THE ENGLISHMAN
These words of Rousseau read before the open bookcase, suggestive as
they were of voices from the past still echoing through his memory,
had no meaning for him. They kindled no spark in the dead embers of
his conscience to reveal the truth. And yet it was a warning from
heaven--a moment of grave and vital import in the life of this man,
who, had he not been blinded by an insane ambition, might have
recognised in the passing stranger a messenger of Fate.
For the voice which had distracted him from his work was the voice of
Clarisse, and the young apprentice who had just left him was his son.
The outcast child, now grown to manhood, had been within touch of his
own father, but unseen by him. No mysterious affinity had drawn them
together, though the voice had vaguely troubled him as he returned to
his work.
The young man on leaving _l'Ermitage_ took the path that led to the
forest. He was a fine, stoutly built lad, with a brisk lively
manner, strong and supple, revealing in spite of his workman's garb
an air of good breeding which might have perhaps betrayed his origin
to a keen observer. His hair was dark brown, his blue eyes looked
out from the sunburnt and weather-beaten face with an expression of
extreme sweetness, and his full lips smiled under a downy moustache.
He walked with rapid strides, a hazel stick in his hand, towards the
forest, which he soon reached, threading the paths and bypaths with
the assurance of one to whom the deep wood and its intricate
labyrinths was familiar. He slackened his pace now and then to wipe
the perspiration from his forehead, keeping to the more shady side of
the way, for the sun, already high in the heavens, shed its rays in a
burning shower through the leaves, scorching the very grass in its
intensity. At last, overcome by the heat, he took off his coat and
hung it at the end of the stick across his shoulder.
Presently he turned into an avenue of oak saplings through which a
green glade was visible, an oasis where refreshing coolness told of
the presence of running water. Here he shaded his eyes with his
hands to make out a form outlined against the distance, and a smile
lit up his face as he recognised the approaching figure. Hastening
his steps he called out--
"Thérèse!"
A fresh, clear voice answered--
"Good morning, Olivier! Good morning!" as a young girl came towards
him with outstretched hands. She was tall and lithe, of a fair, rosy
complexion, and wore a peasant's dress from which the colour had long
since faded. She advanced rapidly, now and then replacing with a
quick, graceful movement the rebel locks of fair hair that caressed
her cheeks, all in disorder from the air and exercise.
"You bad boy! Auntie and I have been quite anxious about you; but
where do you come from?"
For only answer the young man kissed her upturned forehead, and
allowed her to take the stick at the end of which his coat still hung.
"And where is mamma?" he asked, continuing to walk on.
"Why, here, of course!" called another voice, a woman's also, gay and
joyous as the other, but more mellow in tone, and Clarisse's head
appeared above the tall grass.
Instantly the young man was in his mother's arms, and seated by her
side on the trunk of a fallen chestnut lying parallel with the
stream, which in his haste he had cleared at a bound, discarding the
assistance of the little bridge of trees of which the young girl was
more prudently taking advantage.
"Ah! my poor Olivier! What anxiety you have caused us! Why are you
so late? And after being out all night, too?"
"Did you not know that I should not be back?" the young man asked,
looking at his mother.
"Yes, but we expected you earlier this morning."
"It does certainly seem as if it had happened on purpose," he said,
as he explained to them why he was so late, and he went on to tell
them how he had been kept at the last moment by his employer for some
pressing work at Saint-Prix, a little village then in full gala, and
distant about a league from the forest. The Democratic Society of
the district had joined for this occasion with the Montmorency
Society, and there were of course masts to put up, a stand to erect,
or rather to improvise, for everything was behindhand. Olivier had
been told off to fix iron supports to the steps raised for the
convenience of the populace. They had worked, he said, till late in
the night by candle light, and in the morning, when he was preparing
to come home, he had to go to _l'Ermitage_ to open a bookcase, just
to oblige the gardener who was such a good fellow, though the
tenant...
"Who is he?" interrupted Clarisse, always fearful and uneasy at the
thought of her son going to a stranger's house.
"I don't know at all," replied Olivier. "I only know that he didn't
even disturb himself to thank me. They have pretty manners, these
Republicans; the old aristocracy were at least polite."
But his mother stopped him.
"Oh, hush! Do not speak like that; suppose you were heard!"
And, putting her arms round his neck, as if to shield him from some
possible danger, she asked him what news he brought from the workshop.
"Nothing but the same string of horrors at Paris, and it was even
said that the number of victims had sensibly increased."
Carried away by his subject, he detailed to the two women scraps of
conversation overheard that night at the village of Saint-Prix. As
he spoke, Marie Thérèse, now seated near him on the grass, with his
coat spread before her, silently smoothed out the creases, and his
mother drank in every word with breathless attention.
Nothing was left of the Clarisse of sixteen but the velvet softness
of the blue eyes, and the sweet charm of their expression, with all
the pristine freshness of a pure soul still mirrored in their depth.
The thin, colourless face seemed modelled in deep furrows, and the
fair hair was already shot with silver. Though poorly clad in the
dress of a peasant, she also might have betrayed her better birth to
a practised observer by her white hands, with tapered fingers and
delicate wrists, and by the supple grace of her bearing. But who
could regard as an aristocrat this poor woman, almost old, sheltering
under her maternal wing the stout young workman, with his resolute
air and hands blackened at the forge?
She now went under the name of Durand, as did her son and her niece,
Marie Thérèse, who passed as the child of her brother-in-law. The
young girl was, in reality, the daughter of her own brother, the
young student of the College of Navarre, who had been killed the
preceding year in Vendée, fighting in the ranks of the Chouans, in
the Royalist cause. Clarisse's husband also met his fate at one of
these sanguinary combats, for he was so dangerously wounded that a
few days after he had been secretly conveyed to London he died in
great agony.
For Clarisse had been married, and was now a widow.
And her past: it could be written in a page--a little page; yet in
writing it her hand would have trembled at every line. Deserted by
her betrayer, receiving no reply to her letters, she realised, when
too late, his cold egoism and ambition. She had been separated from
her child, who was born in the retirement of a little village of
Dauphiné, whither her father had taken her, and had been immediately
confided to the care of peasants, where she was allowed to visit him
once a fortnight, subject to a thousand precautions imposed by
Monsieur de Pontivy.
And yet, with all this weight of sadness, Clarisse retained her
native grace. Misfortune had but added charm to her delicate and
melancholy beauty.
It sometimes happened, though very seldom, that she was obliged to
accompany her father into society. On one of these rare occasions
she attracted the notice of a young captain of the Queen's Guards,
Monsieur de Mauluçon, who sought her society assiduously, fell in
love with her, and asked Monsieur de Pontivy for her hand.
"Your offer does us much honour," the Councillor had replied, "but I
should wish you to see Mademoiselle de Pontivy herself, before
renewing your request to me."
And Monsieur de Pontivy notified the fact to Clarisse the same
evening with characteristic formality:
"Monsieur de Mauluçon," he said, "whose affection, it appears, you
have won, has done me the honour of asking for your hand. I gave him
to understand that you alone would dispose of it. He will be here
to-morrow afternoon to confer with you. I do not know if he pleases
you, but this I know, that if you wish to accept his offer you must
lay before him the story of your past. And I need not tell you that
if, after this, he persists in making you his wife, you can rely on
my consent."
"It shall be as you wish, father," Clarisse answered.
That open nature, which was her most touching trait, made her
father's attitude seem quite natural. She did not wait to think that
Monsieur de Pontivy could have spared her the shame of this avowal by
making it himself, for the fault of another is more easily confessed
than our own. Clarisse only felt that, having inflicted a wrong on
her father, she was in duty bound to expiate it. And, in truth, it
did not cost her so much to make the confession to Monsieur de
Mauluçon as it would to have broken it to any other, for he had from
the first inspired her with unbounded confidence. She had read a
manly generosity in the kindly expression of his frank, open face.
She would never have dreamt of becoming his wife, but since he had
offered himself why not accept the proffered support of so strong an
arm? She well knew in her lonely existence that her father would
never be the loving friend and protector that, in the utter weakness
of her betrayed and blighted womanhood, she had yearned for through
so many long days!
But her child, her little Olivier, would he be an obstacle? At the
thought her eyes filled with tears. What did it matter? She would
only love him the more, the angel, and suffering would but bind them
closer together! However, it was now to be decided, and both their
destinies would be sealed, for she well knew that if Monsieur de
Mauluçon drew back after her confession, all prospects of marriage
would be over, for never again could she so humiliate herself, though
she could bring herself to it now, for she had read a deep and tender
sympathy in her lover's eyes. And, after all, what mattered it if
she were not his wife? She would at least remain worthy of his pity,
for he could not despise her. Her confession would create a tie
between them which he would perhaps remember later on, when her
little Olivier engaged in the battle of life.
When Monsieur de Mauluçon came again to her, innocent of all
suspicion, he found her grave and deeply moved. In a few brief words
she laid bare to him the history of her past, and he was too
high-souled, too strong and generous, to feel anything but an immense
pity for a heart of exquisite sensibility, wrecked by its own
confiding impulses, misunderstood, misled, and then forsaken.
He took both her hands in his and pressed them to his lips
respectfully.
"And the child," he said; "whose name does he bear?"
"Luc-Olivier. Olivier is my father's Christian name."
"But he must have a name! We will give him ours. Mauluçon is as
good as Pontivy."
"How can that be?" Clarisse answered, thinking she must be dreaming.
"Do you mean you will adopt my child? ... Oh! Monsieur! ...
Monsieur!..." and she stammered incoherent words of gratitude,
struggling with an emotion which seemed to strangle her.
"I also have a Christian name"--and he bent low, whispering softly in
her ear--"my name is Maurice."
She turned towards him with a wan smile, and as he stooped to kiss
his affianced bride she melted into tears.
The child was just two years old. The young couple took him with
them in their travels. They then established themselves at Pontivy,
near the grandfather, who had softened towards his daughter since her
marriage, partly won by the baby charm of his grandchild. Their
visits to Paris became less frequent, for Monsieur de Mauluçon, in
order better to enjoy his home life, obtained an unlimited leave of
absence. He now devoted himself to Olivier's education, who was
growing up a bright, frank, and affectionate boy. Except Monsieur de
Pontivy and Clarisse's brother Jacques, no one but themselves knew
the story of his birth. Jacques de Pontivy, recently married, had
kept it even from his wife, who died, however, some months after
giving birth to a baby girl, whom Clarisse now loved as much as her
own Olivier.
Life seemed to smile at last upon the poor woman, when the Revolution
broke out. Jacques de Pontivy, who had intended to succeed his
father in Parliament, seeing the Royal Family menaced, entered the
army, which Monsieur de Mauluçon had also rejoined. Both endeavoured
several times to give open proof of their loyal sentiments. They
covered the flight of Louis XVI. and Marie Antoinette, and were
nearly taken at the arrest of the King and Queen on their way to
Varennes, and the next year they were obliged to fly from France, and
both sought refuge in England, resolved to serve the Royalist cause
with all their energy and devotion to the last.
Clarisse, who had remained at Paris with her husband during those
stormy times, now rejoined her father at the Château de Pontivy, with
Olivier and little Marie Thérèse.
Monsieur de Pontivy, whose health was fast failing, was struck to the
heart by the rapid march of events and the sudden collapse of all his
most cherished surroundings.
"There is nothing left but to die," he would say sometimes, looking
on with indifference at the vain attempts of his son and son-in-law,
whose firm faith and enthusiasm he no longer understood, tired and
disgusted as he was with everything.
Another tie which bound Clarisse to France was the charge of the two
children. Almost grown up now, they were still too young to be
exposed to the danger of travelling in such uncertain times, when the
frontiers were scarcely guarded, and France was committed to a course
which had estranged her from the nations of Europe.
But when Clarisse heard that Monsieur de Mauluçon and her brother
were on the eve of leaving London for Southampton to rejoin the royal
army in Vendée, she hesitated no longer.
Confiding the children to their grandfather's care, she left Pontivy,
and arrived in London, to find her husband and brother at the house
of a mutual friend, Benjamin Vaughan, whose acquaintance they had
made at the American Embassy in Paris, at a reception on the
anniversary of the United States Independence, and with whom they had
become intimate.
But Clarisse had hardly rejoined her husband, when a letter reached
her from Pontivy telling her that if she wished to hear her father's
last words she must come at once. She returned to France almost
beside herself with grief, giving her whole soul to her husband in a
parting kiss.
It was to be their last.
Misfortune followed misfortune with astounding rapidity. Monsieur de
Mauluçon and Jacques de Pontivy soon landed at Saint-Paire, and
joined the Vendean army. At the first encounter Jacques was killed
by a Republican bullet, and Monsieur de Mauluçon mortally wounded.
He was secretly conveyed to London with other wounded royalists, and
in spite of the fraternal welcome and care he found under the roof of
the faithful friend who had always received them with open arms, he
died there of his wounds. Clarisse learnt her double bereavement at
the time when her father was breathing his last.
Thus she became a widow and an orphan in that brief space of time.
Prostrated by this double blow, she was for some time at death's
door. When she came to herself after a delirium which lasted nearly
a week, she saw her children--for Marie Thérèse, now doubly orphaned,
was more her child than ever--seated at her bedside awaiting in
unspeakable anxiety her return to consciousness. She drew them to
her, and covered them with kisses.
"Console yourselves," she said, "I shall live, since you are here."
At this moment a man advanced smilingly towards her, his eyes
glistening with tears of joy.
"Leonard!" she said, "you here?"
It was an old servant of Monsieur de Pontivy, who had come in all
haste from Montmorency, where he lived, to attend the funeral of his
late master.
"Ah!" he cried, "Madame can rest assured Leonard will not leave her
till she is herself again."
"Then I shall remain ill as long as possible," she replied laughing,
and she held out her hands to him.
Her convalescence was short, and as soon as she was on her feet again
she began to think of the future. But Leonard had already thought of
this. "You cannot remain here," he said. "Your name, your
connections, your fortune--everything denounces you, and exposes you
to the ill-treatment of so-called patriots. You must leave Pontivy."
"Go? But where?" asked Clarisse, "Abroad? I have already thought of
that, but how can I reach the frontier with my young people without
passport, and without guide?"
"The surest way to find shelter and safety is to remain in France,"
Leonard answered. "Listen to my plans. I have a cottage hidden
among the trees in a little hollow of the forest of Montmorency. The
place is lonely and little frequented. You can take it in a borrowed
name as my tenant. An honest couple, well known to me, a gardener
and his wife, will assist in the house, and in the cultivation of the
little plot of ground. To avert suspicion, you can place your son
with me as apprentice. I am one of the most influential members of
the Democratic Society of Montmorency. My patronage is therefore a
guarantee of your Republican principles. Olivier will learn a trade,
and remain under your care, for he can return home every night to
dinner, and thus, dear lady, we will await better times."
Clarisse consented joyfully, and in eight days the little family were
installed in the cottage of the forest, secure and safe, in a narrow
valley thickly planted with trees, whose bushy branches formed a
second roof over their humble dwelling. Fourteen months Clarisse
lived there unnoticed, hearing only of the events happening at Paris
from the harrowing accounts of the guillotine and _noyades_ which her
son brought from the workshop, peopling the sleep of the two women
with fearful dreams.
When! oh, when! would they emerge from that obscurity? When would
the trumpet-call of deliverance sound for France! Clarisse dared not
think. She trembled every instant for her own and her children's
safety; for Olivier above all, who already took a too lively interest
in the conversations of the workshop, and in popular manifestations.
Clarisse did not acknowledge it that morning when she met her son,
but she had not slept all night, although she had been aware that he
would not return. So when the household duties were over she had
come long before the time fixed, to wait for him, as she often did,
in that green glade which opened on to the path he was wont to take.
When she saw him in the distance she used to beckon to him,
anticipating the joy of reunion; all a mother's tenderness smiling in
her eyes and on her lips.
Clarisse now hoped that, having been out all night, Olivier would not
assist at the _fête_. But she was mistaken, for he took his coat
from Marie Thérèse and prepared to go. "What! you are not going to
spend the day with us?"
"Now!" replied Olivier coaxingly. "You don't really mean it. And
what about the _fête_? You know well my absence would be noticed.
All the youth of Montmorency will be there. But I promise you to
return for supper. At all events, I have an hour before me. Let us
have a crust and some wine."
Clarisse rose from her seat, and Marie Thérèse helped the lad on with
his coat; then all three went in the direction of the little bridge,
but Olivier retraced his steps directly. He had forgotten his stick.
Stooping to pick it up, he heard some one near him softly asking the
way, and looking up, he found himself in the presence of a stranger,
who pointed to a signpost knocked down by the wind, and from which
the writing was defaced.
"Which of these cross-roads leads to La Chèvre?" he asked.
"This one," Olivier answered.
The stranger thanked him, but at the sound of his voice, Clarisse,
who had been listening, turned, and as she came nearer she gave a cry
of joy.
"Is it possible! You here, Vaughan!" and she came towards him with
outstretched hands.
The man's face lighted up with joy as he turned to greet her:
"Madame de Mauluçon!"
"Hush!" she said, then lowering her voice, she introduced the two
young people, who, surprised at first, smiled and shook hands with
this friend of their family, whose name they had so often heard at
Pontivy and Paris. In a few words Clarisse explained to the newcomer
their circumstances, pointing out the peasant's cottage hidden among
the trees, where they lived away from the outside world. As she
spoke her voice trembled, and she could with difficulty restrain her
tears, for the man before her had held her dying husband in his arms.
It was he who had heard his last words, closed his eyes, and sent
Clarisse the terrible news. She longed to question him, but was
restrained by the presence of the children. So when Marie Thérèse,
who with a woman's instinct felt they had sad and serious things to
say to each other, asked if they might leave them, Clarisse thanked
her with an eloquent look.
"That is right, children," she said, "go on; we will rejoin you
presently."
Alone with Vaughan, her eyes filled with tears; she overwhelmed him
with questions, which he answered with exquisite delicacy, softening
every painful detail. Clothing his words considerately in a mist of
generalities, he guided the conversation with infinite tact, avoiding
some points, putting others in his turn, and finally he spoke of the
agreeable impression that Olivier and Marie Thérèse had produced on
him.
"What a pretty couple they would make!" he said; "but I suppose you
have already destined them for each other!"
Now she could smile. He continued--
"Oh! I saw that at once. I congratulate you. And when is the
wedding-day?"
Alas, how could she know? Under this abominable Government, marriage
in the church had been abolished, and were they even to satisfy
themselves with a civil contract the mayor would demand their birth
certificates. These were no longer in her possession, even had she
wished to produce them. And where were they?
"I have them," replied Vaughan.
She looked at him in astonishment.
He then explained to her how he had found them among a bundle of
papers which her husband had been sorting, in order to burn the most
compromising, when death overtook him. He--Vaughan, the confidant of
his last moments--had completed this task. Among the letters, acts,
and accounts, relating chiefly to politics and the different
movements of the Chouans and the emigrants, he had found several
family documents, some insignificant, others of more importance.
These he had laid aside for Clarisse's perusal.
"I will now make a confession," he continued, "which must be made
sooner or later."
He stopped embarrassed, and then, as if suddenly resolved, added--
"The work of classification has put me in possession of a family
secret. Among the papers which I have to return to you are the birth
and baptismal certificates of Olivier."
Clarisse looked at him anxiously. He continued after a pause--
"In glancing over these I perceived that both were dated 1775, that
is, two years before your marriage."
Again he paused as if fearing to have said too much.
"And what conclusion did you draw from this?" she asked, resolved to
hear the worst.
"That by your marriage with Monsieur de Mauluçon Olivier was then
made legitimate."
She recoiled, pale and terrified. Never had such a possibility
crossed her mind: her husband, the soul of loyalty and honour, he to
be suspected!
"You are mistaken," she said, and added, now quite calm and
self-possessed--
"Olivier bears the name of Monsieur de Mauluçon, but he is not his
son ... he is mine."
Vaughan made a gesture as if to prevent her continuing. He knew too
much now. Deeply affected and embarrassed, he murmured a confused
apology, overcome with admiration before this woman, who so frankly
confessed her shame rather than let suspicion rest for a moment on a
husband whose memory she revered. She led her companion to the trunk
on which she had been sitting with her son, and asking him to listen
to her story, she told of her youthful folly, her isolated life, her
fall, and the cowardly desertion of the young secretary, whose name,
however, she concealed; then of the noble generosity of Monsieur de
Mauluçon, who had effaced the past by adopting as his own her son.
"Olivier knows nothing, of course?" asked Vaughan.
"Absolutely nothing. He thinks he is Monsieur de Mauluçon's son."
Vaughan took both her hands in his.
"You have suffered much," he said. "May the rest of your years be
years of joy and happiness!"
"God grant it!" she answered. "But it is hardly to be hoped in such
fearful times of trouble and uncertainty."
He did not reply at once, but seemed preoccupied. Then he said
suddenly, as if continuing his thoughts aloud--
"Why don't you come with me to England?"
"Are you returning, then?"
"Yes, in a few days."
She gave a little cry of joy, then added regretfully--
"It is useless to think of it. There is always that question of
passport in the way."
Vaughan reassured her.
"I can arrange all that for you," he said.
She looked at him in astonishment, wondering how such a thing could
be possible to him, a foreigner. Then suddenly struck by the
recollection that she had selfishly kept him occupied with her
affairs all the time, she hastened to ask him what had brought him to
France. Perhaps she was detaining him? And she begged him to
forgive her want of thought.
"You need not make any excuse," he said, smiling; "it would not have
interested you, for my presence here is due to politics. It must
astonish you that I should come to France when our countries are at
war; but, be assured, I am well protected."
And Vaughan explained to her how he had been sent by an influential
member of the House of Commons to confer with the man who was looked
upon as the most powerful, the master, in fact, of the
Republic--Robespierre.
At the mention of this name Clarisse drew back terrified.
Vaughan evinced no particular surprise, for that name produced the
same effect on every woman. Was not Robespierre, indeed, the
personification of that bloodthirsty Government in whose iron grip
France was then writhing in agony?
He traced a striking portrait of the Incorruptible, from the
intricacies of his subtle politics to the fierce and stubborn
ambition capable of anything to attain its end. Clarisse listened,
spell-bound and trembling.
Vaughan, judging the man from a political standpoint, estimated him
at his true value. His character, mediocre at the best, was
exaggerated in England. The Whig party had commissioned Vaughan to
propose to Robespierre an arrangement which, if accepted, would most
likely change the face of things. But would he accept? Vaughan
doubted it, for the arrangement, though in one way flattering to the
self-love and pride of the Incorruptible, would at the same time
diminish his importance, and set a curb on his ambition, which, as
Vaughan well knew, with all the pretensions of the man to simplicity
and republican austerity, was all-absorbing and unbounded.
Seeing Clarisse so attentive, Vaughan continued to paint Robespierre
at home in the patriarchal circle of the Duplay family in the Rue
Saint Honoré, where he occupied a modest apartment between that of
the old couple and their younger son, as whose tutor he was acting
until the time came for his marriage with Cornelia, Duplay's youngest
daughter, to whom, as it seemed, he was devotedly attached.
Clarisse, her eyes fixed on Vaughan, drank in every word. The
Englishman went on, giving a precise and detailed account of Duplay's
home--a home guarded by the wife, who watched the door in real
bull-dog fashion, for it was the centre of mistrust and suspicion.
Yes, Robespierre was well guarded. He, Vaughan, even with an
introduction as Pitt's agent, had not been able to see him. He had
only succeeded after many difficulties in obtaining an interview in
the forest, where he was to confer with him in secret, until joined
by the Duplay family. Constantly beset by the fear of the Committee
of Public Safety, who watched his every movement, he had arranged for
a picnic in the glades, to avert suspicion from this forest interview.
Clarisse, pale and trembling, made a great effort to steady her
voice, and asked--
"Is he coming here?"
"Why, yes!" replied Vaughan; "he will be here directly. I am a
little early."
Although accustomed to the effect which the name of Robespierre
always produced, Vaughan would have been surprised to see Clarisse's
emotion had he watched her face, but being preoccupied, he looked at
her without taking notice, and continued--
"Yes, the chance is opportune. It will enable me to ask for your
passport. He cannot refuse."
Clarisse looked at him, petrified with horror.
"And is it to him that you will go for our passports?" she said.
"Yes," replied Vaughan; "and I am quite sure of obtaining them."
"Impossible!" exclaimed Clarisse. "It cannot be!"
"Why, dear friend?" asked Vaughan, beginning to show signs of
astonishment.
"He would want to know my name."
"Well! and I should tell him."
"Oh no; anything but that!" she gasped, bounding forward as if to
seal his lips with her hands; then she commenced to walk madly to and
fro, no longer able to control her emotion.
Vaughan, more and more mystified, looked at her in amazement. "I
cannot understand you," he said.
She gazed at him for a moment, silent and hesitating, then, as if
suddenly resolved, she went up to him.
"A word will explain everything. Since you are already possessed of
half the secret of my life, it is perhaps better that you should know
all."
She paused, and then continued--
"Olivier's father----"
"Well!" interposed Vaughan, now aghast in his turn, scarcely daring
to understand her.
"_He_ is Olivier's father!"
And as if broken with the effort, she sank down by the fallen
tree-trunk, and sobbed aloud.
"Oh, my poor, poor friend!" exclaimed Vaughan as he bent over her.
"I who thought your sufferings were at an end, and in my ignorance
added to them by telling you so brutally what I thought of that man!"
"You did not tell me more than I have thought myself," she said.
"For a long time, to my contempt for him has been added an absolute
abhorrence."
Vaughan here interrupted her with a gesture, intimating silence, his
eyes fixed on the distance.
"Is it he?" she said in a trembling whisper.
Vaughan continued to look. He could make out the dim outline of a
man's form advancing through the trees.
Clarisse turned to escape, whispering as she went: "Will you come on
afterwards to the house?"
"No; to-morrow I will, not to-day. He is sure to have me followed,"
replied Vaughan, his eyes still fixed on the advancing figure.
Clarisse was about to reply, but Vaughan had recognised Robespierre.
"It is he!" he exclaimed. "Go quickly, he is coming this way,"
pointing to the path by which Olivier had come.
Clarisse had already crossed the stream and was standing behind a
curtain of reeds. She parted them gently and asked, with shaking
voice--
"Where is he?"
Even in her fear she remained a woman, divided between a horror of
the man and the desire to see him again.
"Ah! I see him... Adieu, till to-morrow...."
The reeds fell back into their places, and Vaughan, left alone,
seated himself on the tree-trunk. Robespierre soon came up, walking
leisurely, a bunch of blue periwinkles in his hand, his eyes on the
grass, seeking others. He stooped here and there to gather and
arrange them daintily as a bouquet. He was elegantly dressed, with
top-boots, chamois knee-breeches, a tight-fitting redingote of grey
stuff, and a waistcoat with revers. A red-haired dog of Danish breed
gambolled before him, without fraternising unduly, as if his master's
faultless attire somewhat overawed him. At a few steps from the
stream Robespierre perceived Vaughan, and came to an abrupt halt. At
the same time two men appeared, wearing carmagnole jackets and
two-horned hats, and carrying stout cudgels. Vaughan rose to meet
the Incorruptible. The dog began to bark.
"Advance no further!" cried Robespierre. "Who are you?"
He made a sign to the two men, who evidently had been acting as
scouts, and sent them towards Vaughan, who, though aware of his ways,
was still a little taken back at these strange preliminaries.
Vaughan gave the two men his note of introduction.
Robespierre took the paper, and drew out of his pocket a gold case,
from which he took a pair of blue, silver-rimmed spectacles, which he
carefully wiped and put on.
"It's all right," he said, after reading the note; and addressing
himself to the two men, he added, "Leave me now, but do not go far,
and, above all, keep watch round about."
And Robespierre crossed the bridge, and advanced towards Vaughan,
followed by his dog.