so closely touched me another way that I could not refrain sighing, and
sometimes tears; and one time in particular it so affected me that I
could not conceal it from him; but when he saw tears run down my face,
there was no concealing the occasion from him; he was too importunate to
be denied in a thing of that moment; so I frankly answered, "It sensibly
affects me, my lord," said I, "that, whatever the merit of this little
creature may be, he must always have a bend on his arms. The disaster of
his birth will be always, not a blot only to his honour, but a bar to
his fortunes in the world. Our affection will be ever his affliction,
and his mother's crime be the son's reproach. The blot can never be
wiped out by the most glorious action; nay, if it lives to raise a
family," said I, "the infamy must descend even to its innocent
posterity."
He took the thought, and sometimes told me afterwards that it made a
deeper impression on him than he discovered to me at that time; but for
the present he put it off with telling me these things could not be
helped; that they served for a spur to the spirits of brave men,
inspired them with the principles of gallantry, and prompted them to
brave actions; that though it might be true that the mention of
illegitimacy might attend the name, yet that personal virtue placed a
man of honour above the reproach of his birth; that, as he had no share
in the offence, he would have no concern at the blot; when, having by
his own merit placed himself out of the reach of scandal, his fame
should drown the memory of his beginning; that as it was usual for men
of quality to make such little escapes, so the number of their natural
children were so great, and they generally took such good care of their
education, that some of the greatest men in the world had a bend in
their coats-of-arms, and that it was of no consequence to them,
especially when their fame began to rise upon the basis of their
acquired merit; and upon this he began to reckon up to me some of the
greatest families in France and in England also.
This carried off our discourse for a time; but I went farther with him
once, removing the discourse from the part attending our children to the
reproach which those children would be apt to throw upon us, their
originals; and when speaking a little too feelingly on the subject, he
began to receive the impression a little deeper than I wished he had
done. At last he told me I had almost acted the confessor to him; that I
might, perhaps, preach a more dangerous doctrine to him than we should
either of us like, or than I was aware of. "For, my dear," says he, "if
once we come to talk of repentance we must talk of parting."
If tears were in my eyes before, they flowed too fast now to be
restrained, and I gave him but too much satisfaction by my looks that I
had yet no reflections upon my mind strong enough to go that length, and
that I could no more think of parting than he could.
He said a great many kind things, which were great, like himself, and,
extenuating our crime, intimated to me that he could no more part with
me than I could with him; so we both, as I may say, even against our
light and against our conviction, concluded to sin on; indeed, his
affection to the child was one great tie to him, for he was extremely
fond of it.
The child lived to be a considerable man. He was first an officer of the
_Garde du Corps_ of France, and afterwards colonel of a regiment of
dragoons in Italy, and on many extraordinary occasions showed that he
was not unworthy such a father, but many ways deserving a legitimate
birth and a better mother; of which hereafter.
I think I may say now that I lived indeed like a queen; or, if you will
have me confess that my condition had still the reproach of a whore, I
may say I was, sure, the queen of whores; for no woman was ever more
valued or more caressed by a person of such quality only in the station
of a mistress. I had, indeed, one deficiency which women in such
circumstances seldom are chargeable with, namely, I craved nothing of
him, I never asked him for anything in my life, nor suffered myself to
be made use of, as is too much the custom of mistresses, to ask favours
for others. His bounty always prevented me in the first, and my strict
concealing myself in the last, which was no less to my convenience than
his.
The only favour I ever asked of him was for his gentleman, who he had
all along entrusted with the secret of our affair, and who had once so
much offended him by some omissions in his duty that he found it very
hard to make his peace. He came and laid his case before my woman Amy,
and begged her to speak to me to intercede for him, which I did, and on
my account he was received again and pardoned, for which the grateful
dog requited me by getting to bed to his benefactress, Amy, at which I
was very angry. But Amy generously acknowledged that it was her fault as
much as his; that she loved the fellow so much that she believed if he
had not asked her she should have asked him. I say, this pacified me,
and I only obtained of her that she should not let him know that I knew
it.
I might have interspersed this part of my story with a great many
pleasant parts and discourses which happened between my maid Amy and I,
but I omit them on account of my own story, which has been so
extraordinary. However, I must mention something as to Amy and her
gentleman.
I inquired of Amy upon what terms they came to be so intimate, but Amy
seemed backward to explain herself. I did not care to press her upon a
question of that nature, knowing that she might have answered my
question with a question, and have said, "Why, how did I and the prince
come to be so intimate?" So I left off farther inquiring into it, till,
after some time, she told it me all freely of her own accord, which, to
cut it short, amounted to no more than this, that, like mistress like
maid, as they had many leisure hours together below, while they waited
respectively when his lord and I were together above; I say, they could
hardly avoid the usual question one to another, namely, why might not
they do the same thing below that we did above?
On that account, indeed, as I said above, I could not find in my heart
to be angry with Amy. I was, indeed, afraid the girl would have been
with child too, but that did not happen, and so there was no hurt done;
for Amy had been hanselled before, as well as her mistress, and by the
same party too, as you have heard.
After I was up again, and my child provided with a good nurse, and,
withal, winter coming on, it was proper to think of coming to Paris
again, which I did; but as I had now a coach and horses, and some
servants to attend me, by my lord's allowance, I took the liberty to
have them come to Paris sometimes, and so to take a tour into the garden
of the Tuileries and the other pleasant places of the city. It happened
one day that my prince (if I may call him so) had a mind to give me some
diversion, and to take the air with me; but, that he might do it and not
be publicly known, he comes to me in a coach of the Count de ----, a
great officer of the court, attended by his liveries also; so that, in a
word, it was impossible to guess by the equipage who I was or who I
belonged to; also, that I might be the more effectually concealed, he
ordered me to be taken up at a mantua-maker's house, where he sometimes
came, whether upon other amours or not was no business of mine to
inquire. I knew nothing whither he intended to carry me; but when he was
in the coach with me, he told me he had ordered his servants to go to
court with me, and he would show me some of the _beau monde_. I told him
I cared not where I went while I had the honour to have him with me. So
he carried me to the fine palace of Meudon, where the Dauphin then was,
and where he had some particular intimacy with one of the Dauphin's
domestics, who procured a retreat for me in his lodgings while we
stayed there, which was three or four days.
While I was there the king happened to come thither from Versailles, and
making but a short stay, visited Madame the Dauphiness, who was then
living. The prince was here incognito, only because of his being with
me, and therefore, when he heard that the king was in the gardens, he
kept close within the lodgings; but the gentleman in whose lodgings we
were, with his lady and several others, went out to see the king, and I
had the honour to be asked to go with them.
After we had seen the king, who did not stay long in the gardens, we
walked up the broad terrace, and crossing the hall towards the great
staircase, I had a sight which confounded me at once, as I doubt not it
would have done to any woman in the world. The horse guards, or what
they call there the _gens d'armes_, had, upon some occasion, been either
upon duty or been reviewed, or something (I did not understand that
part) was the matter that occasioned their being there, I know not what;
but, walking in the guard-chamber, and with his jack-boots on, and the
whole habit of the troop, as it is worn when our horse guards are upon
duty, as they call it, at St. James's Park; I say, there, to my
inexpressible confusion, I saw Mr. ----, my first husband, the brewer.
I could not be deceived; I passed so near him that I almost brushed him
with my clothes, and looked him full in the face, but having my fan
before my face, so that he could not know me. However, I knew him
perfectly well, and I heard him speak, which was a second way of knowing
him. Besides being, you may be sure, astonished and surprised at such a
sight, I turned about after I had passed him some steps, and pretending
to ask the lady that was with me some questions, I stood as if I had
viewed the great hall, the outer guard-chamber, and some things; but I
did it to take a full view of his dress, that I might farther inform
myself.
While I stood thus amusing the lady that was with me with questions, he
walked, talking with another man of the same cloth, back again, just by
me; and to my particular satisfaction, or dissatisfaction--take it which
way you will--I heard him speak English, the other being, it seems, an
Englishman.
I then asked the lady some other questions. "Pray, madam," says I, "what
are these troopers here? Are they the king's guards?" "No," says she;
"they are the _gens d'armes_; a small detachment of them, I suppose,
attended the king to-day, but they are not his Majesty's ordinary
guard." Another lady that was with her said, "No, madam, it seems that
is not the case, for I heard them saying the _gens d'armes_ were here
to-day by special order, some of them being to march towards the Rhine,
and these attend for orders; but they go back to-morrow to Orleans,
where they are expected."
This satisfied me in part, but I found means after this to inquire whose
particular troop it was that the gentlemen that were here belonged to;
and with that I heard they would all be at Paris the week after.
Two days after this we returned for Paris, when I took occasion to speak
to my lord, that I heard the _gens d'armes_ were to be in the city the
next week, and that I should be charmed with seeing them march if they
came in a body. He was so obliging in such things that I need but just
name a thing of that kind and it was done; so he ordered his gentleman
(I should now call him Amy's gentleman) to get me a place in a certain
house, where I might see them march.
As he did not appear with me on this occasion, so I had the liberty of
taking my woman Amy with me, and stood where we were very well
accommodated for the observation which I was to make. I told Amy what I
had seen, and she was as forward to make the discovery as I was to have
her, and almost as much surprised at the thing itself. In a word, the
_gens d'armes_ entered the city, as was expected, and made a most
glorious show indeed, being new clothed and armed, and being to have
their standards blessed by the Archbishop of Paris. On this occasion
they indeed looked very gay; and as they marched very leisurely, I had
time to take as critical a view and make as nice a search among them as
I pleased. Here, in a particular rank, eminent for one monstrous-sized
man on the right; here, I say, I saw my gentleman again, and a very
handsome, jolly fellow he was, as any in the troop, though not so
monstrous large as that great one I speak of, who, it seems, was,
however, a gentleman of a good family in Gascony, and was called the
giant of Gascony.
It was a kind of a good fortune to us, among the other circumstances of
it, that something caused the troops to halt in their march a little
before that particular rank came right against that window which I stood
in, so that then we had occasion to take our full view of him at a small
distance, and so as not to doubt of his being the same person.
Amy, who thought she might, on many accounts, venture with more safety
to be particular than I could, asked her gentleman how a particular man,
who she saw there among the _gens d'armes_, might be inquired after and
found out; she having seen an Englishman riding there which was supposed
to be dead in England for several years before she came out of London
and that his wife had married again. It was a question the gentleman
did not well understand how to answer; but another person that stood by
told her, if she would tell him the gentleman's name, he would endeavour
to find him out for her, and asked jestingly if he was her lover. Amy
put that off with a laugh, but still continued her inquiry, and in such
a manner as the gentleman easily perceived she was in earnest; so he
left bantering, and asked her in what part of the troop he rode. She
foolishly told him his name, which she should not have done; and
pointing to the cornet that troop carried, which was not then quite out
of sight, she let him easily know whereabouts he rode, only she could
not name the captain. However, he gave her such directions afterwards
that, in short, Amy, who was an indefatigable girl, found him out. It
seems he had not changed his name, not supposing any inquiry would be
made after him here; but, I say, Amy found him out, and went boldly to
his quarters, asked for him, and he came out to her immediately.
I believe I was not more confounded at my first seeing him at Meudon
than he was at seeing Amy. He started and turned pale as death. Amy
believed if he had seen her at first, in any convenient place for so
villainous a purpose, he would have murdered her.
But he started, as I say above, and asked in English, with an
admiration, "What are you?" "Sir," says she, "don't you know me?"
"Yes," says he, "I knew you when you were alive; but what are you
now?--whether ghost or substance I know not." "Be not afraid, sir, of
that," says Amy; "I am the same Amy that I was in your service, and do
not speak to you now for any hurt, but that I saw you accidentally
yesterday ride among the soldiers; I thought you might be glad to hear
from your friends at London." "Well, Amy," says he then (having a little
recovered himself), "how does everybody do? What! is your mistress
here?" Thus they begun:--
_Amy._ My mistress, sir, alas! not the mistress you mean; poor
gentlewoman, you left her in a sad condition.
_Gent._ Why, that's true, Amy; but it could not be helped; I was in a
sad condition myself.
_Amy._ I believe so, indeed, sir, or else you had not gone away as you
did; for it was a very terrible condition you left them all in, that I
must say.
_Gent._ What did they do after I was gone?
_Amy._ Do, sir! Very miserably, you may be sure. How could it be
otherwise?
_Gent._ Well, that's true indeed; but you may tell me, Amy, what became
of them, if you please; for though I went so away, it was not because I
did not love them all very well, but because I could not bear to see the
poverty that was coming upon them, and which it was not in my power to
help. What could I do?
_Amy._ Nay, I believe so indeed; and I have heard my mistress say many
times she did not doubt but your affliction was as great as hers,
almost, wherever you were.
_Gent._ Why, did she believe I was alive, then?
_Amy._ Yes, sir; she always said she believed you were alive, because
she thought she should have heard something of you if you had been dead.
_Gent._ Ay, ay; my perplexity was very great indeed, or else I had never
gone away.
_Amy._ It was very cruel, though, to the poor lady, sir, my mistress;
she almost broke her heart for you at first, for fear of what might
befall you, and at last because she could not hear from you.
_Gent._ Alas, Amy! what could I do? Things were driven to the last
extremity before I went. I could have done nothing but help starve them
all if I had stayed; and, besides, I could not bear to see it.
_Amy._ You know, sir, I can say little to what passed before, but I am a
melancholy witness to the sad distresses of my poor mistress as long as
I stayed with her, and which would grieve your heart to hear them.
[Here she tells my whole story to the time that the parish took off one
of my children, and which she perceived very much affected him; and he
shook his head, and said some things very bitter when he heard of the
cruelty of his own relations to me.]
_Gent._ Well, Amy, I have heard enough so far. What did she do
afterwards?
_Amy._ I can't give you any farther account, sir; my mistress would not
let me stay with her any longer. She said she could neither pay me or
subsist me. I told her I would serve her without any wages, but I could
not live without victuals, you know; so I was forced to leave her, poor
lady, sore against my will; and I heard afterwards that the landlord
seized her goods, so she was, I suppose, turned out of doors; for as I
went by the door, about a month after, I saw the house shut up; and,
about a fortnight after that, I found there were workmen at work,
fitting it up, as I suppose, for a new tenant. But none of the
neighbours could tell me what was become of my poor mistress, only that
they said she was so poor that it was next to begging; that some of the
neighbouring gentlefolks had relieved her, or that else she must have
starved.
Then she went on, and told him that after that they never heard any more
of (me) her mistress, but that she had been seen once or twice in the
city very shabby and poor in clothes, and it was thought she worked with
her needle for her bread.
All this the jade said with so much cunning, and managed and humoured it
so well, and wiped her eyes and cried so artificially, that he took it
all as it was intended he should, and once or twice she saw tears in his
eyes too. He told her it was a moving, melancholy story, and it had
almost broke his heart at first, but that he was driven to the last
extremity, and could do nothing but stay and see them all starve, which
he could not bear the thoughts of, but should have pistolled himself if
any such thing had happened while he was there; that he left (me) his
wife all the money he had in the world but £25, which was as little as
he could take with him to seek his fortune in the world. He could not
doubt but that his relations, seeing they were all rich, would have
taken the poor children off, and not let them come to the parish; and
that his wife was young and handsome, and, he thought, might marry
again, perhaps, to her advantage, and for that very reason he never
wrote to her or let her know he was alive, that she might in a
reasonable term of years marry, and perhaps mend her fortunes; that he
resolved never to claim her, because he should rejoice to hear that she
had settled to her mind; and that he wished there had been a law made to
empower a woman to marry if her husband was not heard of in so long a
time, which time, he thought, should not be above four years, which was
long enough to send word in to a wife or family from any part of the
world.
Amy said she could say nothing to that but this, that she was satisfied
her mistress would marry nobody unless she had certain intelligence that
he had been dead from somebody that saw him buried. "But, alas!" says
Amy, "my mistress was reduced to such dismal circumstances that nobody
would be so foolish to think of her, unless it had been somebody to go
a-begging with her."
Amy then, seeing him so perfectly deluded, made a long and lamentable
outcry how she had been deluded away to marry a poor footman. "For he is
no worse or better," says she, "though he calls himself a lord's
gentleman. And here," says Amy, "he has dragged me over into a strange
country to make a beggar of me;" and then she falls a-howling again, and
snivelling, which, by the way, was all hypocrisy, but acted so to the
life as perfectly deceived him, and he gave entire credit to every word
of it.
"Why, Amy," says he, "you are very well dressed; you don't look as if
you were in danger of being a beggar." "Ay, hang 'em!" says Amy, "they
love to have fine clothes here, if they have never a smock under them.
But I love to have money in cash, rather than a chestful of fine
clothes. Besides, sir," says she, "most of the clothes I have were given
me in the last place I had, when I went away from my mistress."
Upon the whole of the discourse, Amy got out of him what condition he
was in and how he lived, upon her promise to him that if ever she came
to England, and should see her old mistress, she should not let her know
that he was alive. "Alas, sir!" says Amy, "I may never come to see
England again as long as I live; and if I should, it would be ten
thousand to one whether I shall see my old mistress, for how should I
know which way to look for her, or what part of England she may be
in?--not I," says she. "I don't so much as know how to inquire for her;
and if I should," says Amy, "ever be so happy as to see her, I would not
do her so much mischief as to tell her where you were, sir, unless she
was in a condition to help herself and you too." This farther deluded
him, and made him entirely open in his conversing with her. As to his
own circumstances, he told her she saw him in the highest preferment he
had arrived to, or was ever like to arrive to; for, having no friends or
acquaintance in France, and, which was worse, no money, he never
expected to rise; that he could have been made a lieutenant to a troop
of light horse but the week before, by the favour of an officer in the
_gens d'armes_ who was his friend, but that he must have found eight
thousand livres to have paid for it to the gentleman who possessed it,
and had leave given him to sell. "But where could I get eight thousand
livres," says he, "that have never been master of five hundred livres
ready money at a time since I came into France?"
"Oh dear, sir!" says Amy, "I am very sorry to hear you say so. I fancy
if you once got up to some preferment, you would think of my old
mistress again, and do something for her. Poor lady," says Amy, "she
wants it, to be sure;" and then she falls a-crying again. "It is a sad
thing indeed," says she, "that you should be so hard put to it for
money, when you had got a friend to recommend you, and should lose it
for want of money." "Ay, so it was, Amy, indeed," says he; "but what can
a stranger do that has neither money or friends?" Here Amy puts in again
on my account. "Well," says she, "my poor mistress has had the loss,
though she knows nothing of it. Oh dear! how happy it would have been!
To be sure, sir, you would have helped her all you could." "Ay," says
he, "Amy, so I would with all my heart; and even as I am, I would send
her some relief, if I thought she wanted it, only that then letting her
know I was alive might do her some prejudice, in case of her settling,
or marrying anybody."
"Alas," says Amy, "marry! Who will marry her in the poor condition she
is in?" And so their discourse ended for that time.
All this was mere talk on both sides, and words of course; for on
farther inquiry, Amy found that he had no such offer of a lieutenant's
commission, or anything like it; and that he rambled in his discourse
from one thing to another; but of that in its place.
You may be sure that this discourse, as Amy at first related it, was
moving to the last degree upon me, and I was once going to have sent him
the eight thousand livres to purchase the commission he had spoken of;
but as I knew his character better than anybody, I was willing to search
a little farther into it, and so I set Amy to inquire of some other of
the troop, to see what character he had, and whether there was anything
in the story of a lieutenant's commission or no.