Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

Winter is here! and the long, stormy nights have come, Jeremy—the nights of dread and desolation to the poor. The roar of the tempest has the voice of a demon out there! Do the moan and the howl, which sound so fearfully now, stir in the heart a thought of the perishing ones, who, in the midst of this splendid city, sit shivering, ragged, and starved? The pale brow and the hollow eye of the consumptive mother, sitting desolate amid her famishing ones, grow paler and sadder as the storm rolls on! Does her low wail of agony reach the ears of angels to-night? If not—God help her!

Scores of Christian churches stand grandly out in the storm, and bravely defy the tempest. They are tenantless, now, of the rosy lips and bright eyes which have looked appealingly to Heaven, and muttered prayers for the poor. Are willing hands employed to-night in confirmation of the Sunday’s sincerity? Or do cards, the piano, or the dance, lend a sorry confirmation of the utter hollowness of words? Is all the wealth and splendor of Gothic steeples and stained-glass—the majestic column—the lordly porch, and the sweeping aisle, but the magnificence of delusion?—mere monuments of the wickedness of man endeavoring to cheat the Creator with tinsel—with show, not worth—with words, not deeds! God help the homeless, Jeremy, where this is true! And help the disciple, too, who prays, but never _thinks_! God bless the humble Christian, who _labors_ and cares for THE POOR!

“Poor naked wretches, whereso’er you are,
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,
How shall your houseless heads, and unfed sides,
Your looped and windowed raggedness, defend you
From seasons such as these?”

G. R. G.

* * * * *

A LIFE OF VICISSITUDES.

BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.

(_Continued from page 11._)

FIRST LOVE.

The poor little girl by my side made no struggle to quit me, no effort to return to her mother, but ran along holding my hand, with perfect docility and confidence, weeping bitterly, it is true, and never uttering a word. It was a strange situation for a boy of twelve years of age, and yet I felt a certain sort of pride in it—in the trust which was reposed in me—in the right, and, as I fancied, the power of protecting. I would have fought for that little girl to the death, if any one had attempted to molest her; and although I had never at that time heard of paladins and knights-errant, I was quite as valiant in my own opinion as any one of them ever was. I was not very hard-hearted at that time—youth seldom is—and I felt greatly moved by the poor child’s grief.

After we had gone about a mile, at a very quick pace, I began to slacken my speed, and to try and comfort my little companion. At first she appeared inconsolable, but by trying hard, I at length made some impression—won her mind away from the terrors and sorrows of her situation, and got her to speak a word or two in reply to my question. She told me that her name was Mariette, and that she had walked some way that day—that her mother had rushed into the room where she was playing, all covered with blood, as I had seen her just before—had caught her up in her arms, and rushed out of a château where they lived, by a back way, plunging at once into the wood. They had then walked a long distance, she said, her mother sometimes carrying her, sometimes letting her run by her side; and I could perceive that, delicately nurtured and unaccustomed to hard exercise, the poor little thing was already considerably tired. I was a strong, big boy, and so without more ado, I took her up in my arms and carried her. After some way, I put her down again, and she walked on refreshed, and then I carried her again, and then we sat down upon a bank and rested; and I got her water from the stream in the hollow of my hand, and tried to amuse her by telling her stories. But I never was a good story-teller in all my life, and I did not succeed very well. All this occupied time, however, and when we arrived within half a mile of the town, light was fading fast. This alarmed me; not that I had any fear of darkness, but it was good Jeanette’s custom, in the gray of the evening to walk out through our little garden in the tower, down the stair-case, the door of which lay on the left-hand side, and lock the door below. I did not like to go in by the great gates of the town, both because the distance was greater, and because I thought some questions might be asked about Mariette; and I resolved, at all events, to attempt our private entrance before I yielded to necessity. I encouraged my little companion to hurry her steps, by pointing out the town rising before us, and telling her that if she made haste, she would in a few minutes be with Father Bonneville, and he would be so good and kind to her she could not think. I told her, also, of good Jeanette, and what a nice creature she was, and I succeeded in engaging her attention and leading her on much faster than before. We soon reached the foot of the hill, climbed the steep little path which led to the door at the foot of the tower, and with great joy and some surprise I found it open.

“Now come in, Mariette,” I said, “and don’t be afraid of the dark; for this stair-case leads to our garden, and the garden to the house.”

She said she was not at all afraid of the dark; that her papa often made her walk with him in the dark; and she followed me quite readily, holding tight by my hand, however.

In the garden above we found good old Jeanette, with her snow-white cap, and her mittens. I found that she had become anxious at my long absence, and had abstained from locking the door lest I should determine to come in that way. Her surprise to see my little companion, and the state of grotesque agitation and bustle into which the sight threw her, I shall never forget. My explanations soon banished surprise by other emotions. I told all I knew of poor Mariette’s story as simply as I could, and the good creature’s heart was instantly touched; the tears gathered in her eyes, and taking the poor little girl in her arms, she said, “Come with me, my child—come with me. Here we will make you a home where you will be as happy as the day is long.”

“I can’t be happy without papa and mamma,” replied Mariette, bursting into tears again, and Jeanette, weeping for company, carried her off into the house, while I ran down the stairs to lock the door of the tower. When I entered the house again, I found that Father Bonneville was out visiting some sick people, and had been absent for several hours. Mariette wanted no kind of tendence, however, that was not given to her by good Jeanette. She put her pretty little feet in warm water; she gave her a cup of the thin chocolate which usually formed the good priest’s supper, and she endeavored, with far greater skill than mine, to wile away her thoughts from all that was painful in memory, or her new situation. Mariette soon began to prattle to her, and leaning her head upon her shoulder, said she loved her very much; but then, after a few minutes, the bright young eyes closed, the little head leaned heavier, and Jeanette, moving her gently, carried her away to my small room, and placed her gently in my bed, “to sleep it out,” as she said.

About half an hour after, good Father Bonneville returned, and his face showed evident traces of sorrow and perplexity. But still my story was to be told, and it seemed to perplex him still more.

“Do you know her name?” he asked.

“Mariette, Father,” I replied.

“But what more, besides Mariette?” he asked; and as I could give him no information, he made me describe, as accurately as I could, the appearance of the lady I had seen. I spoke of her bright and beautiful eyes, and I described her as very pale; but the good priest inquired whether she was tall.

“Oh yes,” I replied; “a good deal taller than Jeanette.”

The good priest smiled; for Jeanette was a good deal below the height of the Medicean Venus, and she is no giantess.

“It must be Madame de Salins,” he murmured, after a moment’s consideration. “Holy father, have mercy upon us! Killed Monsieur de Salins, have they, before his poor wife’s eyes? A better young man did not exist, nor one who has done more good, both by his acts and his example.”

“Wouldn’t you know Mariette, if you saw her, Father?” I asked; and Jeanette coming in from the room where the child was at the moment, led the good Father away to see her. When he came back, he said no more for some time, but sat thinking, with his head bent forward, and his eyes half closed. Then he called Jeanette, and somewhat to my surprise, gave very strict orders for concealing the fact of the little girl’s residence in our house. My little room was to be assigned to her; a large, wide, rather cheerful, long uninhabited room, up stairs, was to receive a table, and a few chairs from somewhere else, and to be made a sort of play-room for her, and I and Jeanette were to do the very best we could to make the little prisoner happy, while her existence was to be kept secret from every one but our three selves. At the same time he laid the strongest injunctions upon me to abstain from even hinting to any one the adventure I had met with in the wood, and never to call the child Mariette de Salins, but merely Mariette, or Mariette Brun.

And now began a new sort of existence for me. Mariette became, as it were, my property—at least I looked upon her almost as such. I had carried her in the forest. I had led her along by the hand. I had brought her there. She was my little foundling, and my feelings toward her were as strange as ever came into the breast of a boy of thirteen. There was something parental about them. I could almost have brought myself to believe that I was her father; and yet I looked upon her very much in the light of a toy, as grown-up parents will sometimes do in regard to their children. I was with Mariette the greater part of every day, playing with her, amusing her, devising all sorts of games to entertain her. She soon became very fond of me, and quite familiar; would sit by the hour with her arms round my neck, and would tell me little anecdotes of her own home. A pleasant home it seemed to have been till the last fearful events occurred, full of harmony, and peace, and domestic joy. Continually she seemed to forget the present, in pictures of brighter hours gone by, but from time to time—especially at first—a torrent of painful memories would seem to burst upon her, and the end of the little tale would be drowned in tears.

Two months passed over in this manner, and little Mariette seemed quite reconciled to her situation. With the elasticity of childish hope, she had recovered all her spirits, and no two young, happy, innocent things were ever gayer than we were. Her state of imprisonment, too, was somewhat relaxed; for, in our own town at least, a lull had come upon the political storm, which, as every one knows, came up sobbing, as it were, in fits and starts, like a south-westerly gale, till the full hurricane blew and swept every thing before it. After some hesitation, Father Bonneville permitted her to go out with me into the garden, and there to play amongst the shrubs, now, alas! destitute of flowers, for an hour or two before she went to bed. In the town she was never seen, and with a sort of prescience, which was, perhaps, not extraordinary, the good Father explained to me that it would be wiser to use, as little as possible, the way out of the town by the garden and the tower. He treated me with a degree of confidence and reliance on my intelligence and discretion, which made me very proud. The agitated and terrible state of the country, he said, and the anarchical tendencies which were visible throughout society in France, had induced a number of the most wealthy and influential people to seek a refuge in other lands. Those who had got possession of power, he continued, were naturally anxious to put a stop to this emigration, and a system of espionage, which was well-nigh intolerable, had been established to check it. The advantage we possessed of being able to go in and out of the town when we pleaded, without passing the gales, might be lost to us by the imprudent use of it; and although two or three other citizens, whose houses abutted upon towers of the old wall, had the same facilities, he knew them to be prudent and well-disposed men, who were not likely to call attention to themselves by any incautious act.

Although the door below was unlocked and locked every morning and evening, it may well be supposed that I adhered strictly to the good Father’s directions, and always when I wanted to get out of the city took the way round by the gates. This was not very often, indeed, for I had now an object of interest and entertainment at home, which I had never had before, and Mariette was all the world to me for the time. Good Father Bonneville in speaking of her to me used to call her with a quiet smile “Tu fille”—thy daughter—and pleasant was it for me to hear him so name her. Certain it is, what between one thing and another—the little vanity I had in her—the selfish feeling of property, so strong in all children—the pleasant occupation which she gave to my thoughts, and her own winning and endearing ways, (for she was full of every sort of wild, engaging grace,) together with her real sweetness of disposition, which had something more beautiful and charming in it than I can describe—certain it is, I say—I learned before a month was over to love nothing on all the earth like her. Nay more, amongst all the passions and objects and pursuits of life I can recall nothing so strong, so fervent, so deep, as that pure, calm, boyish love for little Mariette de Salins. I could dwell upon it, even now, for ever, and from my heart and soul I believed she returned that affection as warmly. Two months and a fortnight had passed by: heavier clouds than ever were beginning to gather on the political horizon: menaces of foreign invasion to put down the disorderly spirit which had manifested itself in the land, roused the indignation both of those whose passions refused correction, and those who loved the independence of their country. The very threat swept away one of the few safeguards of society which remained in France. There was a great body of the people who disliked the thought of anarchy; but a short period of anarchy seemed to them preferable to the indefinite domination of foreign soldiers in the land, and multitudes of these better men were now driven to act with or submit to the anarchists.

I could see that Father Bonneville was very much alarmed, and in much agitation and distress of mind. I twice saw him count over the money which I had brought him from Madame de Salins, and looking up in my face, he said, with a thoughtful air:

“I suppose I ought to send her away—the time is past—but I know not really what to do—where could I put her in England?—who could I send with her?—how could I let her mother know where she is to be found? This is a small sum, too, to support her for any time in England. A hundred and forty-seven louis! England is a dear country—a very dear country, as I know. Every thing is thrice the price that it is here.”

Youth always argues from its wishes. They form the goal to which, whatever turns the course may take, the race is always directed in the end. Father Bonneville’s words were very painful to me, and I ventured to strive to persuade him that it would be better to wait a little: that Mariette was well where she was: that something might have occurred to delay Madame de Salins.

The good Father shook his head, with a sigh, and he then took a little drawer out of a cabinet, and counted some forty or fifty gold pieces that were within. I could see, however, that there were, at least, three little rolls of thin white paper diapered by the milling of the coin within, and I knew by their similarity and size with the one which I had myself received, that each must contain somewhere about a hundred louis. To me this was Peru; but Father Bonneville, who knew better, sighed over it, and put it back again.

One very stormy night the wind blew in sharp, fierce gusts against the front windows, and the rain pattered hard. The streets were almost deserted, and utterly unlighted, as they were in those times, they offered no pleasant promenade on such a night as that. Suddenly the bell rang, as I was sitting by Father Bonneville reading, when Mariette was sound asleep up stairs, and Jeanette was working away in her kitchen.

“Who can that be?” said Father Bonneville, turning a little pale. “Stay, Jeanette, stay for a moment;” and he put away one or two things that were lying about, and locked the door of the little cabinet.

Now, it might seem a cruelty to keep any one waiting at the door even for a minute or two in the pitiless pelting of the shower; but I forgot to mention in describing the house, that it, and a neighboring house, which bent away from the main into a side street, formed a very obtuse angle, and that between the two there was a little arched entrance overshadowing a flight of steps which led to the good Father’s door. Thus, any visitor was as much sheltered from the rain on the outside, as if he had been in the house itself.

Jeanette had, at length, permission to go to the door, and to tell the truth, both Father Bonneville and I peeped out to see who was the applicant who made so late a call.

“I wish to see Father Bonneville,” said a woman’s voice, marvelously sweet and pleasant.

“Is your business very pressing, madam?” asked Jeanette, adding, “it is late, and just the good Father’s time for going to bed.”

“Life and death!” said the visitor. “I _must_ see him, and see him alone.”

“Well, madam, come in,” was the reply, and at the same moment Father Bonneville said in a low tone, but it seemed to me with a happy air, “Leave me, François. Go to bed, my son.”

I obeyed at once, and in moving across the passage to the kitchen for a light, I crossed the visitor, nearly touching her. All I could see, however, was that she was tall, dignified in carriage, dressed in deep black, and wrapped up in a large mantle with a veil over her head.

I felt sure that it was Mariette’s mother, and hurrying away to my new room, which was over the little archway sheltering the entrance, I shut the door and gave myself up to a fit of despair. I fancied that she had come to take my little pet away, to separate her from me forever, to deprive me of my property, and I cannot describe in any degree what I felt. The anguish of that moment was as great almost as I ever experienced in life. All I did within the next ten minutes I cannot tell, but one thing I know I did, which was to sit down and cry like a great baby. I would have given worlds to have known what was passing; but I did not listen though I might have done so easily from the top of my little stairs. But good Father Bonneville had so early, so well, and so strongly impressed upon my mind the duty of avoiding any meanness, that eaves-dropping seemed to me in those days almost as great a crime as murder. Indeed it was in somewhat of that shape that the good Father placed it before my eyes. “What right,” he said, “has one man to rob another of his secrets any more than of his money? They are both his property, and if they are not given they are stolen.”

I was not very long kept in suspense, however, for by the time I had got my little coat off, and was still sitting on the edge of the bed crying, I heard the lady quit the good Father’s little study, and his voice speaking as he escorted her toward the door. I knew that Mariette could not have been awakened, dressed, and carried off in a quarter of an hour, and I went to bed and slept with a heart relieved. It was only a respite, however. Four days after that good Father Bonneville took an opportunity when Mariette and I were at play of telling her that she was that night to go away with her mamma, and take a long journey. He advised her therefore not to tire herself, but to keep as quiet as possible till the evening came, even if she could not lie down and take a little rest during the day.

The poor child’s agitation was extreme. The idea of seeing her mother evidently gave her great delight, but the thought of going away from a house where she had been made so happy, and from a companion who loved her so much, seemed not exactly to qualify her joy, but to tear her between two emotions. Her face was, for an instant, all smiles and radiant with satisfaction. The next instant, however, she burst into tears, and snatching Father Bonneville’s hand she kissed it once or twice. Then pointing to me, she said, “Cannot I take him with me?”

The good priest shook his head, and soon after left us to pass the time till the hour of separation came as best we might. I do not think he knew, and indeed it would be difficult to make any one comprehend, who has left the period of early youth far behind him, what were the feelings of Mariette and myself. I am very much inclined to believe from my own remembrances, that the pangs of childhood are much more severe than most grown persons will admit.

Day wore away; night came. Little Mariette was dressed and prepared, and about nine o’clock the bell rang. In a moment after the poor child was in her mother’s arms, and weeping with joy and agitation. Madame de Salins hardly sat down, however, and there was a look of hurry and anxiety as well as of grief in her face which told how much she had suffered, and how much she expected still to encounter.

“I am somewhat late,” she said, speaking to Father Bonneville; “for there were two men walking up and down before the house in which I have been concealed, and I dared hardly venture out. Let us lose no time, good Father. Who will show us the way?”

“Louis, my son, get the lantern,” said the good Father; and turning to Madame de Salins he added, “He will show you the way.”

These words first seemed to call the attention of the lady to myself, and advancing toward me she embraced me tenderly and with many thanks for the charge I had taken of her little girl in a moment of danger and of horror. I felt gratified, but I do not know that I altogether forgave her for coming to carry off my little companion, and I was also struggling with all my might not to show myself so unmanly as to shed tears; so that I replied somewhat ungracefully I am afraid. I went away for the lantern, however and by the direction of good Father Bonneville, lighted Madame de Salins and Mariette through the garden, and down the stair-case in the tower. I then proceeded to open the door for them, almost hoping that the key might be rusted in the lock so as to prevent their going. It turned easily enough, however, and when I opened the door I was startled at seeing the figure of a man standing at the top of the little path which led down to the foot of the hill. Madame de Salins, however, accosted him at once by his name, and he told her that Peter and Jerome were waiting down below. The parting moment was now evidently come, and it seemed as bitter to poor little Mariette as myself. She threw her arms around me. She held me tight. She kissed me again and again, and her tears wetted my cheek. At length, however, she was drawn away from me, and her mother holding her hand led her down the hill while the man followed. I looked after them for a moment or two, till they were nearly lost in the darkness. Then locked the door, and turned sadly toward the house.

THE FLIGHT.

Oh, how dull and tedious was the passing of the next month to me. There was a vacancy in all my thoughts which I cannot describe, a want of object and of interest, which nothing seemed to supply. But the dullness of the calm was soon to be succeeded by the agitation of the storm. The populace, particularly of the suburb, was becoming more fierce and unruly every hour. If at any previous period there had been such a thing as tyranny in France—of which I knew, and had felt nothing—it must have been the tyranny of one, far removed from the humble or even the middle stations of life, and much less terrible than the tyranny of many, which now came to the door of every house in the land. There was a butcher living in the lower part of the town, the terror of his neighbors, and an object of abhorrence to all good men. Fierce, licentious, and unprincipled, his courage—the only good quality he possessed—was the courage of a tiger. On more than one occasion in former years good Father Bonneville had had to reprove him, and it would seem he had not forgotten it.

One day, about a month after Mariette had left us, I had walked out into the town during Father Bonneville’s absence from home, and was crossing the square in front of the great church. On one side of the square was the best inn in the place, and upon the steps of that inn were standing several officers of a dragoon regiment which had lately been quartered in the town. In the midst of the square, I saw a great crowd of people moving to and fro, and apparently busy and agitated. There were muskets amongst the crowd; for in those days the more ragged and poverty-stricken a man was, the more certain was he of having some weapon of offense in his hand; and amongst the rest, with a red night-cap on his head, and his shirt sleeves tucked up to the elbow, I could perceive the great stalwort figure of the butcher I have mentioned. I saw also, however, other garments than those of the mere populace. There was the black gown of a priest in the middle of the crowd, and as I approached with a faint and fearful heart, I not only saw that the mob were dragging along a priest by the arms, but also that he was good Father Bonneville. I heard shouts too of “up with him! Hang him up, hang him up! To the spout with him, to the spout!”

The officers I have mentioned were standing quietly looking on, laughing and talking with two or three of the more respectable citizens. But at the first impulse I ran toward them, caught the hand of one of the young soldiers, who seemed to bear a high rank amongst the others, and whose face was a kindly one, and with eager and terrified tones exclaimed—

“Oh, save him, sir, save him. They are going to kill the best man in all the town.”

“Who are they going to hang, boy?” asked one of the citizens in a tone of assumed indifference; for few persons ventured in those days to show any sympathy with the victims of popular fury.

“Father Bonneville,” I answered, “Oh it is Father Bonneville—Save him, save him—pray make haste!”

“He is, indeed, one of the best men in the world,” said the gentleman, with a look of deep distress.

The young officer, however, without more ado, ran down the steps and plunged into the crowd. One or two of his companions followed, I saw a sudden pause in the mob, and heard a great outcry of voices; some apparently in persuasion, others in mere brute clamor. A moment after, however, while the parties seemed still disputing, a squadron of dragoons came into the square, and their appearance, though they took no part in what was going on, seemed to have a great effect upon the mob. A number of the ragged ruffians dropped off every moment, some walking away down the street, singing ribald songs, some coming up to the soldiers, and speaking a word or two to them as if to show that they were not afraid, but walking away in the end. At length, however, I had the satisfaction to see the young officer emerge from the little crowd that remained, holding Father Bonneville by the arm, while another of the dragoon officers walked on the good priest’s other side. The only one who followed them was the butcher, and he continued pursuing them with execration and abuse till they reached the steps of the inn, in which they lodged the good Father for the time. The young officer made no reply to all the ribald language with which he was assailed, except on the inn steps, where he turned, and said in a calm tone—

“It may be all very true, but proceed according to law. If he has refused to take the oath required, he can and will be punished for it, but you are not to be the judge, and shall not break the law while I am in command of this town.”

Thus saying, without waiting for any answer, he walked into the inn, and I ran after Father Bonneville. The good old man was somewhat out of breath with the rough handling he had received, but I could not perceive any traces of fear or great agitation either in his face or manner. As soon as the young officer and I entered the back-room in which he had taken refuge, he held out his hand kindly to me, but addressed his first words to the other.

“I have to thank you much, my son,” he said. “I do believe if you had been two minutes later those poor misguided people would have hanged me.”

“I do believe they would,” replied the officer, with a smile; “but you have to thank this good lad for my coming as soon as I did. I did not perceive what they were about till he told me.”

“Thank you, Louis, thank you,” said Father Bonneville. “I have had a narrow escape, my son. Although, God knows, I have never done these people any harm, and have tried to do them good, yet they seemed resolved to have my blood. Do you think it will be safe for me to go now, sir? I have some sick people to attend upon.”

The young officer besought him however to stay till the town was more completely quieted, and advised him even then to betake himself to his own house, and remain concealed and quiet for a day or two.

I knew quite well that Father Bonneville would not follow this counsel implicitly, and he did not. He got safely home two or three hours after, and remained within till nightfall; but then he went out to visit the sick persons he had named, and on the following morning was pursuing his usual avocations as if nothing had happened. It was not long, however, before he became convinced that such conduct could only lead to martyrdom, without being of the slightest benefit to his flock. Death would have been nothing in his eyes, if by it he could purchase good to others, but that was not a period at which such sacrifices would be at all available.

One day while he was out, a Sister of Charity came to the house, and talked long and earnestly with good Jeanette in the kitchen. I was not present at their conference, but when the Sister went away again I saw that the old housekeeper was in a state of the utmost consternation and grief. The expression of these passions took a curious form with her. It seemed as if she could not be still for one moment. She bustled about the kitchen, as if it were too small for her energies, took down and put up again every pot, kettle, saucepan, and spit, at least a dozen times, gazed into the frying-pan with an objectless look, and seemed only anxious to spend the superfluous activity of her body upon something, while her mind was equally busy with something else. When Father Bonneville returned, however, she had a long conference with him, and he seemed very thoughtful and anxious. At night the Sister of Charity again returned, and this time she bore a letter with her. I only know what took place between her and the good Father by the result; for as soon as she was gone, he called me into his study, where Jeanette had been all the time, and I at once saw that my good old friend and instructor had made up his mind to some great and important step.

“My dear Louis,” he said, with a calm but very grave face, “we have heard very evil news. A persecution is raging against the ministers of religion, which must soon reach me if I remain here. They have already commenced in a town not very far distant, a practice of tying priests and nuns together, and drowning them in the river, adding, by the term they apply to these massacres, impiety to murder. This good creature and Sister Clara, who has just been here, both urge me strongly to fly. I should have hesitated to take such a step, but I find that it is necessary that you should be removed to another country as soon as possible. I have no one to send with you, and I trust I am not biased from my duty by any mere fears for my own life when I determine to accompany you myself. I shall still be fulfilling at least one of the tasks which I have undertaken to perform, and I sincerely believe it is the one in which the remains of my life can be most serviceable.”

He then went on to explain to me that he had determined to pass the next day in the town, and to make his escape at night. Disguise, he added with a sigh, would be necessary. But good Jeanette undertook to procure what was fitting for the occasion, and good Father Bonneville retired to rest that night grave and sad, but, apparently, in no degree agitated. On the following day, a few minutes before noon, a great mob passed up the street, carrying a bloody human head upon a pole. They stopped opposite to the good priest’s house, shouting for him to show himself, and with a quiet and undismayed air he walked to an upper window, and looked out. He was instantly assailed with a torrent of abuse, and I do not feel at all sure that the mob would not have sacked the house and put him to death, if it had not been so near the tiger’s feeding-time. All the lower classes dined at twelve, and Father Bonneville retiring from the window as soon as he had shown himself, the crowd marched on again down the street with their bloody ensign at their head.

Nothing that I remember worthy of notice occurred during the rest of the day, though Jeanette was in a good deal of bustle, and went in and out more than once. Several persons came to see Father Bonneville, and talked with him for some time; but the day passed heavily with me, although I will acknowledge that I felt a good deal of that eager and pleasant expectation with which youth always looks forward to change.

At length night fell; the outer door of the house was carefully locked; Father Bonneville retired to his own sleeping-room; I assisted Jeanette to bring down a pair of somewhat heavy saddle-bags, the one marked with black paint L. L., the other J. C. Shortly after I heard a step upon the stairs, and a gentleman entered the room, whom I did not at first recognize—and could hardly, for some time, persuade myself that it was Father Bonneville. Soutane and bands, and small black cap, and cocked-hat were all gone, and he appeared in a straight-cut black coat, with a small sword by his side. His thin, white hair, powdered and tied behind, and a round hat, with a broad band and buckle, on his head. The effect of this change in costume was to make him look very much smaller than before. He had seemed a somewhat portly man in his robes, but now he looked exceedingly lank and spare, and even his height seemed diminished. He looked strange and ill at ease, but showed no indecision, now that his mind was made up.

“I thought of burning my papers,” he said, speaking to Jeanette, “but I don’t know, ma bonne, that they contain any thing unworthy of a good Christian or a good citizen. I shall therefore leave them as they are, to be examined by those who may take the trouble. You understand all, Jeanette, that I have said, and what you are to do, and where I am to hear from you.”

Jeanette comprehended every thing; but the feelings of the good creature’s heart were at this time surging up against her understanding with greater and greater force every minute. At length, when all was ready for our departure, she fell upon her knees at good Father Bonneville’s feet, weeping and kissing his hand, and begging his blessing. The old man put his hand upon her head, and with an air of solemn affection, called down the blessing of God upon her. Then embracing her kindly, he said, “You have striven, I know, Jeanette, to be as good a servant to God as to a mere mortal master. He deserves more and better service than any of us can give, but he is contented with less than any of us require, if it be rendered with a whole heart. Farewell, my Jeanette—farewell for the present! We shall meet again soon—I trust—I believe.”

The good Father took one of the saddle-bags, and I took the other; Jeanette loading me, moreover, with a large paper parcel of which she bade me take great care, hinting at the same time that it contained sustenance for the good Father and myself which might be very needful to us on our first night’s journey. She followed us in tears through the garden in the tower, and down the stairs to the foot. There she hugged and kissed me heartily, but she had no power to speak, and by this time, all the pleasant fancies in regard to setting out to see new scenes, and to find new enjoyments, which I had entertained for a moment or two, had passed away, and nothing remained but sorrow and regret. We made our way, not without difficulty, down the little path to the valley; for the night was as black as crime, and then walked on along the road by the stream, which, however, we were obliged to quit soon, in order to avoid a party of men who had a sort of guard-house where the two roads met. This was easily done, however. The river was not very full; for the air was frosty, but dry, and neither snow nor rain had fallen for two or three days. Some large stones served us as well as a bridge, and crossing the meadows on the other side, we reached the high road from the town toward Paris without going through the suburbs. About a quarter of a mile farther upon this road, we found an elderly man standing with two horses; and although I could hardly see his face, I recognized in him an uncle of good Jeanette, who was accustomed every fortnight to bring poultry to the house, and who, to say the truth, looked a good deal younger than his niece. Few words passed between him and us; the saddle-bags were arranged on the horses’ backs nearly in silence. Father Bonneville mounted one, and the good farmer helped me to mount the other. I had never been upon a horse’s back in my life before, and the animal upon which I was perched, though somewhat less than that which carried Father Bonneville, seemed to me a perfect elephant. I was awkward enough, and uncomfortable enough, no doubt, at first, but I soon got accustomed to my position, and took rather a pleasure in the ride than not, till we had gone some eight or nine miles, when I began to feel the usual inconveniences to which young horsemen are subject.

A good deal of apprehension was entertained both by my reverend companion and myself, lest our flight should be discovered, and immediate pursuit take place. But we found afterward that such fears were quite vain, the minds of the people of the town, especially of the anarchists, were turned by various events in a direction quite different from Father Bonneville. They had their mayor to guillotine, and two or three of the principal inhabitants to throw into prison, which occupied them satisfactorily for several days. Father Bonneville’s absence was never noticed by any but his own immediate parishioners, who wisely forbore to talk about it till Jeanette, with a bold policy which did her credit, judging that our escape had been safely effected, went up to the municipality, and begged to know what she was to do, as her master had gone away several days before, and had not returned.

In the meanwhile we rode on through that live-long night, neither directing our course straight toward Paris, nor to the sea-side. When morning dawned I was terribly tired and sleepy, and saw all sorts of unreal things in the twilight—the mere effect, I suppose, of exhaustion. Father Bonneville had talked to me from time to time, giving me directions for my general conduct and demeanor toward himself. I found that it was his intention to assume the name of Charlier, and that I was to pass for his nephew, still retaining the name of Lacy, deprived of its aristocratic prefix of dé. The name, however, soon got corrupted by the people of the inns as we went along, and I passed as young citoyen Lassi throughout the whole of the rest of our long journey.

At daylight, after the first night’s march, we halted on a piece of uncultivated ground at the side of a wood, and suffering our horses to crop the grass, of which they stood in some need, we seated ourselves on a dry bank under the trees, and made free with the food which good Jeanette had provided for us. After I had satisfied my keen appetite, and drunk some wine out of a flask, I fell into a sound sleep before I was at all aware what was coming upon me, nor did I wake till Father Bonneville shook me gently by the arm, at about one o’clock in the day.

We then resumed our journey, having to take the first very dangerous step after quitting the town, in entering the busy haunts of men, and exposing ourselves to the eyes and inquiries of strangers.

A tall church-tower was soon seen rising before us, at a considerable distance, and Father Bonneville took the opportunity of a peasant woman, passing us on the road, to ascertain the name of the town to which the church belonged. This gave him the key to his topography, which he had lost during the night, and as the town was still full fifteen miles distant, he determined to stop at any village he found a few miles ere we reached it, in order to avoid the stricter examination which was likely to be enforced in a city. Upon calculating as nearly as our knowledge of the country enabled us to do, we found that we had made five-and-thirty miles during the night, and ten or twelve miles more would put what might be considered a sufficient distance for the time between ourselves and our enemies. We jogged on quietly then, encountering a good number of the peasantry who were returning from market or fair. For a part of the way we rode by the side of an old man who was journeying in the same direction with ourselves. He had a shrewd, thoughtful, but quiet eye, and a bland, easy smile, which perhaps might have made a man well versed in the world doubt his perfect sincerity, notwithstanding his tall, broad forehead, and a certain dignity of air that did not bespeak low cunning. He addressed good Father Bonneville at once as “Monsieur L’abbé,” but looked at him several times before he said more.

At first my old companion did not seem to notice the epithet he bestowed upon him, but after a few more words had passed, he inquired somewhat abruptly, “What made you call me ‘Abbé,’ citizen?”

“Your dress,” replied the countryman, “your manner, and your look. The aristocrat is proud, because he has always commanded, and thinks he has a right to command. The peasant is vain, because God has implanted in every French breast the notion that each man is equal to his neighbor, whether he be a fool or a wise man, a scholar or a dunce, a brave man or a poltroon, a good man or a knave. But the teacher of religion has a different look. He has been accustomed to guide and to exhort, and he knows that it is not only his right but his duty so to do. There is, therefore, in him a look of confidence and authority, very different from the haughtiness of the one or the vanity of the other I have mentioned.”

“You must have thought and studied more than might have been expected,” said Father Bonneville, examining him closely.

“There is no reason why any man should not study, and still less why he should not think,” replied the other. “I have done both, I acknowledge. There are more sins committed in France every day than that.”

“And pray where do you live?” asked Father Bonneville.

“Come and see,” replied the stranger. “Your horses seem tired, and I have still some nine miles to go, but we can ride slowly, and at this next turn we shall quit the high road, which will be a convenience.”

Father Bonneville agreed to the proposal, and we rode on by the side of our inviter in desultory conversation, pointed occasionally by references to passing political events, but generally referring to subjects altogether indifferent. I was dreadfully tired, I confess, before we got to the end of our long, slow journey. At length after two hours’ quiet ride, the stranger said, “We are coming to my home, where you will be very welcome, and it is as well for you to stay there to-night; for there is a grand fête of Liberty going on in most of the villages round, and that lady, like most other pagan deities, is very fond of human sacrifices. Now it does not much matter whether one is crushed under the wheels of Juggernaut, or burned by Druids in a basket of wicker-work, or made to pass through the fire like the children of those obedient and docile Israelites of old, or have one’s head chopped off on a little platform in a public square, before the image of a monstrous woman, in a red night-cap, and with a spear in her hand. It does not much matter, I say; but all are disagreeable, and all are to be avoided by every reasonable means. You will therefore be better in my home there, than in any inn in the neighborhood.”

“Where?” asked Father Bonneville, gazing on before him, in expectation of seeing a farmer’s house.

“There,” replied the stranger, pointing to a magnificent château upon a rising ground near. “You marvel, I see, and I can guess your inquiry—how I have contrived to keep possession of my own, when the universal war-cry through all France is, ‘War to the Castle, Peace to the Cottage.’ I have not time for long explanation; but sufficient may be told briefly. You see this coat of coarse gray cloth. It is the sign, the key, of my whole life. I too was bred an ecclesiastic. The death of three elder brothers put me in possession of that thing upon the hill. I have unfrocked myself, but I retain my early habits, and respect my voluntary vows. I remain in two or three little chambers, while very often boors revel in the halls of my ancestors. But they have a shrewd notion that if I were gone they would not have the means of revelry to as great an extent as at present—that if my property was confiscated, it would fall into the hands of worse men than myself; and so long as I, the master of it, act but as the steward of it, they are well contented to leave me alone in my office without bringing my head to the guillotine, which would be of no use at all to any one, and without seizing upon my lands, it would be a great embarrassment to themselves. Moreover, I have once or twice threatened to resign all my possessions into the hands of the Commune, and the very lowest of the people have been those to beseech me the most earnestly to refrain, knowing very well that they get a better part of the spoil now than they otherwise would. Thus I have got a certain command over them, and I do what I like without fear of any buzzing rumors, or public denunciations. The man who denounced me would very soon find his way to the lantern, and as it is unpleasant to occupy in darkness the place of a light, with a rope round one’s neck, people abstain. There are a hundred people in yonder town who could hang me to-morrow; but my death would be sure to hang a hundred of themselves, and therefore I have the majority on my side. But come, let us go in through the gates.”

We entered the château, leaving our horses in the care of a laboring man in the court, who seemed not a bit less respectful to the master of the house than the servant of any old noble in the ancient days. This was in itself an anomaly in those times; for the vain desire of equality had completely perverted men’s judgments, and they sought not alone to sweep away the differences created by a long established social system, but even those fundamental differences produced by the will of God. I believe, in those days—amongst a great mass of the people at least—as much jealous hatred was felt toward superior intellect as toward superior wealth or superior station.

On passing the doors of the building we found some ten or twelve men seated in the eating-room drinking and talking. The master of the house passed through, nodded to them, called them citizens, and said, “Make good cheer of it. There is more where that comes from.”