Flight
"Repousser sa croix, c'est l'appesantir."
During the first week of August the excitement in Paris reached its
greatest height, and culminated on the Saturday after the battle of
Weissenburg. Of this defeat John Turner had, as I believe, the news
before any other in Paris. Indeed, the evil tidings came to the city
from the English _Times_. The stout banker, whose astuteness I had
never doubted, displayed at this time a number of those
qualities--such as courage, cool-headedness and foresight--to which we
undoubtedly owe our greatness in the world. We are, as our neighbours
say, a nation of shopkeepers, but we keep a rifle under the counter. A
man may prove his courage in the counting-house as effectually as on
the field of battle.
"These," I said to Turner, "are stirring times. I suppose you are very
anxious."
I had passed before the Bourse in coming to the Avenue d'Antan, and
had, as I spoke, a lively recollection of the white-faced and
panic-stricken financiers assembled there. For one franc that these
men had at stake, it was probable that John Turner had a thousand.
"Yes--I am anxious," he said, quietly. "These are stirring times, as
you say; they stimulate the appetite wonderfully, and, I think, help
the digestion."
As he spoke a clerk came into the room without knocking--his eyes
bright with excitement. He gave John Turner a note, which that stout
gentleman read at a glance, and rose from the breakfast table.
"Come with me," he said, "and you will see some history."
We drove rapidly to the Bourse, through crowded streets, and there I
witnessed a scene of the greatest excitement that it has been my lot
to look upon; for it has pleased God to keep me from any battle-field.
Above a sea of hats a score of tricolour flags fluttered in the dusty
air, and wild strains of the Marseillaise dominated the roar and
babble of a thousand tongues wagging together. The steps of the great
building were thronged with men, and on the bases of the statuary
orators harangued high heaven, for no man had the patience to listen.
"What is it?" I asked my companion.
"News of a French victory; but it wants confirmation."
[Illustration: A MAN CLAMBERED ON THE BOX BESIDE THE COACHMAN. "I WILL
SING YOU THE MARSEILLAISE!" HE SHOUTED.]
Some who could sing, and others who only thought they could, were
shouting the Marseillaise from any elevation that presented itself--an
omnibus or a street refuse-box served equally well for these
musicians.
"How on earth these people have ever grown to a great nation!"
muttered John Turner, who sat in his carriage. A man clambered on the
box beside the coachman.
"I will sing you the Marseillaise!" he shouted.
"Thank you," replied John Turner.
But already the humour of the throng was changing, and some began to
reflect. In a few minutes doubt swept over them like a shower of rain,
and the expression of their faces altered. Almost immediately it was
announced that the news of the victory had been a hoax.
"I am going to my office," said Turner, curtly. "Come and see me
to-morrow morning. I may have some advice to give you."
In the evening I saw Madame, and told her that things were going badly
on the frontier; but I did not know that the Germans were, at the time
of speaking, actually on French territory, and that MacMahon had been
beaten at Metz.
"Get the women out of the country," said John Turner to me the next
morning, "and don't bother me."
I went back to the Hôtel Clericy and there found Alphonse Giraud. He
was in the morning-room with the two ladies.
"I have come," he said, "to bid you all good-by, as I was just telling
these ladies.
"You remember," he went on, taking my hand and holding it in his
effusive French way--"you remember that I said I would buy myself a
commission? The good God has sent me one, but it is a rifle instead of
a sword."
"Alphonse has volunteered to fight as a common soldier!" cried
Lucille, her face glowing with excitement. "Is it not splendid? Ah, if
I were only a man!"
Madame looked gravely and almost apprehensively at her daughter. She
did not join in Giraud's proud laugh.
"There is bad news," she said, looking at my face. "What is it?"
"Yes, there is bad news, and it is said that Paris is to be placed
under martial law. You and Mademoiselle must leave."
Alphonse protested that it was only a temporary reverse, and that
General Frossard had but retreated in order to strike a harder blow.
He nodded and winked at me, but I ignored his signals; for I have
never held that women are dolls or children, that the truth must be
withheld from them because it is unpleasant.
So Alphonse Giraud departed to fight for his country. He was drafted
into a cavalry regiment, "together with some grooms and hostlers from
the stables of the Paris Omnibus Company," as he wrote to me later in
good spirits. He proved himself, moreover, a brave soldier as well as
a true and honest French gentleman.
Madame de Clericy and Lucille made preparations for an early
departure, but were averse to quitting Paris until such time as
necessity should drive them into retreat. I saw nothing of John Turner
at this time, but learnt from others that he was directing the course
of his great banking house with a steady hand and a clear head. I
wanted money, but did not go to him, knowing that he would require
explanations which I was in no wise prepared to give him. Instead I
telegraphed to my lawyer in London, who negotiated a loan for me,
mortgaging, so far as I could gather from his technical
communications, my reversion of Hopton in case Isabella Gayerson
should marry another than myself. The money was an absolute necessity,
for without it Madame and Lucille could not leave France, and I took
but little heed of the manner in which it was procured.
It was in the evening of August 28th, a few hours after General
Trochu's decree calling upon foreigners to quit Paris, that I sought a
consultation with Madame. The Vicomtesse came to my study, divining
perhaps that what I had to say to her were better spoken in the
absence of Lucille.
"You wish to speak to me, _mon ami_," she said.
In reply I laid before her the proclamation issued by General Trochu.
In it all foreigners were warned to leave, and persons who were not in
a position to "_faire face à l'ennemi_" invited to quit Paris. She
glanced through the paper hurriedly.
"Yes," she said; "I understand. You as a foreigner cannot stay."
"I can stay or go," I replied; "but I cannot leave you and
Mademoiselle in Paris."
"Then what are we to do?"
I then laid before her my plan, which was simple enough in itself.
"To England?" said Madame de Clericy, when I had finished, and in her
voice I detected that contempt for our grey country which is held by
nearly all Frenchwomen. "Has it come to that? Is France then unsafe?"
"Not yet--but it may become so. The Germans are nearer than any one
allows himself to suppose."
I saw that she did not believe me. Madame de Clericy was not very
learned, and it is probable that her history was all forgotten. Paris
had always seemed to her the centre of civilisation and safely
withdrawn from the perils of war or internal disorder.
I begged her to leave the capital, and painted in lurid colours the
possible effects of further defeat and the resulting fall of the
French Empire.
"See," I said, opening the drawer of my writing table, "I have the
money here. All is prepared, and in England I have arranged for your
reception at a house which, if it is not palatial, will at all events
be comfortable."
"Where is the house?"
"At a place called Hopton, on the border of Suffolk and Norfolk. It
stands empty and quite ready for your reception. The servants are
there."
"And the rent?" said she, without looking at me. "Is that within our
means?"
"The rent will be almost nominal," I replied. "That can be arranged
without difficulty. Many of our English country houses are now
neglected. It is the fashion for our women, Madame, to despise a
country life. They prefer to wear out themselves and their best
attributes on the pavement."
Madame smiled.
"Everything is so strong about you," she said; "especially your
prejudices. And this house to which we are to be sent--is it large? Is
it well situated? May one inquire?"
I could not understand her eyes, which were averted with something
like a smile.
"It is one of the best situated houses in England," I answered,
unguardedly, and Madame laughed outright.
"My friend," she said, "one reason why I like you is that you are not
at all clever. This house is yours, and you are offering Lucille and
me a home in our time of trouble--and I accept."
She laid her hand, as light as a leaf, on my shoulder, and when I
looked up she was gone.
On the morning of Saturday, September 3d, I received a note from John
Turner.
"If you have not gone--go!" he wrote.
Our departure had been fixed for a later date, but the yacht of an
English friend had been lying in the port of Fécamp at my disposal for
some days. We embarked there the same evening, having taken train at
the St. Lazare station within two hours of the receipt of John
Turner's warning. The streets of Paris, as we drove through them, were
singularly quiet, and men passing their friends on the pavement nodded
in silence, without exchanging other greeting. Hope seemed at last to
have folded her wings and fled from the bright city. Some indefinable
knowledge of coming catastrophe hovered over all.
It was a quiet sunset that clothed sea and sky with a golden
splendour as we steamed out of Fécamp harbour that evening. I walked
on the deck of the trim yacht with its captain until a late hour, and
looked my last on the white cliffs and headlands of the doomed land
about midnight--the hour at which the news was spreading over France,
as black, swift and terrible as night itself, that hope was dead, that
the whole army had been captured at Sedan, and the Emperor himself
made prisoner. All this, however, we did not learn until we landed in
England, although I have no doubt that John Turner knew it when he
gave us so sharp a warning.
The weather was favourable to us, and the ladies came on deck the next
morning in a calm sea as we sped past the North Foreland between the
Goodwin Lightships and the land. It was a lovely morning, and the sea
all stripes of deep blue and green, and even yellow where the great
sand banks of the Thames estuary lay beneath the rippled surface.
Lucille thought but little of England, as she judged it from the tame
bluffs of Thanet.
"Are these the famous white cliffs of England?" she said to the
captain, for she rarely addressed herself unnecessarily to me. "Why
they are but one quarter of the height of those of St. Valéry that I
saw from the cabin window last night."
The captain, a simple man, sought to prove that England had
counterbalancing advantages. He knew not that in certain humours a
woman will find fault with anything. I thought that Mademoiselle took
exception to the poor cliffs because they were those of my native
land.
Madame proved more amenable to reason, however, and the captain, whose
knowledge of French was not great, made an easier convert of her than
of Lucille, who spoke English prettily enough, while her mother knew
only the one tongue.
"There is bad weather coming," said the captain to me later in the
day. "And I wish the tide served for Lowestoft harbour earlier than
ten o'clock."
We anchored just astern of the coast-service gunboat, and a few
hundred yards south of the pier at Lowestoft, awaiting the rise of the
tide. At eleven o'clock we moved in, and passing through the dock into
the river, anchored there for the night. I gave Madame the choice of
passing the night on board and going ashore to the hotel, as it was
too late to drive to Hopton. She elected to remain on board.
As ill fortune would have it, the evil weather foreseen by the captain
came upon us in the night, and daylight next morning showed a grey and
hopeless sea, with lowering clouds and a slantwise rain driving
across all. The tide was low when the ladies came on deck, and the
muddy banks of the river looked dismal enough, while the flat
meadowland stretched away on all sides into a dim and mournful
perspective of mist and rain.
The Hopton carriage was awaiting us at the landing-stage, and to those
unaccustomed to such work the landing in a small boat no doubt
presented difficulties and dangers of which we men took no account.
The streets of Lowestoft were sloppy and half-deserted as we drove
through them. A few fishermen in their oilskins seemed to emphasise
the wetness and dismalness of England as they hurried down to the
harbour in their great sea-boots. On the uplands a fine drizzle veiled
the landscape, and showed the gnarled and sparse trees to small
advantage.
Lucille sat with close-pressed lips and looked out of the streaming
windows. There were unshed tears in her eyes, and I grimly realised
the futility of human effort. All my plans had been frustrated by a
passing rain.
At home, however, I found all comfortable enough, and fires alight in
the hall and principal rooms.
It was late in the day that I came upon Lucille alone in the
drawing-room. She was looking out of the window across the bleak
table-land to the sea.
"I am sorry, Mademoiselle," I said, suddenly conscious of the stiff
bareness of my ancestral home, "that things are not brighter. I have
done my best."
"Thank you," she said, and there was still resentment in her voice.
"You have been very kind."
She stood for a few moments in silence, and then turning flashed an
angry glance at me.
"I do not know who constituted you our protector," she said
scornfully.
"Fate, Mademoiselle."