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 A WILL AND AWAY, 
 
 BY 
 
 LADY GEORGLANA FULLERTON, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 •'too STRANGK iNOT TO BE TRUE,' 
 
 'A STORMY LIFE,' ETC. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. 1. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON, 
 
 IJublishcrs in (Drbiuanj to ^]cr ^lajcst^ titc Queen. 
 
 1881. 
 
 [A// Kie^his Reserved.l
 
 V 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 L/. ( 
 
 
 ^^ 
 
 'v 
 
 -J 
 
 '^ 
 
 fHE following tales are more or less 
 founded on fact. Various French 
 memoirs, and especially a very in- 
 teresting autobiography entitled ' Une Famille 
 noble sous la Terreur,' furnished the materials 
 for ' A Will and a Way.' Most of the charac- 
 ters are drawn from the same source ; some 
 of the names are changed. 
 
 The principal incident in 'The Handker- 
 chief at the Window ' is borrowed from a 
 beautiful metrical version, by Mrs. Campbell 
 of I slay, of a popular tradition current in the 
 western islands of Scotland, This poem, 
 entitled ' Mairie of Callaird,' was printed 
 some years ago for private circulation. With 
 the kind permission of the authoress, the 
 
 15; 218
 
 IV 
 
 Preface. 
 
 Scotch story has been adapted in the above- 
 mentioned Httle tale to foreign scenes and 
 southern characters. 
 
 The ' Lihes of the Valley' illustrates an 
 occurrence not without parallel in real life.
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL. I, 
 
 CHAl'TER PAGE 
 
 I. COMING EVENTS CAST THEIR SHADOWS BEFORE I 
 
 II. PIERRE CIZE AND THE OLD CUSTOM HOUSE - 4O 
 
 III. STANDING AT BAY ------ 78 
 
 IV. LES RECLUSES. — ALINE's WORK - - - I27 
 V. FONTAINE AND M. ALEXANDRE - - "157 
 
 VI. GLEAMS OF SUNSHINE - - - - - 211 
 
 VII. THE HOTEL DE VILLE ----- 266
 
 A WILL AND A WAY. 
 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 COMING EVENTS CAST THEIR SHADOWS BEFORE. 
 
 N a November afternoon in 1786, a 
 little girl was sitting on the win- 
 dow-sill of an old-fashioned room, 
 in the ancient town of Moulins. She was 
 slight and fragile in the extreme. Everything 
 about her was small except her projecting 
 forehead, and her eyes, which were dark and 
 full of life and expression ; but a sort of 
 mournful weariness was visible in her attitude. 
 Her thin arms, as far as they could be seen 
 beneath the ruffles of point-lace which half- 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 Co77ting Events. 
 
 concealed them, were hanging Hstlessly by 
 her side. Her small head hunofon her breast 
 as if it was too heavy for the slender neck 
 w^iich supported it. A large doll lay at her 
 feet — a box full of toys and tempting sweet- 
 meats stood on a table a little way off. But 
 none of these things seemed to attract her 
 notice. She was dressed in mourning, but 
 with great neatness and care. Her clothes 
 were of a somewhat costly description. 
 
 The door opened, and a lady came in ; her 
 entrance was not noticed by the child, who 
 seemed in a deep brown study. It was not 
 till she stood quite close to her that she looked 
 up with a faint smile. 
 
 ' What is my darling about ?' said Mdlle. 
 des Elmes, sitting down on an arm-chair, and 
 drawing the little girl towards her. ' What 
 is my Aline thinking of .'^' 
 
 Aline did not answer. ' Will you not tell 
 me i^' the aunt asked, and pressed her lips on 
 the child's white forehead. 
 
 ' I know, but I won't say.' 
 
 ' Is there anything you wish for, sweetest.'*'
 
 Coming Events. 
 
 ' Oh yes !' 
 
 ' What Is it ?' no answer. ' Does anyone 
 know what it is '^' 
 
 ' Oh yes ; Maurice and Andre know.' 
 
 * But if you tell your brothers what you 
 wish for, why cannot you tell your aunt, who 
 would do anything she could to please you ?' 
 
 The child shook her head. ' I don't want 
 dolls — I don't want toys — I don't want bon- 
 bons.' 
 
 * But would you like these, my mignonne ?' 
 Mdlle. des Elmes said, producing and opening 
 a jewel-case of blue velvet with gold clasps. 
 It was full of trinkets which she displayed, 
 one after another. ' They are your own. 
 Aline ; they belonged to your dear mother, 
 and, as poor Odille will never require such 
 things, your father wishes you to have them.' 
 
 ' Did my mother wish me to have them ?' 
 ' She did not express any wish about it, 
 
 but I am sure she would have liked you to 
 
 have them.' 
 
 ' It was not that she wished ; she wished 
 
 something else.' 
 
 I — 2
 
 Coming Events. 
 
 ' What, my darling — what did she wish ?' 
 ' Oh, I heard her say it— when I was crying 
 behind the curtains. I heard every word she 
 said that day about the money to be given to 
 the poor, and the clothes for the good women, 
 and that no money was to be spent on her 
 funeral ; and then she said to Maurice and 
 Andre that they must be always very kind to 
 Odille, because she is so sickly, and that she 
 has not got her reason, and that they must 
 
 take care of me ; and then •' 
 
 ' And then what more did she say ?' 
 
 'She said to papa, "I do beg of you, my 
 
 dear, to send Aline to the convent. It is my 
 
 great wish that she should go there ;" and 
 
 papa kissed her, and said, "Yes, she shall go 
 
 there :" and now he says nothing about it, and 
 
 Jeanne says j'oti are to educate me. But I 
 
 want to go to the nuns, and learn with the 
 
 other little girls, and have a rosette on my 
 
 shoulder, and a ribbon on, and play under 
 
 the horse-chestnut trees. Papa promised 
 
 mamma that I should go to the convent, and 
 
 I want to go.'
 
 Coming Events. 
 
 JNIdlle. des Elmes' eyes filled with tears ; 
 she was passionately attached to her brother 
 and to his child. No proposals of marriage 
 had ever tempted her to leave her parents or 
 this only brother ; but when he married an 
 orphan girl who had spent twenty-one years 
 of her life in a convent at Paris, and settled 
 with his wife at his chateau in the neighbour- 
 hood of Moulins, she settled alone in a house 
 of her own in town. Next to her family she 
 loved society, and was surrounded by the best 
 company of her own old provincial city. Both 
 the noblesse and the gens de robe frequented 
 her salon. Conversation was to her a neces- 
 sity of life. Not strong in health, refined in 
 taste and manners, with more intelligence 
 than information, more quickness of percep- 
 tion than power of reflection, she was a 
 good specimen of an attractive, brilliant 
 Frenchwoman, of the time immediately pre- 
 ceding the revolution of 1789. From her 
 earliest girlish days she had been noticed and 
 admired in her mother's salon, and when she 
 grew up, and especially when at the head of
 
 Coming Events. 
 
 a house of her own, she became a centre of 
 social influence in her native place and the 
 surrounding chateaux. 
 
 No one played so well at cards as Mdlle. 
 des Elmes ; no one received her friends 
 with so much grace ; no one knew how to 
 keep at a distance tiresome or intrusive 
 persons, or encourage shy and diffident ones, 
 with greater tact ; no one was so lively and 
 amusing, so ready at repartee, so fluent in 
 language, so happy in description. Her wit 
 was wise, her wisdom witty ; the vivacity with 
 which she threw out bon-mots became pro- 
 verbial, her droll remarks a source of endless 
 amusement, her presence enough to make 
 any party a success. She could not resist 
 being sarcastic ; the one temptation too strong 
 for her was to leave unsaid something brilliant 
 or funny. 
 
 * It would have choked me to suppress it,' 
 she was wont to declare. ' It was so much 
 to the point.' 
 
 But if the epigram or the repartee had 
 been very cutting, and the object of it winced
 
 Coininz Events. 
 
 under the laugh it raised, she was sorry, and 
 tried to soothe the feehngs she had wounded ; 
 but this did not mend matters. Her singular 
 power of making people appear ridiculous by 
 an apparently simple remark sometimes pro- 
 cured her enemies, though in other ways she 
 was both crenerous and kind. 
 
 t_> 
 
 Every evening Mdlle. des Elmes was at 
 home, and played at cards with her guests, 
 several of whom always remained for supper. 
 Hospitality was her delight ; she was never 
 in better spirits than at her own table, and 
 gave large dinners, to which were invited 
 all the leading personages of the town 
 and neighbourhood. Rich, free of her ac- 
 tions, with but few home-duties, Felicie 
 des Elmes was made for society, and devoted 
 to it. Her sister-in-law's tastes were quite 
 different ; the whole of her childhood and 
 youth had been spent within conventual 
 walls ; some girls would have been in con- 
 sequence all the more eager to plunge into 
 worldly amusements, but not so the young 
 Countess des Elmes ; the world had no at-
 
 8 Coming Events. 
 
 tractions for her, nor was she made to shine 
 in it. Absent, shy, and silent, she had no 
 powers of conversation, and never could 
 learn to play at cards ; the generality of 
 people thought her dull. It was only those 
 who knew her intimately who appreciated 
 the wonderful sweetness, goodness, and in- 
 telligence which existed in that diffident and 
 timid woman. She was worshipped by the 
 poor, and generally respected for her earnest 
 and sincere piety. Indeed, respect is too 
 cold a word to describe the feeline she in- 
 spired — veneration would express it better. 
 She did not live long. Her death was a 
 great affliction to her husband and her chil- 
 dren ; they never forgot her ; the peasants 
 around her home mourned over the lady of 
 the manor as if each one of them had lost a 
 mother. 
 
 In his sorrow and loneliness, M. des Elmes 
 turned to his sister — after his wife and chil- 
 dren the person he loved best in the world — 
 that generous, noble-hearted Felicie, who 
 was a little frivolous perhaps — a trifle too
 
 Coming Events. 
 
 fond of the comforts and the pleasures of the 
 world, her life not, perhaps, a very useful 
 one, but who was capable of making great 
 sacrifices for others. When her brother 
 asked her to live with him, and to undertake 
 the care of his children — the sickly Odille 
 and the pretty and clever Aline — she at once 
 accepted his proposal. She even offered to 
 inhabit with him his country place, but this 
 he would not hear of. He knew that her 
 morning visits, her evening card-parties — 
 the political and literary conversation of a 
 few intelligent and well-informed men, the 
 habitues of her salon, were indispensable to 
 her happiness, and— moreover — he was not 
 sorry himself to leave that home where soli- 
 tude had been pleasant to him, shared by his 
 sweet, gentle Louise, but which now weighed 
 like lead on his spirits ; so he said that he 
 would return to the patriarchal residence of 
 his family in Moulins — the house in the Rue 
 de Pignons, where his sister and himself had 
 been born and had lived and played together 
 till, at the age of nine, his father, a captain
 
 lO Coming Events. 
 
 in the Regiment de Poitou, carried him off 
 to make, under him, his first campaign, and 
 with him a dozen Httle cousins and relatives 
 whom this soldier of the ancicn regime 
 formed into a small battalion, which went into 
 battle as boldly as their elders, and fought well, 
 moreover. At the age of twelve he was 
 v/ounded in the face, and taken prisoner ; but 
 the little captive was soon exchanged, and 
 came home vastly proud of his scar. He was 
 still almost a boy when he received the Cross 
 of St. Louis. Seven wounds had earned it. 
 
 How joyfully his sister had watched every 
 step of his career — how sweetly and patiently 
 she rejoiced at his happiness in marriage, 
 hard as it was to see him engrossed with a 
 love greater than that on which she had lived 
 ever since she could remember ! And his 
 children — how she had watched in their faces 
 for a likeness to his ! But not in Odille, the 
 poor innocent, as the peasants called her, nor 
 in Maurice and Andre, the fair-haired boys 
 so like their mother, could she trace the least 
 resemblance to the dark, handsome, ex-
 
 Coming Events. 1 1 
 
 pressive countenance of her brother. But 
 when the baby Ahne began to smile and 
 speak, though she was so slender, and deli- 
 cate, and frail, that when her father held her 
 in his stronsf arms she seemed like a wax doll 
 handled by a giant — then, in those eyes so 
 full of thought, then in the sudden lighting 
 up or darkening of that infant brow, and the 
 firm tread of the little feet, and the strength 
 of the tiny clenched hands, she recognised 
 what made her love this child with a passionate 
 affection. 
 
 When only tw^o years and a half old, she 
 evinced much of M, des Elmes' resolute dis- 
 position. One day, for instance, she an- 
 nounced that she was going out. Her nurse 
 shook her head, and said Mdlle. Aline 
 was to stay at home. A moment afterwards 
 the little lady was missed. She had walked 
 out of the house by herself, and when found 
 in one of the alleys of the garden, looked at 
 her nurse with a determined countenance, and 
 said : 
 
 'What Aline says. Aline does.'
 
 12 Coming Events. 
 
 Aunt Felfcie was delighted. She was her 
 father's own child, and so she told him. The 
 idea of having her for her own — to care for, to 
 watch over, to caress, to train — was an im- 
 mense joy. Aline was now between seven 
 and eight, and the day on which Mdlle. 
 des Elmes took possession of her own apart- 
 ment in the dearly-loved home of her youth, 
 and arranged the pretty little room within it 
 for her niece, was almost the happiest she 
 had ever known. But those that followed 
 were disturbed by the child's evident dejec- 
 tion. To her the change was a sad one. 
 The mother she had lost, the chateau where 
 she had lived from her birth, the garden, the 
 fields, the woods, the peasants whom she 
 knew so well (into whose cottages she used 
 to run, on whose carts she was wont to ride 
 home in the vintage-time) — she missed them 
 all. She hated the dark rooms of the town- 
 house ; she did not care for the presents her 
 aunt showered upon her. 
 
 And then Andre went to the military 
 school at Metz — the brother nearest to her
 
 Coming Events. 13 
 
 own age, to whom since her babyhood she 
 had been devoted, and who reciprocated her 
 affection in the exacting and selfish manner 
 with which boys often return the idoHsing 
 worship of a younger sister. AHne was 
 Andre's slave, but she enjoyed her servitude. 
 So far she was not to be pitied. But what 
 she did suffer from were the scrapes into 
 which he was constantly getting, and the 
 punishments which followed. Thoughtless, 
 rash, careless of reproof, he was often in dis- 
 grace. His mother had been singularly 
 indulgent to him — the handsomest and most 
 attractive of her sons — but his father, rather 
 a stern disciplinarian, visited his delinquencies 
 with an amount of severity which cost little 
 Aline many tears. She sometimes succeeded 
 in begging him off, and then Andre kissed 
 her, and said she was his guardian angel. He 
 was in the habit of calling her little A. G., 
 and she was proud of the title. The parting 
 with him for the first time in her life was 
 a terrible pang. 
 
 There was only Maurice at home ; he
 
 14 Coming Events. 
 
 was thirteen, and already a cavalry officer. 
 His regiment was quartered at Moulins, and 
 he resided in his father's house ; but he was 
 much too grand a gentleman for litde Aline 
 to make free with, and she was sad. Then 
 the worst of it was that there was something 
 rankling in her heart — a sense of resentment 
 and wrong. Had she not heard her own 
 darling mother say that she wished her to go 
 to the convent school? and no one spoke of it, 
 no one attended to that wish — and the wish 
 grew every day in intensity. Everything 
 that Mdlle. des Elmes could think of to 
 please or amuse Aline she tried, but, not 
 understanding children, she did not enter into 
 her niece's feelings, yet she appealed to them 
 too often. On the day when, for the first 
 time, as has been related, Aline expressed her 
 impetuous wish to go to the convent, her aunt 
 devoured her with kisses, pressed her to her 
 heart, and said : 
 
 ' But am I not your mother now, my pre- 
 cious one } I cannot part with you, my 
 darling !'
 
 Coming Events. 15 
 
 Children are apt to be cruel to those who 
 love them. Aline, at that time, saw in her 
 Aunt Felicie's affection for her the obstacle 
 to her desires, the cause of her dull life. She 
 felt no gratitude for it. Mdlle. des Elmes 
 could not bear her out of her sight, and so she 
 took her with her when she went out visiting. 
 It was a trial almost beyond the endurance of 
 an eager restless child, used to the freedom 
 of a country life, to have to sit, whilst the 
 ladies talked together, bolt upright on a high- 
 backed chair, counting for very weariness 
 the number of panes in the window, or of 
 flowers in the carpet. Once she exclaimed, 
 in utter despair : 
 
 ' I wish there were no grown-up people in 
 the world !' and then, conscious that she must 
 qualify that wish, added, ' except papa and 
 you. Aunt Felicie.' 
 
 ' And why that w^ish, my child .'*' 
 
 * Because then you would be obliged to 
 pay visits to little girls, and I should play with 
 them.' 
 
 This was a light to Mdlle. des Elmes ;
 
 1 6 CoiniuQ- Events. 
 
 and henceforward, once or twice a week, 
 she took AHne to the convent to share 
 in the recreations of the pupils. This did 
 not altogether improve matters. The enjoy- 
 ment of those hours only made her long more 
 intensely to be one of the school-girls, and her 
 early thirst for learning caused her to pine 
 for the instruction she did not at that time 
 receive at home. When she found that Aglae 
 and Desiree de Givrac, her own particular 
 friends, learnt music, drawing, and English, 
 her envy knew no bounds. Her aunt found 
 her one day crying over a paper, on which 
 she had been vainly trying to sketch the 
 gable-ended house on the other side of the 
 street ; and when questioned as to the cause 
 of her tears, she broke forth into bitter 
 lamentations that the girls at school played on 
 the harpsichord, sang, danced, read Young's 
 'Night Thoughts,' and earned prizes and wore 
 decorations, whilst she was learning nothing, 
 and could not even repeat one of La Fontaine's 
 Fables like little Amelie, who was only six 
 years of age.
 
 Coming Events. ij 
 
 A new Heht broke on the devoted aunt. 
 Endowed as she was with considerable 
 abiHties, and brilHant in conversation, she had 
 not taken pains to cultivate her mind, or cared 
 much for reading. She did not understand 
 her niece's thirst for information, nor her 
 wish to exercise the talents she felt conscious 
 of where they would be appreciated and re- 
 warded ; but from the moment she discovered 
 this pining, measures were taken to satisfy it, 
 always so far as it did not involve a separa- 
 tion, which she could not endure to think of. 
 Masters were accordingly engaged for Aline. 
 Even her wish to read Young's ' Night 
 Thoughts ' was taken into consideration, and 
 a certain Mr. Davis, who gave English 
 lessons at the convent and in private families 
 at Moulins, was engaged to teach her. 
 
 Aline took pleasure in these studies, but 
 when she found out her own aptitude, and 
 saw what rapid progress she made, it was 
 tantalisinLr to think that at school she would 
 have been at the head of a class. She sighed 
 for the excitement of studying with others, 
 
 VOL. I. 2
 
 1 8 Coming Events. 
 
 and though she did not complain as bitterly 
 as heretofore of the non-fulfilment of her 
 mother's desire for her, she was not happy, 
 not contented — and Mdlle. des Elmes saw 
 it. 
 
 One day, when she was about twelve years 
 of age, the aunt and niece were sitting to- 
 gether in the cJuwmillc of the old-fashioned 
 garden, which overlooked the ramparts of the 
 town. Aline had been preparing her English 
 exercises, in anticipation of Mr. Davis's 
 lesson, and a portfolio, full of her drawing- 
 master's sketches, was lying by her side. 
 Maurice, leaning against a tree opposite to 
 them, held a letter in his hand. He was 
 sixteen, and a tall, good-looking youth. 
 
 ' So Andre is coming home soon !' he ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 ' Is he ?' Aline cried, jumping up from her 
 seat. ' That is good news. Will he stay here 
 long ?' 
 
 ' No,' Mdlle. des Elmes said. ' We shall 
 none of us stay here long.' 
 
 ' Oh, aunt, what do you mean ? I thought
 
 Coming Events. 19 
 
 you did not intend to leave Moulins as long 
 as you lived.' 
 
 ' L'homme propose et Dieu dispose, my 
 child.' 
 
 * But where are you — where are we going, 
 Aunt Felicie ?' 
 
 ' To Paris, Aline.' 
 
 ' Ah, what do you think of that, mademoi- 
 selle ?' Maurice cried out, lauo^hinpf at his little 
 sister's look of amazement. 
 
 ' Are we all Qfoinof there ?' 
 
 ' Not Odille. She will stay with her nurse 
 at Les Elmes. Papa, Andre, and I are to 
 live at a lodcfincr near the Luxembourg; — • 
 that is, during my conge ; but I shall soon 
 have to join my regiment.' 
 
 ' And where shall z^c live ?' Aline asked, 
 taking one of her aunt's hands in her own 
 and looking anxiously into her face. 
 
 ' At the Convent of the Dames Anglaises, 
 at Chaillot.' 
 
 ' Is there a school there ?' Aline asked, with 
 a beating heart. 
 
 ' Yes, a large school — one of the best in 
 
 2 — 2
 
 2 Coming Events. 
 
 Paris ; and you will at last have the. wish of 
 your heart, Aline,' 
 
 ' But will you live in the convent too ?' 
 
 * Yes, as a boarder. You know that I 
 would rather die than part with you.' 
 
 Aline threw her arms round her aunt's 
 neck and cried bitterly. Child as she was, 
 she understood what an immense sacrifice 
 that aunt was making, and she reproached 
 herself terribly for having, as it were, exacted 
 it from her loving heart. 
 
 ' I am so sorry,' she whispered. 
 
 ' Little Aline,' Mdlle. des Elmes said, 
 whilst she stroked her dark hair, ' you will 
 know some day that a strong affection makes 
 it easy to give up one's own tastes and in- 
 clinations. All I ask is to see my darling 
 happy.' 
 
 Maurice had not overheard this little 
 colloquy. He only saw that Aline was cry- 
 ing, and it made him very angry. 
 
 * You are indeed,' he exclaimed, ' the most 
 perverse young lady imaginable ! You have 
 been complaining for years of Moulins and
 
 Coining Events. 21 
 
 this house, and wishing yourself at school, 
 and now our good aunt has settled to go to 
 Paris and to Les Dames Anglaises, and you 
 are weeping like a Niobe. I have no patience 
 with you !' 
 
 Aline lifted up her head from the neck 
 where she was hiding her face, and gave her 
 brother a reproachful look. 
 
 ' Do you think, Maurice, that people only 
 cry when they are thwarted, and that it is not 
 very sad sometimes to have one's own way ?' 
 
 This was beyond the comprehension of the 
 boyish cavalry officer. He shrugged his 
 shoulders, and declared that girls were incom- 
 prehensible beings. However, this projected 
 journey to Paris, which occupied all the 
 winter the thoughts of the whole family, and 
 excited various feelings in their minds, was 
 not destined to take place. Andre came 
 back from Metz ; but before the epoch fixed 
 for their departure arrived, the progress of 
 the Revolution gave a different direction to 
 events, and forced Aline's father into public 
 life.
 
 22 Coming Events. 
 
 A day came when — in almost every town 
 in France — rumours of an alarming nature 
 were propagated, to the effect that bands of 
 robbers were preparing to march, attack the 
 unarmed citizens, and sack and plunder their 
 houses. This was a clever device by which the 
 leaders of the Revolutionary party intended to 
 arm the population. It led to the formation 
 everywhere of a national guard. At Moulins, 
 as elsewhere, messengers rode post - haste 
 through the streets, announcing that these 
 visionary foes were approaching, and a large 
 meetinof was convened to orsfanise measures 
 of defence, and to provide everyone with 
 arms. 
 
 Aline and Andre stood at the window 
 watching the hurrying to and fro of the 
 citizens with that pleasurable excitement 
 which anything out of the common way 
 awakens In young people. The sight and 
 sound of arms, the vociferations of the crowd, 
 the noise of the drum, made Aline's heart beat 
 with delight ; and when Maurice burst Into 
 the room announclno^ that his father had been
 
 Coining Events. 23 
 
 named by acclamation colonel of the National 
 Guard, great was her delight. 
 
 ' How did it happen ? Oh, Maurice, tell 
 us all about it !' 
 
 ' He was walking on the Cours. The 
 officers of these new troops and everybody 
 surrounded him, and said he must command 
 them. He said no, and tried hard to fight it 
 off, but was at last forced to accept. Pretty 
 clumsy soldiers they will make, these fat 
 citizens ! I would not have the drilling 
 of them ! Hark ! do you hear the shouts ? 
 He is coming — and such a crowd with him !' 
 
 Aline rushed back to the window. Her 
 aunt was there. She had not seen her enter 
 the room. Mdlle. des Elmes was very 
 pale, and tears were coursing down her 
 cheeks. 
 
 ' Aunt Felicie, are you sorry ? Why ?' 
 
 The hand that grasped Aline's was cold 
 and nervous, but the inquiry was not 
 answered. Amidst shouts and vivats the 
 Count des Elmes reached his house, and a 
 guard of honour was stationed at his door.
 
 24 Coming Events. 
 
 When he came into the drawing-room, his 
 sister met him with clasped hands and 
 streaming eyes. 
 
 ' Brother, give up this command ! For 
 God's sake, give it up !' 
 
 ' It is too late,' he answered. ' I must go 
 through with what I have begun.' 
 
 From that moment Aline's life was no 
 longer dull. The old house of the Rue des 
 Pignons became more than ever a centre of 
 movement and society. Aunt Felicie's salon 
 was full every evening. Aline began to take 
 an interest in the conversation of grown-up 
 people, and to understand a little what was 
 going on in France. In critical times, and 
 amidst the ferment of political excitement, 
 the minds and characters of children mature 
 with a wonderful rapidity. Men and women 
 holding very different opinions met at that 
 time in the salon of Mdlle. des Elmes, 
 who was one of the most tolerant persons 
 imaginable. She dreaded the progress of the 
 Revolution, and had no belief in the beneficial 
 effects expected from It ; but still she never
 
 Coming Events. 25 
 
 refused to listen to the views and arguments 
 of other people even when most opposed to 
 her own way of thinking ; and, moreover, she 
 could understand that from their standing- 
 point they should hold them. Her ready wit 
 and powers of sarcasm would have enabled 
 her easily to silence most of those who differed 
 from her ; but as events became more and 
 more serious, she felt less disposed to use 
 those weapons. On other subjects she was 
 still playful and amusing, but public affairs 
 were becoming too momentous for jests. 
 
 This did not escape Aline's observation. 
 The civil constitution of the clergy, the 
 abolition of titles, the revolt of the troops at 
 Nancy, the conflicts between the Catholics 
 and the Protestants at Nisme and other places, 
 the retreat of Necker, succeeded each other 
 with startling rapidity, and were canvassed in 
 her hearing w^ith impassioned vehemence. 
 
 There was one person in the house with 
 whom she had lonof conversations at that time. 
 This was Odille's nurse, who had been her 
 mother's maid, and then had brought up all
 
 2 6 Comiiio; Events. 
 
 the children of the family. La Melon was her 
 name. She had now the sole care of Aline's 
 infirm sister. She was a devoted, sensible, 
 strong-headed woman, better educated than 
 the generality of persons of her class, and a 
 great favourite with her master. She had 
 rejoiced over the first dawn of the Revolution. 
 It seemed to her, like to so many other good 
 people, the advent of a period of liberty, 
 equality of rights, and removal of abuses 
 which pressed on the people in a way that 
 had come strongly under her notice. Aline 
 was not tolerant, like her aunt. Children 
 never are. Influenced by her brothers, she 
 had conceived the strongest Royalist pre- 
 dilections, and could not endure to hear La 
 Melon praise anything done by the popular 
 party, or express admiration of Mirabeau and 
 Lafayette. Child as she was, she could see, 
 day by day, that affairs were assuming a more 
 threatening aspect. Her father had been to 
 Paris at the head of a deputation, and the 
 night he came back was a melancholy one. 
 She heard him say to her aunt :
 
 Coming Evefits. 27 
 
 * The Kinof could have saved France if he 
 had acted with energy on the day of the 
 meeting at the Champ de Mars, but it is all 
 over now with him and the country.' 
 
 They both looked so sad that all her plea- 
 sure at his return vanished. It was still 
 worse a few days later. She was just going 
 to get into the carriage with her aunt to pay 
 some visits, when her father came up to them 
 in the hall, and said : 
 
 ' I want the carriage — remain at home, Fe- 
 licie, and do not let Aline go out.' Jumping 
 into it he drove off. 
 
 ' Mon Dieu ! where can he be oroina- }' 
 Mdlle. des Elmes said, and they went up to 
 the drawing-room. 
 
 About an hour later a distant noise was 
 heard of cries and vociferations such as had 
 become frequent of late, but never so menacing 
 before. Mdlle. des Elmes' anxiety got the 
 better of her; she went into the street, and 
 Aline, without her noticing it, followed her. 
 
 ' What is happening ?' she asked of a man 
 at the door of his shop. He answered :
 
 28 Coming Events. 
 
 ' It is that infamous Noailly whom the 
 citizens are bringfinof into the town — that 
 concealer of corn — one of the starvers of the 
 people.' 
 
 Aline looked up alternately from the man's 
 face to her aunt's. She felt frightened, and 
 clung to her arm. The dreadful shouts in- 
 creased, and the tread of feet was now audible. 
 One of their footmen came running along ; 
 when he saw them he stopped. 
 
 'Where is your master, Jean ?' 
 
 ' He is in the midst of the crowd, mademoi- 
 selle. After he had arrested Noailly, he took 
 him into the carriage with him ; but the mob 
 pulled off the wheels, and dragged him out. 
 Then M. le Comte told the people that he had 
 arrested the wretch in order to deliver him 
 up to justice, and that the magistrates would 
 make short work of him. There they are.' 
 
 At that moment, like an angry sea, the 
 crowd came down the street. In the centre 
 of that raging multitude M. des Elmes was 
 seen holding by the collar a man pale as 
 death, whom he addressed roughly, and kept
 
 Coming Events. 29 
 
 abusins: in a loud voice. This seemed a 
 strange spectacle to his sister and daughter. 
 They trembled like aspen-leaves, and when 
 the mob became more menacing, and seemed 
 ready to tear the prisoner from the grasp 
 which tightly held him, and murmurs rose 
 against his protector, both of them nearly 
 fainted with terror. They were new to such 
 sights. Both were to be braver, later on. 
 When her father came home, Aline sat on 
 his knee, and his sister by his side. 
 
 * What did it all mean ?' the latter asked. 
 
 ' It means that the people, deluded by 
 wicked men, are going mad ; and where that 
 madness will end, God only knows. They 
 are told that corn is secreted while they are 
 allowed to starve. Distress, anger, and 
 lying tongues upset their minds. Noailly, 
 as you know, is a rich corn merchant. He 
 is as innocent of what he is accused of as I 
 am. The only way of saving the man was 
 to arrest him, and use him roughly — but it 
 was a near thinof enouo-h. I saw the moment 
 when we should both be torn in pieces.
 
 o Coming Events. 
 
 However, he is safe in prison now ; we must 
 let him out "privately." ' 
 
 ' But that will enrage the mob when they 
 find it out.' 
 
 ' Of course it will.' M. des Elmes paused, 
 and then he said : ' Felicie, it is of no use to 
 try and deceive you, or the boys, or little 
 Aline. You must all face the truth. I 
 have lost my influence — my popularity ; 
 this day will have completed what has been 
 rapidly coming on. From this time forward 
 I shall be a sn-spcci, and you know what that 
 means.' 
 
 His sister pressed his hand, Maurice and 
 Andre grasped their swords. Aline felt as if 
 she was entering on a new existence. And 
 she was not mistaken. From that day- 
 forward she ceased, in one sense, to be a 
 child. She realised that silence, discretion, 
 presence of mind, were absolutely neces- 
 sary for those who belonged to the class 
 her father had spoken of. On the follow- 
 ing day he resigned his command, and be- 
 came the object of popular hatred.
 
 Coming Events. 31 
 
 A few months went by. There was a 
 strange ferment going on, a storm brewing, 
 of which ominous signs were visible. AHne 
 heard many conversations which it was not 
 supposed she attended to. She had taken 
 the habit of sitting on a stool at her aunt's 
 feet with a piece of embroidery in her hand, 
 and never raised her head or spoke, but with 
 an intense earnestness and close attention 
 listened to everv word that was uttered ; and 
 soon she became aware of all that concerned 
 the emigration, and shared the impassioned 
 enthusiasm which made aged men and young 
 nobles, fathers of families and quiet country 
 gentlemen, rise like one man to go and join 
 the exiled princes. Such scorn, such con- 
 tempt for those who did not swell the torrent 
 of emigration was so loudly expressed, that 
 she used to feel her cheeks flushing at the 
 thoup^ht that her father and her brothers were 
 not already at Coblentz. 
 
 But M. des Elmes had resolved to remain 
 in his native city as long as he could hope to 
 be of use in stemming the revolutionary
 
 32 Coming Events. 
 
 excesses that were preparing. The respect he 
 inspired checked any open attacks upon him ; 
 but his Httle daughter heard the pointed in- 
 quiries of her aunt's friends as to his intentions, 
 and noticed with what eagerness the news 
 from Coblentz was circulated amongst them. 
 It was at that time the general belief of the 
 French nobility that the princes would very 
 soon come back at the head of a victorious 
 army. Not to be too late for the triumph 
 was the object in view. Less sanguine 
 persons, and those who thought that to resist 
 at home was more brave and more expedient 
 than to leave the country and the King to 
 their fate, had not, with rare exceptions, moral 
 courage to withstand the withering scorn and 
 bitter sarcasm of their friends and acquaint- 
 ances. They went to Coblentz in order to 
 escape the sort of ban laid on those who 
 stayed behind. Women were, as usual, the 
 most violent in their partisanship on this sub- 
 ject. There was a mystery and romance 
 about the plans and hopes of the emigres 
 which excited powerfully their imagination.
 
 Coming Events. 2>?) 
 
 One day Aline was passing through the 
 hall, and saw a parcel directed to her brother 
 Maurice. She was not free from the fault of 
 curiosity, and as she saw him furbishing his 
 gun in the courtyard, it struck her that if she 
 carried it to him, he would open it in her 
 presence. They sat down together on a 
 bench ; she took the scissors of her chatelaine 
 and cut the string. 
 
 ' A doll !' she exclaimed. ' It must be 
 meant for me, though indeed I think I 
 am rather too old for such a present. And 
 look here — a spindle, and oh, a night- 
 cap !' 
 
 Aline smilingly held up each article as she 
 named it, but suddenly catching sight of her 
 brother's face, allowed the things to roll off 
 her lap. His face was white and his mouth 
 twitching. He had picked up a paper, on 
 which was written : 
 
 ' For the use and amusement of a young 
 nobleman who is afraid of losing hold of his 
 aunt's petticoat.' 
 
 VOL. I. 3
 
 34 Coming Events. 
 
 o 
 
 Aline set her small foot on the paper, and 
 pushed it away with indignation. 
 
 ' How stupid ! how unjust !' she exclaimed. 
 You would go if you could, would not you, 
 Maurice ?' 
 
 ' Can you keep a secret, Aline ?' 
 
 The little lady bridled up, and did not even 
 deign to answer the question. However, as 
 he did not immediately speak, she exclaimed : 
 
 ' If you knew by one-half as many secrets 
 as I do ' 
 
 ' Oh, but it is not knowing, but keeping 
 them that is the question. However, I will 
 trust you. That abominable little comtesse !' 
 he ejaculated, giving a kick to the doll lying 
 on the ground. ' I know whence this insult 
 comes. She was determined to find out what 
 I would not tell her. Impertinent creature ! 
 Aline, when I am gone, pack up all these 
 things and write ' 
 
 ' Oh, Maurice ! are you going ?' 
 
 ' Do you suppose I should not have gone 
 weeks — nay, months — ago if I had not been 
 waiting for what now is to be.'
 
 Coming Events. 35 
 
 * What — tell me quick !' 
 
 ' But it is a secret of life and death, 
 child.' 
 
 * Never mind. I left off being a child the 
 day that I saw our father struggling to save 
 Noailly from the mob, and that he told us he 
 was a suspect.' 
 
 ' Well, you must not breathe a word of it to 
 anyone — not even to our good aunt, nor to my 
 father. As he insists on staying here, he 
 must be able to say that he did not know 
 of my departure. The officers of Royal 
 Guyenne are going to emigrate, and of course 
 I go with them.' 
 
 Aline threw her arms round her brother's 
 neck, and kissed him. She was glad — she 
 was proud of him — but her heart was very 
 full. It frightened her, too, to know a secret 
 which neither her father nor her aunt were to 
 be told. But she could understand Maurice's 
 reasons for this concealment, and resolved to 
 be courageous. 
 
 A few days afterwards he led her into the 
 courtyard from the drawing-room, and told
 
 36 Coming Events. 
 
 her he was Pfoinof the next dav, and that he 
 would write home before crossing the frontier. 
 The letter came a few days afterwards. She 
 never knew if it had caused surprise or not. 
 She rather thought her father had suspected 
 what Maurice had not told him, and the more 
 so that, soon afterwards, he permitted Andre 
 to go to Coblentz with one of his cousins. 
 
 The emigration of his two sons, the ridicu- 
 lous stories which had been circulated con- 
 cerning plots he was said to have formed, 
 increased the popular animosity against M. 
 des Elmes. There was no story absurd 
 enough not to be invented and believed. On 
 Christmas Eve, that year, he asked his sister 
 if she was going to midnight mass. 
 
 ' No,' she said, ' we mean to hear three 
 early masses to-morrow ; but I have a cold, 
 and Aline, too, is not well.' 
 
 He looked annoyed. ' Felicie, if you can 
 you must go to the cathedral to-night, and 
 take Aline with you.' 
 
 * Why ?' she asked with some surprise. 
 
 He answered with a sad smile: 'Why?
 
 Coming Events. 2)7 
 
 whv, because It is rumoured that I have un- 
 dermined the cathedral, with the intention of 
 blowlncr it up durinof the midniQ^ht mass. 
 You see now why you and the child should 
 be there.' 
 
 Every day some new conspiracy was 
 reported — organised, it was said, by the ex- 
 colonel of the National Guard and his friends 
 — to blow up, or to drown, or to massacre, 
 the patriots of IMoulins. 
 
 Meanwhile, one by one, the churches 
 served by the priests who had refused to take 
 the oath prescribed by the civil constituion of 
 the clergy were closed. In some of them 
 mass was secretly said, but the persecution 
 was becominof more and more stringent. A 
 venerable abbe, who was Aline's confessor, 
 as he had been her mother's friend and di- 
 rector ever since she had come to Moulins, 
 called on her aunt, and proposed that 
 she should at once make her first com- 
 munion. 
 
 'She is young,' he said, 'but sufficiently 
 instructed ; and believe me, she will soon be 
 
 15v218
 
 38 Coming Events. 
 
 older in mind and heart than you would 
 easily suppose. Madame, days are at hand 
 which will make the young prematurely old ; 
 we must look matters in the face. There 
 will be much to suffer before long, and this 
 little girl must be strengthened by the Bread 
 of Life before the hour of trial arrives. 
 The shepherd and the flock will soon be dis- 
 persed — our churches desecrated or deserted. 
 Bring her to mass at daybreak to-morrow, in 
 the chapel of the Daughters of the Cross ; I 
 will hear her confession, and she will make 
 her first communion better disposed for it, I 
 warrant you, than many a one after a longer 
 preparation.' 
 
 The expression of Aline's face seemed to 
 confirm the words of the good priest, when, 
 surrounded by her family, in the misty dawn 
 of an April morning on Holy Thursday, 
 she knelt at the altar of the convent chapel, 
 simply adorned with a few flowers, and 
 received her Lord into her young heart. It 
 was fortunate that this pious act had not 
 been delayed even for a few days, for before
 
 Cominor Events, 
 
 39 
 
 the end of the week all the churches were 
 shut up, except those served by the apostate 
 priests ; the faithful clergy could no longer 
 show their faces in the light of day.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 PIERRE CIZE AND THE OLD CUSTOM HOUSE. 
 
 BOUT two years have elapsed since 
 Aline's first communion — two 
 eventful years ! The abbe's pre- 
 dictions have been fulfilled. The eaeer, 
 wilful, impulsive child is now a girl matured 
 by the lessons of adversity, and thoughtful 
 beyond her years. She is taller, but just as 
 slight and fragile ; her expressive eyes more 
 beautiful than ever, so softly dark and at 
 times full of light and strange power. We 
 find her in an obscure lodging in Lyons, 
 where her father, her aunt, and herself have 
 taken refuge, and are living in partial con- 
 cealment. M. des Elmes had been arrested
 
 Pierre Cize and the Old Ciistoni House. 4 1 
 
 some time before at Moulins on some vao-ue 
 absurd accusation, and had fallen sick in 
 prison. Aline and her Aunt Felicie had seen 
 him carried on a chair to the tribunal, too 
 weak to walk. Only one person was ad- 
 mitted to visit him. This was his little 
 daughter, who thus made her first apprentice- 
 ship to prison-life. Two weary months 
 elapsed, and then he was tried, but, thanks 
 to a friendly judge, acquitted, and only 
 banished from the town. The whole family 
 fled to the country place where M. des 
 Elmes had spent so many happy years with 
 his wife. But they could not remain long in 
 their old home. Armed bands of peasants 
 were marching towards the chateau where 
 they had been so often fed and assisted by 
 the gentle countess, whose hands had dressed 
 their wounds, who had stood godmother to 
 their children. Odille remained there with 
 La Melon, Aunt Felicie and Aline went 
 to Rohannes, and thence to Lyons. M. des 
 Elmes escaped in a covered cart driven by a 
 faithful tenant, and joined them in that city.
 
 42 Pierre Cize and the Old Custom House. 
 
 There the fugitives had often to change 
 their lodgings. They were driven from one 
 place of shelter to another. Dark and sad 
 were those days, yet not wholly unmixed with 
 consolation. Unexpected meetings with old 
 acquaintances, social intercourse secretly car- 
 ried on between those who shared the same 
 fears and the same hopes, traits of charity 
 and courage on the part of many a humble 
 friend of other days — were like gleams of 
 sunshine in a stormy sky. 
 
 There was one being to whom Aline looked 
 up with enthusiastic admiration — one the 
 very sight of whom, as she passed her in the 
 streets, made her heart beat. This was 
 Emilie de Bellecise, the only daughter 
 of the governor of the fortress of Pierre 
 Cize, a beautiful girl of high birth, who, 
 by her energy, abilities, and presence of 
 mind, exercised great influence in her native 
 city. Her father had been provost of 
 the merchants of Lyons, and was highly 
 respected by his fellow-citizens. Crippled by 
 age and gout, he had now to be carried from
 
 Pierre Cize and the Old Custom House. 43 
 
 one place to another. His wife was adored 
 by the poor. She was one of those women 
 as to whose o-oodness there was not a dis- 
 sentient voice. HoHness was stamped on 
 her face, the lovehness of which the advance 
 of years did not mar. EmiHe was very kind 
 to AHne. She discerned in her a strong soul 
 and an energy of spirit akin to her own, 
 which she took pains to cultivate and train. 
 
 News arrived from Paris which struck with 
 dismay not only those faithful to the King, 
 but likewise moderate men favourable to the 
 Revolution. The accounts of the terrible 
 loth of Aucrust created a Q^eneral consterna- 
 tion. And soon the demaQ-og-ue Challier 
 arrived with full powers to proceed against all 
 those accused of disaffection to the Republic. 
 He set up the guillotine at Lyons, and in- 
 flamed the mob by his sanguinary speeches. 
 And yet things went on apparently much as 
 usual. Partly to conceal their anxieties, partly 
 in order to appear to do like other people, 
 sometimes also to distract, for a while, their 
 minds from painful thoughts, even those in
 
 44 Pierre Cize and the Old Czistom House. 
 
 daily danger of arrest went to the theatre, 
 played at cards, or sat listening to the military 
 bands in public places. 
 
 One evening, M. des Elmes, who thought 
 his daughter too much excited by the con- 
 versations she had been listening to both at 
 home and at the house of the Marquis de 
 Bellecise, proposed to take her to the play. 
 • Paul et Virofinie ' was acted that nio-ht. It 
 was beautifully got up, the scenery and the 
 dresses magnificent, the acting excellent. 
 Aline had hardly ever been before in a 
 theatre ; the interest of the play quite ab- 
 sorbed her, and when the curtain dropped 
 at the end of the first act, she fell into a pro- 
 found reverie, from which she was roused by 
 an extraordinary noise and signs of agitation 
 in the pit. Almost at the same moment M. 
 Garnier, one of her father's friends, entered 
 their box and said : 
 
 ' The Marseillais are arrived — a number of 
 them are entering^ the house.' 
 
 He had hardly spoken when the pit, gal- 
 leries, and even some of the boxes were
 
 Pierre Cize and the Old CtLstom Ho2Lse. 45 
 
 invaded by men wearing dusty uniforms and 
 red Phrygian caps with green sprigs. Their 
 faces were mostly dark and fierce ; they held in 
 their hands a variety of weapons of strange 
 form and make. This desperate set of 
 revolutionists were on their way to Paris, 
 summoned there to carry on the work of 
 destruction, and spreading terror in every 
 town and city they passed through. 
 
 Aline forgot the play, and scarcely looked 
 arain at the stag-e. She could not take her 
 eyes off the dark visages of those men about 
 whom there were such terrible reports. They 
 seemed more like a barbarous horde of 
 savages than Frenchmen ; and, in fact, with 
 the Marseillais were mixed a number of 
 Corsicans and Ligurian sailors, fishermen, 
 smugglers, liberated convicts, who imparted 
 to these lawless bands a character of peculiar 
 ferocity. When the curtain dropped for the 
 second time, a multitude of voices entoned 
 the hymn of Rouget de Lisle. From every 
 part of the crowded theatre its thrilling notes 
 arose. The whole house rang with that mag-
 
 46 Pierre Cize and the Old Custom House. 
 
 nificent air, which was acting hke a spell on 
 the heated imaginations and wild passions of 
 revolutionary France, sending her soldiers to 
 fight and die like heroes on her frontiers, while 
 it inflamed, at home, to deeds of blood the 
 scum of her population. Aline never forgot 
 the night on which she heard, for the first 
 time, that strain which was to mingle its 
 tremendous melody with so much glory and 
 so much crime. With burning cheeks and 
 cold hands, trembling and shivering, she 
 listened to it with an involuntary admira- 
 tion, mixed with a sort of awe. It seemed 
 to typify the Revolution — its mysterious 
 power, its irresistible advance. As again and 
 again the words ' Vive la nation ' re-echoed 
 through the house as if they would have burst 
 its walls, she thought of her brothers with the 
 army of Conde, and her poor little heart, which, 
 like the crowded building in which she stood, 
 was full to bursting, sank within her. ' Oh 
 that strain !' she thought. ' Would it had 
 been the war-song of the Vendeans who 
 soon will rise !' Hot tears ran down her
 
 Pierre Cize and the Old C2Lstom House. 47 
 
 cheeks. Her father, perceiving that her 
 emotion was becoming uncontrollable, has- 
 tened her away ; and through the noisy tumult 
 of the streets, they made their way home. 
 
 ' M. des Elmes and his sister were glad 
 for Aline that on the following day an arrival 
 at their lodging drew away her thoughts for a 
 little while from the events of the time. Young 
 girls whom she used to play with at the 
 Convent of the Visitation at T\Ioulins made 
 their appearance, and asked to be taken in. 
 They were the daughters of the Marquis de 
 GIvrac, an old friend of M. des Elmes. 
 They were on their way to their father's 
 chateau. The nuns and their scholars had 
 been suddenly dispersed, and a lady who was 
 coming to Lyons took charge of Aglae and 
 Deslree, whose father was to send some one 
 to fetch them in a day or two. Great was 
 the joy of this unexpected meeting. It 
 carried Aline back to the day when she so 
 envied her friends for their academical 
 honours In the shape of coloured ribbons, 
 rosettes, and medals. Three happy days
 
 48 Pierre Cize and the Old Custom House. 
 
 elapsed. Opposite to the lodgings of the 
 Des Elmes, M, Gamier — a relative of theirs — 
 had a large garden where they all spent the 
 long summer evenings. 
 
 M. and Mdme. Garnier had a daughter 
 named Annette, who was delighted to have 
 the company of Aline and her friends. 
 They played at games, ran on the grass, 
 danced under the trees, whilst their elders 
 sat talking of public affairs, Aunt Felicle 
 blessing God all the time that her poor child 
 was enjoying herself a little. 
 
 On the third of these evenings two officers 
 — M. de Netancourt and M. de Bosque, 
 whose regiment had been quartered at 
 Rohannes, where they made acquaintance 
 with M. des Elmes — had joined the party In 
 M. Garnler's garden. They had good- 
 naturedly mixed In the amusements of the 
 young girls, and danced with them a minuet 
 de la cour and then a gavotte, Aunt Felicle 
 humming the tunes. 
 
 ' Hush !' M. des Elmes suddenly said. 
 
 The singing and the dancing stopped.
 
 Pierre Cize and the Old Custom House. 49 
 
 The tread of feet, sinister cries, were heard. 
 The gentlemen ran up to some rocks on one 
 side of the garden which overlooked the 
 street. Aunt Felicie, Mdme. Garnier, and 
 the girls stood listening in silent consterna- 
 tion. M. de Netancourt came back to them, 
 and said : 
 
 ' It is the officers of Royal Pologne, ar- 
 rested by their men and dragged to Pierre 
 Cize, on account of a suspicion that they 
 intended to emigrate. There are friends of 
 mine amongst them. God help them, poor 
 fellows !' 
 
 M. de Bosque descended from the eminence, 
 followed by M. des Elmes, and M. Garnier ; 
 their faces were gloomy, they seemed hardly 
 able to speak. The two officers took leave 
 of the ladies. 
 
 ' It is a long farewell we bid you,' one of 
 them said. 
 
 Mdlle. des Elmes looked at him inquir- 
 ingly. 
 
 ' We shall go straight to Coblentz. We 
 had been hesitating about it ; now there is 
 
 VOL. I. 4
 
 50 Pierre Cize and the Old Custoin House. 
 
 no choice. We may not reach the frontier, 
 but try for it we shall. De Bosque had been 
 urging and I opposing it ; but what we have 
 seen to-night settles the question.' 
 
 When he wished Aline good-bye, M. de 
 Bosque said : 
 
 ' It will be long before you and I meet 
 again, Mdlle. Aline. I hold you engaged to 
 me for the first dance at the palace of the 
 Tuileries, when the King is free, I a marechal 
 de France, and you the bride of some great 
 lord of the court.' 
 
 Aline tried to smile, but hardly succeeded. 
 The next day her friends were fetched away, 
 and this bright little interval in her life came 
 to an end. 
 
 Two or three days afterwards she asked 
 leave to go and spend the day with Mdlle. de 
 Bellecise, whom she had not seen since the 
 night of the arrival of the Marseillais, and 
 the arrest of the officers of Royal Pologne. 
 Cantat — Aunt Felicie's maid — took her to 
 the governor's apartments, and left her 
 there.
 
 Pierre Cize and the Old Ctistom House. 5 1 
 
 ' How is your father, Emilie ?' she asked, 
 on entering her friend's room. 
 
 ' Very ill indeed ; he cannot move without 
 the greatest pain.' 
 
 ' I am so sorry. Shall I be in your way ? 
 I told Cantat to fetch me away at six.' 
 
 ' I like to have you with me. Aline, and 
 for my own sake I am glad you should spend 
 this day here ; but it is an anxious one, and 
 you would have perhaps been better at home. 
 That you may not be taken by surprise I must 
 tell you that there is a great excitement 
 amongst the Jacobins about the unhappy 
 prisoners, the officers of Royal Pologne, and 
 that they are threatening to come here and 
 demand that they should be delivered up to 
 them. M. Vilet, the mayor, called on my father 
 this morning to warn him that this was the 
 case. Though suffering dreadfully from the 
 gout, my poor father insisted on being carried 
 to all the parts of the building capable of de- 
 fence, and told Vilet that if he would order 
 half a dozen guns to be sent here, and rein- 
 force the garrison, he would answer for 
 
 4—2
 
 5 2 Pierre Cize and the Old Custom House. 
 
 the safety of the chateau and the unhappy 
 prisoners. Up to this time neither guns nor 
 men have arrived,' 
 
 ' Where are the prisoners, EmiHe ?' 
 ' Vilet saw them, and requested that for 
 greater safety they should be locked up to- 
 gether in one room. He said that in case 
 the prison was taken by storm, this would 
 make it easier for him to protect them. Here 
 is my mother ; do not speak of this before 
 her.' 
 
 Mdme. de Bellecise came in and said that 
 as all seemed quiet enough for the moment, 
 they had better sit down to dinner. For the 
 sake of their young guest she and Emilie 
 tried to be cheerful, but Aline could see that 
 both mother and daughter were terribly 
 anxious. M. de Bellecise, they said, was en- 
 tirely prostrated. The non-arrival of rein- 
 forcements and artillery made it impossible to 
 defend the place in case of an attack. Ex- 
 hausted by bodily suffering and mental 
 anxiety, he gave himself up to despair : it 
 was evident that it would be in vain to look
 
 Pierre Cizc and ths Old CzLstom House. 53 
 
 to him in an emergency. Soon after dinner 
 some of the servants warned EmiHe that an 
 immense crowd was marching towards the 
 chateau. It stood on a rock, the ascent to 
 which was up a flight of steep stairs, which 
 were before long invaded by a multitude cla- 
 mouring for the keys of the prison, and 
 threatening to break open the doors or set 
 fire to the buildinof, M. de Bellecise was 
 incapable of moving, or even of direct- 
 ing anything. Emilie went to him and 
 procured the keys ; then, mounting on a 
 parapet, she stood confronting that swarming 
 sea of heads, and said in a loud and distinct 
 voice that nothing would induce her to give 
 them up to anyone not authorised to receive 
 them. Her attitude, and the great courage 
 with which she spoke, produced some effect 
 on the mob ; their vociferations were hushed 
 for a moment, but soon besfan aofain with 
 fresh violence. Aline, ^without being noticed, 
 had followed her friend and held her gown in 
 her hand, with a confused idea that she was 
 protecting her. Emilie tried to speak again,
 
 54 Pier7x Cize and the Old Ctistom House. 
 
 but her voice was drowned by the cries of 
 ' Break down the doors !' 
 
 Then M. Vilet, the mayor, came forward. 
 He had a right to enter the chateau, and 
 Emihe remembered his promise that he would 
 protect and save the imprisoned officers, so 
 she descended to the entrance-gate, made a 
 sign to him to advance, and placing the keys 
 in his hands said to him, with a voice that 
 shook more than it had done when addressing 
 the mob : 
 
 ' Sir, yours is now the duty — yours the 
 responsibility, to use these keys so as to 
 prevent bloodshed. In God's name, take 
 them !' 
 
 He did so, and unlocked the doors, upon 
 M^hich the crowd rushed in, and, like a furious 
 torrent, invaded the prison and the chateau. 
 For some time they could not discover the 
 unfortunate prisoners. They went from one 
 story to another, lk)wling like madmen. 
 Vilet disappeared, Emilie was in the midst of 
 them, her young companion keeping close to 
 her. When, for an instant, the crowd had
 
 Pierre Cize and the Old Custom Hoiise. 5 5 
 
 gone in another direction, she put her Hps to 
 
 the key-hole of the prisoners' room, and said : 
 ' If any of you can get out of the window, 
 
 do so at once.' 
 
 Then she hastily withdrew, just before the 
 exasperated mob returned to the passage 
 where she stood, and, better informed this 
 time, broke open the door of the room where 
 the unhappy men were confined. When it 
 gave way, Emilie sprang forward, and by 
 prayers, suppHcations, reproaches, adjurations, 
 which mingled with their cries and curses, 
 struggled to divert them from their purpose. 
 She was there when they seized upon them ; 
 she followed them down the stairs, into the 
 court, down the steps, where some of them 
 were massacred ; she kept near to those whom 
 they were dragging to the Place des Terraux, 
 She said words to them which were not lost 
 in empty air. God inspired her to utter 
 them. She was like an angel accompanying 
 them on their way to death. 
 
 When they and the fierce rabble had passed 
 on beyond the castle gate, then, at last, the
 
 56 Pierre Cize and the Old Ciistoiu House. 
 
 brave girl sunk on the last step, and perceived 
 that Aline was by her side. She had never 
 left her for one moment. Like her shadow, 
 she had followed Emilie, and now she noticed 
 that her foot was bleedinof. 
 
 ' Oh, Emilie, you are hurt !' she exclaimed. 
 
 ' A pike ran through it, my darling. I 
 scarcely felt it at the time. Oh, if we had 
 but saved them ! Do not make any fuss 
 about this wound. Here, tie this handker- 
 chief round my foot.' 
 
 Mdme. de Bellecise and several servants 
 soon surrounded the two girls, and supported 
 Emilie upstairs. The steps were stained 
 with blood. When Cantat came to fetch 
 Aline, she nearly fainted at the sight. The 
 state of the chateau was dreadful. Every- 
 thing wrecked and destroyed. A warning 
 was sent that the mob was likely to return 
 when their bloody work at the Place des 
 Terraux was done. Emilie had received 
 several injuries besides the wound in her 
 foot. Two of her ribs were broken by a 
 blow from the hand of the dastardly mayor.
 
 Pierre Cize and the Old Ctistoni House. 5 7 
 
 who had been angry at her upbraiding him 
 for pointing out the room where the prisoners 
 were concealed. But she pressed for an im- 
 mediate departure. A carriage had been 
 waiting for some hours near the entrance- 
 gate. The aged governor, supported by his 
 wife and his servants, was carried down the 
 stairs. EmiHe leant on Aline, whom they 
 insisted on taking with them. They said the 
 streets were not in a state to walk in. Cantat 
 thought she would have run less risk than by 
 driving away with them. But Aline — who 
 could not bear to leave Emilie — said she was 
 afraid of meeting the mob. Each minute of 
 that descent seemed as long as an hour. 
 They heard the distant shouts of the in- 
 furiated multitude, rising and falling like the 
 surges of an angry sea. They might arrive 
 at any moment, and bar their passage. At 
 last the coach was reached ; Emilie stepped 
 into it first, and drew back with a start. A 
 man crouching under one of the seats had 
 seized her hand, 
 
 ' I am Dcs Plantes,' he whispered.
 
 58 Pierre Cize and the Old Custo^n House. 
 
 This was one of the officers locked up by 
 Vilet. There was no time for explanation. 
 M. de Bellecise was lifted in, Mdme. de 
 Bellecise and Aline followed, the door was 
 closed, and they drove off In a few minutes 
 a patrol stopped them. An officer of the 
 National Guard came to the door of the car- 
 riage, and asked : 
 
 ' Qui va la ?' 
 
 Mdme. de Bellecise gave her name, and 
 told him she was driven away from her home 
 and seeking a refuge. The man bowed re- 
 spectfully, and turning to the others, said : 
 
 ' It is Mdme. de Bellecise.' 
 
 That name, so well known and so revered, 
 acted like a spell. 
 
 * Let her pass !' they cried out, and without 
 further difficulties the fugitives reached the 
 part of the town where a lodging had been 
 secured for them. 
 
 There Emilie learnt that M. des Plantes 
 owed his life to her, and the strange way in 
 which he had been saved. The warning she 
 had given through the key-hole of the prison-
 
 Pierre Cizc and the Old Custom House. 59 
 
 room he alone had been able to profit by. 
 His thin, slight figure had enabled him to 
 squeeze through the narrow window and to 
 leap into the court below. This court was 
 occupied by an insane man, who had in- 
 habited it many years. By a strange in- 
 spiration, if not by accident, the madman 
 opened a trap-door. M. des Plantes rushed 
 through it at a venture, and heard the lunatic 
 shutting it after him, and dancing and singing 
 over his head. He groped his way in the 
 dark, found an issue close to the door of the 
 chateau, and took shelter in the carriage 
 which was waiting for the governor's family. 
 In the course of the followino- ni^ht he 
 effected his escape from Lyons. 
 
 Aline was fetched by her father in the 
 evening. He then learnt how bravely his 
 young daughter had stood by Emilie in the 
 hour of dano^er. He shuddered at the thoug^ht 
 of the peril she had run, but felt proud of his 
 child. Aunt Felicie, who never feared any- 
 thing for herself, and had made up her mind 
 long ago for the worst, was agitated when
 
 6o Pie7^re Cize and the Old Custom House. 
 
 she heard what her niece had gone through. 
 As to Aline, her whole soul was absorbed 
 by enthusiasm and admiration for Emilie de 
 Bellecise. Fearful as had been the scenes she 
 had witnessed, her predominating feeling was 
 joy and gratitude at having been allowed to 
 be near her durinof those terrible moments. 
 It was like the beginning of a new life, and a 
 lesson never to be forgotten. 
 
 The days which followed the massacre of 
 Pierre Cize were full of fear and danger for 
 all v/ho knew themselves to be objects of 
 suspicion to the Revolutionary Committee. 
 The Des Elmes had often to change their 
 quarters, and were sometimes on the point of 
 spending the night in the streets, those who 
 lodged them conceiving a sudden apprehen- 
 sion that they would be compromised by their 
 presence. After a while there was a lull in 
 the popular agitation. M. des Elmes as- 
 sumed one of his family names — that of 
 Gerard, a common one in Lyons — and by 
 that means obtained from the Section of the 
 Faubourg de Vaise permission to reside within
 
 Pierre Cize and the Old C^istom House. 61 
 
 Its limits. He engaged an apartment in the 
 old custom-house. The inspector of that 
 department, M. Mazurier, and also some of 
 his subordinates, lodged there. Another 
 floor was occupied by the Comte de Bellecise 
 and his family. Other persons of high rank 
 lived under the same roof. It was quite a 
 colony of aristocrats who had taken refuge in 
 this rambling old house. 
 
 Those who have not experienced similar 
 trials cannot probably realise the consolation 
 of social Intercourse under such circumstances, 
 or how much gaiety reigned In the midst of 
 cruel anxieties amongst the set which used to 
 meet every evening In Mdme. de Bellecise's 
 salon. It was frequented by a number of 
 young men of the best families In Lyons. 
 M. de Precy's nephew, a clever and spirited 
 young officer ; M. de Clermont Tonnere, the 
 VIcomte de Longlvalle, landed proprietors 
 In the Bourbonnals, and many others, 
 surrounded the couch on which Emilie, 
 still suffering very much from the wound in 
 her foot, was obliged to lie. They had all a
 
 62 Pierre Cize and the Old Custom House. 
 
 great admiration for her, especially since her 
 heroic conduct at the time of the storming of 
 Pierre Cize. Aline was hardly old enough 
 to join in the conversations which took place 
 between her friend and these gentlemen, but 
 she listened eagerly to all they said, and when 
 Sophie de Souligne, a merry, thoughtless girl 
 of her own age, wanted to sit apart with her 
 and whisper, she contrived to escape into a 
 corner behind Emilie's sofa. By degrees 
 some of those young men began to notice 
 her dark eyes and speaking countenance — 
 young De Precy especially. She was less 
 shy with him than with others, and they be- 
 came friends. There was of course but one 
 subject of conversation — the events and 
 dangers of the day. 
 
 That winter was sad and troubled enough. 
 The executions were multiplying, and the 
 accounts of the King's trial heart-breaking. 
 But it was not till after his death that the 
 terror assumed terrific proportions. The 
 news of that judicial murder literally stunned 
 the Royalists. It was an awful desolation, a
 
 Pierre Cize and the Old Cttstom House. 6 
 
 J 
 
 silent mourning. Nothing could exceed the 
 consternation of the little society at the old 
 custom-house. The increasing apprehensions 
 this event inspired were but too soon 
 realised. 
 
 M. des Elmes had a particular cause of pain- 
 ful anxiety. Sometime before the fatal 21st of 
 January, about the end of December, he had 
 received a letter which informed him that his 
 son Andre was in Paris. For an emigre to 
 return to France, and especially to Paris, at 
 such a moment was all but certain death. 
 M. des Elmes concealed this news from his 
 sister and Aline, and there was so much to 
 account for gloom and depression in the state 
 of public affairs, that they did not suspect 
 anything. He endured in silence the misery 
 of suspense and the inability to ward off the 
 danofers besettingf his son. 
 
 One afternoon, when Mdlle. des Elmes 
 and Aline were sitting quietly by the fire, a 
 
 « 
 
 note sent by the post was given to the former. 
 She read it, and ejaculated : 
 
 ' O my God !' Then turning to her niece,
 
 64 Pierre Cize and the Old Cttstovi House. 
 
 said : ' Aline, dearest, this is surprising intel- 
 ligence. Andre is in Lyons.' 
 
 ' Where — where is he ?' 
 
 ' At a little inn in this faubourg ; but he 
 says he does not like to remain there, and 
 does not know if he may come here, but that 
 he will be on the Place de la Douane this 
 evening, and hopes some one will meet him. 
 Your father is at the Garniers, you know, 
 and was not to come home till ten o'clock. 
 You had better go there and tell him of this. 
 Show him the note. Andre says in a postscript 
 that he slept at the Auberge des Couteraux, 
 and has passed himself off as a servant out of 
 place. What folly to have sent this note by 
 the post ! It is just like Andre, poor dear 
 fellow!' 
 
 ' All is well that ends well,' Aline said, 
 who had read that play with Mr. Davis. 
 With a bounding step she left the house 
 to seek her father, joy predominating over 
 fear. 
 
 M. des Elmes was relieved by the arrival 
 of Andr6. He went to the inn, and inquired
 
 Pierre Cize and the Old Custom House. 65 
 
 for the young servant, but heard he had gone 
 out, so that all he could do was to leave a 
 note for him. Aline walked up and down 
 the place watching all the passengers. No 
 Andre appeared. She and her father met 
 at the door of their apartment, feeling terribly 
 anxious. Something must have happened. 
 They went up to speak to Aunt Felicie. 
 Whilst they were with her, Andre appeared, 
 so much altered they would scarcely have 
 known him, and looking handsomer than 
 ever, 
 
 ' And where have you been all this even- 
 ing ?' M. des Elmes said, after they had all 
 embraced him. 
 
 'At the play.' 
 
 'At the play!' M. des Elmes repeated, 
 intensely displeased. ' And what in heaven's 
 name took you to the play whilst your sister 
 and I have been looking out for you in the 
 cold and wet ?' 
 
 * I did not venture to come here till I re- 
 ceived your note. I thought I might have 
 seen you in the theatre.' 
 
 VOL. I. 5
 
 66 Pierre Cize and the Old Custom House. 
 
 ' Aline was on the ^/acc since eight 
 o'clock.' 
 
 ' Oh, it is all right now, papa,' Aline cried, 
 throwinof her arms round Andre's neck. 
 
 He kissed her over and over again. 
 
 ' My A. G. is always watching for me. I 
 know that.' 
 
 M. des Elmes, half in jest, half in earnest, 
 said : 
 
 ' I do not envy your angel-guardian, sir; it 
 is bad enough to be your father.' 
 
 Then measures were concerted to conceal 
 the new comer. It was most dangerous at 
 that moment to be an emigre, and scarcely 
 less so to harbour one. A closet was found 
 within Aline's room where he was for the 
 present secreted ; but how to dispose of him 
 permanently was a difficult problem. The 
 morning passed in fruitless consultations on 
 the subject. It was a question whether 
 Andre could venture to join the evening 
 party in Mdme, de Bellecise's room. He 
 was of course most anxious to do so. Aline 
 had fired his imagination about Emilie ; she
 
 Pierre Cize and the Old Custom House. 67 
 
 suggested a scheme and carried her point. 
 The chance entry of some person not entirely 
 to be trusted was the only risk. IMarie 
 Mazurier happened to be confined to her 
 room with a cold, and what she proposed 
 was to dress Andre as a young lady, his 
 beautiful complexion and fair hair made it 
 feasible, and then she said : 
 
 ' If anyone came in we were not quite sure 
 of, we should address him as Marie. He 
 would sit between Sophie and me on the 
 young ladies' sofa,' 
 
 M. des Elmes shrugged his shoulders, but 
 was so pleased to see his Aline look bright 
 and animated that, not perceiving any real 
 danger in the plan, he yielded his assent. 
 His sister and himself used to say to each 
 other, ' So much gained,' when they saw the 
 young forget for a moment, in some bit of 
 fun, the miseries that surrounded them. 
 
 Andres toilette was superintended with 
 minute care. One of the gowns of Aunt 
 Felicie, who was tall, had to be borrowed, 
 Cantat dressed his hair, employing some 
 
 5—2
 
 68 Pierre Ctze and the Old Ctistom House. 
 
 false plaits of her own in the operation. He 
 looked very pretty in his woman's attire, and 
 Aline made him practise walking with a 
 mincing gait. The bursts of laughter from 
 the closet where this was going on made 
 Aunt Felicie and her brother smile. 
 
 ' Dear children !' she said, and then the 
 tears came into her eyes. 
 
 The company had been warned of the 
 visitor they had to expecf. 
 
 ' Now, Andre,' Aline said, as they went up- 
 stairs, ' you may do just as you like till I 
 pinch your arm. But when I do so, hold 
 your tongue and don't move.' Andre per- 
 formed his part to perfection, and Mdlle. de 
 Mazurier's representative was found charm- 
 ing. He sat on a sofa, as had been arranged, 
 between Aline and Sophie de Souligne. 
 This young lady was delighted with her 
 neighbour, with whom she talked nonsense to 
 her heart's content. 
 
 * What a pity,' she said to Aline, ' he is not 
 a girl. I wish Emilie and he could exchange. 
 She is too grand and wonderful for a woman.*
 
 Pierre Cize and the Old Custom House. 69 
 
 * Andre is as brave as his sword,' Aline 
 quickly answered. She was nettled at the re- 
 mark, which seemed to herareflectionon Andre. 
 
 ' Of course he is, one of his name could 
 not be otherwise. But that does not prevent 
 him from being pleasant.' 
 
 On the following evening a request was 
 made that Andre would relate his adventures. 
 He had already done so to his family ; but 
 now the company gathered around him, and 
 asked to hear them. 
 
 ' It is not a long story,' he said, ' though a 
 somewhat eventful one. When, after an un- 
 successful affair near Liege, the army of Conde 
 was disbanded, we were all left to shift for 
 ourselves ; there was a general dispersion. I 
 did not know on earth what to do : some went 
 to Holland, some to England, some to Switz- 
 erland. Most of them meant to earn their 
 bread by turning teachers and tutors. 
 Maurice and I had been in different battalions, 
 and I did not know where to look for him. 
 Since then I have h(2ard that he is teaching 
 the young idea how to shoot, at Lucerne.
 
 70 Pierre Cize and the Old Custorn House. 
 
 This would not have suited me, and, more- 
 over, I was seized with a fit of home-sickness. 
 Meanwhile the Republican troops were ap- 
 proaching. I took off my uniform, and when 
 they arrived I spoke to some of the soldiers, 
 and said I was the servant of an emigre, 
 whose only desire was to see France again. 
 These men were good fellows, and they 
 allowed me to pass. I had many a narrow 
 escape, but was helped by kind souls, and 
 managed to get on. Just before crossing the 
 frontier, a waggoner lent me a linen apron and 
 a whip. I drove his horses, and in that way 
 passed the custom-house, where they pierced 
 the bales in our cart with bayonets to ascer- 
 tain whether emigres were not packed up in 
 them ; I must confess that the sight of this 
 operation gave me unpleasant sensations. 
 From one town to another, by hook and by 
 crook, I reached Paris, with only thirty sous 
 in my pocket. I took up my abode in a 
 wretched cabaret, the master of which worked 
 in the stone-quarries. In order to pay for 
 my board and lodging, I obtained work from
 
 Pier7^e Cize and the Old Custom House. 7 r 
 
 him, and wrote to my father. No answer 
 came ; then I wrote again to a friend at 
 MouHns — no reply. I began to be afraid all 
 my relations were dead, and' felt quite in 
 despair ; I heard people remarking on my 
 hands, and sneering at their softness. There 
 was a terrible little girl in the house who in 
 fun called me the ' aristocrat,' a dangerous 
 joke which made my hair stand on end. At 
 last I could bear it no longer, and determined 
 to recross the frontier if possible. I had to 
 sell as many of my clothes as I could do 
 without in order to settle with my land- 
 lord, and left the pawnbroker's shop as much 
 inclined to hang myself as anyone could well 
 be. But as I walked along the banks of the 
 Seine, drowning occurred to me as a less dis- 
 agreeable form of self-destruction.' 
 
 Here Andre paused in his story. Aline 
 whispered to him : 
 
 'You must relate what then happened. It 
 would be ungrateful not to do so.' 
 
 ' Well, as I was turning this over in my 
 mind, I happened to pass by a deserted
 
 "ji Pierre Cize and the Old Custom House. 
 
 chapel, dedicated to the Blessed Virgin. I 
 went into it — her image was still standing 
 amidst the ruins over the broken altar. It 
 was very long since I had said a prayer, but 
 I did pray then. I asked for help, and some- 
 how, when I came out, that idea about the river 
 had passed away. I went back to my inn, 
 settled with the master, and was just saying 
 good-bye to the mistress, when the terrible 
 child exclaimed : 
 
 ' " But, mother, you forget to give him the 
 letter that has just arrived for him." 
 
 ' This letter was from the friend to whom 
 I had written. In a guarded manner, she told 
 me my friends were alive, and where they 
 were, and gave me a direction in Paris where 
 I should find some one who would advance 
 me a sum of money. Her own departure from 
 Moulins had delayed her answer. It was 
 not long before I heard from my father. He 
 told me to try and make my way to Lyons, and 
 to come, if possible, by Burgundy — not by the 
 Bourbonnais. However, I like the last route 
 the best, as I was dying to see dear old
 
 Pierre Cize and the Old Custom House. ']2y 
 
 Moulins again. It was on the very day of the 
 king's murder I left Paris. I cannot tell you 
 how terrible the night before had been. The 
 thought of it was like a nightmare. I ran 
 rather than walked along the high-road, wish- 
 ing for all sorts of impossible things to happen, 
 and feeling as if a thunderbolt would fall on 
 that wicked city. Now and then I got a lift, 
 but whenever we approached a town I took 
 to walking. It was late one evening when I 
 arrived at Moulins. I called on some of our 
 friends, walked past our old house, with a 
 lump in my throat, and then went on to the 
 village of Tournon, where I spent the rest of 
 the night. A certain Marthe, who had once 
 been our cook, gave me a bed, and hired a 
 trap to take me to Lyons. The driver of this 
 equipage was a fierce Republican. As w^e 
 passed Les Elmes, I pointed to the chateau, 
 and asked, " Who does that place belong to ?" 
 and got this pleasing reply : 
 
 ' " To Des Elmes, confound him! that villain 
 of an aristocrat ! that enemy of the people ! 
 His two sons have emigrated. I wish we
 
 74 Pierre Cize and the Old Czistom Hotisc. 
 
 could catch the three rascals ; would we not 
 make them swing !"' 
 
 ' This was not agreeable hearing, but he 
 did not suspect me. Towards the middle of 
 the day I was safely landed in the Faubourg 
 de Vaise. There ends my history up to this 
 moment. What is to be its sequel remains 
 to be seen.' 
 
 The little society had listened with atten- 
 tion and interest to this narrative. One 
 person had given ear to it w^ith visible emo- 
 tion ; this was Sophie de Souligne. She had 
 evidently taken a fancy to the hero of it, and 
 during the remaining two days he was secreted 
 in the house, lost no opportunity of going into 
 Aline's room, inside of which was the closet 
 where he was concealed. These visits made 
 an agreeable diversion to Andre s seclusion ; 
 the nonsense he talked, and the undisguised 
 pleasure Sophie took in it rather annoyed 
 Aline. She wanted, too, to have her brother 
 to herself, after their long parting, and before 
 their approaching separation. But he was so 
 charmed with the young lady that he had
 
 Pierre Cize and the Old Custom House. 75 
 
 actually ventured on the stairs to look if she 
 was coming, and so his sister thought it safer 
 to let her stay in her room. 
 
 She soon found out that Andre was just the 
 same imprudent, wilful being as in his youth- 
 ful days, and that if he remained in Lyons 
 there would be little safety for any of them. 
 But what to do with him was the question 
 weighing on INI. des Elmes. However, on 
 the third day after his arrival, M. Mazurier pro- 
 posed to give the young man employment in 
 his glass manufactory, twelve miles from the 
 city : this was of course gratefully accepted. 
 
 Andre's last evening was spent in Mdme. 
 de Bellecise's apartments, where he kept the 
 younger portion of the society in constant 
 laughter by mimicking various persons he 
 had known in the army of Conde ; and droll 
 anecdotes of the eccentricities of his com- 
 manding officer. Some of the elders thought 
 this merriment out of place so soon after the 
 tragical news from Paris. The Marquis de 
 la Prie and M. de Bellecise, who were playing 
 at dominoes, did not like the noise the young
 
 76 Pierre Cize and the Old Ctistom House. 
 
 people made ; but Mdlle. des Elmes enjoyed 
 the sound of their gay voices. She felt glad 
 that they should for a few moments be happy, 
 and forgave Andre his wild talk, as she looked 
 on Aline's bright face. An affectionate leave 
 of the young emigre was taken by all present, 
 Mdlle. de Souligne had carefully inquired 
 of M. Mazurier how far his verrerie was 
 from Lyons. She and Andre had a little 
 private conversation before the end of the 
 evening, which Aline thought too long. She 
 was glad to get him and herself back into her 
 own room, where she proceeded to remove 
 his disguise. A little knock at the door in 
 about ten minutes startled her ; the door 
 gently opened. 
 
 * Do not be alarmed,' Sophie said. ' This 
 is not a domiciliary visit. But, dear Aline, 
 you left your handkerchief on the sofa up- 
 stairs, and I have brought it to you.' 
 
 Aline suspected her of having pulled it out 
 of her pocket. Andre seized on the said 
 handkerchief, and pressed it to his heart, and 
 then began again a half-jesting, half-senti-
 
 Pierre Cize and the Old Cttstovi House. ']'] 
 
 mental colloquy which tried Aline's patience 
 to the utmost. At last she opened the door 
 into the sitting-room, where she had heard 
 the sound of steps. 
 
 'Sophie, my father is coming,' she said, 
 upon which the young lady disappeared, not 
 before Andre had whispered to her : 
 
 * Watch, when you go out, the organ- 
 grinders and tumblers. Who knows that I 
 shall not appear, one day, under some such 
 disguise ?' 
 
 The next morning, M. Mazurier drove the 
 young gentleman to his verrerie, where he 
 w^as to act as a supernumerary clerk. 
 
 Meanwhile, events of the greatest im- 
 portance were about to take place in Lyons, 
 in which M, des Elmes was to act a con- 
 spicuous part.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 STANDING AT BAY. 
 
 N the course of the spring, ter- 
 rorism arrived at such a pitch 
 that there was neither safety nor 
 peace for anyone not ostensibly and vehe- 
 mently devoted to the Republic. The 
 system of domiciliary visits was becoming a 
 daily and hourly torture — a nightly one, too, 
 for It was often in the midst of their sleep that 
 the unfortunate citizens were disturbed by 
 these ruthless invasions. It became a question 
 whether to go to bed or not when there was 
 reason to apprehend such a visitation. Senti- 
 nels were posted at intervals in the ill-lighted 
 streets. There was something painfully
 
 Standing at Bay. 79 
 
 dismal and alarmlns: in the sound of their 
 signal-cries, which were speedily followed 
 by a loud knocking at the doors. The voices 
 of the commissaries mingled with those of the 
 soldiers ; the least delay provoked their anger. 
 Added to the arrests and executions con- 
 stantly taking place, and the vexations to 
 which even the most obscure persons were 
 exposed, a number of sinister reports were 
 circulated. It was said that the Jacobins, in 
 their secret meetings, were drawing up a list 
 of all the most respectable inhabitants of 
 Lyons, who were to be immediately executed. 
 The violence of the speeches at the clubs 
 exceeded all conception. One of the em- 
 ployes at the custom-house, a young man of 
 the name of Baron, was in the habit of attend- 
 ing these meetings in order to find out what 
 was going on. This assiduity obtained him the 
 reputation of a good patriot, and he was often 
 entrusted with some of the inflammatory publi- 
 cations by which the demagogue Challier was 
 maddening the populace. Sometimes, of an 
 evening, in Mdme. de Belleclse's rooms, he used
 
 8o Standing at Bay. 
 
 to give the company specimens of the style of 
 eloquence of the Jacobin speakers. Being an 
 excellent mimic, these performances were 
 irresistibly funny ; and even in the midst of 
 all the horrors and dangers besetting them, 
 the little society could not resist laughing at the 
 figipres of speech of the revolutionary orators. 
 
 What had been at first mere rumours, 
 turned out to be the truth. At a solemn 
 meeting of the most fanatic of the patriots, a 
 plan had been formed which involved the 
 seizure of the city, the establishment of the 
 guillotine on the Pont Morant, at both ends 
 of which guns were to be placed, and the 
 wholesale massacre of all those designated as 
 aristocrats, moderates, and neutrals, or ac- 
 cused of being rich, devout, or allied in any 
 degree to an emigre. Challier summed up 
 his project with these words : 
 
 ' The revolutionary axe must strike until 
 the population of this city is composed only of 
 persons devoted to the Republic, and worthy 
 to co-operate in the great work of the regene- 
 ration of Lyons !'
 
 StaJiding at Bay. 8 i 
 
 The day of the conspiracy was fixed, and 
 the most horrible oaths imposed on the mem- 
 bers. One of these, however, was dismayed 
 at the prospect of these horrors, and gave 
 notice of the project ; upon which the sections 
 at last roused themselves, chose their leaders, 
 and marched against the Hotel de Ville, where 
 the municipality, entirely composed of Jaco- 
 bins, had established its head-quarters. A 
 fierce strife ensued, in which, after desperate 
 fighting, the Lyonese obtained a complete 
 victory over the demagogues. 
 
 The bodies of a number of prisoners, whom 
 the latter had massacred and mutilated, having 
 been found at the town-hall, their murderers 
 were arrested, and a new government ap- 
 pointed. Challier, the leader of the Terrorists, 
 was tried and executed, and also Picard de 
 Beauvernais, a man of noble birth, who had 
 enrolled himself amongst his most bloody 
 partizans. These two men were considered 
 by their party as martyrs, and they swore to 
 avenge their deaths, an oath which they too 
 exactly kept. Meanwhile, tranquillity was 
 
 VOL. I. 6
 
 82 Standing at Bay. 
 
 restored, and Lyons enjoyed, for the time 
 being, an unwonted freedom. People flocked 
 there to seek a refuge from the terror which 
 was raging in every other part of France 
 except the Vendean provinces, where the 
 Royalists had raised their standard. 
 
 The relief which this state of things 
 brought with it was inexpressible, but it was 
 not of long duration. The Government of 
 the Republic determined to crush the resist- 
 ance of the Lyonese, and refused to come to 
 terms with the new municipality unless they 
 gave up the heads of the most respectable 
 inhabitants of the town in compensation for 
 Challier's execution. This they absolutely 
 refused to do, and generously, but rashly, 
 resolved to defend themselves and brave the 
 army despatched to conquer them, trusting 
 that their example would arouse a spirit of 
 reaction all over France. 
 
 M. de Precy was appointed commander of 
 the volunteers and of the city ; M. des Elmes 
 served under him. If valour and zeal, a pro- 
 found sense of the justice of the cause for
 
 Stand27ij^ at Bay. 83 
 
 which they were preparing to fight — if talent 
 and skill united with bravery could have 
 availed against brute force, Lyons would have 
 succeeded in its resistance. The activity and 
 ardour which was displayed by the majority 
 of the population electrified all those who 
 dreaded the victory of the Terrorists, Forti- 
 fications were hastily constructed, cannon 
 melted, arms provided for all those capable 
 of bearing them ; women and children worked 
 at the erection of bastions, and organised 
 ambulances. Every well-disposed person of 
 every age and sex worked in some way or 
 other for the defence of the town. The 
 tradespeople devoted their bales of goods for 
 the formation of redoubts on the banks of 
 the Rhone. No party question was mooted. 
 There was but one thought and one feeling 
 amidst the bulk of the people of Lyons, and 
 that was to resist the approaching assailants 
 and the return of the reign of terror. It was 
 a noble effort in which all the sound portion 
 of the inhabitants joined, and it excited an 
 amount of enthusiasm which made the 
 
 6—2
 
 84 Standing at Bay. 
 
 weakest and most timid valiant for the time 
 being. 
 
 It may be Imagined what a young girl like 
 Aline felt at that moment, and with what 
 passionate enthusiasm she and Emilie de 
 Bellecise threw themselves into the move- 
 ment. Sophie de Souligne caught the infec- 
 tion, and actually worked under Emilie's 
 direction at the house in the Rue de Saone, 
 where an ambulance was being prepared, and 
 probably with all the more zeal that Andre 
 had given up his rather nominal duties at 
 the verrerie and appeared in Lyons on the 
 day after Challier's death. During every 
 moment that could be spared from drilling, 
 he offered his services in the Rue de Saone. 
 They chiefly consisted in keeping the ladies 
 employed there in good spirits by a constant 
 flow of amusing nonsense. Aline, on the 
 other hand, often accompanied her father in 
 his military inspection of the lines of defence, 
 and listened with intense interest to the dis- 
 cussions between him and M. de Precy on 
 military questions. Her natural quickness
 
 Standing at Bay. 85 
 
 and eager sympathy in the subject enabled 
 her to master technical details. She could 
 almost have passed an examination in 
 strategy. 
 
 The evenings in Mdme. de Bellecise's 
 room were now more animated than ever, 
 and openly frequented by the leaders of the 
 defence. Andre no longer needed his dis- 
 guise. A number of persons lately arrived 
 in Lyons were received at the old custom- 
 house, which became a centre of social inter- 
 course and animated conversation. Amongst 
 the habitues of that salon, which had resumed 
 some of the gaiety and animation of former 
 days, were the Count and Countess d'Apchier, 
 who, with their daughter Pauline, had taken 
 refuge in Lyons from repeated attacks made 
 on their lives by the patriots of Puy, In the 
 vicinity of which was their property. The 
 count was much beloved by his own villagers, 
 but it was always in the neighbouring towns 
 that the hatred of the nobility raged. If left 
 to themselves, the peasants would often 
 enough have felt kindly towards their
 
 86 Standing at Bay. 
 
 seigneurs, provided they had been kind to 
 them ; but, as a rule, moral courage to de- 
 fend others is not often met with in days 
 of popular excitement. Pauline d'Apchier 
 eagerly joined the group of young people 
 whose thoughts all turned on the same point 
 — the approaching struggle for freedom and 
 for peace — aye, and for life and death to those 
 engaged in it. They looked forward with 
 unbounded confidence to the result. They 
 talked of Lyons saving the whole of France, 
 and anticipated its triumphant battalions 
 marching to Paris to avenge the king's 
 death, and crush there the reign of terror 
 which for nine months had been decimating 
 the best and bravest of their countrymen. 
 Pauline was a quiet gentle girl, with neither 
 Emilie de Bellecise's wonderful energy, 
 Sophie de Souligne's animation, or Aline's 
 quick intelligence ; but there was, neverthe- 
 less, something about her which indicated 
 strength of character. 
 
 Through the numerous arrivals in Lyons of 
 persons flying to it for protection, many facts
 
 Standing at Bay. 87 
 
 became known which, with their dreadful 
 details, roused to its hio^hest pitch the zeal 
 of. those who saw nothing before them but 
 what their hopes pictured. It was not thus 
 with the old experienced soldiers, who, as a 
 duty, had accepted the organisation of the 
 defence and the leadership of the untrained 
 troops under their command. Nor was it so 
 with Mdlle. des Elmes. With profound 
 resignation in her heart, and with outward 
 composure, she accepted what she felt to be 
 inevitable. The terms proposed by the con- 
 vention admitted, she owned, of no other 
 alternative than resistance. Therefore, cour- 
 ageously looking the future in the face, and 
 seeing nothing in it but the darkest prospect, 
 she never allowed one word to escape her 
 which could have discouraged others, or 
 attempted to check the exultation with which 
 Andre and Aline, each in their different ways, 
 spoke of the conflict now close at hand and 
 the triumph that was to follow. 
 
 ' Pray, my children,' she used to say — ' pray 
 that God may have mercy on us all.'
 
 SS Standing at Bay. 
 
 Andre answered : 
 
 * My good aunt, prayer is your business — 
 fighting mine.' 
 
 ' Not your only business, brother,' AHne 
 said. 
 
 * Hold your tongue, you little A. G., I am 
 teaching Sophie to be a Clorinda. You 
 should not grudge the time I bestow on her 
 education. But, by-the-way, I hear that you 
 and your friends Emilie and Pauline are 
 gleaning in the fields for the poor : I hope 
 you do not give anything to the Canuts.' ""' 
 
 ' We do not make any difference between 
 one poor family and another.' 
 
 ' Oh, good heavens ! What is that noise Y 
 exclaimed, at the same time, Mdlle. des 
 Elmes and Aline. A shell had fallen close 
 to the house. Aunt Felicie joined her 
 hands and murmured to herself: 
 
 ' It has begun then. My Jesus, mercy !' 
 
 Andre rushed out of the house, and came 
 back, announcing that indeed the attack was 
 
 * The Canuts were the lower order of workmen in 
 Lyons, and most of them devoted to the Jacobins.
 
 Standing at Bay. 89 
 
 beginning. During the night, shell after 
 shell fell in the part of the town where the 
 old custom-house was situated. Most of its 
 inhabitants sat up, half from fear, half from 
 curiosity. There was, in the bursting of the 
 bombs, something so terrible and so beauti- 
 ful at once, the excitement was so great, the 
 new emotions it awakened so powerful — that 
 sleep seemed out of the question. Aline 
 could not tear herself away from the window, 
 except to go now and then to Emilie's room. 
 Sophie was with her, trembling like a leaf. 
 ' She is not^ yet a Clorinda,' Aline thought, 
 and back she went to her post of observation. 
 An old M. Bathilier had taken refuge in 
 their room ; Andre had found him on the 
 stairs looking very miserable, and ushered 
 him in for the sake of company — he pulled 
 Aline aside and whispered. 
 
 ' Watch him. It is too funny ; he tries to 
 look out of the window, and if a shell bursts, 
 tumbles back like a ninepin. Look at him ; 
 he hides behind the muslin curtain as if it was 
 an armour of steel. How is Sophie getting on ?'
 
 90 Standing at Bay. 
 
 'She is frightened to death.' 
 
 ' Where is she ?' 
 . ' With EmiHe/ 
 
 ' Oh, poor Httle Clorinda ! I must go and 
 comfort her.' 
 
 The only person in the house quietly in 
 bed was M. des Elmes. As lonof as he 
 was not on duty he persisted in sleeping 
 through the night. 
 
 'It would be time,' he said, 'to sit up 
 when there was anything for him to do.' 
 
 Aline could not understand this apathy. 
 True, there was nothing for him to do, but it 
 seemed unnatural at a moment of such ex- 
 citement. On the fourth ni^ht since the 
 beginning of the bombardment, the arsenal 
 caught fire. It was supposed to be the work 
 of the Jacobins. One shell after another fell 
 upon it. There was no possibility of ex- 
 tinguishing the flames. Aline went to awake 
 her father. 
 
 * What is the matter ?' he asked. 
 
 ' Father, you must get up ; the arsenal is 
 on fire.'
 
 Standing at Bay. 91 
 
 ' My dear, I can't put it out ; leave me 
 alone.' 
 
 * But, father, the bombs are falling like 
 rain. You will be killed in your bed.' 
 
 ' Not so likely as if I was up,' he answered, 
 and actually went to sleep again. 
 
 This repose of his, in the midst of her 
 high-wrought excitement, drove Aline wild, 
 and it was almost a relief to her when a fire 
 broke out, not very far from their house, 
 which gave her an excuse for again attempting 
 to rouse him. 
 
 ' Father, you must get up. M. Pernet's 
 house is on fire ; and see, the sky is red with 
 flames !' 
 
 ' What ?' he drowsily asked, ' what is on 
 fire ?' 
 
 At last M. des Elmes rose, and Aline felt 
 as if all was safe then. He dressed, went 
 out, and then came back to fetch her. There 
 were conflagrations on the other side of the 
 Saone. It was a striking and terrible sight. 
 The arsenal was nearly consumed. Emilie, 
 who had accompanied them, saw flames
 
 92 Standing at Bay. 
 
 bursting from a house which she thought 
 must be her sister's. 
 
 ' I must go to her,' she said ; ' her husband 
 is on guard to-night ; she is perhaps alone 
 with her children !' 
 
 She was off like a shot to the bridge. The 
 sentinel barred her passage. Women were 
 not allowed to cross it. 
 
 She begged and prayed in vain. His 
 orders were absolute. She flew home, 
 borrowed clothes from a youth of her own 
 height, dressed herself like a man, placed two 
 pistols in her sash, and returned to St. 
 Vincent's Bridsfe. 
 
 ' Where are you going ?' the sentinel cried. 
 
 ' To my post,' she boldly replied. 
 
 ' Where is your post }' 
 
 ' The Croix rousse.' 
 
 ' Pass,* he said. 
 
 Her very youthful appearance would have 
 excited suspicion if it had not been that mere 
 boys were armed and employed in the 
 defence. She found her sister dressing the 
 wounds of one of her servants, who had been
 
 Standing at Bay. 93 
 
 struck by a fragment of the shell which had 
 set her house on fire, the terrified children 
 crying and clinging to her, no one able to 
 direct or advise. Emilie's arrival was a god- 
 send. She worked with her own hands to 
 reduce the flames, comforted and helped 
 everyone, and at six o'clock in the morning 
 walked quietly home as if she had done 
 nothing unusual. 
 
 Orders were issued next day that buckets 
 of water should be placed in the streets and 
 before the houses. The men being almost 
 all engaged in military duties, the women had 
 to be told off to the chain. They worked at 
 it with the greatest ardour. Even Mdlle. 
 des Elmes, who would have seemed incapable 
 of so much exertion, spent hours carrying and 
 handing buckets. 
 
 In the meantime M. des Elmes was ap- 
 pointed to take charge of the defence on the 
 side of the Porte St. Irenee, situated on a 
 hill above the town. His family removed to 
 a lodging in that vicinity. It was with 
 sorrow they left the abode where, even
 
 94 Standing at Bay. 
 
 during that terrible winter and spring some 
 happy moments had been spent. Famine 
 and sufferings of every kind were now daily 
 increasing amongst the inhabitants of Lyons, 
 and the hostility of a portion of the popula- 
 tion was more openly manifested as the hope- 
 lessness of the struggle became more apparent. 
 A detachment of volunteers who had made a 
 sortie towards St. Etienne and Montbrison, 
 after a desperate combat, were forced to fall 
 back on the town. This occasioned great 
 discouragement amongst the partizans of the 
 defence. Hopes had been entertained that 
 the heroic resistance of Lyons might have 
 awakened sympathy in other parts of France, 
 and that a reaction against the reign of terror 
 would have set in ; but day after day passed 
 and no reinforcements arrived. Despair 
 seized the hearts of brave men, who saw 
 before them a future the consequences of 
 which they scarcely dared to contemplate. 
 
 The town was beleaguered on every side, 
 and an assault from the enemy's troops im- 
 minent. With the comparatively small and
 
 Standing at Bay. 95 
 
 undisciplined forces at their command, and 
 the aid afforded by the Jacobins within to 
 those outside the walls, the case was hopeless. 
 The Porte St. Irenee was the first attacked. 
 A desperate conflict took place there. The 
 house where Mdlle. des Elmes and her niece 
 were lodging, stood between three batteries. 
 The balls of the assailants struck its walls, 
 and broke the window-panes. The torment 
 of inaction at such a moment is perhaps the 
 greatest of sufferings, especially to an ardent 
 young spirit, to whom danger and death are 
 less dreadful than the silent expectancy of an 
 inevitable catastrophe. 
 
 ' Oh that I could be fighting by the side of 
 my father and my brother !' Aline exclaimed, 
 wringing her hands. * I was with Emilie at 
 Pierre Cize. Madame de Combelles is with 
 her husband at his post. Oh, Aunt Felicie, 
 let me go to my father ! I know the way. I 
 don't want to live if Lyons is taken !' 
 
 ' Child, your post is here. True courage, 
 in this case, is to await the upshot with com- 
 plete submission to God's will.'
 
 g6 Standing at Bay. 
 
 'It is not, it cannot be His will,' Aline 
 passionately retorted, ' that the good should 
 be massacred, and those wicked men 
 triumph !' 
 
 ' Did it seem to be His will that Jesus 
 Christ should die on a cross, and that those 
 who cried, " Crucify Him !" should triumph ? 
 Child of mine, we cannot see what all these 
 miseries are tending to, but we must say, as 
 did the prophet, " Though He slay me, I will 
 
 trust in Him." ' 
 
 ' Aunt Felicie, I begin to think you are a 
 saint,' Aline said. ' I did not know you were 
 so religious.' 
 
 ' I am driven to it, my child. I now see 
 what this world I cared for so much is worth ; 
 and if I suffered alone, I could rejoice at the 
 knowledge I have gained. Let us be patient, 
 and perhaps those we love may yet be spared 
 to us.' 
 
 An increase of voices in the street stopped 
 this conversation. Both hurried back to the 
 window, from which they could see the com- 
 bat at the Porte St. Irenee. The Lyonese
 
 Standing at Bay. 97 
 
 were every moment losing ground ; numbers 
 of wounded were carried past the house ; 
 women with children in their arms runninof in 
 very direction, screaming : 
 
 ' They are coming in ! All is lost ! It is 
 all over with us !' 
 
 In the course of the afternoon, the cure of 
 the parish came up to the room where Mdlle. 
 des Elmes and Aline were watching: these 
 scenes with an anguish which can be con- 
 ceived, but not described. He came to ask 
 for a glass of water for a wounded man in the 
 street. He said that the sufferings of the 
 dying were terrible. He was going from one 
 to the other, ministering spiritual consolation 
 and affording them any little relief within his 
 power. He had made up his mind that he 
 should die as soon as the army entered the 
 town, and was spending what he expected to 
 be the last day of his life just in the way 
 he would have wished. Now Aline's eyes 
 flashed, and her cheeks flushed. With a 
 voice trembling with emotion, she said to her 
 aunt : 
 
 VOL. I. 7
 
 98 Standing at Bay. 
 
 ' May I fill a basket with water and brandy 
 and anything that can be of use, and go with 
 M. le Cure ?' 
 
 Her whole soul was in her eyes. She had 
 been used to go on begging expeditions with 
 him ; in their zeal for the poor, a few days 
 before, they had ventured beyond the walls, 
 and seen soldiers of the Convention at the 
 windows of houses where they begged. It 
 would have broken her heart to be refused 
 what she now asked. Mdlle. des Elmes hesi- 
 tated an instant, then she said : 
 
 ' Go, Aline ; do what you wish, but on 
 one condition — you will come back to me 
 whenever M. le Cure commands you to do 
 so ;' and turning to him, she added, ' You will 
 send her back before the army enters.' 
 
 ' Of course I shall, but the Fort St. Juste 
 is still holding out ; they will not enter to- 
 day.' 
 
 The old man and the young girl went on 
 their errand of mercy that day and the next. 
 The ambulances were attended by Sisters of 
 Charity, in a secular dress ; but in the streets
 
 Standing at Bay. 99 
 
 were lying sufferers utterly abandoned. To 
 these Aline, under the direction of her vener- 
 able guide, was able to give a little relief and 
 consolation. When she came home she felt 
 a joy in that day's work, which, combined 
 with great fatigue, sent her fast asleep. Mdlle. 
 des Elmes, watching her quiet slumbers, was 
 rewarded for the unselfish courage with which 
 she had borne the hours of cruel anxiety her 
 absence had caused her. The next day the 
 attack was general. Towards evening M. 
 des Elmes' voice was heard in the street. His 
 sister ran down to him. He said : 
 
 ' Go back immediately to the old custom- 
 house. We cannot hold out many hours. 
 The enemy will enter to-night, and you would 
 be in the greatest danger here during the first 
 fury of their triumph. Farewell, my dear. If 
 God wills it we shall meet again ; if not. His 
 will be done.' 
 
 Aline, who was preparing for another day 
 of work with the cure, was disappointed. 
 Her aunt and herself slowly and sadly walked 
 down the hill, and through the suburb into 
 
 7—2
 
 lOO Standing at Bay. 
 
 Lyons, They were welcomed most affection- 
 ately by their friends at the custom-house, but 
 also with despair, for their return proved that 
 the defence was hopeless. Emilie and Aline, 
 and poor little Sophie — -sobered for the time 
 being — wept bitterly that evening. The fort 
 at the Porte St. Irenee was carried the next 
 day after a desperate resistance. All was 
 over. Then M. de Precy, thinking that the 
 best chance for the peaceable inhabitants was 
 to withdraw his troops from the town, deter- 
 mined to evacuate it. Two columns marched 
 out under cover of a thick mist. The first 
 succeeded in reaching a spot on the left bank 
 of the Saone, where they disbanded, and each 
 one sought safety for himself. The sudden 
 clearing up of the fog proved fatal to the 
 second detachment. It was surrounded by 
 the enemy and cut In pieces ; a number of 
 women had accompanied it, and embarrassed 
 its advance. The wives of the volunteers in- 
 sisted, with imprudent self-devotion, on fol- 
 lowing their husbands ; they had at any rate 
 the consolation of sharing their fate.
 
 Standing at Bay. lOi 
 
 M. des Elmes, foreseeing the evil and 
 danger of women accompanying the troops, 
 refused to join the departing columns ; he 
 neither would take his sister and daughter 
 with him, nor leave them behind. So he 
 determined to run the risk of remaining in 
 Lyons. But not at the old custom-house. 
 He took rooms at an hotel near the hospital 
 where the ambulance was situated. The 
 Sisters of Charity promised, in case of a 
 massacre, to lend Mdlle. des Elmes and 
 Aline some shabby clothes, and hide them 
 amongst their poor. They went with 
 them into the ward of the wounded soldiers. 
 All was silent and quiet in that scene of 
 suffering. The patience of these poor men 
 astonished them ; they had but few comforts, 
 thougfh the Sisters did all thev could for their 
 relief. It was touching to see the gratitude 
 with which they requited their care. 
 
 ' This Is the officers' ward,' the Sister said, 
 as she led the way into another room. A 
 dozen men of various ages, more or less 
 dangerously wounded, occupied its beds.
 
 IC2 Sta7iding at Bay. 
 
 ' O my God !' Aline exclaimed, catching 
 hold of her aunt's arm for support, ' is not 
 that Andre ?' 
 
 Hardly able to command her agitation, 
 Mdlle. des Elmes pointed out the bed to 
 the Sister and said : 
 
 ' Is that young man badly wounded ?' 
 
 'Severely wounded,' she answered, 'but 
 not, I think, dangerously. A ball has been 
 extracted from his thigh.' 
 
 ' He is my brother,' Aline whispered, ' my 
 own brother. May I speak to him ?' 
 
 ' He is asleep ; you had better not awake 
 him. Yes, you may sit down by his side.' 
 
 Mdlle. des Elmes sat, and Aline knelt 
 by the bed. 
 
 ' Poor darling !' she ejaculated, ' my own 
 dear Andre !' and her tears fell fast on the 
 coarse blanket with which he was covered. 
 In a little while he opened his eyes. The 
 dark rim under them and the paleness of his 
 cheeks showed how much he had suffered. 
 When he saw his sister's face a bright smile 
 lighted up his languid eyes — that smile
 
 Standing at Bay. 103 
 
 which made him, with all his faults, so attrac- 
 tive. 
 
 ' Oh, little A. G ! there you are, and 
 Aunt Felicie — I am so glad.' 
 
 Mdlle. des Elmes left the brother and 
 sister together for a few minutes, and 
 went to consult the Sister. 
 
 ' Tell me, ma Sceur,' she said, ' if a carriage 
 could be procured, would it be possible for 
 that poor boy to travel a few miles without 
 risk to his life }' 
 
 The Sister thought a moment, and then 
 said : 
 
 * There would be some little danger, per- 
 haps, but not so much as in remaining here. I 
 will tell you the truth, madame. When the 
 Republican troops are in possession of the 
 town, they will come here, and there will be 
 sad work then. Their wounds will be con- 
 sidered as evidence against these poor 
 soldiers of the defence.' 
 
 ' Come, Aline,' Mdlle. des Elmes whis- 
 pered to her niece, ' there is no time to lose.' 
 
 She kissed Andre's forehead. Aline em-
 
 104 Standing at Bay. 
 
 braced him, and they left the hospital, pro- 
 mising to come back. When they reached 
 the street, Mdlle. des Elmes said : 
 
 ' Dear child, you know the way to the old 
 custom-house ; go there at once, try to see 
 M. Mazurier. Tell him about Andre. Ask 
 that good friend to help us, and as soon 
 as possible to take him back to the vej^rerie ; 
 there is no safety for the wounded In the 
 hospital. A massacre is apprehended. I 
 would go with you, but my slow walking 
 would lose time.' 
 
 Aline flew to their old abode — M. Mazurier 
 was out ; she went up to Madame de Belleclse's 
 apartment — they were not at home ; then to 
 Sophie de Souligne's room. She did not in- 
 tend to tell her of Andre's wound and his 
 danger. It was hard enough to preserve self- 
 command without speaking of her anxiety. 
 She dreaded to do so. But when she saw 
 Sophie, who she knew was so fond of him, 
 and thought of the days when she used to be 
 provoked at their nonsense, it was vain to 
 attempt concealment. She burst into an agony
 
 Standing at Bay. 105 
 
 of tears — she told her everything, and the 
 girls wept together. 
 
 ' M. Mazurier will not come back to-day,' 
 Sophie said, between her sobs ; ' I heard him 
 say so this morning. But my father would 
 help him. Stop a moment, I will go and speak 
 to papa.' 
 
 ' But do not cry so violently, Sophie. Try 
 to be calm.' 
 
 ' Leave me alone ; I know how to manage 
 papa.' 
 
 She came back in a little while looking so 
 delighted, that Aline, who was apt to be too 
 sensitive, felt that exuberant joy as uncon- 
 genial as the previous violent bursts of 
 grief. 
 
 'It is all settled : papa will call with a 
 carriage at the hospital towards dusk, and 
 take your brother to the verrerie. I will put 
 into it all the pillows I can collect, and I am 
 myself going with them. Papa will drive — he 
 will not trust his servants — and somebody must 
 be inside to take care of the poor wounded 
 traveller. I shall take wine with me, and
 
 io6 Standing at Bay. 
 
 salts, in case he should be faint. Leave it all 
 to me ; I shall take good care of him.' 
 
 She made these plans with such pleasur- 
 able excitement, that Aline, who would 
 passionately have desired to accompany her 
 brother in her stead, did not venture to pro- 
 pose it. She thanked Sophie, and wrote a 
 note of earnest gratitude to M. de Souligne ; 
 then went back to her aunt with the good 
 news. They returned to the hospital. The 
 Sister said there would be some difficulty in 
 taking Andre out of the ward, especially as 
 he was to be carried, without attracting too 
 much observation. There mi^ht be ill-dis- 
 posed persons on the look-out. However, as 
 his bed was fortunately near the door, which 
 opened into a passage leading to a back door 
 where the carriage could stand, she hoped 
 to manage it successfully. The infirmarians 
 were good, trustworthy men. They would 
 not light the lamps as soon as usual, and 
 in the interval of darkness the transfer might 
 be effected. 
 
 Andre was apprised of what had been
 
 Standing at Bay. 107 
 
 arranged, and though the Sisters told him that 
 the motion of the carriage would cause him 
 pain, he was delighted at the release from his 
 bed and the prospect of escape. His aunt 
 and sister stationed themselves at the back- 
 door, awaiting the arrival of the carriage. 
 M. de Souligne and his daughter w^ere punc- 
 tual. They exchanged a few words. The 
 time seemed long. Sophie whispered to 
 Aline : 
 
 ' If something has happened, and he does 
 not come, I shall die.' 
 
 Aline turned away impatiently. At last a 
 door was gently opened by a Sister. Andre, 
 laid on a mattress, was brought out and 
 lifted into the carriage. His aunt and sister 
 got in for an instant to kiss him. Then 
 M. de Souligne mounted the box, and Sophie 
 took her seat beside him, looking radiant. 
 
 ' I do so envy her,' Aline said, as they 
 watched the carriage driving away. 
 
 At that moment a shell burst quite close to 
 her. 
 
 ' If it had killed me,' she said to herself,
 
 io8 Standing at Bay. 
 
 ' that discontented thought would have been 
 the last in my mind. Thank God it has not 
 been so !' 
 
 This helped her to feel nothing but grati- 
 tude for Andres removal and the kindness 
 of the Soulignes. If this was the case that 
 evening, how much more was it on the next 
 day, when, after the city was taken, the 
 unfortunate soldiers of the defence were 
 dragged out of their beds and shot as enemies 
 of the Republic ! 
 
 A note from Sophie reached her, containing 
 these words : 
 
 ' We had a delightful drive, though your 
 beloved one suffered much from the jolts ; 
 but he did not faint away. I made him laugh 
 and amused him so well, that he declared he 
 would willingly have another ball through his 
 body on condition of being carried off in the 
 same manner. I was quite sorry when we 
 arrived, only the dear one was so tired he 
 could hardly speak at last. A hideous old 
 woman took possession of him, and promised
 
 Standing at Bay. 109 
 
 to nurse him carefully. Poor fellow ! he gave 
 me such a funny look when she offered her 
 services. Papa would only stay just long 
 enough to give the horses hay and water. I 
 feel very dull to-day. Nothing to think or 
 care about. 
 
 ' Your loving 
 
 'S.' 
 
 Again deep thankfulness was combined in 
 Alines heart with a kind of pain at the 
 thoughtless levity of this note. She had just 
 heard of the massacre of the wounded men, 
 and was trembling at the thought of Andre's 
 narrow escape. Sophie was the last person 
 she would have wished him to care for. Oh 
 that he had fallen in love with Emilie 
 — with one who would have raised him to a 
 higher level, instead of dragging him down to 
 a lower one than his own ! 
 
 Meanwhile, what was to become of M. des 
 Elmes ^ was the question. Where was he to 
 seek a refuge ? A wild confusion reigned in 
 the town, which made it for the time being
 
 no Standing at Bay. 
 
 less perilous to remain within the walls than 
 to attempt to leave it, as sentinels were closely- 
 guarding all the gates and issues. The 
 terrible scene at the hospital, however, deter- 
 mined M. des Elmes to return for a while 
 with his family to their old quarters at the 
 custom-house. The Bellecises had left it, 
 but the Soulignes were in the same apart- 
 ment as before, on the same floor as their 
 own. Nothing was heard off but massacres, 
 arrests, and executions. Several of those 
 who had been wont to p-ather together with 
 so much joy and hope under that roof, met 
 with a tragical fate. Amongst others, M. de 
 Precy's nephew and M. de Clermont Tonnere 
 were shot. M. de Longivalle narrowly 
 escaped the same fate. 
 
 He was concealed in a garret over the 
 rooms occupied at that moment by M. des 
 Elmes and his sister and dauohter. Of an 
 evening he sometimes ventured to come down 
 for a short while and share their supper. 
 His other meals were carried up to him. He 
 was sitting with them one night when the
 
 Standing at Bay. 1 1 1 
 
 Comte d'Apchier and his daughter came in, 
 as they sometimes did, to spend an hour 
 with their friends. Since the surrender of the 
 town, hke all those who had sided with the 
 anti-Jacobins, they were living in close seclu- 
 sion ; their place of retreat had not hitherto 
 been suspected. 
 
 * Is there any news ?' they asked, that oft- 
 repeated question which never received any 
 but sad answers for the proscribed. 
 
 M. des Elmes shook his head. 
 
 * I have heard nothing new, except that 
 some more convents have been despoiled in 
 a more or less brutal manner.' 
 
 ' Oh !' M. d'Apchier said, ' exacdy so. We 
 have had a visit to-day from one of the ex- 
 pulsed Carmelite nuns. How she found us 
 out I don't know ; but she fell at my feet and 
 begged for assistance, poor thing ! We gave 
 her what we could, and offered, her a bed, but 
 she would not stay.' 
 
 Pauline whispered to Aline : 
 
 * I did not like her at all. Her manners 
 did not seem to me those of a nun. I felt
 
 1 1 2 Standing at Bay. 
 
 uncomfortable all the time she was in the 
 room. Papa was displeased with me for 
 saying so, but I could not help it.' 
 
 Then they talked of other things, but 
 Aline could not cjet out of her head what 
 Pauline had told her. She dreamt all night 
 of the Carmelite nun, and woke with a feeling 
 of terror. Mdlle. d'Apchler's presentiment, 
 or her powers of perception, had not deceived 
 her. The miserable creature who had pre- 
 tended to ask for alms was a spy of the 
 police, and on the following day she de- 
 nounced her benefactor. 
 
 When the house was entered Mdme. 
 d'Apchier was out, and Pauline alone with 
 her father. She flung her arms round him, 
 and the gendarmes took her away with the 
 count. He prepared for death. She refused 
 to believe that he would be condemned, and 
 thanked God that she was imprisoned with 
 him. Mdme. d'Apchier spent days of 
 intense anxiety. Aline was often with her ; 
 young as she was, her presence was a support 
 and a comfort to the poor woman. One
 
 Standing at Bay, 1 1 3 
 
 evening she came home with the news that 
 Mdme. d'Apchier was almost wild with 
 despair. Her husband and daughter had ap- 
 peared before the Tribunal, but were not tried 
 that day. He was removed to a prison, 
 whence the next step was to the guillotine, and 
 his daughter was sent to the House of Correc- 
 tion, She had been able to send her mother 
 a note, in which she told her that in this 
 horrible place she had found an aged nun, 
 who had arrived there a few hours before, 
 and that, by bribing the gaoler, they were 
 about to be transferred to a ward where 
 there were only victims of the Revolu- 
 tion, 
 
 In a day or two Pauline appeared before 
 the Tribunal, and was acquitted, M,d'Apchier's 
 sentence had been deferred till certain in- 
 formations should be given by the patrols of 
 Puy. The poor girl returned to her mother. 
 Aline was with her, 
 
 * Mother,' she exclaimed, ' there is breath- 
 ing-time. We shall save him. I shall ^o to 
 Brunieres, one of the judges. They say he 
 
 VOL. I. 8
 
 114 Standing at Bay. 
 
 is less savage than the others, more gentle in 
 his manner.' 
 
 Aline went home and related all this. M. 
 de Longivalle was in the room, He started 
 when he heard Brunieres' name, asked for a 
 bit of paper, wrote upon it, and said to 
 Aline : 
 
 * Can you give this to ]\Idlle. d'Apchier to- 
 night, or early to-morrow morning ?' 
 
 * I will OTQ back with it at once.' 
 
 * If she has courage and presence of mind, 
 she may perhaps save her father's life.' 
 
 ' I should never have expected her to be 
 as brave as she has shown herself; but we 
 never know beforehand, I suppose, what 
 people are made of 
 
 The paper was delivered into the hands of 
 the timid young girl. The next day she 
 forced her way into Brunieres' house ; and as 
 soon as she was in his presence, said : 
 
 ' Citoyen, my father is in prison expecting 
 a sentence of death, and I am come to ask 
 you to save him.' 
 
 'Just as I expected,' he exclaimed ; 'the
 
 Standing at Bay, 115 
 
 old story. I can do nothing. Your father is 
 an enemy of the RepubHc, and must die with 
 the rest.' 
 
 * Then, if my father dies, your head shall 
 fall with his. Your life is in my hands. You 
 have imposed on the Republic by forged 
 papers. I know your real name. You were 
 in the Gardes du Corps of the King of Spain. 
 You offered to betray the Jacobins if the 
 other side would have paid you all you asked. 
 The proofs of this are in the hands of my 
 friends. If my father dies, or if you send me 
 to prison, you w^ill be tried and condemned 
 within twenty-four hours.' 
 
 Brunieres turned deadly pale, '^and then, 
 with a burst of fury, exclaimed : 
 
 'And how can I save your father? He 
 will be condemned to-morrow, and sent to Puy 
 to be executed.' 
 
 Pauline shuddered, but maintained her 
 self-command. 
 
 ' It is a matter for your decision. If I can 
 do anything I am ready, of course.' 
 
 Brunieres considered a moment. 
 
 Z—2
 
 1 1 6 Standing at Bay. 
 
 'If, in as short a time as possible, you can 
 bring me a petition signed by good patriots 
 begging for your father's life, that might do 
 the business.' 
 
 She unhesitatingly said she would. M. 
 d'Apchier had property in the Vivarais, and 
 used to be very popular in the little town of 
 Vernaux. She said that if Brunieres would 
 delay the passing of the sentence for three 
 days, and give her a safe-conduct, she would 
 go and obtain the signatures. 
 
 Before daybreak she was tossing in a little 
 boat on the swollen waters of the Rhone, 
 landed at Tournon in the dark that evening, 
 and after a few hours' rest with some friends 
 there, rode to Vernaux. There the old 
 parish church had been turned into a court- 
 house. The revolutionists held their meet- 
 ings there, but they were mild terrorists com- 
 pared with those of many other places. The 
 commune was at that moment sitting. Pauline 
 walked into the desecrated building, and was 
 instantly recognised. The members half 
 involuntarily saluted her ; she marched up to
 
 Standing at Bay. 1 1 7 
 
 the pulpit now used as a tribune, and made 
 her Httle speech : 
 
 'Citizens and friends, — My father is in 
 prison at Lyons. He is to be condemned 
 to death unless I can bring to his judges 
 a petition for his life, signed by good 
 patriots. You know how good he is — how 
 he cared for you all. Oh, do save my 
 father !' 
 
 The poor girl fainted as she uttered those 
 words. When she recovered her senses a 
 discussion was going on. A few fanatical 
 Republicans were shouting, 'Death to the aris- 
 tocrat !' but a far greater number were offering 
 to sign the petition. The mayor, who was a 
 Protestant, headed the list. Pauline rode 
 hard a day and a night without stopping, dis- 
 mounted at the Hotel de Ville, where the 
 judges, prepared for the event by Brunieres, 
 acquitted the Citoyen Apchier. Aline wit- 
 nessed the meeting between the happy wife 
 and her rescued husband and child, and after- 
 wards related at home what Pauline had 
 done. M. de Longivalle listened very at-
 
 1 1 8 Standing at Bay. 
 
 tentively. She had brought him a message 
 of ardent gratitude from her friend. 
 
 M. des Elmes said, ' Why, that quiet, shy 
 girl beats EmiHe de Bellecise !' 
 
 AHne did not like to hear Emilie disparaged. 
 
 M. de Longivalle said, ' Heroism is 
 Mdlle. de Bellecise's vocation. She will do 
 things of that sort to the end of her life. 
 Mdlle. d'Apchier went out of her line, 
 and, except under equally extraordinary 
 circumstances, she will never perform such 
 an exploit again. I should think she was 
 made for domestic life.' 
 
 Fortunately for them, the Apchiers escaped 
 from Lyons a day or two afterwards, and 
 went to Vernaux, where they lived in retire- 
 ment during part of the reign of terror. 
 Afterwards they took refuge in England. 
 
 For those who remained in that city, every- 
 thing went from bad to worse. Each day 
 brought with it fatal news. M. des Elmes' 
 sister and daughter lived in terror on his 
 account. The people of the house were 
 thoroughly trustworthy, but a casual person
 
 Standing at Bay. 1 1 9 
 
 might at any moment have denounced 
 him. 
 
 One night they received a domiciliary visit, 
 but it passed off quietly. Two days after- 
 wards, however, as Cantat was leaving her 
 mistress's room at eleven o'clock p.m., she 
 met Mdlle. de Soulignes maid, who said to 
 her in a low, but agitated voice : 
 
 'Awake your master. There is not a 
 moment to lose. They have come to arrest 
 him. I heard them knockins:, and looked 
 out of the window. They ordered me to let 
 them in. I sent them to the back-door, but 
 they w^ill return in a moment. They said 
 they were quite certain he was here ' 
 
 Cantat hastened to warn M. des Elmes. 
 He jumped out of bed and ran across the 
 landing-place. M. de Souligne's door 
 opened. He rushed in, and it closed. Voices 
 on the stairs were heard crying out : 
 
 ' He is escaping ! A door has been opened 
 and shut !' 
 
 Cantat met them with a candlestick in her 
 hand.
 
 I20 Standing at Bay. 
 
 * Where is he ?' they vociferated ; * we 
 heard some one runnino^,' 
 
 ' Why, citoyens, had I not to run in order 
 to open the door for you ? You knocked as 
 if the house was on fire.' 
 
 ' You made precious Httle haste to come 
 down — somebody else let us in. But we 
 shall find him, for we know for certain he is 
 here.' 
 
 The fact was, that St. Jean had met in the 
 street some friends of his from Moulins, who 
 had come in with the revolutionary army. 
 They asked him where he lived, and, like a 
 goose, he had told them. 
 
 The commissaries dashed into the chamber 
 where Aline and her aunt slept together in 
 one large bed. M. des Elmes' bed was in 
 an alcove. 
 
 ' Where is he ?' they cried ; ' where is he V 
 
 ' Who, citoyen ?' 
 
 * Gerard des Elmes.' 
 
 ' He is not here ; he has gone away.' 
 'Which is his room ?' 
 ' This one.'
 
 Standing at Bay. 121 
 
 ' Where does he sleep ?' 
 
 * In that alcove.' 
 
 ' If he is gone, why is his bed tumbled ?' 
 
 ' During his absence, my maid sleeps in it.' 
 
 ' Oh, indeed,' the chief commissary said. 
 ' I do not believe a word of it.' 
 
 And he declared that he would search all 
 the house. 
 
 Sentinels were posted at the door of every 
 room. Mdlle. des Elmes and Aline heard 
 their steps on the stairs, and guessed that 
 they were entering M. de Souligne's apart- 
 ment. They rose, ran, and putting on their 
 dressing-gowns, opened the door, and held 
 it ajar. They could not pass the sentinel, 
 but stood there shivering and trembling. A 
 light appeared on the stairs. They expected 
 to see M. des Elmes in the hands of the 
 commissaries ; but no — they came down 
 without him. Aline pressed her aunt's 
 trembling hand. The sentinel was called 
 away. They listened to their retreating 
 steps, they heard the house-door shut, and 
 crept into bed again. It was pitch-dark.
 
 122 Standing at Bay. 
 
 They hardly ventured to speak, not knowing 
 how far they were watched. Just as the Hght 
 was breaking, the door opened, and some one, 
 treading hghtly, crossed the room, and came 
 up to their bed. This was Sophie. Their 
 first thouQ^ht was that she was come to break 
 to them some misfortune, but she laughed, 
 and they breathed freely. 
 
 ' It is all right,' she said ; ' now that the 
 fright is over, it amuses me to think of the 
 way in which we baffled those gentlemen. 
 Only fancy, we hid M. des Elmes in my 
 wardrobe, behind two of my ball gowns, hung 
 one above the other. It was a tight fit I 
 assure you, and they actually looked into it 
 and felt the gowns. I nearly screamed, which 
 would have spoiled all. Oh, dear me, what 
 a near thinor Jt was ! but I behaved beauti- 
 fully. I asked them not to spoil my dresses. 
 What I came about was to ask for your papa's 
 clothes ; my father sent me to get them." 
 They are both in my room. I was sent 
 to sleep with Meline, as soon as our 
 dreadful visitors had left ; but I did not
 
 Standing at Bay. 123 
 
 close my eyes. What an adventure we have 
 had!' 
 
 Aline quietly got together what was wanted, 
 and the two girls went upstairs. It was 
 scarcely joy that the Des Elmes felt when 
 they met on that autumnal morning ; they 
 had had a great escape, but the sword was 
 still hanging over their heads. Spies, they 
 had reason to think, were hovering round 
 the house. None of them could venture out 
 except Aline, for St. Jean's folly made them 
 fearful of entrusting any negotiation even to 
 their most attached servants. The extreme 
 youthfulness of her appearance — for although 
 nearly sixteen, she did not look more than 
 thirteen — made it unlikely that she would be 
 suspected. It was decided that she should 
 go at once to the house of a Mdme. Tour- 
 neron, who had often given them timely 
 warning of impending danger, and been a 
 good friend to them ever since their arrival 
 in Lyons. She kept a sort of half inn, half 
 tavern, near the Faubourg de Vaise, on the 
 banks of the Saone. Noailly, the corn-
 
 124 Standing at Bay. 
 
 dealer whose life M. des Elmes had saved, 
 was her brother, and she would have done 
 anything she could for his benefactor. 
 
 Aline arranged with her that she should 
 engage a boat to be in readiness at a given 
 place near her house at nine o'clock that 
 evening. Mdme. Tourneron fortunately 
 knew a bateliere she could trust, who would 
 row him across the river and land him close 
 to her own cottage, where he would be able 
 to conceal himself, at any rate, for a few hours ; 
 the real difficulty for him, was to leave his 
 own apartment and cross the town unnoticed. 
 
 Aline had to transact this also. There 
 was a gentleman living in an opposite part of 
 the town — a M. Clamaran — a moderate Re- 
 publican, an honest man, and moreover, a 
 National Guard. He and Andre were 
 friends, and if he could be persuaded to lend, 
 for a few hours, his uniform to M. des 
 Elmes, an important means of safety would 
 be secured. This had occurred to her as 
 she was coming home, and having informed 
 her father and her aunt of the result of her
 
 Standing at Day. 1 2 5 
 
 interview with Mdme. Tourneron, she set 
 out again and walked to M. Clamaran's 
 house. He was out when she got there, but 
 his wife received her most kindly. She not 
 only took upon herself to lend her husband's 
 uniform, but said she would come with a 
 friend she could rely on, and pay Mdlle. 
 des Elmes a visit. 
 
 ' Your father will then put on the uniform, 
 and leave the house in our company. He 
 will be less likely to attract notice in this way 
 than if he went out alone.' 
 
 She was as good as her word, and the plan 
 succeeded. The two ladies descended the 
 stairs, passed the porter's lodge with M. des 
 Elmes, and walked with him to Mdme. 
 Tourneron's tavern. She recognised him at 
 once, and as her house was full of people, 
 with great presence of mind, she apologised 
 for the crowd and the noise, and said to his 
 companions : 
 
 ' Ladies, you will be more comfortable in 
 the summer parlour ;' and she led them into 
 the garden.
 
 126 Standing at Bay. 
 
 Mdme. Clamaran and her friend then 
 took leave of M. des Elmes, and went back 
 to tell his sister and Aline that he had arrived 
 safely at the river-side — the first stage in 
 his escape. The boat had been ordered — 
 the bateliere was at her post. As soon as it 
 was dark, swiftly and silently they crossed the 
 Saone. The good woman lodged the fugitive 
 in her cottage that night. Thence he sought 
 a refuge, where we shall find him later on.
 
 !iYf..i.i;.w(Alil.lAi4''i(ik^aJwite!U^ 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 LES RECLUSES. ALINE S WORK. 
 
 FTER her brother's departure, 
 Mdlle. des Elmes changed her 
 abode. She and Aline, St, Jean, her 
 man-servant, and Cantat, her maid, occupied 
 an apartment in a secluded street. For a short 
 time they were left in peace. Aunt Felicie en- 
 couraged Aline to study. She knew how few 
 opportunities there would be for the young 
 girl to acquire information. She obtained for 
 her books, and even lessons in drawing and 
 in English. She had a strong presentiment 
 that these were the last quiet days they would 
 spend together ; and her forebodings were 
 soon realised.
 
 128 Les Recluses. — Alines Work. 
 
 One day the commissaries of the section 
 made their appearance in her room, and an- 
 nounced that they were come to affix the seals 
 on her apartment and her furniture. With 
 them came a strange-looking little old man, 
 dressed in a grey coat, wearing a huge wig, 
 and carrying in his hand a stick with an ivory 
 handle. To this individual they gave in- 
 structions, and then turning to Mdlle. des 
 Elmes, announced that the Citoyen Foret was 
 to have his meals with her, to sit at her table, 
 and warm himself at her fire. 
 
 They went away, and Aunt Felicie whis- 
 pered to Aline : 
 
 ' Run and tell your English master not to 
 come here any more !' 
 
 A foreigner found in communication with 
 aristocrats would have been inevitably ar- 
 rested. 
 
 Then began the torture of that domestic 
 inspection of every day and every hour which 
 was inflicted on the victims of the Revolution. 
 It was surprising to see the calm with which 
 Mdlle. des Elmes endured the trial. Those
 
 Les Recluses. — Alines Work. 129 
 
 who remembered her natural vivacity could 
 hardly conceive how she had acquired the self- 
 command which enabled her to meet it with 
 heroic patience. 
 
 She who had been once self-indulgent, who 
 had loved the comforts and enjoyments of life, 
 perhaps too much ; who had been fastidious, 
 to a fault, as to the refinement and manners 
 of her acquaintances, bore this cruel invasion 
 of her home with a serenity which St. Jean 
 and Cantat marvelled at. One of the severest 
 inflictions it involved was the necessity of with- 
 drawing from sight, and even parting with, 
 every visible token of religion ; but if ever a 
 sanctuary was made in the inmost depths of a 
 human heart for the incessant worship of the 
 great Model of all sufferers, it was in that of 
 this noble-hearted woman. Her sad task was 
 performed in the afternoon during a short 
 absence of the delegate of the Commune. In 
 the evening, just as Aunt Felicie, Aline, and 
 their strange guest were sitting down to 
 supper, a noise was heard on the stairs, and 
 armed men knocked loudly at the door. 
 
 VOL. I. 9
 
 I ^o Les Recluses. — Aline s Work. 
 
 Citoyen Foret opened it. A municipal officer 
 came in with several soldiers, and asked : 
 
 * Where is G6rard des Elmes ?' 
 
 Aunt Felicie remained silent, and made a 
 sign to Foret to speak. He explained that 
 the apartment had been sequestered, and that 
 he had been appointed to the care of the 
 seals, and that there was no one concealed in 
 it. Nevertheless, the officers searched every 
 room, and then came back to the one where 
 the aunt and niece were still sitting at the 
 dining-table. 
 
 ' Where is thy brother ?' the principal 
 officer asked of Mdlle. des Elmes. 
 
 ' I do not know,' she answered. 
 
 This was true. 
 
 'Well,' the man exclaimed, 'as we have 
 not found the brother, we shall arrest the 
 sister. Thou dost not choose to tell us where 
 he Is. Thou shalt go to prison, and remain 
 there till thou choosest to speak. Come 
 along !' 
 
 Aline rose, and was rushing forward. Her 
 aunt gave her a look which obliged her to sit
 
 Les Recluses. — Alines Work. 131 
 
 down again. When she had heard the noise 
 on the stairs, she had felt certain of what was 
 about to happen, and had said to AHne : 
 
 ' I know they have come to arrest me. I 
 command you, my child, if such be the case 
 — and remember, it is your duty to obey me 
 — neither to speak, nor move, nor give the 
 least sign of emotion.' 
 
 Her great fear was that the Terrorists 
 would find out that Aline was her father's 
 daughter, and endeavour to force her to dis- 
 cover where he was. She asked for leave to 
 take wuth her a few articles of clothing, hoping 
 thus to be able to say a few words to Aline 
 in another room. But this was refused. 
 They were not left alone a single instant. 
 They did not even venture to look at one 
 another. It seemed to Aline like a horrible 
 dream. She had gone through great 
 dangers, she had passed through fearful 
 scenes, but even though her aunt had often 
 prepared her for such an event, her arrest 
 came upon her like a thunderbolt. She saw 
 Mdlle. des Elmes depart between two sol- 
 
 9—2
 
 132 Lcs Recluses. — Alines Work. 
 
 diers. The door closed upon her, and she 
 remained alone with the servants and the old 
 man in charge of the seals. Remembering 
 her aunt's command, she struggled not to 
 weep, and, seating herself by the window, 
 remained buried in thought. 
 
 * Now for it,' she said to herself ; ' now for 
 strength, if God will give it me, to do and to 
 bear all — to be as brave as Emilie ! Not to 
 look forward, but each day to do the work 
 allotted to it. O God, give me this power !' 
 
 A more fervent prayer was never uttered. 
 The sequel of her story will show how it was 
 answered. 
 
 ' What is this hour's business ?' Aline asked 
 herself, and the answer was ready. She 
 called Cantat, and, with her, made a bundle 
 of bedding and such things as her aunt would 
 be most in want of that night. St. Jean had 
 followed her, and ascertained that she had 
 been taken to the prison of Les Recluses. 
 Citoyen Foret allowed the things to be packed 
 up, but when it came to the point, he would not 
 suffer the parcel to be taken out of the house.
 
 Lcs Rechtses. — Alines Work. 133 
 
 ' But they are her things and for her use,' 
 AHne pleaded. 
 
 ' I am sorry for it, but I cannot permit 
 them to be removed.' 
 
 ' But she is old, citoyen, and she will 
 suffer.' 
 
 ' I am sorry for it, but it is impossible,' 
 was all the answer she got. 
 
 Early on the following day Aline went to 
 the section. She had two objects in view, 
 to see her aunt and to get bread. The 
 system established at that time by the 
 Republic was this. No one was to buy 
 bread without an order from the section. 
 Only a certain number of bakers were licensed 
 to sell it. Their shops were shut, but, one 
 by one, the purchasers presented, through a 
 wicket, their money and their ticket. The 
 baker examined these vouchers, and then 
 returned them with the specified amount of 
 bread. The file of purchasers generally 
 occupied the length of several streets, and 
 the last comers had not seldom to wait till 
 late in the afternoon. Aline's heart was
 
 134 Les Recluses. — Alines Work. 
 
 beating fast as she entered alone the office of 
 the section. To speak before all those men 
 and hear the sound of her own voice alarmed 
 her more than it had done to walk in the 
 streets with balls whizzing about her head. 
 Timidly glancing at their faces, she recog- 
 nised one of the men who had affixed the 
 seals in their rooms the day before. She 
 went up to him, mentioned her aunt's im- 
 prisonment, and begged leave to see 
 her. 
 
 ' Ah, ah !' he exclaimed, * we did not 
 disturb her. The others were not so civil. 
 Citoyens,' he said, turning towards his col- 
 leagues, ' it seems to me proper that this girl 
 should be allowed to see her aunt, whom she 
 says is a sort of mother to her. We can, I 
 think, grant her request.' 
 
 This was assented to, and the order for 
 Aline's admission into the prison made out. 
 Encouraged by this success. Aline stated that 
 when their rooms were sequestered and a 
 citoyen appointed to watch over the seals, 
 they had been commanded to feed him, and
 
 Les Recluses. — Alines Work. 135 
 
 that she wanted an order to enable her to 
 purchase bread, 
 
 ' You shan't have one,' was the answer. 
 
 * But, citoyen, you know I can't get it 
 without an order. What am I to do ?' 
 
 * You must manage as you can.' 
 
 * Am I to die of hunger ?' 
 
 * Oh, don't be afraid. You won't die of 
 hunger. You ci-devants have plenty of means. 
 You belong, my little girl, to that race of 
 aristocrats who always know how to take care 
 of themselves. You have no doubt been 
 brought up in that school. You won't die of 
 hunger, mademoiselle.' 
 
 Aline felt her courasfe risinsf in the face of 
 these taunts, and she said boldly : 
 
 ' Well, if you choose to reduce me to star- 
 vation, you cannot oblige me to support the 
 citoyen you have set over us.' 
 
 * Oh, as to him, he is a good Republican, 
 and has only to come and ask for an order. 
 He shall have it at once. As to you, young 
 citoyenne, you will manage very well for your- 
 self. We have not the least doubt of that.'
 
 1.^6 Les Recluses. — Alines Work. 
 
 In a certain sense this man's words turned 
 out to be true ; the helpless and forsaken 
 child, to whom bread was refused, was marvel- 
 lously helped through her difficulties by a 
 merciful Providence. Off she went to the 
 prison, asked to see the gaoler, and showed 
 him her permission, written on a scrap of 
 paper. He read it, paused, read it again, 
 turned it backward and forward in his hands, 
 stood deeply reflecting, whilst the poor little 
 creature, whose soul seemed to hang on his 
 lips, looked up into his face in agonising sus- 
 pense. There was no system yet established 
 as to admission. He was a good-natured 
 man, and glancing once more at the paper, 
 and then at the young, supplicating counte- 
 nance, said : 
 
 ' Why, you are small enough ! as small as 
 this bit of paper. Go on,' he added, pointing 
 to a doorway through which, with eager, 
 trembling steps, she followed a man whom 
 he told to conduct her, then down a long 
 passage, where she was surrounded by a 
 crowd of criminals in chains, who pressed
 
 Les Recluses. — Alines Work. 137 
 
 upon her to beg. Their faces frightened her, 
 but she feared to show it, and tried to 
 moderate her pace, so as not to seem afraid. 
 At the foot of a staircase she had to ask a 
 fierce-looking man and a bold woman dressed 
 in smart rags to let her pass. On the first 
 floor her conductor showed her the door of 
 her aunt's room, but he had forgotten the 
 key, and had to go for it. To Aline, the 
 minutes she remained standinQf there seemed 
 hours. At last, the door, so eagerly watched, 
 opened. At first she only saw strange faces. 
 She was asked if she was a prisoner. Before 
 she could answer, Mdlle. des Elmes ap- 
 peared, and she was clasped in her arms. 
 
 ' My child !' she said ; ' how are you getting 
 on ? What happened to you after I left ?' 
 
 ' Oh, aunt, dearest aunt, how are yoii ? 
 Have you been able to eat and to sleep ? 
 Are you ill T 
 
 All the women in that ward — most of them 
 ladies — looked with interest at Aline. She 
 seemed to them like an angel sent to cheer them 
 all in their horrible captivity. It was the first
 
 I ^8 Les Recluses. — Aline s Work. 
 
 J 
 
 time a person — not a prisoner — had gained 
 admittance to that ward. Mdlle. des Elmes 
 took her into an inner room, where an old 
 mattress lent by a friend had been placed for 
 her. They sat upon it, speaking little, but 
 clinging to one another with a strange mixture 
 of joy and pain. Aunt Felicie had no thought 
 for herself. She was not crushed or over- 
 whelmed by her position. The sight of 
 Aline's face was happiness enough for the 
 moment. She thanked God for that joy, and 
 left to Him the care of the morrow. When 
 the young girl reappeared in the other room, 
 she was surrounded by all the captives. She 
 had suddenly become a link between them 
 and the outer world. Mothers had messages 
 to send to their children — daughters to their 
 aged parents — wives to their husbands con- 
 cealed in the town. Aline's heart throbbed 
 with a holy joy. In the eager, careworn 
 faces which were all turned towards her, she 
 read what was to be her work that day, and, 
 it might be, for many days to come. She 
 understood it would require courage, prudence,
 
 Les Recluses. — Alines Work. 139 
 
 skill, and a good memory, and she mentally 
 prayed for these gifts as — one by one — were 
 committed to her remembrance the names 
 and the addresses of those she was to visit 
 and to console by tidings of their relatives. 
 Nothing could be written. The danger was 
 too great. 
 
 Aline trusted she would be enabled to fulfil 
 the trust reposed in her, and her faith was 
 not deceived. That hour was another deci- 
 sive stride in her inward life. She came out 
 of the ward and walked through the ignoble 
 crowd which had frightened her erewhile, 
 with downcast eyes, but a firm tread and 
 head erect. The whole of the day was spent 
 by the brave child in bearing on foot to every 
 part of the city the messages of the captives. 
 She did not forget a single name, and found 
 out every place to which she had been di- 
 rected ; when, footsore and tired, she went 
 home, the thought of having afforded conso- 
 lation to many an anxious heart made her so 
 happy that Citoyen Foret was surprised at 
 the change in her countenance.
 
 140 Les Recluses. — Alines Work. 
 
 The next day she went again to the prison, 
 carrying a basket with her, which held her 
 aunt's dinner. She was admitted, and had 
 the joy of reporting to all the prisoners the 
 result of their commissions. But a disastrous 
 piece of news awaited her ; regulations had 
 been made reofardingf orders of admittance — 
 her little bit of paper was no longer available. 
 The gaoler tore it up, but taking pity on her 
 supplicating face, permitted her to go in. 
 Mdlle. des Elmes told her to try and, 
 obtain one of the new orders. They dined 
 together, sitting side by side on her mattress. 
 Aline's brain was hard at work on her way 
 home — who to apply to for an order was the 
 question. 
 
 ' Perhaps Foret would help me,' she thought. 
 ' I wonder if he could get one from his son.' 
 
 Foret had been all his life a silk weaver ; 
 when rich people became poor he lost his 
 employment, and it was the aristocrats he 
 accused of having ruined him. It seemed to 
 him quite fair that as they could no longer 
 give him work, they should support him in
 
 * La; Rcclnses. — Alines Work. 141 
 
 another way, and he had readily accepted the 
 post assigned to him by the section. At first 
 he always appeared in full dress, and affected 
 great stiffness and formality. He was rather 
 afraid of the ci-devants he was going to live 
 with — indeed he was afraid of most people 
 and most things ; but if Foret was not brave, 
 neither was he bad-hearted, and in spite of 
 his Republicanism had a sort of lingering re- 
 spect for the nobility who had so long been 
 his customers. He tried hard to be a Jacobin, 
 but it went against the grain. His heart 
 softened involuntarily towards the DesElmes', 
 and, especially since the arrest of Aunt Felicle, 
 he seemed to take quite a fancy to Aline, and 
 made himself at home in the house. That 
 evenlnof when she came In, he was seated in 
 an arm-chair by the fire. She sat down op- 
 posite to him. Stretching out his legs and 
 leaning back with an evident sense of enjoy- 
 ment, he said : 
 
 ' It must be owned that arm-chairs are 
 capital inventions. Yes, nothing can be more 
 comxfortable 1'
 
 142 Les Rechises. — Aline s Work. 
 
 Aline added another log to those blazing 
 on the hearth, and then, seeing him in so placid 
 a state of mind, she ventured to tell him of 
 the new rule about permissions, and asked 
 him to get one for her from his son. 
 
 ' My son ! God bless your soul, little citoy- 
 enne ; I can get nothing from him. It would 
 be as much as my life is worth to mention to 
 him a ci-devant.' 
 
 * But, citoyen, I am not old enough to be a 
 ci-devant.' 
 
 '■ Oh, I dare say, but my son is a municipal 
 officer. He is a fine fellow, but you had 
 better keep out of his way. It is not every- 
 body that can venture to speak to him. I 
 know I can't. Some people are made one 
 way and some another. It requires more 
 pluck than I possess to be a patriot, as my 
 wife is always telling me.' 
 
 Aline shuddered when he named his wife. 
 This woman's frequent presence in the house 
 was her worst trial. Foret's son had only 
 been there once or twice. He was a ferocious, 
 brutal wretch, who by his sanguinary violence
 
 Les Recluses. — Aline s Work. 143 
 
 had obtained a certain influence in the 
 ck^bs. His appearance was repulsive. He 
 looked what he was — a ruffian. But Mdme. 
 Foret's face and her talk made the young 
 girl's blood run cold. Foret went on : 
 
 ' Nothing would serve them but I must go 
 and see the aristocrats guillotined : I came 
 home as sick as a dog, and did not sleep for a 
 week. They may say what they like, I shall 
 never get accustomed to it. Dear me, dear 
 me ! we used to lead quieter lives formerly, I 
 had to work, indeed, but then I was well 
 paid for it and could eat in peace. I made 
 a waistcoat once for King Louis XV., and 
 a lot of money I got for it. People won't 
 believe it, but it was not such a bad time 
 either in those days.' 
 
 ' I like to hear you talk of them, citoyen,' 
 Aline said. 
 
 ' Ah, but you must not tell my son or my 
 wife what I said just now,' Foret exclaimed, 
 lookinof round him with alarm. 
 
 * But my permission, citoyen ? Who could 
 I Qfo to — who ask for it ?'
 
 144 L^^ Rcchtscs. — Alines Work. 
 
 ' I can't tell, but if you have any money I 
 dare say you could buy your way into the 
 prison. Two or three assignats work wonders 
 in these cases. 
 
 This was a new light to Aline ; and on the 
 following day she was again at the prison- 
 door with her basket in her hand, standing 
 there for hours in the mud with two hundred 
 women bent on the same errand — that of 
 sending in the dinners of the prisoners — often 
 refused, always made to pay high for the 
 transmission of the dearly bought provisions, 
 and sometimes havinsf to leave that dreadful 
 door without success. 
 
 After some days thus spent, Aline deter- 
 mined to make a bold effort. She went up 
 to one of the men on duty, whose face struck 
 her as more good-natured than the others, and 
 holding out to him a parcel of small assignats, 
 she said : 
 
 ' Do take pity on me. Let me see my 
 aunt. You see how small I am, how I am 
 crushed by the crowd ; if you would only just 
 stand on the first step and call me up as if I
 
 Les Rcchtses. — Alines Work. 145 
 
 was to go to the gaoler's room — who knows ! 
 if I once get through that door I may advance 
 further.' 
 
 He made no answer, but a moment after- 
 wards she heard a loud voice shouting- out, 
 ' The little Citoyenne Gerard is wanted.' 
 
 ' Here I am. I am coming,' Aline cried, 
 and with a desperate effort pierced the 
 crowd. She and her basket had hard work 
 to make their way up the steps, jostled 
 and pushed about as they were ; its con- 
 tents were disarranged, broth streamed down 
 her gown, but the top of the stairs was 
 reached — the first door passed — assignats 
 forced the passage of the others. Aline beheld 
 once more the inner court, the dark staircase, 
 with a feeling of rapture ; her delight was un- 
 bounded at entering again the miserable attic, 
 where she was received with open arms, not 
 only by her aunt, but by nearly all the 
 prisoners, for there was hardly one of them 
 whom she had not in some way obliged, or 
 served. The poor cold dinner was laid 
 on Aunt Felicie's mattress, and no one 
 VOL. I. 10
 
 146 Les Recbtses. — Alines Work. 
 
 could have guessed who had seen them laugh- 
 ing over it and joking about the state of some 
 of the provisions, how terrible was the present, 
 how threatening the future, for that woman 
 and that child. 
 
 Their meetings were joyful — their partings 
 sad. Theirs was a strong, deep, unselfish love. 
 Aunt Felicie concealed from Aline, as far as 
 was possible, the physical miseries of her ex- 
 istence, and never said one word of her mental 
 sufferings. Aline, on the other hand, never 
 told her what she endured at home. During 
 the hours she spent in the prison her spirits 
 rose so much that Mdlle. des Elmes did not 
 suspect what her trials were at other times. 
 If Aline could have been shut up with her 
 aunt it would have been an inexpressible joy; 
 but this Aunt Felicie forbade her to seek for. 
 Had she known the truth, perhaps it would 
 have inclined her to agree to it. 
 
 By dint of assignats — her command of which 
 was however rapidly diminishing— Aline's en- 
 trance into the prison was tolerably frequent. 
 It was well that the efforts and struggles
 
 Les Recluses. — Almes Work. 147 
 
 which were necessary to make good her en- 
 trance so much occupied and engrossed her 
 thoughts. They were thus diverted from the 
 miseries of her home. It was dreadful enough 
 to find old Foret by her fireside, to hear the 
 disputes going on between St. Jean and 
 Cantat, who, obliged as they were by fear to 
 control their tempers with the Forets, 
 quarrelled with each other from morning to 
 night. But when the wife of the ex-weaver 
 came in at supper-time the moral torture of 
 the poor girl was at its height. This creature 
 brought to her husband the news of the day, 
 as she called it ; and this consisted in accounts 
 and descriptions of the executions which had 
 taken place, and which she witnessed with 
 that savage passion for bloodshed which grows 
 into a mania when lone indulofed. There 
 was a horrible pleasure in her countenance as 
 she described these scenes, and Aline had to 
 sit by, speechless and cold, with a pain at her 
 heart and a throbbing in her head which she 
 dared not relieve by a look or a word, for she 
 felt that her life and liberty were essential to 
 
 10 — 2
 
 148 Les Recluses. — Alines Wo7'k. 
 
 her aunt, and important to others. Early in 
 the morning she was walking on foot to the 
 places where she had messages to deliver, 
 then came the long station at the prison-door, 
 then the hopes and fears as to admission, 
 then the ardently desired success, then the 
 hours of happiness — for such they were — 
 when the close miserable prison was reached, 
 when she sat on Aunt Felicie's knees, when 
 she rested her head on her shoulder, when 
 they talked together of the past, and some- 
 times — though not so often^of the future. 
 Fresh prisoners were every day brought in, 
 some of them acquaintances and even 
 friends. Little societies were formed. It 
 would have made anyone smile or weep to see 
 the curious set of broken chairs out of which 
 tables were formed ; the medley of provisions 
 which made up dinners shared by four or 
 five of those who had been wont to meet on 
 festive occasions in past days. 
 
 The porters and gaolers sometimes confis- 
 cated the victuals sent to the captives. One 
 day when this happened, and there seemed
 
 Les Rechises. — Alines Work. 149 
 
 no chance of a dinner for the httle party she 
 was associated with, Mdlle. des Elmes 
 drew from under her mattress a cold chicken 
 and a loaf. 
 
 'See what my little Aline brought yester- 
 day, something to fall back upon,' she said. 
 
 ' That girl has the head of a woman, and 
 a wise one too, on her young shoulders,' one 
 of her friends remarked. 
 
 It was a strange company assembled in the 
 two large attics which formed the prison. 
 Ladies of rank and dames de la halle ; nuns 
 and women of the town ; wealthy persons 
 and poor servants ; peasants and townspeople, 
 huddled together without distinction. One 
 day a woman was thrust in who was leading 
 a fair and beautiful little child of four by the 
 hand. Both were crying bitterly, but when 
 spoken to did not answer ; they sat down in 
 a corner, the picture of misery, the little one 
 scared and frightened, the woman trying to 
 soothe her, but sobbing herself all the time. 
 Aline came in, and her aunt pointed them 
 out to her. She went and stood near them.
 
 150 Les RccliLScs. — Alines Woi'k. 
 
 trying to say some words of comfort, but no 
 notice was taken of them. She was turning 
 away, when her ear caught the sound of 
 these EnorHsh words : 
 
 ' Oh, my darhng, what will become of you ? 
 Everyone has forsaken us.' 
 
 Aline knelt down and said, also in English : 
 
 ' Not God ; He will help you.' 
 
 The poor woman looked up ; there was a 
 gleam of hope in her eyes, 
 
 ' Oh, you can speak English ! Thank 
 God ! thank God ! Oh, miss, are you shut 
 up in this dreadful place ?' 
 
 ' No ; I can go in and out.' 
 
 ' Then will you get us out ?' 
 
 ' I will if I can,' Aline said. 
 
 She went at once to an Englishman 
 naturalised in Lyons, and informed him of 
 the position of this poor creature, who, with 
 her master's child, had been taken up under a 
 false supposition that she was the wife of an 
 emigre, and had been corresponding with 
 him. How thankful she felt for the lessons 
 which had enabled her to assist these poor
 
 Les Recluses. — Alines Work. 151 
 
 helpless creatures ! The man she went to 
 took up their cause, and they were released 
 on the following day. 
 
 Mdlle. des Elmes had never indulged in 
 any illusions as to her own fate. From the 
 moment of her arrest she had felt convinced 
 of what the end of it would be, and she had 
 only two objects in view — to prepare herself 
 for death, and Aline for whatever destiny 
 mio^ht be reserved for her. She had no 
 sacraments, no means of grace, in her cap- 
 tivity, nor any hope of them before her last 
 hour ; but in her strong faith and humble 
 trust she believed that God would make up 
 to her for what men deprived her of. She 
 did not tell Aline that she never expected to 
 leave the prison except to mount the scaffold, 
 but in her plain, practical, sensible manner 
 she imparted to her a strong sense of the 
 nothingness of worldly happiness. The tone 
 of her conversation was by no means gloomy ; 
 on the contrary, her cheerfulness was as- 
 tonishing under the circumstances. It gave a 
 brightness to the hours they spent together,
 
 152 Les Recluses. — Alines Work. 
 
 which in the retrospect seemed incredible. Far 
 from discouraging Aline from spending her 
 strength in the service of others, Aunt Felicie 
 encouraged her in her mission of charity, 
 pointed out those amongst the prisoners 
 whom she could have a chance of assisting, 
 and invented works of mercy for her. For 
 instance, water was every day sold, not given, 
 in the prison. She suggested to Aline to go 
 round with a can and collect a contribution 
 for the poorest captives from those who had 
 a little to spare. 
 
 ' I like to see thee so employed, my child,' 
 she was wont to say. ' It makes me think 
 of the reward promised in Scripture to the 
 giver of a cup of cold water. My Aline will 
 not lose her reward.' 
 
 Even Aline's education she tried to con- 
 tinue. She made her repeat whatever she 
 had learnt by heart, and compose letters ; 
 but above all, dwelt on the necessity of a 
 calm reliance on God and an unflinching 
 energy. 
 
 ' Do all you can,' she used to say, ' as if
 
 Les Recluses. — A line's Work. 153 
 
 there was no God to help you, and trust in 
 God as if you could do nothing for yourself. 
 This was the maxim of a saint. It is a use- 
 ful one. The days are evil, and are not likely 
 soon to improve. Look not back at the plea- 
 sant past, nor too much to the uncertain 
 future. Prepare your soul for temptation ; 
 leave nothinof undone which Providence 
 places in your way. Never say, " This is 
 more than I can bear." Believe me, my 
 child, there is nothing we cannot bear. When 
 a gleam of sunshine brightens your path, 
 enjoy its charm and light, but do not reckon 
 on its continuance.' 
 
 Such words as these, mingled with tender 
 caresses, with soft kisses, even with smiles 
 and jests, sank deeply in Aline's mind. 
 Meanwhile, no news had arrived of M. des 
 Elmes. This prolonged suspense was the 
 greatest of his sister's trials, but she hoped 
 he had joined his sons. Letters and tidings 
 were not to be looked for in those days. 
 
 One evening the aunt and niece parted not 
 more sadly than usual. On the contrary, the
 
 154 ^(^^ Recluses. — Alines Work. 
 
 former joked about the black — not brown — 
 sugar which AHne had brought with a jug of 
 coffee. Aunt Fehcie's love of fun was always 
 called forth by inconveniences or material 
 discomforts. During the siege of Lyons, 
 when provisions were scarce, a basket of eggs 
 had been purchased at a high price for the 
 meals of the family. St. Jean, whilst sweeping 
 the room, caught the handle of his broom 
 in the precious basket, and from a high shelf 
 to the ground down it came ; not one of the 
 eggs escaped unbroken. Aunt Felicie lifted 
 up her hands in admiration, and exclaimed, 
 ' Oh, what a magnificent omelette !' and did 
 not add another word. 
 
 As she had been at home, so she was 
 during her captivity— never dull, never sad, 
 never cross. The smile on her face, the funny 
 look in her eyes, as she jested about the black 
 sugar, lived for ever in Aline's memory. 
 
 The difficulties of gainino- entrance into 
 the prison increased every day. Many days 
 often elapsed without a possibility of crossing 
 its threshold. Aline never felt tired when
 
 Les Rechises. — Alines Work. 155 
 
 she had succeeded in seeing Aunt Felicie ; 
 but when, after standing for hours at the gate, 
 she had to go home disappointed, it seemed 
 as if all strength forsook her. One day, after 
 a series of such mischances, she found herself 
 close to the entrance-door, waiting, with many 
 others, for leave to <yo in. The sentinels had 
 crossed their guns to keep back the crowd 
 outside. A sudden pressure and rush forced 
 the passage. Aline was violently impelled 
 forwards and precipitated some way beyond 
 the door. This had not been her own doing. 
 She was, however, sworn at by the guards, 
 and struck ; but taking advantage of the con- 
 fusion, rose instantly and ran through the 
 second entrance on to the last gate. In the 
 court she caught sight of her aunt. The 
 prisoners had received permission to walk 
 there for a short time. Their eyes met, but 
 just as she was running up to her, the gaoler 
 appeared, furious at the outbreak of the 
 crowd. He seized Aline by the arm and 
 dragged her back. Another look at Aunt 
 Felicie — a never-to-be-forgotten glance from
 
 156 Les Recluses. — Alines Work. 
 
 her eyes, which said better than any words 
 could have done, ' In quietness and confidence 
 shall be thy strength ' — and Aline was again 
 outside the prison walls, walking homeward 
 through the muddy streets, little dreaming 
 how far from ended was her day's work.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 FONTAINE AND M. ALEXANDRE. 
 
 T was dark by the time Aline returned 
 
 to her lodging. Old Foret opened 
 
 the door for her, and said : 
 
 ' How late you are, little citoyenne ! Your 
 
 nurse has been waiting for you ever so 
 
 long.' 
 
 ' What ! la Melon ?' Aline was near ex- 
 claiming, but, mindful that she must be 
 cautious, checked herself, and only asked : 
 ' Where is she ?' 
 
 ' She only went away a moment ago. She 
 is going back to the place where your sick 
 sister lives, and she called to know if you had 
 any message to send.'
 
 158 Fontame and M. Alexandre. 
 
 ' La Melon would never have left Odille/ 
 Aline thought, and suspected some mystery. 
 
 ' If you were to run down the street you 
 might catch her. She has got a blue gown 
 on, and a red bodice. A little girl with her 
 rides a donkey.' 
 
 Aline rushed out, telling Cantat to follow 
 her. They soon overtook the woman in 
 question. She was a perfect stranger to them, 
 but had a good, honest countenance. After 
 some circumlocution, and not before she had 
 made quite sure that Aline was Mdlle. des 
 Elmes, she explained to her that M. le Comte 
 was concealed in her house, that he was on 
 the point of leaving France, and earnestly 
 wished to see his daughter before his de- 
 parture. He begged that she would come to 
 him at once with the bearer of this message. 
 
 Aline felt greatly perplexed. On the one 
 hand, it was hard to leave her aunt, and to 
 deprive her of the consolation of her frequent 
 visits ; but then, if she did not obey her 
 father's summons, she might lose her only 
 chance of seeing him again, of receiving his
 
 Fontaine and M. Alexandre. 159 
 
 instructions and his blessing. There was no 
 doubt at all that, had she been able to consult 
 Aunt Felicie, she would have desired her 
 to go ; and so, after a little hesitation, she 
 sent Cantat to fetch from the house the few 
 things she wanted, and then learnt from the 
 stranger the name of the place where she 
 lived. Though she had no reason to distrust 
 Cantat's fidelity, she did not wish her to hear 
 it. No one felt safe in those days even with 
 those they had long trusted. Fontaine was 
 the name of the village where M. des Elmes 
 was concealed. 
 
 * I am Madeleine Choziere's mother,' the 
 good woman said, seeming to think this was 
 the best thing she could say of herself; and she 
 was perhaps not far wrong in that thought. 
 
 When Cantat returned with the small bag 
 she had hastily filled, Aline begged her to 
 make every possible effort to see her aunt, 
 and to provide for her wants during her 
 absence. Then, with her friendly guide, she 
 departed. It was getting dark, and rain 
 beginning to fall. Little Dorothy wanted to
 
 i6o Fontaine and M. Alexandre. 
 
 give up her donkey to the young lady, but the 
 child looked so tired, she would not hear of It. 
 So on she trudged by the side of Mother 
 Choziere, without much attempt at conversa- 
 tion, for they had trouble enough to keep up 
 their umbrellas— the wind blowing as it did 
 in their faces — and in picking their way in 
 the mud. The donkey carried Aline's bag, 
 but her thick boots and her wet cloak were 
 heavy, and it seemed as if the walk would 
 never come to an end. An unknown road 
 in the dark, even in a carriage, appears long ; 
 but it is far worse on foot. The slow pace at 
 which they walked added to Aline's weariness ; 
 at least she felt as if it did. Her impatience to 
 arrive increased every moment. After they had 
 left the suburbs behind, and passed through 
 one or two hamlets, lights glimmered in the dis- 
 tance ; they were approaching houses. Aline's 
 spirits revived, but they turned off the high- 
 road into a narrow lane between hedges. 
 They seemed again plunging into solitude. 
 It was despairing, but a few minutes after- 
 wards the donkey came to a stand-still at
 
 Fontaine and Jlf. Alexandre. i6i 
 
 the door of a cottage. A dog ran out bark- 
 ing. 
 
 ' Here we are,' Mother Choziere said to an 
 old man who had opened the door ; and turn- 
 ing to Ahne : ' Come in, my dear. Now you 
 will see your father.' 
 
 They went into a room on the ground-floor, 
 half parlour and half kitchen. He was not 
 there. 
 
 ' He must be upstairs,' Mother Choziere 
 said, pointing to the narrow wooden stair- 
 case. 
 
 Aline ran up the steps, and found herself 
 before an open door. She was taken aback 
 by the sight which met her eyes. A hand- 
 some, picturesque - looking young peasant 
 woman, sitting with her back to the wall, was 
 holding in her arms a young girl wonderfully 
 beautiful, and apparently dying. There were 
 crimson spots on her cheeks, whilst the rest of 
 her face was white and lifeless like marble. A 
 man in a peasant's dress, with a glass of water 
 in his hand, was standing with his back to the 
 door, opposite to these two women. A lamp on 
 
 VOL. I. II
 
 1 62 Fo7itaine and M. Alexandre. 
 
 the floor threw a strong hght on this picture. 
 Aline did not venture to stir, or to make the 
 least noise, but Mother Chozlere soon came 
 up, and going Into the room, took the glass 
 out of the man's hand, and whispered some- 
 thing In his ear. He hastily turned round, 
 and Aline then saw that the peasant was her 
 father. He led, or rather carried, his daughter 
 downstairs, took off her cloak, and made her 
 sit down by the blazing wood fire. Mother 
 Chozlere brought the tired girl some hot wine- 
 and-water and a piece of toast. 
 
 ' Supper would be ready/ she said, ' at 
 nine.' 
 
 Whilst Aline was eating and drinking, 
 M. des Elmes inquired If Mdlle. de Saurac 
 had been lifted back into bed. 
 
 * Yes,' was the answer, ' and she will never 
 leave It alive. Poor lamb ! her troubles are 
 drawing to a close.' 
 
 ' We must be thankful for it,' he said. 
 
 ' So I tell Madeleine. But she takes her 
 approaching death dreadfully to heart. Well, 
 it Is a charming sight to see your little
 
 Fo7itaine and M. Alexandre. 163 
 
 demoiselle sitting on your knees, and the 
 colour coming into her cheeks. I shall leave 
 you alone together till supper-time.' Then 
 the good woman threw another log on the 
 fire, and went away. 
 
 Aline quietly rested her head on her 
 father's shoulder, and would fain have pro- 
 longed that moment of silence. It was so 
 peaceful, and she dreaded having to answer 
 his questions about her aunt ; she had made 
 up her mind, if possible, not to tell him of her 
 imprisonment. He might insist on giving 
 himself up in order to liberate her, which, 
 after all, might not have happened, and 
 would, in any case, have made her miserable. 
 Or else he would leave France with a load of 
 anxiety and grief in his heart, aggravated by 
 the difficulty of receiving any tidings. It 
 soon came — the inquiry she was expecting 
 — he pressed her head to his breast, and 
 said : 
 
 ' Is Aunt Felicie well .'* Does she keep up 
 her spirits ?' 
 
 ' Wonderfully well, dearest papa. She Is 
 
 J I — 2
 
 164 Fontaine and Jll. Alexandre. 
 
 much as usual in health. What a joy it will 
 be to her to hear all about you when I go 
 back!' 
 
 ' Yes, I think it will be a consolation to my 
 dearest sister that you and I should have met. 
 I said nothing about her coming, for I knew 
 with what difficulty she walks. You and 
 Aunt Felicie are a great comfort to one 
 another. I know my little daughter dearly 
 loves her aunt.' 
 
 ' Every day more, papa.' 
 
 ' And so you two dear ones have been 
 left quiet since I came away. Has no one 
 troubled you ?' 
 
 ' There have been no end of terrible sights, 
 papa, and dreadful stories of w^hat is going 
 on ; and then, St. Jean and Cantat, though 
 they are very good to us, are always quarrel- 
 ing.' 
 
 ' Tell them from me, Aline, to keep the 
 peace till I return. They may fight then 
 as much as they like. And what about 
 money ? Does your aunt receive any from 
 Les Elmes .'*'
 
 Fontaine and M. Alexandre. 1 65 
 
 ' Oh yes, some of your farmers send her 
 assiofnats. Do not be anxious about that. 
 Aunt Feh'cie has sold some trinkets, too. By 
 the way, I know what I shall take to her 
 when I go back.' 
 ' What, my child ?' 
 
 ' A lock of your dear white hair. She will 
 be so pleased. She has some of your hair in 
 a locket, but it is jet black.' 
 
 'Aye. I was nine years old when she cut 
 off that lock, just before I made my first 
 campaign.' 
 
 * And now tell me where you are going ?' 
 ' That is not an easy question to answer, 
 Aline. If I can, I shall join Maurice, who is, 
 I think, at Lucerne. He is such a good 
 fellow. Both the boys fought like lions in 
 the unhappy engagement near Liege. I have 
 heard that since I saw you from some one 
 who was there ; but Maurice was most highly 
 thought of by his superiors, and considered 
 the most promising officer in his regiment.' 
 ' He is three years older than Andre.' 
 ' I am afraid there is little hope that three
 
 1 66 Fontaine and M. Alexandre. 
 
 years hence Andre will be what Maurice 
 is now. Have you heard anything of him 
 since I left you ?' 
 
 No, Aline had not heard of him, and she 
 would not mention to her father that she had 
 seen him one day in a curious disguise, dressed 
 as a saltimbanque, in a street not far from the 
 old custom-house. He told her that he had 
 come into Lyons on important business, but 
 she was afraid that he and Sophie de Sou- 
 ligne were behaving very foolishly. It was 
 of no use, however, to impart this suspicion to 
 M. des Elmes, or to let him know of the 
 brief glimpse she had had of her brother. 
 Wishing to change the subject, she said : 
 
 ' What happened to you, papa, after Mdme. 
 Clamaran left you ?' 
 
 ' I crossed the river successfully, slept at 
 the boatwoman's cottage, and then made my 
 way here, where I have been ever since.' 
 
 ' How came you to know of these good 
 people ?' 
 
 ' You may well call them good, the mother 
 and daughter at least ; as to Madeleine
 
 Fo7itaine and M. Alexandre. 167 
 
 Choziere, she is one in a thousand. I met 
 her — I think I told you of it at the time — at 
 the Military Hospital, before I left Lyons, 
 and was amazingly struck with her. One of 
 the patients, whom I knew, told me who she 
 was, and the kind of life she has been leading 
 since the troubles began.' 
 
 ' Oh, I remember all about it now ; and he 
 said, did he not, that her mother's house was 
 a refuge or rather, a centre of refuge, to sus- 
 pected persons ?' 
 
 * Yes, and not knowing on earth where to 
 go, I came here. I cannot describe what 
 their kindness has been to me. But they 
 are good to all' 
 
 ' Who is that beautiful girl upstairs } Is 
 she dying ?' 
 
 ' Her name is Mdlle. de Saurac. Hers is 
 indeed a sad history, but she will soon be 
 where " the wicked cease from troublino-, and 
 the weary are at rest." How often, my Aline, 
 these words come into one's mind nowadays.' 
 
 ' Is the young woman who was supporting 
 her, Madeleine ?'
 
 1 68 Fontaine and M. Alexandre. 
 
 * Yes, I am glad you will know her ; though 
 she is only a peasant, I could not wish my 
 daughter to have a better friend. God only 
 knows all the good she does, day by day, 
 going in and out of Lyons and other places on 
 errands of heroic charity. That poor Mdlle. 
 de Saurac she found in a lunatic asylum.' 
 
 * Is she mad ?' 
 
 ' No, not now ; but it is too long a story to 
 tell you to-night. One thing I must warn 
 you of. You must be careful how you speak 
 before old Choziere. They never let him 
 know the names or the histories of those 
 they shelter in this house, and the neighbour- 
 ing cottages. Take care you do not mention 
 ours. Everyone is called by his or her 
 Christian name here. This does not apply 
 to Mdlle. de Saurac ; they have done their 
 worst to her, poor young creature. She has 
 nothinof more to fear from them.' 
 
 * Is M. Choziere a bad man }' 
 
 ' No, not on the whole, but a weak and 
 hesitating one, much influenced by the things 
 people say to him, and what he hears at
 
 Fontaine and M. Alexandre. 169 
 
 the public-house. Here he is, and here is 
 supper,' 
 
 Two or three persons entered the room, 
 and sat down at table with the Chozieres, and 
 their guests, Two places were unoccupied. 
 One of them was Madeleine's, who remained 
 upstairs with her patient. Opposite to Aline 
 sat an uncouth strange being who looked like 
 a child of unnatural height and size. This 
 w^as Pierre, a cousin of Mother Choziere's a 
 poor, idiotic boy, whom she kept out of 
 charity. Aline was at first frightened, and 
 afterwards amused, at the way he stared at 
 her, and then rubbed his hands and laughed 
 as if immensely pleased. In a few minutes 
 the door opened ; a young man came in and 
 seated himself on one of the vacant chairs by 
 Aline's side ; her father nodded to him, and 
 said : 
 
 • My daughter — M. Alexandre.' 
 
 They turned, and looked at each other — ■ 
 
 smiled and bowed. She was struck by his 
 
 appearance, not so much because of the 
 
 beauty and refinement of his features and his
 
 I/O Fontaine and M. Alexandre. 
 
 tall and graceful figure, but by the melancholy 
 and, at times, almost wild expression in his dark 
 blue eyes. She had never seen so interesting 
 a face, and there was something in the tone 
 of his voice almost musical in its sweetness. 
 She spoke seldom during the meal, but 
 listened to what her father and M. Alexandre 
 said with a great curiosity to know more 
 about this strano-er. 
 
 After supper the question arose as to where 
 she was to spend the night. M. des Elmes, 
 or M. Gerard, as he was called at Fontaine, 
 shared the bedroom of the master of the house. 
 The other gentlemen lodged at neighbouring 
 cottages, with the exception of M. Alexandre, 
 who slept in a small room within the large two- 
 bedded chamber occupied by Madeleine, her 
 mother, and Mdlle. de Saurac. Aline begged 
 to be allowed to rest in the arm-chair in the 
 sitting-room. As It happened, this would 
 have been the best place as far as her repose 
 was concerned ; but good Mdme. Choziere 
 would not hear of it, and insisted on her 
 sharing her bed, which practically meant
 
 Fontaine and M. Alexandre. 171 
 
 giving it up to her, and she was led to the 
 room where Httle Driette, a pet name for 
 Dorothy, was lying asleep in a corner, 
 on a mattress of dried leaves, and Made- 
 leine sitting up by the side of her poor 
 friend, who was now unconscious. The night 
 was very cold. M. Alexandre had to cross 
 the large bed-chamber on his way to his own 
 small one; he stopped near a brazier lighted on 
 Aline's account, and lingered there an instant. 
 
 ' Warm your hands, sir,' she said. ' You 
 are shivering.' 
 
 He looked at the young face, in which 
 there was still more kindness than the words 
 expressed. 
 
 ' Thank you,' he said ; and then added, 
 pointing to the bed where Mdlle. de Saurac 
 was lying, ' She will die to-night, I know 
 she will. I wish I was not here. I have seen 
 death in other forms without much emotion, 
 but to be near that poor creature in her last 
 agony unmans me. Her moans will remind 
 me of what I try never to think of.' 
 
 He laid his hand on his forehead, and Aline
 
 1/2 Fontaine and M. Alexandre. 
 
 saw in his eyes the same wild expression she 
 had noticed before. 
 
 ' I shall be very near you,' she said ; 
 'here, close to your door. I will pray that 
 you may sleep, and have no bad dreams.' 
 
 He faintly smiled and thanked her. Some- 
 how he did feel glad that she would be there 
 during the dark hours of the night, when the 
 struggle between life and death would be 
 going on in that dimly-lighted chamber. He 
 knew it was a foolish fancy, but there was 
 something about Aline which had struck him 
 from the first moment he had set eyes upon 
 her. He guessed at the strength of j^urpose 
 and mental vigour which contrasted with her 
 slight figure and delicate appearance. When a 
 person is suffering from shattered nerves it is 
 wonderful how little things affect them, and 
 what a rest it is to lean in any degree on 
 another. 
 
 Aline, on her side, had an intimate con- 
 viction that the noble-looking man who was 
 looking to her poor little self for sympathy, 
 had suffered what passed expression. He
 
 Fontaine and M. Alexandre. 173 
 
 said good-night ; he went into his room, and 
 she lay down as quiedy as possible, and 
 remained motionless with her eyes closed. 
 After awhile, Mother Choziere approached 
 her bed, and thinking she was fast asleep, 
 gently covered her face with a handkerchief. 
 When the good woman went away, she pulled 
 it off, and then saw her placing a little table 
 at the foot of the other bed, and lighting two 
 candles. Then she and Madeleine, who was 
 weeping bitterly, knelt down, and in a low 
 voice began to recite prayers for the dead. 
 After a time, both of them rose, and on tiptoe 
 went out of the room. 
 
 The profound silence, the uncertain light 
 thrown by the two candles, and by the moon 
 shining through the small-paned window, the 
 deep stillness of the night, her own nearness 
 to the lifeless form, impressed Aline with a 
 feeling of awe, but not of fear. She sat up 
 in her bed, and said the ' De Profundis.' 
 Then she thought of M. Alexandre, and of 
 what he had said — of his dread of hearing 
 sounds indicating the death-struggle — the last
 
 1 74 Fontaine and M. Alexandre. 
 
 agony. How different it had been — how 
 noiselessly, how peacefully, the spirit had 
 departed from that fair form ! 
 
 ' Oh, how full of holy mystery !' she men- 
 tally exclaimed, ' is this repose of death after 
 a troubled life ! How near I am to that 
 body which was suffering so much a few 
 hours ago, but how far from the spirit which 
 has taken its flight, and is even now with 
 God ! How much it sees and knows of what 
 we can only perceive by the light of faith !' 
 
 She prayed again, but soon fatigue over- 
 powered her, and she fell fast asleep. 
 
 The crowing of the cock awoke her at 
 dawn. She had dreamt of Mdlle. de Sau- 
 rac, and did not feel sure that her death 
 was not a dream; the sight of Madeleine 
 kneeling by the bedside, her face buried in 
 her hands, removed the doubt. She slept 
 again some time, and, at about seven, rose, 
 dressed herself, and was glad to leave the 
 room. 
 
 It was a beautiful November morning, 
 worthy of what is called in France the little
 
 Fontaine and M, Alexandre. 175 
 
 summer of St. Martin. The clouds had 
 passed away— the sky was of a deep blue— 
 the bushes and the grass glittered with rain- 
 drops — the trees glowing in their red and 
 yellow beauty in the first rays of the rising 
 sun. The little stream whose murmur she 
 had heard in the night was rippling joyously 
 at her feet, carrying along, as if in triumph, the 
 leaves which the breeze was detaching from 
 the branches overhanging it. Fontaine was 
 a village consisting chiefly of scattered houses, 
 in what might almost have been called a 
 forest. The house of the Chozieres was half 
 a cottage, half a farmhouse. On one side of 
 it was the wood, on the other an orchard and 
 well-stocked kitchen garden, brightened here 
 and there by a few late autumnal flowers. 
 Some pasture-land extended beyond these 
 limits, and views of more distant scenery, 
 with the Rhone and a rancre of blue moun- 
 tains in the distance, completed the picture. 
 It was one on which Aline looked with enrap- 
 tured eyes. As the pure crisp air blew in 
 her face, as the birds flew twittering over her
 
 176 Fontaine and M. Alexandj^c. 
 
 head, as the lowing of the cattle reached her 
 ear, the recollections of her childhood became 
 so vivid that it almost seemed as if everything 
 that had happened since she had left Les Elmes 
 ■ — the years at Moulins, and especially the last 
 miserable years at Lyons — had been a dream. 
 She had forgotten what the country was like ; 
 the sounds, the scents, the feeling of it were 
 like the voices of old friends — so new, and yet 
 familiar, so far back in remembrance, so 
 welcome to her now. 
 
 She heard a noise behind her : Driette 
 was driving the cows through the gate, and 
 singing very loud. She smiled to Aline, who 
 said to her, pointing to the window of the 
 upper chamber : 
 
 ' You know, Driette, what happened last 
 nieht. Ouoht we to make anv noise ?' 
 
 The child placed her finger on her lips, and 
 whispered : 
 
 'We must do to-day as if nothing had 
 happened. Mother says so. People must 
 not know.' 
 
 And she went on sinQ^ino^ as loud as before.
 
 ■ Fontaine and M. Alexandre. 177 
 
 Aline had for a moment forgotten the reign 
 of terror. The child's words reminded her of 
 it, and with a heavy heart she returned to the 
 house, to eat the breakfast Mother Choziere 
 had prepared for her. M. des Elmes told his 
 dauQ^hter that he would have to absent him- 
 self for some hours. A friend was to meet 
 him at an appointed place, to arrange the 
 plan of their escape to Switzerland and the 
 means of crossing the frontier. 
 
 ' Enjoy this fine day, my child,' he said. 
 'We must make the most of any peaceful 
 interval in our lives, and gather strength for 
 the next trial. Madeleine will be too busy to 
 attend much to you to-day, but I know my 
 Aline is not afraid of being alone. You must 
 not be frightened if I do not return to-night. 
 Many things may occur to detain me.' 
 
 He kissed her, and went away. 
 
 Madeleine looked pale and worn, but quite 
 calm. 
 
 ' Can you give me something to do ?' 
 Aline asked ; ' any sewing, or work in the 
 garden ?' 
 
 VOL. I. 12
 
 1/8 Fontaine and M. Alexandre. 
 
 Madeleine seemed pleased, and brought 
 her some black stuff to hem. Aline took it 
 to a seat in the orchard which she had noticed 
 in the morning. It stood on the sunny side 
 of a wall, covered with ivy and fringed with 
 yellow flowers, which had once formed part 
 of an old archway, and faced an opening in 
 the wood through which there was a charm- 
 ing glimpse of the valley of the Rhone. 
 Here she established herself, expecting to 
 spend some hours alone, but before long she 
 was joined by M. Alexandre. He brought 
 with him nets, which he had promised Maitre 
 Choziere to mend. After a cordial greeting, 
 he said : 
 
 'May I work here ?' 
 
 She smiled, and made room for his basket. 
 
 ' You were very kind to me last night,' he 
 said ; ' but you must have wondered at my 
 weakness. Events I dare not dwell upon 
 have made me liable to that sort of nervous- 
 ness.' 
 
 ' You have not been used, perhaps, to see 
 dying persons .^'
 
 Fontaine and M. Alexandre. 179 
 
 He smiled sadly, and answered : 
 
 * On the field of battle I have.' 
 
 ' I did not quite like being in that room 
 last night, but I went there just now, and 
 she looks so peaceful, so beautiful ! Made- 
 leine has covered her with wreaths of withered 
 leaves.' 
 
 ' True emblems of her life ! Poor Mdlle. 
 de Saurac ! Do you know her history ?' 
 
 ' No ; but I want so much to hear it. 
 Will you tell it me, M. Alexandre ? And 
 first, how old was she .^' 
 
 ' Twenty-two years of age, I think. I 
 hardly like to sadden you with such a melan- 
 choly tale. Your father wished — he told me 
 so — that you should enjoy this fine day.' 
 
 Aline shook her head. 
 
 ' It is easy to say, " Enjoy yourself;" but 
 even my dear father does not know how sad 
 a thing to me enjoyment is. It brings such a 
 reaction of pain.' 
 
 M. Alexandre looked at her with sur- 
 prise. 
 
 ' Are you not a child .^' he said. (' A beau- 
 
 12 — 2
 
 i8o Fontaine and M. Alexandre. 
 
 tiful child !' he thought to himself.) ' How- 
 old are you ?' 
 
 ' Nearer sixteen than fifteen,' she an- 
 swered. 
 
 * Indeed ! Then you are no longer a 
 child.' 
 
 ' I left off being one more than three years 
 ago.' 
 
 ' Well, I thought last night that you showed 
 more sense and courage than could have 
 been expected from one so young as you 
 seem.' 
 
 This was said with a grave smile, which 
 had in it a wonderful sweetness. Aline 
 blushed a little at this praise, and then said : 
 
 * Have you ever heard of Mdlle. de Bel- 
 lecise ?' 
 
 He said he had. 
 
 ' She has the noblest and bravest spirit 
 imaginable, and she is so beautiful ! I think 
 Joan of Arc must have been like her.' 
 
 ' I like women to be, but not to look like, 
 heroines. A small, slight Joan of Arc, with 
 nothing strong about her but a will and a
 
 Fontaine mid M. Alexandre. i8i 
 
 purpose, would please me better than an 
 Amazon.' 
 
 ' Oh, but Emilie is not unfeminine ; on the 
 contrary, you would admire her, I am sure, if 
 you had seen her, as I did, when the mob 
 attacked the prison of Pierre Cize. I suppose 
 that what we ought all to pray for now is the 
 gift of fortitude.' 
 
 ' Yes — and when you ask for it, say a good 
 word for me. You will not forget ?' 
 
 Aline raised her eyes to his, and answered . 
 
 ' We neither of us, I think, are likely to 
 forget last night.' 
 
 ' But now, will you try to enjoy this day as 
 your father wished you to do T 
 
 ' I am enjoying myself, though I suffer all 
 the time.' 
 
 ' Is that possible ?' 
 
 ' Yes. I take pleasure in the singing of the 
 birds, the sight of the trees, and of those 
 sweet wallflowers — I enjoy the sunshine which 
 warms us so nicely in this corner .... all 
 that makes this day pleasant — still my heart 
 aches all the time.'
 
 1 82 Fontaine and M. Alexandre. 
 
 ' Does it ?' M. Alexandre asked, in so kind 
 a manner that Aline, who very seldom cried, 
 felt her eyes filling with tears. 
 
 ' If I knew I was to die to-morrow, I should 
 still enjoy this hour.' 
 
 ' Blessed are the pure in heart,' the young 
 man said, with emotion. ' They find happi- 
 ness in everything, because in all things they 
 see God. I am too often tempted to com- 
 plain of my fate, and to feel angry at the 
 prosperity of wicked people.' 
 
 ' Yes, that is what I felt when the Ter- 
 rorists conquered our troops and entered 
 Lyons.' 
 
 ' It must have been a dreadful moment.' 
 
 ' I did feel as if I should go out of my mind, 
 but when I was allowed to accompany M. 
 le Cure into the streets and take refreshments 
 to the wounded, it calmed me at once. I 
 have often had such violent emotions of 
 hatred against Couthon, Collot d'Herbois, 
 and such-like men, that I used to fancy I 
 could kill them as Charlotte de Corday killed 
 Marat.'
 
 Fontaine and M. Alexatidre 183 
 
 M. Alexandre smiled, and said he could 
 not imagine her killing anyone. ' And yet,' he 
 added, ' I suppose I should have said the same 
 of Charlotte de Corday when 1 knew her at 
 Caen.' 
 
 ' Did you really know her ? What sort of 
 person was she ?' 
 
 ' Beautiful, clever, fascinating, graceful, 
 gentle, passionately fond of children. I was 
 very fond of her, and an intimate friend of 
 her great friend, Henri de Belzunce.' 
 
 ' That young officer who was murdered by 
 the mob at Caen ?' 
 
 ' Yes. I have always thought that the 
 horror and grief which that event caused to 
 Charlotte unsettled her mind. She was wild 
 about the Revolution, and had persuaded him 
 to adopt her opinions ; but it was to be one 
 according to her ideas, and those of her 
 heroes, the Girondins. Vergniaud's exe- 
 cution and, above all, Belzunce's death drove 
 her to despair. Poor Charlotte ! she had once 
 been very religious. It was the works of 
 Rousseau and Voltaire that undermined her
 
 184 Fontaine and M. Alexandre. 
 
 faith. She became a Deist, and in her dis- 
 appointment, her indignation, her anger 
 against men who disgraced humanity and her 
 own ideal vision of a repubhc, her mind lost 
 its balance. No longer restrained by the 
 principles of the Gospel, full of classical and 
 high-flown conceptions of pagan virtues, she 
 threw away all the gifts God had given her, and 
 her life, which might have been such a grand 
 one, for a miserable hope, a wretched delusion 
 — she committed a useless murder, and died 
 on the scaffold. I hardly know anything 
 more melancholy than her history, even in 
 these melancholy times. I have been told 
 that, after buying the knife with which she 
 was going to kill Marat, she sat down on a 
 bench in the Palais Royal, opposite to a bed 
 of flowers, round which children were playing. 
 She took one of them on her knees, and 
 caressed it. Children and flowers she had 
 always loved. How she could do the deed is 
 my wonder.' 
 
 ' No, M. Alexandre ; I do not think it 
 wonderful. If I could once believe as she
 
 Fontaine and M. Alexandre. 185 
 
 did, that it was right to kill such monsters as 
 Marat or ChalHer, / could do it! 
 
 * You think so, but when it came to the 
 point you would not.' 
 
 * It is true that I cannot bring myself to 
 crush an insect, but then, if persons believe 
 they are doing a good action, they subdue 
 natural feelings. The kindest and gentlest 
 men slaughter in battle good people who have 
 done no one any harm. Having, as you said, 
 no fixed religious principles to guide her, I do 
 not wonder that Charlotte de Corday thought 
 it right to kill Marat, or that she caressed 
 a little child just before she did it. She 
 thought, I dare say, at that moment of the 
 many children he had made orphans — of the 
 broken hearts of wives and mothers — and felt 
 as a soldier does when ofoingf into battle.' 
 
 ' You are right. She was an angel, but a 
 fallen one, from the moment she abandoned 
 her hold on the one safeguard against crimes 
 which look like virtues.' 
 
 * Now that we have spoken of her, will you 
 not tell me Mdlle. de Saurac's story? It
 
 1 86 Fontaine and M. Alexandre. 
 
 cannot be more terrible than that of Charlotte 
 de Corday's.' 
 
 ' No, not in one sense. Poor, gentle girl, 
 she did not sin ; she was sinned against.' 
 
 ' When, and how, did her sorrows com- 
 mence ?' 
 
 ' At the beginning of the Revolution she 
 was living with her family in a chateau in 
 Auvergne. A band of insurgents got pos- 
 session of it, hung her father on one of the 
 lamp-posts at his own gate, and with diaboli- 
 cal cruelty forced her to set fire with her own 
 hand to the home of her youth.' 
 
 ' They would have killed me first !' Aline 
 ejaculated ; but checking herself, said, ' and 
 yet how can I tell I should have courage to 
 die a dreadful death, or that it would not 
 have been right, even at that price, to live 
 for the sake of others ? Was her mother 
 alive ?' 
 
 ' Yes, at that time, but she died soon after- 
 wards. Mdlle. de Saurac went out of her 
 mind, and was placed at Lyons in an apart- 
 ment adjoining the great hospital. For two
 
 Fontaine and M. Alexandre. 187 
 
 years she lived there, and was treated with 
 great care by the medical staff. INIeanwhile, 
 the reign of terror was progressing. Her 
 mother, as I said, died — her brothers emi- 
 grated, and the rest of her family was dis- 
 persed. Madeleine Chozlere had begun her 
 charitable work in Lyons. One day that she 
 was visiting some one at the hospital, she 
 heard of Mdlle de Saurac, and went to see 
 her. Have you had time yet to remark that 
 Madeleine is no ordinary person ?' 
 
 ' My father told me so last night, but I 
 think it is enough to look at her face to see 
 it.' 
 
 ' She is not only good, but one of the cle- 
 verest and most superior women I have ever 
 known. She has, if one may so speak, the 
 genius of charity, and unites consummate 
 prudence with a bold activity of spirit which 
 fears no danger and shrinks from no labour. 
 The quickness of her insight and her presence 
 of mind are extraordlnarv. She seems to un- 
 derstand intuitively the character of those she 
 deals with, turns to account whatever good
 
 1 88 Fontaine and M. Alexandre. 
 
 there may be in them, and never proposes to 
 anyone to do a more courageous or generous 
 thing than they are capable of. It is curious 
 to see how she manaofes her father. She knows 
 he is good-hearted, but neither brave nor high- 
 principled. She does not appeal to his con- 
 science, but to his feelings, and he scarcely 
 ever resists her. I have reason to know 
 what that woman is, and my gratitude to her 
 will be eternal. But to return to Mdlle. de 
 Saurac. From the first moment she saw her, 
 Madeleine won her affection. Her beauty, her 
 goodness, the nobility of soul visible under 
 her peasant's garb, acted like a spell on the 
 disordered mind of the poor girl. She clung 
 to her at once, and from that moment relied 
 on her entirely. Her family, before leaving 
 France, had deposited in the hands of the 
 physicians who attended her some small means 
 for her support. They wished her to live in 
 the country, as the best means of restoring 
 her mind. One of them was well acquainted 
 with Madeleine, and proposed to her to take 
 charore of Mdlle. de Saurac. This was ar-
 
 Fo7itaine and M. Alexandre. 189 
 
 ranged, and the change of scene, joined to 
 the tender care she received, gradually effected 
 a great improvement in the poor girl. She 
 recovered her reason, in a great measure at 
 least ; not her memory — except by fits and 
 starts. Ask Madeleine to describe to you the 
 strange state of that poor girl. She gave me 
 some touching accounts of her last days.' 
 
 ' Did you know her yourself ?' 
 
 ' Very little ; since I came here she was 
 generally too ill to leave her room. At first, 
 when the days were fine and the sun shining, 
 I used to see her carried into the garden. 
 Pierre, the idiot, and little Driette, were her 
 attendants. Both were very fond of her, and 
 she seemed to take pleasure in watching his 
 antics, and listening to her singing. One sin- 
 gular mercy was vouchsafed to her since she 
 came to this place. At Lyons she was always 
 reverting to the terrible events which had 
 driven her mad, and when this was the case 
 she often raved terribly ; but here she appa- 
 rently forgot them entirely, and everything in 
 the past except the years of her childhood
 
 IQO Fontaine and M. Alexandre. 
 
 and early youth. She often spoke to Made- 
 leine of the beauty and happiness of her home, 
 of her affection for her parents, of how fond 
 her brothers were of her, of what they used 
 to play at, and the lessons they learnt. She 
 wondered how It was that none of them came 
 to see her, but she was always expecting them, 
 and said that then they would take her home ; 
 that Madeleine, too, would go with her, and 
 they would all be happy. Whenever she 
 was alone she sat at the window watchlno- the 
 road, and In the evening she said, " They 
 have not arrived to-day, but to-morrow they 
 will come." Nothing has been heard of her 
 relatives ; they may be dead, or unable to 
 communicate with anyone in France/ 
 
 Aline's tears were falling fast on her 
 work. 
 
 ' I have made you cry. I am so sorry.' 
 
 ' Do not be sorry. If you knew what a 
 relief it Is not to be obliged, as I have been 
 so often, to refrain from weepino-.' 
 
 'Has It indeed been thus with you } I 
 have been telling you two long stories, Mdlle.
 
 Fontaine and M. Alexandre. 191 
 
 Aline. Will you not in return let me hear 
 your history ?' 
 
 ' I will ask papa if I may tell it you,' Aline 
 answered, with the simplicity and the caution 
 which belonged to her character. 
 
 * Your father has related to me his adven- 
 tures, but we have all a story of our own, 
 and it is your story I should like to hear.' 
 
 ' Well, if papa gives me leave, you shall 
 hear it. But will you tell me yours, M. 
 Alexandre ?' 
 
 An expression of pain passed over his face. 
 * There are sufferings which it is best not to 
 recall. Madeleine knows my history. If you 
 wish it, she will tell it you. Now my nets are 
 mended, and I must go about my business,' 
 he said, taking up his basket. 
 
 She smiled as if they had been old friends, 
 and her eyes followed him as he walked down 
 the gravel walk. She went on with her work, 
 going over in her mind this conversation, and 
 dwelling on each word uttered by M. Alex- 
 andre. Not very remarkable utterances when 
 written down, but very interesting to one
 
 192 Fontaine and M. Alexandre. 
 
 already prepossessed by the charm of his 
 countenance and of his manner. Amono-st 
 the young men who used to congregate at the 
 old custom-house, in Mdlle. de Bellecise's 
 salon, there was not one who had pleased 
 Aline's girlish fancy, even though the circum- 
 stances under which she had met them, the 
 enthusiasm of the moment, the intimacies 
 suddenly formed, the excitement of a common 
 and powerful interest, would have seemed 
 favourable to some such feeling. One or 
 two of them had admired the diminutive and 
 lovely Mdlle. des Elmes ; but the compliments 
 they paid her had been received with a chill- 
 ing indifference that effectually put a stop to 
 any further attentions. Now, for the first 
 time, she had found some one who answered 
 to the ideal she had formed in her own mind 
 of what she most admired in a man. This 
 was a sudden, hasty impression ; it would have 
 been imprudent to act upon it, but it was not 
 necessarily erroneous. She wondered who 
 he was, whether Madeleine knew. He had 
 been poor M. de Belzunce's friend, and had
 
 Fo7itaine and M. Alexandre. 193 
 
 been with him at Caen. Those were the 
 only indications as to his past that had escaped 
 him. 
 
 She rose from what she called, in her own 
 mind, a happy corner, and strolled in the 
 orchard, musing on the histories of Charlotte 
 de Corday and Mdlle. de Saurac, and placing 
 herself in imagination amidst scenes in which 
 she might be called upon to take a part. This 
 lasted till she was summoned to dinner. 
 Several strangers sat down to table, but M. 
 Alexandre did not appear. She learnt after- 
 wards that these guests slept at various 
 cottages in the wood, where Madeleine knew 
 they would be safe, until she could contrive 
 some means of enabling them to escape : they 
 had their meals at the Chozieres' house. It 
 was curious to see how these men of different 
 ranks in life, as they evidently were, consorted 
 together on intimate terms, even though they 
 observed amongst themselves considerable 
 reserve as to their names and theirantecedents. 
 Madeleine was the only person who com- 
 manded unlimited confidence ; they all knew 
 
 VOL. I. I x
 
 194 Fontaine and M. Alexandre. 
 
 that she could guide and protect them. Her 
 penetration was extraordinary ; she seemed to 
 be able, at first sight, to detect a spy, or a 
 vagabond, from the persecuted fugitives who 
 sought shelter under her father's roof Aline 
 watched her with a new interest, now that she 
 had heard so much about her from M. 
 Alexandre. 
 
 Dinner that day was almost ended, when 
 Driette came in and whispered something to 
 her mother, who made a sign to Madeleine. 
 The guests rose and left the house by the 
 back door ; the plates and glasses were rapidly 
 cleared and put away. 
 
 ' Go into the garden, mademoiselle,' Made- 
 leine said to Aline ; ' the mayor and his ad- 
 joint are coming. I suppose they have heard 
 of the death in the house, and are come to take 
 our attestations. If they should happen to 
 see you, say that you have been sent here for 
 change of air.' 
 
 Aline went to her seat near the wallflowers, 
 and escaped notice. She saw the Republican 
 officials leaving the house. They were not
 
 Fontaine and JIT. Alexandre. 195 
 
 bad men ; Madeleine was on good terms with 
 them ; their visit passed off satisfactorily. 
 
 Aline went to look for Madeleine, and found 
 her in the kitchen peeling potatoes. She 
 offered her services, and while thus engaged, 
 the following conversation took place between 
 them : 
 
 ' Will my father certainly come back to- 
 night ?' 
 
 ' Nothing is certain just now ; but I think 
 he will.' 
 
 ' And will he go soon ?' 
 
 ' That we cannot tell, but I am inclined to 
 think he will be obliged to wait some days yet.' 
 
 ' But what am I to do, INIadeleine ? I ought 
 to go back to Lyons.' 
 
 'Why so, mademoiselle .^' 
 
 ' I will tellji'^?/ what I do not tell my father. 
 My poor Aunt Felicie is in prison, and though 
 I am sure she wishes me to remain with him, 
 I cannot bear to stay away from her. Do 
 you think I am right not to tell him that she 
 has been arrested on his account ?' 
 
 ' Quite right, and I also think you should 
 
 13—2
 
 196 Fontaine and M. Alexandre. 
 
 act on what you know would be her wishes. 
 But I shall go into Lyons to-morrow, and 
 will try and see your aunt, or communicate 
 with her.' 
 
 ' Thank you, Madeleine — thank you ! How 
 good you are ! I wish you would call me 
 Aline, not mademoiselle — will you ?' 
 
 ' No, my dear ; I do not like to make free 
 with ladies, even when they are as young as 
 you are.' 
 
 ' I wish you would love me as you loved 
 poor Mdlle. de Saurac' 
 
 ' It would be with a very different kind of 
 
 love.' 
 
 ' I did so wish to comfort you last night, 
 but I did not venture to let you know that I 
 was aware of her death.' 
 
 ' It is a great mercy that God has taken to 
 Himself my poor darling, and that she had 
 the last sacraments.' 
 
 ' Oh, what a blessing ! Then do priests 
 sometimes come here ?' 
 
 ' In the dark, and by stealth. Should you 
 be glad to see one ?'
 
 Fontaine and M. Alexandre. igy 
 
 'Very glad Indeed. It is so long since I 
 have been to confession and communion.' 
 
 ' Well, if you like to prepare yourself you 
 can go to your duties to-night. I have sent 
 to our good cure, who lives in a hut in the 
 forest, to ask him to come and perform the 
 funeral rites for my poor loved one, whom 
 the Commune will bury to-morrow in their 
 godless fashion. He will be here about 
 eleven, and just after midnight he will say 
 Mass in the barn. You will be surprised to 
 see how many people will come. But say 
 nothing about it.' 
 
 ' Not even to my father ?' 
 
 'Yes, to him, so that you are not over- 
 heard.' 
 
 ' Will M. Alexandre know of it ?' 
 
 ' Yes, we can trust him too. But my 
 father must not be told. He Is good, but 
 sometimes at the public-house he forgets that 
 something Is a secret. We must be careful. 
 Now, suppose you were to go and lie down 
 and sleep till supper-time ; after that you can 
 prepare for confession.'
 
 198 Fontaine and M. Alexandre. 
 
 ' It will be a difficult one.' 
 ' Will it ?' Madeleine said with a smile ; 
 ' why difficult ?' 
 
 ' I hardly know if it is a sin to hate, as 
 much as I do, the wicked men who pursue 
 my father as if he was a wild beast — who 
 have thrown my aunt into a horrid prison — 
 who every day put to death innocent people 
 — who shut up and desecrate our churches, 
 and say dreadful things about God and our 
 Lord. Oh, I do detest them ! How can I 
 help it r 
 
 ' There is only one way of helping it. By 
 thinking of Christ on the cross, and Mary at 
 its foot.' 
 
 ' Does that really prevent you from hating 
 them ? Do you not hate the men who drove 
 Mdlle. de Saurac mad T 
 
 ' I would die to save their souls !' 
 
 The expression of Madeleine's face as she 
 said these words gave Aline a thrill. She 
 felt awed by it, sweet as it was. 
 
 ' Believe me,' Madeleine continued, ' these 
 are not times in which to lead common lives
 
 Fontaine and M. Alexandre. 199 
 
 and serve God in a half-and-half manner. 
 We must learn of Jesus Christ to love sinners 
 because He loved them, and the more wicked 
 they are, the more to pity them. The 
 history of the Passion is a great help. Our 
 poor King, I have been told, was refusing to 
 have his arms bound on the scaffold, and 
 was about to struesrle with his executioners. 
 He looked at his confessor, who said, " Sire, 
 our Lord was bound before He was crucified." 
 Those words calmed him at once. We must 
 realise that Jesus died for the worst of men, 
 for Marat, Challier, Couthon, and all the 
 rest of them.' 
 
 ' I will try to put in practice what you tell 
 me, especially when I think of the person I 
 am most tempted to hate — Mdme. Foret.' 
 
 ' Oh, I know that woman.' 
 
 ' She is the wife of our keeper. When 
 she eats her rank cheese in my room, and 
 describes with a horrid joy the executions 
 she has been witnessing, I have felt tempted 
 to snatch up a knife and strike her.' 
 
 ' That you will have to confess, my dear ;
 
 200 Fontaine and M. Alexandre. 
 
 But try my plan. It is a good one in times 
 like these.' 
 
 * Has M. Alexandre been here longf ? 
 
 ' Some time — a few weeks now. He 
 arrived one night footsore and weary, in so 
 ragged a state that none of the neighbours 
 would give him even one night's shelter ; but, 
 knowing how kind mother is, they advised 
 him to come here. She hesitated a little, and 
 then said that Pierre might sleep for once on 
 straw, and the stranger have his bed in the 
 stable. She asked him into the kitchen, and 
 gave him some soup. After he had thanked 
 her and spoken to us a litde, she whispered 
 to me, " Pierre's bed will not do for him." I 
 had been thinking the same thing. One saw 
 at once that he was a gentleman, so we got 
 ready for him the litde closet upstairs. Father 
 said he was to go away next day. " Oh, but 
 if he is very tired ?" I replied. "Well, if he 
 is very tired, I suppose he must rest for a day 
 or two." We asked him to stay, and he was 
 glad to do so. On the following day he told 
 me his story.'
 
 Fontaine and M. Alexandre. 201 
 
 ' He says you may tell it me, Madeleine. 
 He cannot bear to speak of it himself.' 
 
 ' No wonder. He is a Vendean, and was 
 made a prisoner after one of the battles be- 
 tween the Royalists and Republicans, and 
 taken to Nantes. His only near relative was 
 his sister, whom he dearly loved. She was 
 arrested also, and, though quite young, was 
 condemned to be guillotined ; but they 
 changed their minds when they found out 
 that he was her brother, and ordered them to 
 be tied together and thrown into the Loire. 
 Many others were treated in the same manner. 
 The Republicans amused themselves to see 
 them sink, or if they floated helplessly about, 
 with blows despatched them. Amidst this 
 horrid confusion the cord which bound M. 
 Alexandre and his sister broke, and they 
 were severed. He seized hold of her and 
 swam to the shore unperceived by the exe- 
 cutioners ; but when they reached the land, 
 and he had carried her a little way into a 
 wood, he found she was dead. Since then he 
 cannot bear the sight of a corpse.'
 
 202 Fontaine and M. Alexandre. 
 
 ' That explains to me his agitation last 
 night. Poor man ! and he has no parents — 
 no other brothers and sisters ?' 
 
 ' No. It seems that he and this sister were 
 orphans, and had been brought up by an old 
 uncle, who died just before the beginning of 
 the Revolution. I do not know his name. 
 In general, we prefer not to be told the names 
 of those to whom we give shelter. It enables 
 us to deny all knowledge of it when questioned 
 by curious persons. Now, my dear, we have 
 talked enough. Go and lie down, and try to 
 get some rest, as you will again to-night sit 
 up late.' 
 
 Aline went to the room where Mdlle. 
 de Saurac's coffin was standing: covered with 
 bunches of late autumnal flowers. She was 
 so occupied with what she had heard, and 
 picturing to herself M. Alexandre alone with 
 the lifeless body of his young sister — won- 
 dering if he had buried it in that little wood, 
 or covered it with leaves, and framed a rude 
 cross with sticks to mark the spot ; whether 
 he had procured for it Christian burial; what
 
 Fontaine and M. Alexandre. 203 
 
 where his plans ; whither he was intending to 
 go — that It was long before she dozed off. 
 She did so at last, and had many confused 
 dreams, In which the prison at Lyons, the 
 noyades in the Loire, and the story of Mdlle. 
 de Saurac were strangely blended. 
 
 M. des Elmes came home late in the after- 
 noon. He had met the friend with whom he 
 was planning an escape, but the day of their 
 departure was not yet fixed. They had re- 
 ceived warning that the authorities were on 
 the alert, and that delay was necessary. A 
 domiciliary visit was to be expected in a day 
 or two. 
 
 ' I shall have to disappear and hide in the 
 wood,' he said, as Aline sat down by his side 
 near the blazing fire of the common room. ' I 
 am never afraid of being taken by surprise 
 here. Driette Is as sharp as a needle, and 
 always gives me timely notice. She and her 
 aide-de-camp, Pierre, are always on the watch. 
 Somehow she has trained him to distinguish 
 one sort of stranger from another, and as to 
 the officials of the Republic, he scents them as
 
 204 Fontaine and M. A iexandre. 
 
 keenly as a St. Bernard dog a traveller in the 
 snow. And what has my little daughter been 
 doing to-day ? Making friends with my good 
 friends, I hope.' 
 
 Aline told him that she had been workinof 
 and talking with Madeleine, and then added : 
 
 ' And M. Alexandre sat with me some time 
 in the garden.' 
 
 ' That was very good-natured of him, such 
 a little girl as it is,' M. des Elmes said, fondly 
 stroking his daughter's hair. 
 
 ' Not so young as she looks,' Aline an- 
 swered, rather nettled at the imputation of 
 extreme youth. 
 
 She did not like the idea that it was out of 
 good nature to a child that M. Alexandre had 
 conversed so long with her. At any rate, he 
 had found out and said that she was old 
 for her age. When he came in to supper, 
 he asked if she had been resting, and was 
 glad to hear she had slept some hours ; even 
 though ' there was something painful,' he 
 said, ' in awaking from a deep slumber and 
 returning to anxious thoughts. Do you feel
 
 Fontaine and M. AlexajidT-e. 205 
 
 as I do ? I ask myself sometimes whether 
 I am dreaming, and hope that perhaps the 
 waking is at hand. Would you not be glad 
 to awake ?' 
 
 ' Yes ; but not just at this minute,' she 
 answered. 
 
 In' comparison with what she had left be- 
 hind at Lyons, the present moment seemed to 
 Aline one she would willingly have prolonged. 
 There was a snugness and a brightness in 
 that low-roofed room, and a kindliness in all 
 the faces gathered round the table, which 
 contrasted with her worse than solitary meals 
 shared by the Forets. Sitting between her 
 father and her new acquaintance, M. Alex- 
 andre, she felt happy for the time being, and, 
 truthful as she always was, could not say that 
 she wished this gleam of enjoyment to vanish 
 at once. 
 
 After supper they all gathered round the 
 fire, and at about ten o'clock Madeleine took 
 Aline to the barn. A simple altar was 
 erected at one end of it, and in a corner stood 
 a sort of confessional. Madeleine placed a
 
 2o6 Fontaine and M. Alexandre. 
 
 chair near it for Aline, and then prepared 
 everything for Mass. After a while some one 
 called her away. M. le Cure was arrived, and 
 had gone to the room where the coffin 
 was. 
 
 Meanwhile Aline prepared for confession. 
 She had been going through great suffering, 
 cruel anxieties, and violent emotions, since 
 she had last performed that duty. Her soul 
 was craving for the grace of the sacraments. 
 As a dried-up soil thirsts for rain, so did her 
 spirit long for absolution, for guidance, for the 
 solving of many a doubt. 
 
 The old cure entered the barn, and seated 
 himself in the place Madeleine had pointed 
 out to Aline. The barn had been gradually 
 filling with fugitives concealed in the neigh- 
 bourhood, and villagers who stole in one by 
 one ; but Aline was the first who knelt by 
 his side. When she returned to her place 
 her soul was filled with peace. The well- 
 known lines of the American poet describe 
 her as she looked at that moment :
 
 Fontaine and M. Alexandre. 207 
 
 .'But a more celestial brightness — a more ethereal 
 beauty — 
 Shone on her face and encircled her form, when, after 
 
 confession, 
 Homeward serenely she walked with God's benediction 
 
 upon her; 
 When she had* passed, it seemed like the ceasing of 
 exquisite music' 
 
 Others followed, old men and children, 
 peasant women, and men of the world. She 
 saw her aged father kneeling at the feet of 
 the servant of God — he himself an outlaw 
 and a fugitive — and felt that her aunt's 
 prayers were answered. M. des Elmes had 
 always been a staunch Catholic, but negligent 
 in the practice of religion. Suffering, leisure 
 for recollection, Madeleine's simple exhorta- 
 tions, had done their work. He was almost 
 as happy as his child that night, and Aline 
 felt that she would have to tell her aunt that 
 which would make up for every pang, and 
 death itself if God so willed. In the midst of 
 her thanksgiving her eyes wandered in search 
 of one whom she also earnestly desired to 
 discover amongst the crowd of worshippers. 
 For some time she did not see M. Alexandre,
 
 2o8 Fontaine and M. Alexandre. 
 
 but when all the other confessions were over, 
 he too crossed the sanctuary and knelt by 
 the side of the priest. How glad she was ; 
 with what fervour she prayed for all those she 
 loved, and for that stranger who had gone 
 through such terrible suffering. 
 
 The village clock struck twelve : soon after- 
 wards Mass began. It was heard by some 
 of those men and women with the feeling, so 
 strong in those days, that it might be for the 
 last time in their lives. And in the same 
 spirit they received Holy Communion. The 
 priest, before leaving the altar, said a few 
 words to that effect. Then the lights were 
 extinguished, the congregation dispersed, and 
 the Choziere's and their guests returned to the 
 cottage. 
 
 Mdlle. de Saurac's coffin had been brought 
 down to the parlour. The cure stood a few 
 instants by the kitchen fire talking to Made- 
 leine, and then walked away through the dark 
 wood to his hiding-place. The women went 
 to their bedchamber, M. Alexandre preceding 
 them in order to pass as usual into his room.
 
 Fontaine and M. Alexandre. 209 
 
 He turned to Aline as they were going up- 
 stairs, and said : 
 
 ' Does it not seem a long time since I was 
 speaking to you here last night ?' 
 
 She nodded assent. 
 
 It did indeed appear incredible that only 
 twenty-four hours had elapsed since that 
 moment. There are clays which count as 
 years in the story of a life. 
 
 Driette slept with Aline ; the other bed 
 was occupied by Madeleine and her mother. 
 Aline said to the little girl : 
 
 ' Was it not a great happiness to hear 
 Mass ?' 
 
 ' Yes ; but I have not heard it in the way 
 you did.' 
 
 ' What was the difference ?' 
 
 ' You were in the barn, and I was outside 
 — I and Pierre. They would have been 
 frightened — those in the barn — if they had not 
 known I was watching outside. They might 
 come in by stealth, you know, and arrest M. 
 le Cure. Madeleine says that the good God 
 likes me to hear Mass that way. She has 
 
 VOL. 1. 14
 
 2IO Fontaine and M. Alexandre. 
 
 taught me a prayer which I say all the time. 
 Pierre has learnt a little of it. He can say 
 "Jesus, mercy," and " Mary, pray for me" as 
 well as anybody. I will teach you the rest 
 of it if you like, but not now : I am too tired ;' 
 and before the words were out of her mouth 
 the child was asleep. 
 
 That night Aline had none but pleasant 
 dreams ; and when she awoke next morning, 
 thought that if Aunt Felicie was but out of 
 prison there might yet be happiness in store 
 for her.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 GLEAMS OF SUNSHINE. 
 
 FTER breakfast, M. des Elmes had 
 to seek shelter in a cottage at 
 some distance. AHne asked if 
 she might accompany him, but he would not 
 hear of it. He had always before his eyes 
 the possibility of being arrested, and if that 
 happened, it was with the Chozieres he 
 wished her to be. Madeleine went to Lyons. 
 No sooner was she out of sight than her 
 father walked away in the direction of the 
 public-house. His wife sighed ; there was 
 always a fear that if he drank a little too much 
 he would talk imprudently. She called 
 Driette. 
 
 14 — 2
 
 212 Gleams of SnnsJiine. 
 
 ' ]\Iy child, follow your father ; and if he 
 stops at the Croix Rousse, hover about the 
 place, and bring him away if you can.' 
 
 ' But who will mind the cows, mother ?' 
 
 ' I will,' Aline exclaimed. 
 
 Driette laughed. 
 
 ' You will never be able to manage them, 
 and if they get into ]\I. Laroche's field, we 
 shall never hear the end of it. He is a 
 regular Barabbas.' 
 
 This inferred a combination of the worst 
 qualities. Aline dared not incur the responsi- 
 bility of the cows' good behaviour ; but Pierre 
 returning at that moment from the village, 
 the difficulty was solved. Meanwhile there 
 was more sewing to be done — more nets to 
 be mended — and the sun was shining invit- 
 ingly on the bench near the broken arch- 
 way. Aline and M. Alexandre made their 
 way there without either of them proposing 
 it, and seemed equally glad to resume their 
 work and their conversation. Whilst talkino- 
 
 o 
 
 to him she had in her mind the events in his 
 history which IMadeleine had related to her.
 
 Gleams of Sunskiite. 213 
 
 It made her absent while he was speaking of 
 other things. By describing scenes connected 
 with her childhood, she tried to lead him to 
 mention his own recollections. Once he did 
 begin to do so, but almost immediately 
 changed the subject. She guessed that such 
 reminiscences were closely connected with 
 the sister whose life he had not been able to 
 save, and that he could not dwell upon them. 
 He told her, however, of his having fought 
 under Charette in the Vendean army, and of 
 some incidents of that sflorious but ill-fated 
 
 o 
 
 war. She listened to every word he said 
 with the sort of attention Desdemona lent to 
 the storv of Othello. His own name, or that 
 of his native place, or of the uncle who, ac- 
 cording to what Madeleine said, had brought 
 him up, he did not mention. Whilst they 
 were conversing, suddenly a pigeon whirled in 
 the air and settled on his shoulder, and almost 
 at the same time another alighted on his knee. 
 ' How tame they are !' Aline exclaimed, 
 and tried to caress them ; but when she put 
 out her hand, they flew away.
 
 214 Gleams of Sunshine. 
 
 ' These birds were my companions and my 
 protectors,' M. Alexandre said, ' during part 
 of my late journey. I had been arrested near 
 Dijon by two gendarmes, who suspected me 
 of being a Breton fugitive. They were 
 taking me to that town, where I should in- 
 evitably have been shot. I was so weak 
 that I could hardly walk. As we passed by 
 a public-house, I asked them to let me sit 
 down and drink some wine. They agreed 
 to it, and I spent the money I had on bottle 
 after bottle of strong Burgundy. I took as 
 little as I could myself, and kept filling the 
 glasses of the gendarmes. One of them 
 drank so fast that after a while he rolled off 
 his chair, and fell prostrate under the table. 
 But the other man would not drink, and 
 kept his eye upon me. I lost all hope. At 
 last he said : 
 
 * I see what you are at, but you need not 
 be afraid. As that fellow is dead drunk, I 
 will favour your escape. Wait here till I 
 come back.' 
 
 I was in twenty minds what to do ; he
 
 Gleams of Stmshine. 215 
 
 might be speaking the truth, or, on the other 
 hand, he was perhaps going to get assistance 
 to secure me ; however, as I had not strength 
 to attempt a forced march, I resolved to 
 await his return.' 
 
 ' Oh, that waiting !' AHne exclaimed ; ' it is 
 worse than any certainty. How long the 
 time must have seemed !' 
 
 ' It did, though I believe he was away not 
 more than a quarter of an hour. He brought 
 me some shabby clothes to make me look 
 like a working-man ; my own, which retained 
 vestiges of my old uniform, had led to my 
 arrest. And he also gave me those two 
 pigeons you saw just now, in a basket. 
 " If you carry those birds along with you," 
 he said, " it will look as if you were only 
 going from one village to another." What 
 he said turned out to be true — a more useful 
 present could not have been made me. I 
 was always taken for a peasant, and supposed 
 to be on my way to a market town to sell 
 my birds. I had some offers for them on 
 the road, which I refused, on the plea of
 
 2i6 Gleams of Sunshine. 
 
 insufficiency : thus I escaped detection, but it 
 was a long and weary journey. I had to beg 
 for food for myself and my pigeons. I must 
 say that, generally speaking, I found the 
 cottagers very charitable. It was chiefly at 
 lonely farmhouses I ventured to do so. 
 Yes, I owe a great deal to my little com- 
 panions,' M. Alexandre said, stroking one 
 which had again settled on his knee, 'and 
 still more to that good gendarme who gave 
 them to me.' 
 
 ' Do you know his name ?' 
 
 ' No, I wish I did ; but he gave me no 
 time to ask,' 
 
 ' Then you will, I suppose, never see him 
 again. I think there is something very sad 
 in that. It seems so strange that two persons 
 should meet just for one hour of their lives, 
 and such an important one too, and then 
 know no more of each other afterwards than 
 if they were both dead.' 
 
 ' Good people say that in heaven we shall 
 recognise our friends. If I am happy enough 
 to get there, I shall hope to meet that chari-
 
 Gleams of Sunshine. 217 
 
 table gendarme. Are you going away, Mdlle. 
 Aline ?' 
 
 ' Only to fetch something for your pigeons 
 to eat. I shall be back in a minute.' 
 
 She flew to the house, and returned with a 
 handful of peas. She scattered them on the 
 bench, and then stood cautiously a little way 
 off, whilst the birds eat out of their master's 
 hand. 
 
 ' I wish they would make friends with me, 
 she said, slowly approaching. 
 
 ' They will, if you stay here some little 
 time.' 
 
 ' I do not know how long I shall remain. 
 It depends on my father's arrangements.' 
 
 At that moment, the sound of a loud voice 
 in the lane made the birds fly away. 
 
 * What is that noise ?' Aline asked with 
 some alarm. 
 
 ' It is only Choziere singing. He is rather 
 the worse, I suspect, for his visit to the Croix 
 Rousse. His poor wife is on thorns when he 
 goes there.' 
 
 ' Yes, there he is, and coming this way too.
 
 2 1 8 Gleams of Sunshine. 
 
 Driette is with him. What has happened to 
 the child ? Her face is bleeding !' 
 
 As soon as Driette caught sight of Aline 
 and M. Alexandre, she ran up to them, and 
 said : 
 
 ' Please speak to father, and try to keep 
 him here a few minutes whilst I go to mother.' 
 
 She ran to the house, and they went up to 
 the farmer. 
 
 ' You are in good voice to-day, M. Choziere, 
 I wish I had as good lungs as you,' M. 
 Alexandre said, as he accosted him. 
 
 ' Good wine clears the throat,' he replied, 
 ' and good company keeps up a man's spirits. 
 I should be enjoying both at this moment if 
 that silly child, Driette, had not poked her 
 nose into the tap-room, and stumbled over 
 some broken bottles. She fell down, cut her 
 face, of course, and ran out into the street, 
 crying. Like a goose that I am, I followed 
 her, and then nothing would pacify the minx 
 but my bringing her home. She could not 
 walk alone, forsooth, the little jade ! and yet 
 she seemed to have found her legs just now.
 
 Gleams of Sunshine, 219 
 
 I'll tell you what, M. Alexandre. These 
 women here make a fool of me. They say 
 so yonder, I can tell you. My friends think 
 it a shame that now, when the rights of man 
 have been proclaimed, a Frenchman should 
 be governed by a set of petticoats. It is not 
 enough of my wife and Madeleine, but that 
 baby Driette must have her word to say in 
 the house. I am not going to stand it any 
 longer, I can tell you,' 
 
 'Go home,' M. Alexandre said to Aline; 
 and then he made the farmer sit down, and 
 soothed and humoured him till he fell asleep 
 on the sunny bench. 
 
 Driette was on her mother's knees when 
 Aline entered the kitchen. Tears were on 
 the cheeks of the good woman. Aline asked 
 anxiously if the little girl was much hurt. 
 
 ' No, no,' Driette cried out — ' it was I that 
 did it on purpose.' 
 
 Mother Choziere wiped her eyes. 
 
 ' There is not much the matter, made- 
 moiselle. What made me cry was to think 
 that Driette is a good, brave child, and will
 
 2 20 Gleams of Sunshine. 
 
 be some day just such another as our 
 Madeleine ; and though I say it that should 
 not, I can wish nothing better for her. The 
 
 O 
 
 fact is that my poor man, if he drinks a glass 
 too much, lets out secrets, and many a trouble 
 we have had in consequence. So Driette 
 listens to what goes on. To-day she heard 
 those good-for-nothings attacking Choziere 
 for harbouring aristocrats and ci-devants, and 
 having Mass said at his place. He was 
 angry, and swore that all in his house were 
 good patriots. A man who was there said, 
 " Then write down their names." They were 
 looking for a bit of paper, when what does 
 Driette ? Dear me, I should never have 
 thought of such a thing! but she is just like 
 Madeleine. Down she throws herself on the 
 floor over some broken bottles, cuts her face 
 with a piece of glass, and calls out for her 
 father. I warrant you, she made the worst 
 of her accident.' 
 Driette smiled. 
 
 ' Oh, mother, I roared like a little bull.' 
 ' Choziere picked her up, and she dragged
 
 Gleams of Situs hine. 221 
 
 him away. He is a fond father. I will say- 
 that for him ' 
 
 Aline threw her arms round Driette's neck. 
 Her heart was too full to speak. This was 
 one instance out of many of that child's in- 
 telligence and presence of mind. No 
 detective could show more skill and talent in 
 discovering crime than she did in spying out 
 and averting dangers from her friends. She 
 was like a bird, ever on the winsf, dartine 
 from one place to another, never taken by 
 surprise. It seemed as if she was only play- 
 ing and frolicking about the house and 
 garden, but nothing escaped her. It was 
 startling to think that secret matters of life 
 and death were in the keeping of that child ; 
 and sometimes she had to act for herself, 
 and take sudden decisions, but her sagacity 
 was never at fault. 
 
 From that moment Aline and Driette 
 became dear friends. There was sympathy 
 between them on one point especially. They 
 had both taken a great fancy to M. Alexandre, 
 very different in its nature and degree, and,
 
 222 Gleams of Sunshine. 
 
 above all, in the way it was manifested. 
 Driette's devotion to him was displayed with 
 childish unreserve. She followed him about 
 like a little dog, and made him many de- 
 clarations of affection. Aline could not help 
 showing, by little unconscious acts and in- 
 voluntary words, that she did feel a peculiar 
 interest about him, but he did not seem to 
 take notice of it. She did not wish him to do 
 so. His pigeons were great favourites with 
 both his young friends. Driette had taught 
 them to feed out of her hand. She wished 
 them not to be afraid of Aline, and it was 
 pretty to hear her trying to familiarise them 
 with her by assurances that she was very 
 good, and that they need not be afraid of 
 taking peas out of her mouth. This was going 
 on one morning, when the sound of steps on 
 the grass startled both girls and birds. It 
 was M. des Elmes, who was coming towards 
 them. Driette jumped up, and said : 
 
 ' Monsieur, you must not be seen here to- 
 day. They have been cross-questioning 
 father in the village, and we may have a visit.
 
 Gleams of Sunshine. 223 
 
 M. des Elmes shrusfo-ed his shoulders. 
 
 ' How long,' he muttered — ' how long Is 
 this life to last ? Aline, my child, I had 
 hoped to spend a few hours with you, but if 
 little Driette says I must go ' 
 
 ' You must not stay here, father ; but cannot 
 we hide somewhere together ?' 
 
 ' I can take you to a place where nobody 
 would find you,' Driette said. 'Come with me.' 
 
 The confidence the child inspired was so 
 great that M. des Elmes did not hesitate to 
 trust themselves to her guidance ; and into the 
 forest they went, his daughter holding one of 
 his hands, and Driette the other. She con- 
 ducted them to some rocks and to a cave, the 
 entrance to which was concealed by brush- 
 wood. 
 
 ' Step in there,' the little guide said, in her 
 dictatorial manner. ' There are large stones 
 inside on which you can sit down. In about 
 two hours — if that suits you — I will come and 
 fetch mademoiselle, who might lose her way if 
 she was alone ; and you, monsieur, can go to 
 the miller's hut for the nio^ht.'
 
 2 24 Gleams of Stmshine. 
 
 She flew away like a bird, and in the grotto, 
 dark and silent as a tomb, the father and 
 daughter held an undisturbed conversation. 
 They talked of Aunt Felicie — always a trying 
 ordeal for Aline — of Maurice and Andre, and 
 jDOor Odille. M. des Elmes said, with a 
 sigh: 
 
 ' Alas, that dear child's fate used to be my 
 greatest cross. Now I can almost be thank- 
 ful that she has no mind to understand and 
 no heart to feel. My Aline is my chief 
 anxiety, but as long as my sister lives I know 
 her to be safe.' 
 
 It was getting dark in the cave, when 
 some one's step was heard outside. It was 
 not Driette's lio;ht footfall. M. des Elmes 
 was alarmed. Had he been alone, he would 
 not have cared much what happened to him. 
 The weariness of his fugitive existence so 
 weighed on his spirits, that had it not been 
 from a sense of duty, he would have courted 
 death rather than feared it. But to be 
 arrested when his vounof dauQfhter was with 
 him was his greatest dread. However, they
 
 Gleams of Sunshine. 225 
 
 were soon re-assured. It was W. Alexandre 
 who was outside. Driette was wanted at 
 home, and Mdme. Choziere had asked him 
 to brinof back AHne. M. des Elmes thanked 
 him, kissed his daughter, and took the path 
 over the hills leading to the miller's house, 
 
 ' How kind of you to fetch me,' Aline said 
 to her companion, ' I thought you never 
 came home till six. Driette said so yester- 
 day.' 
 
 * There was very little to do at my office 
 to-day, so I came away early.' 
 
 Aline opened her eyes wide. 
 ' Have you an office ? How is that pos- 
 sible ?' 
 
 * I will tell you how it came about. But 
 take hold of my arm, or you will fall over 
 those loose stones.' 
 
 Aline put her arm in his, and did not mind 
 the rough stones and the increasing darkness. 
 
 ' You would never have guessed — would 
 you ? — that I am an employe of the Com- 
 mune, This was how it happened. You 
 know, of course, that the great object for an 
 
 VOL. I. 15
 
 2 26 Gleaiiis of Sunshine. 
 
 outlaw is to have a passport. I had fabri- 
 cated one during my flight, but Madeleine 
 was determined to ofet me a real one. So off 
 she went to M. Moral, the Procurator of the 
 Commune, who has for years been devoted to 
 her, and would any day betray the Republic 
 if she would only marry him. She told him 
 that he must give me a passport. At first he 
 positively refused, but her great threat, that 
 she would never set her foot again in his 
 house if she did not get it, settled the point, 
 and I found myself possessed of a passport 
 duly signed and sealed. A few days after- 
 wards the Commune made up its mind to 
 erect a fountain in the village. It was to be 
 something very elegant, but they were greatly 
 at a loss for a design. Madeleine, hearing 
 this, paid another visit to her admirer, and 
 showed him a sketch I had made, at her sug- 
 gestion, of the proposed fountain. It was 
 highly approved of by the authorities, and 
 adopted.' 
 
 ' Was that what you meant ? Did they 
 make vou their architect ?'
 
 Gleams of Stm shine. 22; 
 
 ' No ; that appointment would have been 
 too much of a sinecure. But Madeleine, 
 hearing that the secretary of the Municipal 
 Board had left the place, called again on 
 M. Moral, and said to him, " Not one of 
 you can write a good hand. Make our 
 friend, M, Alexandre, your secretary. His 
 penmanship is as good as his drawings. He 
 is just the man for you." Moral was en- 
 chanted, for they did not know at all how to 
 replace the scribe who had done their busi- 
 ness. He boasted to his colleagues of the 
 wonderful discovery he had made, and told 
 them they w^ould be fortunate in securing the 
 services of so able an individual as myself. 
 I was engaged on the spot, and thus became 
 the secretary of the Commune. My salary is 
 exceedingly small, but just enough to prevent 
 my being too great a burden on the good 
 Chozieres — that is, if Madeleine would leave 
 it alone. But she gets hold of the five francs 
 a week I give to her mother, and spends 
 them, I suspect, in refreshing my wardrobe. 
 There is no thwarting her charity. She is as 
 
 15—2
 
 228 Gleams of Sunshine. 
 
 clever in her devices as little Driette, in her 
 watching.' 
 
 ' M. Alexandre,' Aline said, ' I am not 
 surprised that Madeleine should be as good 
 — as holy as she is, though only a peasant. 
 It is easier, I suppose, for the poor to be good 
 than for the rich, but what I do not under- 
 stand is her language and her manners. They 
 are those of — I do not like to say a lady, 
 no, but of a refined and well-educated 
 person.' 
 
 ' There have been circumstances which 
 account for it. She was about your age, I 
 think, when a German manufacturer estab- 
 lished himself in this neighbourhood, and 
 became acquainted with the Chozieres. He 
 appears to have been an intelligent well-in- 
 formed man, in a much higher position than 
 theirs; he was struck with Madeleine's beauty 
 and cleverness, and wished to make her his 
 wife. But he did not propose to her till two 
 years afterwards. In the meantime he lent 
 her books, often conversed with her, and took 
 great pains to improve her mind. Her man-
 
 Gleams of Sttnshine. 229 
 
 ners, I believe, had always had the natural 
 refinement which modesty and delicacy of 
 feeling create in any class of life. But she 
 learned at that time to speak French more 
 correctly than her friends and neigh- 
 bours.' 
 
 ' Why did they not marry ? You said he 
 did propose for her ?' 
 
 ' Yes ; but from what M. le Cure said — he 
 is my informant — she found out, after she had 
 accepted him, that he was a Protestant. He 
 lived some little way off, and no one seems to 
 have known it here. It was a terrible blow 
 to her. She was very much attached to him. 
 It does not seem to have crossed her mind 
 that she could marry a man who was not a 
 Catholic. She told him so with many tears, 
 but with a firmness which precluded his 
 urging her on the subject.' 
 
 ' Poor Madeleine. What a sacrifice she had 
 to make ! What became of him T 
 
 'About that time the revolutionary troubles 
 began, and he left the country. Her life of 
 charity dates from that period.'
 
 230 Gleams of SunsJiine. 
 
 ' I wonder if she often thinks of him now. 
 I should think she prays for him.' 
 
 ' She is not a person who would easily for- 
 get anyone she had cared for. She has had 
 numerous suitors besides M. Simon Moral, 
 but never would hear of any of them. A hus- 
 band of her own class would hardly have 
 suited her. I fancy that the society of those 
 who have sought refuge in this place has also 
 contributed to give her the tone of a person 
 in our condition of life . . .' M. Alexandre 
 stopped short. 
 
 Aline saw he was embarrassed, and quickly 
 said, ' For my part I am a little savage. I 
 am afraid I shall never have orood manners. 
 When I observe those of my aunt and her 
 friends I see that I am too abrupt and im- 
 pulsive. More like Driette than Madeleine. 
 My life of late has been so strange a 
 one.' 
 
 ' Describe it to me ?' 
 
 ' I hardly know where to begin. Oh yes, 
 with the Journee des Brigands at Moulins, 
 when my father was made Colonel of the
 
 Gleams of Sunshine. 231 
 
 National Guard. That was the beginning of 
 it all; 
 
 Then she related, with a mixture of shrewd- 
 ness and simplicity, of deep feeling and light- 
 heartedness, which equally belonged to her 
 nature, the incidents of the last two eventful 
 years. He was much interested in this nar- 
 rative ; their pace slackened. At last they 
 stood still, she speaking and he listening with 
 eager attention, when the sound of the sup- 
 per-bell made her stop and say : 
 
 'We must hasten on.' 
 
 ' Hang the supper !' he exclaimed, and 
 Aline laughed. It was beginning to rain. 
 He had brought with him a thick shawl, 
 which he wrapped round her. She thought 
 of her solitary walks at Lyons, and the feeling 
 of being protected and cared for warmed her 
 heart. 
 
 When they reached the farm Madeleine 
 had just arrived. She whispered to Aline 
 that she had seen her aunt, and that she was 
 pretty well. After supper she gave her fur- 
 ther details.
 
 '>^'' Gleams of Simskine. 
 
 ^o- 
 
 * The dear lady was so glad to see me, and 
 to hear about you and M. le Comte. She 
 says you are to stay here as long as he re- 
 mains in this neighbourhood, that the thought 
 of your being together is a good pillow for 
 her thoughts to rest on. You are not to be 
 anxious about her. I was to tell you that Can- 
 tat — whoever that is — brino^s her her dinner. 
 Mademoiselle's rheumatic pains are not so bad 
 as usual. She says you are quite right not to 
 tell her brother where she is — she forbids you 
 to do so. I never met with so unselfish a 
 lady ; she does not seem to think at all of 
 herself. It is sad to see her in such a place ; 
 but I am sure she is doing God's work there, 
 making others think of Him who never did 
 so before. But now I must go and get the 
 barn ready for the veillee. Perhaps you 
 would like to join it. Mother's friends and 
 neighbours meet there of an evening to work 
 and pray, and she reads to them.' 
 
 * I should like it very much,' Aline said ; 
 and under a large red umbrella they made 
 their way across the farmyard to the barn.
 
 Gleams of Siinshine. 
 
 O 1 -> 
 
 It was lighted by a single lamp, round 
 which sat, on benches and bundles of straw, 
 from thirty to forty women, spinning, knitting, 
 or sewing. 
 
 Mother Choziere was the ruling spirit of 
 these meetings. She had always exercised 
 great influence over her neighbours. Though 
 less refined and perhaps less clever than her 
 daughter, she had plenty of good sense and 
 mother-wit, and she had also what is called 
 in French ' Le mot pour rire.' Her sayings 
 were proverbial in the neighbourhood, and 
 she knew how to furnish her friends with 
 good jokes against the Republicans and their 
 new-fangled impieties. Many a laugh was 
 raised at their expense In the course of the 
 velllees. 
 
 Her great object was, now that the 
 churches were closed, and the ministrations 
 of the faithful priests few and far between, to 
 maintain amongst those peasant wives and 
 mothers the spirit of religion. She read to 
 them every evening the life of a saint, in the 
 well-thumbed, time-honoured volume inherited
 
 -J 
 
 4 Gleanis of Sunshine. 
 
 from her parents. The veillee always ended 
 with the saying of the Rosary, examination 
 of conscience, and night prayers. 
 
 This was all very good for Aline. At a 
 time when it was dangerous even to speak of 
 God, and overt acts of worship were impos- 
 sible, it strengthened her soul to join in the 
 simple fervent devotions of these good women. 
 The singing of their cantiques — the same 
 which she used to hear in the little parish 
 church at Les Elmes, where she had so often 
 knelt, when a little child, by her mother's 
 side — reminded her of the happy days of her 
 childhood, and of a sort of piety she had lost 
 sight of. Her aunt's religious feelings in her 
 youth, and up to the time when the dark 
 shades of sorrow and fear fell on her path, 
 had been of a different kind from those of 
 her convent-loving mother. Affliction, and 
 the eraces it brings with it, had indeed 
 singularly deepened them. She had made 
 rapid strides in the love of God and Christian 
 virtue. What had been natural nobleness of 
 heart in her, had become supernatural patience
 
 Gleams of S2uishine. 235 
 
 and heroism ; but she was not familiar with 
 those simple and attractive devotions which, 
 although not essential to Catholic faith and 
 worship, are conducive to religious fervour. 
 Aline felt their influence, and often, in future 
 years, thought with gratitude of the veillees 
 at Fontaine, and the lessons she had learnt 
 from Mother Choziere's poor neighbours. 
 
 The next morning rain was still falling — a 
 heavy downpour which precluded all hopes of 
 sitting on the garden bench and conversing 
 with M. Alexandre. He did not appear at 
 breakfast, and she had not heard the sound 
 of his step crossing the room where she 
 slept ; Madeleine had divided off her share of 
 the apartment by hanging a curtain across it. 
 
 The sky was murky, the wind whistling, 
 the leaves falling. What a contrast it was 
 with the two previous days! Was St. Martin's 
 summer over .^ She felt out of spirits, and 
 sad subjects of thought came crowding upon 
 her. Pierre had a dos^-like sense of the 
 sorrows of others, so, as he was coming from 
 the garden with a basket of potatoes, he
 
 236 Gleams of 82111 shine 
 
 clambered up the arched wall and gathered 
 some flowers, which, on his way to the kitchen, 
 he laid on her lap. She thanked him and 
 smiled. When he saw she looked pleased 
 he began to dance in a way that made her 
 laugh. It was his way of showing pleasure. 
 Driette came in and danced too ; then she 
 flattened her nose against the window-pane, 
 and said, shaking her head : 
 
 * No going out to-day for poor made- 
 moiselle.' 
 
 * Will it not clear later .?' 
 
 Driette shook her head despondingly. 
 'Is M. Alexandre Qrone to the villasre T 
 Aline said. 
 
 ' No ; he is asleep in his room.' 
 ' Asleep ? and at this hour. Is he ill .^' 
 ' No ; but Madeleine said he ought to lie 
 down and rest. He has been up all night, 
 and he was looking very white and black 
 under the eyes down to here.' Driette pressed 
 her fingers on her own rosy cheeks. ' Dont 
 you think, mademoiselle, that he has the most 
 beautiful eyes in the world }'
 
 Gleams of Sunshine. 237 
 
 Aline blushed a little, and said they were 
 very blue, 
 
 'Why did M. Alexandre sit up all 
 night ?' 
 
 Driette compressed her lips, nodded, and 
 said : 
 
 ' You had better ask him.' 
 
 Then, singing-, ' Attendez moi sous I'orme, 
 vous m'attendrez longtemps,' she jumped 
 out of the window into the garden, as indif- 
 ferent to the rain as a bird or a bee. 
 
 At noon M. Alexandre appeared. He had 
 been to the village, but finding there were no 
 letters for him to write, he had taken advan- 
 tage of the holiday and returned in time for 
 dinner. The clouds in the sky had not dis- 
 persed, but those that hung over Aline's 
 spirits were considerably lightened. Acting 
 on Driette's suggestion, she asked him why 
 he had sat up all night. He laughed, and said : 
 
 ' I see that you are a true daughter of 
 Eve, Mdlle. Aline, and that you want to 
 discover all our secrets. Well, as your father 
 says you are discretion itself, I suppose I
 
 23S Gleams of Stinskine. 
 
 may admit you into our confidence. In the 
 first place, you will be surprised to hear that 
 he was with us aQ^ain at midnicrht.' 
 
 ' Was he indeed ? Why, at that hour ?' 
 
 ' He came to meet two of our friends who 
 also want to cross the frontier to Switzer- 
 land.' 
 
 ' But why do you sit up all night } How 
 does that help matters ?' 
 
 ' Well, if you must know the truth, we were 
 trying to fabricate passports, I have four 
 signed by Moral and his secretary Alexandre, 
 but the central committee have sent orders 
 that, for greater security, every passport must 
 be signed by all the members of the local 
 committee as well as by the president ; and 
 there lies the difficulty. I possess specimens 
 of their handwriting, but it is no easy thing 
 to imitate them exactly, We did not succeed 
 at all. Your father and the two others are 
 coming again to-night at twelve to make 
 another trial.' 
 
 ' Oh, M. Alexandre, call me when papa 
 arrives, and let me try. I should like it so
 
 Gleams of Sunshine. 239 
 
 much. I have often amused myself with 
 copying- handwriting. He would be so sur- 
 prised and pleased to see me come in.' 
 
 ' You have the sjDirit of a conspirator — I 
 see that plainly, Mdlle. Aline — and I dare 
 say you would be of great use to us ; but 
 I do not think your father would thank me 
 for disturbing you out of your sleep. I really 
 cannot take upon myself to do so.' 
 
 ' Then I shall sit up all night.' 
 
 ' That would be very perverse.' 
 
 ' Promise to come up and knock at the 
 door.' 
 
 ' Not without consulting your father.' 
 
 ' That will spoil the surprise.' 
 
 ' I cannot help that.' 
 
 ' But at least you w^ill promise to tell him 
 that I shall not close my eyes unless I am 
 fetched.' 
 
 ' I will tell him you say so.' 
 
 * Then I am sure he will let me come down. 
 And now, M. Alexandre, there is somethino; 
 I want you to do.' 
 
 ' What can that be .?'
 
 240 Gleams of Sunshine. 
 
 ' I was at the veillee In the barn last night.i 
 
 ' Were you ?' 
 
 ' Yes, and I want you to come there this 
 evening.' 
 
 ' I, Mdlle. AHne ? Do you expect me to 
 sew or spin ?' 
 
 * No, but to make yourself of use in another 
 way. Mother Choziere cannot get on with 
 her work because she has to read aloud out of 
 the " Lives of the Saints." Now, if you would 
 read to us, she could sew.' 
 
 ' Oh, is that your plan ?' 
 
 ' Yes, M. Alexandre. I have set my heart 
 upon it. You cannot think how nice it all is ; 
 and the reading is very interesting, only good 
 Mother Choziere stumbles over some of the 
 long words, which takes off a little from the 
 enjoyment.' 
 
 ' Why did not you offer to read ?' 
 
 ' Because I want to get on with the work. 
 What is done in that way at the barn helps to 
 clothe some of the poor proscribed priests. 
 Madeleine knows of several who are in urgent 
 want of garments.'
 
 Gleams of Sunshine. 241 
 
 ' Was she at the veillee ?' 
 
 ' No, I think it is during that time that she 
 visits the sick. After she had taken me to 
 the barn she went away. She had a basket 
 on her arm,' 
 
 ' I believe you are right ; I know that after 
 every meal she collects all she can for the 
 poor.' 
 
 ' Will you come ?' 
 
 'Well, what a woman wills ' 
 
 Aline raised her eyes to his with the very 
 earnest, appealing look which they some- 
 times had, and said sweetly and gravely : 
 
 ' But in this case I think it is what God 
 wills, for it will be an act of humanity and 
 charity.' 
 
 He seemed moved, and after a little hesita- 
 tion answered : 
 
 ' I shall offer my services to Mother 
 Choziere.' 
 
 They were gratefully accepted, and when 
 the little society was gathered together, M. 
 Alexandre came to the barn and asked what he 
 should read. Mother Choziere gave Aline 
 
 VOL. I. 16
 
 242 Gleams of Sunshine. 
 
 the large volume of ' Lives of the Saints,' and 
 whispered to her : 
 
 ' Mademoiselle, choose one that he will 
 like.' 
 
 Aline glanced at the list of contents. Her 
 selection was soon made. 
 
 ' Would you like to read to us,' she said, 
 handing the book to M. Alexandre. * the 
 history of vSt. Ignatius ?' 
 
 ' Yes,' he answered, and seating himself 
 near the solitary lamp, began. 
 
 None of those present, including Aline, 
 had ever heard such as his reading. It was 
 as simple as possible, no attempt in it at 
 effect ; but the inflections of a singularly 
 melodious voice, the clear articulation, and 
 the expression of the reader s countenance, 
 combined to give it a charm which fascinated 
 his unsophisticated audience. It was like 
 some beautiful instrument heard for the first 
 time. 
 
 Some years ago. Father Hermann, the 
 famous Jewish musician who became a 
 Catholic, and a priest, and died during the
 
 Gleams of Sunshine. 24 
 
 Franco-German war of small-pox caught in 
 the hospitals, was staying for one night in 
 a secluded Encrlish villao-e where there is a 
 small Catholic Church. Benediction was to 
 be given that evening, and he was asked to 
 play on the little harmonium which had never 
 before thrilled under the touch of a real 
 musician. The sounds its keys emitted under 
 Father Hermann's hands were unlike any- 
 thing heard before within the humble walls, 
 and when his powerful voice intoned the 
 Litany of Our Lady, the villagers felt afraid 
 almost of drawing their breath lest that 
 wonderful music would cease. 
 
 Something of the kind was experienced by 
 M. Alexandre's hearers as they listened to 
 the story of the gallant courtier, the Spanish 
 warrior, who, when the fight was done, 
 lying wounded in his ancestral castle of 
 Loyola, begged for romances wherewith to 
 wile away the weary hours ; and none being at 
 hand, took up, from sheer ennui, the Lives of 
 the Saints' — the only book in the house — and 
 in it found the key to his future destiny, the 
 
 16 — 2
 
 244 Gleams of Stmshine. 
 
 inspiration to found the militant order of the 
 Church — the vanguard of its army of Apostles 
 and Martyrs — the Society of Jesus. 
 
 It was easy to see that he was moved by 
 this narrative, God alone knew how deeply. 
 When he closed the book at the end of the 
 second chapter and returned it to Aline, their 
 eyes met. She went home, and straight up 
 to her bed behind the curtain ; and remained 
 there lying down, but not sleeping. She was 
 counting the minutes in expectation of a 
 summons to join the passport-makers. The 
 village clock struck twelve. All was silence. 
 Half an hour elapsed and no one came. 
 She had almost given up hope when the 
 sound of a step on the stairs, and then a slight 
 knock at the door, made her heart bound. 
 On tiptoe she crossed the room and opened 
 it. Her father had come for her. She threw 
 her arms round his neck ; it was quite dark. He 
 led her carefully down the rickety steps into 
 the kitchen. Three men were there — M. 
 Alexandre ; M. Bourdin, a Lyons merchant ; 
 and Charmet, the son of a gamekeeper, who
 
 Gleams of SunsJnne. 245 
 
 was determined on no account whatsoever to 
 serve in the Repubhcan army. This good 
 youth looked as guileless as possible, and not 
 at all like a conspirator, even of an innocent 
 description. M. Alexandre placed a chair for 
 Aline, and said : 
 
 ' Now let us see if your small fingers can 
 achieve what baffles our efforts.' 
 
 He spread before her the passports, which 
 were to the effect that the bearers were four 
 commissioners sent by the Commune of Fon- 
 taine to visit the Chateau de Ferailles, on the 
 other side of the frontier, between the De- 
 partment of Aix and Switzerland, and to 
 examine its archives, supposed to contain 
 papers of great importance to the said Com- 
 mune. 
 
 ' You see, as far as that goes, we are pretty 
 secure, if only the signatures could stand in- 
 spection.' 
 
 He then exhibited those which had to be 
 imitated, and their imperfect attempts of the 
 night before. Aline's cheeks flushed as she 
 took up a pen and a sheet of paper.
 
 246 Gleavis of Stins/mie. 
 
 ' Let me try first on this,' she said. 
 
 Anxious, but not fluttered, she set to work, 
 silently praying to succeed. 
 
 The group would have made a good pic- 
 ture. The grey-haired, military-looking M. 
 des Elmes ; the shrewd, keen-faced M. Bour- 
 din, M. Alexandre, and Charmet, each 
 handsome in their way, but such different 
 types of men — all surrounding little Aline, 
 and following with attention every stroke of 
 her pen, 
 
 ' Bravo!' her father cried, when she had 
 made an exact fac-simile of the first name on 
 the list. 
 
 ' Excellently performed !' M. Bourdin said, 
 his spectacles slipping off his nose in his 
 eagerness to inspect her progress. 
 
 Charmet grinned when he heard those 
 approving exclamations, but did not examine 
 the paper, quite content to know that it was 
 thought successful by his betters, and that the 
 Republicans would be taken in. M. Alex- 
 andre made no remark, but his smile was 
 enouQrh. 
 
 o
 
 Gleams of Sunshine. 247 
 
 When the list was completed, he set the 
 passports before Aline. She looked inquir- 
 ingly at him and at her father. They nodded 
 assent. She invoked her guardian angel, and 
 began the real work in hand. For these 
 passports were precious. Not all Madeleine's 
 influence would have obtained others at that 
 moment from M. Moral. He had become 
 suspicious lately, and kept them under lock 
 and key out of the reach of his secretary. 
 Not a word was said whilst she proceeded 
 with her task. When it was finished, she 
 raised her flushed face, and they all drew a 
 sigh of relief. 
 
 ' Now for the names of the four com- 
 missioners,' M. Alexandre said, ' and our 
 work will be done.' 
 
 Feigned names of course they were. Aline 
 gave him the pen. He wrote one on each of 
 the passports, and then handed theirs to 
 M. Bourdin and to Charmet. 
 
 ' Here is yours,' he said to M. des Elmes ; 
 ' and will you be so kind as to take charge of 
 the other for our friend at the farm Des
 
 248 Gleams of StuisJiine. 
 
 Ourlis, I met him yesterday, and he told 
 me he was most anxious to join your 
 party.' 
 
 ' But you do not keep one for yourself. I 
 thought you were coming with us.' 
 
 ' That poor fellow is in greater danger of 
 being arrested than I am. At present I am 
 safe enough.' 
 
 M. des Elmes said he was very sorry, and 
 so was Aline. She wished he had shared the 
 hazards of her father's escape, and been by 
 his side at the critical moment. Moreover, 
 she had pictured to herself — for young 
 imaginations travel fast — future meetings in 
 Switzerland. Aunt Felicie would be released 
 from prison before long, and then she and 
 herself would also cross the frontier, and join 
 their dear refugees. In some place — no 
 matter where — they would all be reunited. 
 Andre, too, might join them, and M. Alex- 
 andre make acquaintance with him and 
 Maurice. But this dream vanished. He 
 would soon leave Fontaine, and then she 
 would never hear of him again.
 
 Gleams of Sunshine. 249 
 
 Meanwhile, the business of the evening 
 was at an end, and the friends parted, after 
 coming to an agreement as to the exact time of 
 their departure. It was fixed for the follow- 
 ing Saturday, and to take place at midnight. 
 
 Aline retired, after receiving a fond kiss 
 from her father and the thanks of the others. 
 The days which follow^ed were full of excite- 
 ment and occupation. Not only Madeleine 
 and Aline, but Driette also, were engaged in 
 making clothes for the departing guests. It 
 was in the bedroom upstairs that this went 
 on, for it was not safe to carry on these pre- 
 parations below. Driette found it a rather 
 difficult effort of virtue to sew so much. To 
 watch from the top of a tree and outwit the 
 Republicans was more in her line. Aline now 
 and then cast a wistful look towards the bench 
 and the golden-fringed archway. Madeleine 
 observed those glances, and once or twice 
 took the work out of her hands and insisted 
 on her going into the garden, where M. 
 Alexandre joined her. They became every 
 day greater friends.
 
 250 Gleams of Sunshine. 
 
 This space of time was strangely different 
 from anything- in her past Hfe. She could 
 scarcely have said if there was in it more of 
 pain, or of pleasure, especially towards the 
 end of the week when it was drawing to a 
 close. On the one hand she longed for her 
 father to escape from France, but dreaded 
 parting with him. Earnestly she desired to 
 see her aunt again, but shuddered at the 
 thought of the horrid thraldom of her deso- 
 late home at Lyons and the constant presence 
 of the Forets. 
 
 At the veillee, whilst M. Alexandre read, 
 which he now did every evening, she often 
 wondered whether those days would have 
 any connection with the sequel of her life. 
 Nothing like them could hardly occur again. 
 When sitting at work by the window of the 
 larpfe bedroom, she looke^d at the fields and 
 woods as if they had been friends she was 
 about to part with. 
 
 On the Friday morning Choziere's voice 
 was heard in the garden. Madeleine looked 
 at Driette.
 
 Gleams of Sunshine. 251 
 
 ' He has been to the Croix Rousse,' the 
 child repHed. Madeleine sighed. 
 
 ' I say, Mdme. Choziere, who is master 
 here ?' this was said in a loud, thick voice. 
 
 ' You of course, my dear,' was the meek 
 answer. 
 
 * I, indeed ! Then listen to what I have to 
 say. I am not going to be guillotined to 
 gratify you and your friends. I am a good 
 Republican, I tell you, and you will be pleased 
 to send to the right-about all the aristocrats 
 with which you and Madeleine fill my house.' 
 
 Up and down the garden he stamped, re- 
 iterating these orders in a loud voice which 
 terrified his wife and dauQfhter more than his 
 threats. They knew that when he had been 
 at home a little while and the effect of drink 
 had passed away, his anger would likewise 
 vanish, but the danger was that anyone 
 should overhear him. 
 
 Driette was off like a shot. A moment 
 afterwards a noise was heard louder than 
 Choziere's voice. She had unchained the 
 house-dog and set him at the cat ; the com-
 
 252 Gleams of Sun shine. 
 
 motion this caused raised an alarm amongst 
 the geese and the turkeys. A deafening 
 concert ensued which had the effect of sober- 
 ing her father. He turned his attention to 
 these domestic broils, and when peace was 
 restored wiped his brow and sat down on the 
 bench. Then his wife went and spoke to 
 him. 
 
 ' Why, my dear, do you go to the public- 
 house ?' she said. ' You talk to those wicked 
 people, and when you come back anyone 
 would suppose you were wicked too. Why 
 do you speak of turning out these poor 
 -Strangers whom you were so kind to yester- 
 day ? Your good heart — for you have a very 
 good heart, my old man — makes you befriend 
 those who are in trouble. You know that I 
 have never taken anyone into the house 
 without your permission. It is always you 
 who tell me to do so. Will you leave off be- 
 ing good ? Do not be afraid, Choziere — if 
 we keep in the right road, God will take care 
 of us.' 
 
 Choziere seemed somewhat pacified by
 
 Gleams of Stmskiiie. 253 
 
 these words, but his good-humour did not 
 return at once. He muttered a few unintel- 
 Hgible sentences, and walked into the house. 
 Later in the day a scene took place which, 
 like a storm which clears the air, produced 
 beneficial results. 
 
 It is wonderful what effect a burst of indio-- 
 
 o 
 
 nation from one who is habitually meek and 
 gentle sometimes has. Choziere had not 
 given vent to all the bad sentiments he had 
 imbibed that morning during his visit to the 
 Croix Rousse — that was to come in the course 
 of the afternoon. It was a Saturday, and as 
 he passed by the table where his wife was 
 ironing the clean linen for the next day, he 
 placed himself in a defiant attitude and 
 said : 
 
 * Wife, notice has been given that there are 
 no longer to be any Sundays ; they have been 
 done away with. It is the decadi which is 
 to be the day of rest. I shall work as usual 
 to-morrow, and put on a clean shirt on the 
 decadi.' 
 
 Mother Choziere looked ao^hast. For a
 
 2 54 Gleams of Sunshine. 
 
 few minutes she could not utter. Then, 
 drawing a deep breath, she spoke out : 
 
 ' So you are ashamed of your God. So 
 you beheve what wicked men say, and you 
 obey them, and not the Creator of heaven 
 and earth. I know nothing and will hear 
 nothing of your decadis ; and if you insult the 
 good God I shall not remain with you. 
 Either you put on your clean shirt and your 
 best coat to-morrow, or I walk out of the 
 house. I had rather beg my bread on the 
 high-road, or lay my head on the block, than 
 let you work on a Sunday. I will not have a 
 husband who is ashamed of his religion. You 
 can choose between me and your friends of 
 the Croix Rousse.' 
 
 These indignant words from his usually 
 meek wife made Choziere tremble in his 
 shoes. He slunk away to the kitchen fire, 
 and stirred the logs. Madeleine came up to 
 him, and gave him a kiss. 
 
 ' Dear old papa,' she said, ' you know that 
 Belair and Buisson would not work to-morrow 
 if you were to try ever so much to make them.'
 
 Gleams of Sunshine. 255 
 
 These were Choziere's favourite oxen. 
 
 ' Pardi,' he said, ' if they won't work on 
 Sunday, and we are to rest on Wednesday, 
 that will never do. Go and quiet your mother, 
 there's a good girl. She can put out my clean 
 shirt as usual.' 
 
 Whether at the Croix Rousse that day, 
 Choziere had dropped hints which had taken 
 effect, or that in some other way fresh sus- 
 picions had been raised, a sudden alarm 
 hastened the departure of the travellers. M. 
 des Elmes, in anticipation of that immediate 
 departure, had grown less circumspect, and 
 he was in Mdme. Choziere's room with her 
 and Aline, talking over the arrangements for 
 the latter's return to Lyons, when Driette 
 rushed in, and said : 
 
 ' M. le Maire is coming in.' 
 
 There was only one door to that room. 
 An alcove with a bed in it was concealed bv 
 a curtain. M. des Elmes went into it, and 
 hid himself behind the bed. His daughter 
 trembled from head to foot — nothing but that 
 thin curtain between him and death !
 
 256 Gleams of SzmsJiine. 
 
 Mother Choziere received the maire with 
 a smiling face, and placed a chair for him 
 near the fire, calculating, at one glance, its 
 proper position with regard to the alcove and 
 the door. With her eye she directed Aline 
 to face the alcove. Standing by his side, in a 
 free and cordial manner, she inquired about 
 M. le Maire's health, and that of his wife and 
 children. 
 
 ' My sister says that your little Citoyenne 
 Virginie sings like a nightingale, M. le 
 Maire. I wish we had the luck one day to 
 hear her. Driette, here, has not a bad voice.' 
 
 ' Will she favour me with a sone ?' the 
 maire absently said, for he had seen some 
 one crossing the garden, and was watching 
 the retreating form. 
 
 ' Come, child, sing to M. le Maire " Com- 
 ment passerais-je la riviere ?" ' 
 
 Driette placed herself before the awful 
 personage and in such a funny manner that 
 he could not but be amused, she said in a 
 ofruff voice : 
 
 * Hola, I'ami ! comment passerais-je la
 
 Gleams of Sunshine. 25; 
 
 riviere ?' and then, with a squealing, mocking 
 tone, sang the answer : ' Les canards I'ont 
 bien passee, fal de ral de rire, fal de ral de 
 rire.' Stanza after stanza followed. 
 
 Aline, whose eyes were fixed on the cur- 
 tain of the alcove, heard a slight noise. Her 
 heart beat to suffocation. She guessed that 
 her father was taking off his boots. The 
 curtain stirred — he looked out — came out — 
 crossed the room on tiptoe — opened the door 
 without more noise than Driette's singing 
 drowned — and in a moment was out of the 
 house and in the woods. 
 
 The song ended, and Mother Choziere, in 
 the easiest manner possible, rose and pointed 
 out to her visitor her famous pear tree, never 
 before in such full fruit. And then Driette 
 ran into the alcove and called out : 
 
 ' Oh mother, a mouse ! or a rat, I declare ! 
 do look !' 
 
 The alcove was searched, but the appari- 
 tion had disappeared, and the point remained 
 unsettled. 
 
 After this, M. le Maire, on some pretext 
 
 VOL. I. 17
 
 258 Gleams of Sunshine. 
 
 or other, was conducted over the house. 
 Mother Choziere had something to show 
 him in each room, and looked so serene and 
 complacent, that he went away satisfied that 
 there were no dangerous characters under 
 her roof. After this visit it became necessary 
 not to delay the anxiously desired but 
 terribly dangerous journey. 
 
 That day Aline and M. Alexandre were 
 in the garden at three o'clock, the hour when 
 the noise of firing was distinctly heard in the 
 direction of Lyons. At noon the booming of 
 cannon signified that the guillotine was at 
 work. At three the sound of artillery an- 
 nounced the military executions. He turned 
 pale. Day after day for months he had heard 
 those fatal signals, and never without a terrible 
 vision rising before him. He hid his face in 
 his hands. 
 
 ' How long ?' he murmured — ' how long 
 will this last ?' 
 
 Aline's sympathy overflowed all restraint. 
 She laid her hand on his to express 
 it.
 
 Gleams of Sunshine. 259 
 
 ' This horrible tyranny cannot long con- 
 tinue,' she said. 
 
 ' But the dead cannot return to us,' he 
 answered, and looked at her with an expres- 
 sion which wrung her heart. She knew 
 what he was thinking of. She longed to 
 comfort him, but what to say she did not 
 know. 
 
 * One must never love anyone on earth,' 
 he murmured in a low voice. This pained 
 her. She said : 
 
 ' Is it not better to love and suffer, than 
 not to love and not to suffer T 
 
 He shook his head. 
 
 ' May you never know what it is to suffer 
 as I have suffered !' 
 
 Aline did not venture to speak of what he 
 alluded to, though she knew what it was. 
 She feared to tread where another might 
 have rushed. The only approach to it she 
 made was by asking him to say with her a 
 De Profundis. 
 
 He nodded assent. They knelt down, 
 and it was indeed out of the depths of two 
 
 17 — 2
 
 26o Gleams of Sunshme. 
 
 hearts — early and deeply tried — that they 
 called upon the Lord. 
 
 When they rose from their knees, he 
 seemed anxious to return to their usual tone 
 of conversation. He asked Aline if she had 
 not told her father of her aunt's imprison- 
 ment. 
 
 ' No, I have not ; I shall let him go com- 
 paratively happy about her.' 
 
 ' But if he knew of it, he would not, per- 
 haps, let you return to Lyons.' 
 
 ' He would not wish me to forsake her.' 
 
 'It is such a fearful life for a child like 
 you.' 
 
 She did not like his calling her a child, and 
 answered nothing. 
 
 ' I am glad you know Madeleine. She is 
 a friend worth having You will see her 
 sometimes in Lyons.' 
 
 ' In these days,' Aline said, ' those who part 
 can never foresee if they will meet again.' 
 
 ' Madeleine will cling to those she cares for 
 through thick and thin.' 
 
 ' Who would not do so,' Aline answered.
 
 Gleams of Sunshine. 261 
 
 * when they really cared about people ? Her 
 heart was full. ' You saw papa this morning 
 — will he really go to-night ?' 
 
 ' Yes ; he told me to tell you that he would 
 be here at eleven o'clock to wish you good- 
 bye, and about midnight we shall start.' 
 
 ' Then you are going with him after all ?' 
 
 ' Not over the frontier. I could not obtain 
 another passport from old Moral ; but I can be 
 of some use perhaps to your father on his way 
 to it, and he has been so good to me that I 
 can never do enough to show my gratitude. 
 There was, at first, some disposition amongst 
 his friends to suspect me of being a spy. He 
 trusted me at once, when I told him my story, 
 and that settled the matter.' 
 
 ' Perhaps I may hear from you of his safety. 
 I do long for him to be gone, and yet it is 
 dreadful to say good-bye.' 
 
 ' It is well he should not tarry — the danger 
 is too great.' 
 
 ' And he feels the inaction so much ; he says 
 it is worse than death.' 
 
 ' I dare say it is so to him. People feel
 
 262 Gleams of StmsJiine. 
 
 very differently about death. Young girls 
 can be more couraeeous than men on certain 
 occasions such as we remember, Mdlle. Aline. 
 What you felt that night had nothing to do 
 with want of courage.' 
 
 ' How long ago it seems ! Yet it is only 
 just one week ! Can you believe it ?' 
 
 ' Have we really known each other only 
 eight days ?' he answered. 
 
 This conversation was interrupted by Ma- 
 deleine, who asked Aline if she was coming 
 to the veillee, 
 
 'Yes,' she said, 'our good friends have 
 promised to pray for me very hard to-night, 
 though I must not tell them why. Are you 
 going to read, M. Alexandre ?' 
 
 He seemed to hesitate. 
 
 ' It will be the last night — for me, I mean. 
 To-morrow, very early, Madeleine takes me 
 to Lyons.' 
 
 ' I will read,' he said. 
 
 The veillee was well attended. It was well 
 for Aline that the next hours were thus spent. 
 It enabled her to sit still, and calmed the
 
 Gleams of Sunshine. 263 
 
 throbbing of her heart. That evening' she 
 was not quite as attentive as usual to the 
 readinof. She Hstened less to the words that 
 were said than to the voice which uttered 
 them. 
 
 The parting hour arrived. M. des Elmes, 
 for his child's sake, spoke hopefully. For 
 his sake she concealed her grief. It was only 
 when he rave her lovinsf messages for his 
 sister that she broke down, but in the midst 
 of her sobs she murmured : 
 
 ' Aunt Felicie will be so glad to see me and 
 to hear of you.' 
 
 They all rose. M. des Elmes placed his 
 hand on Alexandre's shoulder, and said : 
 
 * This good friend insists on accompanying 
 us part of the way. He has been like a son 
 to me, Aline, during these past months.' 
 
 ' Then I will love him as a brother,' she 
 answered in a low voice, but a moment after- 
 wards wished those words unsaid. 
 
 ' Thank you,' he said. ' Mdlle. Aline, 
 good-bye.' 
 
 She threw herself once more in her father's
 
 264 Gleams of Sunshine. 
 
 arms, and then listened to his steps and those 
 of his companions, till she could hear them 
 no more. Not a star was to be seen ; all 
 was silent and dark. She went to bed, and 
 wept bitterly. 
 
 ' Only a week ago,' she thought, looking at 
 the brazier, near which she had stood with M. 
 Alexandre on the nigrht of her arrival. What 
 a dream it all seemed ! 
 
 At daybreak, after an affectionate farewell 
 from Mother Choziere, Driette, Pierre, and 
 the old farmer, she and Madeleine walked to 
 the river-side and ascended it in a boat, with 
 a large basket of provisions between them — 
 the gift of her kind hostess ; two immense 
 loaves, meat, peas, butter, cheese, eggs — 
 treasures with which to feast Aunt Felicie and 
 her companions. 
 
 This thought, and the hope of soon seeing 
 that dear aunt again, revived Aline's spirits. 
 She sat looking at the rapid current as the 
 bark made its way slowly up the stream, 
 silent, absorbed, living over every incident of 
 the past week — hearing, as it were, over again.
 
 Gleams of SiLusJiine. 
 
 26i 
 
 every word said by one she might never see 
 again, or else picturing to herself future scenes, 
 imagining meetings between herself and M. 
 Alexandre. So deeply was she engrossed 
 that it took her by surprise when Madeleine 
 said : ' Here we are !' and they had to land.
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE HOTEL DE VILLE. 
 
 ^■■ 
 
 T was the prison Aline sighed for 
 after a week's absence. Her own 
 rooms she hated to think of: the 
 presence of the Forets, and the constant dis- 
 putes between Cantat and St. Jean, made 
 them odious to her. The only place in Lyons 
 she could think of with pleasure was the 
 corner where, on the old mattress, she and 
 Aunt Felicie were wont to sit together. 
 Madeleine called a hackney carriage, and, 
 with their basket between them, they drove 
 to the well-known gate which had been 
 violently shut against Aline a few days before. 
 On this morning, however, the consigne was
 
 The Hotel de Ville. 267 
 
 not so strict, a friendly porter happened to be 
 on duty. He thought Ahne must have been 
 ill ; but when he saw her improved looks and 
 her heavy basket, he smiled good-naturedly, 
 and allowed her to jDass and to take Made- 
 leine with her into the women's prison. In 
 they went, and Aline was soon in the loving 
 arms of Mdlle. des Elmes, and whispered to 
 her : 
 
 ' Papa is on his way to Switzerland. I 
 parted from him twelve hours ago. He is 
 well, and sends you so many loves — dearest, 
 darling aunt.' 
 
 Mdlle. des Elmes pressed her niece to her 
 heart, and then said : 
 
 ' And here is the kind friend who, six days 
 ago, came to see me.' 
 
 'Yes, indeed a friend, and the best of 
 friends,' Aline said, with emotion, and placed 
 Madeleine's hand in her aunt's. 
 
 Mdlle. des Elmes drew her towards her, 
 and kissed, with emotion, the kind peasant 
 woman. 
 
 ' I shall tell you all that she and her good
 
 268 The Hotel de Ville. 
 
 mother have done for us. You will love her 
 when you hear it,' Aline said. 
 
 ' Never mind me, mademoiselle; think only 
 of the dear lady. She has been long without 
 the sight of your sweet face.' 
 
 Madeleine went to a distant part of the 
 chamber, and into the adjoining one. She was 
 glad to have gained entrance into that prison 
 where she had never penetrated before — that 
 receptacle where youth and age — virtue and 
 vice — rank and refinement — coarseness and 
 ignorance — were crowded together without 
 distinction, and was soon surrounded by those 
 to whom the appearance of some one belong- 
 ing to the outer world was always welcome. 
 An instinctive feeling of confidence induced 
 many to consult her, to seek her help, to 
 solicit it for others. As always, she com- 
 forted those she could not assist, by words of 
 consolation. One or two persons she really 
 hoped to be able to serve ; thus she turned to 
 account the time Aline spent with her aunt, 
 who kept ejaculating : 
 
 ' If once I knew he was in safety I could
 
 The Hotel de Ville. 269 
 
 bear all. Do you know, my child, that they 
 came the other day and told me he was 
 arrested ? They expected, I suppose, that 
 taken by surprise I should say something 
 that would put them on the scent. But I was 
 not taken in. We have learnt to be prudent, 
 have we not, my darling ?' 
 
 Then she asked Aline to relate all that had 
 happened to her since they had last met, and 
 listened with that speaking countenance, that 
 tender sympathy, that quick intelligence, 
 which encourages confidence and gives to 
 intimate intercourse an irresistible charm. 
 Aline did not attempt to disguise the interest 
 she took in M. Alexandre, and Aunt Felicie 
 said nothing implying disapproval of it. She 
 asked if she knew his family name. 
 
 ' No,' she answered, rather dejectedly. ' I 
 asked papa the first day if he knew it. He 
 said that people did not, as a rule, like to be 
 known by their real names when they were 
 in danger of being arrested, and that it was 
 safer for their friends and benefactors to be 
 ignorant of it. That was his answer to my
 
 270 The Hotel de Ville. 
 
 question, and I did not venture to ask him 
 again.' 
 
 Aline's description of Driette and Pierre 
 amused Mdlle. des Elmes. She laughed, 
 with that merriment in her blue eyes which 
 had been one of her attractions through life. 
 The moments went by too fast. The visitors 
 were ordered to leave. Aline parted with 
 Madeleine in the street, and went home. 
 When she arrived there Mdme. Foret was 
 seated in the armchair by the fire, and greeted 
 the young mistress of the house with the 
 news she delighted to relate — -that is, accounts 
 of the latest executions — and then she 
 described her daughter-in-law's dress at the 
 last civic fete. 
 
 When this good patriot fell asleep, which was 
 generally the case after supper, Foret took up 
 a volume which he had found in Mdlle. des 
 Elmes' bedroom — 'Les Heuresde Noailles' — 
 printed in so large a type that he could read it 
 without spectacles. At first Aline felt angry 
 that he should dare to touch what belonged 
 to Aunt Felicie, but when she saw how atten-
 
 The Hotel de Ville. 271 
 
 tively he read this prayer-book, other feelings 
 arose. A day or two afterwards, observing 
 how constantly he studied its contents when 
 his wife was out of the way, other feelings 
 arose. A great change had come over Aline 
 since the veillees at Fontaine. She thirsted 
 for opportunities of doing good even to her 
 enemies. One morninof she said to Foret : 
 
 ' Citoyen, will you lend me that book for a 
 little while ?' 
 
 He handed it to her. She turned over the 
 leaves. 
 
 * Here is such a beautiful prayer for peace 
 — shall I read it }' 
 
 ' Pray do,' he said. 
 
 She knelt down, and whilst she recited the 
 prayer his shrivelled hands were clasped to- 
 gether, and his head reverently bowed down. 
 Before it was finished Mdme. Foret woke up, 
 Aline's heart beat fast, but she did not stop. 
 To her great wonder the woman knelt down. 
 Was it some reminiscence of bygone days 
 which came across her ? Was it the sight of 
 the old man and the young girl praying to-
 
 272 The Hotel de Ville. 
 
 gether which touched some echo in her heart, 
 and quelled the madness of her brain ? But 
 so it was, that every night whilst they re- 
 mained under the same roof Foret handed to 
 Aline Aunt Felicie's prayer-book with a 
 supplicating expression. Poor man, he seemed 
 so glad to pray. 
 
 It was hardly prudent in Aline to do so in 
 such doubtful society ; but her pious courage 
 was blest — no harm came of it. Her strength, 
 however, gave way at that time, and she fell 
 ill. It was no particular illness that confined 
 her to her bed, only complete exhaustion. 
 Her aunt asked the doctor of the prison to 
 visit her poor little niece. He kindly called, 
 and his remedies, after a while, revived her. 
 
 During her illness Foret was visited one 
 day by his son the Municipal Guard. From 
 her bed in the next room. Aline could hear 
 his filial speeches to his sire. 
 
 ' Father, if you were not a good Repub- 
 lican — if I thought you were an aristocrat, I 
 should denounce you, and to-morrow your 
 head would be chopped off.'
 
 The Hotel de Ville. 273 
 
 ' Oh, that is too bad, too cruel !' the old man 
 ejaculated. 
 
 ' Too bad ! Why, a true Republican cares 
 neither for parents nor relatives. He loves 
 nothing but the Republic, and sacrifices all 
 to it.' 
 
 Aline shuddered, and pitied the ex-silk 
 weaver, who, after that day, used to shake 
 from head to foot when the son he had been 
 so proud of entered the house. She had also 
 a visit one day from his daughter-in-law, who 
 exhibited her bonnet a la prise de Toulon. In 
 guise of flowers it was ornamented with minia- 
 ture swords, cannons, and guillotines. This 
 creature was the worst of the whole family. 
 
 As soon as she was recovered, Aline re- 
 sumed her visits to the prison. Since she 
 had been there, many of its inmates had been 
 removed elsewhere, and executed ; and for 
 the first time the thought forced itself upon 
 her that such might be the fate of her aunt. 
 She could hardly understand how she faced 
 it. A strange fortitude is often seen in those 
 who live in the midst of dangers and probabili- 
 
 VOL. I. 18
 
 2 74 The Hotel de Ville. 
 
 ties, any one of which would simply overwhelm 
 them in ordinary times. It may be that the 
 fact of having over and over again ap- 
 prehended what, after all, has not happened, 
 gives to some people a confidence which tran- 
 quillises them. Others, who really expect the 
 worst, so familiarise themselves with the 
 thought of death that it loses its terrors. 
 Religious faith, in some instances, inspires 
 this indifference, or else it may be only the 
 result of apathy. These differences are easily 
 discernible to those who study the faces and 
 the lives of the victims, though at first sight 
 the effect seems the same. There was an at- 
 mosphere of peace In the prison which always 
 calmed Aline. Mdlle. des Elmes and some 
 of her fellow-prisoners were so holy, so en- 
 tirely resigned to God's will, that the source 
 from which their peace was derived w^as not 
 doubtful, or surprising, to those who knew 
 them ; but it was more wonderful that persons, 
 who in past days would have screamed at the 
 sight of a wasp, or hid in a cellar during a 
 thunderstorm, seemed quite unmoved even
 
 The Hotel eie Ville. 
 
 ■/:) 
 
 though death was hanging over them. No 
 complaints, no expressions of despair were 
 uttered. AHne felt happier in the prison than 
 anywhere else. At home and in the streets 
 she was subject to heart-alarms ; they subsided 
 when she was with her aunt. 
 
 It is difficult to picture to one's self the 
 condition of mind of such an assemblage of 
 human beings as filled the prisons during the 
 height of the reign of terror. Now and again 
 the doors were thrown open, a commissioner 
 appeared, and called out the names of the 
 persons cited to appear before the revolu- 
 tionary tribunal. Those thus summoned 
 quietly rose, embraced their friends, and were 
 led out to an all but certain death with a 
 composure scarcely to be credited. After a 
 momentary stir, everything went on as before, 
 just as the sea subsides after the ripple 
 caused by the falling of a stone. When the 
 prisoners exchanged their morning salutations, 
 or wished each other good-night, they were 
 wont to say, with a smile : 
 
 ' Provided our lords and masters allow us 
 
 18—2
 
 276 The Hotel de Ville. 
 
 to live through the day — or night,' as the case 
 might be. 
 
 Some of them joked about their impending 
 fate, the drive they were about to take to the 
 Place des Boiteaux, or the honours of the 
 guillotine. This may have arisen sometimes 
 from levity, but, generally speaking, it was in 
 the same spirit that made Sir Thomas More 
 and the holy Bishop Fisher jest on their way 
 to the scaffold. They thus sought to familiarise 
 their minds with what was, for almost all of 
 them, at hand. 
 
 One morning Aline had brought a supply 
 
 of eggs for an omelette, which was to be the 
 
 chief part of Aunt Felicie's and her associates' 
 
 scanty meal. She had made good her entry, 
 
 thanks to the friendly porter who always 
 
 fought her battles, and was looking forward 
 
 to a happy morning. Mdlle. des Elmes never 
 
 tired of hearing descriptions of the veillees, 
 
 of the cave in the wood, M. Alexandre's 
 
 pigeons, the bench near the wall-flowers, the 
 
 beautiful sunsets and moonlight nights at 
 
 Fontaine. They brought with them a per-
 
 The Hotel de Ville. 277 
 
 fume of fresh air and an echo of bygone days. 
 Not that she longed for anything of the kind 
 for herself. She had entirely made up her 
 mind, as far as she was concerned, that life 
 was over ; but she liked to think that the day 
 would come when her Aline would walk the 
 earth with a light heart, would have joyful 
 days and peaceful nights — and felt that the 
 week at Fontaine, chequered and anxious as 
 it was, had been a foretaste, as she hoped, of 
 better times. It had evidently raised the 
 spirits of her brave little niece. She had a 
 long talk with her that morning, and then 
 Aline began her cookery. She knelt before 
 the little stove which the prisoners had 
 clubbed together to purchase, and which each 
 set used in turn, and was busily engaged in 
 beating the eggs, when the porters threw 
 open the doors and announced that the tem- 
 porary commission had sent a delegate to visit 
 the prison. Marino, one of the most dreaded 
 members of that committee, came in. An 
 order was given to all those who were there 
 without permission instantly to depart.
 
 278 The Hotel de Ville. 
 
 Mdlle. des Elmes made a sign to Aline to 
 go. Aline answered by pointing to the half- 
 made omelette, and expressed also by signs 
 that she could stay without danger. Then 
 again bending over the stove, she went on 
 beating her eggs. Marino crossed the first 
 room, and came into the smaller attic. 
 
 ' How many of you are here T he asked in 
 a brutal tone. 
 
 ' Fifteen,' Aunt Felicie replied. 
 
 He looked at some baskets of provisions, 
 and said : 
 
 ' Let those who are rich feed the poor. It 
 is high time they should.' 
 
 Turning to a peasant whom Mdlle. des 
 Elmes paid to make her bed — she was too 
 infirm herself to lift the mattress — he said : 
 
 ' If you have any complaints to make 
 against these nobles, speak out.' 
 
 The woman said she had no fault to find 
 with them, and he went away. 
 
 Aline was delighted to have remained at 
 her post, but in a moment his voice was 
 heard storming at some persons who had
 
 The Hotel de Ville. 279 
 
 betrayed themselves by their eagerness to get 
 out of his way. 
 
 ' Ah !' he said, ' if these visitors are so fond 
 of the prison, let them remain in it. No one 
 is to leave before further orders.' 
 
 This man was a giant in strength and 
 height, and everyone quailed before him. 
 Aline's heart bounded with joy on first hearing 
 his words, but she glanced at her aunt's face 
 and saw in it signs of distress, and on second 
 thoughts she felt that the loss of her own 
 liberty would be a misfortune. Except their 
 two servants, they had no friends in Lyons 
 but those who were either in prison or under 
 surveillance in their own houses. Mdlle. des 
 Elmes was in despair. She managed, how- 
 ever, to speak to one of the porters, and 
 bribed him to let her niece out at nightfall. 
 Their parting was a sad one, for she made 
 her promise not to enter the prison again 
 without a permission. 
 
 ' Try to obtain one if you can, my child ; 
 otherwise do not come. The dangers you run 
 terrify me, and I had rather give up the happi-
 
 28o The Hotel de Ville. 
 
 ness of seeing you than go through another 
 such scene. Courage, my dariing ! God will 
 help you.' 
 
 Aline resolved to apply in person the next 
 day to the temporary commission sitting in 
 the Rue des Terraux. That part of the town 
 was the head-quarters of the Reign of Terror. 
 A guillotine had been lately erected there. 
 On her way she had to cross the Place de 
 St. Pierre, and to step over a stream of blood. 
 Then the scaffold met her eyes. Faint and 
 staggering, she hurried on. At last she found 
 herself in the ante-chamber of the room where 
 sat the famous commission. Access to the 
 tyrants was difficult. A crowd of petitioners 
 assembled there every day, and after waiting 
 for hours had often to leave without gaining 
 admission. For three days Aline had to sit 
 amongst that weary, angry, dejected multi- 
 tude, in patient, but vain expectation. She 
 heard one day a Republican officer exclaim : 
 
 * It was not so bad as this in the days of 
 the ci-devant tyrants. We were not kept so 
 long at the door by the aristocrats.'
 
 The Hotel de Ville. 281 
 
 On the third evening she was there, the 
 crowd increased so much that the concierge 
 grew impatient, and fetched the terrible 
 Marino. He came into the anteroom swear- 
 ing and blustering, and, in his thundering 
 voice, shouted : 
 
 ' If you come for permissions, I tell you 
 none will be given unless to those who bring 
 a doctor's certificate attesting that a prisoner 
 is sick ; and mind you, if the doctor gives it 
 out of a mean servility, he will be arrested, as 
 well as the bearer of the certificate, and the 
 prisoner shall be guillotined !' 
 
 The crowd slowly dispersed. A lady 
 lingered behind, and uttered a few hardly 
 intelligible words. 
 
 ' Who are you ?' Marino shouted. 
 
 She gave her name. 
 
 ' What ! do you dare to pronounce a traitor's 
 name here ?' he bellowed, with increasing fury, 
 and, taking his victim by the arm, kicked her 
 out of the room. 
 
 This exploit was followed by a dead silence, 
 and then Aline's ears caught the sound of St.
 
 282 The Hotel de Ville. 
 
 Jean's voice. He was standing at the door, 
 and, to her horror, she heard him address, in 
 the most jaunty manner, the infuriated giant : 
 
 ' I say, citoyen, will you be so good as to 
 attend to the business of that little citoyenne 
 in the corner ?' 
 
 Aline was terrified. 
 
 ' Who are vou ?' Marino asked of St. 
 Jean, 
 
 A little less audaciously, he replied : 
 
 ' I came with that young citoyenne to take 
 care of her.' 
 
 Marino drew himself up. 
 
 ' Citoyen, I would have you to know that 
 she is, like all other children, under the pro- 
 tection of law and justice. No one has any 
 business to take care of her ;' and he turned 
 out the unhappy St, Jean in an unceremonious 
 manner. 
 
 Aline was now alone with the oriant. He 
 came to her and asked if she had brought a 
 certificate. She produced one attesting her 
 aunt's rheumatic sufferings, and the general 
 delicacy of her health. Marino took it, and
 
 The Hotel de Ville. 283 
 
 went back into his office. To Aline's despair, 
 she saw St. Jean again looking in at the door. 
 Rushing up to him, she said : 
 
 ' What are you doing ? You will be the 
 ruin, the death of me ! For God's sake, go 
 away !' 
 
 ' It is cold on the stairs,' he said. ' I have 
 a right to be here.' 
 
 ' If you do not wish to kill me,' she urged, 
 'go home. I can return alone. You will 
 make me lose my permission.' 
 
 At last he withdrew, and she sat by herself 
 for some time. After a while, she was called 
 into the office to write down her name and 
 address, and was ordered to call at Marino's 
 house at eio^ht o'clock the following mornine. 
 She made her way there, and with some diffi- 
 culty gained admission. 
 
 Since the death of Marat even a young girl 
 was looked upon with suspicion. But Marino 
 treated her civilly enough, and gave her the 
 permission. 
 
 She flew rather than walked to the prison ; 
 the precious paper in her hand. It was five
 
 284 The Hotel de Ville. 
 
 whole days since she had seen her aunt. 
 Great was her surprise at finding her and all 
 the prisoners in the court. Orders had ar- 
 rived to transfer them from the prison of the 
 Recluses to that of St. Joseph. They got into 
 the carts in which they were to be conveyed 
 thither. Aline followed the procession on 
 foot. They arrived, and the doors closed 
 upon them. She presented her permission. 
 It was for the Recluses, the gaoler said, not 
 for St. Joseph, and he turned his back upon 
 her. The fortitude of the poor girl almost 
 gave way. The weary waiting — the fears — 
 the misery of the last days, had all then been 
 in vain ; she well-nigh gave up in despair 
 further efforts. But no — two more evenings 
 she spent in that dreary ante-chamber of the 
 commission. On the third night Marino 
 appeared, and a scene took place as stormy 
 and painful as the one she had witnessed 
 before. When the room was cleared. Aline 
 stood once more before Marino, who said 
 roughly : 
 
 ' What are you doing here again }'
 
 TJie Hotel de Ville. 285 
 
 ' Citoyen,' she cried, in a voice quivering 
 with emotion, ' it is so long since I have 
 seen my aunt,' and she told him what had 
 happened. He took her into his office — 
 wrote the permission for St. Joseph. 
 
 ' Run away with it,' he cried. 
 
 She lost no time in obeying, and next day 
 was in the arms of Aunt Felicie. The chano-e 
 of prison was for the worse ; as long as her 
 beloved one was at the Recluses, Aline had 
 indulged many a dream as to her escape, 
 which vanished from the moment of her re- 
 moval to St. Joseph's. As she was bitterly 
 lamenting this change, Mdlle. des Elmes said 
 to her : 
 
 ' My darling, do not give way to these 
 regrets. What you -fancy would never have 
 happened. I did not like to destroy those 
 hopes of yours, which comforted you whilst 
 they lasted ; but for me escape would be out 
 of the question. I never told you of the op- 
 portunity I had some time ago.' 
 
 ' Had you such a chance. Aunt Felicie ?' 
 
 * Yes, at first, when we were very crowded
 
 2 86 The HStel dc Ville. 
 
 in that large room, a warder one day took me 
 for a visitor. He seized my arm, and wanted 
 to turn me out.' 
 
 ' Oh, why, why did you not let him do so T 
 Aline wildly exclaimed. 
 
 ' I can hardly walk,' her aunt answered. 'I 
 know no one. There is nobody I could have 
 asked to take me in. I should soon have 
 been arrested again, and more unkindly treated 
 than before. My companions, too, would 
 perhaps have been worse off in consequence.' 
 Aline's heart sank within her, but she said 
 nothing more. It was all too true. But if 
 Mdlle. des Elmes did not plan for herself, she 
 nursed a hope for her niece, which proved a 
 vain one. Her object was to send Aline out 
 of Lyons. One of the ladies who shared her 
 imprisonment fancied that she was likely to be 
 soon released, and in that case she intended to 
 go at once to Paris. Aunt Felicie's plot was to 
 persuade Aline that there was business to be 
 transacted there, important to her own safety, 
 and she wanted her to promise that if their 
 friend was released, she would depart with
 
 The Hotel eie Ville. 287 
 
 her. But this Ahne would not do. She saw- 
 through the trick, and was stubborn. But 
 Mdlle. des Ehiies did not give up the point, 
 and it solaced her to talk over the details of 
 this journey with the lady who had such san- 
 guine expectations of a deliverance which 
 never came to pass. 
 
 The smallest things are a consolation in a 
 state of captivity. The prisoners were in 
 many respects worse oft than before in their 
 new abode, but in the court where they were 
 allowed to walk there was a fountain — trickling 
 water fell into a stone basin which was lined 
 with fresh green moss. The pleasure these 
 poor women took in this fountain no words 
 can describe. It was something pure, bright, 
 and refreshing ; it cheered and soothed them 
 wonderfully. They gathered round it as if 
 it had been a living thing. One day Aline 
 arrived at the prison half-fainting. The con- 
 tingent from her native town had entered the 
 city that morning, and were to be executed at 
 twelve o'clock. Mdme. Foret had given her 
 early notice of the fact. She had described
 
 288 The Hotel de Ville. 
 
 what handsome men and pretty women most 
 of these aristocrats were. The names of some 
 of them were familiar to Aline as household 
 words. These victims were amongst the most 
 honourable inhabitants of Moulins, With a 
 dull aching feeling in her brain she took up 
 her basket, and crossed the Place de Bellecourt. 
 Its handsome houses were being demolished, 
 the people clamoured for employment, and 
 the Republic had recourse to this work of 
 destruction. A long file of men, women, and 
 children reached from one end of the place to 
 the other. They passed from hand to hand 
 a stone, or a slate, and took their time about 
 it. When Aline timidly asked permission to 
 pass, a woman pointed to her basket, and 
 cried : 
 
 ' Oh, oh, the little aristocrat ! She is carry- 
 ing food to the traitors. Work, mademoiselle 
 ci-devant — work, instead of catering for that 
 brood of serpents ! Here, take this stone.' 
 
 It was a heavy one for the small hands 
 which had to hold and pass it on — others 
 followed. When at last she got away, the
 
 The Hotel de Ville. 289 
 
 dreaded hour of noon had arrived ; the cart 
 which conveyed to the guillotine the prisoners 
 from Moulins was crossing the open space 
 and nearing the scaffold. Aline lost, for once, 
 her self-command. She turned her head 
 away and ran like a frightened hare ; but, 
 before she was out of hearing, seven times 
 had a dreadful shout of ' Vive la Republique ' 
 risen in hoarse accents from the crowd. 
 Each time she knew that the head of a friend 
 or an acquaintance had fallen. The horrible 
 sound seemed to pursue her as she fled, to 
 gain upon her like a nightmare ; and when she 
 reached the prison-door the wild look in her face 
 astonished even the porters. She was afraid 
 to see her aunt till her emotion had subsided. 
 
 It was not yet the hour for the prisoners' 
 walk. She stole unobserved into the court, 
 and went straight to the fountain — laid her 
 burning forehead against the cool moss. The 
 sound of the trickling water calmed the fever 
 of her brain, and tears came to her relief. 
 By the time Aunt Felicie and her companions 
 appeared, she could speak and even smile. 
 
 VOL. I. 19
 
 290 The Hotel de Ville. 
 
 They were all in the habit of crowding round 
 a visitor, in the hope of news from the outer 
 world. There was such a craving to break 
 the dull monotony of their days. It required 
 extraordinary intelligence and tact to know 
 what to tell and what to hide. 
 
 To some persons even painful emotions are 
 welcome when they are tortured by silence and 
 suspense ; whereas others, with nerves sore 
 to frenzy, can hardly bear to dwell on what 
 they can only endure by turning their thoughts 
 from it. These varieties of character and 
 of feeling, and the way to deal with each 
 separate case of suffering, was a constant sub- 
 ject of discussion during Aline's visits to her 
 aunt. To anatomise the human mind and 
 heart had always been interesting to Mdlle. 
 des Elmes, and she still found pleasure in it 
 when combined, as it now was, with the 
 tenderest charity. The charm of her conver- 
 sation was just as great as ever ; she often 
 made Aline laugh by one of those droll 
 remarks which used to delight her circle of 
 admirers at Moulins, and she encouraged her
 
 The Hotel de Ville. 291 
 
 not only to be kind and sympathetic to others, 
 but to try and amuse them, and to rejoice 
 when she succeeded. 
 
 ' Merriment is to many a soul,' she said, 
 ' what fresh air is to a fusty room.' 
 
 When they took their daily walk in the 
 court, or sat near the trickling fountain, some 
 of the prisoners always joined them. That 
 was the time for Aline to relate any bit of 
 news she had heard the day before, or, which 
 she was often asked to do, recite some pieces 
 of poetry, which Aunt Felicie liked better to 
 be gay than sad. This was often an effort, 
 but Mdlle. des Elmes said : 
 
 ' You must do like your friend Pierre ;' and 
 one day she told Aline to dance like him. 
 
 The laughter this caused was a refreshing 
 sound. 
 
 During the hour that the gaolers were at 
 dinner, some of the prisoners, and amongst 
 them Aunt Felicie and Aline, used to join 
 three nuns who employed that time in singing 
 hymns. The rest of the day was spent in 
 silent prayer ; they seemed scarcely conscious 
 
 19 — 2
 
 292 The Hotel de Ville. 
 
 of anything but that they were nearing heaven. 
 When they sang, a httle crowd gathered round 
 them, and even some of the worst amongst the 
 prisoners hked to Hsten. One day another 
 rehgious was added to their number — an 
 aged, venerable-looking nun. As usual, she 
 was surrounded and beset with questions. 
 Her story was short. 
 
 * I was starving,' she said, 'and I went to 
 the Municipality to ask for the pension I 
 ought to have. They asked if I had taken 
 the oath. I answered " No." " Then you 
 have no right to a pension. Take the oath, 
 and you will obtain it." I said I could not 
 take it. " Then you shall go to prison." 
 "Very well," I replied. One man out of 
 kindness, I think, said I need not speak, that 
 he would write down that I had taken the 
 oath, and that would do. I refused to save 
 my life by a lie, and here I am.' 
 
 There was no bed for the new-comer. 
 She would not accept a mattress from the 
 other nuns. 
 
 ' I do not want one,' she said ; ' I know this
 
 The Hotel de Ville. 293 
 
 will be the last night of my life, and I wish to 
 spend it in prayer.' 
 
 The others determined to watch with her. 
 It happened as she had foreseen. In the 
 morning, just as Aline entered the prison, 
 she met Sister Agatha looking as peaceful 
 and happy as if she had been on her way to 
 the chapel of her old convent. 
 
 ' Are you released Y Aline exclaimed. 
 
 ' No, my dear ; but I hope to be so in a 
 few hours,' she answered, pointing to the 
 scaffold. 
 
 Aline kissed the rusty black gown of the 
 nun, who bent down and said to her : 
 
 ' Fight the good fight, my child ; and what- 
 ever happens to you, never lose courage.' 
 
 Sister Agatha was tried, condemned, and 
 executed three hours after she had uttered 
 those words. They were not spoken in vain. 
 What is said by one about to die is not easily 
 forgotten. 
 
 So great is the power of habit, that because 
 day after day Aline had parted with her aunt 
 at night, received her fond kiss and said * Au
 
 294 1^^^^ Hotel de Ville. 
 
 revoir to-morrow,' and then the next morning 
 again took her usual walk, showed her per- 
 mission, walked up into the dormitory, and 
 found Aunt Felicie sitting in the same place, 
 her eyes watching the door, and her face 
 brightening when she caught sight of her, it 
 seemed that what had so often happened must 
 happen again. She could not feel as if it could 
 be otherwise, and almost gave up being afraid. 
 Mdlle. des Elmes encouraged this hopeful- 
 ness. She was thankful for every hour they 
 spent in peace. It was an intense and beauti- 
 ful love they had for one another, and a very 
 unbounded confidence. They accepted any 
 little enjoyment their prison-life afforded. 
 The winter was a mild one, and Aline bought 
 one morning in the streets some snowdrops 
 which had blossomed before their time. 
 Aunt Felicie had a peculiar liking for those 
 flowers, and Aline was quite elated at the 
 thought of her surprise and pleasure when 
 she would see them. She looked at the 
 grey walls of the prison, which had once been 
 a convent, almost with a friendly eye.
 
 The Hotel de Ville. 295 
 
 ' After all,' she said to herself, ' we hav^e 
 happy hours even there.' 
 
 She walked through the gate and, only as 
 a matter of form, showed her permission to 
 the concierge, who now never took the 
 trouble of looking at it. One morning, how- 
 ever, he stopped her, and said : 
 
 'The Citoyenne des Elmes is no longer 
 here ; she has been transferred to the Hotel 
 de Ville.' 
 
 What this meant Aline knew. It was 
 there that the Revolutionary Tribunal was 
 sitting. It was in the immense cellars beneath 
 that building that prisoners about to be tried 
 were confined — and to be tried at that time 
 was almost the same as to be condemned. 
 
 Aline remained for a few moments motion- 
 less, leaning against the gate, stunned by the 
 sudden blow. Then she walked to the Hotel 
 de Ville, feeling as if the ground might at any 
 moment sink under her feet. She had heard 
 it said that if prisoners were immured in the 
 subterraneous prison on the right-hand side, 
 there was no hope for them ; if in the one to
 
 296 The Hotel de Ville. 
 
 the left, there was yet a chance of escape, access 
 to them was still possible. 
 
 When she arrived at the town-hall, Mdlle. 
 des Elmes and all the prisoners from St. 
 Joseph were in a large room adjoining the 
 one where the Revolutionary Tribunal sat. 
 It had four windows looking on the place, at 
 the opposite side of which stood the guillotine. 
 When Aline exhibited her permission with 
 its large red seal, no opposition was made to 
 her entrance. She walked up the broad 
 flight of stairs, and when some one opened 
 the door which faced it, slipped into the wait- 
 ing-room. She went straight up to her aunt 
 and stood by her, afraid of uttering a word 
 that might draw attention on herself and 
 cause her to be turned out ; but she got hold 
 of her hand, the pressure of which supported 
 her. The prisoners were, for the most part, 
 pacing to and fro. In the dire suspense of 
 that moment it seemed almost impossible to 
 some of them to remain still. 
 
 One after another, they were summond to 
 appear before the Tribunal ; Mdlle. des Elmes
 
 The Hotel de Ville. 297 
 
 had done so just before Aline's arrival. The 
 accusation against her was that she had ex- 
 cited her brother to rebellion, and refused to 
 reveal his place of concealment. She was 
 also charged with fanaticism, in consequence 
 of a small prayer-book having been found in 
 her pocket. 
 
 The examinations were brief — the judges 
 expeditious. Each person summoned before 
 them quickly reappeared. They did not 
 know what was their fate; they resumed 
 their helpless attitudes, or their feverish 
 walks backward and forward. In a corner of 
 the room crouched a woman whose turn had 
 not yet come. She was trembling violently. 
 Her life was a strange one. Her lover 
 having been killed in battle, she dressed in 
 his clothes, enlisted, and was known by the 
 name of ' the maiden soldier.' She had 
 fought well on many occasions, but was now 
 unnerved. However, when summoned to the 
 bar, she recovered her energy — swore at the 
 judges — ^joked with them — and was acquitted. 
 
 A sculptor, whom Aline had known at the
 
 298 The HStel de Ville. 
 
 Recluses, kept passing to and fro before her 
 eyes, speaking to himself in a wild way. His 
 eyes turned, as if in spite of himself, towards 
 the window through which he could see the 
 guillotine ; large drops of sweat stood on his 
 brow. 
 
 When all the prisoners had been examined, 
 a sort of confusion arose. The result of some 
 of the trials was in a mysterious manner cir- 
 culated. On some faces relief was apparent ; 
 on some, gloom, or despair ; on others, an 
 extraordinary peace. Under cover of this ex- 
 citement Aline and her aunt withdrew a little 
 aside. Nothing had transpired as to her 
 sentence, but Mdlle. des Elmes did not feel 
 herself a doubt on the subject. Passing her 
 arm round her niece's waist, she whispered : 
 
 ' Now, child of my heart, is the time for 
 fortitude. We part here — we shall meet 
 there,' she said, pointing to a strip of blue 
 which was to be seen beneath a murky sky. 
 ' My hope, my last prayer, will be that my 
 Aline may be brave ; that she may be the 
 pride and joy of her father, and the guardian
 
 The Hotel de Ville. 299 
 
 angel of her brothers — of Andre, who will 
 most need It. My Aline must bring him back 
 to God. She must save him at any cost.' 
 
 Then an expression of intense suffering 
 came over her beautiful ao-ed face. She had 
 seen the wild look of ano-uish of the child she 
 loved. She felt that she must give a ray of 
 hope to that young creature who gazed at 
 her so beseechingly. So, when orders were 
 given to clear the salle and they had to part, 
 Aunt Felicie said with a smile : 
 
 ' Perhaps my little one may bring me my 
 dinner to-morrow.' 
 
 They were near the door — one more kiss, 
 and Aline was descending the stairs, carried 
 along by the crowd. 
 
 There was a strange confusion on the 
 place. The relatives of the prisoners were 
 anxiously watching the doors. There were 
 cries and hideous cheers when the list of the 
 condemned was • read out. Aline strained 
 her ears, but could not catch a sound. She 
 was met by Cantat and St. Jean, who took 
 her home. She remained there in a state of
 
 300 The Hotel de Ville. 
 
 stupor. St. Jean went out again to try and 
 get a list of the condemned, but it was not 
 yet printed. He had, however, stationed 
 himself on the place to watch the acquitted 
 prisoners coming out of the Hotel de Ville. 
 They were few in number, and Mdlle. des 
 Elmes was not amongst them. 
 
 A message came from Mdme. de Bellecise, 
 to say that her daughter, Mdme. Milanez, 
 had been released, and was with her. Would 
 not Aline come to them ? This seemed to 
 her impossible. She could not repress a 
 feeling of bitterness that others should be 
 spared and her loved one doomed. An hour 
 afterwards, Mdme. de Bellecise came to her ; 
 she had bribed their surveillant to allow her, 
 under his escort, to pay her poor little friend 
 this visit. 
 
 The sight of her sweet countenance, as 
 charming in age as in youth ; the thought of 
 her lifelong course of charity ; the deep peace, 
 the gentle compassion which was expressed in 
 every feature of her face — every tone of her 
 voice — did Aline good. She hated herself
 
 The Hotel dc Ville. 301 
 
 for the transient bitterness she had felt at the 
 contrast between the fate of Mdme. Milanez 
 and that of her aunt ; and though it was an 
 effort to go and see her, she made up her 
 mind to do so. 
 
 When they met, they fell into each other's 
 arms weeping. They could not speak at 
 first, but after a while Aline felt soothed by 
 the maternal tenderness of that good friend. 
 Mdme. Milanez also consoled her by speak- 
 ing as if there might still be a hope. She 
 said persons had sometimes been kept a long 
 time in the prisons of the Hotel de Ville, and 
 been eventually released : she would ascer- 
 tain what was going on, and would let her 
 know if she could take any steps in behalf of 
 her aunt. 
 
 ' You must leave nothing untried,' were 
 her last words. 
 
 The poor girl went home a little less 
 despairing, and, utterly exhausted by emotion 
 and fatigue, slept soundly that night. 
 
 The next morning, Mdme. Milanez's maid 
 came to her, and said that all they had been
 
 302 The Hotel de Ville. 
 
 able to find out was that Mdlle. des Elmes 
 had been transferred from the cellars to the 
 left, to those on the right side. 
 
 * Then she will die!' Aline wildly exclaimed. 
 
 'Not at any rate to-day,' the servant 
 answered. ' The Paris and the Lyons troops 
 have fallen out, and have been fighting in the 
 streets. On that account, there are to be 
 no executions till to-morrow. Come, made- 
 moiselle, we must avail ourselves of this 
 respite, and try and see Parcin.' 
 
 Parcin was the President of the Revo- 
 lutionary Tribunal. He came from Moulins, 
 where he had been a solicitor. Whilst M. 
 des Elmes was colonel of the National Guard, 
 this man had dined w^ith him more than once. 
 He and his son were reckoned amongst the 
 most cruel of the Terrorists. They had been 
 Challier's friends, and after the fall of Lyons 
 they came there, and took an active part in 
 the horrible cruelties inflicted on the unhappy 
 partizans of the defence. 
 
 Parcin was all-powerful. A word of his 
 could save or doom a prisoner. To his house
 
 The Hotel de Ville. 303 
 
 Aline went. Mdme. INIilanez's maid was one 
 of those intelligent women of the middle 
 class who rendered so many services in those 
 days. She knew many of the persons in 
 authority, and had contributed to her mis- 
 tress's deliverance. Aline was thankful for 
 her companionship. Cantat was so dis- 
 couraged and frightened, St. Jean so im- 
 prudent, that they were of no use to her. 
 
 They went to Parcin's hotel — a line house, 
 with a court in front and a garden behind it. 
 In that court a number of women were wait- 
 ing. It w^as difficult to obtain admission to 
 the new great people of that day. After a 
 while a man in uniform came down the steps 
 and rapidly crossed the court. 
 
 ' Is that Parcin ?' some one exclaimed. 
 
 ' No ; it is the Commander of the Place,' a 
 sentinel said ; but Aline's companion whis- 
 pered to her : 
 
 ' Run after him. It is Parcin. I know 
 him, but he does not want to be recognised.' 
 
 He walked so fast that Aline had to run in 
 order to overtake him. When she did so, she
 
 304 The Hotel de Ville. 
 
 was so breathless as to be hardly able to 
 speak. He did not stop. She seized his 
 arm, and, clinging to it, cried : 
 
 * She is not guilty. It is a mistake. Ques- 
 tion her again. Give me back my aunt, the 
 Citoyenne des Elmes. She has done nothing 
 wrong. She is innocent. I have no mother. 
 She has been a mother to me. Without her 
 I shall be alone in the world. Do — do 
 examine her again ! Save her ! Have pity 
 upon me !' 
 
 Losing breath, and choked by sobs, the 
 poor child ran on for some minutes, trying to 
 obtain a word from the man whose arm she 
 would not let go. He did not give her even 
 a look. 
 
 ' I shall see about it,' he said, and then 
 roughly pushed her away and disappeared. 
 Aline's companion rejoined her, and said : 
 
 ' Let us go to Corchant's.' 
 
 This was one of the judges. He was sup- 
 posed to be more humane than his colleagues. 
 At any rate, he was easier of access. They 
 were admitted, but, as he was shaving, had to
 
 The Hotel de Ville. ^o 
 
 J^D 
 
 wait. He was not harsh in manner, but 
 to all her supplications only replied, like 
 Parcin : 
 
 ' I shall see what I can do.' 
 
 Then she went to Marino. 
 
 ' It was no business of his,' he said. 
 
 * But, citoyen, cannot you intercede for me ?' 
 she asked, with a burst of tears. 
 
 He turned his back upon her. During the 
 rest of the day she wandered about the streets 
 and the Hotel de Ville with a short petition 
 in her hand, which Mdme. Milanez had 
 written for her. In the evening she went to 
 the Temporary Commission, and was insulted 
 by the soldiers. 
 
 ' Oh, the pretty little girl !' they said. 
 * What is she crying about .-^ Has she lost her 
 lover ? Plenty more to be had, my dear.' 
 
 She could not remain there, and resolved 
 once more to go to Parcin's house. Close to 
 his door she met him walking with another 
 person. She held out her petition ; she fell 
 down on her knees at his feet ; she murmured 
 the words : 
 
 VOL. I. 20
 
 3o6 The Hotel de Ville. 
 
 'My Aunt des Elmes — save her! save 
 her!' 
 
 She was getting faint and giddy. He 
 said : 
 
 ' As a private individual, I am sorry for 
 you ; as a public man, I cannot help you,' and 
 he passed on. 
 
 She heard these words and fainted away. 
 When her consciousness returned, she found 
 herself in a strange room, lying on a couch. 
 Her companion and another woman, a house- 
 keeper, were bathing her forehead and chafing 
 her hands. She sighed deeply, put her hand 
 to her brow, and said : 
 
 ' Where am I ?' 
 
 At some distance from the couch, a dark 
 and rather good-looking young man was 
 standing, with his arms crossed on his chest. 
 When her eyes met those of this stranger, 
 he looked another way. Wine and biscuits 
 were on the table. He poured out some 
 champagne, and handed the glass to Aline's 
 companion, who presented it to her. 
 
 ' Water — not wine,' she said faintly, and it
 
 The HoteL de Ville. 307 
 
 was given to her. The young man had left 
 the room. Ahne rose from the couch, but had 
 difficulty in standing. 
 
 ' Let us go,' she said. ' Whose house 
 • is this ?' • 
 
 'You fainted, and were carried into it,' her 
 companion answered, evasively. 
 
 The woman belono-in^ to the house 
 said : 
 
 ' It is the President Parcin's hotel.' 
 
 Aline started up, rushed forward, and 
 nearly fell. Even a glass of water under 
 such a roof she would fain not have accepted. 
 The door opened, and the same young man 
 said : 
 
 ' There is a carriage at the door.' 
 
 It was fortunate that he had sent for 
 one — Aline had fainted again. She was 
 carried into it by that stranger and the two 
 women. 
 
 That night again she slept from sheer 
 exhaustion. The next morning she wandered 
 round the Hotel de Ville with a passionate 
 desire to penetrate into her aunt's prison. 
 
 20 — 2
 
 3o8 The Hotel dc Ville. 
 
 Once she had a ray of hope. As she was 
 standing at the foot of the stairs leading to 
 the tribunal, a man came up to her, and asked 
 if she was the niece of the Citoyenne des 
 Elmes. 
 
 ' Are you going to take me to her ?' she 
 exclaimed. 
 
 He shook his head, and made a sign to her 
 to follow him into an empty room. Then he 
 pulled out of his pocket a penknife and a 
 pocket-book belonging to her aunt. She 
 pressed them to her lips — renewed her frantic 
 entreaties to be admitted into her prison. 
 The man said he had no power to do so, and 
 left her. 
 
 She resumed her position near the stairs, 
 in hopes that some of the judges would pass 
 that way. But, weary of solicitations, they had 
 all entered by a back-door. Then her thoughts 
 fixed themselves on the idea of seeing Aunt 
 Felicie once more, even at the last moment. 
 She went up to an official, and asked through 
 what gate the prisoners would come out : the 
 words ' when going to execution ' she could
 
 The Hotel de Ville. 309 
 
 not utter, but the wild misery of her face told 
 him what she meant. He pointed to a door 
 to the left. She went there. The clock 
 struck a quarter to twelve. There was a rush 
 of the crowd and hideous cries. She staggered 
 and fell on the pavement. A merciful uncon- 
 sciousness preserved her from witnessing the 
 passage of the fatal car and the closing 
 scene. 
 
 The servants, who had followed her 
 throughout the last hours at a distance, fear- 
 ing to get themselves into trouble, now came 
 forward, and took her home. When she 
 revived, Mdme. de Bellecise was bending 
 over her. In reply to the mute agony with 
 which she looked at her, she said : 
 
 ' We have only now to pray for her, or 
 rather to ask for her prayers. Surely hers 
 has been a martyr's death.' 
 
 There was a knock at the door. A letter 
 was brought up. When she saw her aunt's 
 handwriting, Aline wept. She had not done 
 so before. The note was written in pencil on 
 a scrap of paper.
 
 3IO The Hotel de Ville. 
 
 ' My beloved Child, 
 
 ' I kiss your dear face. Take care of 
 your health. Thanks, dearest, for the coffee. 
 I have just drank it. I advise you to go and 
 see your sister. Do not ask for any of my 
 things. They belong to Cantat and St. Jean. 
 They will take care of them and of you. I 
 press you to my heart. I have asked to be 
 examined again. Spare your strength for 
 the sake of the aunt who loves you so much, 
 and who prays for your happiness. Do not 
 apply at present for a permission to see me. 
 You would not obtain it. My love to our 
 friends. I hope they and Cantat and St. Jean 
 will look after my Aline. I send you a box. 
 You will return it to-morrow when my dinner 
 is brought to me. I want nothing. I wish I 
 could reward you, my child, for all that you 
 have been to me. I am well.' 
 
 The box did not reach Aline. The note 
 remained her most precious treasure. In it 
 were condensed all the prudent foresight, 
 tender affection, and touching delicacy of the
 
 The Hotel de Ville. 3 1 1 
 
 beloved writer. She was all but certain that 
 she was orolne to die, but as lono- as there 
 was a possibility of a reprieve she had spared 
 the feelings of her poor child, and spoken of 
 a morrow she did not expect to see. Her 
 kind mention of the two servants on whose 
 services Aline depended, was an appeal to 
 their fidelity. She left all she had nominally 
 to them, in order to save Aline from the 
 notice of the authorities. The advice to go to 
 Les Elmes was no doubt given with the idea 
 that after her death a change of scene would 
 be the best thing for her, and also that her 
 presence might help to save her father's 
 property. Perhaps she also thought that la 
 Melon would be a greater comfort to her than 
 Cantat. This note was a farewell, but care 
 had been taken that not a word of it should 
 imply how hopeless was her position, or, if it 
 fell into adverse hands, give a handle to the 
 persecutors. 
 
 All was over now — life a blank — Alines 
 grief was so great that she hardly felt any in- 
 crease of sorrow when Mdme. de Bellecise told
 
 312 The Hotel de Ville. 
 
 her that she and her dauo-hter had obtained 
 permission to leave Lyons that very evening. 
 They had been warned not to stay another 
 day. She proposed to take her with them. 
 But AHne refused. 
 
 ' I must do what she says,' she answered, 
 pressing her aunt's letter to her heart, * As 
 soon as possible, I shall go to Les Elmes.' 
 
 ' But in the meantime you are here alone.' 
 
 ' Do not trouble yourself about me, dear 
 Mdme. de Bellecise. All is alike to me 
 now.' 
 
 ' Shall I try, before I go, to find means for 
 you to join your father and your brother in 
 Switzerland ?' 
 
 ' I do not even know if my father is there, 
 or if Maurice is still at Lucerne. I must 
 remain where they can find me ; and you, 
 dear madame, cannot tell where you may have 
 to go.' 
 
 ' Alas ! that is true,' Mdme. de Bellecise 
 said ; ' our journey will be full of perils.' 
 
 ' It is not that would deter me.' 
 
 ' No indeed, my dear brave child ! I only
 
 The Hotel dc Ville. 313 
 
 wish that you knew what it costs me to leave 
 you. But, at all risks, I must join my hus- 
 band and Emilie.' 
 
 ' How is she ?' Aline asked, and tears 
 streamed down her face. Emilie was con- 
 nected with the only bright part of her young 
 life. 
 
 ' Better, and in safety.' 
 
 ' Thank God,' Aline said ; and they 
 parted. 
 
 The door closed upon her friend, and the 
 bereaved girl remained alone. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
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