[Illustration: Fac-simile of a page of MS. from Mr. H. PETTITT'S play,
_Hands across the Sea_.]
[Illustration: Fac-simile of a page of MS. from a play now being
written by Mr. JEROME K. JEROME.]
[Illustration: Fac-simile of a page of MS. from Mr. HENRY A. JONES'
play, _The Dancing Girl_.]
[Illustration: Fac-simile of a page of original MS. of _Louis XI._,
with alterations by Mr. HENRY IRVING.]
[Illustration: Fac-simile of soliloquies inserted by Mr. HENRY IRVING
at the places marked Q and * in the preceding page.]
_The Luckiest Man in the Colony._
+By S. W. Hornung.+
That is never a nice moment when your horse knocks up under you,
and you know quite well that he has done so, and that to ride him
another inch would be a cruelty--another mile a sheer impossibility.
But when it happens in the Bush, the moment is apt to become more
than negatively disagreeable; for you may be miles from the nearest
habitation, and an unpremeditated bivouac, with neither food nor
blankets, is a thing that demands a philosophic temperament as well
as the quality of endurance. This once befell the manager of Dandong,
in the back-blocks of New South Wales, just on the right side of the
Dandong boundary fence, which is fourteen miles from the homestead.
Fortunately Deverell, of Dandong, was a young man, well used, from
his boyhood, to the casual hardships of station life, and well fitted
by physique to endure them. Also he had the personal advantage of
possessing the philosophic temperament large-sized. He dismounted the
moment he knew for certain what was the matter. A ridge of pines--a
sandy ridge, where camping properly equipped would have been perfect
luxury--rose against the stars a few hundred yards ahead. But Deverell
took off the saddle on the spot, and carried it himself as far as that
ridge, where he took off the bridle also, hobbled the done-up beast
with a stirrup-leather, and turned him adrift.
[Illustration: "DEVERELL TOOK OFF THE SADDLE."]
Deverell, of Dandong, was a good master to his horses and his dogs,
and not a bad one to his men. Always the master first, and the man
afterwards, he was a little selfish, as becomes your masterful man. On
the other hand, he was a singularly frank young fellow. He would freely
own, for instance, that he was the luckiest man in the back-blocks.
This, to be sure, was no more than the truth. But Deverell never
lost sight of his luck, nor was he ever ashamed to recognise it:
wherein he differed from the average lucky man, who says that luck
had nothing to do with it. Deverell could gloat over his luck, and do
nothing else--when he had nothing else to do. And in this way he faced
contentedly even this lonely, hungry night, his back to a pine at the
north side of the ridge, and a short brier pipe in full blast.
He was the new manager of Dandong, to begin with. That was one of the
best managerships in the colony, and Deverell had got it young--in
his twenties, at all events, if not by much. The salary was seven
hundred a year, and the homestead was charming. Furthermore, Deverell
was within a month of his marriage; and the coming Mrs. Deverell was
a girl of some social distinction down in Melbourne, and a belle
into the bargain, to say nothing of another feature, which was
entirely satisfactory, without being so ample as to imperil a man's
independence. The homestead would be charming indeed in a few weeks,
in time for Christmas. Meanwhile, the "clip" had been a capital one,
and the rains abundant; the paddocks were in a prosperous state, the
tanks overflowing, everything going smoothly in its right groove
(as things do not always go on a big station), and the proprietors
perfectly delighted with their new manager. Well, the new manager was
sufficiently delighted with himself. He was lucky in his work and lucky
in his love--and what can the gods do more for you? Considering that he
had rather worse than no antecedents at all--antecedents with so dark
a stain upon them that, anywhere but in a colony, the man would have
been a ruined man from his infancy--he was really incredibly lucky in
his love affair. But whatever his parents had been or had done, he had
now no relatives at all of his own: and this is a great thing when you
are about to make new ones in an inner circle: so that here, once more,
Deverell was in his usual luck.
It does one good to see a man thoroughly appreciating his good luck.
The thing is so seldom done. Deverell not only did this, but did
it with complete sincerity. Even to-night, though personally most
uncomfortable, and tightening his belt after every pipe, he could gaze
at the stars with grateful eyes, obscure them with clouds of smoke,
watch the clouds disperse and the stars shine bright again, and call
himself again and again, and yet again, the luckiest man in the Colony.
While Deverell sat thus, returning thanks on an empty stomach, at the
northern edge of the ridge, a man tramped into the pines from the
south. The heavy sand muffled his steps; but he stopped long before
he came near Deverell, and threw down his swag with an emancipated
air. The man was old, but he held himself more erect than does the
typical swagman. The march through life with a cylinder of blankets on
one's shoulders, with all one's worldly goods packed in that cylinder,
causes a certain stoop of a very palpable kind; and this the old man,
apparently, had never contracted. Other points slightly distinguished
him from the ordinary run of swagmen. His garments were orthodox, but
the felt wide-awake was stiff and new, and so were the moleskins;
these, indeed, might have stood upright without any legs in them at
all. The old man's cheeks, chin, and upper lip were covered with short
grey bristles, like spikes of steel; above the bristles he had that
"lean and hungry look" which Cæsar saw in Cassius.
[Illustration: "A MAN TRAMPED INTO THE PINES."]
He rested a little on his swag. "So this is Dandong," he muttered, as
if speaking to the Dandong sand between his feet. "Well, now that I am
within his boundary-fence at last, I am content to rest. Here I camp.
To-morrow I shall see him!"
Deverell, at the other side of the ridge dimming the stars with his
smoke, for the pleasure of seeing them shine bright again, heard a
sound which was sudden music to his ears. The sound was a crackle.
Deverell stopped smoking, but did not move; it was difficult to believe
his ears. But the crackle grew louder; Deverell jumped up and saw the
swagman's fire within a hundred yards of him; and the difficult thing
to believe in _then_ was his own unparalleled good luck.
"There is no end to it," he chuckled, taking his saddle over one arm
and snatching up the water-bag and bridle. "Here's a swaggie stopped to
camp, with flour for a damper, and a handful of tea for the quart-pot,
as safe as the bank! Perhaps a bit of blanket for me too! But I _am_
the luckiest man in the Colony; this wouldn't have happened to anyone
else!"
He went over to the fire, and the swagman, who was crouching at the
other side of it, peered at him from under a floury side palm. He was
making the damper already. His welcome to Deverell took a substantial
shape; he doubled the flour for the damper. Otherwise the old tramp did
not gush.
Deverell did the talking. Lying at full length on the blankets, which
had been unrolled, his face to the flames, and his strong jaws cupped
in his hands, he discoursed very freely of his luck.
"You're saving my life," said he, gaily. "I should have starved. I
didn't think it at the time, but now I know I should. I thought I could
hold out, between belt and 'baccy, but I couldn't now, anyhow. If I
hold out till the damper's baked, it's all I can do now. It's like my
luck! I never saw anything look quite so good before. There now, bake
up. Got any tea?"
"Yes."
"Meat?"
"No."
"Well, we could have done with meat, but it can't be helped. I'm lucky
enough to get anything. It's my luck all over. I'm the luckiest man in
the Colony, let me tell you. But we could have done with chops. Gad,
but I'd have some yet, if I saw a sheep! They're all wethers in this
paddock, but they don't draw down towards the gate much."
He turned his head, and knitted his brows, but it was difficult to
distinguish things beyond the immediate circle of firelit sand, and he
saw no sheep. To do the man justice, he would not have touched one if
he had; he had said what he did not mean; but something in his way of
saying it made the old man stare at him hard.
[Illustration: "HE HAD TURNED HIS BACK."]
"Then you're one of the gentlemen from Dandong Station, are you, sir?"
"I am," said Deverell. "My horse is fresh off the grass, and a bit
green. He's knocked up, but he'll be all right in the morning; the
crab-holes are full of water, and there's plenty of feed about. Indeed
it's the best season we've had for years--my luck again, you see!"
The tramp did not seem to hear all he said. He had turned his back,
and was kneeling over the fire, deeply engrossed, with the water-bag
and the quart-pot--which he was filling. It was with much apparent
preoccupation that he asked:--
"Is Mr. Deverell, the boss, there now?"
"He is." Deverell spoke drily, and thought a minute. After all, there
was no object in talking about himself in the third person to a man who
would come applying to him for work the next day. Realising this, he
added, with a touch of dignity, "I'm he."
The tramp's arm jerked, a small fountain played out of the bottle neck
of the water-bag and fell with a hiss upon the fire. The tramp still
knelt with his back to Deverell. The blood had left his face, his eyes
were raised to the pale, bright stars, his lips moved. By a great
effort he knelt as he had been kneeling before Deverell spoke; until
Deverell spoke again.
"You were on your way to see me, eh?"
"I was on my way to Dandong."
"Wanting work? Well, you shall have it," said Deverell, with decision.
"I don't want hands, but I'll take _you_ on; you've saved my life, my
good fellow, or you're going to, in a brace of shakes. How goes the
damper?"
"Well," said the old man, answering Deverell's last question shortly,
but ignoring his first altogether. "Shall I sweeten the tea or not?"
"Sweeten it."
The old man got ready a handful of tea and another of sugar to throw
into the quart-pot the moment the water boiled. He had not yet turned
round. Still kneeling, with the soles of his boots under Deverell's
nose, he moved the damper from time to time, and made the tea. His
hands shook.
Deverell made himself remarkably happy during the next half-hour. He
ate the hot damper, he drank the strong tea, in a way that indicated
unbounded confidence in his digestive powers. A dyspeptic must have
wept for envy. Towards the end of the meal he discovered that the
swagman--who sat remote from the fire, and seemed to be regarding
Deverell with a gaze of peculiar fascination--had scarcely broken his
bread.
"Aren't you hungry?" asked Deverell, with his mouth full.
"No."
But Deverell _was_, and that, after all, was the main thing. If the old
man had no appetite, there was no earthly reason for him to eat; his
abstinence could not hurt him under the circumstances, and naturally it
did not worry Deverell. If, on the other hand, the old man preferred
to feed off Deverell--with his eyes--why, there is no accounting for
preferences, and that did not worry Deverell either. Indeed, by the
time his pipe was once more in blast, he felt most kindly disposed
towards this taciturn tramp. He would give him a billet. He would
take him on as a rabbiter, and rig him out with a tent, camp fixings,
traps, and even--perhaps--a dog or two. He would thus repay in princely
fashion to-night's good turn--but now, confound the thing! He had been
sitting the whole evening on the old fool's blankets, and the old fool
had been sitting on the ground!
"I say! Why on earth don't you come and sit on your own blankets?"
asked Deverell, a little roughly; for to catch oneself in a grossly
thoughtless act is always irritating.
"I am all right here, thank you," returned the swagman, mildly. "The
sand is as soft as the blankets."
"Well, I don't want to monopolise your blankets, you know," said
Deverell, without moving. "Take a fill from my pouch, will you?"
He tossed over his pouch of tobacco. The swagman handed it back--he
did not smoke; had got out of the way of it, he said. Deverell was
disappointed. He had a genuine desire at all times to repay in kind
anything resembling a good turn. He could not help being a little
selfish; it was constitutional.
"I'll tell you what," said Deverell, leaning backward on one elbow, and
again clouding the stars with wreaths of blue smoke, "I've got a little
berth that ought to suit you down to the ground. It's rabbiting. Done
any rabbiting before? No. Well, it's easy enough; what's more, you're
your own boss. Catch as many as you can or care to, bring in the skins,
and get sixpence each for 'em. Now the berth I mean is a box-clump,
close to a tank, where there's been a camp before, and the last man
did very well there; still, you'll find he has left plenty of rabbits
behind him. It's the very spot for you; and, look here, I'll start you
with rations, tent, camp-oven, traps, and all the rest of it!" wound up
Deverell, generously. He had spoken out of the fulness of his soul and
body. He had seldom spoken so decently to a pound-a-week hand--never to
a swagman.
Yet the swagman did not jump at the offer.
"Mr. Deverell," said he, rolling the name on his tongue in a curious
way, "I was not coming exactly for work. I was coming to see you. I
knew your father!"
"The deuce you did!" said Deverell.
The old man was watching him keenly. In an instant Deverell had flushed
up from his collar to his wideawake. He was manifestly uncomfortable.
"Where did you know him?" he asked doggedly.
The tramp bared his head; the short grey hair stood crisply on end all
over it. He tapped his head significantly, and ran the palm of his hand
over the strong bristles of his beard.
"So," said Deverell, drawing his breath hard. "Now I see; you are a
brother convict!"
The tramp nodded.
"And you know all about him--the whole story?"
The tramp nodded again.
"By God!" cried Deverell, "if you've come here to trade on what you
know, you've chosen the wrong place and the wrong man."
The tramp smiled. "I have not come to trade upon what I know," said he
quietly, repeating the other's expression with simple sarcasm. "Now
that I've seen you, I can go back the way I came; no need to go on to
Dandong now. I came because my old mate asked me to find you out and
wish you well from him: that was all."
"He went in for life," said Deverell, reflecting bitterly. "I have the
vaguest memories of him; it happened when I was so very young. Is he
well?"
"He was."
[Illustration: "IT WAS ALL WRONG TOGETHER."]
"And you have been in gaol together! And you know what brought him
there, the whole story!" Curiosity crept into the young man's tone, and
made it less bitter. He filled a pipe. "For my part, I never had the
rights of that story," he said.
"There were no rights," said the convict. "It was all wrong together.
Your father robbed the bank of which he himself was manager. He had
lost money in mining speculations. He took to the bush, and fought
desperately for his life."
"I'm glad he did that!" exclaimed Deverell.
The other's eyes kindled, but he only said: "It was what anyone would
have done in his place."
"Is it?" answered Deverell scornfully. "Did _you_, for instance?"
The old man shrugged his shoulders. Deverell laughed aloud. His father
might have been a villain, but he had not been a coward. That was one
consolation.
A silence fell between the two men. There were no more flames from the
fire, but only the glow of red-hot embers. This reddened the face of
Deverell, but it did not reach that of the old man. He was thus free to
stare at Deverell as hard and as long as he liked, and his eyes never
left the young man's face. It was a sufficiently handsome face, with
eyes as dark as those of the old man, only lightened and brightened
by an expression altogether different. Deverell's pipe had soothed
him. He seemed as serene now as he had been before he knew that his
companion had been also the companion of his father--in prison. After
all, he had grown up with the knowledge that his father was a convicted
felon; to be reminded of it casually, but also privately, could not
wound him _very_ deeply. The tramp, staring at him with a fierce
yearning in his eyes, which the young man could not see, seemed to
divine this, but said:--
"It cannot be pleasant for you to see me. I wouldn't have come, only
I promised to see you; I promised to let him hear about you. It would
have been worse, you know, had he got out on ticket-of-leave, and come
himself!"
"It would so!" exclaimed Deverell sincerely.
In the dark, the old man grinned like one in torment.
"It would so," Deverell repeated, unable to repress a grim chuckle.
"It would be the most awkward thing that could possibly happen to
me--especially if it happened now. At present I call myself the
luckiest man in the Colony; but if my poor father were to turn up--"
Deverell was not interrupted; he stopped himself.
"You are pretty safe," said his companion in an odd tone--which he
quickly changed. "As your father's mate, I am glad you are so lucky; it
is good hearing."
Deverell explained how he was so lucky. He felt that the sentiments he
had expressed concerning his father's possible appearance on the scene
required some explanation, if not excuse. This feeling, growing upon
him as he spoke, led him into explanations that were very full indeed,
under the circumstances. He explained the position he had attained as
manager of Dandong; and the position he was about to attain through his
marriage was quite as clearly--though unintentionally--indicated. It
was made clear to the meanest perception how very awkward it would be
for the young man, from every point of view, if the young man's father
_did_ turn up and ostentatiously reveal himself. While Deverell was
speaking the swagman broke branches from the nearest pines and made up
the fire; when he finished the faces of both were once more illumined;
and that of the old man was stern with resolve.
"And yet," said he, "suppose the impossible, or at any rate the
unlikely--say that he does come back. I know him well; he wouldn't be a
drag or a burden to you. He'd only just like to see you. All he would
ask would be to see his son sometimes! That would be enough for him. I
was his chum, mind you, so I know. And if he was to come up here, as I
have come, you could take him on, couldn't you, as you offer to take
me?" He lent forward with sudden eagerness--his voice vibrated. "You
could give him work, as you say you'll give me, couldn't you? No one'd
know it was your father! No one would ever guess!"
"No!" said Deverell, decidedly. "I'll give _you_ work, but my father
I couldn't. I don't do things by halves: I'd treat my father _as_ my
father, and damn the odds! He had pluck. I like to think how he was
taken fighting! Whatever he did, he had grit, and I should be unworthy
of him--no matter what he did--if I played the coward. It would be
worse than cowardly to disown your father, whatever he had done, and I
wouldn't disown mine--I'd sooner shoot myself! No, I'd take him in, and
be a son to him for the rest of his days, that's what I'd do--that's
what I _will_ do, if ever he gets out on ticket-of-leave, and comes to
me!"
The young man spoke with a feeling and intensity of which he had
exhibited no signs before, leaning forward with his pipe between his
fingers. The old man held his breath.
"But it would be devilish awkward!" he added frankly. "People would
remember what they've been good enough to forget; and everybody would
know what now next to none know. In this country, thank God, the man is
taken for what the man is worth--his father neither helps nor hinders
him, when once he's gone. So I've managed to take my own part, and to
get on well, thanks to my own luck. Yes, it would be devilish awkward,
but I'd stand by him, before Heaven, I would!"
The old man breathed hard.
"I don't know how I've come to say so much to you, though you did know
my father," added Deverell, with a sudden change of tone. "It isn't
my way at all. I needn't tell you that from to-morrow forward you're
the same as any other man to me. And if you ever go to see my father,
you must not tell him all I have said to you about what, as you say,
is never likely to happen. But you may tell him--you may tell him I am
glad he was taken fighting!"
The old man was once more quite calm. "I shall never see your father
again. No more will you," he said slowly and solemnly; "for your father
is dead! I promised him to find you out when my time was up, and to
tell you. I have taken my own way of breaking the news to you. Forgive
me, sir; but I couldn't resist just seeing, first of all, if it would
cut you up very badly!"
Deverell did not notice the quiet bitterness of the last words. He
smoked his pipe out in silence. Then he said: "God rest him! Perhaps
it's for the best. As for you, you've a billet at Dandong for the rest
of your days, if you like to take and keep it. Let us turn in."
The worn moon rose very late, and skimmed behind the pines, but never
rose clear of them, and was down before dawn. It shone faintly upon the
two men lying side by side, packed up each in a blanket--Deverell in
the better one. From the other blanket a hand would steal out from time
to time, grope tremulously over Deverell's back, lie a minute, and then
be gently withdrawn. Long before dawn, however, the old man noiselessly
arose and rolled up his swag. He packed up every thing that he had
brought--every thing except the better blanket. Over that he smiled,
as though it was an intense pleasure to him to leave it behind, lapped
round the unconscious form of Deverell. Just before going, when the
swag was on his back, he stooped down once and put his face very close
to that of Deverell. The worn moon glimmered through the pines upon
them both. The faces were strangely alike; only Deverell's was smiling
sweetly in his dreams, while the other's shone moist with--something.
A few minutes later the gate in the Dandong boundary-fence closed for
the last time upon the gaol-bird tramp; and Deverell's father was dead
indeed--to Deverell. Lucky for Deverell, of course. But then he was the
luckiest man in the whole Colony. Didn't he say so himself?
[Illustration: "HE STOOPED DOWN."]
_Jamrach's._
[Illustration]
The shop we are about to visit--perhaps quite the most remarkable
in London--stands in a remarkable street, Ratcliff-highway.
Ratcliff-highway is not what it was--indeed, its proper name is now
St. George's-street, but it still retains much of its old eccentric
character. The casual pedestrian who wanders from the neighbourhood of
the Mint, past the end of Leman-street and the entrance to the London
Dock, need no longer fear robbery with violence; nor may he with any
confidence look to witness a skirmish of crimps and foreign sailors
with long knives; but, if his taste for observation incline to more
tranquil harvest, his eye, quiet or restless, will fall upon many a
reminder of the Highway's historic days, and of those relics of its
ancient character which still linger. Sailors' boarding-houses are seen
in great numbers, often with crossed flags, or a ship in full sail,
painted, in a conventional spirit peculiar to the district, upon the
windows. Here and there is a slop shop where many dangling oilskins
and sou'westers wave in the breeze, and where, as often as not, an old
figure-head or the effigy of a naval officer in the uniform of fifty
years ago stands as a sign. There are shops where advance notes are
changed, and where the windows present a curious medley of foreign bank
notes, clay pipes, china tobacco-jars, and sixpenny walking sticks, and
there are many swarthy-faced men, with ringed ears, with print shirts
and trousers unsupported by braces; also there are many ladies with
gigantic feathers in their bonnets, of painful hue, and other ladies
who get along very comfortably without any bonnets at all.
In a street like this, every shop is, more or less, an extraordinary
one; but no stranger would expect to find in one of them the largest
and most varied collection of arms, curiosities, and works of savage
and civilised art brought together for trade purposes in the world, and
this side by side with a stock of lions, tigers, panthers, elephants,
alligators, monkeys, or parrots. Such a shop, however, will be the most
interesting object of contemplation to the stray wayfarer through St.
George's-street, and this is the shop famed throughout the world as
Jamrach's. Everybody, of course, knows Jamrach's by name, and perhaps
most know it to be situated somewhere in the waterside neighbourhood
of the East-end; but few consider it anything more than an emporium
from which the travelling menageries are supplied with stock. This, of
course, it is, but it is something besides; and, altogether, one of the
most curious and instructive spots which the seeker after the quaint
and out-of-the-way may visit is Jamrach's.
The shop, which we find on the left-hand side as we approach it from
the west, is a double one, and might easily be taken for two separate
establishments. The first window we reach might be passed as that of
an ordinary bird fancier's, were the attention not attracted by the
unusually neat, clean, and roomy appearance of the cages displayed,
and the uncommon shapes and colours of the birds which inhabit them.
The next window is more catching to the eye. Furious Japanese figures,
squatting Hindoo gods, strange and beautiful marine shells, and curious
pottery bring the pedestrian to a stand, and arouse a desire to explore
within. All this outside, however, gives small promise of the strange
things to be seen and learnt behind the scenes. Returning to the door
by the aviary window, we enter, and find ourselves in a bright, clean
room, eighteen or twenty feet square, properly warmed by a stove
placed in the centre. The walls, from floor to ceiling, are fitted
with strong and commodious wire cages, in which birds of wonderful
voice and hue and monkeys of grotesque lineament yell, whistle, shriek,
and chatter. Great and gorgeous parrots of rare species flutter and
scream, and blinking owls screw their heads aside as we pass. But the
cause in chief of all this commotion is the presence of an attendant
in shirt-sleeves, who, carrying with him a basket, is distributing
therefrom certain eatables much coveted hereabout. Beaked heads are
thrust between bars, and many a long, brown arm reaches down-ward and
forward from the monkey-cages, in perilous proximity to the eager
beaks. In a special cage, standing out from the rest, a beautiful
black and white lemur sits and stretches his neck to be fondled as the
attendant passes, but shyly hides his face when we strangers approach
him.
[Illustration: THE AVIARY.]
Here Mr. Jamrach himself comes to meet us--a fine old gentleman, whose
many years and remarkable experiences have left but small impression
upon him. Coming from Hamburg--where his father before him was a
trading naturalist--he founded the present business in Shadwell more
than fifty years ago, and here he is still in his daily harness, with
all the appearance of being quite fit for another half-century of work
among snakes and tigers. His two sons--one of whom we shall presently
meet--have assisted him in the business all their lives. The elder of
these, who was a widely-known naturalist of great personal popularity,
died some few years since. Mr. Jamrach takes us into a small, dusty
back room, quaint in its shape and quaint in its contents. Arms of
every kind which is not an ordinary kind stand in corners, hang on
walls, and litter the floors; great two-handed swords of mediæval date
and of uncompromisingly English aspect stand amid heaps of Maori clubs,
African spears, and Malay kreeses; on the floor lies, open, a deal box
filled with rough sheets of tortoise-shell, and upon the walls hang
several pictures and bas-reliefs. Mr. Jamrach picks up by a string a
dusty piece of metal, flat, three-quarters of an inch thick, and of an
odd shape, rather resembling a cheese-cutter. This, we are informed is
a bell, or, perhaps more accurately, a gong, and was used on the tower
of a Burmese temple to summon the worshippers. Reaching for a short
knobkerry, which bears more than one sign of having made things lively
on an antipodean skull, Mr. Jamrach strikes the uninviting piece of
metal upon the side in such a way as to cause it to spin, and we, for
the first time, fully realise what sweet music may lie in a bell. The
sound is of the most startling volume--as loud as that of a good-sized
church bell, in fact--and dies away very slowly and gradually in a
prolonged note of indescribable sweetness. The metal is a peculiar
amalgam, silver being the chief ingredient; and oh that all English
church bells--and, for that matter, dinner bells--had the beautiful
voice of this quaint bit of metal!
[Illustration: A QUEER GONG.]
Then Mr. Jamrach shows us wonderful and gorgeous marine shells, of
extreme value and rarity, and some of a species which he originally
introduced to men of science, in consequence of which it now bears an
appalling Latin name ending with _jamrachus_.
Passing from the back of this little room, we enter a very large one,
extending from the front to the back of the entire premises, with a
gallery on three sides above. Here we are joined by the younger Mr.
Jamrach, and here we stand amid the most bewildering multitude of
bric-a-brac and quaint valuables ever jumbled together: fantastic gods
and goddesses, strange arms and armour, wonderful carvings in ivory,
and priceless gems of old Japanese pottery. Merely to enumerate in
the baldest way a tenth part of these things would fill this paper,
and briefly to describe a hundredth part would fill the magazine. And
when we express our wonder at the extent of the collection, we are
calmly informed that this is only a part--there are more about the
building--four or five roomfuls or so!
We have come to St. George's-street expecting to see nothing but a
zoological warehouse, and all this is a surprise. That such a store
as we now see were hidden away in Shadwell would have seemed highly
improbable, and indeed we are told that very few people are aware of
its existence. "The museums know us, however," says Mr. Jamrach the
younger, "and many of their chief treasures have come from this place."
Among the few curious visitors who have found their way to Jamrach's
there has been the Prince of Wales, who stayed long, and left much
surprised and pleased at all he had seen. The late Frank Buckland,
too, whose whole-souled passion for natural history took him to this
establishment day after day, often for all day, could rarely resist
the fascination of the museum, even while his beloved animals growled
in the adjacent lairs. The Jamrachs do not push the sale of this
bric-a-brac, and seem to love to keep the strange things about them.
Their trade is in animals, and their dealings in arms and curiosities
form almost a hobby. Many of the beautiful pieces of pottery have stood
here thirty years, and their proud possessors seem in no great anxiety
to part with them now. A natural love of the quaint and beautiful first
led Mr. Jamrach to buy carvings and shells from the seafaring men who
brought him his birds and monkeys, so that these men soon were led to
regard his warehouse as the regulation place of disposal for any new
or old thing from across the seas; and so sprang up this overflowing
museum.
Among hundreds of idols we are shown three which are especially
noteworthy. The first is a splendid life-sized Buddha--a work of
surprising grace and art. The god is represented as sitting, his back
being screened by a great shell of the purest design. The whole thing
is heavily gilt, and is set, in places, with jewels. Every line is a
line of grace, and the features, while of a distinct Hindoo cast, beam
with a most refined mildness. What monetary value Mr. Jamrach sets on
this we do not dare to ask; and, indeed, we are now placed before
the second of the three--a Vishnu carved in alto-relievo of some hard
black wood. This is a piece of early Indian art, and it has a history.
It was fished up some twenty years ago from the bottom of the river
Krishna, where it had been reverently deposited by its priests to save
it from insult and mutilation at the hands of the invading Mohammedan;
and there it had lain for eight hundred years. It is undamaged, with
the exception that the two more prominent of the four arms are broken
off; and that it has escaped the insult which its devout priests feared
is testified by the fact that the nose--straight, delicate, and almost
European in shape--has not been broken. It is an extremely rare thing
for a Vishnu free from this desecration--a fatal one in the eyes of
worshippers--to be seen in this country. Above the head are carved
medallions representing the ten incarnations of the god, for the last
of which mighty avatars millions still devoutly wait in mystic India;
while here, in Ratcliff-highway, after all its dark adventures, and
after its eight centuries of immersion below the Krishna, stands the
embodiment of the god himself, mildly serene and meekly dignified.
[Illustration: A FRIENDLY DEITY.]
The third of these gods is quite a different person. There is nothing
resembling beauty--either of conception or workmanship--about him.
He is very flat-chested, and his form is faithfully represented in
the accompanying illustration; without an illustration he would be
indescribable. The head is very small, and grotesquely carved, with
a large boar's tusk projecting from the jaw. The trunk and limbs,
however, are the parts of interest; they consist of an entire human
skin stretched on a sort of flat wooden framework, and partly stuffed
with dried grasses. The skin is a light brown, leathery looking stuff,
with here and there a small crack. The legs are clothed with loose blue
trousers, which appear to be of dungaree, or a similar material, and
the complete deity came from the Friendly Islands some time since. Just
at his feet lie, in an open packing box, certain mummified heads, some
bearing unmistakable marks of hard knocks, all having been, no doubt,
among the most cherished possessions of the gentleman who had separated
them from the shoulders upon which they originally grew.
Of heads and skulls we see many, and among them the skull of an
undoubted cannibal--a thing of very peculiar conformation. And so we
go on from room to room, where the sunlight peeps in with difficulty,
and paints with light and shadow the memorials of savage art, warfare
and worship, as well as many exquisite specimens of porcelain and metal
work from Japan and Florence. We see the garment of cowtails which
Ketchwayo wore when taken prisoner, and we see a testimony to the guile
of the wily Maori in an axe made of iron only, but painted and got up
to exactly resemble greenstone. The reason of the disguise becomes
apparent when it is explained that for the genuine greenstone article
of this pattern a collector will gladly pay a hundred pounds, while
the metal imitation is worth its weight as old iron, and no more. We
see two pairs of magnificent china vases five or six feet high, the
like of which it would be difficult to find offered for sale anywhere.
Another pair, which had stood here for thirty years, were bought
only a week or two back by a visitor of title with a cheque of three
figures--a bargain which the buyer jumped at. We are shown old Satsuma
ware of wondrous delicacy and richness, commanding something more than
its weight in sovereigns in the market. We see grand old _repoussé_
work in very high relief. We linger over a singular old Japanese
medicine cabinet, the outside of which is covered with hundreds of
little silver charms, against as many varieties of disease--each
charm a quaintly-wrought oval or scarabæus. We examine two immense
Japanese vases of copper, each six feet high, and of the most elaborate
workmanship, the design revealing here and there, in a surprising
manner, elementary forms and principles usually supposed to be wholly
and originally Greek. There are stone weapons, bronze weapons, steel
weapons, and wooden weapons of every outlandish sort, and musical
instruments such as one sees represented on Egyptian sculptures. There
are many things bought at the sale of the effects of the late king of
Oude, an enthusiastic old gentleman whose allowance from the British
Government was a lac of rupees a month, and who managed to spend it
all, and more than all, on curiosities and works of art, so that his
funeral was followed by a sale on behalf of his creditors. Among the
old king's treasures in this place are seven small figures, of a
dancing bear, a buck antelope, a gladiator, a satyr riding a furious
bull, another riding a camel, an armed man on a rhinoceros, and a
monkey mounted on a goat, respectively. Each of these little figures is
built up of innumerable smaller figures of beasts, birds, and fishes,
fighting and preying upon each other, not one speck of the whole
surface belonging to the main representation, while, nevertheless, the
whole produces the figure complete with its every joint, muscle, sinew,
and feature. And so we pass, by innumerable sacred masks, pashas' tails
and alligators' skulls, toward the other and main department of this
remarkable warehouse--that devoted to natural history.
We cross Britten's-court, where we observe a van with a small crowd
of boys collected about it. A crane is swung out from a high floor,
and from the end of the dependent chain hangs a wooden case or cage,
violently agitated by the movements of the active inhabitant. He is a
black panther, the most savage sort of beast with which Mr. Jamrach has
to deal, and, as this one feels himself gradually rising through the
air, his surprise and alarm manifest themselves in an outburst strongly
reminding the spectator of Mark Twain's blown-up cat "a-snorting, and
a-clawing, and a-reaching for things like all possessed." He arrives at
his appointed floor at last, however, and, as the cage is swung in, the
blazing eyes and gleaming teeth turn from our side toward the attendant
who receives him.
The wide doors on the ground floor are swung open, and we enter a large
apartment fitted with strong iron-barred cages on all sides. This is
the lowest of three floors, similarly fitted, in which is carried on
a trade in living creatures which is known from one end of the earth
to the other. Jamrach's is _the_ market for wild animals from all the
world over, and whatever a menagerie-keeper or a zoological collection
may want, from an elephant to an Angora cat, can be had in response to
an order sent here. Whatever animal a man may have to sell, here he
may sell it, providing that it be in good and healthy condition. Mr.
Jamrach has lived a lifetime among his beasts, and has had his troubles
and adventures with them. One of the most exciting of these adventures
took place some thirty years ago. A fine, full-grown Bengal tiger was
deposited, in his rough wooden cage, on this very spot at the gates,
having just been delivered from a ship in the docks. The lair at the
back was being prepared for his reception, when, the attention of Mr.
Jamrach and his merry men being otherwise engaged, _Tigris regalis_
set his hind quarters against the back of his temporary receptacle,
and, using all his strength, managed to burst out the boards. Then he
quietly trotted out, and down the main street. The sudden appearance of
a full-sized tiger at mid-day on the pavement of Ratcliff-highway was
the signal for a general skedaddle, excepting on the part of a little
boy of about eight years of age, who, never having seen a thing of the
sort before, innocently extended his hand and stroked the big cat. A
playful tap of the great soft paw at once knocked the child upon his
face, stunned; and, picking him up by the loose part of the jacket, the
animal was proceeding up the next turning, when Mr. Jamrach, who had
just discovered the escape, came running up. Empty-handed as he was, he
sprang at the tiger's neck from behind, and, grasping the throat with
both hands, drove his thumbs into the soft place behind the jaw. Mr.
Jamrach was an unusually powerful man--indeed, he is no weakling now,
though nearer eighty than seventy years of age--and at his scientific
grasp the tiger, half choked, let his captive fall, when a couple of
heavy blows across the eyes from a crowbar thrust into the naturalist's
hands by an attendant thoroughly cowed the great beast, who turned tail
and meekly trotted back straight into the lair prepared for him, the
door of which stood open for his reception. The little boy was without
a scratch; but, although £50 was offered his father as compensation,
Mr. Jamrach's intrepidity was rewarded by an action for £500 damages.
In the end the smaller amount first offered was awarded, and the loss
in costs was made sweeter by the judge's praise of the defendant's
prompt and courageous action. The monetary loss had already been
discounted by the arrival, in hot haste, the day after the accident,
of a showman, who gladly paid £300 for the culprit. This was no bad
speculation on his part, it was found, when he had counted up the
sixpences received all over the country for admission to see the "tiger
that had eaten a boy alive in Ratcliff-highway."
[Illustration: TACKLING THE TIGER.]
And so, with many an anecdote of his own and his father's experiences
in their peculiar business from Mr. Jamrach the younger, we go
upstairs and wander among the stock. This, of course, is ever varying
in quantity and species, but has always some interesting feature. We
are introduced to a solemn monkey, who salaams gravely three times,
and then waits to be asked to shake hands, which he does with great
ceremony. We see porcupines, black swans and antelopes, and we hear,
at the peril of never hearing anything afterwards, the noisy cranes.
There is a Sumatra civet cat, with a small, fox-like head, and a
magnificent tail; he is not cordial, and snaps an awkward-looking row
of sharp teeth at us. Just behind his little cage is a large one,
which contains a fine, tall guanaco or wild llama. The docile-looking
creature moves to and fro behind the bars, keeping his eye on us, and
pursing his mouth the while. Suddenly Mr. Jamrach says, "Look out,
he's going to spit!" and we all duck in different directions with great
celerity--only just in time. The intelligent quadruped has conceived
a prejudice against the shape of somebody's hat, or the colour of
somebody's tie, and expresses it by spitting, with much force and
precision, at the offender's face.
[Illustration: LUNCHEON.]
A large increase in the general chatter and growl around us announces
the approach of an attendant with food. The emus and cassowaries
stretch their long necks as far between the bars as possible, and the
pelicans and cranes yell agonisingly. A large black panther throws
himself against the bars of his cage, and gives voice unrestrainedly.
In contrast to these, the domestic cat of the establishment follows
the man's heels, with much tender purring and a sharp eye to any stray
fallen morsel. There are other cats here in cages--cats too valuable to
be allowed to run loose--magnificent Angoras and Carthusians, who rub
their heads against the wires, and, as we approach, extend their paws
in an appeal to be noticed and petted.
We are promised an interesting feeding sight downstairs, and we
descend to the ground floor. Among the more risky speculations of the
commercial naturalist are the alligator and the crocodile. They will
sulk and go into a decline on the least provocation or without any
provocation at all, and, being expensive to begin with, often prove
awkward losses. They almost invariably sulk at first, we are told, and,
refusing to take food, would be likely to get into a bad way unless
cured; and the curing of a crocodile's sulks is a surprising thing to
see. We find, on reaching the ground floor, poor crocodilus laid by the
heels and perfectly helpless, lashed immovably to iron rings and posts.
His head is ignominiously sat upon by a sturdy man in shirt-sleeves,
who presently pokes the end of a crowbar among the big teeth, and
forcibly prizes the mouth open into that position of comprehensive
smile so familiar to the readers of children's natural history books.
Then another man kneels before the unfortunate reptile and feeds him.
That is to say, he takes a lump of meat weighing five or ten pounds or
so, and dexterously pitches it into the œsophagus, afterwards firmly
and decisively ramming it home with a long pole. This is the dinner
of all naughty, sulky crocodiles, and, after having it served in this
fashion regularly four or five times, the victim gives up sulking as
a bad job. He will have to swallow it, one way or another, he argues
within himself, and in that case he may as well take it without being
tied up, and sat upon, and insulted generally; besides which, he may as
well enjoy the flavour as swallow all those eatables without tasting
them. Whereupon he reforms and becomes a respectable crocodile, taking
regular meals, and is in time promoted to the Zoological Gardens, or a
respectable menagerie.
This and other things we see, and we have it explained how dangerous
animals are transferred from cases to permanent cages, and back again.
To transfer a savage panther or tiger from a case to a cage is not
difficult. Certain of the bars of the cage are raised, the case is
put opposite the opening, and the side removed. Seeing an opening
the captive jumps at it, and the bars are at once shut down. But to
tempt him back again into a case, when he has become to some extent
accustomed to his quarters, is not always so easy a thing. Carefully
baiting the case with food usually has its effect, if circumstances
permit waiting; but, if not, recourse has to be had to smoke. A
little damp straw thrust between the bars and lighted soon makes the
lair uncomfortable, and then ensues a scene. Eyes gleam, and teeth
gnash from obscure corners, and presently, with a bound and a yell,
the powerful beast dashes through the opening into the case, and is
secured. It may be easily understood that any little clumsiness or
mistake at the critical moment might lead to the case being overturned
in the rush, or improperly closed. Then, with a tiger or black panther
worked to the highest pitch of frenzy by the fire and smoke, some
lively adventures would probably take place.
[Illustration: THE FORCE-MEAL TREATMENT.]
And so we reach the door into Britten's-court, and, with cordial thanks
to our entertainers for a most pleasant and instructive afternoon,
emerge into Ratcliff-highway, with its dock labourers, its sailors'
boarding-houses, and its slop-shops.
[Illustration]
_The Spider's Web._
+A Story for Children: from the French of Jacques Normand.+
[Illustration: "SUDDENLY THERE CAME A KNOCK AT THE DOOR."]
At that time my aunt Herminie, fatherless and motherless, was living
in the old abbey of Mauvoisin, near Corbeil, which was disaffected
and had become very national. It was during the Reign of Terror, and
she was nearly twenty years old. She was there with two old ladies,
Madame Maréchal and Madame Badouillet: the former tall and thin, the
latter little, stout, and one-eyed. One evening--but it will be better
to let Aunt Herminie tell the tale herself. I fancy I can hear her
now, relating this story which excited me so, the story which I was
continually asking her to repeat.
The story? You wish me to repeat it once more, my child? Well, it was
in _those_ days. That evening we were sitting by the fire: Madame
Maréchal and I were chatting, Madame Badouillet had fallen asleep. It
was about ten o'clock; outside it was very windy--blowing hard. Oh! I
remember it well. Suddenly, there came a knock at the door.
I must tell you first of all that a troop of soldiers, about a hundred,
had arrived during the day. The officer in command, a big red-headed
fellow, had shown us a paper, an order to billet them. They had taken
up their quarters in the chapel, and had passed the day there, eating,
drinking, singing, and playing cards. They made a dreadful din. They
all calmed down when evening came, and were all sleeping in groups.
You will understand, little one, that it was not very reassuring for
three lone women to be near such people. Madame Maréchal's husband was
away, Madame Badouillet was a widow, and I an orphan; so we bolted
ourselves in the little room on the ground floor which was situated
between the high road and the chapel, and that's where we were when the
knock came, as I have just told you.
Madame Badouillet woke up with a jump, and we all three looked straight
at each other with frightened eyes. A moment passed and there was
another knock--louder this time. We had a good mind to sham deafness,
as you may imagine, but joking was dangerous in those days. If you
refused hospitality to patriots, you were regarded as a "suspect," as
they called it, and then--the guillotine! It was all over with you in
no time.
Madame Maréchal began to recite her prayers; Madame Badouillet shook in
every limb; besides, I was the youngest, so I ought to open the door.
I found some men at the door, with large hats, making quite a black
group on the road-way. They looked harassed, and their boots were
covered with dust. My first impulse was to shut the door in their
faces, but one of them made a step forward, stretched out his hand, and
said in a low, shaking voice:--
"Shelter, citoyenne, give us shelter for the night. We are dropping
with fatigue--have pity upon us!" And these last words were repeated in
a murmur by the group of men.
"Who are you?"
"Fugitives--deputies of the Gironde--we are pursued, save us!"
They were Girondins! You will know one day, my child, what that meant.
It is enough now for you to know that they were poor fellows flying
from Paris, pursued by the Montagnards, that is, by their enemies.
"Wretched men," I replied, "go away! The chapel is full of soldiers. If
you come in you are lost!"
They hesitated a moment; then a pale young man, quite a youth, who was
leaning upon the arms of two of his comrades, murmured feebly:
"Walk again! I cannot go a step farther. Go on, comrades; save
yourselves and leave me here. I prefer to die!"
They were brave fellows, those Girondins. They would not hear of
abandoning the poor young fellow.
"Is there no other place but the chapel where we could rest for two
hours--just for two hours only?" asked the one who had already spoken
to me.
"None but this room," I answered, standing a little aside; "and the
chapel has no way out but that door (I pointed to the middle door), so
the soldiers pass through here to enter or go out. Let them see you,
and you are lost!"
Great dejection was apparent in the face of the poor man. I could see
it plainly, for it was a clear night and as light as day.
[Illustration: "HAVE PITY UPON US!"]
"Adieu, citoyennes," he said simply. "The district is full of people
who are pursuing us. Pray that we may escape them!" Then, turning to
his companions, he said in a low voice, "Onward!"
Well, my child, I was quite upset; my heart was rent at the sight
of their distress. I understood all that they had suffered, and all
they would yet suffer. I looked at their drooping shoulders, at their
bruised feet. Certainly, by sending them away I was shielding us
three from danger, because in helping them I was making myself their
accomplice, and exposing myself and my companions to severe punishment.
Yes, I understood all that, but pity conquered prudence; a kind of
fever seized me, and just as they were moving away--
"Listen," I whispered to them; "there might perhaps be a way to help
you, but it would be very risky, very daring."
They drew near eagerly, anxiously, with heads bent forward. Behind
me I could hear the trembling voices of Madame Badouillet and Madame
Maréchal as they whispered to each other, "What is she talking about?
What is she saying?" But that mattered little to me.
"At the other end of the chapel, above the altar," I continued, "there
is a granary for storing fodder. Once there, you would be all right,
but to get there----."
"Speak, speak!"
"You would have to follow a narrow passage, a sort of overhanging
cornice, the whole length of the wall--and just over the sleeping
soldiers. If they hear the least noise, should one of them wake up----!"
"Who will lead us?"
"I will!"
I have already told you, my child, that I was in a fever, that I was no
longer master of myself; I was acting as if in a dream. To save them
had become my sole aim. They took counsel briefly among themselves,
while Madame Badouillet continually pulled at my skirts and called me
mad. Oh! I remember it all as if I were going through it now!
"Thanks, citoyenne, for your devotion. We will accept the offer!"
I left the door and they entered noiselessly, on tip-toe. There were
about a dozen; their clothes were torn and their fatigue was extreme.
I told my two companions to keep watch at the door of the chapel, and
turned at once to the fugitives.
"You see those steps leading to the ledge?" I asked them. "Well, I am
going to ascend them. When I reach the top I will open the door and
look into the interior of the chapel, and if the moment is favourable I
will give you a sign. You will then ascend and follow me along the wall
to the granary. Once there--if God allows us to get there!--you will
rest yourselves. I will come to you when the soldiers are gone--they
ought to leave at daybreak. You understand?"
All this was uttered rapidly in a low voice; then, positively, I felt
as if I were lifted from the ground, as if impelled by some superior
will. I felt deep commiseration for these men, unknown to me only a few
minutes before; I felt a protecting sentiment towards them which elated
me. To save them I would have thrown myself in front of the cannon's
mouth, or have rushed upon the bayonet's point. And I, mite that I was,
seemed suddenly endowed with extraordinary strength and energy. Madame
Badouillet was right, I was positively mad.
I mounted the stairs, opened the door just a little, and looked in.
The soldiers were asleep in groups, their heads resting on their
knapsacks, their forms making dark spots on the white stones of the
chapel. Occasionally one would turn over with a grunt. A slight murmur
of breathing came from this human mass. In the corners the guns were
stacked; outside, the wind howled in fury. A ray of light from the moon
shone through a side window, lighting up one side of the nave, while
the other side--luckily, the side where the ledge was--remained quite
dark. To get to the door of the granary--dimly visible, like a dark
spot, along the narrow ledge, along the wall at about twenty feet from
the sleepers--would be the work of a few seconds in reality, yet these
few seconds would seem an age.
And now came the reaction; the excitement of the first few minutes
was over, and a dreadful feeling of depression came over me as I
saw myself face to face with the reality, and understood the almost
childish temerity of my plan. I was seized with a mad desire to tell
the Girondins that it was impossible to do it; that the soldiers were
waking up; that they must fly at once. Then I became ashamed of my
cowardice, and, turning towards the men who were watching me from below
with uneasy glances, I gave the sign to ascend.
They obeyed, and the first one was soon by my side. I made a sign to
keep silence--as if they needed it, poor men!--then I stepped upon the
ledge.
What a journey it was! I shall never forget it. I can feel myself now,
moving forward on tip-toe, my left hand lightly touching the cold wall,
my right hand in space, fearing every instant to lose my balance, or to
knock against some stone, some little heap of dirt and pieces of wall,
the falling of which would have roused the soldiers who were sleeping
below, so close to us. And behind me I can still feel the dumb presence
of those creatures who were following me, risking their life with mine.
We glided along the ledge like a troop of sleep-walkers, holding our
breath, treading with extraordinary carefulness, the eyes of each one
fixed upon the one who preceded him, all making with beating hearts for
that little door which grew larger as we approached it--and it was I
who was leading them!
Having reached this exciting point, Aunt Ninie stopped and looked at me
to judge the effect. She ought to have been pleased, for I was sitting
on the edge of my chair, my eyes out of my head, with open mouth,
listening with never-failing interest to a story which I had heard so
many times. "What then?" I asked.
[Illustration: "WE GLIDED ALONG THE LEDGE."]
At length, after a few minutes, terribly long minutes they seemed, I
reached the goal. I seized the key which was still in the door, turned
it, pushed the door--and then I thought we were lost!
Nobody had had occasion to go to the granary for a long time, so that
the hinges had become rusty; and as I pushed it open it gave out a
creaking sound, which went all over the chapel, and sent an icy chill
through me.
"What's the matter up there?" growled a soldier, with an oath.
I stood up straight, all of a shake, and I perceived the fugitives,
pale, motionless, and standing as closely as possible to the wall. It
seemed as if our last hour had come. Luckily, it was very windy, as I
have said, and at that very instant a strong gust shook the roof of the
chapel.
"Go to sleep, and rest easy, you great fool! It's the wind!" answered
another voice.
The first soldier listened again for a brief space, then stretched
himself, and went to sleep. We were saved--at least for the moment.
The door was only half open, but it was enough to enable us to squeeze
in. This I did when silence was completely restored below, and the
others followed one by one, easily enough generally, without being
obliged to open the door any further. This was very important, for
another creak would certainly have done for us.
You cannot imagine the joy and gratitude of those men when once they
were all gathered in the granary. They wept, went down on their knees,
and kissed the hem of my dress. One would have thought that I had
finally saved them; but, alas! the danger was still there, terrible and
threatening.
"Rest," I said to them; "stretch yourselves upon the straw. Here you
are fairly safe--for the time being, at least. As soon as they are
gone you will have nothing more to fear, and you can go away in your
turn. Now rest yourselves and sleep, and count on me if any new danger
menaces you."
I left them and passed through the door, leaving it as it was. Of
course it would have been better to shut it, but that was impossible on
account of the noise it would have made.
My return journey along the ledge was performed without incident.
Alone, I felt lighter, more skilful, and slipped along like a mouse. At
the end of a few seconds I was back in the room, where the two ladies
anxiously awaited me.
Each one received me in a different way. Madame Maréchal, severe and
sharp, reproached me cruelly, saying that _that_ was not the way
to behave: it was risking my life and theirs--that I ought to have
left them outside--that I was a fool, &c. Madame Badouillet, on the
contrary, approved what I had done, and defended me, saying that nobody
could reject the prayer of the fugitives--it would have been infamous.
And this good woman pressed me to her heart, and, pleased to see me
back again, kissed me, while she wiped away the tears from her one eye.
So we sat down again, commenting in a low voice upon the unforeseen and
terrible events which had come upon our hitherto peaceful existence.
And it was really a dreadful situation. All these men, enemies, so near
to each other; what might happen if the fugitives were discovered! It
was frightful, so much so that Madame Maréchal proposed that we should
run away, out in the night, across the fields to Corbeil, leaving the
men to settle matters amongst themselves as best they could--that was
her expression. Madame Badouillet and I rejected this proposal with
indignation, and we remained there whispering to each other, and longed
for the end of this interminable night.
The first streaks of dawn began to appear, and we felt within reach of
the moment when our anxiety would end. Suddenly we heard the gallop of
horses on the road-way. What now? We listened. The horses stopped, and
we heard a noise of voices. Everybody seemed to be paying us a visit
that night.
Then came a knock as before; and, as before, it was I who opened the
door. There was a man before me, surrounded by several hussars who had
dismounted.
[Illustration: "IT WAS I WHO OPENED THE DOOR."]
"They are here, eh, citoyenne?" asked the man, who was not a soldier,
but doubtless some Government agent. He was stout, and appeared out of
breath through having come so rapidly.