The Little Old Portrait Page 14

that thus his name wasnot one of the best known. But his punishment had already begun, forthe following winter saw the complete destruction by fire, after it hadbeen robbed of everything of value, of the beautiful old Chateau ofSarinet.

  "News of this was not long in reaching Valmont.

  "All through these months many a faithful heart there had ached withanxiety for their Countess and her child. But the disordered state ofthings was having everywhere a bad effect. Quiet and peaceable folkbegan to be frightened. Many dared not express any interest in orsympathy with those whose turn it was now to be unjustly and cruellytreated. And among the loose characters who now and then passed throughor loitered about our quiet Valmont, there were not wanting some on thelook-out for mischief-making.

  "`You speak of your lady as different from others,' they would say.`Let her show herself among you. If she cared for you she would behere, not amusing herself and wasting money on nonsense like all thefine ladies in Paris. It is that which has brought ruin on thecountry.'

  "And some listened to and believed these cunning words, so that already,had the Countess just then returned to Valmont, it is to be doubted ifshe would have been received with the old affection. There was somereason, too, for discontent. Collet, the Countess's bailiff, was themost discreet of men, devoted to the family's interest, but at the sametime ready to carry out all his lady's endeavours to do good to herpeople. But it began to be noticed that he was more rigorous thanformerly in exacting all the payments due, also that less money wasforthcoming for charitable purposes, that the new year's gifts year byyear were curtailed, and that Collet looked anxious and careworn.

  "`It is his bad conscience,' said some. `He is going the way of alllike him, enriching himself at our expense.'

  "`And the Countess is no doubt learning to throw about her money too.Trust fine ladies for that, however sweet-spoken they may be; and afterall she is a Sarinet by birth,' said others.

  "But I need not say that in the Germains' cottage, and indeed in _most_of those in the village, nothing of this kind was believed, and once ortwice, when words or hints to this effect were uttered before Pierre,his father had to check the hot indignation with which the lad wouldhave met them, reminding him that by a dignified silence he was bothshowing more respect for their lady, and perhaps better serving hercause. He could speak with authority, for both he and the old cure werein poor Collet's confidence, and knew, what he thought it would bedishonourable to tell, that he strongly suspected that the Marquis,having exhausted his own resources, was now helping himself to the moneyof his sister and his niece. And more than once both were of a mind tosay out what they were almost, sure of. `If it goes much further weshall feel it our duty to do so,' said the cure to the bailiff. `Andeven now I have almost made up my mind to write to the Countess, for Iam certain she has no idea of what is being done, to some extent, in hername.'

  "But just as the good man was meditating a letter to Paris, one wasreceived from there which altered the state of things, and for a longtime brought some sunshine and hopefulness back to the hearts of thefaithful friends of Edmee and her mother.

  "The Countess and her daughter were returning to Valmont.

  "`All then will be well,' said Madame Germain, wiping her eyes fromwhich were running tears of joy. `Things are evidently quieting down;otherwise our ladies would not think of undertaking the journey. Thosepoor, foolish people, no doubt, seeing how ready the king is to agree toeverything reasonable, will be satisfied at last, and all will be well.'

  "Nor was she the only one to hope, from time to time, during these earlyyears of the Revolution, that the black cloud might after all disperse.For, thanks to the efforts of some unselfish and wise men, more thanonce a cordial understanding between the king, the government, and thepeople was almost arrived at, though always, alas! to be again brokenthrough by treachery or mistakes or passionate outburst on one side orthe other.

  "This was in the summer of 1790, about a year after the taking of theBastille. All through the autumn days that followed, the Germain familyand others waited eagerly for further news from Paris. At last cameagain a few hurried words to Madame Germain from the Countess, referringto other letters sent by the post which had never been received atValmont. She had found it impossible, she said, to carry out her planof returning home that last summer. The Marquis had opposed it; he wasso sure that things were calming down, and he objected to any member ofhis family leaving Paris. `So again,' wrote the poor lady, `Edmee and Imust take patience. But surely _next_ summer, the fourth since ourabsence, will see us in our own dear home.'

  "Next summer! Preceded by a severe winter, which saw sufferings such asValmont had never known before--for the demands on Collet for moneybecame more and more peremptory, and though the cure and Germain hadwritten to the Countess a full account of the state of things, no noticehad been taken of it, and they began to fear she had never receivedtheir letter--`next summer' brought no better state of things. The kingand his family were now, to all intents and purposes, prisoners in thehands of their people; the few wiser and cooler-headed men in thegovernment were overruled; great numbers of the better classes had lefttheir unhappy country; of those whom obstinacy, in some cases poverty,caused to remain, till too late to get away, the fate became daily moreuncertain. And among these there was every reason to fear were Edmee deValmont and her mother!

  "`If they had left the country, I feel sure they would have found somemeans of letting us know,' said Madame Germain, shaking her head, forthe long anxiety and uncertainty had lessened her hopefulness. And justas her husband and son, after discussing for perhaps the hundredth timethis sad state of things, had arrived at the conclusion that _something_must be done, _some_ step they must and would take, there came againsuddenly, and in an unexpected way, news of the two so dear to them.

  "It came in the shape of a very feeble and very old man, who, lookingmore dead than alive, dragged himself one evening, late in the month ofSeptember, in the year I have now reached in my narrative, that of 1792,to the door of the forester's cottage, and there, half-fainting on thethreshold, asked in a broken voice for Germain or his wife. They didnot know him in the least--how could they, in this wretched,dust-and-mud-covered old beggar, whose white beard hung neglectedly,whose feet were almost shoeless, whose poor old hands trembled withnervous weakness, have recognised the carefully-attired, respectable,nay stately Ludovic, who had driven away on the box of the travellingchariot, so proud to follow his ladies to the end of the world, had theybidden him? His devotion had cost him dear, poor old man, and as hefeebly murmured--

  "`Don't you know me--your old friend Ludovic?' mother Germain burst intotears--tears of pity for him, of terror for those he had come from.

  "They at once did their best for him. It would have been cruel toquestion him till he had regained a little strength, and indeed useless.Now that he had reached the end of his journey, his forces seemedaltogether to collapse, and for some hours they feared he would diewithout having told them anything. But food and wine carefullyadministered, and a refreshing sleep into which he fell, did wonders forhim, for notwithstanding his age, he had been till lately a vigorous andhealthy man; and by the evening he woke up greatly revived, and eager toexplain everything, and by degrees his kind hosts heard all, whichperhaps it is well to give as far as possible in his own words--for theevents he related have often been told me both by my mother who had seenthem herself, and by my father who heard them at the moment fromLudovic's own lips.

  "`I never thought I should reach here alive,' began the old man. `Thelast few days have been terribly hard. From some distance on the otherside of Machard I have come on foot. But few conveyances are on theroad--no longer a chance of meeting with those of some of the greatlords whose attendants, had they known who I was, would have given me alift--no, the days of such travelling are over indeed; and in the fewpublic coaches I met I could not have had a place, for I had not a sou!She gave me all she had--our dear lady--but it was very lit
tle, andthere was no time to sell the jewels she had with her. Since four orfive days I have scarcely tasted any food, though once or twice kindsouls took pity on me. The first part of the journey was easy enough.I travelled in the public conveyances, to save time; but though easy, Isoon saw it was a risk. While I was decently dressed they looked at memore than once with suspicion--above all that my clothes, though theywere shabby enough compared with those you used to know me in, inhappier days, had the look of my position, and nobleman's servants arenow often objects of suspicion. So I decided to make the rest of theway as best I could, getting a lift in a cart as long as my moneylasted, and when my clothes became so shabby I dare say it was asafeguard. At all events here I am! God be thanked, if I could butthink my dear ladies were also in safety!'

  "`But where are they?--what of them?' burst out Pierre, who had listenedwith compassion indeed, but not without a certain impatience, to thepoor old man's somewhat rambling account of his own adventures.

  "`Softly, my boy,' said his mother in a low voice. `Do not hurry him,let him tell all in his own way, otherwise he may grow confused.'

  "But Pierre's words had done no harm.

  "`Of course,' said Ludovic, `that is where I should have begun, insteadof wasting time over my own affairs, stupid old man that I am. But youmust forgive me, my good friends. Old age is garrulous, and finds itdifficult to keep to the point. Where was I?' and he looked roundfeebly.

  "`You were saying,' said Pierre, trying to restrain his impatience, `howthankful you would be, were you assured that the Countess and herdaughter were in safety like yourself; and I interrupted you entreatingyou to tell us where you believe them to be.'

  "`Where?' said Ludovic; `in Paris. At least, I fear it is unlikely thatthey will again have attempted to leave.'

  "`Attempted to leave it! Did they do so? and did they not succeed?'exclaimed the Germains together.

  "`Alas, no!' replied Ludovic, shaking his white head. `That is how Icome to be here alone. I will tell you all. You have heard, no doubt,the principal events of this sad time. My lady has been longing toreturn to Valmont almost ever since she left it, but the Marquis hasalways opposed it. Two years ago she at last gained his consent, andwas on the point of starting, when some one put it into his head that itwas undignified, and would have a bad effect for any member of hisfamily to leave his house, and as my lady could get no money except fromhim, and as she was also unwilling to anger him, she again gave in. Heis the most obstinate man--even now he will not believe that there isany danger for him or his. And my lady at last came to see that if sheis to get away, it must be without his assistance. All these wearymonths she has been waiting for an opportunity. At last, about threeweeks ago, all seemed favourable. The Marquis was away for a day ortwo, with some of his friends, who, like him, have refused to takewarning, and all arrangements had been made for my ladies and myself tostart quietly. We were to travel in a small plain carriage, not likelyto attract attention, which a friend of the Marquis's, less obstinatethan he, and really concerned for the Countess and her daughter, hadhired, with a driver he could trust. This gentleman,--how I do notknow--had procured the necessary papers, which described the Countess asmy daughter, returning to the country for her health. I was describedas a shopkeeper of Tours. Well, we started--oh the joy of MademoiselleEdmee! The only drawback was the poor boy Edmond, whom my lady darednot bring away, in face of his father's commands that he was to stay.She had already fought hard to get leave for him to accompany them whenthey _should_ leave--and who was heart-broken. At the last moment mylady got out of the carriage again to clasp him in her arms, and whispersome words of comfort; it caused a little delay; sometimes I havethought those three minutes might have saved us. It was not to be. Ican hardly bear to tell you of our terrible disappointment. We hadscarcely got the length of the street when we met the Marquis returning,in a furious temper at having found it impossible to get as far as thecountry house, a few miles out of Paris, where he was to meet hisfriends. He was furious, and, perhaps for the first time, alarmed; for,my friends, do you know what had happened the night before?--it was thatof the 2nd of September!' and Ludovic looked up hesitatingly. Germainbowed his head.

  "`I know,' he said, `and so does Pierre. But we would not tell my poorwife. However, perhaps it is foolish,' and turning to Madame Germain,he rapidly related to her how on that dreadful night bands of wretches,armed with pikes and hatchets, had burst open the doors of the prisonsof Paris, and there slaughtered the unfortunate beings--all of the upperclasses, and many innocent of any wrong--who had been seized and shut upas `suspected' of disloyalty to the new Government. For which bloodydeed the wretches who had committed it were liberally rewarded by theauthorities!

  "`Yes,' continued Ludovic, `for the first time the Marquis believed thatthe mob--the hounds and dogs he had despised--was a terrible enemy tohave aroused, for the worst and lowest come to the front at such times.Perhaps he meant it for the best; but it was, I fear, an awful mistake.He turned the horses' heads, and insisted on his sister returning to hishotel. It was utterly impossible, he maintained, for her to attempt thejourney thus alone and unprotected, save by an old fool, as he amiablycalled _me_. But what did I care? And there we were again--half-an-hour after our hopeful departure--powerless and heart-brokenwith disappointment. What the Countess heard of the horrors I have toldyou I do not know--I dared not ask, for if she had _not_ heard all, Iwould have been the last to tell her. But that evening, late, she sentfor me privately, and gave me her instructions. She was as pale asdeath--she has changed terribly, and what wonder! Many a time I havethought our dear lady was not long for this world, and she thinks so, Ibelieve, herself. "My good Ludovic," she said, "this has been aterrible disappointment. But for the moment I can attempt nothing else.It may be here, as my brother says, that in spite of all ourprecautions, in the present terribly excited state of the town, had wegot as far as the barriers it would but have been to be stopped, andperhaps seized and imprisoned. He insists that it is better to wait afew days. But he has promised me at once to arrange for our all flyingto Valmont--poor man, at Sarinet there is no longer a roof to shelterhim and his!--and so, my good Ludovic, I must try to take courage andhope, though my mind misgives me sorely. For that my poor brother hashitherto escaped seems to me scarcely short of a miracle, and I cannotfeel confidence in his still doing so. Therefore, my faithful friend, Iwant _you_ to set off at once for Valmont. It is for yourself; lessrisk than staying here, not that you think of that, I know, and it isthe best service you can at present render me and my child. Alone youwill have, I am assured, little difficulty in making your way. Here isall the money I have been able to collect; to give you any of my jewelswould but expose you to suspicion; take it and go. And arrived atValmont, seek at once my dear Germains. If by the end of this monththey or you have no news of me--then I fear, it will not mean goodnews--then, I must trust to them to consider if in any way they can helpme, or still more my child. Should my brother be taken, I have a planin my head, for concealing ourselves here in Paris, till we can ventureto try to escape. And Germain is a shrewd and clever man. I fancythere would be no risk for _him_ in coming to Paris, and if he knows weare in danger, I believe nothing would keep him from attempting it.With his help and strong arm, we might manage a safe disguise. Shouldwe succeed, as my brother hopes, in all leaving Paris together, I shallfind means of letting you know at Valmont. Should we fail I shall stillhope to conceal myself and Edmee, though at present I cannot make anydetailed plan. One thing I may tell you"--and here my lady lowered hervoice--"the _only_ person I trust here is Marguerite Ribou. And now, mygood Ludovic, the sooner you leave the better. The Marquis has no ideaat present of my attempting anything. It will be time enough for me totell him you are gone when you are beyond recall." And then,' continuedLudovic, `she held out her hand; I kissed it, in weeping you may besure, and I obeyed her. That night I spent in a little tavern near thebarriers, and I got out the next m
orning without difficulty. And here--here at last, after all my troubles, I am! I have told you, I think, mylady's exact words. It is now--is it not?--near the end of September?'

  "`The twentieth,' replied Pierre.

  "`And you have no news?'

  "`Not a word,' said Germain.

  "`Then,' said old Ludovic, `it is for you to decide what can be done. Afew days still--a few days perhaps we can wait. It will give me time torecover my old wits a little, if it brings no news from our poorladies.'"

  CHAPTER NINE.

  "Long after poor old Ludovic was in bed and asleep that night, theGermains sat up talking over all he had told them.

  "`To-morrow will be the twenty-first of September,' said old Germainthoughtfully; `that makes nine days more to wait--'

  "`But should we wait, father,' exclaimed Pierre. `I feel so certain nonews will come, and every day, every hour, it is so much time lost--canwe not set off at once? Father, mother, let me go! I am so young andstrong--fatigue is nothing to me, and father is not so strong as hewas,' which was true, for rheumatism, that sad enemy of those whoseduties force them to be out in all weather, had already more than once,for weeks at a time, crippled the forester's active limbs.

  "The father and mother looked at each other. True, they had said theywould not grudge their boy in the service they had all their lives beendevoted to, and the risk they did not think so great for him as itperhaps really was. But when it came to the point of his setting off onthe long journey--so uncertain