MARGUERITE FINDS HER PATH OF DUTY AMONG THE FLOWERS.
The very next evening after Marguerite had entered on her new duties,
she was hard at work in Dame Doudel’s apartment, where she found delight
in arranging the garlands and bouquets, which were to be sold on the
morrow.
The good dame was in high spirits. The talent and rapid execution of her
young friend surprised her, and she chatted gaily as she handed flower
after flower from her lap, to be richly clustered by those active
fingers.
“And you have never seen my good husband, that is strange; he is often
on the stairs when off duty. Everybody loves him, for he is
tender-hearted as an infant. That is singular, people say, considering
that he is a prison guard, and has been years and years in the
Bastille.”
Marguerite uttered a faint cry, and dropped the flowers she was twining.
“The Bastille! The Bastille! Is your husband a guard in the Bastille?”
she cried.
“Of course he is. I thought everybody knew that; why, he has grown old
in the Bastille; old, but never hard-hearted—nothing can make him that,
my good Gaston; but he sees sights—such terrible sights, and hears moans
that make his blood run cold. But then sometimes he does a little good,
and that cheers him. I tell it you, in strict confidence, my child, but
many a time he has eaten little, and carried half his breakfast hid away
in his pocket, for some of the poor creatures, pining to death in those
awful vaults. Yes, yes; those poor prisoners would lose a good friend if
Gaston were to leave.”
Marguerite listened breathlessly. A strange, wild light came into her
eyes. Her words came swift and eagerly when she spoke.
“But will they let him. Is it possible? oh! if I could see your
husband!”
“Well, that is easy, little one; for he is coming now. You can hear his
step on the stairs. Ah—yes, that is Gaston. I can never mistake.”
A smile of kindly affection lighted the old woman’s face, as she turned
it to the door, which opened, admitting a tall, elderly man, who walked
wearily into the room.
“Ah! you are tired, my friend. I can see it,” exclaimed the dame,
emptying the flowers from her lap into a basket, and smoothing down her
dress. “Been walking the ramparts? It was your turn, I know. Hungry,
too, I dare say. Well, well; your supper is waiting. Ah! you see my
little friend here; and are surprised. No wonder.”
“Is she not lovely? Like some one, _mon chere_, we never talk about. You
observe that. Yes, yes, I see it in your face.”
“She is at least welcome,” answered Doudel, kindly. “Now dame, for our
little supper. I have had a hard day at the prison.”
Dame Doudel bustled off into the next room, which was one of those tiny,
neat kitchens, the French know how to make so inviting; and, after a
little time, looked through the door again.
“Come, my friend, come little one. There is a plate for you always,
remember.”
Marguerite arose eagerly; at another time she might have hesitated, now
she forgot everything in a wild desire to speak with the man who might
have seen her father. They sat down together, but the girl could not
eat, her heart was so full. Dame Doudel observed this, and, seeing how
thin she looked, heaped her plate with bountiful hospitality.
“No, I cannot, I cannot. He has seen my father, my poor, poor father,
who lies buried in the dungeons of the Bastille. How can I eat or sleep,
knowing this.”
“Your father, child, and in the Bastille. Our Lady forbid,” said Doudel,
with infinite compassion in his voice.
“In the Bastille—your own father? Heaven be good to us,” exclaimed the
dame, holding up both hands in amazement. “Oh, Doudel, if you know, tell
her about him—tell her about him.”
“His name is Gosner, Doctor Gosner, a learned man from Germany. He was
torn from us when I was a child. You have seen him, you know him; his
eyes are blue like mine, his hair soft and light. He was tall and
slender, with a benign look. Oh, tell me about him.”
The poor girl left her chair as she spoke, and clasping her hands, went
round to where the guard sat, and knelt before him.
“You have seen him? Oh tell me!”
“Poor thing, poor, sweet child, how can I tell her?” said Doudel,
appealing to his wife. “We have no names at the Bastille, nothing but
numbers.”
“I know the number; ah, I know that, monsieur, I——”
Here the girl checked herself, remembering that Monsieur Jacques had
given the number in confidence.
“Yes, I know the number. It is here; I wrote it down and laid it next my
heart, saying to myself, ‘some day our blessed lady will lead me to
him.’ Here it is.”
Doudel took the paper from her quivering fingers, and read it.
“My poor child, it is down in the very depths. I know this wretched
prisoner. Sometimes, I speak to him, not often; for it is against the
rules. He is gentle as a lamb.”
“Ah, it is like my father, every one says that.”
“Once,” continued the guard, “but that is a long time ago, his hair was
yellow and glossy, like yours, but it is white now; his beard is like a
snow drift, his eyes weak and faded. It is an old, old man you speak of,
little one.”
“Ah me, I ought to expect that. In darkness and solitude so many
miserable years, how could he be anything but old! Oh, monsieur, let me
see him, let me look on my father’s face.”
“See him, poor child, that is impossible.”
Marguerite turned imploringly to Dame Doudel.
“Plead for me, oh, think of some way. The good God did not send me here
for nothing,” she said, lifting her clasped hands upward.
“It is our child who asks this; our angel child pleading through the
eyes of this poor girl. Doudel, God ordains it. She must see her
father,” cried the wife with tears in her eyes.
“But how, dame, how?”
“You must do it, Gaston. There may be danger in it. What then, my
husband is brave.”
The guard turned his eyes from the kneeling girl to his wife, and
thoughtfully stroked his beard with one hand. Marguerite held the other
prisoner.
“Sometimes,” he said, slowly, “the children of the guards come to the
prison and are let in to the outer court. More seldom I have seen them
within the draw-bridge. Mademoiselle is so young, and like a child, they
might think her my own daughter; no one there will remember that she has
gone away from us forever. It is dangerous, but possible.”
“Wait, wait a minute, while I think,” said the wife, answering her
husband’s train of thought. “This is what we will do. The governor
trusts you, Gaston; he will give you privileges.”
“But not that, not that.”
“I know; but he may take an interest in this good child, thinking her
your daughter. She shall take her flowers to him, make him used to her,
as she passes in and out of his quarters; then some day she can watch
her opportunity and steal with you into the lower prison.”
“But this will take time, dame, and may get me into trouble in the end.”
“No, no, I will be cautious; no one shall know. I will die rather than
bring harm on you,” exclaimed the girl, who had been listening eagerly
to his words. “Let me once look on my father’s face, and I will bless
you forever and ever.”
“It is dangerous, and may cost me dear; but who can say no to a child
who only prays to look on her father?”
“He consents, he consents!” cried Marguerite, flinging up her clasped
hands in an ecstacy of delight.
“But it must be a secret with us; no human being must be told; a breath
would destroy us both,” answered the guard, half-frightened by the
promise he had made.
“She can be dumb. The child who has such courage knows how to keep a
secret,” answered the dame. “To-morrow, she shall try her fate with the
governor.”
“That will not be hard,” said the guard, with a grave smile; “he loves
to have plenty of flowers in the dim rooms of that old fortress, which
need them enough, and never is severe upon a pretty face. We shall
manage it—we shall manage it.”
Dame Doudel kissed her husband with the ardor of a sweetheart.
“Ah, you have courage! I knew it, I knew it. Come now, little one, let
us finish the flowers. Your very first attempt shall be at the
Bastille.”
Margaret went to her work in an ecstacy of delight; her eyes were on
fire, and her hands quivered like young birds over their work. She had
never known what real hope was before. Marguerite lay by her mother’s
side all that night, wide awake, and restless with thought. On the
morrow, the great task of her life was to begin. What her mother in her
experience and strength had failed to accomplish, she must undertake,
and in her very weakness carry out.
Very early in the morning, the young girl arose, and, after preparing
the breakfast she had no wish to eat, went forth into the street with
Dame Doudel’s blessing on her head, and a basket of blooming flowers on
her arm.
“Remember,” said the good dame as she heaped the basket with flowers,
“you are our own daughter; your name is Marguerite Doudel; you have just
begun to help your parents by selling bouquets, and turn first to his
excellency the governor, who perhaps will let you carry a few violets to
your father, one of his own faithful guards.”
“I know, I know; there is little danger that I shall forget,” said
Marguerite, breathless with agitation; and pale as marble, she went
forth to her great work.
“Will you sell me some of your roses?”
Marguerite had walked some distance from home, forgetful in her intense
excitement of the character she had assumed, when these words fell on
her ear, uttered in a sound so sweet and low that the heart in her young
bosom leaped for the first time to the voice of man. Marguerite stopped
in her swift walk and lifted her eyes to the speaker, a young man in
citizen’s dress, which he wore with a grace befitting our best ideas of
a nobleman. His eyes, soft and deep as a mountain spring, were bent upon
her in smiling admiration, for the flowers on her arm were scarcely more
beautiful than Marguerite appeared that morning.
“Will you sell me some of your flowers?” the young man repeated, lifting
his hat.
Marguerite drew a deep breath, and turned her fascinated eyes from the
wonderful beauty of that head and face.
“What shall I give you monsieur,” she faltered, trembling all over with
a sensation of delight that pure soul had never felt before.
“It shall be a white moss rose, I think,” said the young man, “can you
find one in your basket?”
Marguerite’s hand was instantly searching among her flowers, from whence
it brought forth a lovely moss rose.
“Will this please monsieur?” she said, holding up the rose by its long,
flexible stem.
The pallor had left her face then, and a soft bloom came over it, more
exquisite than a blush. She had forgotten even the Bastille, and her
father.
“Will it please me, oh yes—one seldom sees two objects so beautiful in a
day.”
Marguerite cast down her eyes, and the rose shook in her hand. Something
more sweet and subtle than its breath had entered her heart. The young
man’s face brightened all over. He took the flower and placed it gently
between his vest and the snow-white linen that covered his bosom.
“To-morrow it will be withered,” he said; “no matter, your basket will
be full again then, and I shall not fail to know when you pass this
way.”
He took a piece of silver from his pocket, and held it irresolutely. It
seemed like sacrilege to offer money to a delicate creature like that.
Stealthily, and half-ashamed of the act, he dropped the money into her
basket.
Marguerite saw the act, and the silver seemed to have fallen upon her
heart. She looked up with a hot flush overspreading her face, but
remembering that to sell was her business, dropped her eyes again, and
instantly their lashes were heavy with tears.
“Good morning, monsieur, I wish the roses were mine to give,” she said,
moving away almost with a sob.
The young man followed her a step or two, then turned back muttering to
himself.
“Can it be that the women of our clubs were like that? Is it possible
that any thing will make her one of them? Does liberty demand that
women, lovely and gentle as she is, should debase themselves?”
“Ha, St. Just, is it you? We missed your eloquence at the club last
night.”
The speaker was a low-browed, heavy featured man, ill dressed and
unwashed, coarse in his person, and rough in his speech.
St. Just lifted his hat, thus unconsciously rebuking the rude manner of
his companion, which seemed to challenge rather than salute him.
“Good morning, citizen Marat, I was busy elsewhere last night.”
“And especially busy this morning,” answered the demagogue with a coarse
laugh. “Do not look so black, citizen, or your frown may wither the
favor in your bosom. A dainty piece of mischief that. We must have her
at the clubs. How that Theraigne de Merecourt is exiled, there is great
need of fresh beauty and spirit there.”
St. Just clenched his hand with a sharp desire to knock the brutal man
down; but checked his wrath, and moved away with absolute loathing.
As Marat stood with a hand on each hip, laughing till his uncombed hair
shook like a fleece over his shoulders, a young woman came up the
street, dressed in the loose fashion of her class, and addressed him.
“Who was it, citizen, you were talking with a moment ago?”
“A gentleman whose name I will not give, he carried a white rose in his
bosom, which I saw him take from the prettiest flower girl you ever saw.
She has but just passed out of sight.”
“Ha! tell me, for I will know. Was it Mirabeau?”
A malicious pleasure came into the rude face of the demagogue, and he
answered warily: “You must not tell him that I said so, _citoyenne_
Brisot, but there is an excuse. The flower girl was so beautiful.”
“Ha! but just passed out of sight, and she went this way. Good morning,
_citoyen_.”
Fierce and swift the woman left Marat, and threw herself like a hound on
the track of that poor girl.