Worthy reader, you are neither weak of purpose nor undecided in action; as little are you easily moved by soft influences, when aided by long eyelashes. But had you been so, it would have been no difficult effort for you to comprehend the state of mind in which Captain Martin repaired to his room to make preparation for his journey. There was a kind of half chivalry in his present purpose that nerved and supported him. It was like a knight-errant of old setting out to confront a peril at the behest of his lady-love; but against this animating conviction there arose that besetting sin of small minds,—a sense of distrust,—a lurking suspicion that he might be, all this while, nothing but the dupe of a very artful woman.
“Who can tell,” said he to himself, “what plan she may have in all this, or what object she may propose to herself in getting me out of the way? I don't think she really cares one farthing about the distress of these people, supposing it all to be true; and as to the typhus fever and cholera, egad! if they be there, one ought to think twice before rushing into the midst of them. And then, again, what do I know about the country or its habits? I have no means of judging if it be poorer or sicklier or; more wretched than usual. To my eyes, it always seemed at the lowest depth of want and misery; every one went half starved and more than half naked. I 'm sure there is no necessity for my going some few hundred and odd miles to refresh my memory on this pleasant fact; and yet this is precisely what I 'm about to do. Is it by way of trying her power over me? By Jove, I 've hit it!” cried he, suddenly, as he stopped arranging a mass of letters which he was reducing to order before his departure. “That's her game; there's no doubt of it! She has said to herself, 'This will prove him. If he do this at my bidding, he'll do more.' Ay, but will he, mademoiselle? that's the question. A young hussar may turn out to be a very old soldier. What if I were just to tell her so. Girls of her stamp like a man all the better when he shows himself to be wide-awake. I 'd lay a fifty on it she 'll care more for me when she sees I 'm her own equal in shrewdness. And, after all, why should I go? I could send my valet, Fletcher,—just the kind of fellow for such a mission,—never knew the secret he could n't worm out; there never was a bit of barrack scandal he did n't get to the bottom of. He 'd be back here within a fortnight, with the whole state of the case, and I'll be bound there will be no humbugging him.”
This bright idea was not, however, without its share of detracting reflections, for what became of all that personal heroism on which he reposed such hope, if the danger were to be encountered by deputy? This was a puzzle, not the less that he had not yet made up his mind whether he 'd really be in love with Kate Henderson, or only involve her in an unfortunate attachment for him. While he thus pondered and hesitated, strewing his room with the contents of drawers and cabinets, by way of aiding the labor of preparation, his door was suddenly opened, and Mr. Merl made his appearance. Although dressed with all his habitual regard to effect, and more than an ordinary display of chains and trinkets, that gentleman's aspect betokened trouble and anxiety; at least, there was a certain restlessness in his eye that Martin well understood as an evidence of something wrong within.
“Are you getting ready for a journey, Captain?” asked he, as he entered.
“I was thinking of it; but I believe I shall not go. I 'm undecided.”
“Up the Rhine?”
“No; not in that direction.”
“South,—towards Italy, perhaps?”
“Nor there, either. I was meditating a trip to England.”
“We should be on the road together,” said Merl. “I'm off by four o'clock.”
“How so? What's the reason of this sudden start?”
“There's going to be a crash here,” said Merl, speaking in a lower tone. “The Government have been doing the thing with too high a hand, and there's mischief brewing.”
“Are you sure of this?” asked Martin.
“Only too sure, that's all. I bought in, on Tuesday last, at sixty-four and an eighth, and the same stock is now fifty-one and a quarter, and will be forty to-morrow. The day after—” Here Mr. Merl made a motion with his outstretched arm, to indicate utter extinction.
“You're a heavy loser, then?” asked Martin, eagerly.
“I shall be, to the tune of some thirteen thousand pounds. It was just on that account I came in here. I shall need money within the week, and must turn those Irish securities of yours into cash,—some of them at least,—and I want a hint from you as to which I ought to dispose of and which hold over. You told me one day, I remember, that there was a portion of the property likely to rise greatly in value—”
“You told me, sir,” said Captain Martin, breaking suddenly in, “when I gave you these same bonds, that they should remain in your own hands, and never leave them. That was the condition on which I gave them.”
“I suppose, Captain, you gave them for something; you did not make a present of them,” said the Jew, coloring slightly.
“If I did not make a present of them,” rejoined Martin, “the transaction was about as profitable to me.”
“You owed me the money, sir; that, at least, is the way I regard the matter.”
“And when I paid it by these securities, you pledged yourself not to negotiate them. I explained to you how the entail was settled,—that the property must eventually be mine,—and you accepted the arrangement on these conditions.”
“All true, Captain; but nobody told me, at that time, there was going to be a revolution in Paris,—which there will be within forty-eight hours.”
“Confounded fool that I was to trust the fellow!” said Martin to himself, but quite loud enough to be heard; then turning to Merl, he said, “What do you mean by converting them into cash? Are you about to sell part of our estate?”
“Nothing of the kind, Captain,” said Merl, smiling at the innocence of the question. “I am simply going to deposit these where I can obtain an advance upon them. I promise you, besides, it shall not be in any quarter by which the transaction can reach the ears of your family. This assurance will, I trust, satisfy you, and entitle me to the information I ask for.”
“What information do you allude to?” asked Martin, who had totally forgotten what the Jew announced as the reason of his visit.
“I asked you, Captain,” said Merl, resuming the mincing softness of his usual manner, “as to which of these securities might be the more eligible for immediate negotiation?”
“And how should I know, sir?” replied the other, rudely. “I am very little acquainted with the property itself; I know still less about the kind of dealings you speak of. It does not concern me in the least what you do, or how you do it. I believe I may have given you bonds for something very like double the amount of all you ever advanced to me. I hear of nothing from my father but the immense resources of this, and the great capabilities of that; but as these same eventualities are not destined to better my condition, I have not troubled my head to remember anything about them. You have a claim of about twenty thousand against me.”
“Thirty-two thousand four hundred and seventy-eight pounds,” said the Jew, reading from a small note-book which he had just taken from his waistcoat pocket.
“That is some ten thousand more than ever I heard of,” said Martin, with an hysterical sort of laugh. “Egad, Merl, the fellows were right that would not have you in the 'Cercle.' You 'd have 'cleared every man of them out,'—as well let a ferret into a rabbit warren.”
“I was n't aware,—I had not heard that I was put up—”
“To be sure you were; in all form proposed, seconded, and duly blackballed. I own to you, I thought it very hard, very illiberal. There are plenty of fellows there that have no right to be particular; and so Jack Massingbred as much as told them. The fact is, Merl, you ought to have waited awhile, and by the time that Harlowe and Spencer Cavendish and a few more such were as deep in your books as I am, you 'd have had a walk over. Willoughby says the same. It might have cost you something smart, but you 'd have made it pay in the end,—eh, Merl?”
To this speech, uttered in a strain of jocular impertinence, Merl made no reply. He had just torn one of his gloves in pieces in the effort to draw it on, and he was busily exerting himself to get rid of the fragments.
“Lady Dorothea had given me a card for you for Saturday,” resumed the Captain; “but as you 're going away—Besides, after this defeat at the Club, you could n't well come amongst all these people; so there's nothing for it but patience, Merl, patience—”
“A lesson that may be found profitable to others, perhaps,” said the Jew, with one of his furtive looks at the Captain, who quailed under it at once.
“I was going to give you a piece of advice, Merl,” said he, in a tone the very opposite to his late bantering one. “It was, that you should just take a run over to Ireland yourself, and see the property.”
“I mean to do so, Captain Martin,” said the other, calmly.
“I can't offer you letters, for they would defeat what you desire to accomplish; besides, there is no member of the family there at present but a young lady-cousin of mine.”
“Just the kind of introduction I 'd like,” said the Jew, with all the zest of a man glad to say what he knew would be deemed an impertinence.
Martin grew crimson with suppressed anger, but never spoke a word.
“Is this the Cousin Mary I have heard you speak of,” said Merl,—“the great horsewoman, and she that ventures out alone on the Atlantic in a mere skiff?”
Martin nodded. His temper was almost an overmatch for him, and he dared not trust himself to speak.
“I should like to see her amazingly, Captain,” resumed Merl.
“Remember, sir, you have no lien upon her,” said Martin, sternly.
The Jew smirked and ran his fingers through his hair with the air of one who deemed such an eventuality by no means so very remote.
“Do you know, Master Merl,” said Martin, staring at him from head to foot with an expression the reverse of complimentary, “I 'm half disposed to give you a few lines to my cousin; and if you 'll not take the thing as a mauvais plaisanterie on my part, I will do so.”. “Quite the contrary, Captain. I 'll deem it a great favor, indeed,” said Merl, with an admirable affectation of unconsciousness.
“Here goes, then,” said Martin, sitting down to a table, and preparing his writing materials, while in a hurried hand he began:—
“'Dear Cousin Mary,—This will introduce to you Mr. Herman Merl, who visits your remote regions on a tour of——What shall I say?”
“Pleasure,—amusement,” interposed Merl.
“No, when I am telling a fib, I like a big one,—I 'll say, philanthropy, Merl; and there's nothing so well adapted to cover those secret investigations you are bent upon,—a tour of philanthropy.
“'You will, I am sure, lend him all possible assistance in his benevolent object,—the same being to dispose of the family acres,—and at the same time direct his attention to whatever may be matter of interest,—whether mines, quarries, or other property easily convertible into cash,—treating him in all respects as one to whom I owe many obligations—and several thousand pounds.'
“Will that do, think you?”
“Perfectly; nothing better.”
“In return, I shall ask one favor at your hands,” said Martin, as he folded and addressed the epistle. “It is that you write me a full account of what you see in the West,—how the country looks, and the people. Of course it will all seem terribly poor and destitute, and all that sort of thing, to your eyes; but just try and find out if it be worse than usual. Paddy is such a shrewd fellow, Merl, that it will require all your own sharpness not to be taken in by him. A long letter full of detail—a dash of figures in it—as to how many sheep have the rot, or how many people have caught the fever, will improve it,—you know the kind of thing I mean; and—I don't suppose you care about shooting, yourself, but you 'll get some one to tell you—are the birds plenty and in good condition. There's a certain Mr. Scanlan, if you chance upon him; he 's up to everything, and not a bad performer at dummy whist,—though I think you could teach him a thing or two.” Merl smiled and tried to look flattered, while the other went on: “And there 's another, called Henderson,—the steward,—a very shrewd person,—but you don't need all these particulars; you may be trusted to your own good guidance,—eh, Merl?”
Merl again smiled in the same fashion as before; in fact, so completely had he resumed the bland expression habitual to him, that the Captain almost forgot the unpleasant cause of his visit, and all the disagreeable incidents of the interview.
“You could n't give me a few lines to this Mr. Scanlan?” asked Merl, with an air of easy indifference.
“Nothing easier,” cried the Captain, reseating himself; then suddenly rising, with the expression of one to whom a sudden thought had just crossed the mind, “Wait one second for me here, Merl; I'll be back with you at once.” And as he spoke he dashed out of the room, and hastened to his father.
“By a rare piece of luck,” cried he, as he entered, “I 've just chanced upon the very fellow we want; an acquaintance I picked up at the Cape,—up to everything; he goes over to Ireland to-night, and he 'll take a run down to Cro' Martin, and send us his report of all he sees. Whatever he tells us may be relied upon; for, depend upon 't, no lady can humbug him. I 've just given him a note for Mary, and I 'll write a few lines also by way of introducing him to Scanlan.”
Martin could barely follow the Captain, as with rapid utterance he poured forth this plan. “Do I know him? What's his name?” asked he at last.
“You never saw him. His name is Merl,—Herman Merl,—a fellow of considerable wealth; a great speculator,—one of those Stock Exchange worthies who never deal in less than tens of thousands. He has a crotchet in his head about buying up half the West of Ireland,—some scheme about flax and the deep-sea fishery. I don't understand it, but I suppose he does. At all events, he has plenty of money, and the head to make it fructify; and if he only take a liking to it, he 's the very fellow to buy up Kilkieran, and the islands, and the rest of that waste district you were telling me of t'other night. But I must n't detain him. He starts at four o'clock; and I only ran over here to tell you not to worry yourself any more about Mary's letter. He 'll look to it all.”
And with this consolatory assurance the Captain hastened away, leaving Martin as much relieved in mind as an indolent nature and an easy conscience were sure to make him. To get anybody “to look to” anything had been his whole object in life; to know that, whatever happened, there was always somebody who misstated this, or neglected that, at whose door all the culpability—where there was such—could be laid and but for whom he had himself performed miracles of energy and devotedness, and endured all the tortures and trials of a martyr. He was, indeed, as are a great many others in this world, an excellent man to his own heart,—kind, charitable, and affectionate; a well-wisher to his kind, and hopeful of almost every one; but, all this while, his virtues, like a miser's gold, had no circulation; they remained locked up within him for his own use alone, and there he sat, counting them over and gazing at them, speculating upon all that this affluence could do, and—never doing it!
Life abounds with such men. They win respect while they live, and white marble records their virtues when they die! Nor are they all useless. Their outward bearing at least simulates whatever we revere in good men, and we accept them in the same spirit of compromise as we take stucco for stone; if they do no more, they show our appreciation of the “real article.”
The Captain was not long in inditing a short note to Scanlan, to whom, “strictly confidential,” Mr. Merl was introduced as a great capitalist and speculator, desirous to ascertain all the resources of the land. Scanlan was enjoined to show him every attention, making his visit in all respects as agreeable as possible.
“This fellow will treat you well, Merl,” said the Captain, as he folded the letter; “will give you the best salmon you ever tasted, and a glass of Gordon's Madeira such as few could sport now-a-days. And if you have a fancy for a day with my Cousin Mary's hounds, he 'll mount you admirably, and show you the way besides.” And with this speech Martin wished him good-bye; and closing the door after him, added, “And if he'll kindly assist you to a broken neck, it's about the greatest service he could render me!”
The laugh, silly and meaningless, that followed his utterance of this speech, showed that it was spoken in all the listlessness of one who had not really character enough to be even a “good hater.”
So little impression had Merl's gloomy forebodings made upon Captain Martin, that he actually forgot everything that this shrewd gentleman predicted, and only partially recalled them when the conversation the next morning at the Club turned on the disturbed state of the capital. People in “society” find it excessively difficult to believe in anything like an organized opposition to the authorities of a government. They are so accustomed to hear of street assemblages being scattered by a few soldiers, mobs routed by a handful of mounted policemen, that they are slow to imagine how any formidable movement can take its rise in such a source. But the maladies of states, like those of the human frame, are often mere trifles in their origin; chance, and the concurrence of events swell their importance, till they assume an aspect of perhaps greater menace than they deserve. This is essentially the case in revolutionary struggles, where, at the outset, none ever contemplates the extent to which the mischief may reach. The proclamation of the “Ordinances,” as they were called, had produced a great excitement in Paris. Groups of men in every street were gathered around some one reading aloud the violent commentaries of the public papers; thoughtful and stern faces were met at every corner; a look of expectancy—an expression that seemed to say, What next?—was perceptible on all sides. Many of the shops were half closed, and in some the objects of great value were withdrawn to places of greater security. It was clear to see that men apprehended some great crisis; but whence it should come, or by whose instrumentality promoted, none seemed able to guess. Now and then a mounted orderly would ride by at a smart trot, or a patrol party of dragoons dash past; and the significant glance that followed them indicated how full of meaning these signs appeared.
The day passed in this state of anxious uncertainty; and although the journals discussed the condition of the capital as full of danger and menace, an ostentatious announcement in the “Moniteur” proclaimed Paris to be tranquil. In society—at least in the world of fashion and high life—there were very few who would have disputed the official despatch. “Who and what were they who could dispute the King's Government? Who and where were there either leaders or followers? In what way should they attempt it? The troops in and around Paris numbered something over forty thousand, commanded by an old Marshal of the Empire, now the trustiest adherent of royalty. The days of Mirabeaus and Robespierres and Dantons had passed away; nor were these times in which men would like to recall the reigns of terror and the guillotine.” So they reasoned—or, if the phrase be too strong, so they talked—who lounged on soft-cushioned ottomans, or moved listlessly over luxurious carpets; all agreeing that it would be treasonable in the Ministers to retreat or abate one jot of the high prerogative of the Crown. Powdered heads shook significantly, and gold-embroidered vests heaved indignantly at the bare thought that the old spirit of '95 should have survived amongst them; but not one dreamed that the event boded seriously, or that the destinies of a great nation were then in the balance.
It is but five-and-twenty years ago; and how much more have we learned of the manufacture of revolutions in the interval! Barricades and street warfare have become a science, and the amount of resistance a half-armed populace can offer to a regular force is as much a matter of certainty as a mathematical theorem. At that period, however, men were but in the infancy of this knowledge; the traditions of the Great Revolution scarcely were remembered, and, for the most part, they were inapplicable.
What wonder, then, if people in society smiled scornfully at the purposeless masses that occasionally moved past beneath their windows, shouting with discordant voices some fragments of the “Marseillaise,” or, as they approached the residence of any in authority, venturing on the more daring cry of “Down with the Ordinances!” The same tone of haughty contempt pervaded the “Club.” Young men of fashion, little given to the cares of political life, and really indifferent to the action of laws which never invaded the privileges of the play-table, or curtailed one prerogative of the “Coulisses,” felt an angry impatience at all the turbulence and riot of the public streets.
In a magnificently furnished salon of the Club a number of these young men were now assembled. Gathered from every nation of Europe,—many of them bearing names of high historical interest,—they were, so far as dress, air, and appearance went, no ignoble representatives of the class they belonged to. The proud and haughty Spaniard, the fierce-eyed, daring-looking Pole, the pale, intellectual-faced Italian, the courteous Russian, and the fair-haired, stalwart Saxon were all there; and, however dissimilar in type, banded together by the magic influence of the “set” they moved in, to an almost perfect uniformity of sentiment and opinion.
“I vote that any man be fined ten Louis that alludes, however remotely, to this confounded question again,” cried Count Gardoni, rising impatiently from his chair and approaching a card-table.
“And I second you!” exclaimed a Polish prince, with a Russian decoration at his button-hole.
“Carried nem. con.” said Captain Martin, seating himself at the play-table. “And now for the 'Lansquenet.'” And in a moment every seat was occupied, and purses of gold and pocket-books of bank-notes were strewed over the board. They were all men who played high; and the game soon assumed the grave character that so invariably accompanies large wagers. Wonderfully little passed, except the terms of the game itself. Gambling is a jealous passion, and never admits its votaries to wander in their attention. And now large sums passed from hand to hand, and all the passions of hope and fear racked heads and hearts around, while a decorous silence prevailed; or, when broken, some softly toned voice alone interrupted the stillness.
“Are you going, Martin?” whispered the young French Count de Nevers, as the other moved noiselessly back from the table.
“It is high time, I think,” said Martin; “this is my seventeenth night of losing,—losing heavily, too. I'm sick of it!”
“Here 's a chance for you, Martin,” said a Russian prince, who had just assumed “the bank.” “You shall have your choice of color, and your own stake.”
“Thanks; but I'll not be tempted.”
“I say red, and a thousand francs,” cried a Neapolitan.
“There 's heavier play outside, I suspect,” said Martin, as a wild, hoarse shout from the streets re-echoed through the room.
“A fine,—a fine,—Martin is fined!” cried several around the table.
“You have n't left me wherewithal to pay it, gentlemen,” said he, laughing. “I was just about to retire, a bankrupt, into private life.”
“That's platoon fire,” exclaimed the Pole, as the loud detonation of small arms seemed to shake the very room.
“Czernavitz also fined,” cried two together.
“I bow in submission to the Court,” said the Pole, throwing down the money on the table.
“Lend me as much more,” said Martin; “it may change my luck.” And with this gambler's philosophy, he again drew nigh the table.
This slight interruption over, the game proceeded as before. Martin, however, was now a winner, every wager succeeding, and every bet he made a gain.
“There's nothing like a dogged persistence,” said the Russian. “Fortune never turns her back on him who shows constancy. See Martin, now; by that very resolution he has conquered, and here we are, all cleared out!”
“I am, for one,” cried an Italian, flinging his empty purse on the table.
“There's my last Louis,” said Nevers. “I reserve it to pay for my supper.”
“Martin shall treat us all to supper!” exclaimed another.
“Where shall it be, then?” said Martin; “here, or at my own quarters?”
“Here, by all means,” cried some.
“I 'm for the Place Vendôme,” said the Pole, “for who knows but we shall catch a glimpse of that beautiful girl, Martin's 'Belle Irlandaise.'”
“I saw her to-night,” said the Italian, “and I own she is all you say. She was speaking to Villemart, and I assure you the old Minister won't forget it in a hurry. Something or other he said about the noise in the street drew from him the word canaille. She turned round at once and attacked him. He replied, and the controversy grew warm; so much so, that many gathered around them to listen, amongst whom I saw the Duc de Guiche, Prince du Saulx, and the Austrian Minister. Nothing could be more perfect than her manner,—calm, without any effrontery; assured, and yet no sacrifice of delicacy. It was easy to see, too, that the theme was not one into which she stumbled by an accident; she knew every event of the Great Revolution, and used the knowledge with consummate skill, and, but for one slip, with consummate temper also.
“What was the slip you allude to?” cried the Russian.
“It was when Villemart, after a boastful enumeration of the superior merits of his order, called them the 'Enlighteners of the People.'
“'You played that part on one occasion,' said she; 'but I scarcely thought you 'd like to refer to it.'
“'How so? When do you mean?' asked he.
“'When they hung you to the lanterns,' said she, with the energy of a tigress in her look. Pardié! at that moment I never saw anything so beautiful or so terrible.”
A loud uproar in the street without, in which the sound of troop-horses passaging to and fro could be distinguished, now interrupted the colloquy. As the noise increased, a low, deep roar, like the sound of distant thunder, could be heard, and the Pole cried out,—“Messieurs les Sans-culottes, I strongly advise you to turn homewards, for, if I be not much mistaken, here comes the artillery.”
“The affair may turn out a serious one, after all,” broke in the Italian.
“A serious one!” echoed the Pole, scornfully. “How can it? Forty battalions of infantry, ten thousand sabres, and eight batteries; are they not enough, think you, to rout this contemptible herd of street rioters?”
“There—listen! It has begun already!” exclaimed Martin, as the sharp report of fire-arms, quite close to the windows, was followed by a crash, and then a wild, mad shout, half rage, half defiance.
“There's nothing for it, in these things, but speedy action,” said the Pole; “grape and cavalry charges to clear the streets, and rifle practice at anything that shows itself at the windows.”
“It is so easy, so very easy, to crush a mob,” said the Russian, “if you only direct your attention to the leader,—think of nothing but him. Once you show that, whatever may be the fate of others, death must be his, the whole assemblage becomes a disorganized, unwieldy mass, to be sabred or shot down at pleasure.”
“Soldiers have no fancy for this kind of warfare,” said De Nevers, haughtily; “victory is never glorious, defeat always humiliation.”
“But who talks of defeat?” exclaimed the Pole, passionately. “The officer who could fail against such an enemy should be shot by a court-martial. We have, I believe, every man of us here, served; and I asked you, what disproportion of force could suggest a doubt of success?”
As he spoke, the door of the room was suddenly opened, and a young man, with dress all disordered, and the fragment of a hat in his hand, entered.
“What, Massingbred!” cried one, “how came you to be so roughly handled?”
“So much for popular politeness!” exclaimed the Russian, as he took up the tattered remains of a dress-coat, and exhibited it to the others.
“Pardon me, Prince,” replied Massingbred, as he filled a glass of water and drank it off, “this courtesy I received at the hands of the military. I was turning my cab from the Boulevard to enter this street, when a hoarse challenge of a sentry, saying I know not what, attracted my attention. I drew up short to learn, and then suddenly came a rush of the people from behind, which terrified my horse, and set him off at speed; the uproar increasing, the affrighted animal dashed madly onward, the crowd flying on every side, when suddenly a bullet whizzed past my head, cutting my hat in two; a second, at the same instant, struck my horse, and killed him on the spot, cab and all rolling over as he fell. How I arose, gained my legs, and was swept away by the dense torrent of the populace, are events of which I am very far from clear. I only know that although the occurrence happened within half an hour ago, it seems to me an affair of days since.”
“You were, doubtless, within some line of outposts when first challenged,” said the Pole, “and the speed at which you drove was believed to be an arranged plan of attack, for you say the mob followed you.”
“Very possibly your explanation is the correct one,” said Massingbred, coolly; “but I looked for more steadiness and composure from the troops, while I certainly did not anticipate so much true courtesy and kindness as I met with from the people.”
“Parbleu! here's Massingbred becoming Democrat,” said one. “The next thing we shall hear is his defence of a barricade.”
“You'll assuredly not hear that I attacked one in such company as inflicted all this upon me,” rejoined he, with an easy smile.
“Here's the man to captivate your 'Belle Irlandaise,' Martin,” cried one. “Already is he a hero and a martyr to Royal cruelty.”
“Ah! you came too late to hear that,” said the Pole, in a whisper to Massingbred; “but it seems La Henderson became quite a Charlotte Corday this evening, and talked more violent Republicanism than has been heard in a salon since the days of old Égalité.”
“All lights must be extinguished, gentlemen,” said the waiter, entering hastily. “The street is occupied by troops, and you must pass out by the Rue de Grenelle.”
“Are the mobs not dispersing, then?” asked the Russian.
“No, your Highness. They have beaten back the troops from the Quai Voltaire, and are already advancing on the Louvre.”
“What absurdity!” exclaimed the Pole. “If the troops permit this, there is treason amongst them.”
“I can answer for it there is terror, at least,” said Massingbred. “All the high daring and spirit is with what you would call the Sans-culottes.”
“That a man should talk this way because he has lost a cab-horse!” cried the Pole, insolently.
“There are men who can bear the loss of a country with more equanimity,—I know that,” whispered Massingbred in his ear, with all the calm sternness of an insult.
“You mean this for me?” said the Pole, in a low voice.
“Of course I do,” was the answer.
“Where?—when?—how?” muttered the Pole, in suppressed passion.
“I leave all at your disposal,” said Massingbred, smiling at the other's effort to control his rage.
“At Versailles,—to-morrow morning,—pistols.”
Massingbred bowed, and turned away. At the same instant the waiter entered to say that the house must be cleared at once, or all within it consent to remain close prisoners.
“Come along, Martin,” said Massingbred, taking his arm. “I shall want you to do me a favor. Let us make our escape by the Rue de Grenelle, and I 'll engage to pilot you safely to your own quarters.”
“Has anything passed between you and Czernavitz?” asked Martin, as they gained the street.
“A slight exchange of civilities which requires an exchange of shots,” said Jack, calmly.
“By George! I 'm sorry for it. He can hit a franc-piece at thirty paces.”
“So can I, Martin; and, what's more, Anatole knows it. He's as brave as a lion, and it is my confounded skill has pushed him on to this provocation.”
“He 'll shoot you,” muttered Martin, in a half revery.
“Not impossible,” said Massingbred. “He's a fellow who cannot conceal his emotions, and will show at once what he means to do.”
“Well, what of that?”
“Simply, that if he intends mischief I shall know it, and send a bullet through his heart.”
Little as Martin had seen of Massingbred,—they were but Club acquaintances of a few weeks back,—he believed that he was one of those smart, versatile men who, with abundance of social ability, acquire reputation for higher capacity than they possess; but, above all, he never gave him credit for anything like a settled purpose or a stern resolution. It was, then, with considerable astonishment that he now heard him avow this deadly determination with all the composure that could vouch for its sincerity. There was, however, little time to think of these things. The course they were driven to follow, by by-streets and alleys, necessitated a long and difficult way. The great thoroughfares which they crossed at intervals were entirely in the possession of the troops, who challenged them as they approached, and only suffered them to proceed when well satisfied with their account. The crowds had all dispersed, and to the late din and tumult there had succeeded the deep silence of a city sunk in sleep, only broken by the hoarse call of the sentinels, or the distant tramp of a patrol.
“It is all over, I suppose,” said Martin. “The sight of the eight-pounders and the dark caissons has done the work.”
“I don't think so,” said Massingbred, “nor do the troops think so. These mobs are not like ours in England, who, with plenty of individual courage, are always poltroons in the mass. These fellows understand fighting as an art, know how to combine their movements, arrange the modes of attack or defence, can measure accurately the means of resistance opposed to them, and, above all, understand how to be led,—something far more difficult than it seems. In my good borough of Oughterard,—or yours, rather, Martin, for I have only a loan of it,—a few soldiers—the army, as they would call them—would sweep the whole population before them. Our countrymen can get up a row, these fellows can accomplish a revolt,—there's the difference.”
“And have they any real, substantial grievance that demands such an expiation?”
“Who knows?” said he, laughingly. “There never was a Government too bad to live under,—there never was one exempt from great vices. Half the political disturbances the world has witnessed have arisen from causes remote from State Government; a deficient harvest, a dear loaf, the liberty of the Press invaded,—a tyranny always resented by those who can't read,—are common causes enough. But here we are now at the Place Vendôme, and certainly one should say the odds are against the people.”
Massingbred said truly. Two battalions of infantry, with a battery of guns in position, were flanked by four squadrons of Cuirassiers, the formidable array filling the entire “Place,” and showing by their air and attitude their readiness for any eventuality. A chance acquaintance with one of the staff enabled Massingbred and Martin to pass through their lines and arrive at their hotel.
“Remember,” said the officer who accompanied them, “that you are close prisoners now. My orders are that nobody is to leave the Place under any pretext.”
“Why, you can scarcely suspect that the Government has enemies in this aristocratic quarter?” said Massingbred, smiling.
“We have them everywhere,” was the brief answer, as he bowed and turned away.
“I scarcely see how I'm to keep my appointment at Versailles to-morrow morning,” said Massingbred, as he followed Martin up the spacious stairs. “Happily, Czernavitz knows me, and will not misinterpret my absence.”
“Not to say that he may be unable himself to get there,” said Martin. As he spoke, they had reached the door, opening which with his key, the Captain motioned to Massingbred to enter.
Massingbred stopped suddenly, and in a voice of deep meaning said, “Your father lives here?”
“Yes,—what then?” asked Martin.
“Only that I have no right to pass his threshold,” said the other, in a low voice. “I was his guest once, and I 'm not sure that I repaid the hospitality as became me. You were away at the time.”
“You allude to that stupid election affair,” said Martin. “I can only say that I never did, never could understand it. My only feeling was one of gratitude to you for saving me from being member for the borough. Come along,” said he, taking his arm; “this is no time for your scruples, at all events.”
“No, Martin, I cannot,” said the other. “I 'd rather walk up to one of those nine-pounders there than present myself to your lady-mother—”
“But you needn't. You are my guest; these are my quarters. You shall see nobody but myself till you leave this. Remember what the Captain told us; we are prisoners here.” And without waiting for a reply, Martin pushed him before him into the room.
“Two o'clock,” said Massingbred, looking at his watch; “and we are to be at Versailles by eight.”
“Well, leave all the care of that to me,” said Martin; “and do you throw yourself on the bed there, and take some rest. Without you prefer to sup first?”
“No, an hour's sleep is what I stand most in need of; and so I 'll say good-night.”
Massingbred said this less that he wanted repose than a brief interval to be alone with his own thoughts. And now, as he closed his eyes to affect sleep, it was really to commune with his own heart, and reflect over what had just occurred.
Independently that he liked Czernavitz personally, he was sorry for a quarrel at such a moment. There was a great game about to be played, and a mere personal altercation seemed something small and contemptible in the face of such events. “What will be said of us,” thought he, “but that we were a pair of hot-headed fools, thinking more of a miserable interchange of weak sarcasms than of the high destinies of a whole nation? And it was my fault,” added he to himself; “I had no right to reproach him with a calamity hard enough to bear, even without its being a reproach. What a strange thing is life, after all!” thought he; “everything of greatest moment that occurs in it the upshot of an accident,—my going to Ireland, my visit to the West, my election, my meeting with Kate Henderson, and now this duel.” And, so ruminating, he dropped off into a sound sleep, undisturbed by sounds that might well have broken the heaviest slumber.
On the evening which witnessed these events Lady Dorothea's “reception” had been more than usually brilliant. Numbers had come to show of how little moment they deemed this “street disturbance,” as they were pleased to call it; others, again, were curious to pick up in society the opinions formed on what was passing, among whom were several high in the favor of the Court and the confidence of the Government. All, as they arrived, had some little anecdote or adventure to relate as to the difficulties which beset them on the way,—the distances which they were obliged to travel, the obstructions and passwords and explanations which met them at every turn. These were all narrated in the easy, jocular tone of passing trifles, the very inconvenience of which suggested its share of amusement.
As the evening wore on, even these became less frequent; the streets were already thinning, and, except in some remote, unimportant parts of the capital, the troops were in possession of all the thoroughfares. Of course, the great topic of conversation was the bold stroke of policy then enacting,—a measure which all pronounced wise and just, and eminently called for.
To have heard the sentiments then uttered, the disparaging opinions expressed of the middle and humbler classes, the hopelessness of ever seeing them sufficiently impressed with their own inferiority, the adulation bestowed on the monarch and all around him, one might really have fancied himself back again at the Tuileries in the time of Louis the Fourteenth. All agreed in deeming the occasion an excellent one to give the people a salutary lesson; and it was really pleasant to see the warm interest taken by these high and distinguished persons in the fortunes of their less happy countrymen.
To Lady Dorothea's ears no theme could be more grateful; and she moved from group to group, delighted to mingle her congratulations with those around, and exchange her hopes and aspirations and wishes with theirs. Kate Henderson, upon whom habitually devolved the chief part in these “receptions,” was excited and flurried in manner; a more than ordinary effort to please being dashed, as it were, by some secret anxiety, and the expectation of some coming event. Had there been any one to watch her movements, he might have seen the eagerness with which she listened to each new account of the state of the capital, and how impatiently she drank in the last tidings from the streets; nor less marked was the expression of proud scorn upon her features, as she heard the insulting estimate of the populace, and the vainglorious confidence in the soldiery. But more than all these was her haughty indignation as she listened to the confused, mistaken opinions uttered on every side as to the policy of the Government and the benevolent intentions of the king. Once, and only once, did she forget the prudent resolve she wished to impose upon herself; but temper and caution and reserve gave way, as she heard a very distinguished person amusing a circle around him by an unfair and unfaithful portraiture of the great leaders of '92. It was then, when stung by the odious epithet of canaille applied to those for whose characters she entertained a deep devotion, that she forgot everything, and in a burst of indignant eloquence overwhelmed and refuted the speaker. This was the moment, too, in which she replied to Villemart by a word of terrible ferocity. Had the red cap of Liberty itself been suddenly hoisted in that brilliant assemblage, the dread and terror which arose could scarcely have been greater.
“Where are we?” cried the Marquise de Longueville. “I thought we were in the Place de Vendôme, and I find myself in the Faubourg St. Antoine!”
“Does my Lady know that her friend and confidante is a Girondist of the first water?” said an ex-Minister.
“Who could have suspected the spirit of Marat under the mask of Ninon de l'Enclos?” muttered Villemart.
“What is this I hear, dearest Kate?” cried the Duchesse de Mirecourt, as she drew the young girl's arm within her own. “They tell me you have terrified every one,—that Madame de Soissons has gone home ill, and the old Chevalier de Gardonnes has sent for his confessor.”
“I have been very rash, very foolish,” said Kate, as a deadly pallor came over her; “but I could bear it no longer. Besides, what does it matter? They 'll hear worse, and bear it too, before three days are over.”
“Then it is all true?” cried the Duchess, eagerly. “You told Villemart that when the Government spoke with grape-shot, the people replied with the guillotine!”
“Not exactly,” said Kate, with a faint smile. “But are they all going?”
“Of course they are. You have frightened them almost to death; and I know you only meant it for jest,—one of those little half-cruel jests you were ever fond of. Come with me and say so,—come, dearest.” And she drew her, as she spoke, into the crowded salon, now already a scene of excited leave-taking. The brilliant company, however, fell back as they came forward, and an expression of mingled dismay and compassion was turned towards the young Duchess, who with a kind of heroic courage drew Kate's arm closer within her own.
“I am come to make an explanation, messieurs et mesdames,” said the Duchess, with her most captivating smile; “pray vouchsafe me a hearing. My friend—my dearest, best friend here—has, in a moment of sportive pleasantry, suffered herself to jest—”
“It was a jest, then?” broke in Madame de Longueville, haughtily.
“Just as that is,” replied Kate, lifting her hand and pointing in the direction whence came a terrible crash of artillery, followed by the rattle of musketry.
“Let us go,—let us away!” was now heard in affrighted accents on every side; and the splendid assemblage, with less of ceremony than might be expected, began to depart. Lady Dorothea alone was ignorant of what had occurred, and witnessed this sudden leave-taking with amazement. “You are surely not afraid?” said she to one; “there is nothing serious in all this.”
“She has told us the reverse, my Lady,” was the reply. “We should be compromised to remain longer in her company.”
“Adieu, my Lady. I wish we left you in safer companionship.”
“Farewell, Madame, and pray be warned of your danger,” whispered another.
“Your Ladyship may be called upon to acquit debts contracted by another, if Mademoiselle continues a member of your family,” said Villemart, as he bowed his departure.
“Believe me, Madame, none of us include you in the terrible sentiments we have listened to.”
These, and a vast number of similar speeches attended the leave-taking of nearly each of her guests, till Lady Dorothea, confused, almost stunned by reiterated shocks, sat silently accepting these mysterious announcements, and almost imagining herself in all the bewilderment of a dream.
Twice she made an effort to ask some explanation, but failed; and it was only as the Duchesse de Mirecourt drew nigh to say farewell, that in a faint, weak voice she said,—“Can you tell me what all are hinting at, or am I only confusing myself with the terrible scenes without?”
“I 'd have prevented it had I been near. I only heard it when too late, my Lady,” said the Duchess, sorrowfully.
“Prevented what?—heard what?” cried Lady Dorothea.
“Besides, she has often said as much amongst ourselves; we only laughed, as indeed every one would do now, did not events present so formidable an aspect.”
“Who is she you speak of? Tell me, I beseech you. What does this mean?”
“I am the culprit, my Lady,” said Kate, approaching with all the quiet stateliness of her peculiar manner. “I have routed this gorgeous assembly, shocked your most distinguished guests, and horrified all whose sentiments breathe loyalty! I am sincerely sorry for my offence; and it is a grave one.”
“You—you have dared to do this?”
“Too true, madam,” rejoined Kate.
“How and to whom have you had the insolence—”
She stopped, overcome by passion; and Kate replied,—“To all who pleased to listen, my Lady, I have said what doubtless is not often uttered in such choice company, but what, if I mistake not greatly, their ears will grow familiar with erelong.”
“Nay, nay,” said the Duchess, in a tone of apology, “the matter is not so serious as all this. Every one now is terrified. This disturbance, the soldiery, the vast crowds that beset the streets, have all produced so much excitement that even a few words spoken at random are enough to cause fear. It is one of Kate's fancies to terrorize thus over weak minds. She has the cruel triumph of not knowing what fear is. In a word, it is a mere trifling event, sure to be forgotten in the midst of such scenes as we are passing through.”
This attempt at explanation, poured forth with rapid utterance, did not produce on Lady Dorothea the conviction it was intended to impose, and her Ladyship received the last adieus of the Duchess with a cold and stately formality; and then, as the door closed after her, turned to Kate Henderson, and said,—“I want your explanation of all this. Let me have it.”
“It is easily given, my Lady,” said Kate, calmly. And then, in a voice that never trembled nor varied, she narrated briefly the scene which had just occurred, not extenuating in the slightest her own share in the transaction, or offering a single syllable of excuse.
“And you, being who and what you are, dared thus to outrage the best blood of France!” exclaimed Lady Dorothea, trembling all over with passion.
“Perhaps, my Lady, if I sought for an apology, it would be in the fact of being who and what I am.”
“And do you imagine that after conduct such as this, after exposing me to a partnership in the shame that attaches to yourself, that you are any longer to enjoy the shelter of my roof?”
“It never occurred to me to think of that, madam,” said Kate, with an ill-repressed scorn.
“Then it is for me to remind you of it,” said her Ladyship, sternly. “You shall, first of all, write me an humble apology for this vulgar tirade, this outrage upon my company, and then you shall leave the house. Sit down there, and write as I shall dictate to you.”
Kate seated herself with an air of implicit obedience at a writing-table, and took up a pen.
“Write,” cried Lady Dorothea, sternly. “Begin, 'My Lady.' No. 'I approach your Ladyship for the last time.' No, not that. 'If the sincere sorrow in which I pen these lines.' No. Do it yourself. You best can express the shame your heart should feel in such a moment. Let the words be your own!”
Kate leaned over the paper and wrote rapidly for a few seconds. Having finished, she read over the lines, and seemed to reflect on them.
“Show me that paper!” cried Lady Dorothea, impatiently. But, without obeying the command, Kate said,—“Your Ladyship will not be able to leave Paris for at least forty hours. By that time the Monarchy will have run its course in France. You will probably desire, however, to escape from the scenes of turbulence sure to ensue. This will secure you a free passage, whichever road you take.”
“What raving is all this?” said Lady Dorothea, snatching the paper from her hand, and then reading aloud in French,— “'The authorities are required to aid and tender all assistance in their power to Lady Dorothea Martin and all who accompany her, neither giving nor suffering any opposition to be given to her or them in the prosecution of their journey.'
(Signed) “Jules Lagrange,
“'Minister of Police ad interim'
“And this in your own hand, too!” exclaimed Lady Dorothea, contemptuously.
“Yes, madam; but it will entitle it to the seal of the Prefecture, and entitle you to all that it professes.”
“So that I have the honor to shelter within my walls a chief of this insurrection,—if it be worthy of such a name; one in the confidence of this stupid canaille, who fancy that the fall of a Monarchy is like a row in a guinguette!”
“Your Ladyship is no longer in a position to question me or arraign my actions. Before two days are over, the pageant of a king will have passed off the stage, and men of a different stamp take the direction of affairs. One of these will be he whose name I have affixed to that paper,—not without due warranty to do so. Your Ladyship may or may not choose to avail yourself of it.”
“I spurn the imposition,” said Lady Dorothea, tearing it in fragments. “So poor a cheat could not deceive me. As for yourself—”
“Oh, do not bestow a thought upon me, my Lady. I can suffice for my own guidance. I only wait for morning to leave this house.”
“And it is to a city in such a state as this you would confide yourself. Truly, mademoiselle, Republicanism has a right to be proud of you. You are no half-convert to its principles.”
“Am I again to say, my Lady, that your control over me has ceased?”
“It has not. It shall not cease till I have restored you to the humble roof from which I took you,” said Lady Dorothea, passionately. “Your father is our creature; he has no other subsistence than what we condescend to bestow on him. He shall know, when you re-enter his doors, why and for what cause you are there. Till that time come, you are, as you have been, in my service.”
“No, my Lady, the tie between us is snapped. Dependence is but a sad part at the best; but so long as it is coupled with a certain show of respect it is bearable. Destroy that, and it is mere slavery, abject and degrading. I cannot go back to your Ladyship's service.” And she gave to the last word an emphasis of intense scorn.
“You must and you shall,” said Lady Dorothea. “If you are forgetful of what it is your duty to remember, I am not. Here you shall remain; without,” added she, in an accent of supreme contempt, “your counsel and direction shall be sought after by the high and mighty individuals who are so soon to administer the affairs of this nation.”
The loud roll of a drum, followed by the louder clank of sabres and musketry, here startled the speakers; and Kate, hastening to the window, opened it, and stepped out upon the balcony. Day was just dawning; a gray half-light covered the sky, but the dark shadows of the tall houses still stretched over the Place. Here, now, the troops were all in motion; a sudden summons having roused them to form in rank. The hasty character of the movement showed that some emergency was imminent,—a fact confirmed by the frequent arrival and departure of orderlies at full speed.
After a brief interval of preparation the infantry formed in column, and, followed by the artillery and cavalry, moved out of the Place at a quick step. The measured tramp of the foot-soldiers, the clattering noise of the train and the dragoons could be heard long after they had passed out of sight; and Kate stood listening eagerly as to what would come next, when suddenly a man in plain clothes rode hastily from one of the side-streets into the centre of the Place. He looked around him for a moment or two, and then disappeared. Within a few seconds after, a dull, indistinct sound seemed to rise from the ground, which swelled gradually louder and louder, and at last grew into the regular footfall of a great multitude moving in measured time; and now a vast crowd poured into the Place, silent and wordless. On they came from the various quarters that opened into the square,—men, for the most part clad in blouses or in the coarse garb of laborers. They were armed either with musket or sword, and in many instances wore the cross-belt of the soldier. They proceeded at once to barricade the square at its opening into the Rue de la Paix,—a work which they accomplished with astonishing speed and regularity; for, while Kate still looked, a formidable rampart was thrown up across the entire street, along which a line of armed men was stationed, every one of whom, by his attitude and gesture, betrayed the old discipline of a soldier's life. Orders were given and obeyed, movements made, and dispositions effected, with all the regularity and precision of regular troops; and by the ready obedience of all, and the steady attitude observed, it was easy to see that these men were trained to arms and to habits of discipline. Not less evident was it that they who commanded them were not new to such duties. But, more important than all such signs was the fact that here and there through the mass might be seen the uniform of a soldier, or the epaulette of an officer, showing that desertion to the ranks of the people had already begun.
Kate was so occupied in attentive observation of the scene that she had not noticed the arrival of another person in the apartment, and whose voice now suddenly attracted her. It was Martin himself, hastily aroused from his bed by his servant, who in great alarm told him that the capital was in open revolt, the king's troops beaten back, and the people victorious everywhere. “There 's not a moment to lose,” cried he; “we must escape while we can. The road to Versailles is yet in possession of the troops, and we can take that way.”
Lady Dorothea, partly overcome by the late scene, partly stunned by the repeated shocks she experienced, made no reply whatever; and Martin, judging from the expression of her features the anxiety she was suffering, hastily added, “Let me see Kate Henderson,—where is she?”
Lady Dorothea merely pointed towards the balcony, but did not utter a word.
“Oh, have I found you?” said Martin, stepping out upon the balcony. “You see what is doing,—I might say what is done,” added he; “for I believe the game is well-nigh decided. Nothing but an overwhelming force will now crush this populace. We must get away, and at once. Will you give the orders? Send for post-horses; tell them to pack up whatever they can,—direct everything, in fact. My Lady is too ill,—too much overcome to act, or think of anything. Our whole reliance is upon you.” While he was yet uttering these broken, disjointed sentences, he had drawn Kate by the arm within the room, and now stood beside Lady Dorothea's chair. Her Ladyship raised her head and fixed her eyes upon Kate, who sustained the gaze calmly and steadily, nor by the slightest movement displayed one touch of any emotion. The glance, at first haughty and defiant, seemed at length to grow weaker under the unmoved stare of the young girl, and finally she bent down her head and sat as though overcome.
“Come, Dora,” said Martin, kindly, “rouse yourself; you are always equal to an effort when necessity presses. Tell Kate here what you wish, and she 'll do it.”
“I want no aid,—no assistance, sir. Miss Henderson is her own mistress,—she may do what, or go where she pleases.”
Martin made a sign to Kate not to mind what he believed to be the mere wandering of an over-excited brain; and then bending down over the chair, said, “Dear Dora, we must be active and stirring; the people will soon be masters of the capital,—for a while, at least,—and there is no saying what excesses they will commit.”
“Do not offend Miss Henderson, sir,” interposed Lady Dorothea; “she has equal confidence in their valor and their virtue.”
“What does this mean?—when did she fall into this state?” asked he, eagerly. And although only spoken in a whisper, Lady Dorothea overheard them, and said,—“Let her tell you. She can give you the very fullest explanation.”
“But, Dora, this is no time for trifling; we are here, in the midst of an enraged populace and a maddened soldiery. There, listen!—that was artillery; and now, hear!—the bells of the churches are sounding the alarm.”
“They are ringing the knell of the Monarchy!” said Kate, solemnly.
A hoarse, wild shout—aery like that of enraged wild beasts—arose from the Place beneath, and all rushed to the window to see what had occurred. It was a charge of heavy cavalry endeavoring to force the barricade; and now, vigorously repulsed by the defenders, men and horses were rolling on the ground in terrible confusion, while on the barricade itself a hand-to-hand conflict was raging.
“Sharp work, by George!” said a voice behind Kate's shoulder. She turned and saw Captain Martin, who had just joined them unobserved.
“I thought you many a mile away,” said Kate, in a whisper.
“So I should have been,” replied he, in the same tone, “but I was n't going to lose this. I knew it was to come off to-day, and I thought it would have been a thousand pities to be absent.”
“And are your wishes, then, with these gallant fellows?” said she, eagerly. “Do I hear you aright, that it was to aid them you remained? There! see how they bear down on the soldiery; they will not be restrained; they are crossing the barricade, and charging with the bayonet. It is only for liberty that men can fight thus. Oh that I were a man, to be amongst them!”
A stray shot from beneath here struck the architrave above their heads, and sent down a mass of plaster over them.
“Come, Dora, this is needless peril,” said Martin, drawing her within the room. “If you will not leave this, at least do not expose yourself unnecessarily.”
“But it is exactly to get away—to escape while there is time—that I came for,” said the Captain. “They tell me that the mob are getting the best of it, and, worse again, that the troops are joining them; so, to make sure, I 've sent off Fenton to the post for horses, and I 'm expecting him every moment. But here he is. Well, have you got the horses?”
“No, sir: the horses have all been taken by the people to mount orderlies; the postmaster, too, has fled, and everything is in confusion. But if we had horses the streets are impassable; from here to the Boulevard there are no less than five barricades.”
“Then what is to be done?” cried Martin.
“They say, sir,” replied Fenton, “that by gaining the outer Boulevard on foot, carriages and horses are easily found there, to reach Belleville, St. Germain, or Versailles.”
“He is right,” said the Captain; “there is nothing else to be done. What do you think?” said he, addressing Kate, who stood intently watching the movements in the Place beneath.
“Yes; do you agree with this plan?” asked Martin, approaching her.
“Look!” cried she, eagerly, and not heeding the question; “the troops are rapidly joining the people,—they come in numbers now,—and yonder is an officer in his uniform.”
“Shame on him!” exclaimed Lady Dorothea, indignantly.
“So say I too,” said Kate. “He who wears a livery should not assume the port and bearing of a free man. This struggle is for liberty, and should only be maintained by the free!”
“How are we to pass these barricades?” cried Martin, anxiously.
“I will be your guide, sir, if that be all,” said Kate. “You may trust me. I promise no more than I can perform.”
“She speaks truly,” said Lady Dorothea. “Alas that we should see the day when we cannot reject the aid!”
“There is a matter I want to speak to you about,” said Martin, drawing his father aside, and speaking in a low, confidential tone. “Massingbred—Jack Massingbred—is now here, in my room. I know all about my mother's dislike to him, and he knows it; indeed, he has as much as owned to me that he deserved it all. But what is to be done? We cannot leave him here.”
“How came he to be here?” asked Martin.
“He accompanied me from the Club, where, in an altercation of some sort, he had just involved himself in a serious quarrel. He came here to be ready to start this morning for Versailles, where the meeting was to take place; but indeed he had no thought of accepting shelter under our roof; and when he found where he was, it was with the greatest difficulty I could persuade him to enter. None of us anticipated such a serious turn of affairs as this; and now, of course, a meeting will be scarcely possible. What are we to do with him?”
“Ask him frankly to join us if we obtain the horses.”
“But my mother?”
“I 'll speak to her,—but it were better you did it, Harry. These are not times to weigh scruples and balance difficulties. I don't myself think that Massingbred treated us fairly, but it is not now I 'd like to remember it. There, go; tell her what you have told me, and all will be well.”
The Captain drew nigh Lady Dorothea, and, leaning over her chair, whispered to her for some minutes. At first, a slight gesture of impatience burst from her, but afterwards she seemed to hear him calmly and tranquilly.
“It would seem as though the humiliations of this night are never to have an end,” said she, with a sigh. “But I'll bear my share of them.”
“Remember,” said the other, “that it was by no choice of his he came here. His foot was on the threshold before he suspected it.”
“Miss Henderson sent me, my Lady,” said a servant, entering hastily, “to say that there is not a minute to be lost. They are expecting an attack on the barricade in the Rue de la Paix, and we ought to pass through at once.”
“By whose orders?” began she, haughtily; then, checking herself suddenly, and in a voice weak and broken, added: “I am ready. Give me your arm, Harry, and do not leave me. Where is Mr. Martin?” asked she.
“He is waiting for your Ladyship at the foot of the stairs with another gentleman,” said the servant.
“That must be Massingbred, for I told them to call him,” said the Captain.
When Lady Dorothea, supported by the arm of her son, had reached the gate, she found Martin and Massingbred standing to receive them, surrounded by a numerous escort of servants, each loaded with some portion of the family baggage.
“A hasty summons, sir,” said she, addressing Massingbred, and thus abruptly avoiding the awkwardness of a more ceremonious meeting. “A few hours back none of us anticipated anything like this. Will it end seriously, think you?”
“There is every prospect of such, madam,” said he, bowing respectfully to her salutation. “Every moment brings fresh tidings of defection among the troops, while the Marshal is paralyzed by contradictory orders.”
“Is it always to be the fate of monarchy to be badly served in times of peril?” said she, bitterly.
“It is very difficult to awaken loyalty against one's convictions of right, madam. I mean,” added he, as a gesture of impatience broke from her, “that these acts of the king, having no support from his real friends, are weak stimulants to evoke deeds of daring and courage.”
“They are unworthy supporters of a Crown who only defend what they approve of. This is but Democracy at best, and smacks of the policy which has little to lose and everything to gain by times of trouble.”
“And yet, madam, such cannot be the case here; at least, it is assuredly not so in the instance of him who is now speaking with Miss Henderson.” And he pointed to a man who, holding the bridle of his horse on his arm, walked slowly at Kate's side in the street before the door.
“And who is he?” asked she, eagerly.
“The greatest banker in Paris, madam,—one of the richest capitalists of Europe,—ready to resign all his fortune in the struggle against a rule which he foresees intended to bring back the days of a worn-out, effete monarchy, rather than a system which shall invigorate the nation, and enrich it by the arts of commerce and trade.”
“But his name—who is he?” asked she, more impatiently.
“Charles Lagrange, madam.”
“I have heard the name before. I have seen it somewhere lately,” said she, trying to remember where and how.
“You could scarcely have paid your respects at Neuilly, madam, without seeing him. He was, besides, the favored guest at Madame de Mirecourt's.”
“You would not imply, sir, that the Duchess condescended to any sympathy with this party?”