Marie Arrested
On leaving Victor in the care of the man who had so providentially
came to his aid, Harry hurried down the street towards the Abbaye,
then he stopped to think--should he return there or make his way
to the Bicetre. He could not tell whether his friends had, like
the Duc de Gisons, been removed to the Abbaye. If they had been
so, it was clearly impossible for him to aid them in any way. They
might already have fallen. The crowd was too great for him to regain
the gallery, and even there could only witness, without power to
avert, their murder. Were they still at the Bicetre he might do
something. Perhaps the assassins had not yet arrived there.
It was now nine o'clock in the evening. The streets were almost
deserted. The respectable inhabitants all remained within their
houses, trembling at the horrors, of which reports had circulated
during the afternoon. At first there had been hopes that the Assembly
would take steps to put a stop to the massacre, but the Assembly
did nothing. Danton and the ministers were absent. The cannon's
roar and the tocsin sounded perpetually. There was no secret as to
what was going on. The Commune had the insolence to send commissioners
to the bar of the Assembly to state that the people wished to break
open the doors of the prisons, and this when two hundred priests
had already been butchered at the Carmelites.
A deputation indeed went to the Abbaye to try to persuade the murderers
to desist; but their voices were drowned in the tumultuous cries.
The Commune of Paris openly directed the massacre. Billaud-Varennes
went backwards and forwards to superintend the execution of his
orders, and promised the executioners twenty-four francs a day.
The receipt for the payment of this blood-money still exists.
On arriving in front of the Bicetre Harry found all was silent
there, and with a faint feeling of hope that the massacre would not
extend beyond the Abbaye, he again turned his steps in that direction.
The bloody work was still going on, and Harry wandered away into
the quiet streets to avoid hearing the shrieks of the victims and
the yells of the crowd. A sudden thought struck him, and he went
along until he saw a woman come out of a house. He ran up to her.
"Madam," he said, "I have the most urgent need of a bonnet and
shawl. Will you sell me those you have on? The shops are all shut,
or I would not trouble you. You have only to name your price, and
I will pay you."
The woman was surprised at this proposition, but seeing that a good
bargain was to be made she asked twice the cost of the articles
when new, and this Harry paid her without question.
Wrapping the shawl and bonnet into a bundle, he retraced his steps,
and sat down on some doorsteps within a distance of the Abbaye
which would enable him to observe any general movement of the crowd
in front of the prison. At one o'clock in the morning there was a
stir, and the body of men with pikes moved down the street.
"They are going to La Force," he said, after following them for some
distance. "Oh, if I had but two or three hundred English soldiers
here we would make mincemeat of these murderers!"
Harry did not enter La Force, where the scenes that were taking
place at the Abbaye--for, in spite of the speed with which the mock
trials were hurried through, these massacres were not yet finished
there, so great was the number of prisoners--were repeated.
At La Force many ladies were imprisoned, among them the Princess de
Lamballe. They shared the fate of the male prisoners, being hewn
to pieces by sabres. The head of the princess was cut off and stuck
upon a pike, and was carried in triumph under the windows of the
Temple, where the king and queen were confined, and was held up to
the bars of the room they occupied for them to see. Marie Antoinette,
fearless for herself, fainted at the terrible sight of the pale
head of her friend.
Harry remained at a little distance from La Force, tramping
restlessly up and down, half-mad with rage and horror, and at his
powerlessness to interfere in any way with the proceedings of the
wretches who were carrying on the work of murder. At last, about
eight o'clock in the morning, a boy ran by.
"They have finished with them at the Abbaye," he said with fiendish
glee. "They are going from there to the Bicetre."
Harry with difficulty repressed his desire to slay the urchin, and
hurried away to reach the prison of Bicetre before the band from the
Abbaye arrived there. Unfortunately he came down by a side street
upon them when they were within a few hundred yards of the prison.
His great hope was that he might succeed in penetrating with the
Marseillais and find the marquise, and aid her in making her way
through the mob in the disguise he had purchased.
But here, as at the other prisons, there was a method in the work
of murder. The agents of the Commune took possession of the hall
at the entrance and permitted none to pass farther into the prison,
the warders and officials bringing down the prisoners in batches,
and so handing them over for slaughter. In vain Harry tried to
penetrate into the inner part of the prison. He was roughly repulsed
by the men guarding the door; and at last, finding that nothing
could be done, he forced his way out again into the open air, and
hurrying away for some distance, threw himself on the ground and
burst into a passion of tears.
After a time he rose and made his way back to the house where he
had left Victor de Gisons. He found him in a state of delirium,
acting over and over again the scene in the Abbaye, cursing the
judge and executioners, and crying out he would die with his father.
"What does the doctor think of him?" he asked the woman who was
sitting by Victor's bed.
"He did not say much," the woman replied. "He shook his head, and
said there had been a terrible mental shock, and that he could not
answer either for his life or reason. There was nothing to do but
to be patient, to keep his head bandaged with wet cloths, and to
give him water from time to time. Do not be afraid, sir; we will
watch over him carefully."
"I would stay here if I could," Harry said; "but I have others
I must see about. I have the terrible news to break to some young
ladies of the murder of their father and mother."
"Poor things! Poor things!" the woman said, shaking her head. "It
is terrible! My husband was telling me what he saw; and a neighbour
came in just now and said it was the same thing at all the other
prisons. The priest, too--our priest at the little church at the
corner of the street, where I used to go in every morning to pray
on my way to market--he was dragged away ten days ago to the
Carmelites, and now he is a saint in heaven. How is it, sir, that
God allows such things to be?"
"We cannot tell," Harry said sadly. "As for myself, I can hardly
believe it, though I saw it. They say there are over four thousand
people in the prisons, and they will all be murdered. Such a thing
was never heard of. I can hardly believe that I am not in a dream
now."
"You look almost like one dead yourself," the woman said pityingly.
"I have made a bouillon for Jacques' breakfast and mine. It is
just ready. Do take a mouthful before you go out. That and a piece
of bread and a cup of red wine will do you good."
Harry was on the point of refusing; but he felt that he was utterly
worn and exhausted, and that he must keep up his strength. Her
husband, therefore, took her place by Victor's bedside in readiness
to hold him down should he try to get up in his ravings, while
the good woman ladled out a basin of the broth and placed it with
a piece of bread and some wine on the table. Harry forced himself
to drink it, and when he rose from the table he already felt the
benefit of the meal.
"Thank you very much," he said. "I feel stronger now; but how I
am to tell the story I do not know. But I must make quite certain
before I go to these poor girls that their parents were killed.
Three or four were spared at the Abbaye. Possibly it may have been
the same thing at the Bicetre."
So Harry went back and waited outside the prison until the bloody
work was over; but found on questioning those who came out when
all was done that the thirst for blood had increased with killing,
and that all the prisoners found in the Bicetre had been put to
death.
"Ma foi!" the man whom he was speaking to said; "but these accursed
aristocrats have courage. Men and women were alike; there was not
one of them but faced the judges bravely and went to their death
as calmly as if to dinner. There was a marquis and his wife--the
Marquis de St. Caux they called him. They brought them out together.
They were asked whether they had anything to say why they should
not be punished for their crimes against France. The marquis laughed
aloud.
"'Crimes!' he said. 'Do you think a Marquis de St. Caux is going
to plead for his life to a band of murderers and assassins? Come,
my love.'
"He just gave her one kiss, and then took her hand as if they were
going to walk a minuet together, and then led her down between the
lines of guards with his head erect and a smile of scorn on his
face. She did not smile, but her step never faltered. I watched
her closely. She was very pale, and she did not look proud, but
she walked as calmly and steadily as her husband till they reached
the door where the pikemen were awaiting them, and then it was
over in a minute, and they died without a cry or a groan. They are
wretches, the aristocrats. They have fattened on the life-blood of
the people; but they know how to die, these people."
Without a word Harry turned away. He had told himself there was no
hope; but he knew by the bitter pang he felt now that he had hoped
to the last. Then he walked slowly away to tell the news.
There were comparatively few people about the streets, and these
all of the lower order. Every shop was closed. Men with scared faces
stood at some of the doors to gather the news from passers-by, and
pale women looked timidly from the upper windows. When he reached
the house he could not summon courage to enter it, but stood for a
long time outside, until at last he saw Louise Moulin put her head
from the window. He succeeded in catching her eye, and placing his
finger on his lips signed to her to come down. A minute later she
appeared at the door.
"Is it all true, Monsieur Sandwith? They say they are murdering
the prisoners. Surely it must be false! They could never do such
a thing!"
"It is true, Louise. I have seen it myself. I went with a disguise
to try and rescue our dear lady, even if I could not save the
marquis; but I could not get to her--the wretches have murdered
them both."
"Oh, my dear lady!" the old woman cried, bursting into tears. "The
pretty babe I nursed. To think of her murdered; and the poor young
things upstairs--what shall I do!--what shall I do, Monsieur
Sandwith!"
"You must break it to them, Louise. Do they know how great the
danger is?"
"No. I have kept it from them. They can see from the window that
something unusual is going on; everyone can see that. But I told
them it was only that the Prussians were advancing. They are
anxious--very anxious--but they are quite unprepared for this."
"Break it gradually, Louise. Tell them first that there are rumours
that the prisons have been attacked. Come down again presently as
if to get more news, and then tell them that there are reports that
the prisoners have been massacred, and then at last tell them all
the truth."
"But will you not come up, Monsieur Sandwith--they trust you so
much? Your presence will be a support to them."
"I could do nothing now," Harry said sadly. "God only can console
them. They had best be by themselves for awhile. I will come in this
evening. The first burst of grief will be over then, and my talk
may aid them to rouse themselves. Oh, if we had but tried to get
them out of prison sooner. And yet who could have foreseen that here
in Paris thousands of innocent prisoners, men and women, would be
murdered in cold blood!"
Finding that she could not persuade Harry to enter, Louise turned
to perform her painful duty; while Harry, thoroughly exhausted with
the night of horrors, made his way home, and throwing himself on
the bed, fell asleep, and did not wake until evening. His first step
was to plunge his head into water, and then, after a good wash, to
prepare a meal. His sleep had restored his energy, and with brisk
steps he made his way through the streets to Louise Moulin. He
knocked with his knuckles at the outer door of her apartments. The
old nurse opened it quietly.
"Come in," she said, "and sit down. They are in their room, and
I think they have cried themselves to sleep. My heart has been
breaking all day to see them. It has been dreadful. Poor little
Virginie cried terribly, and sobbed for hours; but it was a long
time before the others cried. Marie fainted, and when I got her
round lay still and quiet without speaking. Jeanne was worst of
all. She sat on that chair with her eyes staring open and her face
as white as if she were dead. She did not seem to hear anything I
said; but at last, when Virginie's sobs were stopping, I began to
talk to her about her mother and her pretty ways when she was a
child, and then at last Jeanne broke down, and she cried so wildly
that I was frightened, and then Marie cried too; and after a while
I persuaded them all to lie down; and as I have not heard a sound
for the last hour I hope the good God has sent them all to sleep."
"I trust so indeed, Louise. I will stay here quietly for an hour,
and then if we hear nothing I will go home, and be back again in
the morning. Sleep will do more for them than anything I can say."
At the end of an hour all was still quiet, and Harry with a somewhat
lightened heart took his departure.
At nine o'clock next morning he was again at the house. When he
entered Virginie ran to him, and throwing her arms round his neck
again burst into a passion of tears. Harry felt that this was the
best thing that could have happened, for the others were occupied
for some time in trying to soothe her, crying quietly to themselves
while they did so. At last her sobs became less violent.
"And now, Harry," Marie said, turning to him, "will you tell us
all about it?"
"I will tell you only that your dear father and mother died, as
you might be sure they would, calmly and fearlessly, and that they
suffered but little. More than that I cannot tell you now. Some day
farther on, when you can bear it, I will tell you of the events of
the last forty-eight hours. At present I myself dare not think of
it, and it would harm you to know it.
"Do not, I pray you, ask me any questions now. We must think of
the future. Fortunately you passed unsuspected the last time they
searched the house; but it may not be so another time. You may be
sure that these human tigers will not be satisfied with the blood
they have shed, but that they will long for fresh victims. The
prisons are empty now, but they will soon be filled again. We must
therefore turn our thoughts to your making your escape from the
city. I fear that there is peril everywhere; but it must be faced.
I think it will be useless for us to try and reach the frontier
by land. At every town and village they will be on the look-out
for fugitives, and whatever disguise you might adopt you could not
escape observation. I think, then, that we must make for the sea
and hire a fishing-boat to take us across to England.
"But we must not hurry. In the first place, we must settle all
our plans carefully and prepare our disguises; in the next place,
there will be such tremendous excitement when the news of what has
happened here is known that it would be unsafe to travel. I think
myself it will be best to wait a little until there is a lull. That
is what I want you to think over and decide.
"I do not think there is any very great danger here for the next
few days. For a little time they will be tired of slaying; and,
from what I hear, the Girondists are marked out as the next victims.
They say Danton has denounced them at the Jacobin Club. At any
rate it will be better to get everything in readiness for flight,
so that we can leave at once if we hear of any fresh measures for
a search after suspects."
Harry was pleased to find that his suggestion answered the purpose
for which he made it. The girls began to discuss the disguises
which would be required and the best route to be taken, and their
thoughts were for a time turned from the loss they had sustained.
After an hour's talk he left them greatly benefited by his visit.
For the next few days Harry spent his time for the most part by
the bedside of Victor de Gisons. The fever was still at its height,
and the doctor gave but small hopes of his recovery. Harry determined
that he would not leave Paris until the issue was decided one way
or the other, and when with the girls he discouraged any idea of
an immediate flight. This was the more easy, for the news from the
provinces showed that the situation was everywhere as bad as it
was at the capital.
The Commune had sent to all the committees acting in connection with
them in the towns throughout the country the news of the execution
of the enemies of France confined in the prisons, and had urged
that a similar step should at once be taken with reference to all
the prisoners in their hands. The order was promptly obeyed, and
throughout France massacres similar to those in Paris were at once
carried out. A carnival of murder and horror had commenced, and the
madness for blood raged throughout the whole country. Such being
the case, Harry found it by no means difficult to dissuade the
girls from taking instant steps towards making their escape.
He was, however, in a state of great uneasiness. Many of the moderate
deputies had been seized, others had sought safety in flight, and
the search for suspected persons was carried on vigorously. Difficult
and dangerous as it would be to endeavour to travel through France
with three girls, he would have attempted it without hesitation
rather than remain in Paris had it not been for Victor de Gisons.
One day a week after the massacres at the prisons he received
another terrible shock. He had bought a paper from one of the men
shouting them for sale in the street, and sat down in the garden of
the Tuileries to read it. A great portion of the space was filled
with lists of the enemies of the people who had been, as it was
called, executed. As these lists had formed the staple of news for
several days Harry scarce glanced at the names, his eye travelling
rapidly down the list until he gave a start and a low cry. Under
the heading of persons executed at Lille were the names of Ernest
de St. Caux, Jules de St. Caux, Pierre du Tillet--"aristocrats
arrested, August 15th, in the act of endeavouring to leave
France in disguise."
For some time Harry sat as if stunned. He had scarce given a thought
to his friends since that night they had left, the affairs of the
marquis and his wife, of their daughters, and of Victor de Gisons,
almost excluding everything else. When he thought of the boys it
had been as already in England, under the charge of du Tillet.
He had thought, that if they had been arrested on the way he
should have been sure to hear of it; and he had such confidence in
the sagacity of Monsieur du Tillet that he had looked upon it as
almost certain he would be able to lead his two charges through
any difficulty and danger which might beset them. And now he knew
that his hopes had been ill founded--that his friends had been
arrested when almost within sight of the frontier, and had been
murdered as soon as the news of the massacres in Paris had reached
Lille.
He felt crushed with the blow. A warm affection had sprung up between
him and Ernest, while from the first the younger boy had attached
himself to him; and now they were dead, and the girls were alone
in the world, save for himself and the poor young fellow tossing
with fever! It was true that if his friends had reached England
in safety they could not have aided him in the task he had before
him of getting the girls away; still their deaths somehow seemed
to add to his responsibilities.
Upon one thing he determined at once, and that was, that until his
charges were safely in England they should not hear a whisper of
this new and terrible misfortune which had befallen them.
In order to afford the girls some slight change, and anxious at their
pale faces, the result of grief and of their unwonted confinement,
Louise Moulin had persuaded them to go out with her in the early
mornings when she went to the markets. The fear of detection was
small, for the girls had now become accustomed to their thick shoes
and rough dress; and indeed she thought that it would be safer to
go out, for the suspicions of her neighbours might be excited if
the girls remained secluded in the house. Harry generally met them
soon after they started, and accompanied them in their walk.
One morning he was walking with the two younger girls, while Marie
and the old nurse were together a short distance in front of them.
They had just reached the flower-market, which was generally the
main object of their walks--for the girls, having passed most
of their time in the country, were passionately fond of flowers--when
a man on horseback wearing a red sash, which showed him to be
an official of the republic, came along at a foot-pace. His eyes
fell upon Marie's face and rested there, at first with the look of
recognition, followed by a start of surprise and satisfaction. He
reined in his horse instantly, with the exclamation:
"Mademoiselle de St. Caux!"
For a moment she shrank back, her cheek paler even than before;
then recovering herself she said calmly:
"It is myself, Monsieur Lebat."
"Citizen Lebat," he corrected. "You forget, there are no titles
now--we have changed all that. It goes to my heart," he went on with
a sneer, "to be obliged to do my duty; but however unpleasant it
is, it must be done. Citizens," he said, raising his voice, "I want
two men well disposed to the state."
As to be ill disposed meant danger if not death, several men within
hearing at once came forward.
"This female citizen is an aristocrat in disguise," he went on,
pointing to Marie; "in virtue of my office as deputy of Dijon and
member of the Committee of Public Safety, I arrest her and give
her into your charge. Where is the person who was with her? Seize
her also on a charge of harbouring an enemy of the state!"
But Louise was gone. The moment Lebat had looked round in search
of assistance Marie had whispered in Louise's ear: "Fly, Louise,
for the sake of the children; if you are arrested they are lost!"
Had she herself been alone concerned, the old woman would have stood
by Marie and shared her fate; but the words "for the sake of the
children" decided her, and she had instantly slipped away among
the crowd, whose attention had been called by Lebat's first words,
and dived into a small shop, where she at once began to bargain
for some eggs.
"Where is the woman?" Lebat repeated angrily.
"What is she like?" one of the bystanders asked.
But Lebat could give no description whatever of her. He had noticed
that Marie was speaking to some one when he first caught sight of
her face; but he had noticed nothing more, and did not know whether
the woman was young or old.
"I can't tell you," he said in a tone of vexation. "Never mind; we
shall find her later on. This capture is the most important."
So saying he set out, with Marie walking beside him, with a guard
on either hand. In the next street he came on a party of four of
the armed soldiers of the Commune, and ordered them to take the
place of those he had first charged with the duty, and directed
them to proceed with him to the Maine.
Marie was taken at once before the committee sitting en permanence
for the discovery and arrest of suspects.
"I charge this young woman with being an aristocrat in disguise.
She is the daughter of the ci-devant Marquis de St. Caux, who was
executed on the 2d of September at Bicetre."
"Murdered, you mean, sir," Marie said in a clear haughty voice.
"Why not call things by their proper name?"
"I am sorry," Lebat went on, not heeding the interruption, "that
it should fall to my lot to denounce her, for I acknowledge that
in the days before our glorious Revolution commenced I have visited
at her father's chateau. But I feel that my duty to the republic
stands before any private considerations."
"You have done perfectly right," the president of the committee
said. "As I understand that the accused does not deny that she
is the daughter of the ci-devant marquis, I will at once sign the
order for her committal to La Force. There is room there still,
though the prisons are filling up again fast."
"We must have another jail delivery," one of the committee laughed
brutally; and a murmur of assent passed through the chamber.
The order was made out, and Marie was handed over to the armed
guard, to be taken with the next batch of prisoners to La Force.
Harry was some twenty yards behind Marie and her companion when
Lebat checked his horse before her. He recognized the man instantly,
and saw that Marie's disguise was discovered. His first impulse
was to rush forward to her assistance, but the hopelessness of any
attempt at interference instantly struck him, and to the surprise
of the two girls, who were looking into a shop, and had not noticed
what was occurring, he turned suddenly with them down a side street.
"What are you doing, Harry? We shall lose the others in the crowd
if we do not keep them in sight," Jeanne said.
"I know what I am doing, Jeanne; I will tell you presently." He walked
along several streets until he came to an unfrequented thoroughfare.
"There is something wrong, Harry. I see it in your face!" Jeanne
exclaimed. "Tell us at once.
"It is bad news," Harry said quietly. "Try and nerve yourselves,
my dear girls, for you will need all your courage. Marie is captured."
"Oh, Harry!" Virginie exclaimed, bursting into tears, while Jeanne
stood still and motionless.
"Why are you taking us away?" she said in a hard sharp voice which
Harry would not have recognized as hers. "Our place is with her,
and where she goes we will go. You have no right to lead us away.
We will go back to her at once."
"You can do her no good, Jeanne, dear," Harry said gently. "You
could not help her, and it would only add to her misery if Virginie
and you were also in their hands. Besides, we can be of more use
outside. Trust to me, Jeanne; I will do all in my power to save
her, whatever the risk."
"You could not save our father and mother," Jeanne said with a
quivering lip.
"No, dear; but I would have saved them had there been but a little
time to do so. This time I hope to be more successful. Courage,
Jeanne! Do not give way; I depend on your clear head to help me.
Besides, till we can get her back, you have to fill Marie's place
and look after Virginie."
The appeal was successful, and Jeanne burst into a passion of
tears. Harry did not try to check them, and in a short time the
sobs ceased and Jeanne raised her head again.
"I feel better now," she said. "Come, Virginie, and dry your eyes,
darling; we shall have plenty of time to cry afterwards. Are we to
go home, Harry? Have they taken Louise?"
"I do not know, Jeanne; that is the first thing to find out, for
if they have, it will not be safe for you to return. Let us push on
now, so that if she has not been taken we shall reach home before
her. We will place ourselves at the corner of your street and wait
for an hour; she may spend some time in looking for us, but if she
does not come by the end of that time I shall feel sure that it
is because she cannot come, and in that case I must look out for
another place for you."
They hurried on until they were nearly home, the brisk walk having,
as Harry had calculated it would do, had the effect of preventing
their thoughts from dwelling upon Marie's capture. They had not
been more than a quarter of an hour at their post when Harry gave
an exclamation of satisfaction as he saw Louise Moulin approaching.
The two girls hurried to meet her.
"Thank God you are both safe, dears!" she exclaimed with tears
streaming down her cheeks. "I thought of you in the middle of it
all; but I was sure that Monsieur Sandwith would see what was being
done and would get you away."
"And you, Louise," said Harry, who had now come up, "how did you
get away? I have been terribly anxious, thinking that they might
seize you too, and that would have been dreadful."
"So they would have done," the old woman said; "but when that evil
man looked away for a moment, mademoiselle whispered, 'Fly, Louise,
for the children's sake!' and I slipped away into the crowd without
even stopping to think, and ran into a shop; and it was well I did,
for he shouted to them to seize me too, but I was gone, and as I
don't think he noticed me before, they could not find me; and as
soon as they had all moved away I came out. I looked for you for
some time, and then made up my mind that Monsieur Sandwith had come
on home with you."
"So I did, you see," Harry said; "but I did not dare to go in until
we knew whether you had been taken too. If you had not come after
a time we should have looked for another lodging, though I knew
well enough that you would not tell them where you lived."
"No, indeed," the old woman said. "They might have cut me in pieces
without getting a single word from me as to where I lived. Still
they might have found out somehow, for they would have been sure to
have published the fact that I had been taken, with a description
of me. Then the neighbours would have said, 'This description is
like Louise Moulin, and she is missing;' and then they would have
talked, and the end of it would have been you would have been
discovered. Will you come home with us, Monsieur Sandwith?"
"I will come after it's dark, Louise. The less my visits are noticed
the better."
"This is awful!" Harry said to himself as he turned away. "The
marquis and his wife massacred, Ernest and Jules murdered, Marie
in prison, Victor mad with fever, Jeanne and Virginie with no one
to trust to but me, my people at home in a frightful state of mind
about me. It is awful to think of. It's enough to drive a fellow
out of his senses. Well, I will go and see how Victor is going on.
The doctor thought there was a change yesterday. Poor fellow! If
he comes to his senses I shall have hard work to keep the truth
about Marie from him. It would send him off again worse than ever
if he had an idea of it."
"And how is your patient to-day, madame?" he asked, as Victor's
nurse opened the door to him.
"He is quieter, much quieter," she replied. "I think he is too weak
to rave any longer; but otherwise he's just the same. He lies with
his eyes open, talking sometimes to himself, but I cannot make out
any sense in what he says. The doctor has been here this morning,
and he says that he thinks another two days will decide. If he does
not take a turn then he will die. If he does, he may live, but even
then he may not get his reason again. Poor young fellow! I feel
for him almost as if he were my son, and so does Jacques."
"You are both very good, madame," Harry said, "and my friend is
fortunate indeed to have fallen into such good hands. I will sit
with him for three or four hours now, and you had better go and
get a little fresh air."
"That I will, monsieur. Jacques is asleep. He was up with him all
last night, and I had a good night. He would have it so."
"Quite right!" Harry said. "You must not knock yourself up, madame.
You are too useful to others for us to let you do that. Tomorrow
night I will take my turn."