The Little Old Portrait

”‘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.

”‘Pardon,’ said he, lifting his cap – a vague idea had struck him that this perhaps might be the Marguerite he was in search of, but one glance at the girl’s round rosy face told him he was wrong; ‘is there anywhere near here I can get anything to eat at?’

”‘Follow me,’ said the girl, who seemed a matter-of-fact person, ‘there is an eating-house round the corner.’

”‘Do you live there?’ said Pierre, glancing back to the wine-shop.

”‘To be sure. I am the servant.’

”‘Do you know any one called Marguerite, who comes there sometimes?’

“The girl shook her head.

”‘She comes no more,’ she said. ‘She and the mistress, the Citizeness Victorine, had words one day, and since then she comes no more.’

”‘Do you know where she is now?’

“Again the stolid young person shook her head.

”‘It is somewhere over by the church of Notre Dame – a good way from here. But I cannot tell you where,’ said the girl. ‘It is possible that the Citizeness Victorine may know, and would tell you if she were in a good temper.’

“But Pierre, feeling sure that the Victorine she spoke of was none other than his old enemy of the same name, was unutterably thankful to have avoided coming across her, so in his turn he shook his head.