"As a rule, news, even of great importance, travelled very slowly in
those days. But not long after the return of Nanette there came to
Valmont, as to even far remoter corners of France, with a rush like that
of a mighty wind, tidings of the first tremendous outburst of the great
storm--the assault and taking of the prison of the Bastille by the
infuriated mob. My mother well remembers that day in Paris. The terror
which spread through all classes--the strange stories which were afloat
about the wretched prisoners released from the dungeons, where some of
them had been confined till they had forgotten not only the crime--
imaginary in many cases--for which they had been punished, but even
their own names and histories! The destruction of the terrible Bastille
can never be regretted, but it was accompanied by dreadful deeds. The
murder of the governor and other officers who were but doing their duty;
for the people, maddened by hunger as well as by their many wrongs, did
not stop to consider which were the guilty and which the innocent. I
have said to my mother that from this point I wish she would take this
narrative into her own hands. It seems to me that as an eye-witness--
for in this year 1789, she was an intelligent girl of nearly thirteen--
she could describe with much more force and vividness many of the scenes
which followed. But she begs me to continue as I have begun. The story
concerns my father quite as much as herself, she says, and she wishes it
to be written as much from his recollections, which he has often related
to me, as from her own. So I must do my best, sadly imperfect though I
feel it to be.
"The taking of the Bastille was the signal for outrages through many
parts of the country. Chateaux were burnt, convents sacked and
destroyed, many even among the superior farmer class, who had had
nothing to do with the government or the oppression of the poor, whose
only crime was that through their industry and economy they had grown
richer than their neighbours, suffered as well as their betters. In
Paris itself many of the most conspicuous among the nobility were
dragged by the mob from their houses and put to death in a horrible way,
by being hanged on the street lamps. These I have always thought much
more to be pitied than those later sufferers who perished by the famous
guillotine; for this first manner of death united insult to barbarity.
"How it came to pass that my great-uncle, the Marquis de Sarinet, was
not among those on whom this first fury was wreaked, my mother has often
felt at a loss to explain. It may have been that he had never mixed
himself up much with affairs of state--for he was selfish even in this,
disliking everything which gave him trouble--and that thus his name was
not one of the best known. But his punishment had already begun, for
the following winter saw the complete destruction by fire, after it had
been robbed of everything of value, of the beautiful old Chateau of
Sarinet.
"News of this was not long in reaching Valmont.
"All through these months many a faithful heart there had ached with
anxiety for their Countess and her child. But the disordered state of
things was having everywhere a bad effect. Quiet and peaceable folk
began to be frightened. Many dared not express any interest in or
sympathy with those whose turn it was now to be unjustly and cruelly
treated. And among the loose characters who now and then passed through
or loitered about our quiet Valmont, there were not wanting some on the
look-out for mischief-making.
"`You speak of your lady as different from others,' they would say.
`Let her show herself among you. If she cared for you she would be
here, not amusing herself and wasting money on nonsense like all the
fine ladies in Paris. It is that which has brought ruin on the
country.'
"And some listened to and believed these cunning words, so that already,
had the Countess just then returned to Valmont, it is to be doubted if
she would have been received with the old affection. There was some
reason, too, for discontent. Collet, the Countess's bailiff, was the
most discreet of men, devoted to the family's interest, but at the same
time ready to carry out all his lady's endeavours to do good to her
people. But it began to be noticed that he was more rigorous than
formerly in exacting all the payments due, also that less money was
forthcoming for charitable purposes, that the new year's gifts year by
year were curtailed, and that Collet looked anxious and careworn.
"`It is his bad conscience,' said some. `He is going the way of all
like him, enriching himself at our expense.'
"`And the Countess is no doubt learning to throw about her money too.
Trust fine ladies for that, however sweet-spoken they may be; and after
all she is a Sarinet by birth,' said others.
"But I need not say that in the Germains' cottage, and indeed in _most_
of those in the village, nothing of this kind was believed, and once or
twice, when words or hints to this effect were uttered before Pierre,
his father had to check the hot indignation with which the lad would
have met them, reminding him that by a dignified silence he was both
showing more respect for their lady, and perhaps better serving her
cause. He could speak with authority, for both he and the old cure were
in poor Collet's confidence, and knew, what he thought it would be
dishonourable to tell, that he strongly suspected that the Marquis,
having exhausted his own resources, was now helping himself to the money
of his sister and his niece. And more than once both were of a mind to
say out what they were almost, sure of. `If it goes much further we
shall feel it our duty to do so,' said the cure to the bailiff. `And
even now I have almost made up my mind to write to the Countess, for I
am certain she has no idea of what is being done, to some extent, in her
name.'
"But just as the good man was meditating a letter to Paris, one was
received from there which altered the state of things, and for a long
time brought some sunshine and hopefulness back to the hearts of the
faithful friends of Edmee and her mother.
"The Countess and her daughter were returning to Valmont.
"`All then will be well,' said Madame Germain, wiping her eyes from
which were running tears of joy. `Things are evidently quieting down;
otherwise our ladies would not think of undertaking the journey. Those
poor, foolish people, no doubt, seeing how ready the king is to agree to
everything reasonable, will be satisfied at last, and all will be well.'
"Nor was she the only one to hope, from time to time, during these early
years of the Revolution, that the black cloud might after all disperse.
For, thanks to the efforts of some unselfish and wise men, more than
once a cordial understanding between the king, the government, and the
people was almost arrived at, though always, alas! to be again broken
through by treachery or mistakes or passionate outburst on one side or
the other.
"This was in the summer of 1790, about a year after the taking of the
Bastille. All through the autumn days that followed, the Germain family
and others waited eagerly for further news from Paris. At last came
again a few hurried words to Madame Germain from the Countess, referring
to other letters sent by the post which had never been received at
Valmont. She had found it impossible, she said, to carry out her plan
of returning home that last summer. The Marquis had opposed it; he was
so sure that things were calming down, and he objected to any member of
his family leaving Paris. `So again,' wrote the poor lady, `Edmee and I
must take patience. But surely _next_ summer, the fourth since our
absence, will see us in our own dear home.'
"Next summer! Preceded by a severe winter, which saw sufferings such as
Valmont had never known before--for the demands on Collet for money
became more and more peremptory, and though the cure and Germain had
written to the Countess a full account of the state of things, no notice
had been taken of it, and they began to fear she had never received
their letter--`next summer' brought no better state of things. The king
and his family were now, to all intents and purposes, prisoners in the
hands of their people; the few wiser and cooler-headed men in the
government were overruled; great numbers of the better classes had left
their unhappy country; of those whom obstinacy, in some cases poverty,
caused to remain, till too late to get away, the fate became daily more
uncertain. And among these there was every reason to fear were Edmee de
Valmont and her mother!
"`If they had left the country, I feel sure they would have found some
means of letting us know,' said Madame Germain, shaking her head, for
the long anxiety and uncertainty had lessened her hopefulness. And just
as her husband and son, after discussing for perhaps the hundredth time
this sad state of things, had arrived at the conclusion that _something_
must be done, _some_ step they must and would take, there came again
suddenly, and in an unexpected way, news of the two so dear to them.
"It came in the shape of a very feeble and very old man, who, looking
more dead than alive, dragged himself one evening, late in the month of
September, in the year I have now reached in my narrative, that of 1792,
to the door of the forester's cottage, and there, half-fainting on the
threshold, asked in a broken voice for Germain or his wife. They did
not know him in the least--how could they, in this wretched,
dust-and-mud-covered old beggar, whose white beard hung neglectedly,
whose feet were almost shoeless, whose poor old hands trembled with
nervous weakness, have recognised the carefully-attired, respectable,
nay stately Ludovic, who had driven away on the box of the travelling
chariot, so proud to follow his ladies to the end of the world, had they
bidden him? His devotion had cost him dear, poor old man, and as he
feebly murmured--
"`Don't you know me--your old friend Ludovic?' mother Germain burst into
tears--tears of pity for him, of terror for those he had come from.
"They at once did their best for him. It would have been cruel to
question him till he had regained a little strength, and indeed useless.
Now that he had reached the end of his journey, his forces seemed
altogether to collapse, and for some hours they feared he would die
without having told them anything. But food and wine carefully
administered, and a refreshing sleep into which he fell, did wonders for
him, for notwithstanding his age, he had been till lately a vigorous and
healthy man; and by the evening he woke up greatly revived, and eager to
explain everything, and by degrees his kind hosts heard all, which
perhaps it is well to give as far as possible in his own words--for the
events he related have often been told me both by my mother who had seen
them herself, and by my father who heard them at the moment from
Ludovic's own lips.
"`I never thought I should reach here alive,' began the old man. `The
last few days have been terribly hard. From some distance on the other
side of Machard I have come on foot. But few conveyances are on the
road--no longer a chance of meeting with those of some of the great
lords whose attendants, had they known who I was, would have given me a
lift--no, the days of such travelling are over indeed; and in the few
public coaches I met I could not have had a place, for I had not a sou!
She gave me all she had--our dear lady--but it was very little, and
there was no time to sell the jewels she had with her. Since four or
five days I have scarcely tasted any food, though once or twice kind
souls took pity on me. The first part of the journey was easy enough.
I travelled in the public conveyances, to save time; but though easy, I
soon saw it was a risk. While I was decently dressed they looked at me
more than once with suspicion--above all that my clothes, though they
were shabby enough compared with those you used to know me in, in
happier days, had the look of my position, and nobleman's servants are
now often objects of suspicion. So I decided to make the rest of the
way as best I could, getting a lift in a cart as long as my money
lasted, and when my clothes became so shabby I dare say it was a
safeguard. At all events here I am! God be thanked, if I could but
think my dear ladies were also in safety!'
"`But where are they?--what of them?' burst out Pierre, who had listened
with compassion indeed, but not without a certain impatience, to the
poor old man's somewhat rambling account of his own adventures.
"`Softly, my boy,' said his mother in a low voice. `Do not hurry him,
let him tell all in his own way, otherwise he may grow confused.'
"But Pierre's words had done no harm.
"`Of course,' said Ludovic, `that is where I should have begun, instead
of wasting time over my own affairs, stupid old man that I am. But you
must forgive me, my good friends. Old age is garrulous, and finds it
difficult to keep to the point. Where was I?' and he looked round
feebly.
"`You were saying,' said Pierre, trying to restrain his impatience, `how
thankful you would be, were you assured that the Countess and her
daughter were in safety like yourself; and I interrupted you entreating
you to tell us where you believe them to be.'
"`Where?' said Ludovic; `in Paris. At least, I fear it is unlikely that
they will again have attempted to leave.'
"`Attempted to leave it! Did they do so? and did they not succeed?'
exclaimed the Germains together.
"`Alas, no!' replied Ludovic, shaking his white head. `That is how I
come to be here alone. I will tell you all. You have heard, no doubt,
the principal events of this sad time. My lady has been longing to
return to Valmont almost ever since she left it, but the Marquis has
always opposed it. Two years ago she at last gained his consent, and
was on the point of starting, when some one put it into his head that it
was undignified, and would have a bad effect for any member of his
family to leave his house, and as my lady could get no money except from
him, and as she was also unwilling to anger him, she again gave in. He
is the most obstinate man--even now he will not believe that there is
any danger for him or his. And my lady at last came to see that if she
is to get away, it must be without his assistance. All these weary
months she has been waiting for an opportunity. At last, about three
weeks ago, all seemed favourable. The Marquis was away for a day or
two, with some of his friends, who, like him, have refused to take
warning, and all arrangements had been made for my ladies and myself to
start quietly. We were to travel in a small plain carriage, not likely
to attract attention, which a friend of the Marquis's, less obstinate
than he, and really concerned for the Countess and her daughter, had
hired, with a driver he could trust. This gentleman,--how I do not
know--had procured the necessary papers, which described the Countess as
my daughter, returning to the country for her health. I was described
as a shopkeeper of Tours. Well, we started--oh the joy of Mademoiselle
Edmee! The only drawback was the poor boy Edmond, whom my lady dared
not bring away, in face of his father's commands that he was to stay.
She had already fought hard to get leave for him to accompany them when
they _should_ leave--and who was heart-broken. At the last moment my
lady got out of the carriage again to clasp him in her arms, and whisper
some words of comfort; it caused a little delay; sometimes I have
thought those three minutes might have saved us. It was not to be. I
can hardly bear to tell you of our terrible disappointment. We had
scarcely got the length of the street when we met the Marquis returning,
in a furious temper at having found it impossible to get as far as the
country house, a few miles out of Paris, where he was to meet his
friends. He was furious, and, perhaps for the first time, alarmed; for,
my friends, do you know what had happened the night before?--it was that
of the 2nd of September!' and Ludovic looked up hesitatingly. Germain
bowed his head.
"`I know,' he said, `and so does Pierre. But we would not tell my poor
wife. However, perhaps it is foolish,' and turning to Madame Germain,
he rapidly related to her how on that dreadful night bands of wretches,
armed with pikes and hatchets, had burst open the doors of the prisons
of Paris, and there slaughtered the unfortunate beings--all of the upper
classes, and many innocent of any wrong--who had been seized and shut up
as `suspected' of disloyalty to the new Government. For which bloody
deed the wretches who had committed it were liberally rewarded by the
authorities!
"`Yes,' continued Ludovic, `for the first time the Marquis believed that
the mob--the hounds and dogs he had despised--was a terrible enemy to
have aroused, for the worst and lowest come to the front at such times.
Perhaps he meant it for the best; but it was, I fear, an awful mistake.
He turned the horses' heads, and insisted on his sister returning to his
hotel. It was utterly impossible, he maintained, for her to attempt the
journey thus alone and unprotected, save by an old fool, as he amiably
called _me_. But what did I care? And there we were again--
half-an-hour after our hopeful departure--powerless and heart-broken
with disappointment. What the Countess heard of the horrors I have told
you I do not know--I dared not ask, for if she had _not_ heard all, I
would have been the last to tell her. But that evening, late, she sent
for me privately, and gave me her instructions. She was as pale as
death--she has changed terribly, and what wonder! Many a time I have
thought our dear lady was not long for this world, and she thinks so, I
believe, herself. "My good Ludovic," she said, "this has been a
terrible disappointment. But for the moment I can attempt nothing else.
It may be here, as my brother says, that in spite of all our
precautions, in the present terribly excited state of the town, had we
got as far as the barriers it would but have been to be stopped, and
perhaps seized and imprisoned. He insists that it is better to wait a
few days. But he has promised me at once to arrange for our all flying
to Valmont--poor man, at Sarinet there is no longer a roof to shelter
him and his!--and so, my good Ludovic, I must try to take courage and
hope, though my mind misgives me sorely. For that my poor brother has
hitherto escaped seems to me scarcely short of a miracle, and I cannot
feel confidence in his still doing so. Therefore, my faithful friend, I
want _you_ to set off at once for Valmont. It is for yourself; less
risk than staying here, not that you think of that, I know, and it is
the best service you can at present render me and my child. Alone you
will have, I am assured, little difficulty in making your way. Here is
all the money I have been able to collect; to give you any of my jewels
would but expose you to suspicion; take it and go. And arrived at
Valmont, seek at once my dear Germains. If by the end of this month
they or you have no news of me--then I fear, it will not mean good
news--then, I must trust to them to consider if in any way they can help
me, or still more my child. Should my brother be taken, I have a plan
in my head, for concealing ourselves here in Paris, till we can venture
to try to escape. And Germain is a shrewd and clever man. I fancy
there would be no risk for _him_ in coming to Paris, and if he knows we
are in danger, I believe nothing would keep him from attempting it.
With his help and strong arm, we might manage a safe disguise. Should
we succeed, as my brother hopes, in all leaving Paris together, I shall
find means of letting you know at Valmont. Should we fail I shall still
hope to conceal myself and Edmee, though at present I cannot make any
detailed plan. One thing I may tell you"--and here my lady lowered her
voice--"the _only_ person I trust here is Marguerite Ribou. And now, my
good Ludovic, the sooner you leave the better. The Marquis has no idea
at present of my attempting anything. It will be time enough for me to
tell him you are gone when you are beyond recall." And then,' continued
Ludovic, `she held out her hand; I kissed it, in weeping you may be
sure, and I obeyed her. That night I spent in a little tavern near the
barriers, and I got out the next morning without difficulty. And here--
here at last, after all my troubles, I am! I have told you, I think, my
lady's exact words. It is now--is it not?--near the end of September?'
"`The twentieth,' replied Pierre.
"`And you have no news?'
"`Not a word,' said Germain.
"`Then,' said old Ludovic, `it is for you to decide what can be done. A
few days still--a few days perhaps we can wait. It will give me time to
recover my old wits a little, if it brings no news from our poor
ladies.'"