My escape was nearer than I expected, and was forced upon me in a manner
I could never have foreseen.
Toward the middle of February, Mademoiselle Morel appeared often in
tears. Madame Perrier's coarse face was always overcast, and monsieur
seemed gloomy, too gloomy to retain even French politeness of manner
toward any of us. The household was under a cloud, but I could not
discover why. What little discipline and work there had been in the
school was quite at an end. Every one was left to do as she chose.
Early one morning, long before daybreak, I was startled out of my sleep
by a hurried knock at my door. I cried out, "Who is there?" and a
voice, indistinct with sobbing, replied, "C'est moi."
The "moi" proved to be Mademoiselle Morel. I opened the door for her,
and she appeared in her bonnet and walking-dress, carrying a lamp in her
hand, which lit up her weary and tear-stained face. She took a seat at
the foot of my bed, and buried her face in her handkerchief.
"Mademoiselle," she said, "here is a grand misfortune, a misfortune
without parallel. Monsieur and madame are gone."
"Gone!" I repeated; "where are they gone?"
"I do not know, mademoiselle," she answered; "I know nothing at all.
They are gone away. The poor good people were in debt, and their
creditors are as hard as stone. They wished to take every sou, and they
talked of throwing monsieur into prison, you understand. That is
intolerable. They are gone, and I have no means to carry on the
establishment. The school is finished."
"But I am to stay here twelve months," I cried, in dismay, "and Minima
was to stay four years. The money has been paid to them for it. What is
to become of us?"
"I cannot say, mademoiselle; I am desolated myself," she replied, with a
fresh burst of tears; "all is finished here. If you have not money
enough to take you back to England, you must write to your friends. I'm
going to return to Bordeaux. I detest Normandy; it is so cold and
_triste_."
"But what is to be done with the other pupils?" I inquired, still lost
in amazement, and too bewildered to realize my own position.
"The English pupil goes with me to Paris," she answered; "she has her
friends there. The French demoiselles are not far from their own homes,
and they return to-day by the omnibus to Granville. It is a misfortune
without parallel, mademoiselle--a misfortune quite without parallel."
By the way she repeated this phrase, it was evidently a great
consolation to her--as phrases seem to be to all classes of the French
people. But both the tone of her voice, and the expression of her face,
impressed upon me the conviction that it was not her only consolation.
In answer to my urgent questions, she informed me that, without doubt,
the goods left in the two houses would be seized, as soon as the flight
of madame and monsieur became known.
To crown all, she was going to start immediately by the omnibus to
Falaise, and on by rail to Paris, not waiting for the storm to burst.
She kissed me on both cheeks, bade me adieu, and was gone, leaving me in
utter darkness, before I fairly comprehended the rapid French in which
she conveyed her intention. I groped to the window, and saw the
glimmering of her lamp, as she turned into the cart-shed, on her way to
the other house. Before I could dress and follow her, she would be gone.
I had seen my last of Monsieur and Madame Perrier, and of Mademoiselle
Morel.
I had time to recover from my consternation, and to see my position
clearly, before the dawn came. Leagues of land, and leagues of sea, lay
between me and England. Ten shillings was all that was left of my money.
Besides this, I had Minima dependent upon me, for it was impossible to
abandon her to the charity of foreigners. I had not the means of sending
her back to Mrs. Wilkinson, and I rejected the mere thought of doing so,
partly because I dared not run the risk, and partly because I could not
harden myself against the appeals the child would make against such a
destiny. But then what was to become of us?
I dressed myself as soon as the first faint light came, and hurried to
the other house. The key was in the lock, as mademoiselle had left it. A
fire was burning in the school-room, and the fragments of a meal were
scattered about the table. The pupils up-stairs were preparing for their
own departure, and were chattering too volubly to one another for me to
catch the meaning of their words. They seemed to know very well how to
manage their own affairs, and they informed me their places were taken
in the omnibus, and a porter was hired to fetch their luggage.
All I had to do was to see for myself and Minima.
I carried our breakfast back with me, when I returned to Minima. Her
wan and womanly face was turned toward the window, and the light made it
look more pinched and worn than usual. She sat up in bed to eat her
scanty breakfast--the last meal we should have in this shelter of
ours--and I wrapped a shawl about her thin shoulders.
"I wish I'd been born a boy," she said, plaintively; "they can get their
own living sooner than girls, and better. How soon do you think I could
get my own living? I could be a little nurse-maid now, you know; and I'd
eat very little."
"What makes you talk about getting your living?" I asked.
"How pale you look!" she answered, nodding her little head; "why, I
heard something of what mademoiselle said. They've all run away, and
left us to do what we can. We shall both have to get our own living.
I've been thinking how nice it would be if you could get a place as
housemaid and me nurse, in the same house. Wouldn't that be first-rate?
You're very poor, aren't you, Aunt Nelly?"
"Very poor!" I repeated, hiding my face on her pillow, while hot tears
forced themselves through my eyelids.
"Oh! this will never do," said the childish voice; "we mustn't cry, you
know. The boys always said it was like a baby to cry; and father used to
say, 'Courage, Minima!' Perhaps, when all our money is gone, we shall
find a great big purse full of gold; or else a beautiful French prince
will see you, and fall in love with you, and take us both to his palace,
and make you his princess; and we shall all grow up till we die."
I laughed at the oddity of this childish climax in spite of the
heaviness of my heart and the springing of my tears. Minima's fresh
young fancies were too droll to resist, especially in combination with
her shrewd, old-womanish knowledge of many things of which I was
ignorant.
"I should know exactly what to do if we were in London," she resumed;
"we could take our things to the pawnbroker's, and get lots of money for
them. That is what poor people do. Mrs. Foster has pawned all her rings
and brooches. It is quite easy to do, you know; but perhaps there are no
pawn-shops in France."
This incidental mention of Mrs. Foster had sent my thoughts and fears
fluttering toward a deep, unutterable dread, which was lurking under all
my other cares. Should I be driven by the mere stress of utter poverty
to return to my husband? There must be something wrong in a law which
bound me captive, body and soul, to a man whose very name had become a
terror to me, and to escape whom I was willing to face any difficulties,
any distresses. But all my knowledge of the law came from his lips, and
he would gladly deceive me. It might be that I was suffering all these
troubles quite needlessly. Across the darkness of my prospects flushed a
thought that seemed like an angel of light. Why should I not try to make
my way to Mrs. Dobrée, Martin's mother, to whom I could tell my whole
history, and on whose friendship and protection I could rely implicitly?
She would learn for me how far the law would protect me. By this time
Kate Daltrey would have quitted the Channel Islands, satisfied that I
had eluded her pursuit. The route to the Channel Islands was neither
long nor difficult, for at Granville a vessel sailed directly for
Jersey, and we were not more than thirty miles from Granville. It was a
distance that we could almost walk. If Mrs. Dobrée could not help me,
Tardif would take Minima into his house for a time, and the child could
not have a happier home. I could count upon my good Tardif doing that.
These plans were taking shape in my brain, when I heard a voice calling
softly under the window. I opened the casement, and, leaning out, saw
the welcome face of Rosalie, the milk-woman.
"Will you permit me to come in?" she inquired.
"Yes, yes, come in," I said, eagerly.
She entered, and saluted us both with much ceremony. Her clumsy wooden
_sabots_ clattered over the bare boards, and the wings of her high
Norman cap flapped against her sallow cheeks. No figure could have
impressed upon me more forcibly the unwelcome fact that I was in great
straits in a foreign land. I regarded her with a vague kind of fear.
"So my little Emile and his spouse are gone, mademoiselle," she said, in
a mysterious whisper. "I have been saying to myself, 'What will my
little English lady do?' That is why I am here. Behold me."
"I do not know what to do," I answered.
"If mademoiselle is not difficult," she said, "she and the little one
could rest with me for a day or two. My bed is clean and soft--bah! ten
times softer than these paillasses. I would ask only a franc a night for
it. That is much less than at the hotels, where they charge for light
and attendance. Mademoiselle could write to her friends, if she has not
enough money to carry her and the little one back to their own country."
"I have no friends," I said, despondently.
"No friends! no relations!" she exclaimed.
"Not one," I replied.
"But that is terrible!" she said. "Has mademoiselle plenty of money?"
"Only twelve francs," I answered.
Rosalie's face grew long and grave. This was an abyss of misfortune she
had not dreamed of. She looked at us both critically, and did not open
her lips again for a minute or two.
"Is the little one your relation?" she inquired, after this pause.
"No," I replied; "I did not know her till I brought her here. She does
not know of any friends or relations belonging to her."
"There is the convent for her," she said; "the good sisters would take a
little girl like her, and make a true Christian of her. She might become
a saint some day--"
"No, no," I interrupted, hastily; "I could not leave her in a convent."
Mademoiselle Rosalie was very much offended; her sallow face flushed a
dull red, and the wings of her cap flapped as if she were about to take
flight, and leave me in my difficulties. She had kindliness of feeling,
but it was not proof against my poverty and my covert slight of her
religion. I caught her hand in mine to prevent her going.
"Let us come to your house for to-day," I entreated: "to-morrow we will
go. I have money enough to pay you."
I was only too glad to get a shelter for Minima and myself for another
night. She explained to me the French system of borrowing money upon
articles left in pledge and offered to accompany me to the _mont de
piété_ with those things that we could spare. But, upon packing up our
few possessions, I remembered that only a few days before Madame Perrier
had borrowed from me my seal-skin mantle, the only valuable thing I had
remaining. I had lent it reluctantly, and in spite of myself; and it had
never been returned. Minima's wardrobe was still poorer than my own. All
the money we could raise was less than two napoleons; and with this we
had to make our way to Granville, and thence to Guernsey. We could not
travel luxuriously.
The next morning we left Noireau on foot.