"Pierre opened the door, but in an instant he saw it was not the priest.
A woman in dark clothing, her face half concealed by a veil or
handkerchief of some kind, which she had muffled round her head, stood
before him. She was coming forward as if to enter without speaking,
when, glancing upwards, she perceived that he was not, as she had
imagined, Edmond. She fell back startled, but instantly recovering
herself.
"`Who may you be, citizen?' she said, in a hard, cold tone, which had
little gentleness in it, and then she added in a lower voice, `Mind you,
if you are another aristocrat in disguise, come to take refuge here, I
will have nothing to do with you. I have enough on my hands, and so
have they,' nodding towards the door, where the poor dead lady was
lying, `in there.'
"Pierre looked at her quietly.
"`I am Pierre Germain,' he said. `I have seen you once before,
Marguerite Ribou.'
"The girl, or woman rather, for she had grown tall, and was finely
proportioned, threw back her veil. Her beautiful dark face grew deathly
pale, and she staggered back against the wall.
"`Forgive me!' she said; `I have never forgotten you, though there are
times my poor brain aches with remembering,' and she passed her hand
across her forehead with a gesture that reminded Pierre of what Edmee
had said of her. `All is wrong,' continued Marguerite; `there is no
right, no good anywhere! But I waste precious moments. It is well you
have come, for it is only just in time--they must fly; well or ill, they
must fly at once. Tell me, how is the Countess?'
"`She is dead,' replied Pierre simply.
"One or two large tears gathered in the girl's eyes, and slowly rolled
down her face. But all she said was, `It is well.'
"Then Pierre stepped back to let her pass in.
"`You will see Mademoiselle?' he said.
"Marguerite hesitated.
"`It is as I said!' she exclaimed hurriedly. `She must start at
once--_at once_, I say--if she would not share the fate of her uncle and
aunt!'
"`How can we persuade her to leave _her_--the Countess!' said Pierre, in
despair.
"`Better leave her dead than dying,' said Marguerite, and though the
words were almost coarse, the intense earnestness of the tone made them
not seem so. Just then a step made both Pierre and the girl look round.
It was Edmee. Pale almost as her dead mother, she came forward.
"`I have heard,' she said. `I opened the door to see who it was.
Marguerite, I trust you--_she_ did. Is it really as bad as you say? Is
the danger so near?'
"`Near!' repeated Marguerite; `it is _here_! I came to do what I could,
though with but small hopes of seeing you. It is Victorine; she has not
rested till she found where you were, and now it is only a question of a
few hours.'
"`I will be ready,' said Edmee, to the great surprise of both her
hearers. `When you tell me to go, Marguerite, I will go. I have no
right to risk Pierre's life; he has risked it for me--that was his own
doing. And I know he would not go without me. Besides, I promised--I
promised my darling; she seemed to have known it would come so, and she
made me promise to go, even if I could not stay to see her laid in the
grave. Living, I could never have left her. Oh, Pierrot, it is hard!'
she went on, turning to him, and clasping her hands, while the tears ran
down her face again, `must we already say we are glad she is dead?'
"Pierre could not answer, but Marguerite did so for him.
"`Yes, my poor child, it is so. You _must_ say it and feel it.'
"Her voice seemed to recall Edmee's thoughts.
"`There is one thing,' she said, looking now at Marguerite. `You
understand--I will not go without Edmond.'
"`Then,' said the girl, in a sudden burst of passion, `you may stay, for
all I will do to save you. Child, you are mad! But you, you, Pierre
Germain, you should have influence with her. Tell her she is mad.'
"`No, Marguerite,' said Pierre, `we cannot desert him. If Edmee could
be saved without my help, I would gladly stay with him and entreat her
to go. But she cannot go alone. And I, too, promised to protect the
poor boy.'
"`Then you are both mad!' said Marguerite, and she burst away as she
spoke. But Pierre was too quick for her. He caught her before she had
reached the stair.
"`Marguerite,' he said, `you thanked me once for my pity, and the very
little I was able to do for you in your sorrow. You said you would
never forget it. I too have never forgotten your wrongs and sorrows. I
have no reason to risk danger for that boy's sake--I have no love for
him. But I have promised--and besides, how cowardly would it be to
desert a creature so weak and helpless! Marguerite, you will not fail
us?--for your dead brother Louis's sake be generous, and return good for
evil.'
"A stifled groan from the girl when he named her brother was the only
sound for a moment. Then she turned again.
"`For _his_ sake!--a strange revenge,' she muttered. Then she said
aloud, though speaking softly--
"`Be ready then--all three of you. In two hours I will be back. But
you have made it much more difficult for me, and for yourselves,' and
with these words she was gone.
"Pierre hastened to tell Edmee that she had given in, and together they
set to work to arrange the few, terribly few things belonging to the
Countess and her daughter, so that they would be ready to carry away.
Edmond seemed dazed and stupid. His cousin had to pack for him too; he
would scarcely speak, and seemed indifferent to everything. Pierre
dared not leave Edmee alone, and yet he was anxious to go back to pay
his poor landlady a little sum he owed her, and to collect his own
little bundle. It was a dreadful afternoon. Every sound on the stairs
made Edmee start and shiver with horror, and yet every time she glanced
at the still, cold form on the bed, her heart seemed to burst with fresh
agony at the thought of deserting all that was left her of her mother.
"The thankfulness of both Pierre and the young girl was great when, an
hour after Marguerite had left, Sister Angelique returned with the
priest in disguise. They had already made arrangements for the burial
of the Countess. It was to be in the night, so that in secret, with the
help of one or two he could trust, the good priest would be able to read
the service for the dead. He did not tell--and not till long afterwards
did Edmee know--that for the necessary expense he had parted with his
watch, the last remains of his happier days! Pierre hurried to his
lodgings, whence he returned only just in time, for Marguerite was
already waiting. She had brought a gown of her own, which she had
shortened for Edmee, and made Pierre dress Edmond in the suit he had in
his bundle, replacing it by that which young de Sarinet had hitherto
worn. He submitted, but in silence, and with no word of thanks. Pierre
thought him merely dazed and stupid with sorrow, but Marguerite darted
angry looks at him with her dark eyes.
"`You will wish you had taken my advice about him before you get to the
end of your journey,' she muttered to Pierre.
"Then she gave them directions. They were to start at once, walking
quietly through the town till they came to a little wine-shop in a
street which she clearly described to them.
"`There you must ask for the Citizeness Dupuis,' she said. `She is a
short stout woman. She will say little to you, but you may trust her.
She will give you a good dinner in the room behind the shop, and there
you must stay till I come. Pay no attention to anything you see or
hear--be deaf and dumb. I will bring your things with me, and what you
cannot carry away will be kept for you till I can send it to Valmont.'
"In the same dry, hard manner she stood by while Edmee, in a passion of
grief, threw herself on the bed where lay her mother, and kissed for the
last time the soft white face already cold with the iciness of death.
Sister Angelique had drawn Edmond aside, and was whispering good advice
to him, which he seemed to receive more meekly than might have been
expected; but even she, trained as she was to Self-control through the
most painful scenes, broke down when Edmee at last tore herself away
from the Countess's room, and sobbed her farewell in the kind Sister's
arms.
"`Good-bye, my child. The good Father and I will do all we can--trust
us. In more peaceful days you may be able to visit her grave. God
bless you, my sweet child, and take comfort in the thought that to-day's
sorrow might have come in a more terrible form.'
"`I know, I know,' said Edmee. `I am ready now, Marguerite. Poor
Marguerite!' she added, almost caressingly; `how good you are! I want
to be resigned, but you can understand how hard it is.'
"But Pierre, who was standing close to her, heard the girl mutter under
her breath, `No, I understand nothing. I have no heart, no feelings any
more, thank God.'
"The boy shuddered, but intense pity softened his horror at her words.
`She knows not what she says,' he thought. `Her actions show how good
and generous a heart she had.'
"Marguerite accompanied them only to the door, and then repeated her
directions.
"`Speak to each other in an ordinary way as you go along,' she said.
`You must hide your grief till there is no one to remark you. Speak to
her of Valmont, of country things, Pierre; it is best for you to speak
with your country accent,' though, to tell the truth, he had but little,
for in Touraine, as you know, the pronunciation, even of the peasants,
is unusually good.
"They reached the place indicated without difficulty, and on saying they
were there to wait for the Citizeness Marguerite, the short stout woman
at once led them into a little back parlour, where she served them a
good meal. Poor things! they were very hungry by this time, and it was
a better dinner than any of the three had tasted for many days. (Often
has my mother told me how strangely shocked she was at herself for being
so hungry--in such circumstances).
"Edmond remained silent, and took no notice of Pierre's little overtures
of friendliness, so young Germain ended by leaving him alone. It grew
very dreary after their dinner--they had nothing to do, and for, no
doubt, a good reason, the Citizeness Dupuis left them without a light.
As it grew darker, several men in blouses, and a few women, strolled
into the shop, which at first had been empty, and Edmee began to
understand Marguerite's warning. For such snatches of talk as came to
them were far from reassuring, and as the evening went on and more wine
was drunk, the loud laughing, the coarse jokes about `Madame
Guillotine,' and the good work she had done lately, the threats of what
was yet to be done, grew so terrible, that more than once Edmee put her
fingers in her ears. But she had to take them out again to sooth
Edmond, who became wildly excited, at one moment declaring he would
burst into the shop and tell the wretched hounds what he thought of
them, and who _he_ was, with a touch of his old braggadocio; and next,
bursting into tears, and saying it was all a trick, Marguerite had
decoyed them there to betray them, and as soon as she came would herself
give them up to their enemies. Pierre _could_ not think her capable of
such hideous treachery, but still his mind misgave him somewhat, and
when at last Marguerite herself came in by another door from that by
which they had entered, he had been on the point of suggesting to Edmee
to take flight and trust to themselves.
"`What is the matter?' said the girl, when she had lighted a small taper
and saw the state that Edmond was in.
"Edmee and Pierre explained to her.
"`Well, did I not warn you?' she said. `Though I own I did not think it
would have been so noisy to-night, and I had hoped to be here sooner.
It will do that fool no harm, all the same,' she added, and when Edmond,
wild with fury, started up as if to strike her, she calmly seized his
two arms and held them tightly behind his back, with a sort of
contemptuous pity in her face, for she was very strong, twice as strong
as poor thin Edmond.
"`No, you shall not strike me, little Sarinet,' she said, and as if
moved by a spirit of contradiction, `I will save you in spite of
yourself, you foolish boy.'
"Then in a stern, grave whisper she told them to come with her, and
without waiting to say good-bye to the Citizeness Dupuis, who I daresay
was not sorry to find them gone, she led them out by the way she had
entered.
"In silence for some length of time the two boys followed their strange
guide, who had made Edmee take her arm, she herself carrying the bag
containing all of her small possessions that the last of the Valmonts
had ventured to bring away. Marguerite chose the darkest and narrowest
streets, but she seemed to know her way with wonderful cleverness,
considering she was not a Parisian by birth or breeding. At last she
stopped.
"`I can go no further,' she said. `If I stay so late my friends will
wonder what I am doing. In ten minutes, taking the first road to your
left, you will arrive at the barriers. I know the sergeant who at this
hour will probably be there. Show him these papers; you will have no
trouble. Pierre must speak. Tell him you mean to spend the night just
outside the town, that you may be ready for a friend who is going your
way in the morning, and ask him the nearest way to Choisy-le-roi. He
will offer to send some one with you, as if out of good nature. Accept
his offer. You may trust your guide, but you need not speak to him. He
will take you to the cottage where you will spend the night. Start with
the earliest dawn, and get as far as you can on your way before night.
Do not hesitate to take any chance of getting on quicker, either in the
public carriages if you meet them, or in any passing cart. The great
thing is to get away far from Paris as fast as possible.'
"`But,' said Pierre, `we have no choice, my good Marguerite. We have no
money.'
"`I was coming to that,' she said. `Here is more than enough for your
journey in the only way in which you will dare to travel. I could give
you more, but it would only expose you to danger.'
"`But we cannot take _your_ money, Marguerite,' said Pierre. `At least
only as a loan.'
"`And also,' began Edmee, and then she hesitated.
"`I know,' said the girl; `it is what the Countess said. She would
rather have starved than take money from me, because she thought it ill
come by. But this you can take without scruple.' She turned slightly
aside, so that only Pierre and Edmee could hear her. `The Hotel de
Sarinet was sacked last week; yesterday they threw me for my share some
of _his_ mother's jewels. I sold some; the rest I will pack among your
things. _I_ would not touch them. Now,' she went on, `this is all I
can do. You must now trust to your own sense and courage. It is only
_he_,' and she nodded towards Edmond, standing apart, `who may get you
into trouble, as he nearly did to-night, mistrusting me for having
brought you there--the safest place for you this evening, because the
last they would have looked for you in! Now farewell.'
"`Farewell, Marguerite, and God bless you!' said Pierre and Edmee
together, and the latter added, `If you would but have come with us, as
my mother begged you.'
"But Marguerite shook her head.
"`There will always be a home for you at Valmont,' added Edmee, `and we
will always pray for you, dear Marguerite.'
"`Ah,' said the poor girl, `you may do that. Your prayers may be heard;
_mine_ have never been answered.'
"And with these words she turned away, and was lost to sight.
"At first all happened as their protectress had said. The sergeant at
the gates let them pass with some rough good-natured words loudly
spoken, as if he never supposed them to be other than their papers and
Pierre's explanation represented them to be--two peasant lads and their
sister making their way back to their friends in the country, as many of
the better class poor, getting shocked at the state of things in Paris,
were glad to do at that time. And after directing them to
Choisy-le-roi, a second thought seemed to strike him. `I can do more
than that,' he said. `Here Jean, Choisy is your road. Show these
little citizens the way,' and up started a man, young or old they could
not tell, for they never saw his face, which seemed muffled up, nor did
he speak all the way. And they never knew who he was, nor for what
motive he had rendered them this service.
"At Choisy-le-roi they spent the night with the old woman who seemed to
be expecting them. Before daybreak they were some miles further on
their way to Bretigny, the first stage, one might say, on the road home,
driven in a cart by a boy, the grandson of the old woman, and accustomed
to take her eggs into Paris for the market. Some days of pretty steady
travelling followed; the weather was fine, fortunately, for had it not
been so, the poor children were but scantily protected; and Edmond kept
up better than they could have hoped. Edmee herself, during those first
days, was scarcely conscious of fatigue, or even of anxiety. She felt
as if in a dream, and constantly expected to wake and find herself again
in the wretched lodgings, beside her mother. The thought of that
mother, of the terrible parting from all that was left of her, possessed
her to such an extent, that for herself she would have felt no fear,
hardly emotion of any kind had they been seized and carried back to
Paris. Pierre was sometimes frightened by her very quietness; it was
unlike her to be so dreamy and silent, even in sorrow, and more than
once he endeavoured to rouse her by reminding her that she must not let
herself fall ill. `We are obeying the dear Countess,' he said. `Her
last thought was for you--the only comfort of those last moments was the
belief that you would yet be safe at Valmont.'
"`I know it was so,' said Edmee. `Yes, Pierre, my kind Pierrot, you are
right. I will try to wish what she did.'
"But before they had reached the longed-for end of their journey, danger
came so near them that all the girl's faculties were roused, and,
terrible as it was, she has sometimes said to me that she thought this
very experience saved her from falling into a sort of half-stupid,
almost idiotic state, from which she might never have recovered. For
till now, there had been nothing to make them realise along what a
precipice-brink they were moving. Once out of Paris, both Edmee and her
cousin had imagined themselves safe, and the girl had yielded to her
overpowering sorrow, the boy to his grief, not less sincere, but less
unselfish than hers. But for wide-awake, practical Pierre what would
have become of them?
"It happened thus: it was, as Marguerite had foreseen, the fault of
Edmond.
"One evening--they had been travelling, sometimes on foot and sometimes
in a cart or in one of the public coaches, running short distances--they
would not of course have ventured to take places right through to Tours,
the nearest point to Valmont for the regular diligences--one evening
they reached a village not very far from Sarinet. Pierre had judged it
wise to skirt Sarinet, both because Edmond might have been recognised,
and also out of pity for the boy, to spare his feelings as much as
possible, and as they were now in a part of the country he thoroughly
knew, he found it easy to make their way round at what he thought a safe
distance. But they had had a long day's walk before they arrived weary
and foot-sore at a village where Pierre had decided to spend the night.
There was a small inn in the village--a while ago Pierre would have been
horrified at the idea of Edmee's entering such a place, but he had grown
used to the necessity of such things, and the young girl never by word
or glance murmured or seemed to notice the roughness and coarseness to
which she was for the first time exposed. Pierre bespoke a bed for his
`sister,' and a corner of the barn for himself and Edmond, and then they
sat down in the rude kitchen to such a supper as could be provided for
them. There were one or two peasants drinking in a corner, but quietly
enough, when suddenly the door was pushed roughly open, and a couple of
men in blouses came noisily in, shouting for something to drink. The
innkeeper's wife, a timid, civil woman, hurried forward, but before she
had time to serve the new-comers, one of them came up to the fire-place,
near where the three young strangers were seated, and kicked the burning
logs with his foot. Some embers flew out, and a spark or two lighted on
Edmee's dress, though she at once extinguished it. But up started
Edmond.
"`Mind what you're about, fellow!' he cried, with the true Sarinet tone.
"The offender turned round and eyed him curiously, but without speaking
a word. Then he kicked the logs again till more sparks flew out in all
directions. Edmond was springing to his feet, but Pierre held him
forcibly back. `Are you mad--quite mad?' he whispered in a low, stern
voice, while Edmee clasped his hand under the table with her trembling
ones. The boy seemed startled into submission, and Pierre, rising from
his seat, went forward to the fire.
"`If you don't object, citizen,' he said good-humouredly, `I think I can
make it burn better without scorching your feet or my sister's dress,'
and he skilfully turned and arranged the logs till a bright glow
rewarded him.
"The man eyed Pierre with curiosity.
"`You are a handy fellow, and a civil one,' he said; `how come you in
company with such a young insolent as that one yonder?' and he jerked
his thumb towards Edmond.
"Pierre laughed, though his heart was beating so fast that he fancied it
must be heard. But for knowing that Edmee was holding her cousin tight,
he dared not have risked that laugh or his words.
"`A spoilt child,' he said lightly. `He was brought up in Paris; I and
our sister in the country. Now we are on our way to Tours, and my
brother is tired. We have had a long tramp. You must excuse him,
citizen.'
"In his turn the man laughed, but the laugh had not a pleasant sound.
"`He is not worth chastising; it is easy to see _he_ is not
country-bred,' he said. But Pierre, watching, saw him shoot an
expressive glance over to his companion, who was sitting still and had
taken no part in the discussion. And Pierre's heart stood still with
horror, for to him the glance spoke terrible things.
"`And but for Edmond,' he reflected, `we might have passed unnoticed.
Marguerite was right. Oh, my dear lady, I would have died for you and
Edmee, but it will be too hard to have her sacrificed for him!'"