CHAPTER IX.

EACH FOR ALL.

Lady F—— remained a few hours in London to learn the physician’s opinion

of Waldie’s state, and to give notice at home of her approach. She had

no rest, in town or on the road, from the visions which haunted her of

what she had lately seen. Waldie’s countenance of fierce glee was for

ever before her; his raised voice startled her imagination perpetually.

She had no repose till her husband met her some miles from Weston,

suffered her to alight at the park-gates, and invited her to wander with

him to the ruin, and through the autumnal woods, to her beloved seat

beside the stream that fed the lake. Refreshed and composed, she joined

her guests at the dinner table, and was warmly welcomed back again: not

the less so for no one but the earl and lady Frances having an idea what

had caused her absence. All were ready with that delicate homage which

may be supposed to have been as gratifying in its way to Letitia as it

is to many who relish a grosser flattery than she would ever endure. All

were ready with tidings of her protegés, from pheasants to men and

women. One could assure her that a very favourite plant had not suffered

from the frosts of the night after she left Weston. Another had tasted

the cream of her dairy; a third admired her bantams; a fourth amused

himself with Nanny White; a fifth conversed with the old sexton; and

lady Frances herself condescended to hope that that good girl, Thérèse,

had not been left behind in London. She was such a treasure! Thereby

hung a confession, afterwards given in private, that Philips was really

very much spoiled, and becoming a great trouble. Her manners were

anything but improved, to say nothing of her temper. Miss Falconbridge,

whom she knew to be as intimate as a sister with lady Frances, had taken

a fancy to lady Frances’s style of hair; and as the easiest way of

gratifying her, lady Frances had ordered Philips to dress Miss

Falconbridge’s hair the day before; whereupon Philips sent word through

Miss Falconbridge’s maid that she must beg to decline the honour! Lady

Frances had insisted, and her maid in some sort obeyed: but never was

anything seen so absurd as the young lady’s head. What was lady Frances

to do? To part with Philips was altogether impossible; and to bear with

her now was scarcely less so. Letitia could not answer for what she

should do if compelled to retain such a person as Philips: she could

only appeal to her own management of Thérèse as a proof of how easy a

matter it is to make a valuable friend out of a hired attendant.

“O yes! by taking the trouble of educating her, no doubt. But that is a

task I could not submit to. That reminds me—how does Thérèse get on with

politics? I remember her one day, so eloquent about the revolution her

father remembers, and the prospect of another revolution, and the glory

of having seen Lafayette.”

“She knows more than she would probably have learned in the very heart

of Paris. She has left off assuring me that all the kings of France have

been royalists.”

“I suppose it is for the sake of keeping her innocent of some things

which lady’s maids learn soon enough that you let her read and talk

politics as she does?”

“Partly; and partly with a more direct view to my own interest. It will

be of very great consequence to me that she should be, not only pure in

her conduct, but well educated up to as high a point as I can carry

her.”

“Ah! you mean for the sake of your little heir. I see Thérèse is as busy

about the preparations as if she had taken her office upon her already.

But you began your care of Thérèse from the day you knew her, she tells

me.”

“I did; and so I should do still, if there were no heir in prospect.

Should I be justified, think you, in placing any one where I myself

order the circumstances which are to form her character, and at the same

time neglecting to order those circumstances well?—It is perfectly true

that, in engaging servants, we undertake a great task. In the case of

Thérèse, however, the task has been all pleasure.”

“Well, for your reward, I suppose you will keep her always. You will not

let her marry, I conclude; or, if she marries, will insist on her

remaining with you. It would be too hard to lose all your pains.”

“Whenever Thérèse loves,—and I think I can trust her to commit no folly

with that sound heart of hers,—she shall marry; and she shall enter upon

her new state as I entered upon mine, with the view of being all and

doing all for society of which that state admits. This may best be done

by being wholly her husband’s, and a fixture in his home. I shall

surrender my part in her on her marriage day.”

“By which, I suppose, you hope to retain at least half her heart, if

none of her services. But, my dear, what a prospect for you!”

“A goodly prospect indeed, either way. Either a friend at hand, and a

fit guardian of my children in my absence; or a successful experiment in

happiness-making, ever before my eyes. I hope ever to rejoice in

Thérèse.”

Lady Frances sighed, and began to ponder whether, even if she could

learn to live without Philips, she could make to herself a maid in whom

she might rejoice.

Not only from her husband did Letitia learn how welcome she was back to

Weston. The days of her absence had passed like other days, when people

who prefer the town, and whose lives are formed for that destination,

are thrown together in the country. There were means of enjoyment in

abundance; but not of a kind to be permanently relished by those before

whom they lay. Letitia’s music was wanted in the evenings; Letitia’s

conversation, artless and sprightly as a girl’s, rich as a matured

woman’s, and entertaining enough to suit everybody, was sighed for at

table, and when it rained, and especially when the ladies were called

upon to amuse each other in the absence of the gentlemen. It was only on

rare occasions, however, that she relinquished her privilege of

reserving several hours of the morning for herself and her husband. On

one desperately rainy day, she was found ready for chess or music before

dinner; and at another time, when all the gentlemen were absent for the

whole day at a political meeting in the neighbouring city, she did not

leave her guests at all. But these occasions were rare. On the

last-mentioned one, she had some view to her own interest as well as

that of her guests. Lord F—— meant to speak at the meeting; his speech

must, from his office, be one of the most important of the day; and he

was doubtful both how he should acquit himself, and how that which he

had to say would be received. Letitia was, of course, far from being at

ease, and was glad to conceal, and to carry off some of her anxiety at

the same time by being “on hospitable thoughts intent.” It was the last

day of the last of her visiters; the gentlemen having waited only for

this meeting. Their carriages were ordered for the next morning, and

they did not return till late at night.

They were nearly as eloquent in describing the effect of lord F——’s

speech, as, by their account, had been the speech itself.—One swore by

his soul that it was the most good-natured sort of thing he had ever

heard in his life: another, that the government and the government

candidate ought to feel themselves much obliged to him; another, that

lord F——’s constituents would be more proud of him than ever; another,

an M.P., a representative of the commercial interest, that lord F—— had

enlightened the people not a little on the question when low profits

were harmless, and when bad things, and why; and all, with the earl

among them, that this day might prove the beginning of a new era in lord

F——’s public life. He would now have as potent a voice out of the house

as his friends had ever hoped he would in time have in it.

“How happens all this, Henry?” asked Letitia, aside, with a glowing

smile. “You gave me no expectation of anything like this.”

“Because I had none myself. The charm lay in the burden which I adopted

from our neighbours down in the village;—‘for each and for all.’”

“I see; I understand. Now leave the rest till you can give it me all in

order.”

It was accordingly given, all in order, when the last carriage had

driven off, the next morning, and Henry and Letitia shut themselves into

the library, to enjoy the uninterruptedness of the first fall of snow.

This was no day for the approach of deputations, for the visits of

clergyman, lawyer, lady callers, gentleman loungers, or even petitioners

from the village. The guests had been urged to stay for finer weather;

but, as peremptory in their plans as people of real business, provided

change of place is the object, they could on no account delay an hour;

and, to be sure, the snow signified little to any but the postilions and

the horses.

“Well, now, the speech, the speech!” cried Letitia.

“I told the people that nobody doubts that changes are wanted, in order

to remedy the evils so large a portion of society is justly complaining

of; and that the thing needed is a wider agreement as to what those

changes must be, and therefore a sounder and more general knowledge of

the causes of existing evils. I led them, as an instance, into the

consideration of the common complaint of low profits and low wages, and

showed them, I hope, that proportional wages are much higher at present

than some complainers suppose; the fact being lost sight of from the

enormous increase of those among whom the wages-fund is divided. However

little each labourer may, from this cause, obtain for his own share, the

division of produce between capitalist and labourer,—that is, the

proportion of profits and wages, is more equable than is supposed by

capitalists who complain of their low profits, and labourers of their

low wages. Neither of them will gain by demanding a larger share of the

other, which neither can afford. They must look elsewhere for a remedy;

and I directed them where to look by giving them the example of Holland

and its commercial vicissitudes.”

“Rich to overflowing in the fifteenth century; since, well nigh ruined.

How was this? From too much capital leaving the country?”

“From the causes which led to such transfer of capital. While Holland

was accumulating its wealth, profits were first high, and then gradually

lowered in proportion to wages, though still increasing in total amount.

It was not till heavy taxation reduced the rate of profits below that of

other countries....”

“But does not taxation affect wages too?”

“Assuredly; but the labourer uses fewer commodities than the capitalist,

and therefore there is a limit to the labourer’s taxation, beyond which

taxes must fall on profits, and reduce them as effectually as a

deterioration of the land could do. Well; this being the case in

Holland, more than in the neighbouring countries, Dutch capital flowed

into those countries; and the Dutch have engaged largely in the carrying

trade, in foreign funds, and in loans to the merchants of other

countries, because all this capital could be less advantageously

employed at home. No country need or ought to come to such a pass as

this; for, where there is an economical government, taxation may be a

trifle compared with what it was in Holland after the wars of the

Republic; and where there is a liberal commercial system,—that is, no

unnecessary check upon the supply of food, accumulation may proceed to

an undefinable extent without an injurious fall of wages and profits.

Thus may the cultivation of poor soils be rendered needless, the

consequent rise of rent be checked, and the fall of profits and wages

obviated.”

“What we want then is, a regulation of the supply of the labour-market,

a lightening of taxation, and a liberal commercial system. But, Henry,

where is the eloquence of all this?—that which is commonly called

eloquence? It seems to me more like a lecture than a speech.”

“And so it was; but these are days when, to the people, naked truth is

the best eloquence. They are sufferers; they look for a way out of their

sufferings; and the plainest way is to them the fairest. However, I said

to them much that there is no need to say to you,—because you know it

already,—of my views of what the spirit of society ought to be, in

contrast with what it is. I enlarged,—whether eloquently I know not,—but

I am sure fervently,—as fervently as ever any advocate of co-operation

spoke,—on the rule ‘for each and for all;’ showing that there is actual

co-operation wherever individual interests are righteously pursued,

since the general interest is made up of individual interests. I showed

that justice requires the individual appropriation of the fruits of

individual effort; that is, the maintenance of the institution of

property; and that producers do as much for all, as well as for each, by

carrying their produce to market themselves, as by casting it into a

common stock.”

“For instance, that A. does as great a public service by bringing a

hundred hats to exchange for tables and stockings, and whatever else he

may happen to want, as B. by letting the exchange be conducted as an

affair of partnership.”

“Yes. Let people have partnerships as large as they like, and make

savings thereby, if they find they can. But let them beware of the

notion that any competition but the struggle for food is the cause of

hardship; and that struggle must take place under both systems, unless

the same means are used by both to prevent it. As for the question of

time, the struggle will take place soonest under that system which

affords the least stimulus to productive industry. “And, now, love, you

have the pith of my speech, except of those best parts which you have

many a time rehearsed to me, and I to you. Of the ‘hear, hears,’ and

clappings, you learned enough last night.”

“I wish I could have been there,” sighed the wife.

“So do I. Well as you know the aspect of an attentive crowd, you can

have little idea of the stimulating excitement of political meetings

just now.”

“I can imagine it. The true romance of human life lies among the poorer

classes; the most rapid vicissitudes, the strongest passions, the most

undiluted emotions, the most eloquent deportment, the truest experience

are there. These things are marked on their countenances, and displayed

by their gestures; and yet these things are almost untouched by our

artists; be they dramatists, painters, or novelists. The richest know

best what is meant by the monotony of existence, however little this may

appear to their poor neighbours who see them driving about as if life

depended on their speed, and traversing kingdoms and continents. Yet

from the upper and middling classes are the fine arts mainly furnished

with their subjects. This is wrong; for life in its reality cannot

become known by hearsay; and by hearsay only is there any notion of it

among those who feel themselves set above its struggles and its toils:

that is, by the greater part of the aristocracy.”

“Thank heaven! not by you or me,” replied her husband. “An uninformed

observer might think that there is monotony before us at present,

sitting as we are, watching the snow-flakes fall with the few leaves

which had lingered aloft till now,—with weeks of retirement in prospect,

and nothing apparent to wish or work for. Yet you have had enough, love,

of struggle and toil to know what real life is; and I have, of late,

begun to learn the same lesson. No fear of monotony for us!”

“No fear; since there are all to live for as well as each, and each

other. But, Henry, how is it that there is so little made known where it

most wants to be known, of what real life is when trained by that best

of educations, vicissitude?”

“Because our painters of life do not take into the account,—in fact know

little of,—some of the most important circumstances which constitute

life, in the best sense of the word. They lay hold of the great

circumstances which happen to all, the landmarks of universal human

existence, and overlook those which are not less interesting, though not

universal. They take Love; and think it more becoming to describe a

Letitia going to the altar with a lord F——, than a weaver and his

thoughtful bride taking possession of their two rooms, after long

waiting and anxiety. They take Bereavement; and think it the same thing

whether they describe the manly grief of an Ormond for his gallant

Ossory, or the silent woe of a poverty-stricken widow for her laborious

and dutiful son. They take Birth; and would rather have a lady F——

bending over the infant heir of a lordly house, with a Thérèse in

waiting ... (My dear, why not describe that which shall be as well as

that which has been?)—a lady F—— and her infant, I say, than some rustic

Mary holding up her boy to smile in father’s face when he comes home

from the plough. There is no harm in all this, provided the mighty

remainder is not overlooked, which is at the bottom of the most

portentous heavings of society,—which explains all that is to many

unaccountable in the doings of the world they live in. If the

aristocracy cannot, by their own experience, get to know all that life

is,—though they are born, love, marry, suffer, enjoy, and die, let some

idea be given them of it by true images held up in the mirror of their

studies.”

“Yes; let humble life be shown to them in all its strong and strange

varieties; not only in faithful butlers and housekeepers,—in pretty

dairy-maids and gossiping barbers. Let us have in books, in pictures,

and on the stage, working men and women, in the various periods of their

struggles through life. In the meanwhile, these people should in

fairness know that the aristocracy are less aware than is supposed,—less

than they will be,—of what is being done and suffered on each side of

their smooth and dull path.”

“Let the artists be compassionately considered too, I pray,” said lord

F——, smiling. “Granting all that can be urged about their limiting their

choice of objects, let us be considerate till they have placed

themselves at large. What, for instance, could a weaver of fiction make

of our present life?”

“Nothing of a story; only a picture; there being, as you said just now,

apparent monotony without, and deep stirrings within. Such a writer, if

wishing to make a narrative, must take either my former life,—its

perplexities, its poverty, its struggles under its first publicity, its

labours, its love, and migration into a new state;—or your future

one,—the statesman’s honourable toils, joined with the patriot’s

conflicts and consolations.”

“But if there was good reason for taking up precisely the interval,—from

our marriage till this hour;—what then?”

“Then writer and readers must be contented with little narrative;

contented to know what passes within us, since so little happens to us.

Would there be nothing to instruct and gratify in pictures of our

position, in revelations of our hearts, and records of our

conversations?”

“Let us comfort ourselves, Letitia, with deciding that it must be the

fault of the recorder if there were not.”

--------------

------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Summary of Principles illustrated in this volume._

The produce of labour and capital, after rent has been paid, is divided

between the labourer and the capitalist, under the names of Wages and

Profits.

Where there are two shares, each determines the other, provided they

press equally upon one another.

The increase of the supply of labour, claiming reward, makes the

pressure in the present case unequal, and renders wages the regulator of

profits.

The restriction of the supply of food causes the fall of both profits

and wages.

The increased expense of raising food enhances its price: labour, both

agricultural and manufacturing, becomes dearer, (without advantage to

the labourer:) this rise of wages causes profits to fall; and this fall

brings after it a reduction of the labourer’s share, or a fall of wages.

The fall of profits and wages is thus referrible to the same cause which

raises rent;—to an inequality in the fertility of soils.

It is supposed by some that these tendencies to the fall of wages and

profits may be counteracted by abolishing the distinctions of shares,

and casting the whole produce of land, capital, and labour, into a

common stock. But this is a fallacy.

For, whatever may be the saving effected by an extensive partnership,

such partnership does not affect the natural laws by which population

increases faster than capital. The diminution of the returns to capital

must occasion poverty to a multiplying society, whether those returns

are appropriated by individuals under the competitive system, or equally

distributed among the members of a co-operative community.

The same checks to the deterioration of the resources of society are

necessary under each system.

These are, (in addition to the agricultural improvements continually

taking place,)—

1. The due limitation of the number of consumers.

2. The lightening of the public burdens, which at present abstract a

large proportion of profits and wages.

3. A liberal commercial system which shall obviate the necessity of

bringing poor soils into cultivation.

London: Printed by W. CLOWES, Stamford-street.

FRENCH WINES

AND

POLITICS.

=A Tale.=

BY

HARRIET MARTINEAU.

--------------

LONDON:

CHARLES FOX, 67, PATERNOSTER-ROW.

---

833.

CONTENTS.

---

FRENCH WINES AND POLITICS.

1. Vine Growing 1

2. Signs of the Time 9

3. The Temper of the Time 29

4. Deeds of the Time 50

5. The Philosophy of Bargaining 72

6. New Devices 82

7. Mob Sovereignty 99

8. Upshot of Feudalism 122

9. Adjustment 134

------------------------------------------------------------------------

FRENCH WINES AND POLITICS.

CHAPTER I.

VINE-GROWING.

It was on a glorious afternoon in July, 1788, that an Englishman, named

Steele, landed on the banks of the Garonne, a few miles south of

Bordeaux, whence he had come up in a boat on an excursion of part

business, part pleasure. Steele was settled as a factor at Bordeaux, and

his business was to purchase wines from the growers, and ship them to

his employers in England. His occupation had brought him acquainted with

almost every vine-grower within fifty leagues of Bordeaux; and in the

case of one of these, Antoine Luyon, the acquaintance had ripened into a

friendship. Antoine was part owner of some vineyards on the western bank

of the Garonne, one of which produced claret of a singularly fine

quality,—too good to command an advantageous sale at Paris, where second

and third-rate wines are in nearly equal esteem with the first. The

produce of this small and rich vineyard was therefore set apart for

English sale, and had been bargained for by the house which Steele

represented, and the terms agreed upon for the vintage of the five next

seasons. Other vineyards belonging to the same parties touched upon this

peculiarly favoured one; but not all the care and pains that could be

taken availed to make their produce better than second or third-rate.

Their aspect was a little more to the east and less to the south; they

were not so perfectly sheltered behind; and no art could temper their

soil to the exact point of perfection enjoyed by La Haute Favorite, as

this distinguished vineyard was called. Their produce was, however, as

valuable as that of most of the estates around, and was in good esteem

at Paris, where Antoine’s partner, his brother Charles, was settled as a

wine-merchant; and where he bestowed as much pains on the maturing of

the stock in his cellars as Antoine did on its first ripening in the

form of grapes, or their friend Steele on the processes of fining,

racking, and mixing, which were carried on at his employers’ depôt at

Bordeaux. Much care and skill were required in all these departments of

business; and the young men were exemplary in both, pursuing their

occupation as a matter of taste as well as of necessity. Steele watched

the thermometer in his cellars as carefully as Antoine observed winds

and clouds; and their common interest in the welfare of Favorite

quickened their friendship, in one way among many, by occasioning more

frequent meetings than they would otherwise have thought practicable.

Many a trip to Bordeaux did Antoine contrive to ascertain the effects of

heat or cold on the wines in their third or fourth season; or to give

the alarm if he heard rumours of buildings being pulled down or erected

so near the premises as to have any influence over the temperature

within: and during the summer, Steele was wont to go up the river on

Saturdays, and spend the Sunday with his friend Antoine for the avowed

purpose of paying his devoirs to La Favorite.—There was much to tempt

him to these excursions, if wine had made no part of his interest, for a

fairer territory than that through which the Garonne held its course was

seldom seen. There were harvests of a more picturesque growth than even

those which embellished the vineyards. Interspersed with the meadows

which sloped down to the river, were groves of olives and forests of

chestnuts, and in due season, the almond trees put forth their pink

blossoms amidst the dark shadows of the evergreen woods. Boats heavily

laden with the merchandise of the Levant, brought hither by means of the

grand Languedoc canal, passed down the blue and brimming river, or

returned, borne rapidly on the tide, and empty of all but the boatmen in

their red jackets, whose snatches of song reached the shore on the

fragrant breeze. The cottages of the peasantry were indeed few, and

comfortless in appearance; but the chateaux of the gentry arose here and

there, not half buried in woods, like English mansions, but conspicuous

on terraces, and rendered in some degree imposing by the appliances of

art, which did not, however, in the eye of the Englishman, compensate

for the natural attractions which a fine taste would have gathered round

them. Even stone balustrades and fountains, and artificial terraces,

however, as long as they were intermixed with corn-fields and olive

groves, had charms for one whose residence was commonly in the city; and

in process of time, he began to contemplate the chateau of the marquis

de Thou, which commanded the vicinity of Antoine’s residence, with

something of the admiration, though with nothing of the awe, with which

it was regarded by the peasantry round.

Whether this admiration was increased or lessened by the glimpses he

occasionally obtained of its inhabitants, he could himself have hardly

determined. The first time he saw the marquis he was moved to laughter;

but then the marquis was alone (except the laquais in his rear) sitting

bolt upright on his horse, with his enormous queue reaching down to the

little skirts of his coat, and his large light blue eyes and pursed-up

mouth giving a ludicrous mixture of vacancy and solemnity to his

countenance. But when the marquis de Thou was seen parading the terrace

with his beautiful daughter, the lady Alice, by his side, or following

the sports of the field with a train of the noblesse, assembled in all

the grandeur of feudal array, he who looked insignificant in his

individuality gathered some advantage from the grace or splendour around

him. He was regarded as the father and protector of the fair creature

who seemed to tread on air within the vast circumference of her hoop,

and whose eyes shone forth from beneath her enormous head-dress like

glow-worms in a thicket; and again, the marquis was the host of the

wealthy and the gay who held sway in the land which was for ever

boasting its own likeness to Paradise: so that, in time, the marquis

became mixed up with his connexions even in the mind of the Englishman;

and instead of laughing, Steele learned to uncover and bow low at the

approach of the great man, in the same manner as Antoine. If he had

known as much as the natives of the territory of certain deeds which

were done, and certain customs which were prevalent there, his English

heart might have forbidden his raising his hand to his head in token of

respect; but though he disliked the French peasantry, he was not fully

aware how many of their bad qualities were directly attributable to the

influence of the order of which the marquis de Thou was one of the

representatives.

On the present occasion, Antoine awaited on the bank the landing of his

friend.

“Ah ha!” cried the Frenchman, as soon as he could make himself heard;

“you look up into our blue sky with the same admiration as when you

first saw it, four seasons ago. Well; even Bordeaux has its smoke, and

now and then a sea haze.”

“So thick an one this morning,” replied Steele, “that I could have

fancied myself in an English port.”

“Do the captains foretell a change of wind?” inquired Antoine. “I rather

apprehend one; and it is a pity that Favorite should risk losing a

particle of her beauty. Come and see her,—as bright as a May morning; as

rich and mellow as an autumn noon. It would grieve my soul if an unkind

wind should hurt her; but there are signs of a change.”

The young men turned their steps towards the vineyards, instead of to

Antoine’s dwelling, as Steele needed no refreshment but that of seeing

how his dearly-beloved vines flourished, and enjoying the beautiful walk

which led to the enclosures. On this occasion, he looked about him more

than usual as he passed, as the peasantry were abroad, and evidently in

a state of excitement and uneasiness. One and another stopped the young

men to ask if they knew what direction the hunt had taken, and whether

it could be conjectured how long a chase the boar might cause the

gentry. Steele now learned for the first time, how eminently a boar hunt

was an occasion of terror and hardship to the country people. He saw

them mount the highest trees to look out, and lay their ears to the

ground to detect the distant tread of horses. He heard them mutter

prayers that their fences might remain unbroken, and their crops

untrodden.

“I should not have thought your peasants could be so anxious about their

little harvests,” he observed to Antoine. “Judging from the state of

their plots of land, I should suppose them careless about their tillage.

How weedy this field is! And the hay in that meadow was, as I remember,

not cut for weeks after the proper time.”

“It is no fault of theirs,” replied Antoine. “The law forbids hoeing and

weeding, lest the young partridges should be hurt; and the hay must not

be cut before a certain day, let the season be what it will, lest the

game should be deprived of shelter. Many crops are thus spoiled.”

“What tyranny!” exclaimed the Englishman. “But some fault seems still to

remain with the cultivators. They do not use half the manure at their

disposal, while their land evidently wants it much. Yonder field is an

instance.”

“Certain sorts of manure are thought to give an unpleasant flavour to

the birds which subsist on the grain which springs from them,” replied

Antoine. “Such manure is not allowed to be used.”

On Steele’s exclaiming again that such prohibitions were too arbitrary

to be endured, Antoine laughed, and wondered what he would say to

certain other regulations, in comparison with which these were trifles.

What did he think of the lot of those who were sent to the galleys for

having entered or approached the groves where the wild pigeons of the

marquis were appointed to breed undisturbed; or of such as were ruined

by being taken from their tillage to make for him ornamental roads which

led nowhere; or by the fines which they had to pay in commutation of the

service of keeping the frogs quiet by night? On one side the chateau, a

marsh extended for some distance, and its frogs greatly annoyed a former

marquis by their croaking. His peasantry were employed to beat the

ponds. By degrees, as the nuisance decreased, this service was commuted

for a fine,—and a very oppressive one it was found at this day. Antoine

was proceeding to describe another grievance of great magnitude, when

his description was superseded by an example.

The young men were now in a chestnut grove, within which the distant

sounds of the hunt were beginning to be heard. A figure of a peasant

crossed the glades at intervals, and an occasional voice hailed them

from overhead, where lookers out were perched on the loftiest trees to

watch what course the devastation of the boar and its hunters would

take. After a few moments of quiet, a cry burst forth, and was echoed

from mouth to mouth through the wood, a heavy plunging tread was heard,

and a rushing and crashing in the thicket, which warned Steele to fly to

the protection of the largest trunk at hand, while Antoine climbed a

tree as nimbly as a squirrel. The ferocious, clumsy animal immediately

appeared, its small eyes red and flaming, its coarse hide bristling, and

its terrific tusks looking as if they could plough up the very ground

over which it rushed headlong. The moment the danger was past, Antoine

descended, and followed at full speed to see the issue of the chase;

Steele keeping up with his companion as well as he could, but not

without some qualms lest the beast should be met at the extremity of the

wood, and driven back upon his steps. The hunt was a little too late,

however, to accomplish this manœuvre, and Steele began to feel himself

somewhat more comfortable, when a cry of horror from Antoine, who was a

little way in advance, renewed all his fears.

“O, Favorite! O La Haute Favorite!” cried he. “She is spoiled,—she will

be wholly desolated by the monster and the hunters!” And poor Antoine

threw himself down at the foot of a tree, and would look no more. His

companion saw one horseman after another leap the fence which had been

kept in such perfect repair, watched them wheeling round and round among

the choice vines, which they must be treading like so much common grass,

and finally follow the boar out at the opposite side, while the servants

who attended in the rear wantonly rode over the same ground, when they

might just as easily have kept the road. In a great passion, Steele flew

to warn, and threaten, and scold; but before he had time to commit

himself, Antoine was at hand to interpose, and silence the indignant

Englishman.

“I cannot conceive what you mean, Antoine,” cried Steele, the moment

they had the place to themselves. “You flung yourself upon the ground in

as great an agony as if your bride had been snatched from you; and

presently you come to speak these rascals as fair as if they had done

you a favour!”

“It is the only way to keep what we have left,” replied Antoine,

mournfully. “There is no use, but much peril, in complaint. Redress

there is none; and ill-will towards the lord’s pleasure is resented more

deeply and lastingly than injury to his property. You may rob his

chateau of its plate, and be more easily forgiven than for repining at

anything which happens in the course of his sports.”

Steele was ready to burst with indignation against the people which

permitted such usages to endure. He was answered by a reference to the

cruel old forest laws of England, and certain national blemishes of an

analogous character which still remained; and the friends were in danger

of quarrelling, for the first time, when they remembered that it would

be more to the purpose to contemplate the present than the past and the

absent, and to help one another under the vexatious event which had

befallen them.

It was mournful to look around, and see what had been done within a few

minutes;—the clean soil trodden and strewed, the props thrown down, the

laden branches snapped off, the ripening fruit crushed and scattered,

and the whole laid open to intruders; whether men to steal, or troops of

deer to browze. If, by any exertion, these intruders could be kept out,

there was hope that some, even a considerable portion, of the expected

vintage might be saved, as some rows of vines had not been touched, and

others had fallen merely from their supports being removed. Antoine set

off in search of labourers. Not one would follow him till the issue of

the hunt was known, and it became certain whose fields would be

devastated before the sun went down, and whose not; but when the boar’s

head was at length carried towards the chateau, with the usual honours,

and the proud train returned to their stately festivities, a gang of

peasants, safe for this bout, set to work, under Antoine and Steele, to

stop up the fences till they could be properly repaired; while their

less fortunate neighbours hid themselves to groan over the destroyed

harvests which were their only hope;—hid themselves, because if their

own little children had spoken of their grief, the galleys would

infallibly be their destination ere long. Neither those who chaunted

over their work, however, nor those who brooded over wrongs within, nor

the two young men who toiled, went home, and retired to rest in gloomy

silence, anticipated what would be their relative position at the same

hour the next evening. Nothing could now appear more certain to Antoine

than that he and his brother had sustained a great loss in the

destruction of half the crop of their best vineyard, or to Steele than

that it would be a misfortune to his employers to be disappointed of

half the quantity of that superlative wine which they were to have on

favourable terms, and might sell at almost any price they might choose

to set upon it: yet another turn of fortune happened within a few hours

which promised to do more than repair the pecuniary damage, though it

still remained to be lamented that La Haute Favorite should have been

exposed to wanton devastation.

The next day was the day of the extraordinary hurricane which spread

affright through various regions of France, where there was want and woe

enough before to shake the courage and perplex the judgment of rulers,

and to appal the hearts of the ruled. The timid had long been inquiring

how the national burdens were to be borne for the future, and the

popular discontents much longer soothed. When this dreadful tempest

came, extinguishing the light of day like an eclipse, changing the

aspect of the scenery like an earthquake, and convulsing the atmosphere

like a hurricane, mere timidity became deepened into a superstitious

horror, and the powers of hell were thought to be let loose against the

devoted land. Few could wonder much at this who knew the people in their

state of ignorance and hardship, and who witnessed the ravages of the

storm.

The morning had risen fair and bright, though cold, from the change of

wind which Antoine had predicted. The clouds soon began to gather, with

an appearance of unusual blackness; but this did not prevent the country

people from setting out for church, and making their way thither in

defiance of the rising blasts. When assembled, however, they found it

perilous to remain under the shelter of a roof which threatened to fall

in upon them; and they rushed out into the road, where, carefully

avoiding the neighbourhood of trees, they supported one another during

the dreadful hour that the storm lasted. Cries of grief and despair

broke from them at every step as they returned homewards. Drifts of hail

stopped up their path. The corn-fields were one vast morass. The almond

groves were level with the ground; and of the chestnut woods nothing

remained but an assemblage of bare poles. The more exposed vineyards

were so many quagmires, and many dwellings were mere heaps of ruins. All

who witnessed were horror-struck at the conviction of general,

immediate, pressing want; and the more thoughtful glanced forwards in

idea to the number of seasons that must pass away before all this damage

could be repaired. Not a few, in the midst of their own distress,

however, jested on the fate of the marquis’s partridges, and consoled

one another with the certainty that it would be long before the lord’s

game could trouble them again.

As for Antoine, he hurried past his ruined garden to La Favorite,

gloomily followed by the Englishman, who could not be comforted by his

companion’s suggestion, that, at the worst, the soil would be finely

manured by its produce being beaten into it. This was not exactly the

object for which Steele had anticipated the fine crop would be used, and

he could not, so rapidly as a Frenchman, acquiesce in so complete a

change of purposes. It would be difficult to say which was the most

astonished and the most joyful when they found their beloved Favorite

smiling amidst the general devastation, and scarcely more injured than

when they had left her the night before. Sheltered by the hill behind,

and by a wood on the side whence the hurricane approached, she had

escaped its worst fury; and a few torn branches, a few scattered

hailstones, were the only witnesses of the storm which had passed over

her.

“My beauty! My beloved!” exclaimed Antoine; “though man and beast have

dared to insult thee, the elements have known how to respect thy beauty.

They just paid thee a gentle homage as they passed, and left thee serene

and verdant, while all besides is prostrated before them. My homage

shall restore the few charms that have been defaced.”

And, somewhat to Steele’s surprise, Antoine began the homage he spoke

of, reverentially lifting the trailing branches, coaxing the battered

bunches of grapes, and restoring props with a sort of joyful solemnity,

as if rendering service to one who could appreciate his devotion. The

cooler Englishman meanwhile looked abroad into the neighbouring

vineyards, and saw with concern that the losses of Antoine and his

brother must be great. Antoine would scarcely allow this, however, not

only because the safety of Favorite had filled him with joy, but because

he believed that his fortunes would be rather amended than the contrary

by what had happened.

“How should that be?” inquired Steele. “The enormous rise in value of

the produce of this vineyard will not benefit you, but my employers, as

our terms are fixed for five years to come. How can you gain by being

deprived of the rest of your vintage?”

“We shall gain by others being deprived of theirs. Vast labour will be

required to render these lands productive once more, and the price of

wines will therefore be much raised.”

“But you will have to employ and pay for this labour as well as others.”

“True; but meanwhile, we have a large stock of wine at Paris and

Bordeaux. For some little time there has been no demand; for the country

is troubled, and no one will buy more than cannot be avoided. This has

made Charles uneasy, and he has often lately complained of the largeness

of our stock. Now that there will be a failure in the supply of wines,

our stock will be in request, and at such prices as shall pay all the

labour of repairs in our vineyards, and leave no small advantage

besides. And then,—how our grounds are manured! What crops they will

yield!”

“Aye; but when?—You never will see the dark side of an affair, Antoine.

It will be three or four years before yon quagmires can become a firm

soil, full of well-settled and bearing vines.”

“Meantime, things will become more tranquil at Paris, perhaps, so that

people may enjoy their wine as formerly.”

“Some persons,” observed Steele, “would repine at the terms we have

fixed beyond recall for the produce of Favorite; but I hear no

complaints from you of the large profits which will be made by my

employers.”

“Where would be the use?” replied Antoine. “Since the bargain is, as you

say, beyond recall, it is no longer my affair. On the contrary, I

congratulate your gentlemen with all my heart.—There is but one thing

that I would suggest;—that if their gains prove great, they should

purchase the blessing of heaven on them by devoting some small portion

to the peasants here who are ruined by the same cause which brings your

friends prosperity.”

“There will no doubt be a general subscription,” observed Steele; “and

it is fitting that those foreigners should give who will profit by the

disasters of your country.”

“If your gentlemen,” replied Antoine, “will do it in the form of

remitting a portion of Favorite’s wealth, they will add grace to their

bounty. How graceful will it be in this, our beauty, to thank heaven for

having spared her charms by giving in alms a portion of her dowry!”

“Will your people distinguish, think you,” asked Steele, laughing,

“between alms issuing from an English merchant’s pocket, in his own name

and in the name of a personified vineyard?”

Antoine warmly replied that no people on earth had so nice a sense of

the morally graceful and sublime as the French; and offered a wager that

in the straightforward case, plain thanks in prose would be all that

Messrs. Mason and Co. would receive; while, if the moral grace he

recommended were put into the act, La Haute Favorite would be celebrated

in song under many a clump of elms.

“Meanwhile,” said Steele, “what measures will you take about your

private affairs, and how can I help you?”

“I will this day write to Charles tidings of what has happened.

To-morrow I will see what portion of the crops out of this enclosure can

be saved. The produce must be housed at Bordeaux, and no more

transported to Paris this year.—You can aid me no otherwise than in the

care of Favorite, and in soothing the poor whom I dread to meet on my

way home. Exhort them, as I ever do, to make the best of inevitable

evils.”

“Your example will do more than my exhortations. But what is left to

make the best of?”

“The marquis and his daughter. They can no longer be a torment, and may

be a help. The new works, for which he oppressed the people, are

destroyed. His pigeons are blown away, and his partridges are drowned;

and even the frogs may be found to be eternally silenced by this

excessive beating of their ponds: while still the people have an

equitable claim for food. Let us go and comfort them thus.”

And the good-natured Antoine carried his cheerful countenance among the

shivering and dismayed peasantry who were waiting for advice and

guidance, and led them to the chateau to ask for relief.

The marquis laid his hand upon his heart, and the lady Alice took

trinkets from her hair to give to the hungry people before her, who were

loud in their praises of her condescension; though, to be sure, as

trinkets could not be eaten, and there was nothing eatable for them to

be exchanged against, they only served at present to hush little crying

babies for a minute or two. In time it was clearly conveyed to the lady

that a more effectual measure would be to order the housekeeper to

distribute the contents of the larder among the hungry; and to the

gentleman, that now was the occasion for his steward to unlock the

granary. These stores being soon exhausted, and no more being at once

procurable, from the whole neighbouring country having been laid waste,

the cottagers were obliged to subsist themselves as well as they could

on boiled acorns, stewed nettles, and on the lord’s frogs; a race which

seemed destined to extermination, man and the elements having apparently

combined against them.

As many of the sufferers as yet survive look back upon that dreadful

time with a horror which is not lessened even by the political horrors

which ensued. Throughout Guienne, the Orleannois, and other provinces,

not a score of revolutions could efface the recollections and traditions

of the hurricane of July, 1788. Perhaps it may be still a subject of

dispute a century hence whether it was charged, in addition to the

natural agents of destruction, with a special message to warn the French

nation of their approaching social convulsion. Superstition has not yet

been abolished in France, any more than in some other countries which

have suffered less deplorably from its sway.

--------------

CHAPTER II.

SIGNS OF THE TIME.

Charles Luyon was wont to hasten home at dinner-time with as much

cheerfulness in his countenance as alacrity in his gait. He always had a

smile ready when his timid wife looked anxiously in his face, and

generally some tidings which were not bad, when her aged father, M.

Raucourt, asked his invariable question,—“What news, Charles?” Times

were now, however, altering so speedily that it was evident that Charles

must vary his entré. His smile he was likely enough to preserve, happen

what might; but in the article of news he began to be perplexed; for

whatever was now stirring was of a kind with which it was painful to

confuse and trouble a very old man, who never went abroad, but yet

managed to know something of what was going on by fixing his seat

constantly at the window, and using his eyes, which were less infirm

than his understanding. The children too, who were old enough to be

inquisitive, began to be very pertinacious in their questions why their

walks were circumscribed, and what was the meaning of various strange

sights and sounds which they met at every turn. In satisfying them why

the drums beat, and why orators talked so loud in the mobs, Charles

never used the word riot,—much less rebellion, or revolution, either of

which might have been fatal to his wife’s peace; for she had been bred a

royalist by her father, and had a perfect horror of even a disrespectful

word against the royal family or the noblesse. What Charles was in

politics, she could never tell. He seemed to adopt no party, to talk

sensibly on what took place before his eyes, and (judging by what had

already come to pass) to prophecy clearly respecting the future. He

pointed out to her that the people were starving, and of course

disaffected; but he did not say where the blame rested, contenting

himself with hoping the best, as he did on all occasions.

On the day that he received the tidings of the ravages of the storm in

Guienne, Marguerite did, for once, perceive a slight shade on her

husband’s brow. The family were standing at the window, beside the old

man’s easy chair, eagerly gazing into the street, which was filled from

end to end with a mob. The aspect of the people was terrific, and their

clamour, compounded of the shrill voices of the fishwomen and the more

deep-toned yells of haggard and half-famished men, was deafening. The

old gentleman looked full of glee, for he had contrived to persuade

himself that all this was rejoicing for some royal festival. The wiser

children looked in their mother’s face for an explanation; but she could

attend to nothing else when she saw her husband enter.

“Thank God, Charles, you are home! How did you get in?”

“I have been in this half hour.”

“And shut up by yourself? There is something the matter, Charles.”

Charles gave in brief the story of the storm, which included the tidings

that certain olive and almond groves, her own property, were utterly

destroyed.

“Charles, Charles,” interrupted the old man, as soon as the mob had

passed; “what news to-day?”

“I am afraid what you have just seen tells only too plainly, sir. The

people are gone to the palace to vociferate for bread.”

“Well, well, fashions change,” observed M. Raucourt. “In my days the

king gave away wine instead of bread.”

“If he did so now, sir, it would be a good thing for my trade. It would

empty my cellars to supply such a crowd as has just gone by.”

“Does not your wine sell, this year?”

“Not very well, sir. People buy little of anything at present; but

better times will certainly come.”

“But, papa, why do not all these people buy bread, if they want it so

very much?” asked Julien.

“Because there is very little to be bought; and that little is too dear

for poor people to buy.”

“So they want the king to buy it for them?”

“Yes; but the king says he has no money. He is borrowing some, however,

and I hope the people will soon be relieved, somehow or other.”

“Who lends the king money, papa?”

“I am going to lend him some; and so will everybody else that has any.”

Little Pauline thought it would be the better and quicker way for her

papa to buy the bread himself for the poor, instead of lending money to

the king to do so. She was told that perhaps the people might begin to

love the king again if he tried to relieve them; and that his majesty

would be much pleased at this, for they had not been at all fond of him

lately. This news set Marguerite sighing, and the children thinking what

they had that they could lend the king. Grandpapa was consulted, while

his son and daughter retired from the window to read Antoine’s letter.

M. Raucourt thought the king would not wish for Julien’s bird-organ, as

he often heard finer music than it could make, and it would now buy very

little bread; but why it would buy so little, he could not tell. He

recommended Pauline’s making her offering to the queen;—that beautiful,

graceful lady that every Frenchman worshipped when she became his queen,

and whom every Frenchman would mourn in the dust when the time must come

for her to die. The old man was entering upon his favourite long story

of the queen’s entry into her capital, when Pauline stopped him with an

enquiry whether this beautiful lady would like to have her silk-worms,

and how much bread they would buy. As soon as grandpapa could speak for

laughing, he told the child that the queen carried more silk on her head

at that moment than these worms would spin in a hundred years. The

little dog Joli, with his collar and silver bell, was next proposed, and

thought more eligible. Joli was called, and looked for in vain under

sofa, and chairs, and behind mamma’s harp. While Pauline went in search

of him, Julien interrupted papa to know why his bird-organ would buy

very little bread, when it had once cost so much money.

“Money enough, papa, to buy many loaves of bread.”

“Yes, my dear; because the men who made that organ ate up several loaves

of bread while they were at work upon it; and it was necessary to pay

themselves for that bread, as well as for the wood, and the steel, and

the brass, and the wear of their tools.”

“Then would not people eat as much bread if they made another bird-organ

to-day?”

“Yes; and such an organ would cost me twice as much money as I gave for

yours last year. It would buy only the same number of loaves, however,

because each loaf costs twice as much money as it used to do.”

“But grandpapa says my organ will buy very little bread.”

“True; because it was made when bread was cheap; and an organ made

to-day would be made when bread is very dear. I gave the organ-maker

money enough to buy twelve loaves; and now the same money would buy only

six loaves.”

“And perhaps six loaves would not be enough for the people while they

were making the organ?”

“Certainly not. They must have twelve; and so I should have to pay twice

as much for another organ made to-day as you could sell yours for,

supposing it as good as new.”

“But why is not there more bread, papa? I should like that there should

be so much that I might give the people twenty-four loaves when I give

the king my organ.”

“When that time comes, my dear, the people will not want to beg bread,

and you shall have a better present to offer at court.—But, do you know,

Julien, there is going to be less bread than ever, I am afraid.”

Marguerite drew her little son to her, and described to him the state of

the peasantry round uncle Antoine’s vineyards; and how grandpapa’s

olives were all blown down, and everything eatable destroyed, except

what had hitherto been considered food for swine.

“One woman,” she continued, “offered a comfortable coat of her husband’s

to several shivering people who would have liked it very much; but they

could not give so much as a single handful of barley for it. There were

some who would have given a whole field for a sack of wheat; but they

could not get it.”

“One miserly person,” observed Charles, “happened to save a small stock

of cabbages, of which he was willing to sell three. He was offered a

blanket, and would not take it; and then a pretty crucifix; and then a

clock——”

“But perhaps he did not want any of these things?”

“Neither could he be said to want what he took at last. When he found

that the highest price was offered that he was likely to get, he

accepted it; and it was a diamond pin, given by lady Alice de Thou to a

destitute family.”

“Was it like the diamond in mamma’s watch?”

“Much larger. It was so valuable that, a month ago, it would have bought

uncle Antoine’s best vineyard.—It bought only three cabbages now,

because the people must have cabbages and did not want diamonds.”

“Then the very poor people pay much more than the rich, I suppose? The

poorer they are, the more they pay?”

“Not when there is enough of what they want. The baker over the way

knows that if he charged a poor man too high, the man would go to some

other baker to buy; so they keep their prices pretty equal. But as soon

as there is too little of what everybody wants, every one is eager to

get his share, and promises more than his neighbour; till, as we see, a

diamond pin may be given for three cabbages. There is too little corn in

France now; and that is the reason why we give more for it than will pay

the baker, and the miller, and the farmer, and his labourers for what it

cost them to prepare it for us.”

“The same will be the case with your papa’s wine,” added Marguerite. “He

charged yesterday as much as it had cost him to cultivate the ground,

and ripen the wine, and pay for having it brought here, and for the use

of his cellars, and a certain sum over for us to live upon. After

to-day, everybody will know how the storm has ruined the vineyards;

every one will be afraid that there will not be wine enough, and they

will offer more and more for it, till—”

“Till papa is rich enough to take Pauline and me to Versailles, to see

the court.”

Charles told how much money he should want to get his vineyards into

repair again, and what high wages he must pay the country people, while

provisions continued as dear as at present.—Marguerite meanwhile sighed,

and observed that there was little pleasure now in going to Versailles,

to hear people, even of the better classes, criticise the expensiveness

of the queen’s dress, and the haughtiness of her air, as often as she

appeared.

Pauline now burst into the room in a state of wonder and consternation.

She had not been able to find Joli anywhere about the house, and on

employing the servants in the search, had recovered her favourite in a

somewhat different condition from that in which she had last seen him.

He was found crouching in the street, just outside the door, no longer

the beautiful animal, with a silky white coat, enamelled collar and

silver bell, but actually dyed, the hind part red, the fore part blue,

with a stripe of white left in the middle. Instead of the collar, were

bands of ribbon of the same three colours. The poor animal and its

mistress seemed equally terrified, and both perhaps felt themselves

insulted when everybody laughed. Pauline cried, and Joli whined.

“Is he hurt, my love?” inquired mamma.

Julien waved his handkerchief, and Joli jumped and snapped at it as

usual; and even Pauline laughed through her tears, when she saw the

gaudy little creature frisking about in masquerade.

“Since he is safe,” said Charles, “never mind the collar and bell. We

will get another when times are better, and there are fewer thieves

about.”

“There is something worse than theft here,” observed Marguerite, sadly.

“I abhor those colours.”

“Then let us wash them off, if we can; and mind, Pauline, if you wish

your dog to be safe, you must keep him within doors till his coat is

perfectly white again.”

The washing availed little, as the dog was not besmeared but dyed. To

get rid of as much red and blue as possible, mamma cut off the new

collar, and gave Pauline a piece of white satin ribbon. Grandpapa helped

the child to tie it on, and sent her also for a white lily,—his

favourite flower,—and fastened it where the bell had been; and then Joli

looked something like a royalist dog again.

“I do wonder, Charles,” said his wife, while this was doing, “that you

go on always talking of better times coming, and of the fine things that

are to happen by and by. You have done so ever since I knew you; ever

since——”

“Yes, love, ever since the days when you were so very sure that your

father would never approve me; that my business would never flourish;

that, for one reason or another, we should never come together.”

“Ah! I was not a cool judge in that case.”

“Nor I, I am sure, my dear.”

“You seldom are, if there is any room at all for hope. Plunge you into

an abyss of distress, and you are the calmest of judges. I would trust

you to find your way in utter darkness; but the least glimmering you

take for daylight. At this very moment, when you know that all affairs

have been looking more and more gloomy for these ten years past; when

the people are starving and rebellious, when your trade is almost

annihilated, and my dowry destroyed, with that of thousands of your

neighbours, you still talk of the good times that are coming.”

“You think this very senseless, my love, I dare say?”

“It _is_ very provoking, Charles. At first it was always said in the

spring that things would be better in the autumn; and in the autumn,

that all would come right in the spring. Now, you have somewhat extended

your hope: it is either next year, or by and by, or hereafter; but still

you go on hoping, when everybody else is preparing.”

“Cannot one hope and prepare at the same time?” asked Charles. “It seems

to me that it is for want of this that so much evil now threatens us.

The court goes on hoping without making any preparation; and the people,

having no hope from the present system, are preparing to overthrow it

too completely and too suddenly.”

“Mercy!” cried Marguerite; “what will become of us?”

“We shall live to grow wise in the experience of a state of transition,

or die, leaving this wisdom to be inherited by others. In either case,

the wisdom will remain; and the world (including our children) will be

the better for it. Meanwhile, there is dinner waiting below for those

who are hungry. Do not let the thoughts of to-morrow spoil the comfort

of to-day.”

Before the day was over, however, its comfort was spoiled, and even

Charles was compelled to look anxiously to the morrow. After dinner, a

shriek of anguish was heard from the children. They had forgotten to

secure Joli; and he was found hung up on the next lamp-post, strangled

in his new white collar, and the lily stuck insultingly in his mouth.

There was no use now in blaming the folly and carelessness which had

occasioned the catastrophe. The only thing to be done was to impress

upon the entire household the necessity of parading no more lilies, and

avoiding all ornaments of white, red, or blue.

--------------

CHAPTER III.

THE TEMPER OF THE TIME.

The stagnation of trade was now a serious evil to Charles, not only as

it occasioned his capital to be locked up, and his income to be

impaired, nor because he was of so active a temperament that nothing

troubled him like the having no business to do,—but because those were

the safest amidst the troubles of the times who were supposed to be

fully occupied in their private concerns. There was no lack of interest,

indeed, for the most restless seeker of excitement; and Charles might

have busied himself from morning to night of every day in tracking the

progress of the public discontent, if such had been the species of

employment he had desired or approved. He might, like other people, have

shouted the praises of Necker in every street and square. He might have

amused himself with watching with how many different airs the passengers

on the Pont Neuf submitted to bow uncovered before the statue of Henry

IV., under the penalty of having squibs let off in their faces. He might

have witnessed the burning in effigy of obnoxious ministers, and have

stood by the great fire into which the king’s decrees for suspending the

parliament were cast, and have listened, through the live-long day, to

the harangues of popular orators, or joined in the midnight processions

by which the repose of all quiet citizens was disturbed. But Charles did

not see that such attendance on his part could do any good at present,

however the case might hereafter be altered. Whether or not he was

turning over in his mind plans for his conduct when the time should come

for him to act, he now appeared to direct his attention to private

affairs, and talked more of wine and olives than of political matters.

He had been accustomed to furnish a large proportion of the home supply

of olives and almonds for which there was a demand in Paris, from the

produce of the estates of his wife and father-in-law; and now he had

applications, day after day, for fruits which he might have sold at a

high price, while scarcely a customer came for wine. He had already

invested the little floating capital he could spare from the restoration

of his vineyards in fruits from Italy and the Levant, which his brother

purchased for him as they came up the great canal and the Garonne, on

their way to Bordeaux. He now began to wish that he could exchange a

part of his large stock of wine for fruits. He knew that wines would

rise enormously in price, as soon as the demand should revive; but

fruits had already risen enormously, and he wished to turn some of his

capital into money by their means. It was easy to do this by extending

his transactions with Steele, who purchased fruit in large quantities at

Bordeaux to send to England. The demand for fruit in London being at

present insignificant in comparison with that for claret, and the direct

reverse being the case at Paris, it was Steele’s interest to transmit

more wine and less fruit, and Charles’s to take fruit in exchange for

his wine. It was therefore settled that, in addition to their standing

bargain for first-rate wine, Steele should have a large choice of

second-rate claret, in payment for chestnuts from Spain, oranges and

citrons from the Madeiras, olives from the Levant, and almonds from

Italy. The terms of exchange were the only difficulty.

Neither Steele nor Charles were speculators, in the common sense of the

term. They were prudent men of business, attached to one line of

occupation, and in no particular hurry to be richer than everybody else.

They now, however, found themselves obliged to speculate, and became

more fully aware than they had been before that all trading for purposes

of sale is, in fact, speculation. It is necessary for traders not only

to take into account all the past and present circumstances which affect

the value of the article in which they deal, but to look forward to such

as may influence its sale. Their success depends on the foresight which

they have exercised, and the sagacity with which they have calculated:

in other words, on their skill in speculation. When they extend their

views to a further extent than they can command, and found their

calculations on contingencies, they become gamesters of that class which

is held in horror under the name of speculators: and hence arises a

somewhat indistinct dread and dislike of all speculation; while the fact

is, no exchange whatever could go on without more or less real

speculation. The farmer must speculate on the seasons; the manufacturer

on tastes and fashions, and on the supply of raw material; the merchant

must speculate on war and peace, and all domestic and much foreign

policy. In ordinary times, Charles must speculate on the increase or

decline of the taste for claret, or of the number of claret-drinkers in

Paris; and now, a new and wide field of calculation was opened before

him, on which he must enter if he meant to prosecute his business at

all.

From the time that the brothers had entered into business till now,

there had been established a tolerably steady rate of understood value,

at which goods had been exchanged for one another. There had been

occasional and slight variations, according to seasons, and other

fluctuating circumstances; so that four pipes of wine might at one time

exchange for the same quantity of fruit as three and a half would buy at

another; but the circumstances which determined these variations in

value being usually foreseen by all parties concerned, their vigilance

prevented any very sudden and perplexing convulsions in trade. As long

as there were average seasons, an average supply of food, an average

quantity of labour to be had, wages and profits (on which price depends)

could be calculated, and relied on for remaining nearly at the average

rate. But now, there had been both natural and political disasters,

whose consequences defied all calculation. There was an over-supply of

labour,—as far as the number of labourers went; for thousands of the

peasantry had been stripped of all they had, and rendered dependent on

neighbouring capitalists for employment and support. At the same time,

food was dreadfully deficient, and therefore enormously dear; so that to

what price labour would rise, in spite of the over-supply, it was

impossible to guess.—The same cause rendered the amount of profits

uncertain. Unless it could be settled how much the labourers would

appropriate, it must continue unsettled how much would remain over for

the capitalist,—even if it could be ascertained how extensive would be

the demand for the article. This, again, was doubtful, from the

uncertainty of political affairs, which impaired the security of

property, and stopped up the channels of mutual exchange. Thus, not only

was the permanent original element of exchangeable value,—cost of

production,—rendered incalculable, in the case both of wine and fruits,

but all the causes which occasion temporary fluctuations were violently

at work; and it required a clear head and a strong heart to anticipate

and rely upon their issues. Steele’s part was the less perplexing of the

two. He knew no more than Charles, it is true, how the sudden rise in

the value of labour, from the scarcity of food, would affect the price

of the stock laid in before labour became so dear; and he could not

therefore judge of the probable amount of Charles’s profits; but on the

head of his employers’ profits he felt very secure. The English market

was steady: the demand could be nearly estimated, and if it was pretty

sure to be good with an abundant supply of wine in the market, it was

certain to be very brisk as soon as the supply was known to be

deficient. Though, therefore, he might ask less than he need in exchange

for his fruit, there was every probability of his gaining more than the

usual profit on the wine thus purchased.—Charles, on the other hand, had

not only to discover what expense his brother and other vine-growers

were at in maintaining labourers, and how much of this was to be charged

by tacit agreement upon their present stock, and the same facts with

regard to the fruit; but to speculate on the ability and disposition of

the people of Paris to buy either wine or fruit, and how much the demand

for the one was likely to fall short of, or exceed, the demand for the

other.—The result was that the two parties to the bargain fixed upon an

exchange which appeared likely to be mutually advantageous, but which

proved the value of their commodities to have deviated widely from the

ordinary proportion. Setting off an equal expense of labour, and an

equal amount of profit, on each side, fifty chests of fruit (from

almonds and citrons down to chestnuts) would exchange for a pipe of

claret, in ordinary times. Now, twenty chests were all that such a pipe

would buy; and yet Charles believed he had made a good bargain, as the

demand of thirsty orators for juicy fruits, and of loungers in the

streets for chestnuts, was extraordinarily great, while wine was, just

then, little in request. His wife, knowing that he had lately been

rather pressed for money, watched with interest the process by which it

began once more to flow in. By half emptying a cellar in Bordeaux, fruit

was made to arrive in Paris by waggon loads, and these were presently

converted into cash. But there was one point on which she was not

satisfied.

“I see,” said she, “the convenience to us and to the Englishmen of our

mutual exchange. It is really charming; as welcome as the traffic

between the first maker of weapons and the hunter, when the one had more

bows and fishlines than he could use, and the other more venison and

trout than he could eat while they were good. But, Charles, are you

either of you just in taking advantage of the vengeance of heaven, he to

enrich himself, and you to repair your losses? Ought you not to sell

wine at the price it professed to bear in your cellars before the

hurricane happened? And why is Italian fruit dear, when in Italy there

has been no storm?”

“If we sold our goods at last year’s prices,” replied Charles, “all our

wine and our fruit would be exhausted long before we should have a

further supply. Is it not better that they should bear such a price as

will make people sparing in their use till we have once more an

abundance?”

“And is this the reason why there are granaries not yet exhausted,

amidst the cries of the people for bread?”

“It is; and if bread had borne its usual price all this time, there

would now be absolute famine in every street of Paris. If the people

understood this, they would not storm the flour mills, and throw

hundreds of sacks into the Seine, in their rage against the owners.

These owners, by causing a gradual distribution, are the best friends of

those who are their own bitter enemies;—who waste bread now, because

they were not permitted to waste it before.”

“But why should the corn-owners be enriched by scarcity of bread, and

you by the destruction of vineyards? You tell me that your gains by this

storm will nearly compensate the losses it has cost you. Is this fair?”

“Perfectly so. You know that the value of every thing that is exchanged

depends on the labour required to produce it.”

“Yes, yes: and therefore the wine that is to be grown in your desolated

vineyards will justly be dear, because much and dear labour will be

needed to restore your estates to fertility. But I speak of your present

stock, prepared when labour was not particularly high priced, and when

only the ordinary quantity of it was wanted.”

“The plain fact is, that labour is now very dear, everywhere; my

cellar-full of it, as well as that which is now active in La Favorite.

You will hardly wish, my dear, that I should present the public with a

portion of it, in the present state of my affairs. I am not exactly in a

condition to give away my substance unnecessarily; especially to buyers

of wine, who are, for the most part, richer than myself. If harps were

suddenly to become doubled in value, you would not sell yours for what

you gave for it, would you?”

“No; harp-buyers would be better able to give the market-price than I to

do without it. Yet——”

“Yet we have not considered that your case would be stronger still if it

was necessary for you to buy another harp immediately, at the advanced

price. Such is my case. I sell my cellar-full of labour in order to

purchase a further supply at the present high price. Since I must buy,

and must pay dear for what I buy, would it not be folly to sell the same

article cheap?”

“The same article! I do not understand you. You would be wrong to hire

yourself out for the money wages of a year ago:—to give the strength of

your arm for what would buy much less bread: but——”

“But the wine in my cellars and the strength of my arm are equally

labour, possessed by me. You may call the one primary, and the other

secondary, if you like; but they are equally labour. Yes; all the

capital we have,—whether the furniture of this room, or your olive

presses, or my wine, is hoarded labour: the labour of the work-people

from whom we purchased it.”

“That is curious. Then the price depends upon the labour——O no, there

are your profits to be considered. The price depends upon the cost of

production; which includes your capital as well as your men’s labour.”

“Call it all labour at once, if you like. Profits are the recompense of

labour as much as wages: wages of primary, and profits of secondary or

hoarded labour; whichever you please to call it.”

“Then why have you been perplexing yourself all this time about this

exchange of goods with Steele? Cannot you reckon easily enough the

present value of the labour contained in a pipe of wine? and will not

this serve as a perfect measure?”

“Nothing ever served as a perfect measure of value yet; or ever will, in

my opinion,” replied Charles. “Labour _regulates_ the relative value of

Steele’s fruit and my wine; but it can never _measure_ the one against

the other, or both against houses, or furniture, or money, or any other

commodity. Do not you see that, while labour varies as it does, it can

never serve as a measure?”

“To be sure, it is very different in its value this winter from what it

was the last.”

“Suppose our milk-woman exchanged a quart of cream daily for a pint of

coffee, at the coffee-shop opposite; and that the quart and pint pots

grew larger or smaller according as the air was damp or dry. These pots

would regulate the quantity of cream and coffee; but it would be absurd

to call them measures, while the quantity they yield is incessantly

varying.”

“Labour is affected by the seasons, I know; and it seems as if it must

always be so, and as if there could therefore never be a fixed measure

of value.”

“Not only does primary labour produce more at some times, and under some

circumstances, than others, but it is impossible to tell beforehand what

will be the return to secondary labour; and from this it follows that

the shares of the capitalist and the labourer rise and fall against one

another, so that neither can be depended upon for steadiness.”

“Well: I suppose we can do without a fixed measure of value, since we

cannot get one; but it does seem as if it would be convenient to know

always exactly how much food and clothing one might have in exchange for

so much money.”

“I am afraid it would be as mischievous in one way as having no

regulator would be in another.”

“O, if there were no regulator, men would snatch from one another like

wild beasts; and they would soon be in a very beast-like state as to

property. Food for the hour would be all any one would think of, if the

chances were that he would get nothing by his labour, or be unable to

keep what he might obtain.”

“On the other hand, if there were an unvarying measure, men would be a

wholly different race from what they are created to be. There is no

anticipating the consequences of withdrawing all the discipline by which

their faculties are exercised, sharpened, and strengthened. The very

supposition is absurd, however, for it includes the absence of all human

vicissitudes. Before there could be a true measure of the relative value

of human possessions, man must have power to keep the whole surface of

the globe in a state of equal fertility, to regulate the sunshine and

the rain, and to ordain all who are born to have an equal share of

strength, both of limbs and faculties. All lives must also be of the

same length, and even sickness would affect his measure. No: that degree

of sagacity which can abstract averages is enough of a guide for

practical purposes, while it affords a fine exercise for the intellect

and the moral nature of man.”

Marguerite shook her head mournfully, asking how much the moral nature

of their neighbours was likely to be benefited by the present

uncertainty of affairs.

“Infinitely more than we can estimate,” replied Charles, eagerly. “I see

every day, not only splendid instances of intellectual effort, applied

to the most important departments of social philosophy, but moral

struggles and self-sacrifices which dispose me more than ever to bow the

knee to human nature.”

“And, as usual, you overlook whatever would not please you. You hear the

patriotic harangues of our new mob orators, but not the abominable

commentaries of those who stand at your elbow. You join in the shouts

with which the national colours are hailed as often as they appear, but

are not aware how the white cockade is trodden under foot. You are so

taken up with making your obeisance to the parliament you think so

virtuous, that you disregard the cruel irreverence with which our

anointed sovereigns are blasphemed. This is not just, Charles; it is

foolish; and, what is worse, it is disloyal.”

“Nay, my love——”

“It is not enough that, by your way of regarding public affairs, you

amuse my father, and tranquillize me, and encourage in our children a

temper like your own. All this is well in ordinary times: but these are

days for higher objects and a more intrepid conduct.”

Charles looked steadily at his wife, but she would not yet let him

speak. She went on,—

“These are days when the true should pray day and night for vengeance on

the false, instead of excusing them: when loyalty should weep in dark

corners, since it cannot show its face in the daylight without being

profaned. These are days when our children should see a solemn sadness

in our countenances; and if they ask why, they should be told in

mournful mystery what sympathy is due to suffering royalty.”

“And not to a suffering nation, Marguerite? Is there to be no pride in

intrepid patriotism? No joy in public virtue? Shall the birth of liberty

be looked upon as an evil omen? If the king had chosen to stand its

sponsor, the whole of our mighty people might have peaceably rejoiced

together. His disowning it is no reason why others should not hail its

advent. His choosing the part of Herod is reason enough why there should

be priests waiting and watching in the temple.”

“You are speaking treason!” cried the terrified Marguerite.

“By no means. I am ready to struggle for the king and the throne till

death; but it must be for a wise king, and a throne founded in justice.

As it is, all things are made to bear two aspects, and it is too much to

require all to perceive only one. A forcible division has been made

between the past and the future, and no wonder that some incline to look

forward, while others persist in a reverted attitude.”

“Ah! how will you reconcile duties in this perverse state of affairs?”

“Very easily. When I am in the mob, I refer the patriotic sentiments of

the orators to the new era of freedom, and pity the indecent violence of

the hearers as the result of their prolonged subjugation. When heads are

uncovered before La Fayette, my heart glows as in the very presence of

liberty; when the queen is insulted in the streets of her capital by the

refuse of her own sex, I sigh over the mischiefs the oppression of ages

has wrought, but still hope that the day of their decline has arrived.”

“And what when Orleans sneaks away from the rabble he has maddened? What

when every lamp-post in the Place de Grêve bears its strangled victim?”

“I see in one the monstrous offspring of a deformed and an unformed

system. Such a birth can take place but once, and its life must be as

brief through want of vigour, as it is hateful from its ugliness. The

practice of slaughter too belongs to the old time. The more degraded

slaves are, the more certain is it that their emancipation will be

signalized by murder.”

“Why then not control, or at least resist them? Is it not dastardly to

sit smiling at home, while the loyal and the noble——”

Charles lifted up his finger in token of silence, and rose from his

seat, saying,

“Your reproaches impel me to a confidence with which I did not intend to

disturb your tranquillity. Follow me.”

Marguerite did so, suspecting that she might soon wish to retract some

things which she had said. Her husband led her to his wine-cellars,

which were at the back of the house, separated from it by a small court,

from which there was an opening through a wide gateway into the street.

The few servants who remained at this slack time on the premises were

employed about the fruit-store. The keys of the wine-cellars were kept

by a confidential clerk, who was always on the spot, and was the only

person besides Charles who now ever entered the place.

“Remember,” said Charles to his wife, as he put the key into the first

lock; “remember that you have brought this disclosure upon yourself.

This will enable you to bear it well. The best thing we can hope is that

you may have to bear it long. If calamity should shortly release you

from apprehension, you will see that the hopefulness you complain of in

me does not arise from levity. Pierre, bring the lantern, and lock us

in.”

Marguerite felt half-stifled between her fear of what was to come next,

and the close air of the cellars. Her husband held up the light, and she

saw that the door had been newly plated with iron. The next thing she

was shown was a long train of gunpowder winding among the stores of wine

and brandy.

“O, Charles!” she cried; “are you going to blow us up?”

“Not ourselves, or the house either,” he replied. “You see here is not

enough to do any great mischief;—only enough to bring down the ceiling

upon my wine-casks, and spoil the wine. There are no buildings over this

cellar, you know; so there is no danger to human life.”

He then explained that, finding how invariably the worst excesses of the

mob were to be traced to their being plied with drink, it had occurred

to him to engage all the wine-merchants of Paris in an agreement to

refuse, on some pretence or other, to sell wine or spirits to any but

private gentlemen who wanted it for their own consumption. Some agreed,

and others did not; and these latter, when they had sold all their

stock, and could, from the scarcity, get no more, had maliciously

whispered in the mobs the secret with which they had been entrusted. One

after another of the merchants, knowing the danger to which they were

exposed, had fallen off from the agreement; and Charles, whose stock was

the largest now remaining in the city, was left almost alone in his

determination to refuse the means of intoxicating the mob. He was aware

that his wine was longed for, and his life threatened. He could not

remove his stock to a distance, for his premises were evidently watched

by spies. He had reason to believe that, on the first occasion when the

people were to be excited to an extraordinary act of violence, they were

to be brought hither to burst open his stores, and be plied with brandy

and wine. He did not choose to be thus made the means of promoting riot

and murder, and determined on blowing up his stock, if matters came to

extremity. On the first alarm of the approach of a mob, he should fire

the train, and bring down the roof; making a pit of what was now level

ground. Or, if he should be absent, Pierre knew how to do it.

“But how?” asked Marguerite, with as much voice as she had left. “Must

it not be fatal to the one who fires?”

“I trust not,” he replied; “though, if it were, my purpose would stand.

It is better to sacrifice one life thus, than to make murderous fiends

of many thousands. But, look here, this is our contrivance.”

And he showed her how a very small trap-door had been made of one of the

stones in the pavement above, through which a light might be let down

immediately upon the train, and from any distance, if the line were of

sufficient length.

“It is but little that a quiet citizen can do in times when men of a

different make are sure to gain the ascendency,” observed Charles: “but

no one is absolved from doing what he can. I am no orator to rouse the

people to patriotism, or to soothe their madness; but here I have power

in having something like a monopoly of the poison which helps to madden

them; and it shall be kept from inflaming their brains, whether they

tear me limb from limb, or compel me to drown myself in my own wine, or

let me live till the days when they shall thank me for crossing their

will.”

Marguerite’s terror was aggravated by a sense of shame for having failed

to anticipate her husband’s heroism, and being now unable to share it.

Her thoughts were ready to veer any way in hope of escape, rather than

anchor themselves upon her husband’s determination, and await the event.

No wonder, since she had so much at stake, and was a very simpleton in

political matters. She had all possible fears, and no wishes. A

miserable state to be in, in such times!

Could not the whole family remove? Could not her husband, at least, slip

away by night? Must they remain in the neighbourhood of gunpowder, and

in daily expectation of the mob?—actually within hearing of the hated

drums?

They must; her husband replied. Any attempt to fly, or to alter their

manner of living, would be immediately detected, and would bring a worse

destruction than that which they might possibly escape by remaining. Had

not Marguerite observed spies about the house?

O yes: every day since poor Joli was found hanged. That was a sad piece

of carelessness. Charles thought so too, and even with more reason than

his wife. He knew that the dressing up of that dog was set down in the

list of his sins against his country. If it had taken place eighteen

months later, it would have brought upon him an immediate sentence of

death: but matters not having yet gone so far as they were destined to

proceed, the fact was only recorded against him.

“Let us go,” said Marguerite, faintly, when she found her husband bent

on adhering to his plans, for reasons which she could not gainsay. “I

cannot bear the air of this place.”

“We will go presently, love,” replied Charles. “The first moment that I

see you look like yourself, I will call to Pierre to unlock the door.

Meanwhile, here is a seat; and I will give you air and something to

revive you.”

Having seated her where a breath of fresh air from the little trap-door

might blow upon her face, he brought a flask of rich wine, in a full

glass of which he pledged her, assuring her, with a smile, that it did

not yet taste of gunpowder. His pledge was,—

“Marguerite, my wife,—life and safety to ourselves and our household! If

not these,—at least the peace of our enlightened and steadfast

will!—Will you not pledge me?”

She bowed her head upon his shoulder, and wept her shame at being

unworthy of him,—unfit to live in such times.

“Then preserve yourself, love, to live in better times. They will come;

they must come; and steady hopefulness will be our best security till

they arrive.”

Marguerite so far succeeded in her endeavour to adopt her husband’s

principle, that she returned with a smile the searching gaze which

Pierre fixed upon her as she issued from the cellar: but her countenance

fell at the first words with which he answered her intimation that she

now knew the great secret, and would guard it carefully.

“Alas! Madame. I fear it has ceased to be a secret——That is,” he added,

changing his tone when he perceived her alarm,—“our men yonder cannot

but observe how carefully we keep the place locked, and how many

customers we send away; and nothing escapes suspicion in these times.

But your having been down is a happy circumstance, Madame; especially as

you emerge with an air so charmingly serene.”

This hint to look composed was not lost upon the lady, who tripped

across the court with a demeanour of assumed gaiety. It presently

vanished; and she looked with astonishment on her husband when at play

with the children after dinner. It rent her heart to hear her father

inquire perpetually how early in the spring they should set out for

Guienne, that he might delight himself in his beloved olive-groves once

more, with the children by his side: but Charles answered as if there

had still been olive-groves; and as if the family were at liberty to go

whither they pleased in their beautiful country. When, at intervals, she

saw him whipping his little girl’s wooden horse, and practising

battledore with his young son, laughing all the while as merrily as

either, she could scarcely believe him to be the same who had so lately

solemnly pledged her over a train of gunpowder laid by his own resolute

hands.

--------------

CHAPTER IV.

DEEDS OF THE TIME.

M. Raucourt had abundance of leisure to repeat his question about

journeying southwards, and to describe to his grandchildren the wealth

of fruit-grounds that they would inherit from him. Month after month, as

the days grew longer, and the weather became hotter, he told them that,

when spring came, they should go with him to groves where pink blossoms

came out before the green leaves, and where the young oranges grew more

golden amidst the verdure as the season drew on.

“But, grandpapa,” objected Julien, “the spring is going away very fast

already.”

“Ah! well, then, we shall be too late for the almond blossoms, but the

oranges and the grapes will be all the more beautiful.”

“But,” observed Pauline, when two more months had passed away, “the

vintage will be all over now before we can get there, mamma says.”

“Well, my dear, but there is a spring every year, and I am talking of

next spring.”

And so the matter was settled for this year. Marguerite began to hope

that the affair of the cellars would be so likewise, as Charles had of

late been less importuned to sell, and there had been no fresh

evidences, amidst the increasing discontents of the people, that he was

held in suspicion. There was even a hope of removing a large part of his

stock openly and safely. Steele wanted more wine, and Antoine, having

none left at Bordeaux, referred him to his brother; and the Englishman

arrived in Paris to see whether he could enter into another negociation

with the house with which he had already dealt so extensively. He took

up his abode in Charles’s house, and consulted with him, and also with

some of the authorities of the city, as to the best mode of removing his

purchases, without exciting the rage of the mob, who by this time had

taken upon themselves to decide the right and wrong of all matters that

passed before their eyes, whether of the nature of public or private

business. The magistrates, who politicly adopted the tone of the people

as often as they could, sighed over the anomaly of a foreigner

purchasing wine in Paris, while there was too little left for Frenchmen;

and Steele wondered as emphatically at the state of affairs which

obliged two merchants to call in the interference of the magistracy to

repel that of the mob, while they settled their private bargains.

Marguerite thought little of the one anomaly or the other, in her strong

wish to have her husband’s cellars emptied at all events. The greatest

happiness she could imagine was that of helping him and Pierre to sweep

away the gunpowder, and throw open the doors of the vacant place to any

one who chose to enter. There was much to be done, however, before they

could arrive at this fortunate issue.

One day, while Steele’s business was pending, a carriage drove up to the

door, with considerable state, and the Marquis de Thou, having

ascertained that the wine-merchant was at home, alighted, and requested

to speak with him on business. While Charles waited on him, Marguerite

anxiously inquired of Steele respecting the marquis’s politics; for she

apprehended a snare in every transaction. She thought it strange that so

stout an old royalist should have any dealings with her husband, and was

not comforted by what she learned from Steele; namely, that being forced

by the hatred of his country neighbours to leave his chateau in Guienne,

and take refuge in Paris in the middle of summer, he seemed disposed to

trim between the two parties, and was therefore likely to be a dangerous

person to have dealings with. Immediately on his arrival, he had

contrived to place his daughter in the queen’s train, while he kept upon

terms with the duke of Orleans. Pleading to himself, and bidding lady

Alice plead to the queen, if called upon, his old companionship with

Orleans, he did much of the duke’s dirty work, very unconsciously, very

complacently, and with the comfortable conviction that his loyalty

remained unblemished, while he attended no public meetings, and managed

to be within the palace walls whenever a popular movement was likely to

take place. While Steele was explaining what was reported of the marquis

at Bordeaux, Charles appeared.

“The marquis wants to make large purchases of wine,” he said. “Do you

conceive he can have occasion for a fourth part of my stock for his own

use?”

“His chateau is shut up,” replied Steele; “and he is not occupying his

hotel in Paris. Depend upon it, he is shopping for Orleans, as usual.”

“He shall not have enough to intoxicate a single bravo with,” cried

Charles. “Come with me, Steele, and find some objection to every sample.

Claim as much as you please, and disgust him with as much more as you

can.”

Pierre was called in to help, and among the three, all as solemn as

himself, the marquis was more eminently bamboozled than he had ever been

before in his life; which is saying a great deal. He protested every

sample to be better than the last, whatever might have been mixed with

it by Pierre in the fetching. He made half a hundred low bows when

Steele claimed all that was tolerable; and declared his admiration of

Charles’s magnanimity in pointing out the defects of his own commodity.

The civility of M. Pierre also in vowing that the marquis should have no

wine but the best, which was all, unhappily, sold already, was worthy of

much acknowledgment. Being under promise, however, to purchase such and

such quantities of wine, he must waive their polite scruples, and

obviate all others by referring M. Charles Luyon to the most wealthy

nobleman in the kingdom for payment. This avowal decided the matter.

Charles shirked the marquis all the more speedily for his having owned

that he came from the Duke of Orleans, and the carriage conveyed away

the messenger without his errand.

From day to day other customers came: but, as all might be traced as

instruments of the duke, they were all dismissed in the same way as the

marquis. Charles was convinced that some popular commotion was at hand.

He perceived that the truly patriotic movers in the revolution were more

and more hated by Orleans, as his purposes degenerated more and more

from the purity of theirs; and he could not restrain his indignation at

the efforts that were made to infatuate and brutalize the people, that

they might disgrace or interrupt the measures of the enlightened of

their leaders, and bring down a nation worthy of freedom to bow the knee

to one who nourished the passions of a tyrant in the coward heart of a

slave. “He shall not madden the people with my wine. Whatever they do

shall be done in a state of sanity, as far as I can contribute thereto,”

was still Charles’s resolution; and he declined prices on which the hand

of many a brother in trade would have closed without a question. He had

too humble an idea of his own consequence to adopt his wife’s opinion

that it was designed to attach him to the Orleans party by making him

the creditor of its chief. She was confirmed in her notion, however, by

a very disagreeable circumstance,—the appearance of Orleans himself;—to

purchase fruit, as he declared.

From fruit the negociation presently turned to wine, as Charles

expected; and for which he had prepared himself with a somewhat

desperate intent. Knowing the faint heart which his new customer hid

under his impudent address, he thought he might calculate on the effect

which would be produced by a sight of his underground preparations; and

he accordingly requested his Grace, with a compliment to his well-known

condescension, to enter the cellar. As soon as they were fairly in, he

called to Pierre to be very careful of the lantern, as a single spark

might be fatal; invited the duke, unless he objected to approach so near

to the magazine, to inspect the date of a certain curious old wine;

begged to go first among the fireworks for fear of an accidental

explosion, and so forth; expatiating _con amore_ on his commodity, in

the intervals.

“Bless my soul, M. Luyon!” cried the duke, “what can you mean by making

a fortress of your cellars? It is dangerous to set foot in them, by your

own account.”

“Only to those who have no business here,” replied Charles. “My man and

I can tread in security.”

And he coolly gave his reasons for rendering his wine inaccessible;

pointing out no party, but merely with a reference to the perpetual

danger of disturbance in the present times.

“But it is absolutely a fortress,” repeated the duke. “Your door is

massive. Is there no way of escape?——I mean, no other entrance?”

“None whatever,” replied Charles; and at this moment, Pierre, having set

down the lantern, slammed the plated door, and barred and crossbarred it

with a diligence which the guest by no means approved.

“A fortress is perfectly harmless when in friendly hands, and unless

attacked,” observed Charles. “Here are no weapons of offence, you

observe; and it is far from being my interest to blow up my stock,

unless driven to it.”

“Or even then,” argued the duke. “Supposing your premises were

attacked,—an idle anticipation;—but supposing they were, it would answer

better to you to have them stripped than destroyed.”

“To my pocket, doubtless,” answered Charles, occupying himself with

opening a flask; “but not to my conscience. If by my means a mob, or any

individual of a mob, were to be incited to party violence,—if I were so

treacherous as to allow their impulses of patriotism to be corrupted

into licentiousness,—I should feel the manliness within me melting away.

I should start at shadows for the rest of my days. No, sir; perish my

possessions, rather than they should go to corrupt public virtue.—Taste

this, I advise you, my lord duke.”

“Do not you think the air rather close here?” asked Orleans, in his

smoothest manner. “Are not the fumes of this wine——”

“And of the gunpowder, my lord? They are no doubt oppressive to those

who are unused to them. Open the door, Pierre.”

The duke found his faculty of taste more to be relied upon in the open

air; and took his stand accordingly in the portal, where he stood

negociating and gossiping for an unconscionable time, till first one or

two people appeared in the court, then more, and more still, and in an

instant the well-known drum was heard close by, and the shouts of a

rabble which poured in without the slightest warning. Orleans looked as

if he was going to be very angry; but Charles had no time to parley with

his hypocrisy.

It was too late to fasten the portal on the outside, and run to the

house. Pierre’s motion was to pull the duke with them into the cellar;

but his master forbade. He thrust Orleans out of the portal, calling

out,

“See, we carry a light in with us; and remember you tread on hollow

ground,”—and retreated, not allowing even his faithful Pierre to enter

the place of danger with him. He locked, bolted, barred and double

barred the door, went and placed the lantern close by the train, looked

to his matches and tinder, and then sat down, with folded arms, to await

the issue of the expected siege. He was fully resolved to sacrifice his

life and property rather than be aiding and abetting with Orleans in

giving a licentious character to the great act (whatever it might be)

which the people were evidently contemplating. The more he had thought

of the events of the preceding day, when arms had been seized and cannon

laid hold of by the people, the more convinced he had been that the

present would not pass away without being signalized by some

extraordinary deed, and the more resolutely determined he felt to use

such power as he had, for the safety and honour of the state. The fierce

yells of the mob outside had no effect but to increase his courage, as

they served to justify his object to himself; and as he looked through

the dim vault, from the further end of which came the dull echo of the

blows upon the door, as he observed that the one feeble light did not so

much as flicker in the socket while all was tumult outside, he felt a

thrilling consciousness of power which was not gloomy, though it was

fearful, and might involve his own destruction. Whether it would involve

any other life, he had considered much and long; he believed not; or

that if one or a few should be injured by the slight explosion which

would effect his purpose, this would be a less evil than would be

perpetrated by a drunken mob in possession of such means of destruction

as they had seized the day before.

One circumstance nearly unnerved him. He had prevented Pierre from

entering with him, under the idea of saving his life from the peril in

which his own was placed; but the sudden outcry which presently arose,

the oaths evidently directed at an individual, the cries of shrill

female voices,—“To the lamp-post with him!”—agonized Charles with the

idea that the vengeance of the mob for his opposition was to fall upon

his unfortunate servant. He felt a momentary impulse to throw open the

door and take all the consequences, the first of which would undoubtedly

be that he would be taken to the lamp-post,——

“Not instead of Pierre, but with him,” he thought, however, in another

moment. “No. I cannot save him; so I will persevere. And may heaven hold

me guiltless of his blood; for I meant well towards him!—But what

now?—What a silence!—Have they sent for fire to smoke me out? I will

throw up a thicker smoke presently, if that be it.—O, what a horrible

cry! What can have put them in a new rage?”

If Charles could have looked through the thick walls of his vault, he

would have seen that which might well have called down an immediate

sentence of death on all his household; that which added new horrors to

his wife’s suspense, and increased the agony of poor Pierre, standing as

he was in the grasp of two of the enemy, and assured by the fish-women

about him that he was to be hanged as soon as they could find a cord. He

forgot his own situation for a moment when he looked up to the balcony,

and saw the deplorable mistake which was likely to prove the destruction

of the whole family. Nobody within doors had thought of M. Raucourt,

whom no event was now ever known to bring from his easy chair at the

front window. He was left alone while the back of the house was being

barricaded with all speed, and messengers put out upon the roof to find

their way, if possible, to the authorities; or at least to make signals

for assistance. But the children came in a state of amazement to

grandpapa, and the shouts reached even his dull ear, and recalled the

associations which in the old royalist were always the first to be

awakened. He had no other idea than that the people were hailing the

royal family, and he resolved not to be behind others in his duty. He

sent Pauline for the white cockade he had given her, tottered to his

chamber, got out, under a new impulse of strength, upon the balcony, and

waved his white favour. It was this which had silenced the mob with

astonishment; and in the depth of this silence, the feeble, cracked

voice of the old man was heard trying to shout “Vive le Roi!”

The horrible burst of passion which followed was not directed against

him. The helplessness of his attitude as he stood supporting himself

with both hands, and the gleam of foolish pleasure which came over his

countenance, showed his real state; and even the lowest of the mob did

not yet make war against dotards. It was because his act was supposed to

betoken the politics of the family that it excited such an outcry; and

there seemed some reason for Pierre’s fears that the very house would be

presently levelled with the ground. It made his heart sick within him to

see the old man smiling and bowing, and trying to induce the shrinking

children to come and stand beside him, and resisting his wretched

daughter’s attempts to withdraw him. Pierre struggled fiercely, but in

vain; he implored, more humbly than he would have stooped to do for his

own life, to be allowed two minutes’ speech to the people. He met only

threats and laughter. The threats mattered little to a man who expected

to be hanged in a few minutes, but the laughter stung him to the soul.

He cursed himself for the folly of having appealed to those who could

mock the innocence of dotage and childhood, and disregard the agony of a

woman: and he recalled the words in which he had at first spoken to them

as the French people.

Pierre was right. These were no sample of the French people who had

begun to cast off the yoke of tyranny. These were a portion of the

brutalized class who, in using the word tyranny, thought only of the

difference between suffering and inflicting it: who, when they talked of

liberty, asked for license to plunder palaces and riot in wine-cellars.

These were, in short, the Orleans mob, and not the real authors of the

political changes now taking place. They aided these changes at the

time, indeed, by testifying to the degree of oppression which the lower

orders had till now suffered; and they furnish, to this day and for

ever, an instructive commentary upon these changes, in as far as they

exhibit the operation of despotism in preparing its own downfall by at

once brutalizing and exasperating its victims. But still these were

perfectly distinct from the true protectors of liberty, the wise and

steady opponents of despotism. These last were very differently employed

this morning, and tidings of their doings came just in time to preserve

Charles and his family.

The children had already been sent away by the roof, in charge of the

servants, and Marguerite had sat down alone beside the chair of her

father, (whom it was impossible to remove, and whom she would not

leave,) when sounds reached her which gave her back a little of the hope

she had wholly surrendered. It was not the approach of soldiers, nor the

potential voices of magistrates, nor any of the welcome intimations of

help at hand which conclude a riot and disperse a rabble in an orderly

country, and under ordinary circumstances. Neither soldiers nor

magistrates could be depended upon, or had any power in Paris at this

time but that which the outrageous mob chose to allow them. Marguerite

knew this so well, that, though she took all precautions in sending for

aid, she expected none but that which might arise from accident. Such a

diversion of the people’s rage as actually happened was beyond her

hopes.

While her father was still talking about the king, and she was holding

him down in his chair, in opposition to his complaints of not being

allowed to go to the window to pay his duty, the fearful sound of the

tocsin was heard above all the uproar in the court and street. One cry

seemed to come on the four winds,—“To the Bastille! to the Bastille!” At

first confused and reiterated, the clangor and the shout echoed noisily

from street to street, from steeple to steeple. Presently the cry became

more concentrated, as if the city sent up but one mighty voice.

Marguerite sank down on her knees, overcome with the hope of deliverance

for her husband; but the mob did not yet cease to batter the door which

shielded him, and the fierce women cried out that they would not be

decoyed away by a false alarm. After a few more moments came the booming

of cannon on the ear, and a pause followed in the court. Again it came,

and again, and the windows rattled, and there was in the intervals quiet

enough for the rushing of a steady stream of people to be heard from the

streets, from whom arose, in alternation with silence, the deep and

steady cry, “To the Bastille!” The mob in the court mixed with this

stream, eager to learn what new scene was to be enacted, what better

hope of plunder was presented than that afforded by the stores of an

obstinate and insignificant wine-merchant, who had already caused them

more trouble than he and his goods were worth. They looked round for a

signal from their leader, but Orleans had disappeared some time before,

not choosing to be held responsible for the violence to which he had

tempted his followers. They went to look for him at the Bastille, where

he was indeed present, to help, as usual, to disgrace a work set on foot

by better men.

As soon as the court was empty, Marguerite flew to release her husband.

Charles was listening intently to ascertain whether this hush was a

treacherous calm, or whether he was indeed safe for the present, when he

felt a breath of fresh air, and saw a glimmer of daylight fall into the

midst of the vault, and heard a faint voice calling to him,—

“Come out, love! If you are safe, all is safe.”