CHAPTER XXVII. AN EPISODE OF MY LIFE
If I could have turned my thoughts from my own desolate condition, the aspect of Paris on the morning after the battle might well have engaged my attention. The very streets presented a scene such as never can be forgotten! The Government had adventured on the bold experiment of employing the masses to control the few, and the fruits of this dangerous alliance might be seen in the various groups that passed along. Officials wearing their badges of duty, officers in full uniform, walked arm in arm with leaders of the popular party; men high in the state talked familiarly in the midst of little groups of working-men; parties of the popular force, rudely armed, ill-dressed, and disorderly, presented arms as some officer of rank rode by. All attested the existence of that strange compact by which the nation was again to be subjugated, and terror made the active principle of a government. The terrific songs of the bloody days of the Revolution were once more heard, and the cruel denunciations of the mob again rang aloud in the open streets! I heard and saw all these like one in a dream, as, with my portfolio of office-papers under my arm, I held my way to the Tuileries; nor was it till I had reached the wooden stockade in front of that palace that I became collected enough to ask myself whither I was going, and for what.
The machinery of government to which I belonged was annihilated and destroyed; they who had guided and controlled it were gone; and there I stood alone, friendless, and without a home in that vast city, not knowing which way to turn me. I wandered into the garden of the Tuileries, and sat down upon a bench in one of the less-frequented alleys. The cries and shouts of the populace rung faintly in my ear, and the noises of the city came dulled and indistinct by distance. From the quiet habits of my simple life, I had scarcely learned anything whatever of Paris. My acquaintances were limited to the few I had seen at the bureau, and these I only met when there. My means were too scanty to admit of even the cheapest pleasures; and up to this my existence had been one uniform but contented poverty. Even this humble provision was now withdrawn from me. What was I to do? Was there a career by which I could earn my bread? I knew of none save daily labor with my hands; and where to seek for even this I did not know. In my little lodging behind the bureau I possessed a few articles of clothes and some books; these, if sold, would support me for a week or two; and then—ay, then! But who can tell? thought I: a day has marred,—who knows but another day may make my fortune?
It was night when I turned homeward. To my surprise, the stair was not lit up as usual, and it was only after repeated knockings that the door was opened to me, and old Lizette, my landlady's servant, with a voice broken by sobs, bade me pass in quietly, and to make no noise. I asked eagerly if any misfortune had occurred, and heard that Monsieur Bernois, my landlord, had been mortally wounded in the affray of the night before, and was then lying at the point of death.
“Is it the surgeon, Lizette?” cried Marguerite, a little girl of about fourteen, and whose gentle “Good-day” had been the only thing like welcome I had ever heard during my stay there; “is it the surgeon?”
“Hélas, no, mademoiselle, it is the lodger!”
I had not even a name for them! I was simply the occupant of a solitary chamber, for whom none cared or thought; and yet at that instant I felt my isolation the greatest blessing of Heaven, and would not have exchanged my desolate condition for all the ties of family!
“Oh, sir,” cried Marguerite, “have pity on us, and come to papa. He is bleeding on the bed here, and none of us know how to aid him!”
“But I am no less ignorant, mademoiselle,” said I; “would that I could be of any use to you!”
“Oh, come,” cried she, “come; and Heaven may direct you how to succor us, for we are utterly deserted!”
Scarcely knowing what I did, I followed the little girl into a darkened room, where the long-drawn breathings of the wounded man were the only sounds. By the dim half-light I could see a figure seated at the foot of the bed. It was my hostess, pale, stern-looking, and collected; there she sat, gazing at the gasping object before her, with a terrible composure.
“Mamma, it is monsieur; monsieur who lives here is come to see papa,” whispered Marguerite, timidly.
The mother nodded her head, as if to imply that she had heard her, but never spoke. I drew nigh the bed, the rather to show my sympathy with the sorrow, than that I could be of any service; and the dying man's eyes met mine. Glazed and filmy as they seemed at first, I fancied they grew bright and lustrous as he continued to stare. Such, at all events, was their fascination that I could not look away from them, and so I stood under that steadfast gaze forgetful even of the state of him who bestowed it. At last the orbs slowly turned, at first towards where his wife sat, then to Marguerite as she knelt by the bedside, and then back again to me, with an expression that needed no words to convey. I took the clammy hand in my own, and felt the fingers give a faint pressure. I squeezed them gently, and saw that his lips parted; they moved, too, as though with an effort to speak, but without avail. The attempt had evidently cost him a severe pang, for his features were convulsed for a few seconds, at the end of which he gently drew me a little towards him, and with a sigh so faint as to be scarcely heard, uttered the words, “Pauvre femme!”
It was not until some minutes had elapsed that I saw he had ceased to breathe, for his eyes seemed to stare with meaning on me, and his countenance remained unchanged. At length, however, I became conscious that the struggle was over, and his spirit had passed away forever. The stillness of the room was terrible, for not a stir broke it; and I knelt down beside Marguerite to pray.
“Here is the surgeon, mademoiselle,” said Lizette, hurriedly; and an old man drew nigh the bed and touched the wrist of the dead man.
“Ma foi!” said he, “this is the fourth time I have been sent for to-day on a like errand;” and, so saying, he tapped me on the shoulder, and motioned me to follow him.
I obeyed at once.
“Are you his son?” asked he, briefly.
“No,” I replied.
“His nephew?—his clerk, then?”
“Neither; I am a lodger here, and do not even claim acquaintance with the family.”
“No matter,” resumed he, dryly, “you will do as well as another; give me pen and paper.”
I took some from an open portfolio on the table and laid it before him, and he wrote rapidly a few lines in a straggling hand:—
“The citizen Louis Bernois, age—; domiciled, Rue Neuve de Viardot, No. 318, avocat,”—“we may call him avocat, though he was only a writer,” said he, looking up,—“wounded fatally in the lungs and heart, and attended till his death, on this morning, by the doctor Joseph Caillot, surgeon and licentiate. The above verified by me.”—“Sign here,” added he, handing me the pen, “and put your quality. Say, 'Friend of the family.'”
“But I never knew them; I have only lodged in the house for some months back.”
“What signifies that? It is a mere form for the authorities, to whom his death must be reported, or his family exposed to trouble and annoyance. I will take it to the bureau myself.”
I signed my name, therefore, as he directed me, and sealed the “act” with a seal I found on the table. The doctor pocketed the paper and withdrew, not even bestowing on me a good-bye as he left the room.
Lizette came to me for instructions as to what was to be done. Madame had never recovered consciousness from the very first moment of the misfortune; mademoiselle was too young and too inexperienced to be consulted on the occasion. The family, too, had only been a few months in Paris, and had no acquaintance save with the tradespeople they dealt with.
I asked the name of the avocat for whom he usually transcribed the deeds and papers, and learned that it was a certain Monsieur le Monnier, a lawyer of high standing at the bar of Paris, and who lived in the Rue Quincampoix! With what a strange sensation I heard the name of that street, which was the same that Herr Robert spoke of as inhabited by his father in the days of his greatest prosperity! The thought merely shot through my head rapidly, for other and far more pressing considerations demanded all my attention. I resolved at once to call on Monsieur le Monnier and ask his advice and guidance in the difficult position I then found myself. Dressing myself with all the care my scanty wardrobe permitted, I set out for the Rue Quincampoix, and soon found the house, which was a large and spacious though somewhat sombre-looking hôtel, with a half-effaced shield over the doorway. The porter inquired if I came on business; and on my saying “Yes,” informed me that I must call on the following morning, from eleven to two o'clock,—that the “bâtonnier,” for such was his rank, did not transact affairs in the evening.
I argued and pressed my suit with all zeal; but it was only when I produced a piece of two francs that he consented to present my card, on which I had written a few lines to explain the urgent cause of my visit.
After a long and most impatient waiting a servant came to Bay that monsieur would receive me, and I followed him up a spacious but dimly lighted stair, and across a long dreary gallery, where a single lamp shone, into a small chamber fitted up like a study. Here, although it was autumn, the “bâtonnier” was seated beside a brisk fire, enjoying his coffee. He was a small man, with a massive, well-shaped head covered with a profusion of snow-white hair, which he wore in such careless fashion as to make his head appear even much larger than it was; his features were pleasing, and his eyes were singularly soft and gentle-looking. With a voice of peculiar sweetness, and in a low tone, he welcomed me and desired me to be seated. This done, he begged me to state the object of my visit.
In the very fewest words I could relate it, I mentioned the sad circumstances about which I came, told my own difficulty in the matter, and asked for advice.
“At any other moment,” said he, when I concluded, “your task would be an easy one. You could report the event to the 'commissaire' of the 'Quarter,' state what you know, and withdraw from the affair altogether. Now, however, the troubles in which we live excite suspicions in every mind. Your name will be associated with the opinions for which this poor man has given his life. The authorities will be on your track at every moment, and every act of your life watched and reported. With whom were you acquainted in Paris?”
“With none.”
He stared with some surprise; and I told him briefly the circumstances of my own situation.
“A strange story indeed!” said he, taking up my card from the chimney-piece. “And your name, for I cannot decipher it here, is—”
“Carew,—Jasper Carew.”
“That name is Irish, if I mistake not,” said he; “at least I remember, some twenty years ago, we had here a distinguished stranger who came from Ireland, and was called Carew. He was the fashionable celebrity of a very famous period.”
“He was my father, sir.”
The old lawyer bowed and smiled; but though the gesture was eminently polite, the shrewd twinkle of his eyes bespoke incredulity. I saw this, and said at once,—
“I have many letters of his, dated from the 'Place Vendôme,' No. 13, where he lived.”
“Indeed!” cried he, in astonishment. “You possess these at present?”
“Some few I have with me; others, a large number, are in the keeping of my friends, as well as notes and papers in the hand of the late Duc d'Orléans, with whom my father appeared to live on considerable intimacy.”
“That I can vouch for myself,” said the avocat, hastily; then, suddenly correcting himself, added,—“Perhaps you would give me a sight of some of these documents. I do not ask from any impertinent curiosity, but with the conviction that I can be of some service to you.”
I readily promised to do so, and the following day was named for the purpose.
“Now, for the present case,” said he. “I know nothing of Monsieur Bernois beyond what a client of mine from the Auvergnat told me. He was the son of a poor farmer near Linange, who studied the law at Paris, went back to his native village and married, and, after some years of failure at home, came here to make his fortune. I employed him partly from motives of charity, for he was irregular in his habits of work, and seemed overcome by a depression that rendered him often incapable of all exertion. Make what arrangements you think suitable for his burial, and then induce his poor widow and daughter to return home. Call upon me for any expenses that may be needed, and say that I will send one of my clerks to make an inventory of his effects and draw up the 'procès' the law requires.”
There was a mingled kindness and commonplace in the way he spoke this that left me in doubt which of the two frames of mind predominated in his nature. At all events, I had good reason to be satisfied with my reception, and, resisting his invitation to stay to supper, I hastened back to the Rue de Viardot.
The poor widow still remained in the state of stupor in which I first saw her; but Marguerite's grief had taken a more violent form, and the terrible shock had brought on brain-fever,—at least, so Lizette pronounced it. My sad duties were thus multiplied by the cares of the sick-room, for Lizette threw all upon me, and would do nothing without my guidance and advice.
By great exertions, and by working all night through, I reduced the affairs of the family to a condition of order; and when Monsieur le Monnier's clerk appeared in the morning, I had already compiled the inventory and drawn up the “acte de décès,” as it is called, for the authorities.
By searching amongst papers I also found the address of the widow's father, who lived in the village of “Linange,” and to him I wrote a few lines, acquainting him with what had occurred, and asking his counsel with regard to the family. Though Lizette had accompanied them from their native village to Paris, she was greatly indisposed to afford any information as to their circumstances or condition in life, and seemed only eager to complete all the formalities of the law and quit the capital. I certainly did not impose any unfair burden upon her incommunicative disposition. I asked a few questions,—none that were not in a measure indispensable.
I suppose my reserve in this wise impressed her favorably, for she grew gradually more and more open, dropping hints of sad circumstances and calamities, in a way that seemed half to invite inquiry on my part. I was resolved, however, not to make any advances, and left her entirely to her own choice as to what revelations she might make me. I have no doubt that had my object been to gratify my curiosity, I could not have hit upon any surer means of success.
We laid the remains of poor Bernois in a little graveyard outside the Porte St. Denis; Lizette and myself the only mourners that followed the bier! As I slowly ascended the stairs towards my room, I said,—
“Come to me this evening, Lizette, and say if I can be of any further service to you, since I mean to leave Paris to-morrow.”
“To leave Paris!” cried she; “Grand Dieu!—why, and for where?”
“For Switzerland,” replied I. “My friends there have not answered my letters for some time back, and I have determined to set off and see them.”
“But why not write again? Think of what a journey it is!”
“I have written till I have lost all hope. I must satisfy myself by going in person.”
“But you will not leave us helpless, friendless, as we are!” cried she.
Never till that moment had it occurred to me that my assistance could avail to any one, or that there existed one in the world humble enough to be benefited by my guidance. The appeal, however, gave me a self-confidence and an energy which I had not felt before, and I listened to the explanations of the old servant with every desire to aid her.
She judged rightly enough that as soon as removal were possible, the safest course would be for the widow and her daughter to return to their village.
“I know,” added she, “that this is not to be effected without difficulty. 'Madame' will oppose it to the last; and it may be that nothing short of force will accomplish it.”
I asked the reason of this repugnance, and she only gave me a vague, unmeaning answer. It was clear to me there was a mystery in the affair; and though piqued that I was not intrusted with the secret, I felt that to withdraw my aid from them on such grounds would be both selfish and unworthy.
“I will consult M. le Monnier,” said I, at last; “he shall decide what is best to be done;” and at once set out for the Rue Quincampoix.
The old lawyer received me blandly as before, and gave me a few lines for his family physician, who would see the widow and Marguerite, and pronounce his opinion on their fitness for removal. Le Monnier seemed pleased with the interest I manifested for these poor friendless people, and readily promised to aid me in their behalf.
The doctor, too, was no less benevolently disposed, and came at once with me to the house. His visit was a long one,—so long that more than once I asked Lizette if she were quite certain that he had not taken his departure. At length, however, he came forth, and, leading me into a room, closed the door behind us with all the air of great secrecy.
“There is some sad story,” said he, “here, of which we have not the clew. This is a serious affair.”
“How do you mean?” asked I.
“I mean that the state in which I find this woman is not attributable to the recent shock. It is not her husband's death has caused these symptoms.”
“And what are they? Do they threaten her life?”
“No, certainly not; she may live for years.”
“What then? They will cause great suffering, perhaps?”
“Not even that, but worse than that. It is her intelligence is lost; she has been stunned by some terrible shock of calamity, and her mind is gone, in all likelihood forever!”
To my eager questioning he replied by explaining that these cases were far less hopeful than others in which more palpable symptoms manifested themselves; that they were of all others the least susceptible of treatment.
“When we say,” continued he, “that 'time' is the best physician for them, we declare in one word our own ignorance of the malady; and yet such is the simple truth! A course of years may restore her to reason,—there is no other remedy.”
“And her daughter?”
“That is not a case for apprehension,—it is a common fever, the result of a nervous impression; a few days will bring her completely about.”
I mentioned to the doctor my belief that Lizette could probably impart some explanation of the mystery; but the old woman was proof against all cross-examination, and professed to know nothing that could account for her mistress's condition. The question was now how to act in this emergency? and the doctor pronounced that there was no other course than to obtain her admission into some maison de santé: if her fortune permitted, to one of the better class; if not, there were various humbler houses, where the patients were treated well and skilfully. As a preliminary step, however, he requested me to write again to her family, to state the opinion he had come to, and ask for their advice.
“It is little other than a form to do so,” added he, “for we live in times when the state is everything, family nothing. If I report this case to-morrow to the Bureau of Health of the 'Quarter,' a commission will assemble, examine, and decide upon it at once. The measures adopted will be as imperatively executed as though the law were in pursuit of a criminal; and though this be so, and we cannot help it, it will have the semblance of consideration for the feelings of her relatives, if we consult them.”
He left me, therefore, to make this sad communication, and promised to repeat his visit on the following day. By way of extorting some confession from old Lizette, I told her the course the doctor had resolved upon; but, far from exhibiting any repugnance to it, she briefly said, “It was all for the best.”
It was not till after repeated efforts I could satisfy myself with the terms of my letter. The occasion itself was a difficult one; but my sense of a mystery of which I knew nothing, added immensely to the embarrassment. I was, moreover, addressing persons I had never seen, and of whose very condition in life I was ignorant. This in itself was a circumstance that required consideration. I thought I would read my letter to Lizette, and sent for her to hear it. She listened attentively as I read it, but made no other remark than, “Yes; that will be sufficient.”
On the fourth day after I despatched this, came a letter in reply, the handwriting, style, and appearance of which were all superior to what I had expected. It was from an unmarried sister of Madame Bernois, who signed herself “Ursule,” that being the name by which she had “professed” formerly in a convent, destroyed in the early days of the Revolution. The writer, after expressing deep gratitude for the part I had taken, went on to speak of the subject of my communication. Her father's infirmities had rendered him bedridden, and so utterly incapable of affording any help or even counsel that she hesitated about informing him of the terrible calamity that had befallen them. She perfectly concurred in the advice given by the doctor, if “only that it saved her poor sister from a return to a home now associated with nothing but sorrow, and where, of course, her chances of recovery would be diminished.” These strange expressions puzzled me much, and led me at first to suppose that Ursule believed I knew more of her sister's story than I really was acquainted with; but as I read them again, I saw that they might possibly only have reference to her father's sad condition. Margot, for so she called her niece, “would, of course, come back to them;” and she charged me to despatch her, under Lizette's care, by the diligence, as soon as she was judged sufficiently well to encounter the fatigue of the journey. With regard to any property or effects belonging to them, she left all implicitly at my own discretion, believing, as she said, the same kindness that had hitherto guided me would also here suggest what was best for the interests of the widow and her child.
Some days of unremitting exertion succeeded the receipt of this letter, for there was no end to the formalities requisite before I could obtain admission for the widow into a small maison de santé, at Mont Martre. It was, indeed, a moment at which the authorities were overwhelmed with business, and many of the public functionaries were new to office, and totally ignorant of its details. The public, too, were under the influence of a terror that seemed to paralyze all powers of reason. In my frequent visits to the commissaire of the “Quarter,” when waiting for hours long in his antechamber, I had abundant opportunity to measure the extent of the fear that then dominated the mind of the capital, since every trifling incident evidenced and betrayed it.
Ladies of rank and condition would come, earnestly entreating that they might obtain leave to attend the sick in the hospitals, and nurse the “dear brothers” who had fallen in the cause of liberty. Others, of equal station, requested that materials might be distributed to them to knit stockings for the soldiers of the republic, regretting their poverty at not being able to supply them from their own resources. Shopkeepers besought the authorities that their taxes might be doubled, or even trebled; and some professed to hope that the maladies which incapacitated them from military service might be compensated by works of charity and benevolence. There was an abject meanness in the character of these petitions too revolting to endure the thought of. The nation seemed prostrated by its' terror, and degraded to the very deepest abyss of shame and self-contempt. The horrible scenes of blood through which they had passed might, indeed, excuse much, but there were proofs of national cowardice at this juncture such as scarcely any suffering could justify or palliate.
For these considerations I had but a passing thought. My whole attention was devoted to the little circle of cares and sorrows around me; and, in addition to other calamities, poor old Lizette, my aid and help throughout all difficulties, was seized with a violent fever, and obliged to be conveyed to hospital. I do not believe that anything can sustain mere bodily strength more powerfully than the sense of doing a benevolent action. Fatigue, weariness, exhaustion, sickness itself, can be combated by this one stimulant. For myself, I can aver that I scarcely ate or slept during the ten days that these events were happening. Never had any incident of my own life so much engrossed me as the care of these unhappy people; and when once or twice Le Monnier adverted to my own story, I always replied that for the moment I had no thoughts, nor hopes, nor fears, save for the widow and her orphan daughter.
The old lawyer's benevolence enabled me to meet all the expenses which from day to day were incurred. He supplied me with means to pay the charges of the maison de santé and the fees to the physicians, and enabled me to procure some articles of mourning for poor “Margot,” who had now sufficiently recovered from her illness to comprehend her bereavement and the desolate condition in which she was placed. It was, indeed, a sad lesson to teach the poor child; nor did I, in my own forlorn and isolated state, know what consolations to offer, nor what hopes to set before her. I could but tell her that I too was an orphan, friendless,—nay, far more so than herself; that for me the world had neither home nor country; and yet that each day, glimpses of bright hopes gleamed upon me, kind words and acts met me, and that as I lived I learned to feel that there was a brotherhood in humanity, and that amidst all the adverse incidents of fortune, warm hearts and generous natures were scattered about to sustain the drooping courage of those deserted as we were.
“And be assured, Margot,” said I, “the time will come yet when you and I will recall these dark hours with a sense of not unpleasant sorrow, to think how patiently we bore our ills, how submissively and how trustfully. Then shall we teach others, young as we are now, that even the humblest has a duty to do in this life, and that he who would do it well must bring to his task a stout heart and a steady will, and with these there are no failures.”
I do not think that Margot derived much hope from all my efforts at consolation, but she certainly felt a strong interest in the similarity of our fortunes. Again and again did she question me if I had seen and could remember my mother, and asked me a thousand questions about the dear friend whom I had ever called by that name. We talked of no other theme than this, and our isolation served to link us together, as that of two beings deserted by all, and only cared for by each other. There was a character of depression about her that seemed to come of a life of habitual gloom; the ordinary state of her mind was sad, and yet her dark, lustrous eyes could flash with sudden brilliancy; her deep color knew how to heighten; and I have seen her lip tremble with proud emotion at moments of excitement.
When sufficiently recovered to bear the journey, Le Monnier counselled me to convey her to her friends; and I yielded—shall I own it?—reluctantly; for of all the world, Margot was now the only one to whom I could speak, as youth loves to speak, of all my hopes and my dreads, my ambitions and my aspirings. So long as my duty each day revolved round her, I had no time to think of my own fate, save as a thing to weave fancies about, to speculate on a brilliant future, and imagine incidents and events at random. With what enthusiasm was I often carried away by these self-wrought fancies!—with what a sense of triumph have I seen Margot, forgetting for the instant the sad realities of her lot, listen breathlessly to me as I told of my ambitious plans! To her I was already a hero; and oh! the glorious fascination with which one first feels the thought that another's heart has learned to beat highly for our successes, and to throb with eagerness for our triumph! I was but a boy, Margot was a child; and of love, as poets describe it, there was none between us. Still, in my devotion there was nothing I would not have dared, to please her,—nothing I would not have braved, to make her think more highly of me. It was self-love, but self-love ennobled by generous wishes and high ambitions. I strove to be worthy of her affection, that so I might be capable of doing more still to deserve it!
Is it to be wondered at if I dreaded to break this spell, and to awaken from a trance of such fascination? But there was no alternative; Margot must go, and I must address myself to the stern business of life, for I had my bread to earn! How ardently I wished it was to my dear mother's arms that I should consign her, that her home could be that same humble home I had just quitted, and that poor Joseph could have been her teacher and her guide! Alas! I no longer knew in what part of the world to look for them, and I could only speak of these things as I spoke of the dream-wrought fancies that my hopes called up!
It was on a bright November morning, clear, sharp, and frosty, that we left Paris in the diligence for Lyons. M. le Monnier had accompanied us himself to the bureau, and given the conducteur directions to show us every attention in his power. Three days' and nights' travelling brought us to Valence, where poor Margot, completely worn out, was obliged to repose for some hours, during which time I strolled through the town to see its churches and other remarkable monuments. It was the hour of the table-d'hôte as I regained the inn, and the hostess advised that we should dine at the public table, as less expensive than in private. I remember well with what mingled bashfulness and pride I entered the room, with Margot holding my hand. The company was a numerous one, comprising, besides many of the townspeople, several officers of the garrison, all of whom stared with undisguised astonishment at the aspect of two travellers of our youth and palpable inexperience, while the contrast between the deep mourning of her dress and the gay colors of mine at once showed that we were not brother and sister. To my respectful salute on entering, few deigned to reply; my companion's beauty had arrested every attention, and all eyes were turned towards her as she took her place at table.
For the incident which succeeded, I must devote a short chapter.