The Little Old Portrait

”‘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 Edmée 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 Edmée, 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 Château,’ 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 Edmée! 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 châteaux, 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 Edmée’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 Edmée, if it were true that they had taken her mother, she would have died of grief. No – I shall hope still!’ he said.”

Chapter Ten

“Pierre had wandered down the whole length of the Rue de Lille before he quite came to himself, and then he started to see how far he had come. He had crossed two or three side streets without noticing their names.

”‘I may have passed the Rue de Poitiers,’ he said to himself, ‘where she said the wine-shop was,’ and he looked about him anxiously. A few steps further brought him out of the quiet Rue de Lille into a wider thoroughfare, the noise of which had already begun to reach him. Here there was life and movement enough – of a kind. Groups stood about talking, noisily laughing; some few passers-by, looking more serious, as if on their way to or from their daily work, were stopped and jeered at, and in some cases seemed to have difficulty in getting away.

”‘Stay five minutes – they are coming this way – hark! you can hear them already,’ Pierre heard said in a group of blouses to one of their fellows, who evidently wanted to get off.

”‘My wife’s ill,’ he said, ‘and the noise frightens her when she hears them pass. Let me go, good friends; I would stay, and gladly, but for that.’

“They let him go with a muttered oath. The man’s face was pale, and belied his words. Indeed, on many faces Pierre learnt to recognise the traces of misery and deadly fear, though these very ones sometimes laughed and shouted the loudest. But his attention was now caught by a strange sound coming nearer and nearer – a distant roar it had seemed at first, but by degrees it grew into the shouting and yelling, hardly to be called singing – though there was some tune and measure in it, and the time was marked by the beating of small drums, the clashing and clanging of tambourine; – of a multitude of human voices.

”‘What is it?’ said Pierre, half-timidly, to a boy a year or two younger than himself, who stood near. ‘Is it a procession?’

“The boy looked at him curiously. But his face was thin and pale; he did not look as if he had come in for many of the good things to be had for the asking.

”‘A procession!’ he repeated, but in a low voice; ‘mind what you say.’ For the word is associated in France with religious observances. ‘It is the Carmagnole – the dance of rejoicing. Stay, you will see for yourself; you must be a new-comer never to have seen it before.’

“Many and many a time in his after-life, as he has often told me, did Pierre Germain wish he had never seen that horrid sight at all. It used to haunt him, strong and practical as he was, like a hideous nightmare. There they came – a band of men and women, or beings that had been such, though looking more like demons. Some were half-naked, with scarfs and ribbons, generally of flaming red, flying from them; some in the most absurd and grotesque costumes that could be imagined: the women with long hair streaming, the men daubed crimson with paint or what looked like worse, some brandishing sticks and clubs, some waving scarlet flags – all leaping and dancing with a sort of monotonous rhythm, sometimes closing in together, sometimes stretching out with joined hands in enormous wheels, all yelling and shouting, with yet a tune or refrain that went in time to their steps, and somehow seemed to make the whole more horrible.

”‘Are they mad?’ said Pierre, leaning back against the wall with unutterable loathing. The pale-faced boy was still beside him, for to proceed on one’s way till the hideous crowd had passed was impossible.

”‘Hush! hush!’ said the boy in a tone of real terror. ‘Mad? Yes, indeed they are – mad with blood! Oh, I would not have risked coming out had I known I would meet them again,’ and he reeled as if he were going to faint. Pierre caught him by the arm; something in the boy’s air and tone seemed at variance with his shabby clothes.

”‘Can I do nothing for you?’ said Pierre. ‘You seem so weak. Will you take my arm?’

“But the boy seemed better again, and as the crowd began to disperse a little he was evidently in an agony to be gone.

”‘No, no,’ he said, ‘I have not far to go. Take care of yourself,’ he added, and in an instant he had slipped away.

“Pierre stood for a moment, feeling almost as sick and faint as the poor boy he had pitied. Then afraid of attracting notice he crossed the street, and went down the first quiet one he came to. Here, after a while, he passed some children playing about, whom he asked to direct him to the Rue de Poitiers. It happened to be very near, and in another moment he found himself again at a corner of the Rue de Lille. Here stood a wine-shop, sure enough. It must be here that Marguerite Ribou was to be heard of.

“But his courage, or presence of mind rather, had begun to fail him a little. He had met with such disappointment, and was confused and shocked by what he had seen and heard, and by the constant warnings to ‘beware’ of he scarcely knew what. It was evident that his countrified air and anxious face made him remarked, and though he had no fear for himself, he felt more than ever that all chance of finding and rescuing Edmée or her mother hung on him alone. He was faint and hungry too – he had had nothing for many hours but his cup of coffee and bread – and he felt as if even the fumes of the wine, for he distinguished several blouses drinking inside, would mount to his head, and make him feel still more confused, and he hung about irresolutely, even while conscious that his doing so might attract attention. Happily for him, before any one inside had noticed him, a servant-maid with a basket on her arm came out of the shop and passed down the street. Pierre followed her quickly.