There could not have been a readier process of disenchantment to me, as to all my boyish ambitions and hopes, than the routine of my daily life at this period. I was lodged, with some fourteen others, in an old Pension in the Rue des Augustines, adjoining the bureau in which we were employed. We repaired each morning at an early hour to our office, and never left it till late in the evening,—sometimes, indeed, to a late hour of the night. Neither the manners nor the habits of my companions inspired me with a desire to cultivate their intimacy. They were evidently of a low class by birth, and with tastes even inferior to their position. They construed my estrangement to the true cause, and did not scruple to show that I was not a favorite amongst them. In ridicule of my seeming pretensions, they called me the “Count,” and never passed me without an obsequious mock salutation, which I returned as punctiliously, and not appearing to detect its sarcasm. With experience of life and mankind, isolation is probably a condition not devoid of certain pleasures,—it may minister to a kind of proud self-reliance and independence of spirit; but to a boy it is one of unalloyed misery. There is no heavier infliction than the want of that free expansion of the heart that comes of early friendship. Youth is essentially the season of confidence; and to restrain its warm impulses, and dam up the flow of its affections, is to destroy its best and highest charm. I will not venture to assert that I was not myself much to blame for the seclusion in which I lived. I probably resented too forcibly what I need scarcely have noticed, and felt too acutely what, at worst, were but trifling annoyances. Some of this may be attributed to me constitutionally, but even more to the nature of my bringing up. All my boyish impulses were stimulated by affection; whatever I attempted was in a wish to gain praise; all my ambitions were to be loved the more. In my loneliness I sought out M. de Gabriac, but in vain. His lodging on the Place was now occupied by another, who could give no tidings of him whatever. I wrote to my mother and to Raper, but without receiving a reply. I then tried M. Jost, and received a few lines to say that my friends had taken their departure some months before from Reichenau, but in what direction he knew not. This letter put the finishing stroke to my sense of utter desolation. It was indeed not possible to conceive a more forlorn and friendless being than I now was. By my superior in the office I was held in little favor or esteem. I was indeed, in many respects, less capable than many of my colleagues, and it is not impossible that my apparent pride may have contrasted with my real deficiency. All these causes pressed upon me together, and made up a series of annoyances which came very little short of downright unhappiness.
My circumstances, too, were not calculated to dispel these gloomy tendencies. Beyond our maintenance, which was of the very humblest kind, our whole pay was five hundred francs yearly; and as this was paid in paper money, it reduced the actual amount more than one-fourth. By the very strictest economy, and by many an act of self-denial, I was enabled to keep myself out of debt; but it was an existence of continued watchfulness and care, and in which not even the very cheapest pleasure found a place. My colleagues, indeed, talked of cafés, restaurants, excursions, and theatres, as of matters of daily habit; but in what way they compassed such enjoyments I knew not. The very freedom of their language on these themes cast an air of contemptuous mockery over my humbler existence that assuredly did not diminish its bitterness.
My inexpertness frequently compelled me to remain in the office long after the rest. The task allotted to me was often of greater length, and many times have I passed a considerable part of the night at my desk. On these occasions, when I had finished, my head was too much excited for sleep, and I then sat up and read—usually one of the volumes Raper had given me—till morning. These were my happiest hours; but even they were alloyed by the weariness of an exhausted and tired intellect. So thoroughly apart from the world did I live, so completely did I hug my solitary existence at this period, that of the events happening around I positively knew nothing. With cafés and their company, or with newspapers, I had no intercourse; and although at moments some street encounter, some collision between the mob and the National Guard, would excite my curiosity, I never felt interest enough to inquire the cause, or care for the consequences.
Such incidents grew day by day more common; firing was frequently heard at night in different parts of the capital, and it was no rare occurrence to see carts with wounded men conveyed to hospital through the streets, at early morning. That the inhabitants were fully alive to the vicinity of some peril was plain to see. At the slightest sign of tumult, at the least warning, shops were closed and shutters fastened, doors strongly barricaded, and armed figures seen cautiously peering from casements and parapets. At one time a single horseman at full gallop would give the signal for these precautions; at others, they seemed the result of some instinctive apprehension of danger, so rapidly and so silently were they effected. Amid all these portents, the daily life of Paris went on as before. It was just as we hear tell of in the countries where earthquakes are frequent, and where in almost every century some terrible convulsion has laid a whole city in ruins, the inhabitants acquire a strange indifference to peril till the very instant of its presence, and learn to forget calamities when once they have passed.
As for myself, so accustomed had I become to these shocks of peril that I no longer went to the window when the uproar beneath betokened a conflict, nor even cared to see which side were conquerors in the affray. It was in a mood of this acquired indifference that I sat reading one evening in my office long after the others had taken their departure; twice or thrice had loud and prolonged shouts from the street disturbed me, but without exciting in me sufficient of curiosity to see what was going forward, when at last, hearing the rumbling sound of artillery trains as they moved past, I arose and went to the window. To my surprise, the streets were densely crowded, an enormous concourse filling them, and only leaving a narrow lane through which the wagons could pass. That it was no mere procession was clear enough, for the gunners carried their matches lighted, and there was that in the stern air of the soldiery that bespoke service. They wheeled past the church of St. Roch, and entered a small street off the Rue St. Honoré called La Dauphine, where, no sooner had they passed in, than the sappers commenced tearing up the pavement in front of the guns, and speedily formed a trench of about five feet in depth before them. While this was doing, some mounted dragoons gave orders to the people to disperse, and directed them to move away by the side streets,—an order so promptly obeyed that in a few minutes the long line of the Rue St. Honoré was totally deserted. From the position at La Dauphine to the Tuileries I could perceive that a line of communication was kept open, and orderlies passed at a gallop frequently from one side to the other. Another circumstance, too, struck me: the windows, instead of being crowded by numbers of eager spectators, were strongly shuttered and barred; and when that was impossible, the glass frames were withdrawn, and bed-mattresses and tables placed in the spaces. Along the parapets, also, vast crowds of armed men were to be seen, and the tower and battlements of St. Roch were studded over with soldiers of the National Guard, all armed and in readiness. From the glances of the artillerymen beneath to the groups above, it required no great prescience to detect that they stood opposed to each other as enemies.
It was a calm mellow evening of the late autumn. The air was perfectly still; and now the silence was unbroken on all sides, save when, from a distance, the quick tramp of cavalry might be momentarily heard, as if in the act of forcing back a crowd; and then a faint shout would follow, whose accents might mean triumph or defiance.
I was already beginning to weary of expectancy, when I perceived, from the movement on the house-tops and the church tower, that something was going forward within the view of those stationed there. I had not to look long for the cause, for suddenly the harsh, sharp beat of a drum was heard, and immediately after the head of a column wheeled from one of the side streets into the Rue St. Honoré. They were grenadiers of the National Guard, and a fine body of men they seemed, as they marched proudly forward till they came to a halt before the steps of St. Roch. Handkerchiefs were waved in salutation to them from windows and housetops, and cheering followed them as they went. A single figure at the entrance of La Dauphine stood observing them with his glass: he was an artillery officer, and took a long and leisurely survey of the troops, and then directed his eyes towards the crowded roofs, which he swept hastily with his telescope. This done, he sauntered carelessly back, and disappeared.
The grenadiers were soon followed by the line, and now, as far as my eye could carry, I beheld vast masses of soldiery who filled the street in its entire breadth. Up to this all was preparation. Not a sight, or sound, or gesture indicated actual conflict, and the whole might have meant a mere demonstration on either side, when suddenly there burst forth a crash like the most terrific thunder. It made the very street tremble, and the houses seemed to shake as the air vibrated around them; a long volley of musketry succeeded, and then there arose a din of artillery, shouts, and small-arms that made up the infernal chaos. This came from the quarter of the river, and in that direction every eye was turned. I hurried to the back of the house in the hope of being able to see something; but the windows only looked into a court surrounded by tall buildings. Ere I returned to my place the conflict had already begun. The troops of the National Guard advanced, firing by sections, and evidently bent on forcing their passage up the street; and their firing seemed as if meant in declaration of their intentions rather than aggressively, since no enemy appeared in front; when, no sooner had the leading files reached the opening of La Dauphine, than the artillery opened with grape and round shot. The distance could scarcely have exceeded forty yards, and the withering fire tore through the dense ranks, forming deep lanes of death! Smoke soon enveloped the masses, and it was only at intervals I could catch sight of the moving body, which still moved up! There was something indescribably dreadful in seeing the steady march of men to inevitable destruction; and even their slow pace (for such was it of necessity, from the numbers of dead and dying that encumbered their path) increased the horror of the spectacle. A deadly musketry poured down from the tower of St. Roch upon the gunners.
The whole fire from housetops and windows was directed at them; but fast as they fell, others took their places, and the roll of the artillery never slackened nor ceased for an instant. The shot rattled like hail on the walls of the houses, or crashed through them with clattering destruction. Wild and demoniac yells, death-shouts, and cries of triumph mingled with the terrible uproar. Above all, however, roared the dread artillery, in one unbroken thunder. At last the column seemed to waver—the leading files fell back—a moment's hesitation ensued—a fresh discharge of grape, at less than pistol range, tore through them; and now the word was given to retire. Shouts and cries poured from the housetops and parapets. Were they of encouragement or derision?—who can tell? The street now presented the horrid spectacle of indiscriminate carnage; the guns were wheeled forward as the troops retired, cavalry charging on the broken masses while the guns were reloading; the cavalcade of death rode past at a walk, the gunners firing steadily on, till the word was given to cease. The smoke cleared lazily away at last, and now no living thing was seen to stir in front: the long line of the Rue St. Honoré presented nothing but the bodies of the dead. The housetops and parapets, too, were speedily deserted; for the houses were now forced by the infantry of the line, who at every moment appeared at the windows and waved their shakos in token of victory. As I looked, a crash recalled my attention behind me; and now the door of the bureau was in ruins, and four soldiers, with their bayonets at the charge, dashed forward. On seeing me alone and unarmed, they only laughed, and passed on to the upper story.
“Are you in charge here?” asked a young corporal of me.
“I belong to the bureau,” said I, in reply.
“Place your books and papers under lock and key, then,” said he, “and make your way to headquarters.”
“Where?”
“At the Tuileries. There goes the Commander-in-Chief,” added he, mechanically saluting, as a staff of officers rode by beneath.
“Who is that pale man in front, with the long hair?” asked I.
“General Bonaparte,” was the answer; “and few can handle artillery like him.”
If I could have turned my thoughts from my own desolate condition, the aspect of Paris on the morning after the battle might well have engaged my attention. The very streets presented a scene such as never can be forgotten! The Government had adventured on the bold experiment of employing the masses to control the few, and the fruits of this dangerous alliance might be seen in the various groups that passed along. Officials wearing their badges of duty, officers in full uniform, walked arm in arm with leaders of the popular party; men high in the state talked familiarly in the midst of little groups of working-men; parties of the popular force, rudely armed, ill-dressed, and disorderly, presented arms as some officer of rank rode by. All attested the existence of that strange compact by which the nation was again to be subjugated, and terror made the active principle of a government. The terrific songs of the bloody days of the Revolution were once more heard, and the cruel denunciations of the mob again rang aloud in the open streets! I heard and saw all these like one in a dream, as, with my portfolio of office-papers under my arm, I held my way to the Tuileries; nor was it till I had reached the wooden stockade in front of that palace that I became collected enough to ask myself whither I was going, and for what.
The machinery of government to which I belonged was annihilated and destroyed; they who had guided and controlled it were gone; and there I stood alone, friendless, and without a home in that vast city, not knowing which way to turn me. I wandered into the garden of the Tuileries, and sat down upon a bench in one of the less-frequented alleys. The cries and shouts of the populace rung faintly in my ear, and the noises of the city came dulled and indistinct by distance. From the quiet habits of my simple life, I had scarcely learned anything whatever of Paris. My acquaintances were limited to the few I had seen at the bureau, and these I only met when there. My means were too scanty to admit of even the cheapest pleasures; and up to this my existence had been one uniform but contented poverty. Even this humble provision was now withdrawn from me. What was I to do? Was there a career by which I could earn my bread? I knew of none save daily labor with my hands; and where to seek for even this I did not know. In my little lodging behind the bureau I possessed a few articles of clothes and some books; these, if sold, would support me for a week or two; and then—ay, then! But who can tell? thought I: a day has marred,—who knows but another day may make my fortune?
It was night when I turned homeward. To my surprise, the stair was not lit up as usual, and it was only after repeated knockings that the door was opened to me, and old Lizette, my landlady's servant, with a voice broken by sobs, bade me pass in quietly, and to make no noise. I asked eagerly if any misfortune had occurred, and heard that Monsieur Bernois, my landlord, had been mortally wounded in the affray of the night before, and was then lying at the point of death.
“Is it the surgeon, Lizette?” cried Marguerite, a little girl of about fourteen, and whose gentle “Good-day” had been the only thing like welcome I had ever heard during my stay there; “is it the surgeon?”
“Hélas, no, mademoiselle, it is the lodger!”
I had not even a name for them! I was simply the occupant of a solitary chamber, for whom none cared or thought; and yet at that instant I felt my isolation the greatest blessing of Heaven, and would not have exchanged my desolate condition for all the ties of family!
“Oh, sir,” cried Marguerite, “have pity on us, and come to papa. He is bleeding on the bed here, and none of us know how to aid him!”
“But I am no less ignorant, mademoiselle,” said I; “would that I could be of any use to you!”
“Oh, come,” cried she, “come; and Heaven may direct you how to succor us, for we are utterly deserted!”
Scarcely knowing what I did, I followed the little girl into a darkened room, where the long-drawn breathings of the wounded man were the only sounds. By the dim half-light I could see a figure seated at the foot of the bed. It was my hostess, pale, stern-looking, and collected; there she sat, gazing at the gasping object before her, with a terrible composure.
“Mamma, it is monsieur; monsieur who lives here is come to see papa,” whispered Marguerite, timidly.
The mother nodded her head, as if to imply that she had heard her, but never spoke. I drew nigh the bed, the rather to show my sympathy with the sorrow, than that I could be of any service; and the dying man's eyes met mine. Glazed and filmy as they seemed at first, I fancied they grew bright and lustrous as he continued to stare. Such, at all events, was their fascination that I could not look away from them, and so I stood under that steadfast gaze forgetful even of the state of him who bestowed it. At last the orbs slowly turned, at first towards where his wife sat, then to Marguerite as she knelt by the bedside, and then back again to me, with an expression that needed no words to convey. I took the clammy hand in my own, and felt the fingers give a faint pressure. I squeezed them gently, and saw that his lips parted; they moved, too, as though with an effort to speak, but without avail. The attempt had evidently cost him a severe pang, for his features were convulsed for a few seconds, at the end of which he gently drew me a little towards him, and with a sigh so faint as to be scarcely heard, uttered the words, “Pauvre femme!”
It was not until some minutes had elapsed that I saw he had ceased to breathe, for his eyes seemed to stare with meaning on me, and his countenance remained unchanged. At length, however, I became conscious that the struggle was over, and his spirit had passed away forever. The stillness of the room was terrible, for not a stir broke it; and I knelt down beside Marguerite to pray.
“Here is the surgeon, mademoiselle,” said Lizette, hurriedly; and an old man drew nigh the bed and touched the wrist of the dead man.
“Ma foi!” said he, “this is the fourth time I have been sent for to-day on a like errand;” and, so saying, he tapped me on the shoulder, and motioned me to follow him.
I obeyed at once.
“Are you his son?” asked he, briefly.
“No,” I replied.
“His nephew?—his clerk, then?”
“Neither; I am a lodger here, and do not even claim acquaintance with the family.”
“No matter,” resumed he, dryly, “you will do as well as another; give me pen and paper.”
I took some from an open portfolio on the table and laid it before him, and he wrote rapidly a few lines in a straggling hand:—
“The citizen Louis Bernois, age—; domiciled, Rue Neuve de Viardot, No. 318, avocat,”—“we may call him avocat, though he was only a writer,” said he, looking up,—“wounded fatally in the lungs and heart, and attended till his death, on this morning, by the doctor Joseph Caillot, surgeon and licentiate. The above verified by me.”—“Sign here,” added he, handing me the pen, “and put your quality. Say, 'Friend of the family.'”
“But I never knew them; I have only lodged in the house for some months back.”
“What signifies that? It is a mere form for the authorities, to whom his death must be reported, or his family exposed to trouble and annoyance. I will take it to the bureau myself.”
I signed my name, therefore, as he directed me, and sealed the “act” with a seal I found on the table. The doctor pocketed the paper and withdrew, not even bestowing on me a good-bye as he left the room.
Lizette came to me for instructions as to what was to be done. Madame had never recovered consciousness from the very first moment of the misfortune; mademoiselle was too young and too inexperienced to be consulted on the occasion. The family, too, had only been a few months in Paris, and had no acquaintance save with the tradespeople they dealt with.
I asked the name of the avocat for whom he usually transcribed the deeds and papers, and learned that it was a certain Monsieur le Monnier, a lawyer of high standing at the bar of Paris, and who lived in the Rue Quincampoix! With what a strange sensation I heard the name of that street, which was the same that Herr Robert spoke of as inhabited by his father in the days of his greatest prosperity! The thought merely shot through my head rapidly, for other and far more pressing considerations demanded all my attention. I resolved at once to call on Monsieur le Monnier and ask his advice and guidance in the difficult position I then found myself. Dressing myself with all the care my scanty wardrobe permitted, I set out for the Rue Quincampoix, and soon found the house, which was a large and spacious though somewhat sombre-looking hôtel, with a half-effaced shield over the doorway. The porter inquired if I came on business; and on my saying “Yes,” informed me that I must call on the following morning, from eleven to two o'clock,—that the “bâtonnier,” for such was his rank, did not transact affairs in the evening.
I argued and pressed my suit with all zeal; but it was only when I produced a piece of two francs that he consented to present my card, on which I had written a few lines to explain the urgent cause of my visit.
After a long and most impatient waiting a servant came to Bay that monsieur would receive me, and I followed him up a spacious but dimly lighted stair, and across a long dreary gallery, where a single lamp shone, into a small chamber fitted up like a study. Here, although it was autumn, the “bâtonnier” was seated beside a brisk fire, enjoying his coffee. He was a small man, with a massive, well-shaped head covered with a profusion of snow-white hair, which he wore in such careless fashion as to make his head appear even much larger than it was; his features were pleasing, and his eyes were singularly soft and gentle-looking. With a voice of peculiar sweetness, and in a low tone, he welcomed me and desired me to be seated. This done, he begged me to state the object of my visit.
In the very fewest words I could relate it, I mentioned the sad circumstances about which I came, told my own difficulty in the matter, and asked for advice.
“At any other moment,” said he, when I concluded, “your task would be an easy one. You could report the event to the 'commissaire' of the 'Quarter,' state what you know, and withdraw from the affair altogether. Now, however, the troubles in which we live excite suspicions in every mind. Your name will be associated with the opinions for which this poor man has given his life. The authorities will be on your track at every moment, and every act of your life watched and reported. With whom were you acquainted in Paris?”
“With none.”
He stared with some surprise; and I told him briefly the circumstances of my own situation.
“A strange story indeed!” said he, taking up my card from the chimney-piece. “And your name, for I cannot decipher it here, is—”
“Carew,—Jasper Carew.”
“That name is Irish, if I mistake not,” said he; “at least I remember, some twenty years ago, we had here a distinguished stranger who came from Ireland, and was called Carew. He was the fashionable celebrity of a very famous period.”
“He was my father, sir.”
The old lawyer bowed and smiled; but though the gesture was eminently polite, the shrewd twinkle of his eyes bespoke incredulity. I saw this, and said at once,—
“I have many letters of his, dated from the 'Place Vendôme,' No. 13, where he lived.”
“Indeed!” cried he, in astonishment. “You possess these at present?”
“Some few I have with me; others, a large number, are in the keeping of my friends, as well as notes and papers in the hand of the late Duc d'Orléans, with whom my father appeared to live on considerable intimacy.”
“That I can vouch for myself,” said the avocat, hastily; then, suddenly correcting himself, added,—“Perhaps you would give me a sight of some of these documents. I do not ask from any impertinent curiosity, but with the conviction that I can be of some service to you.”
I readily promised to do so, and the following day was named for the purpose.
“Now, for the present case,” said he. “I know nothing of Monsieur Bernois beyond what a client of mine from the Auvergnat told me. He was the son of a poor farmer near Linange, who studied the law at Paris, went back to his native village and married, and, after some years of failure at home, came here to make his fortune. I employed him partly from motives of charity, for he was irregular in his habits of work, and seemed overcome by a depression that rendered him often incapable of all exertion. Make what arrangements you think suitable for his burial, and then induce his poor widow and daughter to return home. Call upon me for any expenses that may be needed, and say that I will send one of my clerks to make an inventory of his effects and draw up the 'procès' the law requires.”
There was a mingled kindness and commonplace in the way he spoke this that left me in doubt which of the two frames of mind predominated in his nature. At all events, I had good reason to be satisfied with my reception, and, resisting his invitation to stay to supper, I hastened back to the Rue de Viardot.
The poor widow still remained in the state of stupor in which I first saw her; but Marguerite's grief had taken a more violent form, and the terrible shock had brought on brain-fever,—at least, so Lizette pronounced it. My sad duties were thus multiplied by the cares of the sick-room, for Lizette threw all upon me, and would do nothing without my guidance and advice.
By great exertions, and by working all night through, I reduced the affairs of the family to a condition of order; and when Monsieur le Monnier's clerk appeared in the morning, I had already compiled the inventory and drawn up the “acte de décès,” as it is called, for the authorities.
By searching amongst papers I also found the address of the widow's father, who lived in the village of “Linange,” and to him I wrote a few lines, acquainting him with what had occurred, and asking his counsel with regard to the family. Though Lizette had accompanied them from their native village to Paris, she was greatly indisposed to afford any information as to their circumstances or condition in life, and seemed only eager to complete all the formalities of the law and quit the capital. I certainly did not impose any unfair burden upon her incommunicative disposition. I asked a few questions,—none that were not in a measure indispensable.
I suppose my reserve in this wise impressed her favorably, for she grew gradually more and more open, dropping hints of sad circumstances and calamities, in a way that seemed half to invite inquiry on my part. I was resolved, however, not to make any advances, and left her entirely to her own choice as to what revelations she might make me. I have no doubt that had my object been to gratify my curiosity, I could not have hit upon any surer means of success.
We laid the remains of poor Bernois in a little graveyard outside the Porte St. Denis; Lizette and myself the only mourners that followed the bier! As I slowly ascended the stairs towards my room, I said,—
“Come to me this evening, Lizette, and say if I can be of any further service to you, since I mean to leave Paris to-morrow.”
“To leave Paris!” cried she; “Grand Dieu!—why, and for where?”
“For Switzerland,” replied I. “My friends there have not answered my letters for some time back, and I have determined to set off and see them.”
“But why not write again? Think of what a journey it is!”
“I have written till I have lost all hope. I must satisfy myself by going in person.”
“But you will not leave us helpless, friendless, as we are!” cried she.
Never till that moment had it occurred to me that my assistance could avail to any one, or that there existed one in the world humble enough to be benefited by my guidance. The appeal, however, gave me a self-confidence and an energy which I had not felt before, and I listened to the explanations of the old servant with every desire to aid her.
She judged rightly enough that as soon as removal were possible, the safest course would be for the widow and her daughter to return to their village.
“I know,” added she, “that this is not to be effected without difficulty. 'Madame' will oppose it to the last; and it may be that nothing short of force will accomplish it.”
I asked the reason of this repugnance, and she only gave me a vague, unmeaning answer. It was clear to me there was a mystery in the affair; and though piqued that I was not intrusted with the secret, I felt that to withdraw my aid from them on such grounds would be both selfish and unworthy.
“I will consult M. le Monnier,” said I, at last; “he shall decide what is best to be done;” and at once set out for the Rue Quincampoix.
The old lawyer received me blandly as before, and gave me a few lines for his family physician, who would see the widow and Marguerite, and pronounce his opinion on their fitness for removal. Le Monnier seemed pleased with the interest I manifested for these poor friendless people, and readily promised to aid me in their behalf.
The doctor, too, was no less benevolently disposed, and came at once with me to the house. His visit was a long one,—so long that more than once I asked Lizette if she were quite certain that he had not taken his departure. At length, however, he came forth, and, leading me into a room, closed the door behind us with all the air of great secrecy.
“There is some sad story,” said he, “here, of which we have not the clew. This is a serious affair.”
“How do you mean?” asked I.
“I mean that the state in which I find this woman is not attributable to the recent shock. It is not her husband's death has caused these symptoms.”
“And what are they? Do they threaten her life?”
“No, certainly not; she may live for years.”
“What then? They will cause great suffering, perhaps?”
“Not even that, but worse than that. It is her intelligence is lost; she has been stunned by some terrible shock of calamity, and her mind is gone, in all likelihood forever!”
To my eager questioning he replied by explaining that these cases were far less hopeful than others in which more palpable symptoms manifested themselves; that they were of all others the least susceptible of treatment.
“When we say,” continued he, “that 'time' is the best physician for them, we declare in one word our own ignorance of the malady; and yet such is the simple truth! A course of years may restore her to reason,—there is no other remedy.”
“And her daughter?”
“That is not a case for apprehension,—it is a common fever, the result of a nervous impression; a few days will bring her completely about.”
I mentioned to the doctor my belief that Lizette could probably impart some explanation of the mystery; but the old woman was proof against all cross-examination, and professed to know nothing that could account for her mistress's condition. The question was now how to act in this emergency? and the doctor pronounced that there was no other course than to obtain her admission into some maison de santé: if her fortune permitted, to one of the better class; if not, there were various humbler houses, where the patients were treated well and skilfully. As a preliminary step, however, he requested me to write again to her family, to state the opinion he had come to, and ask for their advice.
“It is little other than a form to do so,” added he, “for we live in times when the state is everything, family nothing. If I report this case to-morrow to the Bureau of Health of the 'Quarter,' a commission will assemble, examine, and decide upon it at once. The measures adopted will be as imperatively executed as though the law were in pursuit of a criminal; and though this be so, and we cannot help it, it will have the semblance of consideration for the feelings of her relatives, if we consult them.”
He left me, therefore, to make this sad communication, and promised to repeat his visit on the following day. By way of extorting some confession from old Lizette, I told her the course the doctor had resolved upon; but, far from exhibiting any repugnance to it, she briefly said, “It was all for the best.”
It was not till after repeated efforts I could satisfy myself with the terms of my letter. The occasion itself was a difficult one; but my sense of a mystery of which I knew nothing, added immensely to the embarrassment. I was, moreover, addressing persons I had never seen, and of whose very condition in life I was ignorant. This in itself was a circumstance that required consideration. I thought I would read my letter to Lizette, and sent for her to hear it. She listened attentively as I read it, but made no other remark than, “Yes; that will be sufficient.”
On the fourth day after I despatched this, came a letter in reply, the handwriting, style, and appearance of which were all superior to what I had expected. It was from an unmarried sister of Madame Bernois, who signed herself “Ursule,” that being the name by which she had “professed” formerly in a convent, destroyed in the early days of the Revolution. The writer, after expressing deep gratitude for the part I had taken, went on to speak of the subject of my communication. Her father's infirmities had rendered him bedridden, and so utterly incapable of affording any help or even counsel that she hesitated about informing him of the terrible calamity that had befallen them. She perfectly concurred in the advice given by the doctor, if “only that it saved her poor sister from a return to a home now associated with nothing but sorrow, and where, of course, her chances of recovery would be diminished.” These strange expressions puzzled me much, and led me at first to suppose that Ursule believed I knew more of her sister's story than I really was acquainted with; but as I read them again, I saw that they might possibly only have reference to her father's sad condition. Margot, for so she called her niece, “would, of course, come back to them;” and she charged me to despatch her, under Lizette's care, by the diligence, as soon as she was judged sufficiently well to encounter the fatigue of the journey. With regard to any property or effects belonging to them, she left all implicitly at my own discretion, believing, as she said, the same kindness that had hitherto guided me would also here suggest what was best for the interests of the widow and her child.
Some days of unremitting exertion succeeded the receipt of this letter, for there was no end to the formalities requisite before I could obtain admission for the widow into a small maison de santé, at Mont Martre. It was, indeed, a moment at which the authorities were overwhelmed with business, and many of the public functionaries were new to office, and totally ignorant of its details. The public, too, were under the influence of a terror that seemed to paralyze all powers of reason. In my frequent visits to the commissaire of the “Quarter,” when waiting for hours long in his antechamber, I had abundant opportunity to measure the extent of the fear that then dominated the mind of the capital, since every trifling incident evidenced and betrayed it.
Ladies of rank and condition would come, earnestly entreating that they might obtain leave to attend the sick in the hospitals, and nurse the “dear brothers” who had fallen in the cause of liberty. Others, of equal station, requested that materials might be distributed to them to knit stockings for the soldiers of the republic, regretting their poverty at not being able to supply them from their own resources. Shopkeepers besought the authorities that their taxes might be doubled, or even trebled; and some professed to hope that the maladies which incapacitated them from military service might be compensated by works of charity and benevolence. There was an abject meanness in the character of these petitions too revolting to endure the thought of. The nation seemed prostrated by its' terror, and degraded to the very deepest abyss of shame and self-contempt. The horrible scenes of blood through which they had passed might, indeed, excuse much, but there were proofs of national cowardice at this juncture such as scarcely any suffering could justify or palliate.
For these considerations I had but a passing thought. My whole attention was devoted to the little circle of cares and sorrows around me; and, in addition to other calamities, poor old Lizette, my aid and help throughout all difficulties, was seized with a violent fever, and obliged to be conveyed to hospital. I do not believe that anything can sustain mere bodily strength more powerfully than the sense of doing a benevolent action. Fatigue, weariness, exhaustion, sickness itself, can be combated by this one stimulant. For myself, I can aver that I scarcely ate or slept during the ten days that these events were happening. Never had any incident of my own life so much engrossed me as the care of these unhappy people; and when once or twice Le Monnier adverted to my own story, I always replied that for the moment I had no thoughts, nor hopes, nor fears, save for the widow and her orphan daughter.
The old lawyer's benevolence enabled me to meet all the expenses which from day to day were incurred. He supplied me with means to pay the charges of the maison de santé and the fees to the physicians, and enabled me to procure some articles of mourning for poor “Margot,” who had now sufficiently recovered from her illness to comprehend her bereavement and the desolate condition in which she was placed. It was, indeed, a sad lesson to teach the poor child; nor did I, in my own forlorn and isolated state, know what consolations to offer, nor what hopes to set before her. I could but tell her that I too was an orphan, friendless,—nay, far more so than herself; that for me the world had neither home nor country; and yet that each day, glimpses of bright hopes gleamed upon me, kind words and acts met me, and that as I lived I learned to feel that there was a brotherhood in humanity, and that amidst all the adverse incidents of fortune, warm hearts and generous natures were scattered about to sustain the drooping courage of those deserted as we were.
“And be assured, Margot,” said I, “the time will come yet when you and I will recall these dark hours with a sense of not unpleasant sorrow, to think how patiently we bore our ills, how submissively and how trustfully. Then shall we teach others, young as we are now, that even the humblest has a duty to do in this life, and that he who would do it well must bring to his task a stout heart and a steady will, and with these there are no failures.”
I do not think that Margot derived much hope from all my efforts at consolation, but she certainly felt a strong interest in the similarity of our fortunes. Again and again did she question me if I had seen and could remember my mother, and asked me a thousand questions about the dear friend whom I had ever called by that name. We talked of no other theme than this, and our isolation served to link us together, as that of two beings deserted by all, and only cared for by each other. There was a character of depression about her that seemed to come of a life of habitual gloom; the ordinary state of her mind was sad, and yet her dark, lustrous eyes could flash with sudden brilliancy; her deep color knew how to heighten; and I have seen her lip tremble with proud emotion at moments of excitement.
When sufficiently recovered to bear the journey, Le Monnier counselled me to convey her to her friends; and I yielded—shall I own it?—reluctantly; for of all the world, Margot was now the only one to whom I could speak, as youth loves to speak, of all my hopes and my dreads, my ambitions and my aspirings. So long as my duty each day revolved round her, I had no time to think of my own fate, save as a thing to weave fancies about, to speculate on a brilliant future, and imagine incidents and events at random. With what enthusiasm was I often carried away by these self-wrought fancies!—with what a sense of triumph have I seen Margot, forgetting for the instant the sad realities of her lot, listen breathlessly to me as I told of my ambitious plans! To her I was already a hero; and oh! the glorious fascination with which one first feels the thought that another's heart has learned to beat highly for our successes, and to throb with eagerness for our triumph! I was but a boy, Margot was a child; and of love, as poets describe it, there was none between us. Still, in my devotion there was nothing I would not have dared, to please her,—nothing I would not have braved, to make her think more highly of me. It was self-love, but self-love ennobled by generous wishes and high ambitions. I strove to be worthy of her affection, that so I might be capable of doing more still to deserve it!
Is it to be wondered at if I dreaded to break this spell, and to awaken from a trance of such fascination? But there was no alternative; Margot must go, and I must address myself to the stern business of life, for I had my bread to earn! How ardently I wished it was to my dear mother's arms that I should consign her, that her home could be that same humble home I had just quitted, and that poor Joseph could have been her teacher and her guide! Alas! I no longer knew in what part of the world to look for them, and I could only speak of these things as I spoke of the dream-wrought fancies that my hopes called up!
It was on a bright November morning, clear, sharp, and frosty, that we left Paris in the diligence for Lyons. M. le Monnier had accompanied us himself to the bureau, and given the conducteur directions to show us every attention in his power. Three days' and nights' travelling brought us to Valence, where poor Margot, completely worn out, was obliged to repose for some hours, during which time I strolled through the town to see its churches and other remarkable monuments. It was the hour of the table-d'hôte as I regained the inn, and the hostess advised that we should dine at the public table, as less expensive than in private. I remember well with what mingled bashfulness and pride I entered the room, with Margot holding my hand. The company was a numerous one, comprising, besides many of the townspeople, several officers of the garrison, all of whom stared with undisguised astonishment at the aspect of two travellers of our youth and palpable inexperience, while the contrast between the deep mourning of her dress and the gay colors of mine at once showed that we were not brother and sister. To my respectful salute on entering, few deigned to reply; my companion's beauty had arrested every attention, and all eyes were turned towards her as she took her place at table.
For the incident which succeeded, I must devote a short chapter.
Preceded by the waiter, who was about to point out the places destined for us at the table, I walked up the room, holding Margot by the hand. The strangers made way for us as we went, not with any of the deferential politeness so usual in France, but in a spirit of insolent astonishment at our presence there. Such, at least, was the impression their behavior produced on me; and I was only anxious that it should not be so felt by my companion.
As I drew back my chair, to seat myself at her side, I felt a hand placed on my arm. I turned, and saw an officer, a man of about six or seven and twenty, with a bushy red beard and moustache, who said,—
“This place is mine, citizen; you must go seek for one elsewhere.”
I appealed to the waiter, who merely shrugged his shoulders, and muttered something unintelligible; to which I replied by asking him to show me another place, while I assisted Margot to rise.
“La petite shall stay where she is,” broke in the officer, bluntly, as he brushed in front of me; and an approving laugh from his comrades at once revealed to me the full meaning of the impertinence.
“This young lady is under my care, sir,” said I, calmly, “and needs no protection from you.”
“The young lady,” cried he, with a burst of coarse laughter at the words, “knows better how to choose! Is it not so, citizen? I look a more responsible guardian than that thin stripling with the pale cheek.”
“I appeal to this company, to the superiors of this officer,—if there be such present,—to know are these the habits of this place, or have I been singled out specially for this insolence?”
“Insolence! insolence!” repeated every voice around me, in accents of astonishment and reprobation; while suddenly above the clamor a deep voice said,—
“Lieutenant Carrier, take a place at the foot of the table!”
“Oui, mon Colonel!” was the reply; and he who accosted me so rudely, now moved away, and I seated myself at Margot's side.
I believe that during this brief scene the poor girl knew little or nothing of what was going forward. The fatigue, from which she had not yet recovered; the novelty of the place in which she found herself; the confusion natural to mixing with a strange company,—all contributed to engage her attention and occupy her thoughts. It was only by the deadly paleness of my features that she at last guessed that something had gone wrong. I tried by every means in my power to reassure her. I affected, as well as I might, to seem easy and unconcerned. I even essayed, by way of showing my self-possession, to engage the person next me in conversation; but a cold stare of surprise arrested the attempt, and I sat abashed and ashamed at the rebuke.
I do not know if in my whole life, I ever passed an hour of greater misery than the time of that dinner. Had I been there alone, I could have confronted manfully whatever threatened me; but the thought of involving Margot in any scene of shame—of exposing her to the rude insolence of which I saw myself the mark—was insupportably painful. I felt, besides, that I had a character to support in her eyes; nor could I yet divine what adverse turn affairs might take. If I looked down the table, it was to meet, on every side, glances of haughty or insolent meaning. It was easy to perceive, too, that the whole company was under the impression of the disagreeable incident which had occurred before sitting down to table, and which none believed was yet concluded. Instead of the noisy chit-chat so usual in such places, there was either a perfect silence, or the low murmuring sounds of a conversation maintained in whispers. At last the colonel and those around him stood up, and gathered in a group at one of the windows. The civilians of the party broke into knots, conversed for a few seconds, and separated; and, taking Margot's hand, I arose, and prepared to withdraw. As I was leaving the room the officer who first accosted me, whispered in my ear,—
“You will come back again, I suppose?”
“Certainly, if you want me,” said I.
He nodded, and I passed out.
“I am glad it is over,” said Margot, pressing my hand; “that dinner was a tiresome affair!”
“So it was,” said I; “and I am well pleased that it is finished. I 'll go down now and look after this calèche they promised me they should have ready for us by this time;” and with this excuse I quitted her, and hastened downstairs again.
I was just making for the door of the salle-à-manger when the hostess overtook me.
“A word with you, monsieur,—one word!” cried she.
“At another moment, madam,” said I, trying to pass on; “I am greatly pressed for time just now.”
“It is exactly for that reason I must speak with you,” said she, firmly; and at the same instant she seized my arm and drew me into a room, of which she closed the door at once. “I suspect the object you have in view, young man,” said she, boldly, to me. “You are eager for a quarrel. The waiters have told me all that has occurred at table; and I can guess what is likely to follow. But surely it is not for one in her position that you will risk your life, or rather sell it; for Carrier would surely kill you!”
“In her position!” said I. “What do you mean? You cannot dare to throw an imputation on one who is little more than a child!”
“True; but a child of shame and infamy,” said she, sternly.
“It is a falsehood,—a damnable falsehood!” cried I. “I knew both her parents: her father died almost in my arms.”
“It is as likely that you never saw her father in your life,” rejoined she, calmly. “I see that you know little of her history; but she comes from the village of Linange, and we Auvergnats are well acquainted with her.”
“Yes, Linange is her native village,—that is true,” cried I, in a vague terror of some dreadful tidings. “Tell me, I beseech you, whatever you know of her story.”
“It is soon told, though the tale be sad enough,” said she, after a pause. “Her mother was a Mademoiselle Nipernois. She called herself De Nipernois, and not without reason; for the family had been of rank, and were Grand Seigneurs once on a time. Her father had, however, fallen into poverty, and for a livelihood was obliged to become a pharmacien in the little village of Linange, every house of which had once belonged to his family. They said he was a great chemist, which he had become for his own amusement in his prosperous days; and fortunately he could now practise the art for his support. At all events, the Blues wrecked his château, burned his books, melted down his plate, and left him penniless; so that he was fain to seek shelter amidst what once he would have styled his own 'vilains,' but who were now, thanks to the glorious fruits of the Revolution, his equals. That was not to be his only humiliation, however. A young noble that was betrothed to his eldest daughter, Hortense, and was to have married her just before 'the troubles,' joined the mildest party of the anarchists, and actually assisted at the sack of the château. Some said that he had had a dreadful altercation and quarrel with the father; some averred that he had met a contemptuous refusal from the daughter: either, or both, may have been the truth. What is certain is, that he exacted a vengeance far heavier than any injury he could have received. On the pretence of seeking for some concealed royalist, a party of the Blues, headed by the count, in disguise, broke into the old man's house in the village, and carried off his eldest daughter,—indeed, the only child that remained to him; for his second girl was an admitted nun of the Chaise Dieu, which had hitherto escaped pillage and destruction. From that hour no trace of her could ever be obtained; but on the same day twelvemonths, as morning broke, she was found on the steps of her father's door, with a baby in her arms. I have heard, for I have often spoken with those who discovered her, that her reason was shattered, and her memory so completely lost that she did not know her own name. An unbroken apathy settled down on her from that time.
“She cared for nothing, not even her child; and though Margot was very beautiful, and so engaging that all the neighbors loved and caressed her, her mother saw her without the slightest touch of interest or affection! After the lapse of thirteen, or almost fourteen years, a young man of the village named Bernois, who had just returned from studying at Paris, proposed to marry her. Some are of opinion that he had never heard her real history, nor knew of the relationship between her and Margot; others think differently, and say that he was aware of all, and acquitted her of everything save the misfortune that had befallen her. By what persuasion she was induced to accept him I never knew, but she did so, and accompanied him to Paris; for, strangely enough, they who had hitherto treated her with all the respect due to undeserved calamity, no sooner beheld her as a married woman, and lifted into a position of equality with them, than they vented a hundred calumnies upon her, and affected to think her beneath their condition. This persecution it was which drove Bernois to seek his fortune in Paris, where he has now met his death! The conducteur who arrived here last night told who had accompanied him from Paris, and the officers, who are all familiar with her mother's story, were curious to see the girl. They induced me to advise you to dine at the public table, and unhappily I yielded to their solicitations, not suspecting what might ensue. The only reparation in my power now is to tell you this whole story; for of course, having heard it, you will perceive how fruitless and vain it would be for you to oppose yourself to the entire force of public opinion.
“And is it the custom of the world to insult those situated as she is?” asked I, in a voice that plainly showed I put the question in all sincerity and ignorance.
“It is assuredly the habit of young men, and more especially soldiers, to treat them with less deference than the daughters of honest women; and you must have seen but little of life, or you had not asked the question.”
I sat silent for some seconds, revolving in my mind the sad history I had just listened to, and comparing the events with what I had myself witnessed of her who had been their victim. The hostess cut short my musing by saying,—
“There, I see the calèche has just driven into the cour: lose no time in getting away at once. The officers are now at coffee in the garden, and you can escape unobserved.”
So engrossed was I by thoughts of Margot, and the necessity of shielding her from insult, that I forgot totally all about myself, and what bore reference to my own feelings exclusively. I therefore hastened from the room to make the preparations for our departure. While I was thus engaged, and occupied with seeing our luggage tied on, a young officer, touching his cap in salute, asked if I was not the stranger who dined that day at the table-d'hôte, in company with a young lady; and on my replying, “Yes,” added,—
“Are you not aware, sir, that we have been expecting the pleasure of your society in the garden for some time back?”
I answered that I was totally ignorant of their polite intentions respecting me; that I was anxious to reach my destination, still twelve leagues away, and unable to accept of their hospitality.
He gave a faint smile as I said this, and then rejoined:
“But you can surely spare a few moments to make your apologies to our colonel?”
“They must be, then, of the very briefest,” said I. “Will you kindly guide me to where he is?”
With a slight bow he walked on, and, crossing the courtyard, entered a garden; on traversing a considerable portion of which, we came out upon a kind of terrace, where a large party of officers were seated around a table, smoking, and drinking coffee. Some, too, were engaged playing at chess or dominoes, some reading, and some apparently asleep; but, however occupied, no sooner had I made my appearance than all, forgetting everything but my presence, turned their eyes upon me.
“The citizen,” cried out my guide, as we came up, “the citizen tells me that he was quite unconscious of our polite intentions in his behalf; and I can fully believe him, for he was on the eve of departure when I caught him!”
“What does he think a French soldier is made of?” shouted out the colonel, with a blow of his closed fist on the table. “He dares to make use of an expression insulting to every officer of my regiment, and then says he is unaware of any claim we have upon him!”
A new light broke upon me at these words, and, for a moment, the sense of shame at my mistake nearly overcame me. I rallied, however, enough to say,—
“It is quite as you say, Monsieur le Colonel; I was really unaware that you or your officers had any claim upon me! I had been the subject of a rudeness to-day, at the table-d'hôte, which, in my little knowledge of the world, I attributed to the underbred habits of a coarse school of manners. I now perceive that I was too lenient in my judgment.”
“Are we to listen to any more of this, messieurs?” said the colonel, rising; “or is it from me that chastisement is to come?”
“No; I have the right, I claim the place, I am the youngest subaltern, I am the 'cadet of the corps,'” cried half-a-dozen in a breath; but Carrier's voice overbore the others, saying,—
“Comrades, you seem to forget that this is my quarrel; I will not yield my right to any one!”
“Yes, yes,” exclaimed several voices together; “Carrier says truly. The affair is his. We fight with the sabre, citizen, in the Chasseurs-à-Cheval. Is the weapon to your liking?”
“One arm is the same to me as another,” replied I; and unfortunately this was too literally the case, since I was equally inexpert in all!
“You can claim the pistol, if you wish it,” whispered an old captain, with a snow-white moustache. “The challenged chooses his weapons.”
“The sabre be it, then,” exclaimed Carrier, catching me up at once.
“Not if the citizen prefer the pistol,” interposed the captain.
“He has already made his choice: he said all weapons were alike to him.”
“Quite true,” said I; “I did say so!”
“The greater fool you, then!” murmured the captain, between his teeth. “You might just as well have given yourself your chance. Carrier won't be so generous to you!”
“Will you be my second?” asked I of him.
“Ma foi! if you wish it,” said he, with a shrug of the shoulders and a glance of such tender pity that could not be mistaken. “Let us follow them!”
And so saying, we strolled leisurely on after the others, who, now passing through a small wicket, entered a little wood that adjoined the garden. A few minutes more brought us to an open space, which I rightly guessed had been often before the scene of similar affairs.
I had never witnessed a duel in my life. I knew nothing of the formalities which were observed in its arrangement; and the questions which I asked the captain so palpably betrayed my ignorance that he stared at me with mute astonishment.
“Have you any friends, boy,” asked he, after a pause, “to whom I can write for you?”
“Not one,” said I.
“All the better!” rejoined he, tersely.
I nodded an assent; and from that moment we understood each other perfectly. No lengthy explanation could more plainly have declared that he thought I was doomed, and that I concurred in the foreboding.
“My sabre will be too heavy for you, boy,” said he; “I 'll see and borrow a lighter one from one of my comrades. Chasteler, will you lend me yours?”
“Parbleu! that will I not. I'd never wear it again if used in such a quarrel.”
“Right, Chasteler,” cried another; “I hope there is only one amongst us could forget an insult offered to the whole regiment.”
“I wore my epaulette when you were in the cradle, Lieutenant Hautmain,” said the old captain; “so don't pretend to teach me the feelings that become a soldier. There, boy,” he added, drawing his sabre as he spoke, “take mine.”
By this time my antagonist had divested himself of coat and neckcloth, and stood, with open shirt-breast and the sleeve of his sword-arm rolled up to the shoulder, before me.
He was as much an overmatch for me in strength and vigor as in skill, and I felt an acute sense of shame in pitting myself against him. As he swung his sabre jauntily to and fro with the dexterous facility of a practised swordsman, I could read the confidence with which he entered upon the encounter.
“It is the first time you ever handled a sword, I think?” said the captain, as he assisted me off with my coat.
“The very first,” said I, endeavoring, I know not how successfully, to smile.
“Parbleu!” cried he, aloud. “This is no better than a murder! The boy knows nothing of fencing; he never had a sabre in his hands till now.”
“He should have thought of that before he uttered an insult,” said Carrier, placing himself en garde. “Come on, boy!”
The offensive look and manner in which he spoke so carried me away that I rushed in, and aimed a cut at his head. He parried it, and came down with a sharp stroke on my shoulder, exclaiming, “Ça!” as he did it. The same word followed every time that he touched me; nor did it require the easy impertinence of the glances he gave towards his comrades to show that he was merely amusing himself; as, at one moment, he covered my face with blood, and at another disarmed me by a severe wound on the wrist.
“Enough of this,—too much of it!” cried the captain, as the blood streamed down my cheeks from a cut on the forehead, and almost blinded me.
“When he says so, it will be time to stop,—not till then,” said Carrier, as he gave me a sharp cut on the neck.
My rage so overpowered me at this that I lost all control over myself; and, resolving to finish the struggle at once, I sprang at him, and, with both hands on my sword, made a cut at his head. The force was such that the blow broke down his guard and felled him to the earth, with a tremendous wound of the scalp; and there he lay, stunned and senseless, while, scarcely more conscious, I stood over him. Passion had up to that sustained me; but loss of blood and exhaustion now succeeded together, and I reeled back and fainted.
Though terribly hacked and sorely treated, none of my wounds were dangerous; and after being bandaged, and stitched, and plastered in various ways, I was able—or at least insisted that I was able—to pursue my journey that evening; and away we drove, with no very grateful recollection of Valence, except, indeed, towards the old captain, who saw us off, and took a most affectionate leave of us at parting.
Margot had heard from the hostess enough to show her that I had been her champion and defender, though in what cause she could not possibly divine. Whatever her anxiety to learn the facts, she never put a single question to me as we went along, her sole care being to do whatever might assuage my pain and alleviate my suffering. Thanks to this kindness, and the cool air of an autumn night, I travelled with comparatively little uneasiness; and as day was breaking we entered the quiet street of the little village.
“There, yonder is our house,—the porch with the jasmine over it. Oh, how the rose-trees have grown!”
Such was Margot's exclamation, as we drew up at the door.