I confess, delighted as I was to find again my lady and my little
mistress, I could have wished them anywhere but in Paris at such a time
as this. How they reached the place at all it was difficult to
understand, till I heard that they had crossed from Dublin under the
escort of a prominent member of the Jacobin Club, with whom his honour
had large dealings in the matter of arms, and who had provided the
necessary passports.
"Indeed," said Miss Kit, "the soldiers everywhere were so respectful to
us that I think Monsieur Cazin must have passed us off as his wife and
daughter. At any rate he accompanied us into Paris, only quitting us at
the barrier, and has promised to call on us at the hotel to-morrow. See
here is his letter to the _maitre d'hotel_, in which he states that we
are French ladies, kinswomen of his own."
The _maitre d'hotel_, when he read the letter, made no difficulty about
admitting "_les citoyennes Cazin_" as he entered them in his book, and
their valet. So for that night, at least, we were safe. And as both
ladies spoke French fluently, and I tolerably, we passed well enough for
what we were not.
But I disliked the whole business, still more when I heard from some of
the attendants in the hotel that this citizen Cazin was a man looked
askance upon by some of his own party, and reputed to be both greedy and
heartless.
If I could have had my own way, I would have tried that very night to
get them out of the city they had been at so much trouble to reach. But
they were worn-out with fatigue and anxiety, and were fain to lay their
heads anywhere. Before the night was out their baggage, rescued from
the overturned diligence, was brought to the hotel, labelled (as I could
not help noticing) with the name "Cazin," which only involved us all in
deeper complication and trouble.
Next day we waited for the promised visit from my ladies' travelling
companion, but he never came. And in the evening we discovered the
reason. The _maitre d'hotel_ demanded admission to their apartment and
announced, with a roughness very different from his civility of the
night before, that at the Convention that day several suspected persons
had been denounced, among others the citizen Cazin, for having been in
traitorous treaty with the enemies of the Republic. In a few hours it
would become known that he had travelled to Paris with two ladies, and
it was as much as his (my host's) neck was worth to allow those ladies
to remain another hour in his house. Indeed his duty was to inform the
authorities at once who his guests were.
Happily for us his hotel had been visited by the police only the night
before--ere the travellers arrived--and he had not yet exposed their
names on his list. But it was known that the baggage, delivered last
night, bore the name of the suspected Cazin, and that was enough to ruin
us all.
You may fancy the distress of the ladies at this news. All they could
do was to hand one of their little rolls of _assignats_ to the landlord,
and promise that within an hour he should be rid of them.
"But the baggage," said mine host, who, in the midst of his
perturbation, saw his way to a _solatium_ for himself; "I must detain
that, and hand it over if required."
"But it is not Monsieur Cazin's; it is my lady's, who is no connection
of the suspect," said I.
"If the ladies cannot part with their baggage," said mine host, fumbling
the notes, "they must remain here with it. I confiscate it in the name
of the Republic One and Indivisible."
It was no use arguing or appealing; our only hope lay in civility.
"Citizen host," said I, "is quite right, and the ladies are grateful for
his consideration. Their name is Lestrange. They know nothing of
Citizen Cazin or his baggage, and they bid adieu to the Hotel Lambert
forthwith."
The cunning landlord, having gained his ends, returned to his civility.
"The ladies," said he, "are wise. But they will do well to put on the
garments of plain citoyennes, which I can provide, in exchange for what
they wear; otherwise they may be traced. That done, they will do well
to leave my poor house on foot with the young Citoyen Lestrange," (here
he pointed to me), "and forget to return."
It was good advice, though it went to my heart to see my mistresses
further robbed. But when presently they appeared in the plain garb of
common Parisiennes I confess I felt relieved, for no one who saw them
would suspect them of being foreign ladies, though any one would be
bound to admit they were two very fair women. As for me, I was not long
in bartering my livery coat for the blue blouse of a workman; and thus
that afternoon, as the light was beginning to fail, and all the world
was talking of the execution of the beautiful Madame Roland, which was
to take place in the morning, three humble persons quitted the side door
of the Hotel Lambert and bent their steps dolefully towards the bridge
that led across to the Quai near the Island of the City, once known as
Quai Necker.
We hoped that here at least we should find a retreat until it was
possible to consider what next should be done.
Leaving the ladies to inspect the stalls which lined the river, I
ascended first to announce their arrival; but half-way up the long
stairs I encountered a middle-aged woman with sour, haggard face, who
demanded my business.
"I desire to see Madame Lestrange, who lives on the highest stage," said
I.
"Madame Lestrange lives there no longer," said she with a shrug. "Last
night she and her husband and their servant were put under arrest on the
accusation of Depute Duport, for holding connection during his life with
the traitor Sillery."
"Arrested!" exclaimed I, staggered at the news.
"Arrested," said she dryly, "and are now at the Austin Convent. To-
morrow, perhaps, we may hear of them at the Place."
This was too terrible, but I durst not betray my horror.
"Then," said I, "if that is so, the top stage is vacant. I am seeking
lodgings for my mother and sister and myself, and had hoped Madame
Lestrange could have helped me."
"The top floor is vacant," said the woman, brightening up, for the
calamity of the day had robbed her of her tenants, "to any one who can
pay five francs a week."
"We can do that," said I, "and can pay you in advance."
"Enough," said the woman, holding out her hand greedily.
I brought the ladies up, breaking the news about their kinsfolk on the
way, and imploring them to keep up appearances. The landlady
scrutinised them sharply, and demanded what their occupation was.
"We are seamstresses, my child and I," said my lady; "and my son earns
what he can at the stables."
"If you are good workers," said the woman, "I can give you some employ.
Come up and see your rooms."
It was a sad introduction, that of these delicate ladies to the squalid
apartments of their arrested kinsfolk. But they kept up bravely; only
when the woman departed with her first five francs in her hand, they
fell on the little shabby sofa and broke into tears.
But miserable as we were, we were at least safe for a while; and as the
weeks followed one another--terrible weeks for Paris--we grew not only
more reconciled to our lot, but sometimes almost happy.
We gave ourselves the name of Regnier, and in a little time our sour
landlady fulfilled her promise of finding work for the ladies' needles.
As for me, I lit on occupation close by, with a man who let horses for
hire, and here once more I found myself engaged in the old familiar
occupation of the Knockowen days. The ladies rarely ventured out, and
when they did it was usually after dark, and always under my escort.
Somehow or other our common lot, the common garb we wore, and the common
dependence we felt on one another, made our make-believe little family
into something very like a real one. When the day's work was done, and
the candle was lit and the log thrown on the fire, it was hard not to
forget that I was after all only a poor serving-man to these two ladies.
They were so grateful and gentle to me, and my little lady's eyes, when
sometimes they met mine, were wont to light up so brightly, that, had I
been less strict with myself, I should have been--tempted, many a time,
to presume on all this kindness, and give myself the airs and privileges
of an equal. But Heaven kept me in mind of what was due to her; and
though I loved her secretly, she was always my little mistress when we
were together.
I was not long in hearing, among other things, the news of what had
happened at Knockowen since I left. When my overturned boat had drifted
ashore, they all set me down as dead, some with regret, some with
indifference, some with relief.
Among the latter, I guessed, was his honour, who never took kindly to
me, and bestowed more dislike on me, I always thought, than my
importance deserved. However, my absence did not make much difference.
"It was dreadful after you had gone," said my little mistress. "We
never knew what would happen next. Father could not keep friends with
both sides, and yet he durst not break with either. The house was fired
into from time to time by the Leaguers; and yet he continued to obey
their biddings and wink at all the smuggling of arms and secret drilling
that went on, which he, as a magistrate, ought to have stopped. Oh
dear, it was hard to know what to wish! And one day he was summoned by
some other magistrates to lead a party to capture the crew of a
smuggling ship. He sent Martin off secretly to give them warning; but
somehow Martin failed to deliver his message in time, and the smugglers
were caught. Then he was in dread lest they should betray him, and used
all his efforts to let them escape. Then, when one night they broke
bonds, he led a hue and cry after them for appearance' sake, but, of
course, in a wrong direction, and in consideration of all this he was
let alone by the League. Mr Cazin then came over and stayed at
Knockowen a week, collecting all the arms he could get, and making
himself polite to mother and me. My father, who desired to be rid of us
that he might follow his own plots, saw a way, at last, of getting out
of his difficulty, and handed the Frenchman over a large number of guns
which had been intended for the Donegal men, on condition he would see
us safe to Paris."
"And where is his honour, meanwhile?" I asked.
"I can't say, Barry. Not, I think, at Knockowen. He has written us not
a line, though we have written several times to him. I sometimes wish
we were safe back at home," said she with a sigh.
Well might she wish it, for that winter Paris was a hell upon earth!
For a time I succeeded in keeping away the shadow of "the terror" from
that little top storey in the Quai Necker. The ladies knew that blood
was being shed, that liberty was being extinguished, that holy religion
was being spurned, in the world below them. But the tumbrels that made
their daily ghastly journey did not pass their way. They heard nothing
of the roll of drums, of the shrieks of the mob, of the dull crash of
the knife, of the streams of blood, in the Place. They saw nothing of
the horrors of the prison-houses, in which, day by day, and week by
week, the doomed citizens made their brief sojourn on the road to death.
They did not even know, as I did, that one evening, in one of the sad
batches which rode from the Austin Convent to the Conciergerie, and next
morning from the Conciergerie to the guillotine, rode a broken-down
couple called Lestrange, and beside them, in the same cart, the _ci-
devant_ Citizen Cazin.
As the Citoyennes Regnier sat patiently and knitted red caps for the
blood-drunken citizens without, their gentle ears may have caught
occasional shouts and rushings of feet, and they may have guessed
something of the tragedies that were being enacted below. But they kept
their own counsel, and looked out seldom from the little window, and
talked in whispers of the shadows that flitted across Lough Swilly, and
the happy life that was to follow after all this buffeting and exile.
Alas! that was not to be yet. For all their courage, their cheeks grew
daily more pale; and into that little damp, cold attic, from which they
never ventured except at night, and where, as poverty gradually entered
by the window, the fire went out on the hearth, the stress of "the
terror" at last penetrated.
Our hostess, the grim woman of whom I spoke, was the first to lose
nerve, and during the day, when I was away, would come and retail some
of the horrors she herself had witnessed. I could tell by their blank
looks when I returned that some one had been tampering with their peace,
and I fear the warmth with which I expostulated with the disturber did
us all no good.
Another day, also when I was absent, the police made a visitation; and
though my two mistresses passed muster, they carried off one shrieking
victim from the floor below--a widow, whose only crime was that her
husband had once been in the service of his king. Her cries of terror,
as they dragged her to her doom, rang in my lady's ears for weeks, and
unnerved her altogether.
A still worse fright befell them, one early morning, when we sought the
fresh air in the direction of the Champ de Mars, where I hoped we should
be safe from crowds of all kinds. At a turning of the road we suddenly
encountered, before there was time to avoid it, the most terrible of all
crowds--that which escorted a _condamne_ to his execution. It was in
vain I tried to draw the ladies aside; the mob was upon us before we
could escape. I had seen many a Paris mob before, but none so savage or
frantic as this. The poor doomed man, one Bailly (as I heard
afterwards, formerly a mayor of Paris), stood bare-headed, cropped, with
hands tied behind him, and with only a thin shirt to protect him from
the cold. His face, naturally grave and placid, was so marred and
stained with mud and blood as to be almost inhuman. At every step of
the way the people hurled dirt and execrations upon him, laughing at his
sorry appearance, and goading on one another to further insult. By
sheer force they were carrying him, guillotine, executioner, and all to
a great dirt-heap by the river-bank, where only they would permit the
deed of death to be performed.
Just as this ghastly procession passed us, a missile, better aimed than
most, sent the poor wretch staggering to his knees, and in the rush that
followed he was happily hidden from our sight.
But the two poor ladies had seen enough. Miss Kit's beautiful face was
white as marble, her lips quivered, and her hands clenched in a spasm of
self-control. Her mother, less strong, tottered and fell heavily on my
arm in a faint.
It was a terrible position just then, for to be suspected of pity for a
_condamne_ was an offence which might easily place the sympathiser on
the tumbrel beside the victim. I observed one or two faces--brutal,
coarse faces--turned our way, and overheard remarks not unmingled with
jeers on the lady's plight. Happily for us, a new humour of the crowd,
to make their poor prisoner dismount and carry his own guillotine, swept
the crowd in a new direction, and in a moment or two left us standing
almost alone on the path.
It was some time before my lady could recover enough to leave the place.
Still longer was it before we had her safe in the attic on the Quai
Necker; and ere that happened more than one note of warning had fallen
on my ears.
"Save yourselves; you are marked," whispered a voice, as we came to the
Quai.
I looked sharply round. Only a lame road-mender was in sight, and he
was too far away to have been the speaker. The voice was that, I
thought, of a person of breeding and sympathy, but its owner, whoever he
was, had vanished.
"There they are," said another voice as we entered the doorway.
This time I saw the speaker--a vicious-looking woman, who stood with her
friend across the road and pointed our way with her finger.
"So," thought I, as Miss Kit and I carried our fainting burden up the
stairs, "we have at least one friend and one enemy in Paris."
Not a word did my little mistress and I exchange as we laid my lady on
the bed, and took breath after our toilsome ascent. She tried to smile
as I left her to the task of restoration, and retired to my kitchen to
prepare our scanty breakfast.
While thus occupied I was startled by a tap at the window, followed by a
head which I recognised as that of the road-mender I had lately seen.
He must have crawled along the parapet which connected the houses in our
block, or else have been waiting where he was till he could find me
alone.
His cap was slouched over his eyes, and his face was as grimy as the
roads he mended. His finger was raised eagerly to his lips as he
beckoned to me to open the sash.
An instinct of self-preservation impelled me to obey. He clambered in
and shut the window behind him. Then, turning to face me, I encountered
a double shock. The lameness had gone; the figure was erect; the face,
in spite of its grime, was youthful and handsome! That was the first
shock. The second was even greater. For I suddenly recognised in the
form that stood before me my old acquaintance, Captain Lestrange
himself.