(_A PAGE FROM THE DIARY OF A CHAPERON._)
They commanded her to rise early. She knew that the day's doings would
be a terrible ordeal, but she came of a bold and sturdy race, and
felt herself equal to any emergency. And so as the morning broke--as
daylight crept through the foggy air--she prepared for the sacrifice.
Yes, sacrifice; for was it not a sacrifice to barter away youth,
pride, nay, life itself! And I had a hand in the matter! Ah, me--but
away with vain regret!
I have been told since that they were hours and hours arranging her
toilette. So long did it take that she was scarcely able to break
her fast. She had, I believe, a cup of tea, and if rumour is to be
credited, a couple of slices of thin bread-and-butter! Well, it is
over now, and I can think of it almost without tears!
I called for her shortly after noon--for the lot had fallen upon me,
and I was destined to attend her to her doom--she was very calm, and
even smiled as I kissed her. She shivered a little as she sank beside
me. I bade her to wrap her shawl more closely around her, and after
she had complied with my command she seemed more at ease.
And now our conveyance had come to a full stop. We were surrounded by
a sea of vulgar, hideous faces, grinning and mocking at us! My charge
clung to me for protection. The laughter and the jeers increased
tenfold. Then I cast her away from me roughly, whereupon followed
yells mixed with savage laughter. She, poor girl, regained her
composure, and gazed at the multitude with the dignity of an outraged
queen. And _they_ laughed the more! Laughed the more!
At length we were set free, and made our way to a large apartment,
where we were divested of our wraps, and left in costumes better
adapted to late June than to early March, or mid-December. We were
then ordered to advance. We were driven from one bitterly cold room
to another, until we knew not whether the blood was circulating in
our veins, or had frozen. We had many fellow-sufferers, and these poor
creatures pushed against us, and fought with us. The great object of
everyone was to get to the end of our journey!
She staggered bravely along, until at last they took away the yards
of satin she carried round her arm, and spread it out behind. Then her
name was uttered, or, rather, mispronounced. She sank on her knees;
and, on regaining her feet, was hustled away, to follow a number of
fellow-victims who had been treated with like indignity.
Once more there was the bitter cold. This time the draughts were met
in that hall, and endured, until the conveyance arrived to move us
on--she to stand for a couple of hours amidst gossiping friends, and I
to go to bed.
But the seeds of death were sown! She never recovered the shock, and
an addition to the inscriptions above the family-vault tells of her
early decease!
And who was this poor girl? A homeless one, wandering the streets
of London? or a political prisoner, on her way to Siberia? Neither!
She was merely a _débutante_, attending her first (and last) Spring
Drawing-room at Buckingham Palace!
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NOTE (_by Our Own Noodle_).--_Father Buonaparte_, at the Olympic,
judging from the account of it in the _Times_, seems to consist of
"a part" for our WILSON BARRETT, the remainder being skeletonish, or
"boney."
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[Illustration: "MATTHEWS AT HOME." (NEW VERSION OF AN OLD
ENTERTAINMENT.)]
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