The Little Old Portrait

”‘There is no use saying much about it before the boy,’ resumed her husband. ‘He thinks enough of it already. Much more and he would be setting off to Paris to rescue them before one clearly sees the danger.’

”‘But we would not stop him,’ said his wife.

”‘Not if it were to render them real service. I would go myself. Thou knowest that, wife! But we must wait awhile till we see. No use getting ourselves into trouble without doing them any good.’

”‘True,’ said Pierre’s mother, for she had the greatest respect for her husband’s opinion.

”‘At the same time do not mistake me,’ he said. ‘I am more than ready to do any service the Countess could desire. It may be that what she says is the fact – that she has no friends she can so depend on as upon us. We are plain and simple folk, but we are faithful, and we are grateful, and the time may come for us to show it.’

”‘God grant we may see how to act wisely should it be so,’ said his wife fervently. ‘And God spare my lady and her child for a peaceful life in their own home.’

”‘Amen,’ said the forester, no less devoutly than his good wife.

“Nanette’s wedding-day arrived, and the ceremony was celebrated with the usual gaieties. According to a special message from Edmée, Pierre, who was a better scribe than either his father or mother, wrote a full account of it to the Countess in Paris. He was very important over this letter, which took him quite a week to complete to his satisfaction, and then he took it to Nanette, now young Madame Delmar, for her approval, which was heartily bestowed.

”‘Ah, how pleased Mademoiselle will be to get it,’ she said. ‘I can fancy her reading it aloud to her dear mother, and possibly, if he has been “very good,” as Mademoiselle calls it, Monsieur Edmond will be allowed to hear it.’

“Pierre’s face darkened.

”‘That fellow!’ he exclaimed, and he made a movement as if he would tear the paper. ‘I won’t have him mocking at my letter, Nanette.’

“The young woman looked at him with surprise.

”‘No fear,’ she said. ‘You don’t think our young lady would allow him or any one to mock at anything to do with her dear Valmont. Besides poor Monsieur Edmond is not likely to do so. He is much the best of them, and he is so ill; they say he cannot live long. I think it is partly pity for him that keeps our ladies there. I was telling your good mother about him the other day, but you were not there, I remember.’

“Pierre looked a little ashamed of his ebullition.

”‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I did not know. I thought of him as when I saw him five years ago.’

”‘Ah, yes,’ said Nanette; ‘but since then he is much changed. And he worships the very ground our young lady stands on. No wonder! what would he have been but for her and her mother? For neither his father nor mother can bear the sight of him.’

”‘Poor fellow,’ said Pierre. ‘Then he cannot be much of a protector to our ladies in case of need.’

”‘No indeed,’ said Madame Delmar. And from that moment Pierre only thought of his childish enemy with profound pity.”

Chapter Eight

“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. Châteaux 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 Château 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 curé 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 curé 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 Edmée 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, ‘Edmée 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 curé 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 Edmée 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 Edmée! 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 Edmée, 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?’