(Annora’s Narrative)
There was indeed a good deal passing beyond those rooms where Margaret
was so absorbed in her d’Aubepines that I sometimes thought she forgot
her own kindred in them. Poor things! they were in sad case, though how
Cecile could break her heart over a fellow who had used her so vilely,
I could never understand. He repented, they said. So much the better for
him; but a pretty life he would have led her if he had recovered. Why,
what is there for a French noble to do but to fight, dance attendance
on the King, and be dissipated? There is no House of Lords, no
Quarter-Sessions, no way of being useful; and if he tried to improve his
peasantry he is a dangerous man, and they send him a lettre de cachet.
He has leave to do nothing but oppress the poor wretches, and that he is
fairly obliged to do, so heavy are his expenses at Court. The King may
pension him, but the pension is all wrung out of the poor in another
shape! Heaven knows our English nobles are far from what they might be,
but they have not the stumbling-blocks in their way that the French have
under their old King, who was a little lad then, and might have been led
to better things if his mother had had less pride and more good sense.
Gaspard de Nidemerle does the best he can. He is a really good man, I
do believe, but he has been chiefly with the army, or on his own estate.
And he can effect little good, hampered as he is on all sides.
In those days, Clement Darpent was sad enough at heart, but he did
not quite despair of his country, though things were getting worse and
worse. Mademoiselle had saved the Prince and his crew, besotted as she
was upon them; and finely they requited Paris, which had sheltered them.
All the more decent folk among them were lying wounded in different
houses, and scarcely any of their chiefs were left afoot but the Duke
of Beaufort, with his handsome face and his fine curls of flaxen hair,
looking like a king, but good for nothing but to be a king of ruffians.
What does the Prince do but go to the Hotel de Ville with the Duke of
Orleans and Beaufort, at six o’clock in the evening of the 4th of July,
under pretence of thanking the magistrates and deputies of letting him
in. Then he demanded of them to proclaim that the King was a prisoner in
Mazarin’s hands, and to throw themselves into the war. They would do no
such thing, nor let themselves be intimidated, whereupon the Prince
went out on the steps, and shouted to his rabble rout, where there were
plenty of soldiers in disguise, who had been drinking ever since noon:
‘These gentlemen will do nothing for us,’ he cried. ‘Do what you like
with them.’
And then, like a coward, he got into a carriage with Monsieur and drove
off, while M. de Beaufort, in a mercer’s shop, acted general to the mob,
who filled the whole place. It was a regular storm. Flags with ‘Arret
d’Union’ were displayed, shots fired, the soldiers got into the houses
and aimed in at the windows, logs of wood smeared with fat were set fire
to before the doors so as to burn them down.
Clement, who was a depute for his arrondissement, had, while this was
going on, been getting together the younger and stronger men with the
guard, to make a barricade of benches, tables, and chairs; and they
defended this for a long time, but ammunition failed them, and the
barricade began to give way amid the shouts of the mob. The poor old
men crouching in the halls were confessing to the cures, expecting death
every moment; but, happily, even that long July evening had an end;
darkness came down on them, and there were no lights. The mob went
tumbling about, at a greater loss than the deputies and magistrates, who
did at least know the way. Clement, with a poor old gouty echevin on his
arm, struggled out, he knew not how, into one of the passages, where
a fellow rushed at them, crying, ‘Down with the Mazarins!’ but Clement
knew by his voice that he was no soldier or bandit, but a foolish
artisan, and at haphazard said: ‘Come, come, my good lad, none of this
nonsense. This gentleman will give you a crown if you will help him
out.’
The man obeyed directly, muttering that he only did as others did; and
when they had got out into the street, Clement, finding himself not far
from the place where the lights and voices showed him that some one
was in command, managed to get to the mercer’s shop with the poor old
echevin, where he found M. de Beaufort, with his hair shining in the
lamplight, his yellow scarf, and his long white feather, hanging over
the features that were meant to be like an angel’s. When Clement, in
aftertimes, read the Puritan poet Milton’s PARADISE LOST, he said he
was sure that some of the faces of the fallen spirits in Pandemonium
had that look of ruined beauty that he saw in the King of the Markets on
that night.
Some of the town councilors who had got out sooner had gone to entreat
the Duke of Orleans to stop the massacre, but he would Do nothing but
whistle, and refer them to his nephew De Beaufort. They were standing
there, poor men, and he tapping his lip with his cane, stroking down his
moustache, and listening to them with a sneer as they entreated him not
to let their fellows perish. And then among them stood up Clement, with
his old echevin by his side. He was resolved, he said, and began ‘Son of
Henri IV., will you see the people perish whom he loved from the bottom
of his heart? Yes, Monsieur, you inherit the charm by which he drew
hearts after him, and was a true king of men! Will you misuse that
attraction to make them fly at one another’s throats? In the name of
the great Henri and his love for his people, I appeal to you to call off
yonder assassins.’
He had so far prevailed that Beaufort muttered something about not
knowing things had gone so far, and assured the magistrates round him
of his protection. He even went to the door and told some of his prime
tools of agitation that it was enough, and that they might give the
signal of recall; but whether things had gone too far, or whether he was
not sincere, the tumult did not quiet down till midnight. After all, the
rogues had the worst of it, for two hundred bodies of theirs were picked
up, and only three magistrates and twenty-five deputies, though a good
many more were hurt.
Clement saw his old echevin safe home, left word at our house that he
was unhurt, but did not come in; and at Maison Verdon, no one had even
guessed what danger he was in, for all the attention of the household
was spent on the wounded men, one of whom died that night.
Things got worse and worse. Eustace was very anxious to leave Paris
before the summer was over, lest bad weather should make him unable to
travel. The year he had put between himself and Millicent had more than
run out; and besides, as he said to me, he would not expose himself
again to undergo what he had endured in his former illness, since he
could have no confidence that my mother, and even Margaret, might not
be driven to a persecution, which, if his senses should fail him, might
apparently succeed. ‘Nor,’ said he, ‘can I leave you unprotected here,
my sister.’
We lingered, partly from the difficulty of getting horses, and the
terrible insecurity of the roads, partly from the desire to get Clement
to attend to Cardinal de Retz’s warning and escape with us. There was no
difficulty on his mother’s account. She was longing to enter Port Royal,
and only delayed to keep house for him, with many doubts whether she
were not worldly in so doing; but he still felt his voice and presence
here in the Hotel de Ville a protest, and he could not give up the hope
of being of use to his country.
Meantime, M. de Nemours recovered from his wound only to be killed in a
duel by M. de Beaufort, his brother-in-law; the Prince of Conde’s rage
at his defeat threw him into a malignant fever; the Duke of Orleans was
in despair at the death of his only son, a babe of five years old;
the Fronde was falling to pieces, and in the breathing time, Eustace
obtained a pass from our own King, and wrote to Solivet, who was
with the royal army outside, to get him another for himself and
me--explaining that he was bound by his promise to Madame van Hunker,
and that his health was in such a state that my care was needful to him.
Solivet answered the letter, sending the passport, but urging on him to
remain at Paris, which would soon be at peace, since Mazarin was leaving
the Court, and a general amnesty was to be proclaimed if the gates of
Paris were opened to the King without the Cardinal.
But there were to be exceptions to this amnesty, and Solivet wrote at
the same time to my mother. I have not the letter, and cannot copy it,
but what he said was to urge her not to permit my brother to drag me
away to Holland, for when he was gone all might still be arranged as she
wished. As to ‘ce coquina de Darpent,’ as Solivet kindly called him, he
had made himself a marked man, whom it was dangerous to leave at large,
and his name was down for Vincennes or the Bastille, if nothing
worse, so that there need be no more trouble about him. So said my
half-brother, and he had no doubt made himself certain of the fact, in
which he somewhat prematurely exulted.
My poor dear mother! I may seem to have spoken unkindly and undutifully
about her in the course of these recollections. She was too French, and
I too English, ever to understand one another, but in these last days
that we were together she compensated for all that was past. She could
not see a good and brave young life consigned to perpetual imprisonment
only for being more upright than his neighbours; she did remember the
gratitude she owed even to a creature comme ca, and I even believe
she could not coolly see her daughter’s heart broken. She had not even
Margaret to prompt or persuade her, but she showed the letter at once
to Eustace, and bade him warn his friend. Oh, mother, I am thankful that
you made me love you at last!
Eustace drove first to the office, and got his passes countersigned by
the magistracy for himself and me and our servant, showing a laquais
whose height and complexion fairly agreed with those of Clement Darpent.
There was no time to be lost. In the dusk of an August evening my
brother was carried to the corner of the Rue St. Antoine in my mother’s
sedan. He could not walk so far, and he did not wish to attract
observation, and he reached the house on foot, cloaked, and with his hat
slouched. He found that Clement had received a note, as he believed from
the Coadjutor, who always knew everything, giving the like warning that
he would be excluded from the amnesty. His hopes of serving his country
were over, and he felt it so bitterly, and so grieved for it, that he
scarcely thought at first of his personal safety. It was well we had
thought for him.
Eustace had brought a suit of our livery under his cloak, and he and
poor Madame cut Clement’s hair as short as if he had been a Roundhead.
She had kept plenty of money in the house ever since she had feared for
her son, and this they put in a belt round his waist. Altogether, he
came out not at all unlike the laquais Jacques Pierrot, whom he was
to personate. Eustace said the old lady took leave of her son with her
stern Jansenist composure, which my tender-hearted Clement could not
imitate. Eustace rejoined the chairmen and came back through the dark
streets, while Clement walked at some distance, and contrived to slip
in after him. My mother had in the meantime gone to the Hotel d’Aubepine
and fetched poor Meg.
Cecile had just taken the turn, as they say, and it was thought she
would live, but Meg could scarcely be spared from her, and seemed
at first hardly to understand that our long-talked-of departure was
suddenly coming to pass. It was well that she had so much to occupy her,
for there was no one save her son, whom she loved like that brother of
ours, and she would not, or could not, realise that she was seeing him
for the last time.
It was a hot August night, and we worked and packed all through it,
making Eustace lie down and rest, though sleep was impossible, and he
said he wanted to see Meg and his mother as long as he could. As to
Clement, we were afraid of the servants noticing him, so Eustace had
locked him up in his own room, but he slept as little as any of us, and
when his breakfast was brought him, he had never touched his supper.
Certainly mine was the saddest bridegroom who ever stole away to be
married; but I could forgive him. Did I not know what it was to be an
exile, with one’s heart torn for one’s country’s disgrace?
The difficulty was to get rid of the real Jacques Pierrot, but he gave
us a little assistance in that way by coming crying to M. le Baron, to
ask permission to take leave of his mother in the Faubourg St. Denis.
This was readily granted to him, with strong insistence that he should
be back by eleven o’clock, whereas we intended to start as soon as
the gates were opened, namely, at six. Eustace had some time before
purchased four mules and a carriage. He was not fit to ride in bad
weather, and for me to have made a journey on horseback would have
attracted too much attention, but the times were too uncertain for us
to trust to posting, and mules, though slower than horses, would go on
longer without resting, and were less likely to be seized by any army. I
would take no maid-servant, as she would only have added to our dangers.
We ate our hearts till seven, when we succeeded in getting the mules to
the door, and haste softened the parting for the moment. Indeed, Eustace
and Meg had said much to each other in the course of the night. We had
both knelt to ask my mother’s forgiveness for having so often crossed
her, and she finally wept and fainted, so that Meg was wholly occupied
in attending to her.
Clement stood by the carriage, looking his part so well that my first
impression was ‘that stupid Jacques has come back after all.’ Our
anxiety now was to be entirely out of reach before the fellow came back,
and hard was it to brook the long delay at the Porte St. Denis ere the
officials deigned to look at us and our passes. However, my brother
had gone through too many gates no to know that silver and an air of
indifference will smooth the way, so we came through at last without our
valet having been especially scanned.
Beyond the gates the sight was sad enough, the houses in the suburbs
with broken windows and doors as though pillaged, the gardens
devastated, the trees cut down, and the fields, which ought to have been
ripening to harvest, trampled or mown for forage, all looking as if a
hostile invader had been there, and yet it was the sons of the country
that had done this, while swarms of starving people pursued us begging.
Alas! had we not seen such a sight at home? We knew what it must be to
Clement, but as he sat by the driver we durst not say a word of comfort
to him.
At our intended resting-place for the night--I forget the name of it--we
found every house full of soldiers of the royal army, and but for our
passes I do not know what we should have done. Before every door there
were dragoons drinking and singing round the tables, and some were
dancing with the girls of the village. Some of them shouted at us when
they saw we were coming from Paris, and called us runaway rebels; but
Eustace showed his pass, told them what it was, for they could not read,
and desired their officer to be fetched. He came out of the priest’s
house, and was very civil. He said Colonel de Solivet had desired that
all assistance should be given to us, but that we had not been expected
so soon. He really did not know where to quarter the lady or the mules,
and he advised us to go on another league, while he dispatched an
orderly with the intelligence to the colonel. There was nothing else to
be done, though my brother, after his sleepless night, was becoming much
exhausted, in spite of the wine we gave him, while as to the mules,
they had an opinion of their own, poor things, as to going on again,
and after all sorts of fiendish noises from the coachman, and furious
lashings with his whip, the dragoons pricked them with their swords,
and at last they rushed on at a gallop that I thought would have shaken
Eustace to death.
However, before we had gone very far Solivet rode out to meet us. It was
another cause of anxiety, although it was dusk, and he had expected
us to have slept at St. Denis and to have arrived the next day, and he
asked, what could have made us start so early, just as if we had been
criminals fleeing from justice; but he took us to the chateau where
he was quartered, and, though they were much crowded there, the family
tried to make us comfortable. The master of the house gave up his own
bed to my brother, and I shared that of his mother. ‘Jacques’ in his
character of valet, was to attend on his master, and sleep on the
floor; and this gave the only opportunity of exchanging any conversation
freely, but even this had to be done with the utmost caution, for the
suite of rooms opened into each other, and Solivet, who was very anxious
about Eustace, came in and out to see after him, little guessing how
much this added to the inward fever of anxiety which banished all sleep
from his eyes.
The kind people thought him looking so ill the next morning that they
wanted to bleed him, and keep us there for a few days, but this was not
to be thought of, as indeed Eustace declared, when I felt some alarm,
that he could not be better till he was out of French territory.
So we pushed on, and Solivet rode beside the window all day, making our
course far safer and easier in one way, but greatly adding in others
to the distressful vigilance that coloured Eustace’s thin cheeks and
gleamed in his eyes, and made his fingers twitch at his sword whenever
there was an unexpected halt, or any one overtook us. He conveyed us
quite beyond the army, and brought us as far as Beuvais, where he made
himself our host at the Lion Rouge, and gave us an excellent supper,
which I could hardly swallow when I thought of his barbarous intentions
towards Clement, who had to wait on us all the time, standing behind my
chair and handing dishes.
I believe Solivet really meant to be a good brother; but his words were
hard to endure, when he lectured us each apart, with all the authority
of a senior--told me that Eustace was dying, and that every mile he
traveled was hastening his end, laughing to scorn that one hope which
buoyed me up, the Dirkius could do more for him than any one else,
and almost commanding me to take him home again to Paris while it was
possible.
And he equally harassed Eustace the next morning with representations
of the folly of taking me away to Holland, and breaking off the
advantageous Poligny match, to gratify my headstrong opposition and
desire for a mesalliance, which would now happily be impossible, the
fellow having ruined himself.
The fellow entered at that moment with M. le Baron’s coat and boots,
and Eustace could hardly repress a smile. We could not but rejoice when
Solivet took leave of us at the carriage door, very affectionate, but
shrugging his shoulders at our madness, and leaving a corporal and
his party to guard us to the frontier. They prolonged the sense of
constraint, and forced us to be very guarded with poor Clement, but
otherwise they were very useful. The inhabitants fancied us by turns
great princes or great criminals, or both, being escorted out of the
country. Once we were taken for the Queen escaping with the Cardinal,
another time for the Prince of Conde eloping with Mademoiselle; but any
way of soldiers secured for us plenty of civility, and the best food and
lodgings to be had. They pricked on our mules with a good-will, and when
one of them fell lame they scoured the neighbourhood to find another,
for which Eustace endeavoured to pay the just price, but I am afraid it
went into the corporal’s pocket, and Clement never so nearly betrayed
himself as when he refused to share with the escort the reckoning of
which they stripped the landlord. Integrity in a Parisian valet was all
too suspicious! However, to us they behaved very well; and, if all we
heard were true, their presence may have saved us from being robbed, if
not murdered, long before we reached the frontier.