"Alas! full oft on Guilt's victorious car
The spoils of Virtue are in triumph borne,
While the fair captive, marked with many a scar,
In lone obscurity, oppressed, forlorn,
Resigns to tears her angel form."--BEATTIE.
A close prisoner in her own house, Madame de Fleury was now guarded by
men suddenly become soldiers, and sprung from the dregs of the people;
men of brutal manners, ferocious countenances, and more ferocious minds.
They seemed to delight in the insolent display of their newly-acquired
power. One of those men had formerly been convicted of some horrible
crime, and had been sent to the galleys by M. de Fleury. Revenge
actuated this wretch under the mask of patriotism, and he rejoiced in
seeing the wife of the man he hated a prisoner in his custody. Ignorant
of the facts, his associates were ready to believe him in the right, and
to join in the senseless cry against all who were their superiors in
fortune, birth, and education. This unfortunate lady was forbidden all
intercourse with her friends, and it was in vain she attempted to obtain
from her gaolers intelligence of what was passing in Paris.
"Tu verras--Tout va bien--Ca ira," were the only answers they deigned to
make; frequently they continued smoking their pipes in obdurate silence.
She occupied the back rooms of her house, because her guards apprehended
that she might from the front windows receive intelligence from her
friends. One morning she was awakened by an unusual noise in the
streets; and, upon her inquiring the occasion of it, her guards told her
she was welcome to go to the front windows and satisfy her curiosity. She
went, and saw an immense crowd of people surrounding a guillotine that
had been erected the preceding night. Madame de Fleury started back with
horror--her guards burst into an inhuman laugh, and asked whether her
curiosity was satisfied. She would have left the room; but it was now
their pleasure to detain her, and to force her to continue the whole day
in this apartment. When the guillotine began its work, they had even the
barbarity to drag her to the window, repeating, "It is there you ought to
be!--It is there your husband ought to be!--You are too happy, that your
husband is not there this moment. But he will be there--the law will
overtake him--he will be there in time--and you too!"
The mild fortitude of this innocent, benevolent woman made no impression
upon these cruel men. When at night they saw her kneeling at her
prayers, they taunted her with gross and impious mockery; and when she
sank to sleep, they would waken her by their loud and drunken orgies--if
she remonstrated, they answered, "The enemies of the constitution should
have no rest."
Madame de Fleury was not an enemy to any human being; she had never
interfered in politics; her life had been passed in domestic pleasures,
or employed for the good of her fellow-creatures. Even in this hour of
personal danger she thought of others more than of herself: she thought
of her husband, an exile in a foreign country, who might be reduced to
the utmost distress now that she was deprived of all means of remitting
him money. She thought of her friends, who, she knew, would exert
themselves to obtain her liberty, and whose zeal in her cause might
involve them and their families in distress. She thought of the good
Sister Frances, who had been exposed by her means to the unrelenting
persecution of the malignant and powerful Tracassier. She thought of her
poor little pupils, now thrown upon the world without a protector. Whilst
these ideas were revolving in her mind one night as she lay awake, she
heard the door of her chamber open softly, and a soldier, one of her
guards, with a light in his hand, entered; he came to the foot of her
bed, and, as she started up, laid his finger upon his lips.
"Don't make the least noise," said he in a whisper; "those without are
drunk, and asleep. Don't you know me?--don't you remember my face?"
"Not in the least; yet I have some recollection of your voice."
The man took off the bonnet-rouge--still she could not guess who he was.
"You never saw me in a uniform before nor without a black face."
She looked again, and recollected the smith to whom Maurice was bound
apprentice, and remembered his _patois_ accent.
"I remember you," said he, "at any rate; and your goodness to that poor
girl the day her arm was broken, and all your goodness to Maurice. But
I've no time for talking of that now--get up, wrap this great coat round
you--don't be in a hurry, but make no noise--and follow me."
She followed him; and he led her past the sleeping sentinels, opened a
back door into the garden, hurried her (almost carried her) across the
garden to a door at the furthest end of it, which opened into Les Champs
Elysees--"La voila!" cried he, pushing her through the half-opened door.
"God be praised!" answered a voice, which Madame de Fleury knew to be
Victoire's, whose arms were thrown round her with a transport of joy.
"Softly; she is not safe yet--wait till we get her home, Victoire," said
another voice, which she knew to be that of Maurice. He produced a dark
lantern, and guided Madame de Fleury across the Champs Elysees, and
across the bridge, and then through various by-streets, in perfect
silence, till they arrived safely at the house where Victoire's mother
lodged, and went up those very stairs which she had ascended in such
different circumstances several years before. The mother, who was
sitting up waiting most anxiously for the return of her children, clasped
her hands in an ecstasy when she saw them return with Madame de Fleury.
"Welcome, madame! Welcome, dear madame! but who would have thought of
seeing you here in such a way? Let her rest herself--let her rest; she
is quite overcome. Here, madame, can you sleep on this poor bed?"
"The very same bed you laid me upon the day my arm was broken," said
Victoire.
"Ay, Lord bless her!" said the mother; "and though it's seven good years
ago, it seemed but yesterday that I saw her sitting on that bed beside my
poor child looking like an angel. But let her rest, let her rest--we'll
not say a word more, only God bless her; thank Heaven, she's safe with us
at last!"
Madame de Fleury expressed unwillingness to stay with these good people,
lest she should expose them to danger; but they begged most earnestly
that she would remain with them without scruple.
"Surely, madame," said the mother, "you must think that we have some
remembrance of all you have done for us, and some touch of gratitude."
"And surely, madame, you can trust us, I hope," said Maurice.
"And surely you are not too proud to let us do something for you. The
lion was not too proud to be served by the poor little mouse," said
Victoire. "As to danger for us," continued she, "there can be none; for
Maurice and I have contrived a hiding-place for you, madame, that can
never be found out--let them come spying here as often as they please,
they will never find her out, will they, Maurice? Look, madame, into
this lumber-room; you see it seems to be quite full of wood for firing;
well, if you creep in behind, you can hide yourself quite snug in the
loft above, and here's a trap-door into the loft that nobody ever would
think of, for we have hung these old things from the top of it, and who
could guess it was a trap-door? So you see, dear madame, you may sleep
in peace here, and never fear for us."
Though but a girl of fourteen, Victoire showed at this time all the sense
and prudence of a woman of thirty. Gratitude seemed at once to develop
all the powers of her mind. It was she and Maurice who had prevailed
upon the smith to effect Madame de Fleury's escape from her own house.
She had invented, she had foreseen, she had arranged everything; she had
scarcely rested night or day since the imprisonment of her benefactress,
and now that her exertions had fully succeeded, her joy seemed to raise
her above all feeling of fatigue; she looked as fresh and moved as
briskly, her mother said, as if she were preparing to go to a ball.
"Ah! my child," said she, "your cousin Manon, who goes to those balls
every night, was never so happy as you are this minute."
But Victoire's happiness was not of long continuance; for the next day
they were alarmed by intelligence that Tracassier was enraged beyond
measure at Madame de Fleury's escape, that all his emissaries were at
work to discover her present hiding-place, that the houses of all the
parents and relations of her pupils were to be searched, and that the
most severe denunciations were issued against all by whom she should be
harboured. Manon was the person who gave this intelligence, but not with
any benevolent design; she first came to Victoire, to display her own
consequence; and to terrify her, she related all she knew from a
soldier's wife, who was M. Tracassier's mistress. Victoire had
sufficient command over herself to conceal from the inquisitive eyes of
Manon the agitation of her heart; she had also the prudence not to let
any one of her companions into her secret, though, when she saw their
anxiety, she was much tempted to relieve them, by the assurance that
Madame de Fleury was in safety. All the day was passed in apprehension.
Madame de Fleury never stirred from her place of concealment: as the
evening and the hour of the domiciliary visits approached, Victoire and
Maurice were alarmed by an unforeseen difficulty. Their mother, whose
health had been broken by hard work, in vain endeavoured to suppress her
terror at the thoughts of this domiciliary visit; she repeated
incessantly that she knew they should all be discovered, and that her
children would be dragged to the guillotine before her face. She was in
such a distracted state, that they dreaded she would, the moment she saw
the soldiers, reveal all she knew.
"If they question me, I shall not know what to answer," cried the
terrified woman. "What can I say?--What can I do?"
Reasoning, entreaties, all were vain; she was not in a condition to
understand, or even to listen to, anything that was said. In this
situation they were when the domiciliary visitors arrived--they heard the
noise of the soldiers' feet on the stairs--the poor woman sprang from the
arms of her children; but at the moment the door was opened, and she saw
the glittering of the bayonets, she fell at full length in a swoon on the
floor--fortunately before she had power to utter a syllable. The people
of the house knew, and said, that she was subject to fits on any sudden
alarm; so that her being affected in this manner did not appear
surprising. They threw her on a bed, whilst they proceeded to search the
house: her children stayed with her; and, wholly occupied in attending to
her, they were not exposed to the danger of betraying their anxiety about
Madame de Fleury. They trembled, however, from head to foot when they
heard one of the soldiers swear that all the wood in the lumber-room must
be pulled out, and that he would not leave the house till every stick was
moved; the sound of each log, as it was thrown out, was heard by
Victoire; her brother was now summoned to assist. How great was his
terror when one of the searchers looked up to the roof, as if expecting
to find a trap door; fortunately, however, he did not discover it.
Maurice, who had seized the light, contrived to throw the shadows so as
to deceive the eye. The soldiers at length retreated; and with
inexpressible satisfaction Maurice lighted them down stairs, and saw them
fairly out of the house. For some minutes after they were in safety, the
terrified mother, who had recovered her senses, could scarcely believe
that the danger was over. She embraced her children by turns with wild
transport; and with tears begged Madame de Fleury to forgive her
cowardice, and not to attribute it to ingratitude, or to suspect that she
had a bad heart. She protested that she was now become so courageous,
since she found that she had gone through this trial successfully, and
since she was sure that the hiding-place was really so secure, that she
should never be alarmed at any domiciliary visit in future. Madame de
Fleury, however, did not think it either just or expedient to put her
resolution to the trial. She determined to leave Paris; and, if
possible, to make her escape from France. The master of one of the Paris
diligences was brother to Francois, her footman: he was ready to assist
her at all hazards, and to convey her safely to Bourdeaux, if she could
disguise herself properly; and if she could obtain a pass from any friend
under a feigned name.
Victoire--the indefatigable Victoire--recollected that her friend Annette
had an aunt, who was nearly of Madame de Fleury's size, and who had just
obtained a pass to go to Bourdeaux, to visit some of her relations. The
pass was willingly given up to Madame de Fleury; and upon reading it over
it was found to answer tolerably well--the colour of the eyes and hair at
least would do; though the words _un nez gros_ were not precisely
descriptive of this lady's. Annette's mother, who had always worn the
provincial dress of Auvergne, furnished the high _cornette_, stiff stays,
bodice, &c.; and equipped in these, Madame de Fleury was so admirably
well disguised, that even Victoire declared she should scarcely have
known her. Money, that most necessary passport in all countries, was
still wanting: as seals had been put upon all Madame de Fleury's effects
the day she had been first imprisoned in her own house, she could not
save even her jewels. She had, however, one ring on her finger of some
value. How to dispose of it without exciting suspicion was the
difficulty. Babet, who was resolved to have her share in assisting her
benefactress, proposed to carry the ring to a _colporteur_--a pedlar, or
sort of travelling jeweller--who had come to lay in a stock of hardware
at Paris: he was related to one of Madame de Fleury's little pupils, and
readily disposed of the ring for her: she obtained at least two-thirds of
its value--a great deal in those times.
The proofs of integrity, attachment, and gratitude which she received in
these days of peril, from those whom she had obliged in her prosperity,
touched her generous heart so much, that she has often since declared she
could not regret having been reduced to distress. Before she quitted
Paris she wrote letters to her friends, recommending her pupils to their
protection; she left these letters in the care of Victoire, who to the
last moment followed her with anxious affection. She would have followed
her benefactress into exile, but that she was prevented by duty and
affection from leaving her mother, who was in declining health.
Madame de Fleury successfully made her escape from Paris. Some of the
municipal officers in the towns through which she passed on her road were
as severe as their ignorance would permit in scrutinising her passport.
It seldom happened that more than one of these petty committees of public
safety could read. One usually spelled out the passport as well as he
could, whilst the others smoked their pipes, and from time to time held a
light up to the lady's face to examine whether it agreed with the
description.
"Mais toi! tu n'as pas le nez gros!" said one of her judges to her. "Son
nez est assez gros, et c'est moi qui le dit," said another. The question
was put to the vote; and the man who had asserted what was contrary to
the evidence of his senses was so vehement in supporting his opinion,
that it was carried in spite of all that could be said against it. Madame
de Fleury was suffered to proceed on her journey. She reached Bordeaux
in safety. Her husband's friends--the good have always friends in
adversity--her husband's friends exerted themselves for her with the most
prudent zeal. She was soon provided with a sum of money sufficient for
her support for some time in England; and she safely reached that free
and happy country, which has been the refuge of so many illustrious
exiles.