"GOOD-BY, SWEETHEART!"
"I have found out a gift for my fair."
There was nothing to keep me in Paris. I could not see mademoiselle;
she would not let me help her in her flight. I was restless and
impatient to be off. No boat would sail from Le Havre for nearly a
week. It would not take a week either by horse, as Cæsar and I would
go, or by the river, where my baggage was to be floated down in a
small yawl in the charge of a trusty boatman. But if I stayed in Paris
I would be eating my heart out; it was better to be on the way and
taking the route by slow stages.
So I made the plea to my aunt and uncle that I feared some unforeseen
delay might cause me to miss my ship, and with feverish haste I made
all arrangements for departure that very night. To my aunt my
impatience seemed only natural. She herself was greatly distressed at
the news of my father's illness, and would have accompanied me to
America if it had been possible.
My first act on reaching home after leaving mademoiselle had been to
tear off my gorgeous uniform, with such a mingling of loathing and
regret as rarely comes to a man. If my suspicions of the contents of
mademoiselle's note were correct, then I could not quickly enough rid
myself of every emblem of the allegiance I had once owed to the First
Consul. And yet when I remembered his invariable kindness to me, the
magnanimity he had shown for what must have seemed to him criminal
eavesdropping, the tenderness of heart I had seen displayed more than
once, the wonderful powers of the man, master alike of the arts of
peace and war, the idolatry in which his soldiers held him and in
which I had hitherto shared, my heart lamented bitterly that its idol
should have been so shattered.
Since we had time to spare and it was now the meridian of summer, I
had decided to use only the cool of evening and the early morning
hours for travel, as much, I think, for the sake of sparing Fatima as
Cæsar and myself. Our first stage was to be to the same little inn,
twenty miles out, which we had left only that morning to come into the
city. It was not, perhaps, on the most direct route to Le Havre, but a
large part of the way would lead through the forests of Montmorency
and Chantilly and would be pleasant riding, and the inn was almost the
cleanest and most comfortable of its kind I had found in France. My
weeks under Bonaparte bearing messages to every little river big
enough to build a boat upon had taught me the roads well; all this
northern France was like an open book to me and I would find no
difficulty in cutting across from the forest of Chantilly to the
banks of the Seine, if I preferred to follow its windings to Le Havre.
So the long shadows of the late afternoon saw us riding under the
Porte St. Martin; at sunset we were passing the hoary Basilique of St.
Denis, tomb of the kings; through the long twilight we skirted the
forest of Montmorency; and by moonrise we were entering the forest of
Chantilly. Not more beautiful by early dawn and dew had been this
ride, than it was through lengthening shadows, and violet glow of
sunset, and silvery light of moon, the peaches ripening on sunny
walls, and the odors of mint and sweet-smelling herbs rising through
the gathering damps of evening, the birds singing their vesper songs,
and in the deep forest glades the lonely nightingale pouring out his
soul to the moon.
Yet my heart was heavier. On my long ride from Antwerp, with the
buoyancy of youth, I had passed through all the phases from anguished
fear to the almost certitude of hope, and I had entered Paris feeling
sure that I would find my father well again when I should reach
America. I had entered Paris also joyous with the thought of seeing
mademoiselle once more, and with the unconfessed hope that the budget
I was bearing from the great Bonaparte might be the means of bringing
me the crowning happiness of my life. I was leaving it now with one
word ringing in my ears as the death-knell to all my hopes--Farewell!
The hour was still early and my inn but a little way off on the
western borders of the forest; I would make a little detour and see
the château and park and still be not too late for a good supper and
a comfortable night's rest. I left the "old road" (which crossed the
forest directly) at the Carrefour de la Table, where twelve roads met
in an open circular space surrounding a great stone table. From there
I took one leading straight to the Grille d'Honneur. We crossed a
little bridge that spanned the moat, and looking down into its waters,
we heard the splash of the ancient carp that filled it. Then through
the Grille d'Honneur and between two stone dogs at the foot of the
slope that led up to the ruins of the Grande Château. There I drew
rein and looked over the beautiful domain.
At my right was the ruined château; in front of me the châtelet, in
perfect preservation, apparently floating on the bosom of a silvery
lake that entirely surrounded it. Beyond were the famous stables of
the Great Condé, holding two hundred and sixty horses in his lifetime.
Beside them was the chapel, and everywhere a network of basins and
canals gleaming white under the flooding moonlight. At my back were
the gloomy towers of the Château d'Enghien, built to house the guests
of the Condés who overflowed the Grande Château and the châtelet; and
beyond was a mass of rich foliage belonging to the Park of Sylvie.
As I gazed a thousand thoughts crowded into my mind. This was the home
of mademoiselle's ancestors; it should now be the home of the Duc
d'Enghien; perhaps when mademoiselle came into her own it would be
hers. No doubt in these very parks she had played in infancy.
Generations of grandeur, of princely splendor, were behind her. How
had I dared to dream of her! How had I dared to think she would stoop
to my lowly rank!
I gave Fatima's bridle to Cæsar and told him to wait for me while I
walked down the green slope into the Park of Sylvie. Enchanting vistas
opened before me, the moonlight filtering through arched canopies of
foliage just enough to show me the way. Old tales of the Duchesse
"Sylvie" and the poet-lover, condemned to death, whom she had hidden
in this park and its little château floated through my mind strangely
mingled with dreams of a later daughter of Montmorency.
And then suddenly I came upon something that for a moment I almost
believed to be a continuation of my dreams. I had turned to my right
and a new vista had opened before me, closed by the little "Château of
Sylvie." On the wide lawn before it, half hidden by the shadow of the
château, half in the broad moonlight, was a strange group: a carriage
and what seemed to me many horses and many men. I thought for a moment
I had landed upon a nest of bandits such as might easily infest a
forest like this, and it would behoove me to steal silently back to
the horses and make good my escape; but I caught a glimpse of
petticoats: they were not bandits; they must be Gipsies.
Then as I gazed there stepped out into the full moonlight a man
leading a powerful black horse with one white stocking and a white
star in his forehead. I heard the man call some brief order to some
one in the shadow, and there was a slight lisp in his voice. In a
moment I understood it all, although the man was no longer wearing a
countryman's coat, but the livery of a gentleman's servant. It was
Pelagie and her party fleeing to Baden and the Duc d'Enghien!
I knew not whether I would be a welcome guest or an intruder, but I
knew I was not going to miss this opportunity of seeing Pelagie once
more. I stepped out boldly from under the shadows of the trees into
the moonlight, and in so doing came near losing my life. There was the
click of a lock and the flash of a gun-barrel in the countryman's
hands.
"Don't shoot, Monsieur," I cried; "it is a friend."
There was a short, sharp cry, half suppressed, and Pelagie came
running out of the shadow, both hands extended and her face glowing in
the moonlight.
"Is it you, Monsieur?" she cried. "How came you here?"
I suppose I answered her in some fashion. I know I took her hands in
mine and looked down into her beautiful eyes, but I know not what I
said. She was wearing the cap and apron and simple gown of a lady's
waiting-maid, and as she saw me look curiously at it she said, with
the shrug of her pretty little shoulders that I had learned to know so
well in St. Louis:
"It is a fright, is it not, Monsieur? But I am no longer the Comtesse
de Baloit: I am Susanne, the maid of Madame du Bois, with whom I am
traveling."
Her voice had the happy ring of a child's, as if she were glad to be
free, even if only for a time, from the cares of rank and position;
or, perhaps more truly, glad to be away from the surveillance of the
duchesse, happy that she need no longer fear the chevalier and the
First Consul. I longed to think that a part of the gladness was in
seeing me once more so unexpectedly; but I knew this was only my
foolish vanity, and I steadied my brain by saying over to myself, "She
is a princess of Condé in her ancestral home; you are only the son of
a plain American gentleman." So I made her such a speech as I would
have made to a princess of Condé.
"If Mademoiselle were not the Comtesse de Baloit I could wish she were
always Susanne the maid of Madame du Bois. 'Tis a bewitching costume."
It was, and she knew it, as I could see by her dancing eyes and the
smile (that she vainly tried to suppress) playing hide-and-seek with
the roses in her cheek as I spoke. Being a man, I could not name each
article of her costume; but what I saw was a vision of little ringlets
escaping from under a coquettish cap, dainty ankles that the short
blue skirt did not pretend to hide, a snowy apron that almost covered
the blue skirt, and a handkerchief demurely crossed over the beautiful
shoulders.
She turned quickly, as if to escape my gaze, and called to the
countryman: "Monsieur le Prince, this is the friend of whom I have
spoken; I want him to meet the Prince de Polignac."
The prince came forward at once; and as we grasped each other's hands
and looked into each other's eyes, I think he knew that he need no
longer regard me with suspicion, and I knew that here was a man to
whom I could trust even Pelagie.
We laughed a little over our first meeting, and I told him how Cæsar
had detected his weapon; and then out of the shadows came other
figures: Henriette, to whom, as her mistress, Madame du Bois, Pelagie
gaily presented me; a man in the costume of a well-to-do bourgeois,
whom they called Monsieur du Bois, but who, Pelagie whispered to me,
was the prince's trusted body-servant; and Clotilde, whom I had not
seen since I had seen her on La Belle Rivière, and who wept at the
sight of me, a tribute to the memory of other days. Last of all there
came out of the shadows my burly host of last night's inn. He had
brought over to the little château a relay of fresh horses and a
hamper of supper. All arrangements had been made at his inn the night
before by the Prince de Polignac in the guise of a countryman; for
careless Boniface as my host had seemed to be, he was devotedly
attached to his old masters, the Bourbon princes, and could be trusted
to the death.
It amazed me greatly that they should have accomplished this journey
in a shorter time than I, and still more that they should have
succeeded in getting safely, out of Paris with so large a party, and I
so expressed myself to the prince.
"It had been all carefully planned, Monsieur," he told me. "My man,
'Monsieur du Bois,' had a traveling-carriage waiting at a little house
near the Porte St. Denis, where an old servitor of the family lives.
He had passports made out for Madame and Monsieur du Bois from New
Orleans, traveling with their negro servant Clotilde, and with a maid
Susanne, and a man François. Mademoiselle la Comtesse arranged to try
her hunter at three o'clock in the Bois, accompanied by her companion,
Henriette (who in these few weeks has become devotedly attached to the
comtesse), and by the countryman who had brought her the horse and
understood him more thoroughly than a groom from the stables of the
duchesse would have done. At the same hour the negro maid of the
comtesse strolled out into a quiet street at the rear of the hôtel,
where she was met by my man and conducted to the little house near the
Porte St. Denis. At a little before four we had all gathered there; by
half-past four the transformation had been made and we were leaving
the house, Madame du Bois and her two maids in the carriage, Monsieur
du Bois on the comtesse's hunter, I on my own horse and leading the
one Henriette had ridden. We had arranged to meet Pierre here with
fresh horses and provisions, and spend half an hour in changing
horses, resting, and supper. Your unexpected appearance, Monsieur, has
alarmed me. I had thought the Park of Sylvie sufficiently secluded to
insure us secrecy, but if you have found it, others may whom we would
be less glad to see, and I think I will form my little company into
marching order at once. The comtesse is taking it all as a grand
adventure; her spirits have risen with every step away from Paris:
that is the princely blood of Condé that loves deeds of daring, and I
would not say a word to dampen her ardor; but we know, Monsieur, it is
a serious matter, and so, though our half-hour is not quite up, I
think I will order the advance."
"You are quite right, Monsieur le Prince," I replied. "My man is
waiting for me with our horses in the Court d'Honneur; will you permit
me to ride a little way with you?"
The prince hesitated a moment, and then in his courtliest manner he
replied to my request:
"I am sure Monsieur will not misunderstand me when I say nothing could
give us greater pleasure if it seemed safe. But Monsieur's size
and--appearance," with a bow and a smile flattering no doubt, but
discouraging, "have made him well known in France. Moreover,
Monsieur's friendship for the comtesse (which does him honor) is known
also, and should a pursuing party make inquiries along the road, and
should our party be described with you in attendance, I fear they will
be able to identify us at once."
"I understand, Monsieur le Prince," I answered, much crestfallen. And
then into my slow brain there popped another question.
"But will not the negro maid Clotilde betray you also?"
"Monsieur is very astute," answered the prince. "He has touched upon
our weak point, and I am going to prove my friendly regard for
Monsieur by asking of him a great service. We could not leave the
negress behind in Paris: the comtesse would not stir one step without
her, fearing that she would be very unhappy, if not come to want and
suffering in a strange city. All the way from Paris I have been
revolving plans in my mind as to how best to separate her from our
party. I had thought of letting Pierre take charge of her, but that
would not do; for should she be discovered, that would make Pierre
'suspect,' and he would be thrown into prison for aiding and abetting
the flight of the comtesse, and it would be a clue to trace us. When I
saw you, Monsieur, I said, 'There is a way out of our dilemma. If
Monsieur will take Clotilde back with him to America, we are safe.'"
Joy filled my heart that I was at last to be allowed to do something
for the comtesse.
"Gladly, Monsieur!" I exclaimed; "and it can be very easily arranged.
We will strike across country to Pontoise and the forest of St.
Germain, and head off my boatman. He was to tie up for the night at a
little village near Marly-le-Roi. I will find him there and put
Clotilde in his wife's care. His wife accompanies him, for the voyage
and to cook his meals."
The prince's gratitude seemed to me incommensurate with so small a
service, and so I told him. And then another difficulty suggested
itself to me.
"Monsieur le Prince," I said, "I recognized you from the hunter of
Mademoiselle la Comtesse; will not perhaps others also?"
"I have thought of this, Monsieur," he said; "but it seemed even more
difficult to arrange than the other. It is necessary that the comtesse
should have a swift and powerful horse, for if we are pursued, she and
I will take to our horses and leave the others to shift for
themselves. I had thought of asking Pierre to try to find another as
good as this (though for speed and endurance I do not believe he has
his equal in France), but even then I should not know what to do with
this one. I could not give him to Pierre: that again would bring him
under suspicion. I should have to shoot and bury him. However, it is
too late now to make the change; we will even have to take the risk."
"Monsieur," I said slowly, for willingly as I would make any sacrifice
for mademoiselle, even to my life I could not lightly do that which I
was about to do--"Monsieur, I have a horse who for speed and endurance
has hardly her equal in the whole world. She knows Mademoiselle la
Comtesse well and will do her bidding as she does mine. I will change
horses with you. The comtesse shall have my chestnut mare and I will
take her black beauty."
The prince did not know that this was a far greater sacrifice on my
part than taking charge of Clotilde had been, yet he knew a man loves
his own mare well, and in so far he appreciated the service and
thanked me for it.
But the matter of separating Clotilde from her mistress had to be
broached to mademoiselle, and the prince begged me to undertake the
difficult task. All the time while the prince, and I had been holding
our conversation together aside from the others, she had been
exploring the purlieus of the little château with frequent
exclamations of delight, not one of which fell unheeded on my ears,
although I was deep in consultation. Now she came running up to me
joyously.
"Monsieur, Monsieur," she exclaimed, "I have found the little arbor
where I used to take my dolls and play at housekeeping! Ah, how well I
remember it! How often I have thought of it! And how little I ever
expected to see it again!" and her eyes were as bright and as soft as
the waters of the little lake stretching from our feet to the Grille
d'Honneur and shining in the misty moonlight. I knew how quickly those
eyes could change from dewy softness to lightning flashes, and it is
not to be wondered at that I plunged into my subject with nervous
haste.
"Mademoiselle," I said (and I thought the prince liked not the lack of
formality in my address), "the Prince de Polignac has assigned to me
an unpleasant duty; it is to tell you that we find it necessary for
your safety to take away Clotilde."
Perhaps I was too abrupt; at any rate, much as I had expected a
tempest I was not prepared for the tornado that ensued.
"Take away my Clotilde!" she interrupted. "Never! never! never!" And
then there followed a torrent of tears mingled with reproaches as she
threw herself upon Clotilde's breast--the breast she had wept upon
since she was a babe of six. But Clotilde's cries were stormier than
her mistress's: she literally lifted up her voice and wept. The prince
was the picture of distress and dismay: there was danger that the
sound of weeping might penetrate to unfriendly ears. Mademoiselle in
tears was ever more formidable to me than an army with banners, but
there was no help for it; I took my courage in my hand.
"Mademoiselle la Comtesse," I said sternly, "you are causing the
Prince de Polignac great distress. You are in danger any moment of
betraying his retreat to an enemy, and if he is captured, his life is
forfeit, as you know."
I spoke thus to arouse her from a contemplation of her own woes to his
danger, for well I knew her generous soul would respond at once to
such a plea, and I was not mistaken. Her sobs ceased instantly and she
stilled Clotilde with a word; then she turned and looked at me quietly
while I went on with what I had to say:
"It is to anticipate the danger of such discovery that we remove
Clotilde, who, being almost the only negress in France, would betray
your identity at once. I will take her with me to America, and from
Philadelphia I will send her under safe escort to Dr. Saugrain in St.
Louis, and when you are safely established in your own home you can
send for her again."
I think the thought of seeing St. Louis once more half consoled
Clotilde for the parting, though she was a faithful creature and loved
her mistress, and would have followed her to the ends of the earth. I
know it helped to console Pelagie, for it was the thought of leaving
Clotilde alone and unprotected in a foreign country that disturbed her
most.
But all this had taken much time, and the half-hour the prince had
allowed for rest was more than up. They had had their supper, the
carriage-horses had been changed, the saddle-horses had been fed and
watered, and the prince was in feverish haste to be off. I ran swiftly
to the Court d'Honneur, where I had left Cæsar, and found him
wondering anxiously what had kept me so long. He had fed and watered
both horses and was now letting them crop a little of the luxuriant
grass at their feet. I did not stop for explanations, but bidding him
follow me with his horse, I led Fatima by a shorter and more direct
route straight from the Grille d'Honneur to the little château. I
found the carriage with "Monsieur and Madame du Bois"; the coachman
and outriders had already started. Pierre had set out a luncheon on
the little stone table for Cæsar and me (for since we were not to go
to his inn there was no prospect for supper for us), and was getting
the two carriage-horses ready to take them back with him. Clotilde was
silently weeping and Pelagie was trying to comfort her. I led Fatima
straight to Pelagie.
"Mademoiselle," I said, "the Prince de Polignac permits me to give you
a farewell present. Will you take Fatima and keep her for me? She will
bear you to your destination, I believe, more safely and more surely
than any horse in the world."
"Oh, Monsieur, Monsieur!" she said, and then could say nothing more,
her little chin quivering piteously. I could not bear to see it. I had
motioned to Cæsar to put on Fatima the side-saddle lying on the grass,
and now I said,
"Let me put you on her back," and bent to lift her; but she drew back.
"Oh, no, no, Monsieur!" she cried. "I know why you do it, and I know
what a sacrifice it is to you. I cannot let you give up Fatima!"
"Then you are depriving me of a great happiness," I softly answered.
"I had hoped you would take her and keep her and love her. It would
be a great comfort to me in distant America to think of you as being
kind to her sometimes for the sake of old St. Louis memories."
I looked steadily into her eyes.
"Mademoiselle, may I put you on her back?"
She bowed her head, and I lifted her to her seat, put her foot in the
stirrup and the bridle in her hand. Then I threw my arm over Fatima's
neck.
"Good-by, Sweetheart," I whispered, "take good care of your mistress,"
and kissed her on the white star on her forehead. Still with my arm
over her neck I reached up my hand to mademoiselle.
She put her hand in mine, and I kissed it as I had kissed it when she
chose me her king; then I lifted my eyes and looked straight into
hers.
"Good-by, Mademoiselle, and au revoir," I said, and dropped her hand.
She could not answer for the same piteous quivering of the chin, but
her lips formed "Au revoir"; and then she turned Fatima and rode
slowly under the leafy arch that led through a long tunnel of foliage,
due east.
"Monsieur," said the prince, and I started; for a moment I had
forgotten his existence.
He had withdrawn courteously while I was making my adieus with
mademoiselle, busying himself with little preparations for departure.
Now he had mounted and drawn his horse to my side.
"Monsieur, you have taught me to honor and admire all American
gentlemen. If there is any service I can ever do you, I hope you will
give me the opportunity of showing you how much I appreciate the great
service you have done us this night."
"Monsieur le Prince," I answered quickly, too eager with my own
thoughts to thank him for his kind words, "there is one kindness you
can show me that will more than repay me for anything I have ever done
or ever could do. Write me of mademoiselle's safe arrival when you
reach Baden. I will give you my address," and I tore a leaf from my
memorandum-book, wrote my address upon it, and thrust it into his
hand.
"It is a small commission, Monsieur," he answered, "but I will be most
happy to execute it."
He grasped my hand, said "Au revoir," and cantered quickly away after
mademoiselle.
I watched them riding side by side under the leafy dome until their
figures were lost in the darkness, mademoiselle still with bent head,
and he with his face turned courteously away as if not to seem to see
should she be softly crying. And if there was for a moment in my heart
a jealous envy that he should ride by mademoiselle's side and I be
left behind, I put it quickly away, for I knew him to be a noble and
courteous gentleman, and one to whose honor I could trust the dearest
thing in life.