CHAPTER XI.
Dalla rupe natìa quand’ esce fuora,
E a poco a poco lucido se rende
Sotto l’attenta che lo lavora.”
Mad. de Fleury joined her husband, who was in London; and they both lived in the most retired and frugal manner. They had too much of the pride of independence to become burthensome to their generous English friends. Notwithstanding the variety of difficulties they had to encounter, and the number of daily privations to which they were forced to submit, yet they were happy—in a tranquil conscience, in their mutual affection, and the attachment of many poor but grateful friends. A few months after she came to England, Mad. de Fleury received, by a private hand, a packet of letters from her little pupils. Each of them, even the youngest, who had but just begun to learn joining-hand, would write a few lines in this packet.
In various hands, of various sizes, the changes were rung upon these simple words:
“I love you—I wish you were here again—I will be very very good whilst you are away. If you stay away ever so long, I shall
never forget you, nor your goodness; but I hope you will soon be
able to come back, and this is what I pray for every night. Sister
Frances says I may tell you that I am very good, and Victoire
thinks so too.”
This was the substance of several of their little letters. Victoire’s contained rather more information:—
that the good chestnut woman, in whose cellar she took refuge, did
not get into any difficulty. After you were gone, M. T—— said
that he did not think it worth while to pursue her, as it was only
you he wanted to humble. Manon, who has, I do not know how, means
of knowing, told me this. Sister Frances is now with her abbess,
who, as well as every body else that knows her, is very fond of
her. What was a convent is no longer a convent: the nuns are
turned out of it. Sister Frances’ health is not so good as it used
to be, though she never complains; I am sure she suffers much; she
has never been the same person since that day when we were driven
from our happy school-room. It is all destroyed—the garden and
every thing. It is now a dismal sight. Your absence also afflicts
Sister Frances much, and she is in great anxiety about all of
us. She has the six little ones with her every day, in her own
apartment, and goes on teaching them as she used to do. We six
eldest go to see her as often as we can. I should have begun, my
dear Mad. de Fleury, by telling you, that, the day after you left
Paris, I went to deliver all the letters you were so very kind to
write for us in the midst of your hurry. Your friends have been
exceedingly good to us, and have got places for us all. Rose is
with Mad. la Grace, your mantua-maker, who says she is more handy
and more expert at cutting out than girls she has had these three
years. Marianne is in the service of Mad. de V——, who has lost
a great part of her large fortune, and cannot afford to keep her
former waiting-maid. Mad. de V—— is well pleased with Marianne,
and bids me tell you that she thanks you for her. Indeed,
Marianne, though she is only fourteen, can do every thing her lady
wants. Susanne is with a confectioner; she gave Sister Frances
a box of bonbons of her own making this morning; and Sister
Frances, who is a judge, says they are excellent; she only wishes
you could taste them. Annette and I (thanks to your kindness!) are
in the same service, with Mad. Feuillot, the brodeuse, to whom
you recommended us: she is not discontented with our work, and
indeed sent a very civil message yesterday to Sister Frances on
this subject; but I believe it is too flattering for me to repeat
in this letter. We shall do our best to give her satisfaction. She
is glad to find that we can write tolerably, and that we can make
out bills and keep accounts; this being particularly convenient
to her at present, as the young man she had in the shop is become
an orator, and good for nothing but la chose publique: her
son, who could have supplied his place, is ill; and Mad. Feuillot
herself, not having had, as she says, the advantage of such a good
education as we have been blessed with, writes but badly, and
knows nothing of arithmetic. Dear Mad. de Fleury, how much, how
very much we are obliged to you! We feel it every day more and
more: in these times what would have become of us, if we could
do nothing useful? Who would, who could be burdened with us?
Dear madame, we owe every thing to you—and we can do nothing, not
the least thing, for you!—My mother is still in bad health, and
I fear will never recover: Babet is with her always, and Sister
Frances is very good to her. My brother Maurice is now so good a
workman that he earns a louis a week. He is very steady to his
business, and never goes to the revolutionary meetings, though
once he had a great mind to be an orator of the people, but never
since the day that you explained to him that he knew nothing about
equality and the rights of men, &c. How could I forget to tell
you, that his master the smith, who was one of your guards, and
who assisted you to escape, has returned without suspicion to his
former trade? and he declares that he will never more meddle with
public affairs. I gave him the money you left with me for him. He
is very kind to my brother—yesterday Maurice mended for Annette’s
mistress the lock of an English writing-desk, and he mended it so
astonishingly well, that an English gentleman, who saw it, could
not believe the work was done by a Frenchman; so my brother was
sent for, to prove it, and they were forced to believe it. To-day
he has more work than he can finish this twelvemonth—all this we
owe to you. I shall never forget the day when you promised that
you would grant my brother’s wish to be apprenticed to the smith,
if I was not in a passion for a month—that cured me of being so
passionate.
“Dear Mad. de Fleury, I have written you too long a letter, and
not so well as I can write when I am not in a hurry; but I wanted
to tell you every thing at once, because, may be, I shall not for
a long time have so safe an opportunity of sending a letter to
you.
“VICTOIRE.”
Several months elapsed before Mad. de Fleury received another letter from Victoire: it was short, and evidently written in great distress of mind. It contained an account of her mother’s death. She was now left at the early age of sixteen an orphan. Mad. Feuillot, the brodeuse, with whom she lived, added a few lines to her letter, penned with difficulty and strangely spelled, but expressive of her being highly pleased with both the girls recommended to her by Mad. de Fleury, especially Victoire, who she said was such a treasure to her, that she would not part with her on any account, and should consider her as a daughter. “I tell her not to grieve so much; for though she has lost one mother, she has gained another for herself, who will always love her: and besides, she is so useful, and in so many ways, with her pen and her needle, in accounts, and every thing that is wanted in a family or a shop, she can never want employment or friends in the worst times; and none can be worse than these, especially for such pretty girls as she is, who have all their heads turned, and are taught to consider nothing a sin that used to be sins. Many gentlemen, who come to our shop, have found out that Victoire is very handsome, and tell her so; but she is so modest and prudent, that I am not afraid for her. I could tell you, madame, a good anecdote on this subject, but my paper will not allow, and besides, my writing is so difficult.”
Above a year elapsed before Mad. de Fleury received another letter from Victoire: this was in a parcel, of which an emigrant took charge: it contained a variety of little offerings from her pupils, instances of their ingenuity, their industry, and their affection: the last thing in the packet was a small purse labelled in this manner—
“Savings from our wages and earnings, for her who taught us all we know.”
CHAPTER XII.
De héros en héros, d’âge en âge, embelli.”
DE LILLE.
The health of the good Sister Frances, which had suffered much from the shock her mind received at the commencement of the revolution, declined so rapidly in the course of the two succeeding years, that she was obliged to leave Paris, and she retired to a little village in the neighbourhood of Chantilly. She chose this situation, because here she was within a morning’s walk of Mad. de Fleury’s country-seat. The Château de Fleury had not yet been seized as national property, nor had it suffered from the attacks of the mob, though it was in a perilous situation, within view of the high road to Paris. The Parisian populace had not yet extended their outrages to this distance from the city; and the poor people who lived on the estate of Fleury, attached from habit, principle, and gratitude to their lord, were not disposed to take advantage of the disorder of the times, to injure the property of those from whom they had all their lives received favours and protection. A faithful old steward had the care of the castle and the grounds. Sister Frances was impatient to talk to him, and to visit the château, which she had never seen; but for some days after her arrival in the village, she was so much fatigued and so weak, that she could not attempt so long a walk. Victoire had obtained permission from her mistress to accompany the nun for a few days to the country, as Annette undertook to do all the business of the shop during the absence of her companion. Victoire was fully as eager as Sister Frances to see the faithful steward and the Château de Fleury, and the morning was now fixed for their walk: but in the middle of the night they were awakened by the shouts of a mob, who had just entered the village fresh from the destruction of a neighbouring castle. The nun and Victoire listened; but in the midst of the horrid yells of joy, no human voice, no intelligible word, could be distinguished: they looked through a chink in the window-shutter, and they saw the street below filled with a crowd of men, whose countenances were by turns illuminated by the glare of the torches which they brandished.
“Good Heavens!” whispered the nun to Victoire: “I should know the face of that man who is loading his musket—the very man whom I nursed ten years ago, when he was ill with a jail fever!”
This man, who stood in the midst of the crowd, taller by the head than the others, seemed to be the leader of the party; they were disputing whether they should proceed further, spend the remainder of the night in the village alehouse, or return to Paris. Their leader ordered spirits to be distributed to his associates, and exhorted them in a loud voice to proceed in their glorious work. Tossing his firebrand over his head, he declared that he would never return to Paris till he had razed to the ground the Château de Fleury. At these words, Victoire, forgetful of all personal danger, ran out into the midst of the mob, pressed her way up to the leader of these ruffians, caught him by the arm, exclaiming, “You will not touch a stone in the Château de Fleury—I have my reasons—I say you will not suffer a stone in the Château de Fleury to be touched.”
“And why not?” cried the man, turning astonished; “and who are you, that I should listen to you?”
“No matter who I am,” said Victoire; “follow me, and I will show you one to whom you will not refuse to listen. Here!—here she is,” continued Victoire, pointing to the nun, who had followed her in amazement; “here is one to whom you will listen—yes, look at her well: hold the light to her face.”
The nun, in a supplicating attitude, stood in speechless expectation.
“Ay, I see you have gratitude, I know you will have mercy,” cried Victoire, watching the workings in the countenance of the man; “you will save the Château de Fleury, for her sake—who saved your life.”
“I will,” cried this astonished chief of a mob, fired with sudden generosity. “By my faith you are a brave girl, and a fine girl, and know how to speak to the heart, and in the right moment. Friends, citizens! this nun, though she is a nun, is good for something. When I lay ill with a fever, and not a soul else to help me, she came and gave me medicines and food—in short, I owe my life to her. ‘Tis ten years ago, but I remember it well; and now it is our turn to rule, and she shall be paid as she deserves. Not a stone of the Château de Fleury shall be touched!”
With loud acclamations, the mob joined in the generous enthusiasm of the moment, and followed their leader peaceably out of the village. All this passed with such rapidity as scarcely to leave the impression of reality upon the mind. As soon as the sun rose in the morning, Victoire looked out for the turrets of the Château de Fleury, and she saw that they were safe—safe in the midst of the surrounding devastation. Nothing remained of the superb palace of Chantilly but the white arches of its foundation!
CHAPTER XIII.
Thy meek submission to thy God express’d;
When thy last look, ere thought and feeling fled,
A mingled gleam of hope and triumph shed;
What to thy soul its glad assurance gave—
Its hope in death, its triumph o’er the grave?
The sweet remembrance of unblemish’d youth,
Th’inspiring voice of innocence and truth!”
ROGERS.
The good Sister Frances, though she had scarcely recovered from the shock of the preceding night, accompanied Victoire to the Château de Fleury. The gates were opened for them by the old steward and his son Basile, who welcomed them with all the eagerness with which people welcome friends in time of adversity. The old man showed them the place; and through every apartment of the castle went on, talking of former times, and with narrative fondness told anecdotes of his dear master and mistress. Here his lady used to sit and read—here was the table at which she wrote—this was the sofa on which she and the ladies sat the very last day she was at the castle, at the open windows of the hall, whilst all the tenants and people of the village were dancing on the green.
“Ay, those were happy times,” said the old man; “but they will never return.”
“Never! Oh, do not say so,” cried Victoire.
“Never during my life, at least,” said the nun in a low voice, and with a look of resignation.
Basile, as he wiped the tears from his eyes, happened to strike his arm against the chord of Mad. de Fleury’s harp, and the sound echoed through the room.
“Before this year is at an end,” cried Victoire, “perhaps that harp will be struck again in this château by Mad. de Fleury herself. Last night we could hardly have hoped to see these walls standing this morning, and yet it is safe—not a stone touched! Oh, we shall all live, I hope, to see better times!”
Sister Frances smiled, for she would not depress Victoire’s enthusiastic hope: to please her, the good nun added, that she felt better this morning than she had felt for months, and Victoire was happier than she had been since Mad. de Fleury left France. But, alas! it was only a transient gleam. Sister Frances relapsed, and declined so rapidly, that even Victoire, whose mind was almost always disposed to hope, despaired of her recovery. With placid resignation, or rather with mild confidence, this innocent and benevolent creature met the approach of death. She seemed attached to earth only by affection for those whom she was to leave in this world. Two of the youngest of the children which had formerly been placed under her care, and who were not yet able to earn their own subsistence, she kept with her, and in the last days of her life she continued her instructions to them with the fond solicitude of a parent. Her father confessor, an excellent man, who never even in these dangerous times shrunk from his duty, came to attend Sister Frances in her last moments, and relieved her mind from all anxiety, by promising to place the two little children with the lady who had been abbess of her convent, who would to the utmost of her power protect and provide for them suitably. Satisfied by this promise, the good Sister Frances smiled upon Victoire, who stood beside her bed, and with that smile upon her countenance expired.—It was some time before the little children seemed to comprehend, or to believe, that Sister Frances was dead: they had never before seen any one die; they had no idea what it was to die, and their first feeling was astonishment: they did not seem to understand why Victoire wept. But the next day when no Sister Frances spoke to them, when every hour they missed some accustomed kindness from her,—when presently they saw the preparations for her funeral,—when they heard that she was to be buried in the earth, and that they should never see her more,—they could neither play nor eat, but sat in a corner holding each other’s hands, and watching every thing that was done for the dead by Victoire.
In those times, the funeral of a nun, with a priest attending, would not have been permitted by the populace. It was therefore performed as secretly as possible: in the middle of the night the coffin was carried to the burial-place of the Fleury family; the old steward, his son Basile, Victoire, and the good father confessor, were the only persons present. It is necessary to mention this, because the facts were afterwards misrepresented.
CHAPTER XIV.
Her head adorn’d with lappets, pinn’d aloft,
And ribands streaming gay, superbly raised,
Indebted to some smart wig-weaver’s hand
For more than half the tresses it sustains.”
COWPER.
Upon her return to Paris, Victoire felt melancholy; but she exerted herself as much as possible in her usual occupation; finding that employment and the consciousness of doing her duty were the best remedies for sorrow.
One day, as she was busy settling Mad. Feuillot’s accounts, a servant came into the shop, and inquired for Mademoiselle Victoire: he presented her a note, which she found rather difficult to decipher. It was signed by her cousin Manon, who desired to see Victoire at her hotel. “Her hotel!” repeated Victoire with astonishment. The servant assured her that one of the finest hotels in Paris belonged to his lady, and that he was commissioned to show her the way to it. Victoire found her cousin in a magnificent house, which had formerly belonged to the Prince de Salms. Manon, dressed in the disgusting, indecent extreme of the mode, was seated under a richly-fringed canopy. She burst into a loud laugh as Victoire entered.
“You look just as much astonished as I expected,” cried she. “Great changes have happened since I saw you last—I always told you, Victoire, I knew the world better than you did. What has come of all your schooling, and your mighty goodness, and your gratitude truly?—Your patroness is banished and a beggar, and you a drudge in the shop of a brodeuse, who makes you work your fingers to the bone, no doubt.—Now you shall see the difference. Let me show you my house; you know it was formerly the hotel of the Prince de Salms, he that was guillotined the other day; but you know nothing, for you have been out of Paris this month, I understand. Then I must tell you, that my friend Villeneuf has acquired an immense fortune! by assignats, made in the course of a fortnight—I say an immense fortune! and has bought this fine house—Now do you begin to understand?”
“I do not clearly know whom you mean by your friend Villeneuf,” said Victoire.
“The hairdresser, who lived in our street,” said Manon; “he became a great patriot, you know, and orator; and, what with his eloquence and his luck in dealing in assignats, he has made his fortune and mine.”
“And yours! then he is your husband!”
“That does not follow—that is not necessary—but do not look so shocked—every body goes on the same way now; besides, I had no other resource—I must have starved—I could not earn my bread as you do. Besides, I was too delicate for hard work of any sort—and besides—but come, let me show you my house—you have no idea how fine it is.”
With anxious ostentation, Manon displayed all her riches, to excite Victoire’s envy.
“Confess, Victoire,” said she at last, “that you think me the happiest person you have ever known.—You do not answer; whom did you ever know that was happier?”
“Sister Frances, who died last week, appeared to be much happier,” said Victoire.
“The poor nun!” said Manon, disdainfully. “Well, and whom do you think the next happiest?”
“Madame de Fleury.”
“An exile and a beggar!—Oh, you are jesting now, Victoire—or—envious. With that sanctified face, citoyenne—perhaps I should say Mademoiselle Victoire, you would be delighted to change places with me this instant. Come, you shall stay with me a week, to try how you like it.”
“Excuse me,” said Victoire, firmly; “I cannot stay with you, Manon—you have chosen one way of life, and I another—quite another. I do not repent my choice—may you never repent yours!—Farewell!”
“Bless me! what airs! and with what dignity she looks! Repent of my choice!—a likely thing, truly. Am not I at the top of the wheel?”
“And may not the wheel turn?” said Victoire.
“Perhaps it may,” said Manon; “but till it does I will enjoy myself. Since you are of a different humour, return to Mad. Feuillot, and figure upon cambric and muslin, and make out bills, and nurse old nuns, all the days of your life. You will never persuade me, however, that you would not change places with me if you could. Stay till you are tried, Mademoiselle Victoire. Who was ever in love with you, or your virtues?—Stay till you are tried.”
CHAPTER XV.
Laden with blooming gold, had need the guard
Of dragon watch with unenchanted eye
To save her blossoms, or defend her fruit.”
MILTON.
The trial was nearer than either Manon or Victoire expected. Manon had scarcely pronounced the last words, when the ci-devant hairdresser burst into the room, accompanied by several of his political associates, who met to consult measures for the good of the nation. Among these patriots was the Abbé Tracassier.
“Who is that pretty girl who is with you, Manon?” whispered he; “a friend of yours, I hope?”
Victoire left the room immediately, but not before the profligate abbé had seen enough to make him wish to see more. The next day he went to Mad. Feuillot’s, under pretence of buying some embroidered handkerchiefs; he paid Victoire a profusion of extravagant compliments, which made no impression upon her innocent heart, and which appeared ridiculous to her plain good sense. She did not know who he was, nor did Mad. Feuillot; for though she had often heard of the abbé, yet she had never seen him. Several succeeding days he returned, and addressed himself to Victoire, each time with increasing freedom. Mad. Feuillot, who had the greatest confidence in her, left her entirely to her own discretion. Victoire begged her friend Annette to do the business of the shop, and stayed at work in the back parlour. Tracassier was much disappointed by her absence; but as he thought no great ceremony necessary in his proceedings, he made his name known in a haughty manner to Mad. de Feuillot, and desired that he might be admitted into the back parlour, as he had something of consequence to say to Mlle. Victoire in private. Our readers will not require to have a detailed account of this tête-à-tête; it is sufficient to say, that the disappointed and exasperated abbé left the house muttering imprecations. The next morning a note came to Victoire, apparently from Manon: it was directed by her, but the inside was written by an unknown hand, and contained these words:—
like compliments, you shall not be addressed with empty flattery.
It is in the power of the person who dictates this, not only to
make you as rich and great as your cousin Manon, but also to
restore to fortune and to their country the friends for whom you
are most interested. Their fate as well as your own is in your
power: if you send a favourable answer to this note, the persons
alluded to will, to-morrow, be struck from the list of emigrants,
and reinstated in their former possessions. If your answer is
decidedly unfavourable, the return of your friends to France will
be thenceforward impracticable, and their château, as well as
their house in Paris, will be declared national property, and sold
without delay to the highest bidder. To you, who have as much
understanding as beauty, it is unnecessary to say more. Consult
your heart, charming Victoire! be happy, and make others happy.
This moment is decisive of your fate and of theirs, for you have
to answer a man of a most decided character.”
Victoire’s answer was as follows:—
consent to return to their country, upon the conditions proposed;
therefore I have no merit in rejecting them.”
Victoire had early acquired good principles, and that plain, steady, good sense, which goes straight to its object, without being dazzled or imposed upon by sophistry. She was unacquainted with the refinements of sentiment, but she distinctly knew right from wrong, and had sufficient resolution to abide by the right. Perhaps many romantic heroines might have thought it a generous self-devotion to have become in similar circumstances the mistress of Tracassier; and those who are skilled “to make the worst appear the better cause” might have made such an act of heroism the foundation of an interesting, or at least a fashionable novel. Poor Victoire had not received an education sufficiently refined to enable her to understand these mysteries of sentiment. She was even simple enough to flatter herself that this libertine patriot would not fulfil his threats, and that these had been made only with a view to terrify her into compliance. In this opinion, however, she found herself mistaken. M. Tracassier was indeed a man of the most decided character, if this term may properly be applied to those who act uniformly in consequence of their ruling passion. The Château de Fleury was seized as national property. Victoire heard this bad news from the old steward, who was turned out of the castle, along with his son, the very day after her rejection of the proposed conditions.
“I could not have believed that any human creature could be so wicked!” exclaimed Victoire, glowing with indignation: but indignation gave way to sorrow.
“And the Château de Fleury is really seized?—and you, good old man, are turned out of the place where you were born?—and you too, Basile?—and Mad. de Fleury will never come back again!—and perhaps she may be put into prison in a foreign country, and may die for want—and I might have prevented all this!”
Unable to shed a tear, Victoire stood in silent consternation, whilst Annette explained to the good steward and his son the whole transaction. Basile, who was naturally of an impetuous temper, was so transported with indignation, that he would have gone instantly with the note from Tracassier to denounce him before the whole National Convention, if he had not been restrained by his more prudent father. The old steward represented to him, that as the note was neither signed nor written by the hand of Tracassier, no proof could be brought home to him, and the attempt to convict one of so powerful a party would only bring certain destruction upon the accusers. Besides, such was at this time the general depravity of manners, that numbers would keep the guilty in countenance. There was no crime which the mask of patriotism could not cover.
“There is one comfort we have in our misfortunes, which these men can never have,” said the old man; “when their downfall comes, and come it will most certainly, they will not feel as we do, INNOCENT. Victoire, look up! and do not give way to despair—all will yet be well.”
“At all events, you have done what is right—so do not reproach yourself,” said Basile. “Every body—I mean every body who is good for any thing—must respect, admire, and love you, Victoire.”
CHAPTER XVI.
Quello e vero gioire
Che nasce da virtude dopo il soffrire.”
Basile had not seen without emotion the various instances of goodness which Victoire showed during the illness of Sister Frances. Her conduct towards M. Tracassier increased his esteem and attachment; but he forbore to declare his affection, because he could not, consistently with prudence, or with gratitude to his father, think of marrying, now that he was not able to maintain a wife and family. The honest earnings of many years of service had been wrested from the old steward at the time the Château de Fleury was seized, and he now depended on the industry of his son for the daily support of his age. His dependence was just, and not likely to be disappointed; for he had given his son an education suitable to his condition in life. Basile was an exact arithmetician, could write an excellent hand, and was a ready draughtsman and surveyor. To bring these useful talents into action, and to find employment for them, with men by whom they would be honestly rewarded, was the only difficulty—a difficulty which Victoire’s brother Maurice soon removed. His reputation as a smith had introduced him, among his many customers, to a gentleman of worth and scientific knowledge, who was at this time employed to make models and plans of all the fortified places in Europe; he was in want of a good clerk and draughtsman, of whose integrity he could be secure. Maurice mentioned his friend Basile; and upon inquiry into his character, and upon trial of his abilities, he was found suited to the place, and was accepted. By his well-earned salary he supported himself and his father; and began, with the sanguine hopes of a young man, to flatter himself that he should soon be rich enough to marry, and that then he might declare his attachment to Victoire. Notwithstanding all his boasted prudence, he had betrayed sufficient symptoms of his passion to have rendered a declaration unnecessary to any clear-sighted observer: but Victoire was not thinking of conquests; she was wholly occupied with a scheme of earning a certain sum of money for her benefactress, who was now, as she feared, in want. All Mad. de Fleury’s former pupils contributed their share to the common stock; and the mantua-maker, the confectioner, the servants of different sorts, who had been educated at her school, had laid by, during the years of her banishment, an annual portion of their wages and savings: with the sum which Victoire now added to the fund, it amounted to ten thousand livres. The person who undertook to carry this money to Mad. de Fleury, was François, her former footman, who had procured a pass to go to England as a hairdresser. The night before he set out was a happy night for Victoire, as all her companions met, by Mad. Feuillot’s invitation, at her house; and after tea they had the pleasure of packing up the little box, in which each, besides the money, sent some token of their gratitude, and some proof of their ingenuity. They would with all their hearts have sent twice as many souvenirs as François could carry.
“D’abord c’est impossible!” cried he, when he saw the box that was prepared for him to carry to England: but his good-nature was unable to resist the entreaties of each to have her offering carried, “which would take up no room.”
He departed—arrived safe in England—found out Mad. de Fleury, who was in real distress, in obscure lodgings at Richmond. He delivered the money, and all the presents of which he had taken charge: but the person to whom she entrusted a letter, in answer to Victoire, was not so punctual, or was more unlucky; for the letter never reached her, and she and her companions were long uncertain whether their little treasure had been received. They still continued, however, with indefatigable gratitude, to lay by a portion of their earnings for their benefactress; and the pleasure they had in this perseverance made them more than amends for the loss of some little amusements, and for privations to which they submitted in consequence of their resolution.
In the mean time Basile, going on steadily with his employments, advanced every day in the favour of his master, and his salary was increased in proportion to his abilities and industry; so that he thought he could now, without any imprudence, marry. He consulted his father, who approved of his choice; he consulted Maurice as to the probability of his being accepted by Victoire; and encouraged by both his father and his friend, he was upon the eve of addressing himself to Victoire, when he was prevented by a new and unforeseen misfortune. His father was taken up, by an emissary of Tracassier’s, and brought before one of their revolutionary committees, where he was accused of various acts of incivisme. Among other things equally criminal, it was proved that one Sunday, when he went to see Le Petit Trianon, then a public-house, he exclaimed, “C’est ici que la canaille danse, et que les honnêtes gens pleurent!”
Basile was present at this mock examination of his father—he saw him on the point of being dragged to prison—when a hint was given that he might save his father by enlisting immediately, and going with the army out of France. Victoire was full in Basile’s recollection—but there was no other means of saving his father. He enlisted, and in twenty-four hours left Paris.
What appear to be the most unfortunate circumstances of life often prove ultimately the most advantageous. Indeed, those who have knowledge, activity, and integrity, can convert the apparent blanks in the lottery of fortune into prizes. Basile was recommended to his commanding officer by the gentleman who had lately employed him as a clerk—his skill in drawing plans, and in taking rapid surveys of the country through which they passed, was extremely useful to his general; and his integrity made it safe to trust him as a secretary. His commanding officer, though a brave man, was illiterate, and a secretary was to him a necessary of life. Basile was not only useful, but agreeable; without any mean arts, or servile adulation, he pleased, by simply showing the desire to oblige, and the ability to serve.
“Diable!” exclaimed the general one day, as he looked at Basile’s plan of a town, which the army was besieging. “How comes it that you are able to do all these things? But you have a genius for this sort of work, apparently.”
“No, sir,” said Basile, “these things were taught to me, when I was a child, by a good friend.”
“A good friend he was indeed! he did more for you than if he had given you a fortune; for, in these times, that might have been soon taken from you; but now you have the means of making a fortune for yourself.”
This observation of the general’s, obvious as it may seem, is deserving of the serious consideration of those who have children of their own to educate, or who have the disposal of money for public charities. In these times, no sensible person will venture to pronounce that a change of fortune and station may not await the highest and the lowest; whether we rise or fall in the scale of society, personal qualities and knowledge will be valuable. Those who fall, cannot be destitute; and those who rise, cannot be ridiculous or contemptible, if they have been prepared for their fortune by proper education. In shipwreck, those who carry their all in their minds are the most secure.
But to return to Basile. He had sense enough not to make his general jealous of him by any unseasonable display of his talents, or any officious intrusion of advice, even upon subjects which he best understood.
The talents of the warrior and the secretary were in such different lines, that there was no danger of competition; and the general, finding in his secretary the soul of all the arts, good sense, gradually acquired the habit of asking his opinion on every subject that came within his department. It happened that the general received orders from the Directory at Paris, to take a certain town, let it cost what it would, within a given time: in his perplexity, he exclaimed before Basile against the unreasonableness of these orders, and declared his belief that it was impossible he should succeed, and that this was only a scheme of his enemies to prepare his ruin. Basile had attended to the operations of the engineer who acted under the general, and perfectly recollected the model of the mines of this town, which he had seen when he was employed as draughtsman by his Parisian friend. He remembered, that there was formerly an old mine, that had been stopped up somewhere near the place where the engineer was at work; he mentioned in private his suspicions to the general, who gave orders in consequence; the old mine was discovered, cleared out, and by these means the town was taken the day before the time appointed. Basile did not arrogate to himself any of the glory of this success—he kept his general’s secret and his confidence. Upon their return to Paris, after a fortunate campaign, the general was more grateful than some others have been, perhaps because more room was given by Basile’s prudence for the exercise of this virtue.
“My friend,” said he to Basile, “you have done me a great service by your counsel, and a greater still by holding your tongue. Speak now, and tell me freely, if there is any thing I can do for you. You see, as a victorious general, I have the upper hand amongst these fellows—Tracassier’s scheme to ruin me missed—whatever I ask will at this moment he granted; speak freely, therefore.”
Basile asked what he knew Victoire most desired—that M. and Mad. de Fleury should be struck from the list of emigrants, and that their property now in the hands of the nation should be restored to them. The general promised that this should be done. A warm contest ensued upon the subject between him and Tracassier; but the general stood firm; and Tracassier, enraged, forgot his usual cunning, and quarrelling irrevocably with a party now more powerful than his own, he and his adherents were driven from that station in which they had so long tyrannized. From being the rulers of France, they in a few hours became banished men, or, in the phrase of the times, des déportés.
We must not omit to mention the wretched end of Manon. The man with whom she lived perished by the guillotine. From his splendid house she went upon the stage—did not succeed—sunk from one degree of profligacy to another; and at last died in an hospital.
In the mean time, the order for the restoration of the Fleury property, and for permission for the Fleury family to return to France, was made out in due form, and Maurice begged to be the messenger of these good tidings:—he set out for England with the order.
Victoire immediately went down to the Château de Fleury, to get every thing in readiness for the reception of the family.
Exiles are expeditious in their return to their native country. Victoire had but just time to complete her preparations, when M. and Mad. de Fleury arrived at Calais. Victoire had assembled all her companions, all Mad. de Fleury’s former pupils; and the hour when she was expected home, they with the peasants of the neighbourhood were all in their holiday clothes, and according to the custom of the country singing and dancing. Without music and dancing there is no perfect joy in France. Never was fête du village or fête du Seigneur more joyful than this.
The old steward opened the gate—the carriage drove in. Mad. de Fleury saw that home which she had little expected evermore to behold; but all other thoughts were lost in the pleasure of meeting her beloved pupils.
“My children!” cried she, as they crowded round her the moment she got out of her carriage—“My dear good children!”
It was all she could say. She leaned on Victoire’s arm as she went into the house, and by degrees recovering from the almost painful excess of pleasure, began to enjoy what she yet only confusedly felt.
Several of her pupils were so much grown and altered in their external appearance, that she could scarcely recollect them till they spoke, and then their voices and the expression of their countenances brought their childhood fully to her memory. Victoire, she thought, was changed the least, and at this she rejoiced.
The feeling and intelligent reader will imagine all the pleasure that Mad. de Fleury enjoyed this day; nor was it merely the pleasure of a day. She heard from all her friends, with prolonged satisfaction, repeated accounts of the good conduct of these young people during her absence. She learned with delight how her restoration to her country and her fortune had been effected; and is it necessary to add, that Victoire consented to marry Basile, and that she was suitably portioned, and, what is better still, that she was perfectly happy?—M. de Fleury rewarded the attachment and good conduct of Maurice, by taking him into his service; and making him his manager under the old steward at the Château de Fleury.
On Victoire’s wedding-day, Mad. de Fleury produced all the little offerings of gratitude which she had received from her and her companions during her exile. It was now her turn to confer favours, and she knew how to confer them both with grace and judgment.
“No gratitude in human nature! No gratitude in the lower classes of the people!” cried she: “how much those are mistaken who think so! I wish they could know my history and the history of these my children, and they would acknowledge their error.”
Edgeworthstown, 1805.