Chapter IX

There are one or two other episodes less sentimental than this one recorded of this visit to Paris, not the least interesting of these being the account given of a call upon Madame de Genlis. The younger author from her own standpoint having resolutely turned away from the voice of the charmer for the sake of that which she is convinced to be duty and good sense, now somewhat sternly takes the measure of her elder sister, who has failed in the struggle, who is alone and friendless, and who has made her fate.

The story is too long to quote at full length. An isolated page without its setting loses very much; the previous description of the darkness and uncertainty through which Maria and her father go wandering, and asking their way in vain, adds immensely to the sense of the gloom and isolation which are hiding the close of a long and brilliant career. At last, after wandering for a long time seeking for Madame de Genlis, the travellers compel a reluctant porter to show them the staircase in the Arsenal, where she is living, and to point out the door before he goes off with the light.

They wait in darkness. The account of what happens when the door is opened is so interesting that I cannot refrain from quoting it at length:--

After ringing the bell we presently heard doors open and little
footsteps approaching nigh. The door was opened by a girl of about
Honora's size, holding an ill set-up, wavering candle in her hand,
the light of which fell full upon her face and figure. Her face
was remarkably intelligent--dark sparkling eyes, dark hair curled
in the most fashionable long corkscrew ringlets over her eyes and
cheeks. She parted the ringlets to take a full view of us. The
dress of her figure by no means suited the head and elegance of
her attitude. What her nether weeds might be we could not
distinctly see, but they seemed a coarse short petticoat like what
Molly Bristow's children would wear. After surveying us and
hearing our name was Edgeworth she smiled graciously and bid us
follow her, saying, 'Maman est chez elle.' She led the way with
the grace of a young lady who has been taught to dance across two
ante-chambers, miserable-looking; but, miserable or not, no home
in Paris can be without them. The girl, or young lady, for we were
still in doubt which to think her, led into a small room in which
the candles were so well screened by a green tin screen that we
could scarcely distinguish the tall form of a lady in black who
rose from her chair by the fireside; as the door opened a great
puff of smoke came from the huge fireplace at the same moment. She
came forward, and we made our way towards her as well as we could
through a confusion of tables, chairs, and work-baskets, china,
writing-desks and inkstands, and birdcages, and a harp. She did
not speak, and as her back was now turned to both fire and candle
I could not see her face or anything but the outline of her form
and her attitude. Her form was the remains of a fine form, her
attitude that of a woman used to a better drawing-room.

I being foremost, and she silent, was compelled to speak to the
figure in darkness. 'Madame de Genlis nous a fait l'honneur de
nous mander qu'elle voulait bien nous permettre de lui rendre
visite,' said I, or words to that effect, to which she replied by
taking my hand and saying something in which 'charmée' was the
most intelligible word. While she spoke she looked over my
shoulder at my father, whose bow, I presume, told her he was a
gentleman, for she spoke to him immediately as if she wished to
please and seated us in _fauteuils_ near the fire.

I then had a full view of her face--figure very thin and
melancholy dark eyes, long sallow cheeks, compressed thin lips,
two or three black ringlets on a high forehead, a cap that Mrs.
Grier might wear--altogether in appearance of fallen fortunes,
worn-out health, and excessive but guarded irritability. To me
there was nothing of that engaging, captivating manner which I had
been taught to expect. She seemed to me to be alive only to
literary quarrels and jealousies. The muscles of her face as she
spoke, or as my father spoke to her, quickly and too easily
expressed hatred and anger.... She is now, you know, _dévote
acharnée_.... Madame de Genlis seems to have been so much used to
being attacked that she has defence and apologies ready prepared.
She spoke of Madame de Staël's 'Delphine' with detestation....
Forgive me, my dear Aunt Mary; you begged me to see her with
favourable eyes, and I went, after seeing her 'Rosière de
Salency,' with the most favourable disposition, but I could not
like her.... And from time to time I saw, or thought I saw,
through the gloom of her countenance a gleam of coquetry. But my
father judges of her much more favourably than I do. She evidently
took pains to please him, and he says he is sure she is a person
over whose mind he could gain great ascendency.

The 'young and gay philosopher' at fifty is not unchanged since we knew him first. Maria adds a postscript:

I had almost forgotten to tell you that the little girl who showed
us in is a girl whom she is educating. 'Elle m'appelle maman, mais
elle n'est pas ma fille.' The manner in which this little girl
spoke to Madame de Genlis and looked at her appeared to me more in
her favour than anything else. I went to look at what the child
was writing; she was translating Darwin's _Zoonomia_.

Every description one reads by Miss Edgeworth of actual things and people makes one wish that she had written more of them. This one is the more interesting from the contrast of the two women, both so remarkable and coming to so different a result in their experience of life.

This eventful visit to Paris is brought to an eventful termination by several gendarmes, who appear early one morning in Mr. Edgeworth's bedroom with orders that he is to get up and to leave Paris immediately. Mr. Edgeworth had been accused of being brother to the Abbé de Fermont. When the mitigated circumstances of his being only a first cousin were put forward by Lord Whitworth, the English Ambassador, the Edgeworths received permission to return from the suburb to which they had retired; but private news hurried their departure, and they were only in time to escape the general blockade and detention of English prisoners. After little more than a year of peace, once more war was declared on May 20, 1803. Lovell, the eldest son, who was absent at the time and travelling from Switzerland, was not able to escape in time; nor for twelve years to come was the young man able to return to his own home and family.