/'//? •■ / /i h V^^■; > ) ^•:^S ^: .^;; 0.M' m. n^ ^^ ^Uf i^:. 1 .^^i / 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 ^'' 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. BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS AND ELECTROTYPERS, GUILDFORD. .y. &= //. BENT LEYS' FAVOURITE NOVELS. Each volume can be obtained separately, 6s. By Mrs. HENRY WOOD. EAST LYNNE. ANNE HEREFORD. DENE HOLLOW. ELSTER'S FOLLY. JOHNNY LUDLOW, {ist Series.) LADY ADELAIDE. LORD OAKBURN'S DAUGHTERS. MILDRED ARKELL. ORVILLE COLLEGE. OSWALD CRAY. RED COURT FARM. ST. MARTIN'S EVE. TREVLYN HOLD. WITHIN THE MAZE. THE CHANNINGS. BESSY RANE. EDINA. GEORGE CANTERBURY'S WILL JOHNNY lJJT)'LOW.{2,td Scries.) A LIFE'S SECRET. PARKWATER. THE MASTER OF GREYLANDS. MRS. HALLIBURTON'S TROUBLES. POMEROY ABBEY. ROLAND YORKE. THE SHADOW OF ASHLYDYAT. VERNER'S PRIDE. COURT NETHERLEIGH (1882). By Miss AUSTEN. [ I'/iis is the only complete edition. ) LADY SUSAN, AND THE WATSONS. NORTHANGER ABBEY, AND PERSUASION. PRIDE AND PREJUDICE. SENSE AND SENSIBILITY. MANSFIELD PARK. EMMA. By Mrs. PARR. ADAM AND EVE. DOROTHY FOX. LONDON : RICHARD BENTLEY & SON, NEW BURLINGTON STREET. BENT LEYS' FAVOURITE NOVELS. Each volume separately, price 6s., in cloth. By Mrs. ANNIE EDWARDES. LEAH : A WOMAN OF FASHION. OUGHT WE TO VISIT HER ? STEVEN LAWRENCE : YEOMAN. SUSAN FIELDING. By Various Authors. THE THREE CLERKS, by Anthony TroUope. THE MYSTERY IN PALACE GARDENS, by Mrs. J. H. RiddeU. OLIVE VARCOE, by Mrs. Notley. BREEZIE LANGTON. by Hawley Smart. NELLIE'S MEMORIES, by Miss Carey. FOR THE TERM OF HIS NATURAL LIFE, by Marcus Clark. ! BENTLEYS' FOREIGN FAVOURITE NOYELS. Each volume can be obtained separately in cloth, 6s. By Mrs. CRAVEN. By E. WERNER . A SISTER'S STORY. UNDER A CHARM. SUCCESS : AND HOW HE By HECTOR MALOT. won it. NO relations. no SURRENDER. LONDON : RICHARD BENTLEY & SON, NEW BURLINGTON STREET. This book is DUE on the last date stamped below ^MM %Jti NOV 18 184 P.M. f I *r.i.iioiiiiiai; . 1113141^