“Oh, Paris! ville pleine de brouillard,
Et couverte de boue,
Où les hommes connoissent pas l’honneur,
Ni les femmes la vertu.”
ROUSSEAU.
The Willoughby family, as has been already said, left England for the
Continent; and the spring which succeeded Sir John’s death found them
temporarily residing in Paris. It was very far from the Colonel’s
intention, however, to remain there long; the household was only
incomplete, as yet, without Francis, who in a few weeks would join it on
leaving Oxford; and there had to be some consideration before finally
settling, from among no slight variety of advertisements in the public
journals, what district of the provinces might be best suited for a
retreat, probably during some years. One or two points of business,
also, requiring attention to his English letters, continued to make
their early arrival a convenience; not so much from the Devonshire
lawyer, whose methodical regularity left nothing to desire, as with
regard to the sale of Sir Godfrey’s commission, and some arrangements
left unfinished in town, of that tedious nature which characterises
stockbroking. Meanwhile their establishment was certainly simple
compared with that lately given up in Golden Square, where society, at
no time deficient to the Willoughbies, had, since the Colonel’s last
return home, been doubling itself every year, and had begun, since his
brother’s death, absolutely to send visiting-cards by footmen, to call
in carriages, to bespeak the earliest possible share of their company at
dinner: contrasted with the extent which must have been necessary for
Stoke, it was diminutive. Yet it was by no means one of a restricted
kind, although the income from Lady Willoughby’s own small fortune would
alone have sufficed to keep it up, leaving some surplus; so that, living
as yet without new acquaintances, and, so far as their countrymen were
concerned, in perfect obscurity, they had not a wish which it did not
suffice for; as long, at least, as the vast, strange city held its first
influences over them. To these, probably, it was owing that Colonel
Willoughby appeared for some time to have had no other object in coming
to Paris; if distinctly aware of any, beyond the facilities there for
choosing a place of residence in the provinces, for awaiting his son
Francis, and finishing the more important part of his correspondence,
with the convenience of respectable banking-houses—besides the
possibility of avoiding English acquaintances, which at Dieppe or
Boulogne would not have been so easy—then he would without doubt have
mentioned it to his wife. A reserved man, and in the strictest sense a
proud one, he was amongst the last to have secrets; they would have sat
on his brow, and troubled his manner; nor had he at any time had such a
thing apart from _her_. During the whole course of their wedded life,
whether together or separated, by word or letter, their mutual
confidence had increased: for her part, she was of that easy, placid,
seemingly almost torpid nature, which, save in a receipt of
housekeeping, or a triumph of domestic management, appears merely to
produce in it nothing worth the hiding, nor to receive, either, anything
of that serious kind; while the course of time, that had begun to turn
the fair features of Mrs Willoughby rather large, giving her form a
somewhat more than matronly fulness, had so increased this peculiarity
in her disposition as to make strangers think her insipid. Older friends
thought very far otherwise, and it was, in some way, chiefly old friends
Mrs Willoughby had had at all; but neither they, the oldest of them, nor
even her children, perhaps, could so much as imagine the truth of heart,
the perfect trust, the intimate, unhesitating appreciation, which, since
they were first gained by him, her husband had been ever knowing better.
Indolently placid as she might seem even to ordinary troubles, tumults,
and embarrassments, as if the world’s care entered no imagination of
hers—quietly busied, with attention fixed on household matters, knitting
or sewing in her endless, noiseless manner—yet if his eye had shown
anxiety, if he had ceased to read, if he paced the room, or had been
very silent, a kind of divination there was, that, without any watching
or any questioning, would have roused her up—the work suspended on her
lap, her cheek losing the old dimple-mark which maturity had deepened
there, and her glance widened with concern; till, if he had still not
spoken, Lady Willoughby would have risen up gradually, looking round as
if startled from a sort of mild dream, and have moved towards him,
beginning of her own accord—which was a rare thing—to speak. Not
necessarily, indeed, though they had been alone in the room, to invite
confidence by any inquiry; but rather in the way of performing some
slight office that might have been neglected, or with endeavours at such
interesting news and small-talk as, to speak truth, she scarcely shone
in, unsupported—nor any the better for the confused sense she evidently
had at these times of having been by some means in fault, and having
failed to be a very lively companion. She was of a plain country
squire’s family, in fact; and in her day, if sent at all to
boarding-schools, they had not lingered long over music, still less at
flower-painting or the sciences; while with successive sisters waiting
at home for their turn, as she had had, it was but to finish off baking
and mending, with dancing and embroidery, then to come back, and bake
and mend again. So when the dancing ended with marriage, the embroidery
at the first birth, it might have been thought the officer had gained no
very valuable society, sometimes in barrack-lodgings, sometimes abroad,
sometimes for distant communication by letter; she might, at least, have
been expected to form no great ornament in London circles, or among
country people at Stoke Manor-house. Still there had been nothing in all
their previous intercourse so precious to him as his wife’s letters,
when almost for the first time, in her own natural way, she had to
attempt expressing fond thoughts, soothing motives, and yet confessions
of impatience—mixed up with accounts of children’s complaints, their
faults, and their schooling—country gossip, and fashionable arrivals,
with some stray suggestions and admissions, never before confided to
him, of a pious kind: and when long afterwards came the events at Stoke,
instead of any undue flutter or sense of importance being caused in her,
she had fallen in as naturally to title or prospects, as she had sat
before that at the head of their dinner-table in Golden Square. It was
no doll’s disposition, as had been at the time hinted round some
ill-natured card-tables in that region; if one thing more than another
troubled Sir Godfrey in their present plans, it was that he believed
devoutly in his wife’s aptitude for a high station, where expectations
would be formed and occasions raised; his feeling was—and the partiality
was excusable—that her chief value lay obscured in ordinary
circumstances. Whereas at the new abode in Paris, with ample scope and
convenience, all the earlier habits of domestic superintendence seemed
returning, the making, baking, mending—almost even to washing; in
reference to which alone Lady Willoughby seemed really active, and the
more so that everything might go on as in England, had the mere economy
of the thing not been a vital point. Her pleased air would alone have
hindered him from reasoning it with her, had Sir Godfrey so much as
dreamt, in the latter respect, how their case really stood: and when,
indeed, there did lie any care on his mind, which he might be unwilling
she should share, yet so gently did the conversation win it from him,
and so quietly did something like the old manner woo him to bear no
burden alone, that, ere he knew, it was no longer his, but they were
talking of it plainly. What tranquil reassurance _then_, and grave,
prompt advertence to the point—and pure sympathy, and that repose of
soul from which a woman’s instinct can express so much by a tone, a
look, silence itself! Sir Godfrey had sometimes been ashamed to find how
much more he could be disturbed by trifles, or how cautiously he had
been underrating his wife’s affection. So that she knew as well as he
did, and almost as soon, how affairs stood at Stoke, with the tenor of
his brother’s intended will, and any the slightest incident which could
concern them. He had even casually mentioned, as among the more trivial,
Sir John’s wishes for the benefit of the person entitled Suzanne Deroux,
for Lady Willoughby had long known, of course, what of Sir John’s early
history his brother knew. The matter had well-nigh escaped his memory,
he said; till on happening to want a banker in Paris, it struck him that
the house formerly employed by his brother, in the payment of the
annuity referred to, might suit himself. To these gentlemen,
accordingly, he had sent a memorandum of the address left by Sir John,
with a request that they would have the money paid to her. It was a
small sum, but might be important to the people, whoever they were,
living in one of the poorest and most wretchedly-crowded quarters of
Paris. Still, as Sir Godfrey smiled on that occasion cheerfully, and
resumed his English newspaper, he did not, he could not tell all the
painful and pertinacious impressions, of circumstances unknown or acts
untraced, which any allusion to his late brother’s former stay in Paris
still called up.
Everything did not exactly go on in the household as in England, indeed,
but all was as nearly so as a quiet assiduity could make it. The house,
a somewhat dull and dilapidated mansion, very barely furnished, and
taken by the month from an adjoining notary, stood far to the western or
court-end of the city, though rather involved in the dinginess of a sort
of minor fauxbourg, where, in those days, between the sudden curve of
the river and the lesser alleys of the Champs Elysées, a motley
population still clustered about the tan-pits or dye-houses, and towards
the bridge and quays: it occupied one corner of a short,
deserted-looking street, the other end of which was reduced to a narrow
lane by the high enclosure of a convent; in front was a small paved
court, very shady and damp, by the help of two or three stunted poplars
it contained, yet not by any means private, being overlooked by dusty or
broken staircase windows, one over the other, from at hand; while it,
nevertheless, could boast of a wall surmounted by a railing, with a
heavily-pillared gate of open ironwork, a little lodge on one side
within, where the porter lived—at one end of the house a diminutive
stable and coach-shed, at the other an entrance to a high-walled garden,
laid out in intricate confusion, without sign of flowers, and overgrown
with a luxury of weeds. Some rising bourgeois had probably at first
designed it, with a moderate eye to fashion; although its prime
recommendation from the notary was, that successive families of the
English nobility had chosen it for their temporary residence; nor did
the old concierge fail to point out, with some emphasis, when showing
the garden, that it was in the English style. The place was, at all
events, at a convenient distance from the central parts of Paris, and
within an easy drive to the Protestant Episcopal chapel. At a sharp
angle with the street ran a main thoroughfare from the city barrier, one
way confused in the dense suburb, the other way breaking towards a leafy
promenade of the public park; sending all day a busy throng of
passengers into that brighter current, where it glimpsed broad past the
gap of light, with the glitter of equipages, the shifting glow of
dresses, and the constant hum and babble of its gaiety; while nearer by
was an opening in the contiguous street, through which the first-floor
windows of their house looked at the motion along the quay, and saw the
stately piles of building on the opposite bank, in brighter perspective,
curve away from the eastern avenue of the Champ de Mars, with the
bending of the river. They had still a carriage, too, though it was
merely hired by the month, like the house, from the nearest
livery-stables—a light, English-shaped barouche, with its pair of
soot-black, long-legged Flemish horses, long-tailed and square-nosed,
barrel-bodied and hollow-backed, and formally-stepping, which the owner
called English also, for everything English seemed the rage: they were
objects of no slight scorn, in that light, to Sir Godfrey’s groom, a
stiff old trooper, who, with his duties towards his master’s horse,
Black Rupert (the only possession they had brought from Stoke, save the
title), had soon to unite that of coachman. Since besides Jackson
himself, there was not merely an English housemaid, but there was young
Mr Charles’s tutor, a grave, rather middle-aged bachelor of arts from
Cambridge, and in clerical orders, who was to make up for the lost
advantages of Eton, while he looked forward to the first opening in the
curacy at Stoke: there was Miss Willoughby’s governess, a lady
apparently also of middle age, whose perfect breeding and great
accomplishments had made her acceptance of the position a favour, when
the sudden necessity arose for the young lady’s leaving school; she had
been in the highest families, and her conversational powers were of a
superior order, so that there was a continual silent gratitude towards
her on the part of Lady Willoughby. To the latter, indeed, whose whole
heart lay in her family, these unavoidable changes had been a source of
pure satisfaction, so far as she was concerned; compared with the
privilege of having their children about them, educated under their own
eye, expecting Frank so soon, too, nothing else was a deprivation; she
merely missed England and English habits when some one else did, and had
seen Stoke but once; only through the occasional abstracted looks of Sir
Godfrey did she regret its postponement. As for the old French concierge
at the gate, indeed, with his wife, family, and friends, she could have
gladly spared them; but the concierge was indispensable—he _lived_
there—he went with the house, in fact; and at the very hint of his being
superfluous, the old cracked-voiced porter had drawn himself up
indignantly in his chair, while his bare-armed, black-browed wife had
turned her leatherlike face up from her tub, looking daggers. True, the
English family had, in the mean time, no visitors, but the concierge
had;—_he_ was well known to his respectable neighbours; and, besides, it
was possible that the misanthropy of the Chevalier Vilby and of Madame
might be to some extent diminished; they would probably yet enter into
society—all the previous tenants of the mansion had done so; Paris was,
in reality, so attractive a capital. Such had been the response to the
diplomacy of Jackson, who, having once been a French prisoner, far
abroad, knew the language after a fashion of his own; and he received it
in grim silence. The truth was, the gossipping receptions at the little
lodge were somewhat troublesome, and seemed to concern themselves
greatly with the affairs of the household within, had there been nothing
else than the general interest taken in it by the adjacent windows, or
the popularity of the whole family, collectively or individually, which
had sometimes accompanied their exit or entrance with applause from
crowds of street children—a prestige which had as evidently deserted
them afterwards, to be replaced by tenfold scrutiny of a less partial
kind, not unmingled with sundry trivial annoyances. Nor, although it
resulted, with Lady Willoughby’s usual easy disposition, in her
employing the services of the porter’s daughter within the house, did
the one parent open the gate with less sullen dignity, and the other
seem less jealously watchful against some abstraction of the furniture,
or nocturnal evasion of the rent.
Nevertheless, Paris itself was not more restless or more lively than the
spirits of the young people in their first enjoyment of its scenes. The
earliest summer had begun to lighten up what was already bright with
heat that came before the leaves, quickly as these were bursting into
verdure along every avenue; and when the dust is hovering in the sun,
when the level light streams along causeway and pavement, crossed by
cooler vistas, when the morning water-carts go slowly hissing past, the
shopmen sprinkling their door-steps, putting out their canopies, setting
their windows right—with the moist smell of market-carts still in the
air, the stray fragrance of fruit-stalls near—steeples shining high
beyond the steel-blue roofs, the dazzling skylight panes,—chambermaids
looking far out from upper windows, long perspectives of architecture
blending, and a vast hollow azure over all, ere the smoke is gathered,
and before the street-cries are confused, or the growing rush of sounds
has become oppressive in the heat—then who remembers not the fairy
feeling of a city to youth! It is when they still look to life from
under protection, with no experience, nothing like the need of directing
for themselves; but most of all from a simple household, used to
temperate pleasures, and to the sort of kindness that rests more in
purpose than upon indulgence; the city need only be Paris, with sights
as foreign as the language, to crown that morning cup of enchantment to
its brim. For the two younger members of the family it wore all its
charm: Rose Willoughby had seen little more of the world in her
boarding-school, at sixteen, than if it had been a nunnery; while
Charles, who was younger, had been fancying his knowledge of life at
Westminster school and Eton rather uncommon;—so that every morning set
them astir early, watching at the windows, impatient to get
breakfast-time past, to have those studies severally over, in which, so
far as the lad’s tutor was concerned, Mr Thorpe bore the chief
difficulties of the task. Each day, in fact, found the party rolling
farther from the shady environs, through into the hot heart of the city,
towards scenes or structures that were multiplied by each previous
discovery: for if the long stately façades of the Tuileries, from its
formal gardens swarming with people and statues, ran already half-linked
to the gorgeous old Louvre, steeped pale in the southern flood of light
above the river, till all its deep-set, embossed windows seemed diamonds
in the rich Corinthian filagree that framed them, though the workmen
were still busy at its unfinished roof, like emmets from the crowd along
the quays; so these also pointed to the Palais Royal court, with its new
arcades and glittering shops—or, again, far through the labyrinth of
exhaustless streets, where moted and dusty shadows plunged into the
gloom of deep lanes, to the grim grey towers of the Bastille rising
embattled out of the squalid fauxbourg, which blackened in manufactory
smoke beyond—miles back, too, it led across some bridge, to the
Gobelins, to the close and dingy quarter of the university, with its old
legends of learning, or magic in dark ages; its careless students
swaggering past, or smoking from their high-perched casements; its
grisettes, that sat at work opposite with an air of coquettish grace
amidst their poverty, their hair neither frizzed nor powdered, with a
bright cotton handkerchief twined half about it, watering their little
mignonette-boxes, or chirping to their bird-cages that hung outside to a
gleam of sunshine;—or to where the golden dome of the great hospital
hung in the air, faintly bright; to the bronze form of Henry of Navarre
riding regardless above the throng of the market-place, and where the
two huge cathedral-towers of Notre Dame stood over their mountain of
roof, above the gaunt old houses of the island Cité; with the
sharp-peaked prison-turrets and grated loopholes of the Conciergerie
lifted from the river’s edge, whose muddy eddies swam each way by, among
the barges. The Colonel had been in Paris many years before, ere he had
had any interest in it save that of a young man, in lively company; when
all sons of gentlemen made the grand tour, and the old glories of
Versailles were still reflected even at the court of Louis Quinze, in
the elegant dissipation of his latter days: he had come since then,
indeed, into sterner contact with Frenchmen abroad; but it served him
now, in making shift to act as guide among the principal wonders of the
capital—when he rode near the carriage, sometimes accompanied by Mr
Thorpe, the tutor, on a quiet white mare from the hackney stables. And
Lady Willoughby mildly eyed the Bastille, or gently noticed the
sumptuousness of the Louvre, at her husband’s remark; suffering herself
to be handed out to some sentinel-guarded vestibule, and led along some
chill historical corridor, although it might cost a shudder at what was
told of it; if some positive domestic duty did not rather keep her all
day at home. While Mrs Mason, the governess, following with the party,
would sedulously express assent, at due intervals, by word or sign, to
the statements of the baronet; not seldom addressing to the young lady
beside her some comment of her own, or improving inference, such as Mrs
Trimmer had recently brought into educational vogue. It might have been
that Rose on these occasions sometimes caught her brother’s eye, so that
her absorbed face and lighted look would grow all at once intensely
demure, or she had to turn away to hide a smile at his air of
exaggerated attention; while Mr Thorpe was usually so deep in
abstraction, or had wandered so far, as to be in danger of their leaving
him altogether behind. It was all one storm of spectacle and excitement,
in fact, to the two; antique memories mingling in it with the record of
fearful deeds, and quaint traces of rude manners with the grandeur of
the church, the magnificence of the days of great kings—it only added
zest to the living rush of the streets, the foreign faces and
unaccustomed accents, the endless variety of movement that shone,
flickered, or darkened every way about them. Then, slowly extricated
from fetid lanes and old overhanging houses, patched, and stained, and
ruinous, where the low-stretched cord of the street lantern showed that
carriages seldom passed, they would wheel out suddenly from the rough
causeway and its filthy middle-gutter, into the broad light and sunny
air of the verdurous boulevards, where the ramparts of old Paris ran. So
as the sounds of wheels grew soft, and they rolled leisurely along, the
girl and her brother would look to each other, with something of the
same feeling; her eyes would sparkle, while Charles’s were everywhere:
when on either side of the curving vista, either way lost to sight, and
heaped with the motion of equipages and riders, the showering elm-leaves
and blossoming lime-twigs rose green ’gainst the tall, bright, ornate
houses, tinted variously, and dappled fitfully by the shade—where the
scattered passengers lounged, the loitering groups mingled, and all was
open-air existence—while the gay shop-windows and café signs shone
beneath the boughs, the open upper-casements seemed to drink coolness
beneath their striped canopies through green-barred jalousies, the
double shutter-frames were thrown out either way against the wall, and
no care, no business appeared to hang on Paris far as eye could reach,
as it thickened there through the swimming light of afternoon. To Rose
and Charles it left no dissatisfactions about Stoke, nor regret for the
smoke of London; and instead of wishing the place of their residence
settled soon, although neither had confided it to the other, they would
fain, no doubt, have had their father decide on staying where they were,
so as to fulfil the suggestion of the worthy concierge, by making
acquaintances and going into society. The truth was, that they were
unconsciously somewhat conspicuous; whether it was that the full, fair,
lady-like features of Lady Willoughby, with her hair aristocratically
enough drawn up, heaped high, and powdered, had yet an air of
half-sleepy ease and comfort that offered the strongest contrast to
French looks, or that the hood-like bonnet of black crape which
surmounted them, drawn in folds together and hung with its short
curtain-like veil of black lace, however according to matronly usage
then in London, had already been left behind in Paris by a barer and
more classical taste; or the girlish grace and bloom of Rose in her
mourning-dress and hat; the half clerical air of Mr Thorpe, with his
mingled awkwardness and endeavours at attention to the ladies; or the
military air, tall figure, and splendid English hunter of the baronet:
all which, perhaps, taken together, might even in passing have suggested
food for the proverbial Parisian curiosity. Especially if, as at times
might have been done, they had noticed the grave silence of the elderly
English gentleman on horseback, when his companion addressed him in
vain, or when with a start he looked up to answer, sometimes running his
eye keenly about the passing people, over the seated and trifling
groups, up to the windows of the houses, or along the shop-signs, like
one all at once awake to them. Indeed, out of the charmingly private
_allée des veuves_ in the Elysian fields, where alone the equipages of
the rich widows of the whole capital were in propriety seen to drive,
and the doubtful widowers and needy bachelors to seek opportunities of
consoling them, with a similar gravity of dress and demeanour—it was
questionable whether the people of Paris were accustomed to observe so
puzzlingly attractive a sight. It had altogether, no doubt, a sincere
insular air in their eyes.
It happened that on the day they had visited Notre Dame cathedral,
Colonel Willoughby took advantage of their return through the Rue St
Honoré to call at his banker’s in that leading street. He had transacted
his principal business there, and only found some difficulty in
detaching himself from the subsequent animated conversation of the
courteous financier, whose spirits seemed to be excellent on account of
some continued increase in the price of corn; a motive but dimly
understood by Sir Godfrey, while at each step or two of his egress from
the antechamber he was still detained by some fresh ground of
satisfaction. As regarded places of abode to be had, in any part of
France whatever, the perplexity did not certainly result from want of
choice; since his last inquiry, the notices and advertisements had
increased, particularly in the rural provinces; to be let or sold, they
seemed surprisingly plentiful; nor were their advantages in every point
omitted, after the usual style of such description, which sometimes
dilated on the very nature of the landscape, or dwelt with gusto on the
particular character of architecture. “It is doubtless owing, Monsieur
le Baron,” suggested the banker, complacently, “to the immense resort,
at the present, of the nobility to Paris. The attraction is excessive!
It will indeed be impossible to reside but in the vicinity—and M. le
Baron sympathises, I imagine, with the party of our ——, probably to a
certain extent in the ——?”
“I really know very little of political matters, Monsieur,” said the
baronet, smiling, “even at home,—and as for those in this country, I can
scarcely say that I have attended to them much.”
“It is exactly the position which I have myself assumed, M. le Baron,”
responded the banker, with a subdued air of confidential understanding.
“In finance it is indispensable. But affairs are solid here;” and he
gaily struck his hand on his pocket. “Things will move—they will go—now
that M. Neckar is at the head! M. le Baron is doubtless aware that the
meetings of the States-General have commenced, and are open to
attendance, like the English parliament itself? Bah we are aware that in
affairs nowadays, the minister is everything; to speak properly—the
king, nothing! The discussions grow interesting—it was a happy stroke—to
render the nation—yes, conceive, Monsieur,—responsible for its own
expenses! And, after all, the world is governed by this money here!” Sir
Godfrey sighed involuntarily, while the banker, slightly rubbing his
hands together, bowing and smiling, still conducted him with
_empressement_ towards the court in which his horse was held. “It would
be easy to secure a distinguished place of audience for M. le Baron in
the minister’s gallery at Versailles,” persisted Monsieur Blaise, with
interest, “and for the family of M. le Baron, whom we have not yet,
indeed, had the honour to see?” M. Blaise had, in fact, made sundry
half-subdued advances, at various times, towards a mutual introduction
of the families; which seemed latterly to become more obvious. “Thank
you, Monsieur,” was the rather dry answer—“no. The fact is, we intend
immediately leaving town, as soon as my eldest son arrives. And, of
course, this matter as to a place of residence must be settled. I should
prefer some remote, quiet, country place.”
“Ah, you should then purchase, M. de Vilby,” said the banker,
oracularly. “It is, on the whole, I assure you, cheaper—more
satisfactory.” To this, however, he received a decided negative; Colonel
Willoughby had as little interest in the idea presented to him by
Monsieur Blaise, of a profitable re-sale at a future period, as of
possessing property or forming permanent ties in France, or of leaving
his son a landowner there. He was about to mount his horse amidst the
attentions of the banker and his Swiss porter, when a depressed-looking
clerk from the banking-office hastened out, with an air of some
timidity, to offer a paper to his master. The latter frowned, while he
received a hurried statement from the official. “What is this? not to be
found!” he inquired. “It is a trifle, Monsieur,” added he, turning
round; “the woman, it seems, to whom your communication referred, has
for some time removed her residence. Inquiries shall be made, however.
These poor people are of the most changeable habit—the notary of the
proprietor is naturally ignorant of their new destination—the
neighbours, they affect an unconsciousness which is probably feigned, on
account of some sympathy with a fault, a defalcation in rent,—a crime,
perhaps. But in this case, there is the police, under whom the emigrant
necessarily falls, though unconsciously—and our police are now more
efficient than ever. Yes, M. le Baron, this person shall be promptly
discovered, believe me—if, indeed, this payment is still considered
proper to be made?” The indifferent, languidly commercial tone of
Monsieur Blaise, at that moment, jarred disagreeably on Sir Godfrey’s
ear, in the full sunlight of the street, while its gay throng poured on
either way like a twofold procession.
“Yet there is a slight mistake, pardon me, Monsieur,” added the former,
“in the understanding that Monsieur your brother had continued this
pension, which is alluded to, during the late years. It was indeed paid
with regularity, when transmitted; but although the promise remained
subsequently, yet, after a certain point, by some omission, doubtless,
the effects—the sums—ceased to arrive. I believe the inadvertency was,
however, more than once reported from this office to the notary of M. de
Vilby at Ezzeterre, in England—eh, Maître Robert?” And the clerk, to
whom he again turned sharply, gave a reverential affirmative. It was not
merely the revival of this trivial matter in this way that troubled Sir
Godfrey; there was some slight concern stirred at his heart by the
discovery of the slight sum having failed so long to reach its object,
mixed with a little compunction at his remembrance of the crowded Cité,
near the religious shadows of Notre Dame, which he had passed by that
very day; there was a vivid feeling once more, too, of his brother’s
characteristic carelessness, which was by no means lessened on
recollecting his wife’s mild remark, when he had mentioned the
circumstance, that possibly, if the person were very poor, it might have
been better to see into it personally. The gross mingling of M. Blaise’s
inquiries in it, besides, with his hint at crimes which might render the
benefit undeserved, annoyed him. Sir Godfrey took the paper from the
banker’s hands, expressed his intention of managing the matter at his
own leisure, and with a hasty bow rode homewards.
Willoughby was, as before said, a man with little imagination in his
temperament, at least of no very lively fancy; but there was a kind of
vague impatience at times in his mind, scarcely to be any better
accounted for than the fits of gloom he felt creeping, as it were, over
him, and which he checked only by a strong effort to think. Sir Godfrey
felt, in fact, rather an indescribable satisfaction than otherwise, and
a somewhat reviving interest, at the little matter of business that had
returned on his hands, none the less that it took the aspect of a kind
duty. Paris itself was certainly a degree nearer his attention, so soon
as the concerns of any one in it, however obscure, were thus dependent
on his own, stirring up an odd anxiety as to whether she were alive or
dead, and really deserving; all which, the more unusual it was to his
habits, bore with the greater novelty of sensation on a man whose
ordinary habits had been somewhat abruptly broken up. Singular, indeed,
as he rode along, grew the thought of how this vast city contrived to
live from day to day? the question, yet more perplexing, how it spent
its time? still less conceivable, to what end was all the constant
movement, thickening and shifting far along the Rue St Honoré, in dust
and sunlight? Nay, with a smiling sense of its absurdity, the baronet
caught himself involuntarily pondering some such incalculable problem,
and for a moment striving to put its organisation together, while the
bridle lay slack on his horse’s neck, and his limbs kept time to the
motion, as the noble black went stepping elastically on. Even in that
fashionable street they excited notice amid its rattling cortège of
equestrians and equipages, its rainbow quivering of dress, feathered,
embroidered, gilded and laced and rustling, where all the artifice of
French fashion was in its afternoon glory, with bell-hoop and white
hair—from the queue-tag and three-cornered beaver, lace cravat, and
ruffles, and pocket-flap, to the knee-buckles and the false calves,
white or flesh-coloured, and high-heeled—treading on out-turned
toes—while the smooth, tinted faces, with their mole-specks and black
beauty-spots, seemed to have banished from about them, in the sun’s full
influence, all effect of hair: though it was scarce so much the
soberly-garbed rider, in dark riding-coat and boots, with military
stock, as the jet gloss of Black Rupert, whose full nostril seemed half
conscious of his master’s pride in him. Nor was it merely that the
flickering blaze of the street disagreed with his mood, when Colonel
Willoughby turned out of it through a quieter line of that gay
fauxbourg, slightly using the spur: he shrank involuntarily from those
of his countrymen who seemed to be in Paris, with their gregarious yet
unsocial air, their loud voices, causeless laughter, and cool stare,
their ill-affected ease of dress, their round morning hats at all hours,
and their sudden knowing looks of interest from his horse to him, not
seldom unaccompanied by distinct English questions of “Who is he?” or
the drawling answer, with an eyeglass raised, of “Don’t know.” Yet in
public places they were everywhere; they were looking out of corner
cafés, and talking back to friends within, watching narrowly where some
Parisian belle tripped carefully athwart a crossing, or leaning out of
billiard-room second-floors and yawning; and it struck him the more in
contrast, as two gentlemen, evidently French, turned before him into the
same more secluded street, the one quietly shrugging his shoulders
together, the other turning a silent look to his friend. They sauntered
easily along on the sunny side of the gutter, as if delaying to cross;
though side _trottoirs_ were as yet almost unknown, while the cry of
_gare!_ from a rapid vehicle at times hurried the foot-passengers
together towards the wall, or out amidst the causeway; so that a snatch
of their conversation more than once reached the English baronet’s ears,
or was mingled with other voices; as he looked round for the names of
the streets, with some idea of at once beginning inquiries at the
nearest police-office. “These, then, Jules,” said the taller and elder,
who wore the gallant uniform of the Royal Body-Guard, sky-azure and
gold-laced, with its white-plumed black hat, crimson-velvet breeches,
stiff cavalry boots, and gilt spurs, and ruffles of rich lace—“are your
allies—your Weegs, as you call them! Corbleu!” He looked back over one
shoulder, as he spoke, with a supremely supercilious air, swinging the
tassel of his sword-knot round his hand; the other, whose dress and
manner were those of an elegant young man of fashion, seemed gently to
draw him onward by the arm. “My dear Armand, what a fancy!” the latter
ejaculated; “the generous sympathy of the enlightened English—of the
descendants of Hampdeun and of Seednè, the Wheegs—but I forget, we
agreed to——” “Yes, Comte,” said the other gloomily, “we agreed to
observe silence on it, since it is impossible for us——” and by another
influx from a cross street they were taken out of hearing; although the
grave air of the young officer, enhanced by his long side-visage, and
cavalier-like uniform, despite all the hair-powder and the smooth
elaborateness of the time, had drawn Sir Godfrey’s interest from the
matter he had in hand. They were walking near him again next minute.
“He is at La Morgue, then?” asked the officer, in reference to some
statement of his friend; “what was it—gambling? His mistress, perhaps?”
“No, she was beautiful, and attached to him,” replied the other,
carelessly; “she still slept, while he had left her, to shave in the
adjacent dressing-room—the whole hotel was roused by her cries. The
police can make nothing of it. Even his passport affords no clue.”
“It was probably a plot, about to be discovered,” said his friend.
“Paris, in my opinion, is full of plots—which had better soon be dashed
to pieces.” He made an emphatic motion with the sheathed sabre on his
left arm, and glanced firmly along the street, from face to face. “My
dear Armand!” ejaculated the other, stopping for an instant till their
eyes met, and the cheek of the garde-du-corps seemed to redden—“this
is”—but the remainder was lost to Sir Godfrey, as he held round towards
the outskirts of the Faubourg St Honoré. Crossing by a shorter way,
however, they still preceded him at the next corner. “On the contrary,”
continued the younger, “had there been anything to discover”—“—stupidly
acute as the police are”—“—but believe me, my friend,” he added with
animation, “there was nothing—nothing—it was merely _ennui_. And what
police, were it the very espionage of old De Sartines himself, his
apprentice and friend Lenoir, or even my fine cousin De Breteuil, with
your thrice-humble servitor here, can guard against ennui? ’Tis the only
spectre I dread, for the philosophers, the Encyclopédie, have still left
it us!” Sir Godfrey had passed them, indeed, hardly heeding their
detached words so much as the young soldier’s chivalrous air; a little
on, he checked his horse at sight of a gendarme’s blue and red livery,
to inquire for the police-bureau of the quarter; at which the man turned
sharply, struck no doubt by the accent or the form of the question, and
surveyed him before attempting to give an answer.
“Ennui!” repeated the officer energetically, as they came on; “my faith,
we shall soon have little enough of that luxury, I think! I had imagined
it the disease of England!”
“But without her suspecting it,” rejoined his livelier companion; “while
France alone endeavours to expel, to define the malady! What is
Versailles, Fontainebleau, Marly, Luciennes, but a vast sigh, a drowsy
effort, a yawn (_baillement_)? Those parterres of Lenotre, those
fountains, those statues, which are like the crimes of Paris! But we
awake—and assure yourself, my friend, it is at the root of one half—”
Colonel Willoughby had repeated his question rather impatiently, for the
speaker, as he passed on, was turning a glance of attention that way:
the gendarme, too, with a sudden motion of his hand to his huge cocked
hat, seemed less careful to reply than to leave full room for the two
gentlemen. The younger of them stopped, turned, and addressed a word of
sharp reproof to the official. “Permit me, monsieur,” he added, coming
forward with a slight bow, and speaking tolerably good English; “it is
probably rather to the commissary of your quarter you would address
yourself, and his residence is not far; at —— the number which I forget,
in the Place Montaigne, Champs Elysées.” The Englishman thanked him
briefly; bowing in return the more profoundly, as he felt the usual
unwillingness of his race to receive a favour he had no claim to.
“It is denoted, besides,” continued his informant with increased
courtesy, “by the red lantern over the portico, which since two years
has been fixed over the doorway of every commissary’s residence in
Paris. Day or night this will serve to distinguish them by a glance.”
“Indeed?” was the sole answer, in a tone of some indifference. There was
nothing officious in the younger gentleman’s unasked interference; while
his singularly handsome face, his vivacious eyes, the air of life in his
expression, along with an undeniable elegance of manner, were contrasted
for the first time with his elder companion, who stood apart, and almost
haughtily silent, a dark shade seeming to gather on his thin and dusky
cheek, as he gazed into the street, having even withdrawn his momentary
notice of the spirited horse. Yet the baronet felt less annoyed thus
than by the prolonged politeness of his friend; he involuntarily bit his
lip; there was something disagreeable even in being so promptly
addressed in his own language.
“Might it be possible for one to assist monsieur in any yet further
manner?” inquired the stranger, with the same easy grace; though a
peculiar smile, at the time unintelligible to Sir Godfrey, had hovered
about his lips.
“My best thanks, monsieur,” was the stiff response. “I think not—it is a
mere ordinary piece of business;” and, bowing deeply towards his horse’s
shoulder, the English baronet turned in the direction indicated. He
could see them from the distance, however, overtaken by a light
cabriolet, which seemed to have been slowly following them all the
while; the young _élégant_ stepped leisurely in, and with a gesture of
adieu to his friend, was driven swiftly off towards the city again; the
white plume of the garde-du-corps disappeared among the passengers.
When Sir Godfrey had found the commissary’s office, shown the
indispensable passport, and received, as he had expected, but little
prospect of speedy information, he yet rode homewards in considerable
ease of mind; the thing had in fact passed from his thoughts as he took
the nearer way from the grand avenues of the Champs Elysées, thronging
with gaiety, by the overhanging shade of garden walls and backs of
stables, across the open spaces flushed green with the afternoon light,
alive with strolling girls in their teens, beside their prim
_gouvernantes_, or children scattered about the groups of their sitting,
gossipping, sewing _bonnes_; while here and there, into a line of
secluded street, full of tall, stately, old-fashioned houses in massy
blocks, or separate in their high-walled court-yards, sloped lazily the
white, gushing glory from far above; till the way towards a bridge, or
some glimpse of the bustle about the airy quays, renewed again the sense
of being in Paris. But it seemed as if some of its occurrences,
otherwise as apparently fragmentary as the street-cries or confused
accents, bore every now and then a more connected purport to the baronet
as he came in contact with them.
He had already thrown a coin or two mechanically to some squalid
cripple, or some one-eyed beggar in his route, thinking no more of it;
as he turned into the thoroughfare near home, however, out of one of
these sun-bright and silent streets, where a few figures crossed here
and there, a singular little incident presented itself, which was but
part of many such scenes throughout the quieter quarters of the French
capital. It was one of the strangest symptoms of that strange time, that
while the king had been suppressing dungeons and projecting the good of
the people, while the nobles desired reform of abuses, and the whole
nation seemed to breathe peace, philanthropy, and enthusiasm—the very
fashion of the salons had conceived a sudden sensibility to the miseries
and wants of the lowest class. The late winters had been severe, and the
last desperate, amidst dear provisions: there had been fêtes, lotteries,
and performances of classic dramas in the theatre, although for these
last the curés had refused to distribute their unhallowed proceeds: yet
greatest of all had been the activity of the ladies in the genteel
faubourgs, who, in graceful _toilettes de quête_, the most becoming of
dresses, and with purses bearing embroideries of flowers, cupids, and
touching mottoes, turned their morning calls into a quest for alms. In
the less aristocratic quarters, where morning calls were scarcely made,
it had taken hold chiefly on the little girls, from mere childhood up to
their teens; lasting longer, doubtless, because exercised only in the
open air on the street-passengers, with all the amusement of a play
mingled in its touch of reality. How interesting was it, too, to the
subjects of the performance, as they were chosen from the passing
current with all that faculty of prompt organisation so peculiar to the
race of France; for the _rendezvous_ was made in the neighbouring
archway of some porte-cochère, apart from the bustle of the crowd, to
hold the table with its white fringed cloth, and the silver salver,
where the savings of their own pocket-money had been first put for a
handsel, as they gathered from the various houses near. The old
gentleman, as he approached, had his skirts pulled by some lisping
little one, with chubby cheeks, and curls that had vainly been
flattened, while her face peered from under the grey stuff of the mimic
beggar’s cloak: the most simply dressed would hold the salver to the
lady of quality; the most polite to the bourgeois; the plainest-featured
to the widow, the spinster, or faded beauty; the tallest to the
middle-aged gentleman, the prettiest to the gallant: and no rivalry, but
how to get most, disturbed the co-operation of those young quêteuses.
The English baronet, indeed, knew nothing of it as he trotted forward,
before the archway could be seen, with its lurking, listening, peeping
group, holding their breath in expectation: he only saw a slender young
form, too tall for the grey cloak to smother the whole of her white
summer dress, trip from beside the wall, and hold up her rosy palm
before him, like a beggar; they had chosen the eldest, for her eyes and
complexion, to try the rich Englishman.
“Pour nos pauvres, s’il vous plait, Monsieur,” said a clear sweet voice,
plaintively. Sir Godfrey had checked his horse with a start; she was a
girl little younger than his own Rose, with the very blue eyes and that
palest yellow hair, which are so rare in France, though with that
warmly-bright complexion which is never seen out of it, suffused as it
seems through a strange shadow of brown. The folds and hood of the cloak
could not disguise the girlish grace of her figure, just shooting
towards womanhood; the studiously plain arrangement of the hair _à la
quête_, virgin-like, added to her pure beauty, and did not take away
from the slightly coquettish glance from her drooped head as she thus
made her appeal. “My dear little one!” ejaculated Sir Godfrey
hastily—“how—what—_you_ are not a—in poverty?”
Her cheek reddened as she drew up her head proudly. “Me? Yes, we are
poor, but noble—Armand and I. It is for the poor of the city,
Monsieur—of Paris.”
Sir Godfrey reddened too, and listened calmly to her eager explanation.
“Ah, _you_ are rich—you are English!” she added anxiously, as if afraid
he hesitated. His glance of surprised inquiry did not escape her.
“I know you, Monsieur,” she said, “for you live close to our convent in
the Rue Debilly, near the Quai de Change, where I am a pensionnaire, and
where my aunt is the superior. I come often with one of the sisters to
arrange the quête here. There are so many poor!”
“And to whom do you give this money, _belle petite_?” asked the baronet,
smiling at her delighted thanks for the gold he placed in her hand.
“To the curés and their vicars, Monsieur,” she said gravely, “who will
distribute it—they know every one so well!” Sir Godfrey mused.
“And you live near us!” he said, thinking of his own daughter, as he
asked her name.
“It is Aimée—and my brother is Armand de l’Orme, an officer at
Versailles. We are orphans, Armand and I, and we do not belong to Paris.
We were both born in the south, in Provence—Were you ever in Provence,
Monsieur—ah, how much more beautiful it is!” With an air of empressement
she clasped her hands, and standing there in the quietly sunny street,
while the stream of the populous chaussée passed athwart its end, the
girl seemed to forget her impatient company beyond, whose whispers and
exclamations at last betrayed them to the surprised glance of Sir
Godfrey. “Was she allowed,” he asked, however, “to make visits from her
convent—for _he_ had a daughter, little older than herself, who had no
companions of her own age in Paris.” And the young quêteuse responded
eagerly to the hint. “Oh, yes—she was allowed—on certain days—and she
would positively come. Indeed—perhaps—mademoiselle herself would assist
at their quête.”
The baronet shook his head, almost starting in his saddle at the
thought. But it struck him suddenly that his oddly-made new
acquaintance, through her friends the curés, might aid him in discovery
of the missing Suzanne Deroux; and she was all readiness and sanguine
expectation when he explained the matter. There was one young vicar in
particular, so mild, so missionnaire, so apostolique, whose acquaintance
with all the poorer quarters was miraculous: she would be able to bring
the news, she was sure, very soon indeed. So giving her, at her request,
the same paper he had recalled from his banker, Sir Godfrey saw her
rejoin her archway amidst the impatient welcome of her companions, and
took his way into the Rue Debilly, with a feeling half-amused,
half-meditative.
At home, there were fresh letters and newspapers awaiting him, with the
dinner-time, unwontedly late. There had been already the expected
tidings from Francis to his mother, though brief, that he was finally
free of term-times, having reached London, which he was ready to leave
next week; his father’s remaining business there seemed fully settled,
but he was to dine, before starting, at their friend the solicitor’s,
and bring over with him everything wanted. He enclosed his sister’s
letter, however, from her dearest school-fellow, crossed and recrossed,
with all its precious gossip for common use, its inexpressible
sentiments that were not to be seen by another creature, and its
postscript with the sole piece of real, intelligible information. Mrs
Mason’s correspondence also, whose contents had at no time been breathed
to any one, had been forwarded: while Sir Godfrey himself had a packet
from Mr Hesketh’s office in Exeter, giving on the whole satisfactory
prospects, and containing a few papers from among the late Sir John’s
dreary mass of lumber; hitherto overlooked, but which he might care to
examine. They were for the most part unimportant, but he saw, from the
first glance at one of them, that had it arrived that morning, it might
have simply saved him a little trouble and uncertainty; as it was a
French letter of date not long before his brother’s death, evidently
written by some humble notary’s clerk, to state the case of the Suzanne
in question, who had received a pension for an injury received while in
his service, probably interrupted through the change of abode by her
children, whose work supported them; but her son had been ill, and the
winter severe; the application had been rather made at the penman’s
instance, as he lived _au quatrième_ in the house where their attic was,
and had himself discovered the address by going to the banker’s, where
he had obtained no other prospect. It stated the place and number
distinctly, and had in all likelihood led to the memorandum of Sir
John,—though no doubt thrown aside at the moment, and with his confused
mind in those latter days, so busy amidst out-door matters or convivial
meetings, its chief point had been forgotten.
Joining in the eager table-talk it had all excited, with a mind at rest,
the baronet could fully share the pleasure of home-thoughts: the very
atmosphere of the room seemed English, for all its bare waxed floor and
patch of carpet, its airy paper-hangings of pastoral scenes, its light
curtains and tall glaring windows with flimsy frames, its stove-filled
chimney-place, and the white folding-doors of its antechamber, about all
which there lurked no corner of substantial comfort, as round the
wainscot and panelling, the recesses and embayments, corner-cupboards,
and hearth-places, and presses of home, with its high-backed arm-chair,
noiseless floors, and family pictures: the sound of the convent-bell,
and Sir Godfrey’s account of his pretty little _quêteuse_, alone brought
back their recollection. It had been long since Lady Willoughby saw her
husband so cheerful, even when he turned to his newspaper, and sat
absorbed in its varied matter, leaning back on that hard diminutive
sofa;—Mrs Mason, as her custom was, has withdrawn to the mysterious
privacy of her own apartment; Mr Thorpe, to a book, apart in the wide
naked antechamber; while at its further windows, looking out, sit the
two young people in their unwearied charge of the street;—till, as that
after-dinner repose steals through the sitting-room, with cool shade
from the early May twilight, she feels instinctively that his old easy
habit of middle age has returned on him, the first time since reaching
France—nay, on second thought, since the day of that melancholy message
from Devonshire—of sinking at that hour into a doze. It scarce needs her
turning her head, to see how the affairs and concerns of the world at
large have fallen from his mind; while gently netting on, without word
or other motion, perhaps with no particular thought besides, she sits
quiet that it may last the longer. It had seemed vague, in its
connection with a trifle; but neither she nor he could have told the
indescribable relief it had given him to find the only singularity in
Sir John’s memoranda cleared up; in this commonplace way, too, when even
casual circumstances had seemed joining to give it a feverish
importance. That intended but ineffectual will of his, by which he had
evidently contemplated a formal bequest, with those slight exceptions,
of everything to the colonel, already his legal heir, could after all
have had no rational motive; it was probably but one of those strangely
groundless suspicions, those longings to exercise influence from the
very tomb, which cross an unsound mind. The colonel had not been
unconscious of the superior abilities of his eldest brother, nor of the
still brighter parts which were attributed to his brother John in early
life; he only felt reassured by the conviction, again confirmed, that
the unhappy results of his foolish match had been such as to touch his
brain with insanity. There was a vulgar old story about their family, in
fact—a sort of absurd country superstition—that owing to some ancient
ancestral impiety, even when the ghost ceased to be heard of in the long
portrait-gallery at Stoke, over the great staircase—which had been
invisible to the family alone—then somewhere or other a Willoughby was
mad. Often had the colonel smiled at it, when merely a younger brother
in the army; a wound once received in his head in America, which had
cost him delirious days and nights, seemed formerly to entitle him
doubly to his smile at the corroboration, when restored to full health:
nay, from some cause, he had found himself thinking of it once or twice
in the full blaze of the streets of Paris, with their vivid
reminiscences—though his smile had been but faint, now he was the
younger brother no longer. For _why_, really, after all, had he come to
Paris in particular, or lingered there, persuading himself under so many
different forms about its convenience, the novelty to his children, the
advantage of his brother’s banker, the little legacy, the comparative
privacy, the rapid post, or the many notices of places to let? Why, in
that indirect way, had he sought to make inquiries of the police, and
caught himself listening to words in the street, of unknown suicides,
baffled investigations, and French ennui? Why had he mechanically shrunk
from the Boulevards and rushing St Honoré, yet glanced askance at
windows full of faces, or looked again with an irresistible suspicion,
to see if he recognised or was recognised by any one—not merely on that
day, but on previous ones also? Actually, in the hot, beating sun, it
had for a moment or two resembled the preface to his fever in the
colonies, after that affair with their rabble of militia, among whom he
had fancied he saw a known visage disguised; and the strong effort of
his understanding which recovered him had only brought more keenly the
sudden question—whether his brother indeed, or he himself, had been
touched with the germs of a growing madness. There had been strange
horror in the thought. For, had there really been a deliberate, sober
meaning in his brother’s stray purposes, through the confusion of all
his neglect, and though cut off by death? While the quick, clear
self-suspicion had seemed to pierce his own mind with shame, how, amidst
an uneasiness to associate with his countrymen, he was still traversing
Paris everywhere, under cover of guidance to his family, mingling
private anxieties with the grandeur of royal edifices, and continuing to
expect some chance vestige of things which his brother might have chosen
wisely to leave in silence. Since his succession to Stoke he must have
been altering insensibly. Even selfish feelings, impatient wishes,
hidden thoughts, or half-fretful expressions towards her who had been so
long his solace, had then recurred to mind with a painful surprise;
compared with which, his brother’s eccentricity appeared innocent
indeed, sadly as his earlier follies had brought it on. And had he heard
before from Mr Hesketh what he learned from the letter on his return,
that the manor-house and park were unlikely to be soon let, or to bring
any profitable addition to the rents at present, from a fresh and
growing rumour that they were haunted, it would have startled him with a
superstitious feeling far more oppressive than any at Stoke. But, as it
was, with a sober return to accustomed thoughts, calmed by his unwonted
self-scrutiny, for him so deep—and soothed by gentle presence—Sir
Godfrey slipped from his practical, matter-of-fact English newspaper to
repose; though with the melancholy conviction that his brother’s
understanding had indeed partially given way. They had not latterly seen
very much of each other: John was now at peace; his fruitless life had
come to an end. The baronet was awoke only by the rustling entrance of
Mrs Mason to pour out the chocolate—Mr Thorpe’s awkward haste to set her
chair—the bringing in of wax-lights—the pause before grace was said,
with the tutor’s devout formality. The evening talk was as duly closed
by Mr Thorpe’s reading of the appointed prayers—another advantage never
gained by Lady Willoughby till their departure abroad required a tutor.
As if there were not strange noises dying far and wide through the city,
till across the river could be heard the great clock of the Invalides.
As if the atmosphere of the world were not at that hour infected with
inscrutable sympathies and mysterious desires; which gathered in Paris,
as after long heat that malady of the air, felt keenly by the lower
creatures: so that it might have been working vaguely even with Sir
Godfrey. And as if, though clouded and stagnant, even well-nigh lost,
the judgment of the departed might not have exercised some acute
thought—deeper even than the sharpest lawyer could track it.
So quiet, after prayers, was the outer night over the bare roofs, and
lights, and distant pinnacles of the city—the glimpse of the river, the
lamps on the bridge, the trees of the Champ de Mars—and so wide with its
floating films of fair May-cloud, softening the few stars—that Rose
Willoughby shaded her candle to peep out at it, lifting the blind, and
putting her face close to the window-glass, after she had said her
prayers, and was half ready to go to bed. Listening to Mrs Mason’s steps
in the next room, extinguisher in hand, lest her door should suddenly be
opened to that lady’s most indignant surprise—Rose thought still of
to-morrow’s drive toward Versailles.