The Child Wife

“Not so fast, Virocq!” interposed the officer to whom Maynard had more particularly addressed himself. “This gentleman is a soldier like ourselves. But he is an American, and of coarse believes in the republic. We have all our political inclinings. That’s no reason why we should not be friends socially – as we are here!”

Virocq, after making a survey of Maynard, who did not quail before his scrutiny, seemed contented with the explanation. At all events, he satisfied his wounded patriotism by once more turning to the clique of his comrades, tossing his glass on high, and once more vociferating “Vive l’Empereur!”

It was the remembrance of this scene of last night that led Maynard to reflect, when passing along the Boulevard, there was mischief in the atmosphere of Paris.

He became more convinced of it as he walked on toward the Boulevard de Bastille. There the stream of promenaders showed groups of a different aspect: for he had gone beyond the point where the genteel bourgeoisie takes its turn; where patent-leather boots and eau sucré give place to a coarser chassure and stronger beverage. Blouses were intermingled with the throng; while the casernes on both sides of the street were filled with soldiers, drinking without stint, and what seemed stranger still, with their officers along with them!

With all his republican experience – even in the campaign of Mexico even under the exigencies of the relaxed discipline brought about by the proximity of death upon the battle-field, the revolutionary leader could not help astonishment at this. He was still more surprised to see the French people along the street – even the blouses submitting to repeated insults put upon them by those things in uniform; the former stout, stalwart fellows; the latter, most of them, diminutive ruffians, despite their big breeches and swaggering gait, looking more like monkeys than men.

From such a scene, back toward Montmartre he turned with disgust.

While retracing his steps, he reflected:

“If the French people allow themselves to be bullied by such bavards as these, it’s no business of mine. They don’t deserve to be free.”

He was on the Boulevard des Italiens as he made this reflection, heading on for the widening way of the Rue de la Paix. He had already noticed a change in the aspect of the promenaders.

Troops were passing along the pavement; and taking station at the corners of the streets. Detachments occupied the casernes and cafés, not in serious, soldier-like sobriety, but calling imperiously for refreshments, and drinking without thought or pretence of payment. The bar-keeper refusing them was threatened with a blow, or the thrust of a sabre!

The promenaders on the pave were rudely accosted. Some of them pushed aside by half-intoxicated squads, that passed them on the double-quick, as if bent on some exigent duty.

Seeing this, some parties had taken to the side streets to regain their houses. Others, supposing it only a soldierly freak – the return from a Presidential review – were disposed to take it in good part; and thinking the thing would soon be over, still stayed upon the Boulevard.

Maynard was among those who remained.

Interrupted by the passing of a company of Zouaves, he had taken stand upon the steps of a house, near the embouchure of the Rue de Vivienne. With a soldier’s eye he was scrutinising these military vagabonds, supposed to be of Arab race, but whom he knew to be the scourings of the Parisian streets, disguised under the turbans of the Mohammed. He did not think in after years such types of military would be imitated in the land he had left behind, with such pride in its chivalry.

He saw that they were already half-intoxicated, staggering after their leader in careless file, little regarding the commands called back to them. Out of the ranks they were dropping off in twos and threes, entering the cafés, or accosting whatever citizen chanced to challenge their attention.

In the doorway where Maynard had drawn up, a young girl had also taken refuge. She was a pretty creature and somewhat elegantly dressed; withal of modest appearance. She may have been “grisette” or “cocotte.” It mattered not to Maynard, who had not been regarding her.

But her fair proportions had caught the eye of one of the passing Zouaves; who, parting from the ranks of his comrades, rushed up the steps and insisted upon kissing her!

The girl appealed to Maynard, who, without giving an instant to reflection, seized the Zouave by the collar, and with a kick sent him staggering from the steps.

A shout of “Secours!” traversed along the line, and the whole troop halted, as if surprised by a sudden assault of Arabs. The officer leading them came running back, and stood confronting the stranger.

“Sacré!” he cried. “It’s you, monsieur! you who go against the Empire!”

Maynard recognised the ruffian, who on the night before had disputed with him in the Café de Mille Colonnes.

“Bon!” cried Virocq, before Maynard could make either protest or reply. “Lay hold upon him, comrades! Take him back to the guard-house in the Champs Elysées. You’ll repent your interference, monsieur, in a country that calls for the Empire and order. Vive l’Empereur!”

Half a dozen crimson-breeched ruffians springing from the ranks threw themselves around Maynard, and commenced dragging him along the Boulevard.

It required this number to conquer and carry him away.

At the corner of the Rue de la Paix a strange tableau was presented to his eyes. Three ladies, accompanied by three gentlemen, were spectators of his humiliation. Promenading upon the pavement, they had drawn up on one side to give passage to the soldiers who had him in charge.

Notwithstanding the haste in which he was carried past them, he saw who they were: Mrs Girdwood and her girls – Richard Swinton, Louis Lucas, and his acolyte, attending upon them!

There was no time to think of them, or why they were there. Dragged along by the Zouaves, occasionally cursed and cuffed by them, absorbed in his own wild rage, Maynard only occupied himself with thoughts of vengeance. It was to him an hour of agony – the agony of an impotent anger!

Chapter Thirty Three.

A Nation’s Murder

“By Jawve!” exclaimed Swinton. “It’s that fellaw, Maynard. You remember him, ladies? The fellaw who, at Newpawt, wan away after gwosely insulting me, without giving me the oppawtunity of obtaining the satisfaction of a gentleman?”

“Come, come, Mr Swinton,” said Lucas, interposing. “I don’t wish to contradict you; but you’ll excuse me for saying that he didn’t exactly run away. I think I ought to know.”

The animus of Lucas’s speech is easily explained. He had grown rather hostile to Swinton. And no wonder. After pursuing the Fifth Avenue heiress all through the Continental tour, and as he supposed with fair prospect of success, he was once more in danger of being outdone by his English rival, freshly returned to the field.

“My deaw Mr Lucas,” responded Swinton, “that’s all vewy twue. The fellaw, as you say, wote me a lettaw, which did not weach me in proper time. But that was no weason why he should have stolen away and left no addwess faw me to find him.”

“He didn’t steal away,” quietly rejoined Lucas.

“Well,” said Swinton, “I won’t argue the question. Not with you, my deaw fwend, at all events – ”

“What can it mean?” interposed Mrs Girdwood, noticing the ill feeling between the suitors of Julia, and with the design of turning it off. “Why have they arrested him? Can any one tell?”

“Pawhaps he has committed some kwime?” suggested Swinton.

“That’s not likely, sir,” sharply asserted Cornelia.

“Aw – aw. Well, Miss Inskip, I may be wong in calling it kwime. It’s a question of fwaseology; but I’ve been told that this Mr Maynard is one of those wed wepublicans who would destwoy society, weligion, in shawt, evewything. No doubt, he has been meddling heaw in Fwance, and that’s the cause of his being a pwisoner. At least I suppose so.”

Julia had as yet said nothing. She was gazing after the arrested man, who had ceased struggling against his captors, and was being hurried off out of sight.

In the mind of the proud girl there was a thought Maynard might have felt proud of inspiring. In that moment of his humiliation he knew not that the most beautiful woman on the Boulevard had him in her heart with a deep interest, and a sympathy for his misfortune – whatever it might be. “Can nothing be done, mamma?”

“For what, Julia?”

“For him,” and she pointed after Maynard. “Certainly not, my child. Not by us. It is no affair of ours. He has got himself into some trouble with the soldiers. Perhaps, as Mr Swinton says, political. Let him get out of it as he can. I suppose he has his friends. Whether or not, we can do nothing for him. Not even if we tried. How could we – strangers like us?”

“Our Minister, mamma. You remember Captain Maynard has fought under the American flag. He would be entitled to its protection. Shall we go the Embassy?”

“We’ll do nothing of the kind, silly girl. I tell you it’s no affair of ours. We shan’t make or meddle with it. Come! let us return to the hotel. These soldiers seem to be behaving strangely. We’d better get out of their way. Look yonder! There are fresh troops of them pouring into the streets, and talking angrily to the people?”

It was as Mrs Girdwood had said. From the side streets armed bands were issuing, one after the other; while along the open Boulevard came rolling artillery carriages, followed by their caissons, the horses urged to furious speed by drivers who appeared drunk!

Here and there one dropped off, throwing itself into battery and unlimbering as if for action. Before, or alongside them, galloped squadrons of cavalry, lancers, cuirassiers, and conspicuously the Chasseurs d’Afrique – fit tools selected for the task that was before them.

All wore an air of angry excitement as men under the influence of spirits taken to prepare them for some sanguinary purpose. It was proclaimed by a string of watchwords passing occasionally between them, “Vive l’Empereur! Vive l’armée! À bas les canailles de députés et philosophes!”

Each moment the turmoil increased, the crowd also augmenting from streams pouring in by the side streets. Citizens became mingled with the soldiery, and here and there could be heard angry shouts and speeches of remonstrance.

All at once, and as if by a preconcerted signal, came the crisis. It was preconcerted, and by a signal only entrusted to the leaders.