept his eyes open. Once, returning home pretty late at
night, he surprised the Norman studying the shadows on the blind, which
was drawn down when Madame Babette’s lamp was lighted. On going in, he
found Mademoiselle Cannes with his mother, sitting by the table, and
helping in the family mending.
“Pierre was afraid that the Norman had some view upon the money which
his mother, as concierge, collected for her brother. But the money
was all safe next evening, when his cousin, Monsieur Morin Fils,
came to collect it. Madame Babette asked her nephew to sit down, and
skilfully barred the passage to the inner door, so that Virginie, had
she been ever so much disposed, could not have retreated. She sat
silently sewing. All at once the little party were startled by a very
sweet tenor voice, just close to the street window, singing one of the
airs out of Beaumarchais’ operas, which, a few years before, had been
popular all over Paris. But after a few moments of silence, and one or
two remarks, the talking went on again. Pierre, however, noticed an
increased air of abstraction in Virginie, who, I suppose, was recurring
to the last time that she had heard the song, and did not consider, as
her cousin had hoped she would have done, what were the words set to
the air, which he imagined she would remember, and which would have
told her so much. For, only a few years before, Adam’s opera of Richard
le Roi had made the story of the minstrel Blondel and our English Coeur
de Lion familiar to all the opera-going part of the Parisian public,
and Clement had bethought him of establishing a communication with
Virginie by some such means.
“The next night, about the same hour, the same voice was singing outside
the window again. Pierre, who had been irritated by the proceeding the
evening before, as it had diverted Virginie’s attention from his cousin,
who had been doing his utmost to make himself agreeable, rushed out to
the door, just as the Norman was ringing the bell to be admitted for the
night. Pierre looked up and down the street; no one else was to be seen.
The next day, the Norman mollified him somewhat by knocking at the door
of the conciergerie, and begging Monsieur Pierre’s acceptance of some
knee-buckles, which had taken the country farmer’s fancy the day before,
as he had been gazing into the shops, but which, being too small for his
purpose, he took the liberty of offering to Monsieur Pierre. Pierre, a
French boy, inclined to foppery, was charmed, ravished by the beauty of
the present and with monsieur’s goodness, and he began to adjust them to
his breeches immediately, as well as he could, at least, in his mother’s
absence. The Norman, whom Pierre kept carefully on the outside of the
threshold, stood by, as if amused at the boy’s eagerness.
“‘Take care,’ said he, clearly and distinctly; ‘take care, my little
friend, lest you become a fop; and, in that case, some day, years hence,
when your heart is devoted to some young lady, she may be inclined to say
to you’—here he raised his voice—‘No, thank you; when I marry, I marry
a man, not a petit-maitre; I marry a man, who, whatever his position may
be, will add dignity to the human race by his virtues.’ Farther than
that in his quotation Clement dared not go. His sentiments (so much
above the apparent occasion) met with applause from Pierre, who liked to
contemplate himself in the light of a lover, even though it should be a
rejected one, and who hailed the mention of the words ‘virtues’ and
‘dignity of the human race’ as belonging to the cant of a good citizen.
“But Clement was more anxious to know how the invisible Lady took his
speech. There was no sign at the time. But when he returned at night,
he heard a voice, low singing, behind Madame Babette, as she handed him
his candle, the very air he had sung without effect for two nights past.
As if he had caught it up from her murmuring voice, he sang it loudly and
clearly as he crossed the court.
“‘Here is our opera-singer!’ exclaimed Madame Babette. ‘Why, the Norman
grazier sings like Boupre,’ naming a favourite singer at the neighbouring
theatre.
“Pierre was struck by the remark, and quietly resolved to look after the
Norman; but again, I believe, it was more because of his mother’s deposit
of money than with any thought of Virginie.
“However, the next morning, to the wonder of both mother and son,
Mademoiselle Cannes proposed, with much hesitation, to go out and make
some little purchase for herself. A month or two ago, this was what
Madame Babette had been never weary of urging. But now she was as much
surprised as if she had expected Virginie to remain a prisoner in her
rooms all the rest of her life. I suppose she had hoped that her first
time of quitting it would be when she left it for Monsieur Morin’s house
as his wife.
“A quick look from Madame Babette towards Pierre was all that was needed
to encourage the boy to follow her. He went out cautiously. She was at
the end of the street. She looked up and down, as if waiting for some
one. No one was there. Back she came, so swiftly that she nearly caught
Pierre before he could retreat through the porte-cochere. There he
looked out again. The neighbourhood was low and wild, and strange; and
some one spoke to Virginie,—nay, laid his hand upon her arm,—whose
dress and aspect (he had emerged out of a side-street) Pierre did not
know; but, after a start, and (Pierre could fancy) a little scream,
Virginie recognised the stranger, and the two turned up the side street
whence the man had come. Pierre stole swiftly to the corner of this
street; no one was there: they had disappeared up some of the alleys.
Pierre returned home to excite his mother’s infinite surprise. But they
had hardly done talking, when Virginie returned, with a colour and a
radiance in her face, which they had never seen there since her father’s
death.”