"Long after poor old Ludovic was in bed and asleep that night, the
Germains sat up talking over all he had told them.
"`To-morrow will be the twenty-first of September,' said old Germain
thoughtfully; `that makes nine days more to wait--'
"`But should we wait, father,' exclaimed Pierre. `I feel so certain no
news will come, and every day, every hour, it is so much time lost--can
we not set off at once? Father, mother, let me go! I am so young and
strong--fatigue is nothing to me, and father is not so strong as he
was,' which was true, for rheumatism, that sad enemy of those whose
duties force them to be out in all weather, had already more than once,
for weeks at a time, crippled the forester's active limbs.
"The father and mother looked at each other. True, they had said they
would not grudge their boy in the service they had all their lives been
devoted to, and the risk they did not think so great for him as it
perhaps really was. But when it came to the point of his setting off on
the long journey--so uncertain how to proceed, so young and
inexperienced as he was?
"`No, my son,' said Germain. `It is right that I should go myself. I
am an ignorant man--less taught than you--but I have the training of
age, and have learnt to keep cool and quiet when your fiery young tongue
would be getting you into trouble. No, stay you here and take care of
your mother, and I will go where it is my duty to go. To-morrow we will
talk over about when I should start. I should like to hear what Nanette
Delmar thinks about it,' and with these words he rose from his chair,
but stiffly and with difficulty; his wife and Pierre both noticed it
more than heretofore. He was not the man he had been.
"`Sitting so long cramps one--and the fire is out too,' he said.
"But his wife looked concerned.
"`These damp days in the woods are bringing the rheumatism out again, I
fear,' she said sadly; `but I must not murmur; I have had almost too
happy a life, even compared with my dear lady. No, I would grudge
nothing for _her_.'
"Pierre kissed her--more affectionately even than usual, as he bade her
good-night. Then he went up to his own little room, his mother thought,
to go to bed and sleep as usual.
"But early the next morning--very early, while the autumn haze was still
over the woods, and the hoarfrost on the fields, there came a soft tap
to young Madame Delmar's door. Nanette was up already, for her husband
was working just now at some distance, and she had to get his soup ready
betimes, and so, as he had half hoped, Pierre Germain found her alone.
"He quickly explained his errand. He had come to charge her with the
duty of telling his parents that he had gone.
"`They must not think me disobedient,' he said. `I feel that I am
right, and they too will come to see it. My father is not what he was;
if he set off on the journey alone he might fall ill on the way and we
never know it; or if I went with him I might be obliged to nurse him in
some strange place, feeling miserable at nothing being done. No,
Nanette, father is best at home. I am young and strong, and I have so
often thought over this, and all that I might have to do, that it seems
to me as if I had got it by heart. But you, Nanette, who have seen them
so much more lately than we, who have been in Paris and know all about
where they live and everything, I want you to talk to me, and tell me
all you can, so that I shall feel less confused when I get there.'
"`Willingly,' said Nanette. And then after putting the rest of the soup
they had had on to the fire again to heat for Pierre, and fetching some
bread and a couple of eggs to beat up into an omelette--he must have a
good breakfast before starting, she said--she sat down and told him all
she could think of. She described the house, the rooms occupied by
Edmee and her mother, the one or two among the servants she thought
better off than the others, though the only one she seemed to have any
real confidence in was Marguerite Ribou.
"`And even she,' said Pierre, `she has more reason to wish for revenge
than any of them--are you sure we can trust her?'
"`She has no ill-will, nothing but good feelings to our ladies,' said
Nanette, thoughtfully. `But beyond that--as to the Sarinet family,
certainly I am sure she is bitter past words. And that Victorine may
have influenced her! Of her I need not tell you to beware.'
"`Then if all is still as usual with them when I get there,' said
Pierre, `how should I proceed? It would not be wise to say I came from
Valmont to see the Countess.'
"`No,' said Nanette, `for if the Marquis were still there he might hear
of it, and he would suspect his sister was again making some plan
without telling him, which he would only oppose--he is so obstinate.
No, I think you had better ask for Marguerite, and judge for yourself.
But Pierre, I have faint hopes,' and Nanette's face grew very grave,
`very small hope that you will find things as they were in the Rue de
Lille. Had they still been so I feel sure the Countess would have
written--and, indeed, I do not think she would have remained there all
this time without making some other effort to get away.'
"`She may have written,' said Pierre; `letters miscarry so in these
days.'
"`If she dared write I am sure she will have done so,' said Nanette,
`unless,' and the young woman shuddered. `No, do not let us think the
worst; only it is sometimes impossible not to remember all I heard
there. But again, if the Countess is in disguise somewhere, you see she
would not dare to write for fear her letter might be traced, and would
betray who she was.'
"`Should I know Mademoiselle Edmee, again if I saw her, do you think?'
asked Pierre.
"`Oh yes, I think so; she has grown tall, of course, but still she has
the same face. Indeed, she is still very like the dear little picture.
My lady never has it out of her sight. It hangs in her room in Paris
just as it did here.'
"`Many a time my mother and I have wished they had left it at the
Chateau,' said Pierre with a smile; `it would have been some
consolation.'
"`Ah, yes; that I understand,' said Nanette.
"But then Pierre started up.
"`I must be off,' he said. `I mean to get over a good piece of ground
before the day is old.'
"`But you are not going on foot? You have some money with you, surely?'
said Madame Delmar anxiously.
"`Oh yes,' said Pierre; `I have enough to pay my journey. I mean to get
on as fast as I can till I am near Paris. Then, perhaps, it will be as
well to go on foot. No one will pay any attention to a young fellow
like me, and I daresay it is as well for me not to have much money with
me. It might be stolen. The Countess is sure to have money; there is
no fear on _that_ score!'
"Nanette hesitated.
"`I don't know,' she said; `there is no telling to what straits even she
may be brought. See here, Pierre,' she added, going to a cupboard from
which she took out a locked box; `in here are some of my savings. Take
what you can; it is my own money, and even if it were not, Albert would
be the last to grudge it in such a case,' and she forced into the boy's
hands a little packet containing a few gold coins. `See here, a moment;
I will stitch it into the lining of your coat, where no one would
suspect it.'
"Pierre did not resist.
"`It is for them,' he said simply, `and for them I thank you. At worst,
Nanette, my father and mother would repay you. Tell them you gave it to
me; it will make them less anxious about me. Try to see them soon--
before noon, will you not? And tell them you agree with me that if
anything is to be done it is best at once, and that it was best for my
father to stay at home.'
"`Yes,' said Nanette, `I will say all. I think you are right, Pierre.
Farewell, and God bless you, my friend!'
"She stood at the door, watching him along the road as far as she could
see, and then with a sigh re-entered her cottage.
"`I wish he were safe back again, and our dear ladies with him,' she
said to herself. `Though even their absence would seem nothing now,
were one sure they were in safety. I wish they were safe in some other
country, however far away, and even if we could not see them for years.
It is too dreadful to think of what may happen to them--of what may have
already happened. My sweet lady and the dear tender little Edmee! Ah!
I must not think of it, or I shall unfit myself for everything. Albert
must not tell me any more of the dreadful things he hears. Not till
_they_ are safe at least.'
"I cannot tell very much of Pierre Germain's journey to Paris. He
himself used to say he did not, in after years, recall it very clearly;
later events and anxieties made it grow vague and cloudy. But nothing
of very great importance occurred. As he had himself said, he was not a
figure in any way conspicuous, or likely to draw much attention. A
fine, sturdy young fellow of seventeen or eighteen, his little bundle
slung over his shoulder, making his way along the country roads,
whistling as he went, or now and then mounted on the top of the public
coach ready for a little conversation, or to give a helping hand with
the horses if he were wanted--he had not the appearance of a dangerous
person. Nor would any one have suspected the intense anxiety he learned
so well to hide, the burning eagerness to get to the end of his journey
which possessed him. All the information he could pick up, without
seeming too much interested in doing so, he tried to acquire. And the
nearer he approached the capital the greater seemed the half-suppressed
excitement, the stranger became the looks and tones of many of the
people he came across; while all through his journey he met the sight of
burnt and ruined chateaux, of convents deserted by their inmates and
pillaged by the neighbouring townspeople or villagers, of farms where no
longer the cheerful sounds of labour were to be heard--and everywhere
misery and reckless disorder.
"He had no difficulty in entering the great city.
"In those days it was much easier to get into Paris than, once there, to
get out again. The bundle which he carried was carelessly glanced at by
the official at the barriers, who asked him mockingly if he had come to
make his fortune in Paris, taking him for a country lad attracted, like
hundreds of others, by the accounts of the lawlessness and licence of
the `rule of the mob,' and Pierre laughed back a mocking reply. He did
not yet, not till he had made his way through what seemed to him
innumerable streets, dare to ask for the Rue de Lille, so fearful was he
of attracting attention by seeming to have any errand about which he
might be questioned. But at last, feeling hungry and tired, he ventured
into a milk shop, where a meek, rather frightened-looking woman, with a
little child in her arms, was standing behind the counter.
"`Madame,' he was beginning, but the woman quickly interrupted him:
`Citizeness, you mean, boy,' she said. `Whence do you come to use a
word we never hear now?' and on his hastily begging her pardon, `it is
not for me; it matters nothing to me. It is for yourself, citizen,' she
added. `You must watch your words, and indeed by your looks it were
better for you to go back whence you came.'
"Pierre felt startled. `By my looks, citizeness,' he said. `I look
what I am--a country lad come to see Paris for the first time.'
"`Better never have seen it, then,' said the woman, earnestly. `Go back
to your home, if you have one, my boy, for you look honest and
innocent,' but she spoke in a low voice, and glanced round her as if
afraid of being overheard.
"There was something in her face, in her very timidity, which inspired
Pierre with confidence.
"`I cannot go back,' he said, speaking also in a low voice. `I have
come for a purpose, but I am a complete stranger. Perhaps you can help
me. Will you tell me the way to the Rue de Lille?'
"The woman looked at him with regret.
"`It is not far from here,' she said; `but it is a long street. What
house do you want there?'
"`The house--the hotel of the Marquis de Sarinet,' he replied, but low
as he spoke the woman held up her hand with a warning gesture.
"`Hush, hush!' she said, `we know no such names. The citizen Sarinet,'
she continued, reflectively; `no, I do not remember ever to have heard
of such an one. But there are few houses now inhabited by their former
owners in the Rue de Lille. You must ask there, but take care _how_ you
ask.'
"`Once there, I can find the house, I am sure,' said Pierre; `it has
been so well described to me. If you will direct me to the street, that
is enough. But first, can you give me a cup of milk? I have had
nothing to eat or drink to-day.'
"`You shall have some coffee and some bread,' said the woman. `I always
have it ready early in the morning, as I used to in quieter times. But
my customers are less regular than then. Those who spend their nights
drinking in the taverns, are not ready betimes. Keep out of such
places, my boy, and take my advice--get back to your mother in the
country as soon as you can.'
"`I wish nothing better,' said Pierre; `but first I must do what I have
come for.'
"And then the good woman gave him his breakfast, for which he paid her
well. `Poor thing, it was not easy for those who stayed quietly at home
to get on now-a-days,' she said. Her husband had done no work for long.
Where he got what he brought home, though only to waste it, she did not
like to ask.
"`It is all the same cry now,' she said, waxing bolder in her
confidences, and glad to have some one to talk to.
"`They won't work. What is the great republic for if they are to go on
working, they say? And so they drink and quarrel, and many are half the
time starving. One day they feast like princes, and the next they have
nothing. Everything is for all, and all are equal, they say; but for my
part, I think it is rather take who can, and those who can't go
without--no, no, we are a long way off the fine things they promise us
yet.'
"And she was so taken up with her own troubles that Pierre could not get
from her any information as to how things had been going of late;
whether many aristocrats had been seized, or whether many had fled. He
only stopped her long list of grievances by saying he must go, and
begging her to direct him. She did so, and then reverting to his own
risk, she again begged him to be careful.
"`Return if you can, and tell me how you get on. But do not talk more
than you can help; above all, do not be persuaded to enter the taverns
and take wine.'
"`I never take wine,' said Pierre.
"`The more risk then if you did. It would go to your head, and you
might tell what is better untold. Good morning, little citizen,' she
called out after him in a louder and rougher tone than was natural to
her, but which Pierre understood to be for the benefit of a group of
dissipated-looking men in blouses, who came sauntering along, their
hands in their pockets, just at the moment.
"He had no difficulty in finding his way to the Rue de Lille, nor, once
there, in picking out, thanks to the exact landmarks Nanette had given
him, the great wooden doors, or gates rather, enclosing the courtyard of
the Hotel de Sarinet. Put even outside, in the street where he stood,
he seemed to distinguish a deserted air about the place. At that early
hour in the morning it would only have been natural for the doors to
have been open, to have seen some sweeping or cleaning going on inside,
and have heard the cheerful sounds of grooms brushing down their horses
and rolling out the heavy carriages to be aired. But, on the contrary,
there was no sound; all was appallingly silent, and the street itself
seemed like a place of the dead. There was no one of whom he could have
made inquiry, had he wished. So after an instant's hesitation Pierre
lifted the heavy knocker attached to the little door leading into the
porter's lodge, at the side of the great one, and let it fall with a
loud rap. Then he waited; but there was no response, and again he
knocked, again and yet again, waxing bolder with increasing anxiety, but
always in vain. And after what seemed to him a great length of time--in
reality a quarter of an hour or so--spent in that dreary waiting, he had
at last to make up his mind to the fact, there was no one there--the
house was entirely deserted! His first feeling was one of the bitterest
disappointment; he could have sat down on the rough bit of pavement
before the doors and burst into tears! He had felt so sure of finding
them. His nature, hopeful like his mother's, did not prepare him for
obstacles, and all through his journey he had been picturing to himself
his arrival just in the nick of time to relieve the Countess's anxiety,
and arrange for safely escorting her and her daughter through every
danger to Valmont! But with a few minutes' reflections came other
feelings besides disappointment. Where were they? A shudder ran
through Pierre as he thought where but too probably they were; probably
enough in one or other of the prisons, crowded with many as gentle, as
high-bred and delicate as they; possibly--for even children of Edmee's
age had not been spared--possibly no longer alive; those innocent heads
might already have fallen under the cruel guillotine! And the boy felt
sick with fear and horror. But still it was also possible that they had
escaped. The Countess had foreseen the danger, and spoken of plans for
safety. She might, it was even very likely that it was so, have carried
them out, and be at this, moment in hiding and disguise somewhere, near
perhaps, in this great city of Paris!
"Pierre's hope revived, but he looked up and down the deserted street in
bewilderment. What could he do? whom could he ask? whither could he go?
Just then a door on the opposite side opened cautiously, and a very
dirty old woman poked out her head, looked this way and that, and then
emerged with a bucketful of rubbish--cabbage stalks, egg-shells, and the
like--which she emptied at the side of the gutter. She had not seen
Pierre, who was somewhat in shadow, but he saw her, and darted forward.
"`Good morning, Mad--Citizeness,' he said quickly. `Can you by chance
tell me whose house that is opposite,' and he pointed to the door where
he had been knocking. `I was sent there, but it was a fool's errand, I
think. No one will open.'
"`No wonder!' said the hag, glancing at him suspiciously, but taking him
for some countrified lad new to Paris, as indeed he was. `No wonder!--
there's no one there. Ah no, indeed, my lord the marquis will never
come lashing his horses out of his courtyard again,' and she gave a
shrill laugh, `nor will my fine lady the sour-faced Marquise come
driving by in her chariot. We've got it to ourself now! The grand
hotels are to be had for low rents in this street,' and she turned to go
in again. But Pierre, in his eagerness, caught her by the skirt, dirty
as it was.
"`But where are the others then?' he said. `There were other ladies
there--not proud, or sour-faced either. You must have seen them if you
lived here.'
"`They're all gone, I tell you! Seen them? Yes, I daresay I did when I
came every day for the rubbish those wasteful servants threw about. But
it's our turn now--my son's and mine; we've got a fine hotel all to
ourselves, you see! Yes, they're all gone--here and there too. Madame
Guillotine will tell you; she's the only Madame now!'
"`Are they all _dead_?' said Pierre, in a voice he would hardly have
known for his own, and which struck even the half-crazed old hag with a
sort of pity.
"`How should I know?' she said. `And what does it matter? You're no
aristocrat--why should you care? Stay! I heard tell--what was it then?
They let the little lady go--that was it, I think. A nice little lady
too, if she hadn't been one of the cursed breed. Many's the silver
piece she's given me as she passed. What was she to you that you should
look so, boy? Foster-sister, may be?'
"Pierre nodded. He could not speak.
"`They let her go--or she wasn't to be found. That was it. You'll find
_her_ may be. They said Marguerite had a hand in it--do you know
Marguerite? She lives with the Citizeness. Nay, I forget her name, but
you may hear of her at the wine-shop at the corner of the Rue de
Poitiers. She can tell you more than I, if she will,' and with these
words the old woman hurried off more quickly than one could have thought
she could move, and drew to the door sharply, in Pierre's face.
"He walked slowly down the street, stunned and dazed by what he had
heard. He had known it might be so; he had heard plenty of the horrors
taking place in this very Paris where he stood. But it had not come
home to him till now, and he felt as if he could not believe it. Even
to think of the Marquis and his wife coming to such an end--people he
had known, whose faces he could remember--made him shiver; but for his
own ladies! No, he could not believe it. `No one--not the
hardest-hearted--could look in the Countess's face and not see how
gentle and good she was! And Mademoiselle Edmee, if it were true that
they had taken her mother, she would have died of grief. No--I shall
hope still!' he said."