THE FIRS OR FRANCES?
It is necessary for some people to go away to be missed. There are
certain very quiet people in the world, who make no fuss, who think
humbly of themselves, who never on any occasion blow their own trumpets,
who under all possible circumstances keep in the background, but who yet
have a knack of filling odd corners, of smoothing down sharp angles, of
shedding the sunshine of kindness and unselfishness over things
generally. There are such people, and they are seldom very much missed
until they go away.
Then there is a hue and cry. Who did this? Whose duty was the other?
Where is such a thing to be found? Will nobody attend to this small but
necessary want? The person who never made any talk, but did all the
small things, and made all the other people comfortable, is suddenly
missed, and in an instant his or her virtues are discovered.
This was the case at the Firs when Frances on a certain morning drove
away.
Watkins missed her--the stable-boy, the house-servant--the cat, the
dog--many other domestic pets--and most of all, Squire Kane.
He was not neglected, but he had a sense of loneliness which began at
the moment he awoke, and never left him till he went to sleep again.
He had his meals regularly; he was called in good time in the morning;
the new housekeeper lighted his candle and brought it to him at night;
his favorite fruit and his favorite flowers were still set before him,
and the newspaper he liked best always lay by his plate at
breakfast-time. Watkins was really an excellent gardener, and the ribbon
border still bloomed and flourished, the birds sung in the trees as of
yore, the lawn was smoothly kept. It was early September now, but the
old place never looked gayer, sweeter, brighter. Still, somehow or other
the squire was dull. His newspaper was there, but there was no one to
cut it, no one to read it aloud to him. The flowers were making a
wonderful bloom, but there was no special person to talk them over with.
He had no one to tell his thoughts to, no one to criticise, no one to
praise, and--saddest want of all to a nature like his--not a soul in the
world to blame.
Really, Frances was very much missed; he could not quite have believed
it before she went, for she was such a quiet, grave woman, but there
wasn't the least doubt on the subject. She had a way of making a place
pleasant and home-like. Although she was so quiet herself, wherever she
went the sun shone. It was quite remarkable how she was missed--even the
Firs, even the home of his ancestors, was quite dull without her.
Frances had been away for five weeks, and the squire was beginning to
wonder if he could endure much more of his present monotonous life, when
one day, as he was passing up and down in the sunny South Walk, he was
startled, and his attention pleasingly diverted by the jangling sweet
sound of silver bells. A smart little carriage, drawn by a pair of Arab
ponies, and driven by a lady, drew up somewhere in the elm avenue; a
girl in white jumped lightly out, and ran toward him.
"Good gracious!" he said to himself, "why, it's that dear little Fluff.
Well, I am glad to see her."
He hobbled down the path as fast as he could, and as Fluff drew near,
sung out cheerily:
"Now this is a pleasing surprise! But welcome to the Firs, my
love--welcome most heartily to the Firs."
"Thank you, squire," replied Fluff. "I've come to see you on a most
important matter. Shall we go into the house, or may I talk to you
here?"
"I hope, my dear, that you have come to say that you are going to pay me
another visit--I do hope that is your important business. Your little
room can be got ready in no time, and your guitar--I hope you've brought
your guitar, my dear. It really is a fact, but I haven't had one scrap
of entertainment since Frances went away--preposterous, is it not?"
"Well, of course I knew you'd miss her," said Fluff in a tranquil voice.
"I always told you there was no one in the world like Frances."
"Yes, my dear, yes--I will own, yes, undoubtedly, Frances, for all she
is so quiet, and not what you would call a young person, is a good deal
missed in the place. But you have not answered my query yet, Fluff. Have
you come to stay?"
"No, I've not come to stay; at least, I think not. Squire, I am glad you
appreciate dear Frances at last."
"Of course, my love, of course. A good creature--not young, but a good,
worthy creature. It is a great affliction to me, being obliged, owing to
sad circumstances, to live apart from my daughter. I am vexed that you
can not pay me a little visit, Fluff. Whose carriage was that you came
in? and what part of the world are you staying in at present?"
"That dear little pony-trap belongs to Mrs. Carnegie, of Arden; and her
niece, Mrs. Passmore, drove me over. I am staying with Mr. and Mrs.
Spens, at Martinstown."
"Spens the lawyer?"
"Yes, Spens the lawyer. I may stay with him if I like, may I not? I am a
great friend of his. He sent me over here to-day to see you on most
important business."
"My dear Fluff! Really, if Spens has business with me, he might have the
goodness to come here himself."
"He couldn't--he has a very bad influenza cold; he's in bed with it.
That was why I offered to come. Because the business is so very
important."
"How came he to talk over my affairs with a child like you?"
"Well, as you'll learn presently, they happen to be my affairs too. He
thought, as he couldn't stir out of his bed, and I knew all the
particulars, that I had better come over and explain everything to you,
as the matter is of such great importance, and as a decision must be
arrived at to-day."
Fluff spoke with great eagerness. Her eyes were glowing, her cheeks
burning, and there wasn't a scrap of her usual fun about her.
In spite of himself the squire was impressed.
"I can not imagine what you have to say to me," he said; "but perhaps we
had better go into the house."
"I think we had," said Fluff; "for as what I have got to say will
startle you a good deal, you had better sit in your favorite arm-chair,
and have some water near you in case you feel faint."
As she spoke she took his hand, led him through the French windows into
his little parlor, and seated him comfortably in his favorite chair.
"Now I'll begin," said Fluff. "You must not interrupt me, although I'm
afraid you will be a little startled. You have mortgaged the Firs for
six thousand pounds."
"My dear Ellen!"--an angry flush rose in the squire's cheeks. "Who has
informed you with regard to my private affairs? Frances has done very--"
"Frances has had nothing to say to it; I won't go on if you interrupt
me. You have mortgaged the Firs for six thousand pounds, to some people
of the name of Dawson & Blake, in London. Frances lives at Arden, in
order to pay them three hundred pounds a year interest on the mortgage."
"Yes, yes; really, Frances--really, Spens--"
"Now do stop talking; how can I tell my story if you interrupt every
minute? Messrs. Dawson & Blake were very anxious to get back their
money, and they wanted to sell the Firs in order to realize it. Mr.
Spens had the greatest work in the world to get them to accept Frances's
noble offer. He put tremendous pressure to bear, and at last, very
unwillingly, they yielded."
"Well, well, my dear"--the squire wiped the moisture from his
brow--"they have yielded, that is the great thing--that is the end of
the story; at least, for the present."
"No, it is not the end of the story," said Fluff, looking up angrily
into the old man's face. "You were quite satisfied, for it seemed all
right to you; you were to stay on quietly here, and have your comforts,
and the life you thought so pleasant; and Frances was to give up Philip
Arnold, whom she loves, and go away to toil and slave and be miserable.
Oh, it was all right for you, but it was bitterly all wrong for
Frances!"
"My dear little Fluff, my dear Ellen, pray try and compose yourself; I
assure you my side of the bargain is dull, very dull. I am alone; I
have no companionship. Not a living soul who cares for me is now to be
found at the Firs. My side is not all sunshine, Fluff; and I own
it--yes, I will own it, Fluff; I miss Frances very much."
"I am glad of that; I am very glad. Now I am coming to the second part
of my story. A week ago Mr. Spens had a letter from Messrs. Dawson &
Blake to say that they had sold their mortgage on the Firs to a
stranger--a man who had plenty of money, but who had taken a fancy to
the Firs, and who wished to get it cheap."
The squire sat upright on his chair.
"Mr. Spens wrote at once to the new owner of the mortgage, and asked him
if he would take five per cent. interest on his money, and not disturb
you while you lived. Mr. Spens received a reply yesterday, and it is
because of that I am here now."
The squire's face had grown very white; his lips trembled a little.
"What was the reply?" he asked. "Really--really, a most extraordinary
statement; most queer of Spens not to come to me himself about it. What
was the reply, Fluff?"
"I told you Mr. Spens was ill and in bed. The stranger's reply was not
favorable to your wishes. He wishes for the Firs; he has seen the place,
and would like to live there. He says you must sell; or, there is
another condition."
"What is that? This news is most alarming and disquieting. What is the
other condition--the alternative?"
Fluff rose, yawned slightly, and half turned her back to the squire.
"It is scarcely worth naming," she said, in a light and indifferent
voice; "for as Frances loves Philip, of course she would not think of
marrying any one else. But it seems that this stranger, when he was
poking about the place, had caught sight of Frances, and he thought her
very beautiful and very charming. In short, he fell in love with her,
and he says if you will let him marry her, that he and she can live
here, and you need never stir from the Firs. I mention this," said
Fluff; "but of course there's no use in thinking of it, as Frances loves
Philip."
"But there is a great deal of use in thinking of it, my dear; I don't
know what you mean by talking in that silly fashion. A rich man falls in
love with my daughter. Really, Frances must be much better-looking than
I gave her credit for. This man, who practically now owns the Firs,
wishes to release me from all difficulties if I give him Frances. Of
course I shall give him Frances. It is an admirable arrangement. Frances
would be most handsomely provided for, and I shall no longer be lonely
with my daughter and son-in-law residing at the Firs."
"But Frances loves Philip!"
"Pooh! a boy-and-girl affair. My dear, I never did, and never will,
believe in anything between Frances and Arnold. I always said Arnold
should be your husband."
"I don't want him, thank you."
"Frances was always a good girl," continued the squire; "an excellent,
good, obedient girl. She refused Philip because I told her to, and now
she'll marry this stranger because I wish her to. Really, my dear, on
the whole, your news is pleasant; only, by the way, you have not told me
the name of the man who now holds my mortgage."
"He particularly wishes his name to be kept a secret for the present,
but he is a nice fellow; I have seen him. I think, if Frances could be
got to consent to marry him, he would make her an excellent husband."
"My dear, she must consent. Leave my daughter to me; I'll manage her."
"Well, the stranger wants an answer to-day."
"How am I to manage that? I must write to Frances, or see her. Here she
is at this moment, driving down the avenue with Mrs. Carnegie. Well,
that is fortunate. Now, Fluff, you will take my part; but, of course,
Frances will do what I wish."
"You can ask her, squire. I'm going to walk about outside with Mrs.
Carnegie."
"And you won't take my part?"
"I won't take anybody's part. I suppose Frances can make up her own
mind."
When Miss Kane came into her father's presence her eyes were brighter,
and her lips wore a happier expression than the squire had seen on them
for many a long day. She stepped lightly, and looked young and fresh.
Fluff and Mrs. Carnegie paced up and down in the South Walk. Mrs.
Carnegie could walk now, and she was certainly wonderfully improved in
appearance.
"Beloved little fairy," she whispered to her companion, "this excitement
almost overpowers me. It was with the utmost difficulty I could control
myself as we drove over. Our sweet Frances looks happy, but I do not
think she suspects anything. Dear little one, are you certain, quite
certain, that the hero of the hour has really arrived?"
"Philip? I have locked him up in the dining-room," said Fluff, "and he
is pacing up and down there now like a caged lion. I do hope the squire
will be quick, or he'll certainly burst the lock of the door."
The two ladies paced the South Walk side by side.
"We'll give them half an hour," said Fluff.
When this time had expired, she took Mrs. Carnegie's hand, and they both
approached the open windows of the squire's parlor. When the squire saw
them he rose and confronted them. Angry red spots were on his cheeks;
his hands trembled. Frances was seated at the table; she looked very
pale, and as the two ladies approached she was wiping some tears
silently from her eyes.
"Yes, look at her," said the squire, who was almost choking with anger.
"She refuses him--she absolutely refuses him! She is satisfied that her
poor old father shall end his days in the work-house, rather than unite
herself to an amiable and worthy man, who can amply provide for her. Oh,
it is preposterous! I have no patience with her; she won't even listen
to me. Not a word I say has the smallest effect."
"Because, father--"
"No, Frances, I won't listen to any of your 'becauses.' But never, never
again even profess to care for your father. Don't waste words, my child;
for words are empty when they are not followed by deeds."
"I must take an answer to Mr. Spens to-day," said Fluff. "Perhaps, if
Frances thought a little, she would change her mind."
These words seemed to sting Frances, who rose quickly to her feet.
"You know why I can not help my father in this particular," she said.
"Oh, I think, between you all, you will drive me mad."
"Perhaps," said Fluff, suddenly--"perhaps if you saw the gentleman,
Frances, you might be able to give a different answer. He really is very
nice, and--and--the fact is, he's very impatient. He has arrived--he is
in the dining room."
"The gentleman who has purchased the mortgage is in the dining-room!"
said the squire.
He rubbed his hands gleefully.
"Excellent! Frances will never be so rude as to refuse a rich man to his
face. I look upon him already as our deliverer. I, for my part, shall
give him a hearty welcome, and will assure him, if he will only give me
time, that I will not leave a stone unturned to overcome my daughter's
absurd infatuation. Frances, do you hear me? I desire you to behave
politely to the stranger when he comes."
"Perhaps I had better go away," said Frances.
"No, no, dear Frances; do stay," pleaded Fluff. "I'll go and fetch the
gentleman; I know him; he is really very nice."
She darted away.
Frances turned her back to the window.
"You know, father, all I have done for you," she said, her beautiful
eyes shining and her slim figure very erect. "I have loved Philip--oh,
so deeply, so faithfully!--for ten years. For five of these years I
thought he was in his grave; and my heart went there, too, with him.
Then he came back, and I was very happy; for I found that he had loved
me, and thought of me alone, also, all that long, long time. I was happy
then, beyond words, and no woman ever more fervently thanked God.
Then--then--you know what happened. I gave Philip up. I consented to let
my light, my hope, and my joy die out. I did that for you; but I did not
consent to let my love die; and I tell you now, once and for all, that
my love will never die; and that, as I so love Philip, I can never, even
for your sake, marry any one but Philip!"
"Oh, Francie! Francie!" suddenly exclaimed a joyful little voice. "No
one in all the world wants you to marry any one else! The stranger isn't
a stranger. Say 'Yes' to your father and to Philip at the same time."
Frances turned; Arnold stepped in through the open window and put his
arm round her.
"Now, sir," he said, holding Frances's hand, and turning to the squire,
"which am I to have--the Firs or Frances?"
Of course everybody present knew the answer, so there is no need to
record it here.
THE END.
MONSIEUR THE VISCOUNT'S FRIEND.
A TALE IN THREE CHAPTERS
"Sweet are the vses of aduersitie
Which like the toad, ougly and venemous,
Weares yet a precious Iewell in his head."
AS YOU LIKE IT: A.D. 1623.
CHAPTER I.
It was the year of grace 1779. In one of the most beautiful corners of
beautiful France stood a grand old chateau. It was a fine old building,
with countless windows large and small, with high pitched roofs and
pointed towers, which, in good taste or bad, did its best to be
everywhere ornamental, from the gorgon heads which frowned from its
turrets to the long row of stables and the fantastic dovecotes. It stood
(as became such a castle) upon an eminence, and looked down. Very
beautiful indeed was what it looked upon. Terrace below terrace glowed
with the most brilliant flowers, and broad flights of steps led from one
garden to the other. On the last terrace of all, fountains and jets of
water poured into one large basin, in which were gold and silver fish.
Beyond this were shady walks, which led to a lake on which floated
waterlilies and swans. From the top of the topmost flight of steps you
could see the blazing gardens one below the other, the fountains and the
basin, the walks and the lake, and beyond these the trees, and the
smiling country, and the blue sky of France.
Within the castle, as without, beauty reigned supreme. The sunlight,
subdued by blinds and curtains, stole into rooms furnished with every
grace and luxury that could be procured in a country that then accounted
itself the most highly-civilized in the world. It fell upon beautiful
flowers and beautiful china, upon beautiful tapestry and pictures; and
it fell upon Madame the Viscountess, sitting at her embroidery. Madame
the Viscountess was not young, but she was not the least beautiful
object in those stately rooms. She had married into a race of nobles who
(themselves famed for personal beauty) had been scrupulous in the choice
of lovely wives. The late Viscount (for Madame was a widow) had been one
of the handsomest of the gay courtiers of his day; and Madame had not
been unworthy of him. Even now, though the roses on her cheeks were more
entirely artificial than they had been in the days of her youth, she was
like some exquisite piece of porcelain. Standing by the embroidery frame
was Madame's only child, a boy who, in spite of his youth, was already
Monsieur the Viscount. He also was beautiful. His exquisitely-cut mouth
had a curl which was the inheritance of scornful generations, but which
was redeemed by his soft violet eyes and by natural amiability reflected
on his face. His hair was cut square across the forehead, and fell in
natural curls behind. His childish figure had already been trained in
the fencing school, and had gathered dignity from perpetually treading
upon shallow steps and in lofty rooms. From the rosettes on his little
shoes to his _chapeau a plumes_, he also was like some porcelain figure.
Surely, such beings could not exist except in such a chateau as this,
where the very air (unlike that breathed by common mortals) had in the
ante-rooms a faint aristocratic odor, and was for yards round Madame the
Viscountess dimly suggestive of frangipani! Monsieur the Viscount did
not stay long by the embroidery frame; he was entertaining to-day a
party of children from the estate, and had come for the key of an old
cabinet of which he wished to display the treasures. When tired of this,
they went out on to the terrace, and one of the children who had not
been there before exclaimed at the beauty of the view.
"It is true," said the little Viscount, carelessly, "and all, as far as
you can see, is the estate."
"I will throw a stone to the end of your property, Monsieur," said one
of the boys, laughing; and he picked one off the walk, and stepping
back, flung it with all his little strength. The stone fell before it
had passed the fountains, and the failure was received with shouts of
laughter.
"Let us see who can beat that," they cried; and there was a general
search for pebbles, which were flung at random among the flower-beds.
"One may easily throw such as those," said the Viscount, who was poking
under the wall of the first terrace; "but here is a stone that one may
call a stone. Who will send this into the fish-pond? It will make a
fountain of itself."
The children drew round him as, with ruffles turned back, he tugged and
pulled at a large dirty-looking stone, which was half-buried in the
earth by the wall. "Up it comes!" said the Viscount, at length; and sure
enough, up it came; but underneath it, his bright eyes shining out of
his dirty wrinkled body--horror of horrors!--there lay a toad. Now, even
in England, toads are not looked upon with much favor, and a party of
English children would have been startled by such a discovery. But with
French people, the dread of toads is ludicrous in its intensity. In
France toads are believed to have teeth, to bite, and to spit poison; so
my hero and his young guests must be excused for taking flight at once
with a cry of dismay. On the next terrace, however, they paused, and
seeing no signs of the enemy, crept slowly back again. The little
Viscount (be it said) began to feel ashamed of himself and led the way,
with his hand upon the miniature sword which hung at his side. All eyes
were fixed upon the fatal stone, when from behind it was seen slowly to
push forth, first a dirty wrinkled leg, and then half a dirty wrinkled
head, with one gleaming eye. It was too much; with cries of, "It is he!
he comes! he spits! he pursues us!" the young guests of the chateau fled
in good earnest, and never stopped until they reached the fountain and
the fish-pond.
But Monsieur the Viscount stood his ground. At the sudden apparition the
blood rushed to his heart, and made him very white, then it flooded
back again and made him very red, and then he fairly drew his sword, and
shouting, "_Vive la France!_" rushed upon the enemy. The sword if small
was sharp, and stabbed the poor toad would most undoubtedly have been,
but for a sudden check received by the valiant little nobleman. It came
in the shape of a large heavy hand that seized Monsieur the Viscount
with the grasp of a giant, while a voice which could only have belonged
to the owner of such a hand said in slow deep tones,
"_Que faites-vous?_" ("What are you doing?")
It was the tutor, who had been pacing up and down the terrace with a
book, and who now stood holding the book in his right hand, and our hero
in his left.
Monsieur the Viscount's tutor was a remarkable man. If he had not been
so, he would hardly have been tolerated at the chateau, since he was not
particularly beautiful, and not especially refined. He was in holy
orders, as his tonsured head and clerical costume bore witness--a
costume which, from its tightness and simplicity, only served to
exaggerate the unusual proportions of his person. Monsieur the
Preceptor, had English blood in his veins, and his northern origin
betrayed itself in his towering height and corresponding breadth, as
well as by his fair hair and light blue eyes. But the most remarkable
parts of his outward man were his hands, which were of immense size,
especially about the thumbs. Monsieur the Preceptor was not exactly in
keeping with his present abode. It was not only that he was wanting in
the grace and beauty that reigned around him, but that his presence made
those very graces and beauties to look small. He seemed to have a gift
the reverse of that bestowed upon King Midas--the gold on which his
heavy hand was laid seemed to become rubbish. In the presence of the
late Viscount, and in that of Madame his widow, you would have felt
fully the deep importance of your dress being _a la mode_, and your
complexion _a la_ strawberries and cream (such influences still exist);
but let the burly tutor appear upon the scene, and all the magic died at
once out of brocaded silks and pearl-colored stockings, and dress and
complexion became subjects almost of insignificance. Monsieur the
Preceptor was certainly a singular man to have been chosen as an inmate
of such a household; but, though young, he had unusual talents, and
added to them the not more usual accompaniments of modesty and
trustworthiness. To crown all, he was rigidly pious in times when piety
was not fashionable, and an obedient son of the church of which he was a
minister. Moreover, a family that fashion does not permit to be
demonstratively religious, may gain a reflected credit from an austere
chaplain; and so Monsieur the Preceptor remained in the chateau and went
his own way. It was this man who now laid hands on the Viscount, and, in
a voice that sounded like amiable thunder, made the inquiry, "_Que
faites-vous?_"
"I am going to kill this animal--this hideous horrible animal," said
Monsieur the Viscount, struggling vainly under the grasp of the tutor's
finger and thumb.
"It is only a toad," said Monsieur the Preceptor, in his laconic tones.
"_Only_ a toad, do you say, Monsieur?" said the Viscount. "That is
enough, I think. It will bite--it will spit--it will poison; it is like
that dragon you tell me of, that devastated Rhodes--I am the good knight
that shall kill it."
Monsieur the Preceptor laughed heartily "You are misled by a vulgar
error. Toads do not bite--they have no teeth; neither do they spit
poison."
"You are wrong, Monsieur," said the Viscount; "I have seen their teeth
myself. Claude Mignon, at the lodge, has two terrible ones, which he
keeps in his pocket as a charm."
"I have seen them," said the tutor, "in Monsieur Claude's pocket. When
he can show me similar ones in a toad's head I will believe. Meanwhile,
I must beg of you, Monsieur, to put up your sword. You must not kill
this poor animal, which is quite harmless, and very useful in a
garden--it feeds upon many insects and reptiles which injure the
plants."
"It shall not be useful in this garden," said the little Viscount,
fretfully. "There are plenty of gardeners to destroy the insects, and
if needful, we can have more. But the toad shall not remain. My mother
would faint if she saw so hideous a beast among her beautiful flowers."
"Jacques!" roared the tutor to a gardener who was at some distance.
Jacques started as if a clap of thunder had sounded in his ear, and
approached with low bows. "Take that toad, Jacques, and carry it to the
_potager_. It will keep the slugs from your cabbages."
Jacques bowed low and lower, and scratched his head, and then did
reverence again with Asiatic humility, but at the same time moved
gradually backwards, and never even looked at the toad.
"You also have seen the contents of Monsieur Claude's pocket?" said the
tutor, significantly, and quitting his hold of the Viscount, he stooped
down, seized the toad in his huge finger and thumb, and strode off in
the direction of the _potager_, followed at a respectful distance by
Jacques, who vented his awe and astonishment in alternate bows and
exclamations at the astounding conduct of the incomprehensible
Preceptor.
"What is the use of such ugly beasts?" said the Viscount to his tutor,
on his return from the _potager_. "Birds and butterflies are pretty, but
what can such villains as these toads have been made for?"
"You should study natural history, Monsieur--" began the priest, who was
himself a naturalist.
"That is what you always say," interrupted the Viscount, with the
perverse folly of ignorance; "but if I knew as much as you do, it would
not make me understand why such ugly creatures need have been made."
"Nor," said the priest, firmly, "is it necessary that you should
understand it, particularly if you do not care to inquire. It is enough
for you and me if we remember Who made them, some six thousand years
before either of us was born."
With which Monsieur the Preceptor (who had all this time kept his place
in the little book with his big thumb) returned to the terrace, and
resumed his devotions at the point where they had been interrupted;
which exercise he continued till he was joined by the Cure of the
village, and the two priests relaxed in the political and religious
gossip of the day.
Monsieur the Viscount rejoined his young guests, and they fed the gold
fish and the swans, and played _Colin Millard_ in the shady walks, and
made a beautiful bouquet for Madame, and then fled indoors at the first
approach of evening chill, and found that the Viscountess had prepared a
feast of fruit and flowers for them in the great hall. Here, at the head
of the table, with the Madame at his right hand, his guests around, and
the liveried lackeys waiting his commands, Monsieur the Viscount forgot
that anything had ever been made which could mar beauty and enjoyment;
while the two priests outside stalked up and down under the falling
twilight, and talked ugly talk of crime and poverty that were
_somewhere_ now, and of troubles to come hereafter.
And so night fell over the beautiful sky, the beautiful chateau, and the
beautiful gardens; and upon the secure slumbers of beautiful Madame and
her beautiful son, and beautiful, beautiful France.
CHAPTER II.
It was the year of grace 1792, thirteen years after the events related
in the last chapter. It was the 2d of September, and Sunday, a day of
rest and peace in all Christian countries, and even more in gay,
beautiful France--a day of festivity and merriment. This Sunday,
however, seemed rather an exception to the general rule. There were no
gay groups of bannered processions; the typical incense and the public
devotion of which it is the symbol were alike wanting; the streets in
some places seemed deserted, and in others there was an ominous crowd,
and the dreary silence was now and then broken by a distant sound of
yells and cries, that struck terror into the hearts of the Parisians.
It was a deserted by-street overlooked by some shut-up warehouses, and
from the cellar of one of these a young man crept up on to the pathway.
His dress had once been beautiful, but it was torn and soiled; his face
was beautiful still, but it was marred by the hideous eagerness of a
face on which famine has laid her hand--he was starving. As this man
came out from the warehouse, another man came down the street. His dress
was not beautiful, neither was he. There was a red look about him--he
wore a red flannel cap, tricolor ribbons, and had something red upon his
hands, which was neither ribbon nor flannel. He also looked hungry; but
it was not for food. The other stopped when he saw him, and pulled
something from his pocket. It was a watch, a repeater, in a gold
filigree case of exquisite workmanship, with raised figures depicting
the loves of an Arcadian shepherd and shepherdess; and, as it lay on the
white hand of its owner, it bore an evanescent fragrance that seemed to
recall scenes as beautiful and as completely past as the days of
pastoral perfection, when--
"All the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue."
The young man held it up to the other and spoke.
"It is my mother's," he said, with an appealing glance of violet eyes;
"I would not part with it, but that I am starving. Will you get me
food?"
"You are hiding?" said he of the red cap.
"Is that a crime in these days?" said the other, with a smile that would
in other days have been irresistible.
The man took the watch, shaded the donor's beautiful face with a rough
red cap and tricolor ribbon, and bade him follow him. He, who had but
lately come to Paris, dragged his exhausted body after his conductor,
hardly noticed the crowds in the streets, the signs by which the man got
free passage for them both, or their entrance by a little side-door into
a large dark building, and never knew till he was delivered to one of
the gaolers that he had been led into the prison of the Abbaye. Then
the wretch tore the cap of liberty from his victim's head, and pointed
to him with a fierce laugh.
"He wants food, this aristocrat. He shall not wait long--there is a
feast in the court below, which he shall join presently. See to it,
Antoine! and you _Monsieur_, _Mons-ieur_! listen to the banqueters."
He ceased, and in the silence yells and cries from a court below came up
like some horrid answer to imprecation.
The man continued---
"He has paid for his admission, this Monsieur. It belonged to Madame his
mother. Behold!"
He held the watch above his head, and dashed it with insane fury on the
ground, and bidding the gaoler see to his prisoner, rushed away to the
court below.
The prisoner needed some attention. Weakness and fasting and horror had
overpowered a delicate body and a sensitive mind, and he lay senseless
by the shattered relic of happier times. Antoine the gaoler (a
weak-minded man, whom circumstances had made cruel), looked at him with
indifference while the Jacobin remained in the place, and with
half-suppressed pity when he had gone. The place where he lay was a hall
or passage in the prison, into which several cells opened, and a number
of the prisoners were gathered together at one end of it. One of them
had watched the proceedings of the Jacobin and his victim with profound
interest, and now advanced to where the poor youth lay. He was a priest,
and though thirteen years had passed over his head since we saw him in
the chateau, and though toil and suffering and anxiety had added the
traces of as many more: yet it would not have been difficult to
recognize the towering height, the candid face, and finally the large
thumb in the little book of ----, Monsieur the Preceptor, who had years
ago exchanged his old position for a parochial cure. He strode up to the
gaoler (whose head came a little above the priest's elbow), and drawing
him aside, asked with his old abruptness, "Who is this?"
"It is the Vicomte de B----. I know his face. He has escaped the
commissaires for some days."
"I thought so. Is his name on the registers?"
"No. He escaped arrest, and has just been brought in as you saw."
"Antoine," said the Priest, in a low voice, and with a gaze that seemed
to pierce the soul of the weak little gaoler; "Antoine, when you were a
shoemaker in the Rue de la Croix, in two or three hard winters I think
you found me a friend."
"Oh! Monsieur le Cure," said Antoine, writhing; "if Monsieur le Cure
would believe that if I could save his life! but--"
"Pshaw!" said the Priest, "it is not for myself, but for this boy. You
must save him, Antoine. Hear me, you _must_. Take him now to one of the
lower cells and hide him. You risk nothing. His name is not on the
prison register. He will not be called, he will not be missed; that
fanatic will think that he has perished with the rest of us;" (Antoine
shuddered, though the priest did not move a muscle;) "and when this mad
fever has subsided and order is restored, he will reward you. And
Antoine--"
Here the Priest pocketed his book and somewhat awkwardly with his huge
hands unfastened the left side of his cassock, and tore the silk from
the lining. Monsieur the Cure's cassock seemed a cabinet of oddities.
First he pulled from this ingenious hiding-place a crucifix, which he
replaced; then a knot of white ribbon which he also restored; and
finally a tiny pocket or bag of what had been cream-colored satin
embroidered with small bunches of heartsease, and which was aromatic
with otto of roses. Awkwardly, and somewhat slowly he drew out of this a
small locket, in the center of which was some unreadable legend in
cabalistic looking character, and which blazed with the finest diamonds.
Heaven alone knows the secret of that gem, or the struggle with which
the Priest yielded it. He put it into Antoine's hand, talking as he did
so, partly to himself and partly to the gaoler.
"We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry
nothing out. The diamonds are of the finest, Antoine, and will sell for
much. The blessing of a dying priest upon you if you do kindly, and his
curse if you do ill to his poor child, whose home was my home in better
days. And for the locket,--it is but a remembrance, and to remember is
not difficult!"
As the last observation was not addressed to Antoine, so also he did not
hear it. He was discontentedly watching the body of the Viscount, whom
he consented to help, but with genuine weak-mindedness consented
ungraciously.
"How am I to get him there? Monsieur le Cure sees that he cannot stand
upon his feet!"
Monsieur le Cure smiled, and stooping, picked his old pupil up in his
arms as if he had been a baby, and bore him to one of the doors.
"You must come no further," said Antoine hastily.
"Ingrate!" muttered the priest in momentary anger, and than ashamed, he
crossed himself and pressing the young nobleman to his bosom with the
last gush of earthly affection that he was to feel, he kissed his
senseless face, spoke a benediction to ears that could not hear it, and
laid his burden down.
"God the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost, be with thee now and in
the dread hour of death. Adieu! we shall meet hereafter."
The look of pity, the yearning of rekindled love, the struggle of
silenced memories passed from his face and left a shining
calm--foretaste of the perpetual Light and the eternal Rest.
Before he reached the other prisoners, the large thumb had found its old
place in the little book, the lips formed the old old words; but it
might almost have been said of him already, that "his spirit was with
the God who gave it."
As for Monsieur the Viscount, it was perhaps well that he was not too
sensible of his position, for Antoine got him down the flight of stone
steps that led to the cell by the simple process of dragging him by the
heels. After a similar fashion he crossed the floor, and was deposited
on a pallet; the gaoler then emptied a broken pitcher of water over his
face, and locking the door securely, hurried back to his charge.
When Monsieur the Viscount came to his senses he raised himself and
looked round his new abode. It was a small stone cell; it was
underground, with a little grated window at the top that seemed to be
level with the court; there was a pallet--painfully pressed and worn,--a
chair, a stone on which stood a plate and broken pitcher, and in one
corner a huge bundle of firewood which mocked a place where there was no
fire. Stones by lay scattered about, the walls were black, and in the
far dark corners the wet oozed out and trickled slowly down, and lizards
and other reptiles crawled up.
I suppose that the first object that attracts the hopes of a new
prisoner is the window of his cell, and to this, despite his weakness,
Monsieur the Viscount crept. It afforded him little satisfaction. It was
too high in the cell for him to reach it, too low in the prison to
command any view, and was securely grated with iron. Then he examined
the walls, but not a stone was loose. As he did so, his eye fell upon
the floor, and he noticed that two of the stones that lay about had been
raised up by some one and a third laid upon the top. It looked like
child's play, and Monsieur the Viscount kicked it down, and then he saw
that underneath it there was a pellet of paper roughly rolled together.
Evidently it was something left by the former occupant of the cell for
his successor. Perhaps he had begun some plan for getting away which he
had not had time to perfect on his own account. Perhaps--but by this
time the paper was spread out, and Monsieur the Viscount read the
writing. The paper was old and yellow. It was the fly leaf torn out of a
little book and it was written in black chalk, the words--
"_Souvenez-vous du Sauveur._"
(Remember the Saviour.)
He turned it over, he turned it back again; there was no other mark;
there was nothing more; and Monsieur the Viscount did not conceal it
from himself that he was disappointed. How could it be otherwise? He had
been bred in ease and luxury, and surrounded with everything that could
make life beautiful; while ugliness, and want, and sickness, and all
that make life miserable, had been kept, as far as they can be kept,
from the precincts of the beautiful chateau which was his home. What
were the _consolations_ of religion to him? They are offered to those,
(and to those only) who need them. They were to Monsieur the Viscount
what the Crucified Christ was to the Greeks of old--foolishness.
He put the paper in his pocket and lay down again, feeling it the
crowning disappointment of what he had lately suffered. Presently,
Antoine came with some food; it was not dainty, but Monsieur the
Viscount devoured it like a famished hound, and then made inquiries as
to how he came and how long he had been there. When the gaoler began to
describe him whom he called the Cure, Monsieur the Viscount's attention
quickened into eagerness, an eagerness deepened by the tender interest
that always hangs round the names of those whom we have known in happier
and younger days. The happy memories recalled by hearing of his old
tutor seemed to blot out his present misfortunes. With French
excitability, he laughed and wept alternately.
"As burly as ever, you say? The little book? I remember it, it was his
breviary. Ah! it is he. It is Monsieur the Preceptor, whom I have not
seen for years. Take me to him, bring him here, let me see him!"
But Monsieur the Preceptor was in Paradise.
That first night of Monsieur the Viscount's imprisonment was a terrible
one. The bitter chill of a Parisian autumn, the gnawings of
half-satisfied hunger, the thick walls that shut out all hope of escape
but did not exclude those fearful cries that lasted with few intervals
throughout the night, made it like some hideous dream. At last the
morning broke; at half-past two o'clock, some members of the _commune_
presented themselves in the hall of the National Assembly with the
significant announcement: "The prisons are empty!" and Antoine, who had
been quaking for hours, took courage, and went with a half loaf of bread
and a pitcher of water to the cell that was not "empty." He found his
prisoner struggling with a knot of white ribbon, which he was trying to
fasten in his hair. One glance at his face told all.
"It is the fever," said Antoine; and he put down the bread and water and
fetched an old blanket and a pillow; and that day and for many days, the
gaoler hung above his prisoner's pallet with the tenderness of a woman.
Was he haunted by the vision of a burly figure that had bent over his
own sick bed in the Rue de la Croix? Did the voice (once so familiar in
counsel and benediction!) echo still in his ears?
"_The blessing of a dying priest upon you if you do well, and his curse
if you do ill to this poor child, whose home was my home in better
days._"
Be this as it may, Antoine tended his patient with all the constancy
compatible with keeping his presence in the prison a secret; and it was
not till the crisis was safely past, that he began to visit the cell
less frequently, and re-assumed the harsh manners which he held to befit
his office.
Monsieur the Viscount's mind rambled much in his illness. He called for
his mother, who had long been dead. He fancied himself in his own
chateau. He thought that all his servants stood in a body before him,
but that not one would move to wait on him. He thought that he had
abundance of the most tempting food and cooling drinks, but placed just
beyond his reach. He thought that he saw two lights like stars near
together, which were close to the ground, and kept appearing and then
vanishing away. In time he became more sensible; the chateau melted into
the stern reality of his prison walls; the delicate food became bread
and water; the servants disappeared like spectres; but in the empty
cells, in the dark corners near the floor, he still fancied that he saw
two sparks of light coming and going, appearing and then vanishing away.
He watched them till his giddy head would bear it no longer, and he
closed his eyes and slept. When he awoke he was much better, but when he
raised himself and turned towards the stone--there, by the bread and the
broken pitcher, sat a dirty, ugly, wrinkled toad gazing at him, Monsieur
the Viscount, with eyes of yellow fire.
Monsieur the Viscount had long ago forgotten the toad which had alarmed
his childhood; but his national dislike to that animal had not been
lessened by years, and the toad of the prison seemed likely to fare no
better than the toad of the chateau. He dragged himself from his pallet,
and took up one of the large damp stones which lay about the floor of
the cell, to throw at the intruder. He expected that when he approached
it, the toad would crawl away, and that he could throw the stone after
it; but to his surprise, the beast sat quite unmoved, looking at him
with calm shining eyes, and somehow or other, Monsieur the Viscount
lacked strength or heart to kill it. He stood doubtful for a moment, and
then a sudden feeling of weakness obliged him to drop the stone, and sit
down, while tears sprang to his eyes with a sense of his helplessness.
"Why should I kill it?" he said bitterly. "The beast will live and grow
fat upon this damp and loathsomeness, long after they have put an end to
my feeble life. It shall remain. The cell is not big, but it is big
enough for us both. However large be the rooms a man builds himself to
live in, it needs but little space in which to die!"
So Monsieur the Viscount dragged his pallet away from the toad, placed
another stone by it, and removed the pitcher; and then, wearied with his
efforts, lay down and slept heavily.
When he awoke, on the new stone by the pitcher was the toad, staring
full at him with topaz eyes. He lay still this time and did not move,
for the animal showed no intention of spitting, and he was puzzled by
its tameness.
"It seems to like the sight of a man," he thought. "Is it possible that
any former inmate of this wretched prison can have amused his solitude
by making a pet of such a creature? and if there were such a man, where
is he now?"
Henceforward, sleeping or waking, whenever Monsieur the Viscount lay
down upon his pallet, the toad crawled up on to the stone, and kept
watch over him with shining lustrous eyes; but whenever there was a
sound of the key grating in the lock, and the gaoler coming his rounds,
away crept the toad, and was quickly lost in the dark corners of the
room. When the man was gone, it returned to its place, and Monsieur the
Viscount would talk to it, as he lay on his pallet.
"Ah! Monsieur Crapaud," he would say with mournful pleasantry, "without
doubt you have had a master, and a kind one; but tell me who was he, and
where is he now? Was he old or young, and was it in the last stage of
maddening loneliness that he made friends with such a creature as you?"
Monsieur Crapaud looked very intelligent, but he made no reply, and
Monsieur the Viscount had recourse to Antoine.
"Who was in this cell before me?" he asked at the gaoler's next visit.
Antoine's face clouded. "Monsieur le Cure had this room. My orders were
that he was to be imprisoned 'in secret.'"
Monsieur le Cure had this room. There was a revelation in those words.
It was all explained now. The priest had always had a love for animals
(and for ugly, common animals) which his pupil had by no means shared.
His room at the chateau had been little less than a menagerie. He had
even kept a glass beehive there, which communicated with a hole in the
window through which the bees flew in and out, and he would stand for
hours with his thumb in the breviary, watching the labors of his pets.
And this also had been his room! This dark, damp cell. Here, breviary in
hand, he had stood, and lain, and knelt. Here, in this miserable prison,
he had found something to love, and on which to expend the rare
intelligence and benevolence of his nature. Here, finally, in the last
hours of his life, he had written on the fly-leaf of his prayer-book
something to comfort his successor, and "being dead yet spoke" the words
of consolation which he had administered in his lifetime. Monsieur the
Viscount read that paper now with different feelings.
There is perhaps no argument so strong, and no virtue that so commands
the respect of young men, as consistency. Monsieur the Preceptor's
lifelong counsel and example would have done less for his pupil than was
effected by the knowledge of his consistent career, now that it was
past. It was not the nobility of the priest's principles that awoke in
Monsieur the Viscount a desire to imitate his religious example, but the
fact that he had applied them to his own life, not only in the time of
wealth, but in the time of tribulation and in the hour of death. All
that high-strung piety--that life of prayer--those unswerving
admonitions to consider the vanity of earthly treasures, and to prepare
for death--which had sounded so unreal amidst the perfumed elegancies of
the chateau, came back now with a reality gained from experiment. The
daily life of self-denial, the conversation garnished from Scripture and
from the Fathers, had not, after all, been mere priestly affectations.
In no symbolic manner, but, literally, he had "watched for the coming of
his Lord," and "taken up the cross daily;" and so, when the cross was
laid on him, and when the voice spoke which must speak to all, "The
Master is come, and calleth for thee," he bore the burden and obeyed the
summons unmoved.
_Unmoved!_--this was the fact that struck deep into the heart of
Monsieur the Viscount, as he listened to Antoine's account of the Cure's
imprisonment. What had astonished and overpowered his own undisciplined
nature had not disturbed Monsieur the Preceptor. He had prayed in the
chateau--he prayed in the prison. He had often spoken in the chateau of
the softening and comforting influences of communion with the lower
animals and with nature, and in the uncertainty of imprisonment he had
tamed a toad. "None of these things had moved him," and in a storm of
grief and admiration, Monsieur the Viscount bewailed the memory of his
tutor.
"If he had only lived to teach me!"
But he was dead, and there was nothing for Monsieur the Viscount but to
make the most of his example. This was not so easy to follow as he
imagined. Things seemed to be different with him to what they had been
with Monsieur the Preceptor. He had no lofty meditations, no ardent
prayers, and calm and peace seemed more distant than ever. Monsieur the
Viscount met, in short, with all those difficulties that the soul must
meet with, which, in a moment of enthusiasm, has resolved upon a higher
and a better way of life, and in moments of depression is perpetually
tempted to forego that resolution. His prison life was, however, a
pretty severe discipline, and he held on with struggles and prayers; and
so, little by little, and day by day, as the time of his imprisonment
went by, the consolations of religion became a daily strength against
the fretfulness of imperious temper, the sickness of hope deferred, and
the dark suggestions of despair.
The term of his imprisonment was a long one. Many prisoners came and
went within the walls of the Abbaye, but Monsieur the Viscount still
remained in his cell: indeed, he would have gained little by leaving it
if he could have done so, as he would almost certainly have been
retaken. As it was, Antoine on more than one occasion concealed him
behind the bundles of firewood, and once or twice he narrowly escaped
detection by less friendly officials. There were times when the
guillotine seemed to him almost better than this long suspense: but
while other heads passed to the block, his remained on his shoulders;
and so weeks and even months went by. And during all this time, sleeping
or waking, whenever he lay down upon his pallet, the toad crept up on to
the stone, and kept watch over him with lustrous eyes.
Monsieur the Viscount hardly acknowledged to himself the affection with
which he came to regard this ugly and despicable animal. The greater
part of his regard for it he believed to be due to its connection with
his tutor, and the rest he set down to the score of his own humanity,
and took credit to himself accordingly; whereas in truth Monsieur
Crapaud was of incalculable service to his new master, who would lie and
chatter to him for hours, and almost forget his present discomfort in
recalling past happiness, as he described the chateau, the gardens, the
burly tutor, and beautiful Madame, or laughed over his childish
remembrances of the toad's teeth in Claude Mignon's pocket; whilst
Monsieur Crapaud sat well-bred and silent, with a world of comprehension
in his fiery eyes. Whoever thinks this puerile must remember that my
hero was a Frenchman, and a young Frenchman, with a prescriptive right
to chatter for chattering's sake, and also that he had not a very highly
cultivated mind of his own to converse with, even if the most highly
cultivated intellect is ever a reliable resource against the terrors of
solitary confinement.
Foolish or wise, however, Monsieur the Viscount's attachment
strengthened daily; and one day something happened which showed his pet
in a new light, and afforded him fresh amusement.
The prison was much infested with certain large black spiders, which
crawled about the floor and walls; and, as Monsieur the Viscount was
lying on his pallet, he saw one of these scramble up and over the stone
on which sat Monsieur Crapaud. That good gentleman, whose eyes, till
then, had been fixed as usual on his master, now turned his attention to
the intruder. The spider, as if conscious of danger, had suddenly
stopped still. Monsieur Crapaud gazed at it intently with his beautiful
eyes, and bent himself slightly forward. So they remained for some
seconds, then the spider turned round, and began suddenly to scramble
away. At this instant Monsieur the Viscount saw his friend's eyes gleam
with an intenser fire, his head was jerked forwards; it almost seemed as
if something had been projected from his mouth, and drawn back again
with the rapidity of lightning. Then Monsieur Crapaud resumed his
position, drew in his head, and gazed mildly and sedately before him;
_but the spider was nowhere to be seen_.
Monsieur the Viscount burst into a loud laugh.
"Eh, well! Monsieur," said he, "but this is not well-bred on your part.
Who gave you leave to eat my spiders, and to bolt them in such an
unmannerly way, moreover?"
In spite of this reproof Monsieur Crapaud looked in no way ashamed of
himself, and I regret to state that hence-forward (with the partial
humaneness of mankind in general), Monsieur the Viscount amused himself
by catching the insects (which were only too plentiful) in an old
oyster-shell, and setting them at liberty on the stone for the benefit
of his friend. As for him, all appeared to be fish that came to his
net--spiders and beetles, slugs and snails from the damp corners,
flies, and wood-lice found on turning up the large stone, disappeared
one after the other. The wood-lice were an especial amusement: when
Monsieur the Viscount touched them, they shut up into tight little
balls, and in this condition he removed them to the stone, and placed
them like marbles in a row, Monsieur Crapaud watching the proceeding
with rapt attention. After awhile the balls would slowly open and begin
to crawl away; but he was a very active wood-louse indeed who escaped
the suction of Monsieur Crapaud's tongue, as his eyes glowing with eager
enjoyment, he bolted one after another, and Monsieur the Viscount
clapped his hands and applauded.
The grated window was a fine field for spiders and other insects, and by
piling up stones on the floor, Monsieur the Viscount contrived to
scramble up to it, and fill his friend's oyster-shell with the prey.
One day, about a year and nine months after his first arrival at the
prison, he climbed to the embrasure of the window, as usual,
oyster-shell in hand. He always chose a time for this when he knew that
the court would most probably be deserted, to avoid the danger of being
recognized through the grating. He was therefore, not a little startled
at being disturbed in his capture of a fat black spider by a sound of
something bumping against the iron bars. On looking up, he saw that a
string was dangling before the window with something attached to the end
of it. He drew it in, and, as he did so, he fancied that he heard a
distant sound of voices and clapped hands, as if from some window above.
He proceeded to examine his prize, and found that it was a little round
pincushion of sand, such as women use to polish their needles with, and
that, apparently, it was used as a make-weight to ensure the steady
descent of a neat little letter that was tied beside it, in company with
a small lead pencil. The letter was directed to "_The prisoner who finds
this._" Monsieur the Viscount opened it at once. This was the letter:
"_In prison, 24th Prairial, year 2._
"_Fellow-sufferer, who are you? how long have you been
imprisoned? Be good enough to answer._"
Monsieur the Viscount hesitated for a moment, and then determined to
risk all. He tore off a bit of the paper, and with the little pencil
hurriedly wrote this reply:--
"_In secret, June 12, 1794._
"_Louis Archambaud Jean-Marie Arnaud, Vicomte de B. supposed
to have perished in the massacres of September, 1792. Keep
my secret. I have been imprisoned a year and nine months.
Who are you? how long have you been here?_"
The letter was drawn up, and he watched anxiously for the reply. It
came, and with it some sheets of blank paper.
"_Monsieur,--We have the honor to reply to your inquiries
and thank you for your frankness. Henri Edouard Clermont,
Baron de St. Claire. Valerie de St. Claire. We have been
here but two days. Accept our sympathy for your
misfortunes._"
Four words in this note seized at once upon Monsieur the Viscount's
interest--_Valerie de St. Claire_:--and for some reasons which I do not
pretend to explain, he decided that it was she who was the author of
these epistles, and the demon of curiosity forthwith took possession of
his mind. Who was she? was she old or young. And in which relation did
she stand to Monsieur le Baron--that of wife, of sister, or of daughter?
And from some equally inexplicable cause Monsieur the Viscount
determined in his own mind that it was the latter. To make assurance
doubly sure, however, he laid a trap to discover the real state of the
case. He wrote a letter of thanks and sympathy, expressed with all the
delicate chivalrous politeness of a nobleman of the old _regime_, and
addressed it to _Madame la Baronne_. The plan succeeded. The next note
he received contained these sentences:--"_I am not the Baroness. Madame
my mother is, alas! dead. I and my father are alone. He is ill; but
thanks you, Monsieur, for your letters, which relieve the_ ennui _of
imprisonment. Are you alone?_"
Monsieur the Viscount, as in duty bound, relieved the ennui of the
Baron's captivity by another epistle. Before answering the last
question, he turned round involuntarily and looked to where Monsieur
Crapaud sat by the broken pitcher. The beautiful eyes were turned
towards him, and Monsieur the Viscount took up his pencil, and wrote
hastily, "_I am not alone--I have a friend._"
Henceforward the oyster-shell took a long time to fill, and patience
seemed a harder virtue than ever. Perhaps the last fact had something to
do with the rapid decline of Monsieur the Viscount's health. He became
paler and weaker, and more fretful. His prayers were accompanied by
greater mental struggles, and watered with more tears. He was, however,
most positive in his assurances to Monsieur Crapaud that he knew the
exact nature and cause of the malady that was consuming him. It
resulted, he said, from the noxious and unwholesome condition of his
cell; and he would entreat Antoine to have it swept out. After some
difficulty the gaoler consented.
It was nearly a month since Monsieur the Viscount had first been
startled by the appearance of the little pincushion. The stock of paper
had long been exhausted. He had torn up his cambric ruffles to write
upon, and Mademoiselle de St. Claire had made havoc of her
pocket-handkerchiefs for the same purpose. The Viscount was feebler than
ever, and Antoine became alarmed. The cell should be swept out the next
morning. He would come himself, he said, and bring another man out of
the town with him to help him, for the work was heavy, and he had a
touch of rheumatism. The man was a stupid fellow from the country, who
had only been a week in Paris; he had never heard of the Viscount, and
Antoine would tell him that the prisoner was a certain young lawyer who
had really died of fever in prison the day before. Monsieur the Viscount
thanked him; and it was not till the next morning arrived, and he was
expecting them every moment, that Monsieur the Viscount remembered the
toad, and that he would without doubt be swept away with the rest in
the general clearance. At first he thought that he would beg them to
leave it, but some knowledge of the petty insults which that class of
men heaped upon their prisoners made him feel that this would probably
be only an additional reason for their taking the animal away. There was
no place to hide it in, for they would go all round the room;
unless--unless Monsieur the Viscount took it up in his hand. And this
was just what he objected to do. All his old feelings of repugnance came
back, he had not even got gloves on; his long white hands were bare, he
could not touch a toad. It was true that the beast had amused him, and
that he had chatted to it; but after all, this was a piece of childish
folly--an unmanly way, to say the least, of relieving the tedium of
captivity. What was Monsieur Crapaud but a very ugly (and most people
said a venomous) reptile? To what a folly he had been condescending!
With these thoughts, Monsieur the Viscount steeled himself against the
glances of his topaz-eyed friend, and when the steps of thee men were
heard upon the stairs, he did not move from the window where he had
placed himself, with his back to the stone.
The steps came nearer and nearer, Monsieur the Viscount began to
whistle;--the key was rattled into the lock, and Monsieur the Viscount
heard a bit of bread fall, as the toad hastily descended to hide itself
as usual in the corners. In a moment his resolution was gone; another
second, and it would be too late. He dashed after the creature, picked
it up, and when the men came in he was standing with his hands behind
him, in which Monsieur Crapaud was quietly and safely seated.
The room was swept, and Antoine was preparing to go, when the other, who
had been eyeing the prisoner suspiciously, stopped and said with a sharp
sneer, "Does the citizen always preserve that position?"
"Not he," said the gaoler, good-naturedly. "He spends most of his time
in bed, which saves his legs. Come along Francois."
"I shall not come," said the other, obstinately. "Let the citizen show
me his hands."
"Plague take you!" said Antoine, in a whisper. "What sulky fit
possesses you, my comrade! Let the poor wretch alone. What wouldst thou
with his hands? Wait a little, and thou shalt have his head."
"We should have few heads or prisoners either, if thou hadst the care of
them," said Francois sharply. "I say that the prisoner secretes
something, and that I will see it. Show your hands, dog of an
aristocrat!"
Monsieur the Viscount set his teeth to keep himself from speaking, and
held out his hands in silence, toad and all.
Both the men started back with an exclamation, and Francois got behind
his comrade, and swore over his shoulder.
Monsieur the Viscount stood upright and still, with a smile on his white
face. "Behold, citizen, what I secrete, and what I desire to keep.
Behold all that I have left to secrete or to desire! There is nothing
more."
"Throw it down!" screamed Francois; "many a witch has been burnt for
less--throw it down."
The color began to flood over Monsieur the Viscount's face; but still he
spoke gently, and with bated breath. "If you wish me to suffer, citizen,
let this be my witness that I have suffered. I must be very friendless
to desire such a friend. I must be brought very low to ask such a favor.
Let the Republic give me this."
"The Republic has one safe rule for aristocrats," said the other; "she
gives them nothing but their keep till she pays for their shaving--once
for all. She gave one of these dogs a few rags to dress a wound on his
back with, and he made a rope of his dressings, and let himself down
from the window. We will have no more such games. You may be training
the beast to spit poison at good citizens. Throw it down and kill it."
Monsieur the Viscount made no reply. His hands had moved towards his
breast, against which he was holding his golden-eyed friend. There are
times in life when the brute creation contrasts favorably with the lords
thereof, and this was one of them. It was hard to part just now.
Antoine, who had been internally cursing his own folly in bringing such
a companion into the cell, now interfered. "If you are going to stay
here to be bitten or spit at, Francois, my friend," said he, "I am not.
Thou art zealous, my comrade, but dull as an owl. The Republic is
far-sighted in her wisdom beyond thy coarse ideas, and has more ways of
taking their heads from these aristocrats than one. Dost thou not see?"
And he tapped his forehead significantly, and looked at the prisoner;
and so, between talking and pushing, got his sulky companion out of the
cell, and locked the door after them.
"And so, my friend--my friend!" said Monsieur the Viscount, tenderly,
"we are safe once more; but it will not be for long, my Crapaud.
Something tells me that I cannot much longer be overlooked. A little
while, and I shall be gone; and thou wilt have, perchance, another
master, when I am summoned before mine."
Monsieur the Viscount's misgivings were just. Francois, on whose
stupidity Antoine had relied, was (as is not uncommon with people stupid
in other respects) just clever enough to be mischievous. Antoine's
evident alarm made him suspicious, and he began to talk about the
too-elegant-looking young lawyer who was imprisoned "in secret," and
permitted by the gaoler to keep venomous beasts. Antoine was examined
and committed to one of his own cells, and Monsieur the Viscount was
summoned before the revolutionary tribunal.
There was little need even for the scanty inquiry that in those days
preceded sentence. In every line of his beautiful face, marred as it was
by sickness and suffering--in the unconquerable dignity, which dirt and
raggedness were powerless to hide, the fatal nobility of his birth and
breeding were betrayed. When he returned to the anteroom, he did not
positively know his fate; but in his mind there was a moral certainty
that left him no hope.
The room was filled with other prisoners awaiting trial; and as he
entered, his eyes wandered round it to see if there were any familiar
faces. They fell upon two figures standing with their backs to him--a
tall, fierce-looking man, who, despite his height and fierceness, had a
restless, nervous despondency expressed in all his movements; and a
young girl who leant on his arm as if for support, but whose steady
quietude gave her more the air of a supporter. Without seeing their
faces, and for no reasonable reason, Monsieur the Viscount decided with
himself that they were the Baron and his daughter, and he begged the man
who was conducting him, for a moment's delay. The man consented. France
was becoming sick of unmitigated carnage, and even the executioners
sometimes indulged in pity by way of a change.
As Monsieur the Viscount approached the two they turned round, and he
saw her face--a very fair and very resolute one, with ashen hair and
large eyes. In common with almost all the faces in that room, it was
blanched with suffering; and it is fair to say, in common with many of
them, it was pervaded by a lofty calm. Monsieur the Viscount never for
an instant doubted his own conviction; he drew near and said in a low
voice, "Mademoiselle de St. Claire!"
The Baron looked first fierce, and then alarmed. His daughter's face
illumined; she turned her large eyes on the speaker, and said simply,
"Monsieur le Vicomte?"
The Baron apologized, commiserated, and sat down on a seat near, with a
look of fretful despair; and his daughter and Monsieur the Viscount were
left standing together. Monsieur the Viscount desired to say a great
deal and could say very little. The moments went by and hardly a word
had been spoken.
Valerie asked if he knew his fate.
"I have not heard it," he said; "but I am morally certain. There can be
but one end in these days."
She sighed. "It is the same with us. And if you must suffer, Monsieur, I
wish that we may suffer together. It would comfort my father--and me."
Her composure vexed him. Just, too, when he was sensible that the desire
of life was making a few fierce struggles in his own breast.
"You seem to look forward to death with great cheerfulness,
Mademoiselle."
The large eyes were raised to him with a look of surprise at the
irritation of his tone.
"I think," she said gently, "that one does not look forward to, but
_beyond_ it." She stopped and hesitated, still watching his face, and
then spoke hurriedly and diffidently:--
"Monsieur, it seems impertinent to make such suggestions to you, who
have doubtless a full fund of consolation; but I remember, when a child,
going to hear the preaching of a monk who was famous for his eloquence.
He said that his text was from the Scriptures--it has been in my mind
all to-day--'_There the wicked cease from troubling, and there the weary
be at rest._' The man is becoming impatient. Adieu! Monsieur. A thousand
thanks and a thousand blessings."
She offered her cheek, on which there was not a ray of increased color,
and Monsieur the Viscount stooped and kissed it, with a thick mist
gathering in his eyes, through which he could not see her face.
"Adieu! Valerie!"
"Adieu! Louis!"
So they met, and so they parted; and as Monsieur the Viscount went back
to his prison, he flattered himself that the last link was broken for
him in the chain of earthly interests.
When he reached the cell he was tired, and lay down, and in a few
seconds a soft scrambling over the floor announced the return of
Monsieur Crapaud from his hiding place. With one wrinkled leg after
another he clambered on to the stone, and Monsieur the Viscount started
when he saw him.
"Friend Crapaud! I had actually forgotten thee. I fancied I had said
adieu for the last time;" and he gave a choked sigh, which Monsieur
Crapaud could not be expected to understand. In about five minutes he
sprang up suddenly. "Monsieur Crapaud, I have not long to live, and no
time must be lost in making my will." Monsieur Crapaud was too wise to
express any astonishment; and his master began to hunt for a
tidy-looking stone (paper and cambric were both at an end). They were
all rough and dirty; but necessity had made the Viscount inventive, and
he took a couple and rubbed them together till he had polished both.
Then he pulled out the little pencil, and for the next half hour wrote
busily. When it was done he lay down, and read it to his friend. This
was Monsieur the Viscount's last will and testament:--
"_To my successor in this cell._
"To you whom Providence has chosen to be the inheritor of my
sorrows and my captivity, I desire to make another bequest.
There is in this prison a toad. He was tamed by a man (peace
to his memory!) who tenanted this cell before me. He has
been my friend and companion for nearly two years of sad
imprisonment. He has sat by my bedside, fed from my hand,
and shared all my confidence. He is ugly, but he has
beautiful eyes; he is silent, but he is attentive; he is a
brute, but I wish the men of France were in this respect
more his superiors! He is very faithful. May you never have
a worse friend! He feeds upon insects, which I have been
accustomed to procure for him. Be kind to him; he will repay
it. Like other men, I bequeath what I would take with me if
I could.
"Fellow-sufferer, adieu! God comfort you as He has comforted
me! The sorrows of this life are sharp but short; the joys
of the next life are eternal. Think some times on him who
commends his friend to your pity, and himself to your
prayers.
"This is the last will and testament of Louis Archambaud
Jean-Marie Arnaud, Vicomte de B----."
Monsieur the Viscount's last will and testament was with difficulty
squeezed into the surface of the larger of the stones. Then he hid it
where the priest had hid his bequest long ago, and then lay down to
dream of Monsieur the Preceptor, and that they had met at last.