CHAPTER IV.—AU CENTRE DU MONDE.
“Oh, Paris! ville pleine de brouillard,
Et couverte de boue,
Où les hommes connoissent pas l’honneur,
Ni les femmes la vertu.”
Rousseau.
The Willoughby family, as has been already said, left England for the Continent; and the spring which succeeded Sir John’s death found them temporarily residing in Paris. It was very far from the Colonel’s intention, however, to remain there long; the household was only incomplete, as yet, without Francis, who in a few weeks would join it on leaving Oxford; and there had to be some consideration before finally settling, from among no slight variety of advertisements in the public journals, what district of the provinces might be best suited for a retreat, probably during some years. One or two points of business, also, requiring attention to his English letters, continued to make their early arrival a convenience; not so much from the Devonshire lawyer, whose methodical regularity left nothing to desire, as with regard to the sale of Sir Godfrey’s commission, and some arrangements left unfinished in town, of that tedious nature which characterises stockbroking. Meanwhile their establishment was certainly simple compared with that lately given up in Golden Square, where society, at no time deficient to the Willoughbies, had, since the Colonel’s last return home, been doubling itself every year, and had begun, since his brother’s death, absolutely to send visiting-cards by footmen, to call in carriages, to bespeak the earliest possible share of their company at dinner: contrasted with the extent which must have been necessary for Stoke, it was diminutive. Yet it was by no means one of a restricted kind, although the income from Lady Willoughby’s own small fortune would alone have sufficed to keep it up, leaving some surplus; so that, living as yet without new acquaintances, and, so far as their countrymen were concerned, in perfect obscurity, they had not a wish which it did not suffice for; as long, at least, as the vast, strange city held its first influences over them. To these, probably, it was owing that Colonel Willoughby appeared for some time to have had no other object in coming to Paris; if distinctly aware of any, beyond the facilities there for choosing a place of residence in the provinces, for awaiting his son Francis, and finishing the more important part of his correspondence, with the convenience of respectable banking-houses—besides the possibility of avoiding English acquaintances, which at Dieppe or Boulogne would not have been so easy—then he would without doubt have mentioned it to his wife. A reserved man, and in the strictest sense a proud one, he was amongst the last to have secrets; they would have sat on his brow, and troubled his manner; nor had he at any time had such a thing apart from her. During the whole course of their wedded life, whether together or separated, by word or letter, their mutual confidence had increased: for her part, she was of that easy, placid, seemingly almost torpid nature, which, save in a receipt of housekeeping, or a triumph of domestic management, appears merely to produce in it nothing worth the hiding, nor to receive, either, anything of that serious kind; while the course of time, that had begun to turn the fair features of Mrs Willoughby rather large, giving her form a somewhat more than matronly fulness, had so increased this peculiarity in her disposition as to make strangers think her insipid. Older friends thought very far otherwise, and it was, in some way, chiefly old friends Mrs Willoughby had had at all; but neither they, the oldest of them, nor even her children, perhaps, could so much as imagine the truth of heart, the perfect trust, the intimate, unhesitating appreciation, which, since they were first gained by him, her husband had been ever knowing better. Indolently placid as she might seem even to ordinary troubles, tumults, and embarrassments, as if the world’s care entered no imagination of hers—quietly busied, with attention fixed on household matters, knitting or sewing in her endless, noiseless manner—yet if his eye had shown anxiety, if he had ceased to read, if he paced the room, or had been very silent, a kind of divination there was, that, without any watching or any questioning, would have roused her up—the work suspended on her lap, her cheek losing the old dimple-mark which maturity had deepened there, and her glance widened with concern; till, if he had still not spoken, Lady Willoughby would have risen up gradually, looking round as if startled from a sort of mild dream, and have moved towards him, beginning of her own accord—which was a rare thing—to speak. Not necessarily, indeed, though they had been alone in the room, to invite confidence by any inquiry; but rather in the way of performing some slight office that might have been neglected, or with endeavours at such interesting news and small-talk as, to speak truth, she scarcely shone in, unsupported—nor any the better for the confused sense she evidently had at these times of having been by some means in fault, and having failed to be a very lively companion. She was of a plain country squire’s family, in fact; and in her day, if sent at all to boarding-schools, they had not lingered long over music, still less at flower-painting or the sciences; while with successive sisters waiting at home for their turn, as she had had, it was but to finish off baking and mending, with dancing and embroidery, then to come back, and bake and mend again. So when the dancing ended with marriage, the embroidery at the first birth, it might have been thought the officer had gained no very valuable society, sometimes in barrack-lodgings, sometimes abroad, sometimes for distant communication by letter; she might, at least, have been expected to form no great ornament in London circles, or among country people at Stoke Manor-house. Still there had been nothing in all their previous intercourse so precious to him as his wife’s letters, when almost for the first time, in her own natural way, she had to attempt expressing fond thoughts, soothing motives, and yet confessions of impatience—mixed up with accounts of children’s complaints, their faults, and their schooling—country gossip, and fashionable arrivals, with some stray suggestions and admissions, never before confided to him, of a pious kind: and when long afterwards came the events at Stoke, instead of any undue flutter or sense of importance being caused in her, she had fallen in as naturally to title or prospects, as she had sat before that at the head of their dinner-table in Golden Square. It was no doll’s disposition, as had been at the time hinted round some ill-natured card-tables in that region; if one thing more than another troubled Sir Godfrey in their present plans, it was that he believed devoutly in his wife’s aptitude for a high station, where expectations would be formed and occasions raised; his feeling was—and the partiality was excusable—that her chief value lay obscured in ordinary circumstances. Whereas at the new abode in Paris, with ample scope and convenience, all the earlier habits of domestic superintendence seemed returning, the making, baking, mending—almost even to washing; in reference to which alone Lady Willoughby seemed really active, and the more so that everything might go on as in England, had the mere economy of the thing not been a vital point. Her pleased air would alone have hindered him from reasoning it with her, had Sir Godfrey so much as dreamt, in the latter respect, how their case really stood: and when, indeed, there did lie any care on his mind, which he might be unwilling she should share, yet so gently did the conversation win it from him, and so quietly did something like the old manner woo him to bear no burden alone, that, ere he knew, it was no longer his, but they were talking of it plainly. What tranquil reassurance then, and grave, prompt advertence to the point—and pure sympathy, and that repose of soul from which a woman’s instinct can express so much by a tone, a look, silence itself! Sir Godfrey had sometimes been ashamed to find how much more he could be disturbed by trifles, or how cautiously he had been underrating his wife’s affection. So that she knew as well as he did, and almost as soon, how affairs stood at Stoke, with the tenor of his brother’s intended will, and any the slightest incident which could concern them. He had even casually mentioned, as among the more trivial, Sir John’s wishes for the benefit of the person entitled Suzanne Deroux, for Lady Willoughby had long known, of course, what of Sir John’s early history his brother knew. The matter had well-nigh escaped his memory, he said; till on happening to want a banker in Paris, it struck him that the house formerly employed by his brother, in the payment of the annuity referred to, might suit himself. To these gentlemen, accordingly, he had sent a memorandum of the address left by Sir John, with a request that they would have the money paid to her. It was a small sum, but might be important to the people, whoever they were, living in one of the poorest and most wretchedly-crowded quarters of Paris. Still, as Sir Godfrey smiled on that occasion cheerfully, and resumed his English newspaper, he did not, he could not tell all the painful and pertinacious impressions, of circumstances unknown or acts untraced, which any allusion to his late brother’s former stay in Paris still called up.
Everything did not exactly go on in the household as in England, indeed, but all was as nearly so as a quiet assiduity could make it. The house, a somewhat dull and dilapidated mansion, very barely furnished, and taken by the month from an adjoining notary, stood far to the western or court-end of the city, though rather involved in the dinginess of a sort of minor fauxbourg, where, in those days, between the sudden curve of the river and the lesser alleys of the Champs Elysées, a motley population still clustered about the tan-pits or dye-houses, and towards the bridge and quays: it occupied one corner of a short, deserted-looking street, the other end of which was reduced to a narrow lane by the high enclosure of a convent; in front was a small paved court, very shady and damp, by the help of two or three stunted poplars it contained, yet not by any means private, being overlooked by dusty or broken staircase windows, one over the other, from at hand; while it, nevertheless, could boast of a wall surmounted by a railing, with a heavily-pillared gate of open ironwork, a little lodge on one side within, where the porter lived—at one end of the house a diminutive stable and coach-shed, at the other an entrance to a high-walled garden, laid out in intricate confusion, without sign of flowers, and overgrown with a luxury of weeds. Some rising bourgeois had probably at first designed it, with a moderate eye to fashion; although its prime recommendation from the notary was, that successive families of the English nobility had chosen it for their temporary residence; nor did the old concierge fail to point out, with some emphasis, when showing the garden, that it was in the English style. The place was, at all events, at a convenient distance from the central parts of Paris, and within an easy drive to the Protestant Episcopal chapel. At a sharp angle with the street ran a main thoroughfare from the city barrier, one way confused in the dense suburb, the other way breaking towards a leafy promenade of the public park; sending all day a busy throng of passengers into that brighter current, where it glimpsed broad past the gap of light, with the glitter of equipages, the shifting glow of dresses, and the constant hum and babble of its gaiety; while nearer by was an opening in the contiguous street, through which the first-floor windows of their house looked at the motion along the quay, and saw the stately piles of building on the opposite bank, in brighter perspective, curve away from the eastern avenue of the Champ de Mars, with the bending of the river. They had still a carriage, too, though it was merely hired by the month, like the house, from the nearest livery-stables—a light, English-shaped barouche, with its pair of soot-black, long-legged Flemish horses, long-tailed and square-nosed, barrel-bodied and hollow-backed, and formally-stepping, which the owner called English also, for everything English seemed the rage: they were objects of no slight scorn, in that light, to Sir Godfrey’s groom, a stiff old trooper, who, with his duties towards his master’s horse, Black Rupert (the only possession they had brought from Stoke, save the title), had soon to unite that of coachman. Since besides Jackson himself, there was not merely an English housemaid, but there was young Mr Charles’s tutor, a grave, rather middle-aged bachelor of arts from Cambridge, and in clerical orders, who was to make up for the lost advantages of Eton, while he looked forward to the first opening in the curacy at Stoke: there was Miss Willoughby’s governess, a lady apparently also of middle age, whose perfect breeding and great accomplishments had made her acceptance of the position a favour, when the sudden necessity arose for the young lady’s leaving school; she had been in the highest families, and her conversational powers were of a superior order, so that there was a continual silent gratitude towards her on the part of Lady Willoughby. To the latter, indeed, whose whole heart lay in her family, these unavoidable changes had been a source of pure satisfaction, so far as she was concerned; compared with the privilege of having their children about them, educated under their own eye, expecting Frank so soon, too, nothing else was a deprivation; she merely missed England and English habits when some one else did, and had seen Stoke but once; only through the occasional abstracted looks of Sir Godfrey did she regret its postponement. As for the old French concierge at the gate, indeed, with his wife, family, and friends, she could have gladly spared them; but the concierge was indispensable—he lived there—he went with the house, in fact; and at the very hint of his being superfluous, the old cracked-voiced porter had drawn himself up indignantly in his chair, while his bare-armed, black-browed wife had turned her leatherlike face up from her tub, looking daggers. True, the English family had, in the mean time, no visitors, but the concierge had;—he was well known to his respectable neighbours; and, besides, it was possible that the misanthropy of the Chevalier Vilby and of Madame might be to some extent diminished; they would probably yet enter into society—all the previous tenants of the mansion had done so; Paris was, in reality, so attractive a capital. Such had been the response to the diplomacy of Jackson, who, having once been a French prisoner, far abroad, knew the language after a fashion of his own; and he received it in grim silence. The truth was, the gossipping receptions at the little lodge were somewhat troublesome, and seemed to concern themselves greatly with the affairs of the household within, had there been nothing else than the general interest taken in it by the adjacent windows, or the popularity of the whole family, collectively or individually, which had sometimes accompanied their exit or entrance with applause from crowds of street children—a prestige which had as evidently deserted them afterwards, to be replaced by tenfold scrutiny of a less partial kind, not unmingled with sundry trivial annoyances. Nor, although it resulted, with Lady Willoughby’s usual easy disposition, in her employing the services of the porter’s daughter within the house, did the one parent open the gate with less sullen dignity, and the other seem less jealously watchful against some abstraction of the furniture, or nocturnal evasion of the rent.
Nevertheless, Paris itself was not more restless or more lively than the spirits of the young people in their first enjoyment of its scenes. The earliest summer had begun to lighten up what was already bright with heat that came before the leaves, quickly as these were bursting into verdure along every avenue; and when the dust is hovering in the sun, when the level light streams along causeway and pavement, crossed by cooler vistas, when the morning water-carts go slowly hissing past, the shopmen sprinkling their door-steps, putting out their canopies, setting their windows right—with the moist smell of market-carts still in the air, the stray fragrance of fruit-stalls near—steeples shining high beyond the steel-blue roofs, the dazzling skylight panes,—chambermaids looking far out from upper windows, long perspectives of architecture blending, and a vast hollow azure over all, ere the smoke is gathered, and before the street-cries are confused, or the growing rush of sounds has become oppressive in the heat—then who remembers not the fairy feeling of a city to youth! It is when they still look to life from under protection, with no experience, nothing like the need of directing for themselves; but most of all from a simple household, used to temperate pleasures, and to the sort of kindness that rests more in purpose than upon indulgence; the city need only be Paris, with sights as foreign as the language, to crown that morning cup of enchantment to its brim. For the two younger members of the family it wore all its charm: Rose Willoughby had seen little more of the world in her boarding-school, at sixteen, than if it had been a nunnery; while Charles, who was younger, had been fancying his knowledge of life at Westminster school and Eton rather uncommon;—so that every morning set them astir early, watching at the windows, impatient to get breakfast-time past, to have those studies severally over, in which, so far as the lad’s tutor was concerned, Mr Thorpe bore the chief difficulties of the task. Each day, in fact, found the party rolling farther from the shady environs, through into the hot heart of the city, towards scenes or structures that were multiplied by each previous discovery: for if the long stately façades of the Tuileries, from its formal gardens swarming with people and statues, ran already half-linked to the gorgeous old Louvre, steeped pale in the southern flood of light above the river, till all its deep-set, embossed windows seemed diamonds in the rich Corinthian filagree that framed them, though the workmen were still busy at its unfinished roof, like emmets from the crowd along the quays; so these also pointed to the Palais Royal court, with its new arcades and glittering shops—or, again, far through the labyrinth of exhaustless streets, where moted and dusty shadows plunged into the gloom of deep lanes, to the grim grey towers of the Bastille rising embattled out of the squalid fauxbourg, which blackened in manufactory smoke beyond—miles back, too, it led across some bridge, to the Gobelins, to the close and dingy quarter of the university, with its old legends of learning, or magic in dark ages; its careless students swaggering past, or smoking from their high-perched casements; its grisettes, that sat at work opposite with an air of coquettish grace amidst their poverty, their hair neither frizzed nor powdered, with a bright cotton handkerchief twined half about it, watering their little mignonette-boxes, or chirping to their bird-cages that hung outside to a gleam of sunshine;—or to where the golden dome of the great hospital hung in the air, faintly bright; to the bronze form of Henry of Navarre riding regardless above the throng of the market-place, and where the two huge cathedral-towers of Notre Dame stood over their mountain of roof, above the gaunt old houses of the island Cité; with the sharp-peaked prison-turrets and grated loopholes of the Conciergerie lifted from the river’s edge, whose muddy eddies swam each way by, among the barges. The Colonel had been in Paris many years before, ere he had had any interest in it save that of a young man, in lively company; when all sons of gentlemen made the grand tour, and the old glories of Versailles were still reflected even at the court of Louis Quinze, in the elegant dissipation of his latter days: he had come since then, indeed, into sterner contact with Frenchmen abroad; but it served him now, in making shift to act as guide among the principal wonders of the capital—when he rode near the carriage, sometimes accompanied by Mr Thorpe, the tutor, on a quiet white mare from the hackney stables. And Lady Willoughby mildly eyed the Bastille, or gently noticed the sumptuousness of the Louvre, at her husband’s remark; suffering herself to be handed out to some sentinel-guarded vestibule, and led along some chill historical corridor, although it might cost a shudder at what was told of it; if some positive domestic duty did not rather keep her all day at home. While Mrs Mason, the governess, following with the party, would sedulously express assent, at due intervals, by word or sign, to the statements of the baronet; not seldom addressing to the young lady beside her some comment of her own, or improving inference, such as Mrs Trimmer had recently brought into educational vogue. It might have been that Rose on these occasions sometimes caught her brother’s eye, so that her absorbed face and lighted look would grow all at once intensely demure, or she had to turn away to hide a smile at his air of exaggerated attention; while Mr Thorpe was usually so deep in abstraction, or had wandered so far, as to be in danger of their leaving him altogether behind. It was all one storm of spectacle and excitement, in fact, to the two; antique memories mingling in it with the record of fearful deeds, and quaint traces of rude manners with the grandeur of the church, the magnificence of the days of great kings—it only added zest to the living rush of the streets, the foreign faces and unaccustomed accents, the endless variety of movement that shone, flickered, or darkened every way about them. Then, slowly extricated from fetid lanes and old overhanging houses, patched, and stained, and ruinous, where the low-stretched cord of the street lantern showed that carriages seldom passed, they would wheel out suddenly from the rough causeway and its filthy middle-gutter, into the broad light and sunny air of the verdurous boulevards, where the ramparts of old Paris ran. So as the sounds of wheels grew soft, and they rolled leisurely along, the girl and her brother would look to each other, with something of the same feeling; her eyes would sparkle, while Charles’s were everywhere: when on either side of the curving vista, either way lost to sight, and heaped with the motion of equipages and riders, the showering elm-leaves and blossoming lime-twigs rose green ’gainst the tall, bright, ornate houses, tinted variously, and dappled fitfully by the shade—where the scattered passengers lounged, the loitering groups mingled, and all was open-air existence—while the gay shop-windows and café signs shone beneath the boughs, the open upper-casements seemed to drink coolness beneath their striped canopies through green-barred jalousies, the double shutter-frames were thrown out either way against the wall, and no care, no business appeared to hang on Paris far as eye could reach, as it thickened there through the swimming light of afternoon. To Rose and Charles it left no dissatisfactions about Stoke, nor regret for the smoke of London; and instead of wishing the place of their residence settled soon, although neither had confided it to the other, they would fain, no doubt, have had their father decide on staying where they were, so as to fulfil the suggestion of the worthy concierge, by making acquaintances and going into society. The truth was, that they were unconsciously somewhat conspicuous; whether it was that the full, fair, lady-like features of Lady Willoughby, with her hair aristocratically enough drawn up, heaped high, and powdered, had yet an air of half-sleepy ease and comfort that offered the strongest contrast to French looks, or that the hood-like bonnet of black crape which surmounted them, drawn in folds together and hung with its short curtain-like veil of black lace, however according to matronly usage then in London, had already been left behind in Paris by a barer and more classical taste; or the girlish grace and bloom of Rose in her mourning-dress and hat; the half clerical air of Mr Thorpe, with his mingled awkwardness and endeavours at attention to the ladies; or the military air, tall figure, and splendid English hunter of the baronet: all which, perhaps, taken together, might even in passing have suggested food for the proverbial Parisian curiosity. Especially if, as at times might have been done, they had noticed the grave silence of the elderly English gentleman on horseback, when his companion addressed him in vain, or when with a start he looked up to answer, sometimes running his eye keenly about the passing people, over the seated and trifling groups, up to the windows of the houses, or along the shop-signs, like one all at once awake to them. Indeed, out of the charmingly private allée des veuves in the Elysian fields, where alone the equipages of the rich widows of the whole capital were in propriety seen to drive, and the doubtful widowers and needy bachelors to seek opportunities of consoling them, with a similar gravity of dress and demeanour—it was questionable whether the people of Paris were accustomed to observe so puzzlingly attractive a sight. It had altogether, no doubt, a sincere insular air in their eyes.
It happened that on the day they had visited Notre Dame cathedral, Colonel Willoughby took advantage of their return through the Rue St Honoré to call at his banker’s in that leading street. He had transacted his principal business there, and only found some difficulty in detaching himself from the subsequent animated conversation of the courteous financier, whose spirits seemed to be excellent on account of some continued increase in the price of corn; a motive but dimly understood by Sir Godfrey, while at each step or two of his egress from the antechamber he was still detained by some fresh ground of satisfaction. As regarded places of abode to be had, in any part of France whatever, the perplexity did not certainly result from want of choice; since his last inquiry, the notices and advertisements had increased, particularly in the rural provinces; to be let or sold, they seemed surprisingly plentiful; nor were their advantages in every point omitted, after the usual style of such description, which sometimes dilated on the very nature of the landscape, or dwelt with gusto on the particular character of architecture. “It is doubtless owing, Monsieur le Baron,” suggested the banker, complacently, “to the immense resort, at the present, of the nobility to Paris. The attraction is excessive! It will indeed be impossible to reside but in the vicinity—and M. le Baron sympathises, I imagine, with the party of our ——, probably to a certain extent in the ——?”
“I really know very little of political matters, Monsieur,” said the baronet, smiling, “even at home,—and as for those in this country, I can scarcely say that I have attended to them much.”
“It is exactly the position which I have myself assumed, M. le Baron,” responded the banker, with a subdued air of confidential understanding. “In finance it is indispensable. But affairs are solid here;” and he gaily struck his hand on his pocket. “Things will move—they will go—now that M. Neckar is at the head! M. le Baron is doubtless aware that the meetings of the States-General have commenced, and are open to attendance, like the English parliament itself? Bah we are aware that in affairs nowadays, the minister is everything; to speak properly—the king, nothing! The discussions grow interesting—it was a happy stroke—to render the nation—yes, conceive, Monsieur,—responsible for its own expenses! And, after all, the world is governed by this money here!” Sir Godfrey sighed involuntarily, while the banker, slightly rubbing his hands together, bowing and smiling, still conducted him with empressement towards the court in which his horse was held. “It would be easy to secure a distinguished place of audience for M. le Baron in the minister’s gallery at Versailles,” persisted Monsieur Blaise, with interest, “and for the family of M. le Baron, whom we have not yet, indeed, had the honour to see?” M. Blaise had, in fact, made sundry half-subdued advances, at various times, towards a mutual introduction of the families; which seemed latterly to become more obvious. “Thank you, Monsieur,” was the rather dry answer—“no. The fact is, we intend immediately leaving town, as soon as my eldest son arrives. And, of course, this matter as to a place of residence must be settled. I should prefer some remote, quiet, country place.”
“Ah, you should then purchase, M. de Vilby,” said the banker, oracularly. “It is, on the whole, I assure you, cheaper—more satisfactory.” To this, however, he received a decided negative; Colonel Willoughby had as little interest in the idea presented to him by Monsieur Blaise, of a profitable re-sale at a future period, as of possessing property or forming permanent ties in France, or of leaving his son a landowner there. He was about to mount his horse amidst the attentions of the banker and his Swiss porter, when a depressed-looking clerk from the banking-office hastened out, with an air of some timidity, to offer a paper to his master. The latter frowned, while he received a hurried statement from the official. “What is this? not to be found!” he inquired. “It is a trifle, Monsieur,” added he, turning round; “the woman, it seems, to whom your communication referred, has for some time removed her residence. Inquiries shall be made, however. These poor people are of the most changeable habit—the notary of the proprietor is naturally ignorant of their new destination—the neighbours, they affect an unconsciousness which is probably feigned, on account of some sympathy with a fault, a defalcation in rent,—a crime, perhaps. But in this case, there is the police, under whom the emigrant necessarily falls, though unconsciously—and our police are now more efficient than ever. Yes, M. le Baron, this person shall be promptly discovered, believe me—if, indeed, this payment is still considered proper to be made?” The indifferent, languidly commercial tone of Monsieur Blaise, at that moment, jarred disagreeably on Sir Godfrey’s ear, in the full sunlight of the street, while its gay throng poured on either way like a twofold procession.
“Yet there is a slight mistake, pardon me, Monsieur,” added the former, “in the understanding that Monsieur your brother had continued this pension, which is alluded to, during the late years. It was indeed paid with regularity, when transmitted; but although the promise remained subsequently, yet, after a certain point, by some omission, doubtless, the effects—the sums—ceased to arrive. I believe the inadvertency was, however, more than once reported from this office to the notary of M. de Vilby at Ezzeterre, in England—eh, Maître Robert?” And the clerk, to whom he again turned sharply, gave a reverential affirmative. It was not merely the revival of this trivial matter in this way that troubled Sir Godfrey; there was some slight concern stirred at his heart by the discovery of the slight sum having failed so long to reach its object, mixed with a little compunction at his remembrance of the crowded Cité, near the religious shadows of Notre Dame, which he had passed by that very day; there was a vivid feeling once more, too, of his brother’s characteristic carelessness, which was by no means lessened on recollecting his wife’s mild remark, when he had mentioned the circumstance, that possibly, if the person were very poor, it might have been better to see into it personally. The gross mingling of M. Blaise’s inquiries in it, besides, with his hint at crimes which might render the benefit undeserved, annoyed him. Sir Godfrey took the paper from the banker’s hands, expressed his intention of managing the matter at his own leisure, and with a hasty bow rode homewards.
Willoughby was, as before said, a man with little imagination in his temperament, at least of no very lively fancy; but there was a kind of vague impatience at times in his mind, scarcely to be any better accounted for than the fits of gloom he felt creeping, as it were, over him, and which he checked only by a strong effort to think. Sir Godfrey felt, in fact, rather an indescribable satisfaction than otherwise, and a somewhat reviving interest, at the little matter of business that had returned on his hands, none the less that it took the aspect of a kind duty. Paris itself was certainly a degree nearer his attention, so soon as the concerns of any one in it, however obscure, were thus dependent on his own, stirring up an odd anxiety as to whether she were alive or dead, and really deserving; all which, the more unusual it was to his habits, bore with the greater novelty of sensation on a man whose ordinary habits had been somewhat abruptly broken up. Singular, indeed, as he rode along, grew the thought of how this vast city contrived to live from day to day? the question, yet more perplexing, how it spent its time? still less conceivable, to what end was all the constant movement, thickening and shifting far along the Rue St Honoré, in dust and sunlight? Nay, with a smiling sense of its absurdity, the baronet caught himself involuntarily pondering some such incalculable problem, and for a moment striving to put its organisation together, while the bridle lay slack on his horse’s neck, and his limbs kept time to the motion, as the noble black went stepping elastically on. Even in that fashionable street they excited notice amid its rattling cortège of equestrians and equipages, its rainbow quivering of dress, feathered, embroidered, gilded and laced and rustling, where all the artifice of French fashion was in its afternoon glory, with bell-hoop and white hair—from the queue-tag and three-cornered beaver, lace cravat, and ruffles, and pocket-flap, to the knee-buckles and the false calves, white or flesh-coloured, and high-heeled—treading on out-turned toes—while the smooth, tinted faces, with their mole-specks and black beauty-spots, seemed to have banished from about them, in the sun’s full influence, all effect of hair: though it was scarce so much the soberly-garbed rider, in dark riding-coat and boots, with military stock, as the jet gloss of Black Rupert, whose full nostril seemed half conscious of his master’s pride in him. Nor was it merely that the flickering blaze of the street disagreed with his mood, when Colonel Willoughby turned out of it through a quieter line of that gay fauxbourg, slightly using the spur: he shrank involuntarily from those of his countrymen who seemed to be in Paris, with their gregarious yet unsocial air, their loud voices, causeless laughter, and cool stare, their ill-affected ease of dress, their round morning hats at all hours, and their sudden knowing looks of interest from his horse to him, not seldom unaccompanied by distinct English questions of “Who is he?” or the drawling answer, with an eyeglass raised, of “Don’t know.” Yet in public places they were everywhere; they were looking out of corner cafés, and talking back to friends within, watching narrowly where some Parisian belle tripped carefully athwart a crossing, or leaning out of billiard-room second-floors and yawning; and it struck him the more in contrast, as two gentlemen, evidently French, turned before him into the same more secluded street, the one quietly shrugging his shoulders together, the other turning a silent look to his friend. They sauntered easily along on the sunny side of the gutter, as if delaying to cross; though side trottoirs were as yet almost unknown, while the cry of gare! from a rapid vehicle at times hurried the foot-passengers together towards the wall, or out amidst the causeway; so that a snatch of their conversation more than once reached the English baronet’s ears, or was mingled with other voices; as he looked round for the names of the streets, with some idea of at once beginning inquiries at the nearest police-office. “These, then, Jules,” said the taller and elder, who wore the gallant uniform of the Royal Body-Guard, sky-azure and gold-laced, with its white-plumed black hat, crimson-velvet breeches, stiff cavalry boots, and gilt spurs, and ruffles of rich lace—“are your allies—your Weegs, as you call them! Corbleu!” He looked back over one shoulder, as he spoke, with a supremely supercilious air, swinging the tassel of his sword-knot round his hand; the other, whose dress and manner were those of an elegant young man of fashion, seemed gently to draw him onward by the arm. “My dear Armand, what a fancy!” the latter ejaculated; “the generous sympathy of the enlightened English—of the descendants of Hampdeun and of Seednè, the Wheegs—but I forget, we agreed to——” “Yes, Comte,” said the other gloomily, “we agreed to observe silence on it, since it is impossible for us——” and by another influx from a cross street they were taken out of hearing; although the grave air of the young officer, enhanced by his long side-visage, and cavalier-like uniform, despite all the hair-powder and the smooth elaborateness of the time, had drawn Sir Godfrey’s interest from the matter he had in hand. They were walking near him again next minute.
“He is at La Morgue, then?” asked the officer, in reference to some statement of his friend; “what was it—gambling? His mistress, perhaps?”
“No, she was beautiful, and attached to him,” replied the other, carelessly; “she still slept, while he had left her, to shave in the adjacent dressing-room—the whole hotel was roused by her cries. The police can make nothing of it. Even his passport affords no clue.”
“It was probably a plot, about to be discovered,” said his friend. “Paris, in my opinion, is full of plots—which had better soon be dashed to pieces.” He made an emphatic motion with the sheathed sabre on his left arm, and glanced firmly along the street, from face to face. “My dear Armand!” ejaculated the other, stopping for an instant till their eyes met, and the cheek of the garde-du-corps seemed to redden—“this is”—but the remainder was lost to Sir Godfrey, as he held round towards the outskirts of the Faubourg St Honoré. Crossing by a shorter way, however, they still preceded him at the next corner. “On the contrary,” continued the younger, “had there been anything to discover”—“—stupidly acute as the police are”—“—but believe me, my friend,” he added with animation, “there was nothing—nothing—it was merely ennui. And what police, were it the very espionage of old De Sartines himself, his apprentice and friend Lenoir, or even my fine cousin De Breteuil, with your thrice-humble servitor here, can guard against ennui? ’Tis the only spectre I dread, for the philosophers, the Encyclopédie, have still left it us!” Sir Godfrey had passed them, indeed, hardly heeding their detached words so much as the young soldier’s chivalrous air; a little on, he checked his horse at sight of a gendarme’s blue and red livery, to inquire for the police-bureau of the quarter; at which the man turned sharply, struck no doubt by the accent or the form of the question, and surveyed him before attempting to give an answer.
“Ennui!” repeated the officer energetically, as they came on; “my faith, we shall soon have little enough of that luxury, I think! I had imagined it the disease of England!”
“But without her suspecting it,” rejoined his livelier companion; “while France alone endeavours to expel, to define the malady! What is Versailles, Fontainebleau, Marly, Luciennes, but a vast sigh, a drowsy effort, a yawn (baillement)? Those parterres of Lenotre, those fountains, those statues, which are like the crimes of Paris! But we awake—and assure yourself, my friend, it is at the root of one half—”
Colonel Willoughby had repeated his question rather impatiently, for the speaker, as he passed on, was turning a glance of attention that way: the gendarme, too, with a sudden motion of his hand to his huge cocked hat, seemed less careful to reply than to leave full room for the two gentlemen. The younger of them stopped, turned, and addressed a word of sharp reproof to the official. “Permit me, monsieur,” he added, coming forward with a slight bow, and speaking tolerably good English; “it is probably rather to the commissary of your quarter you would address yourself, and his residence is not far; at —— the number which I forget, in the Place Montaigne, Champs Elysées.” The Englishman thanked him briefly; bowing in return the more profoundly, as he felt the usual unwillingness of his race to receive a favour he had no claim to.
“It is denoted, besides,” continued his informant with increased courtesy, “by the red lantern over the portico, which since two years has been fixed over the doorway of every commissary’s residence in Paris. Day or night this will serve to distinguish them by a glance.”
“Indeed?” was the sole answer, in a tone of some indifference. There was nothing officious in the younger gentleman’s unasked interference; while his singularly handsome face, his vivacious eyes, the air of life in his expression, along with an undeniable elegance of manner, were contrasted for the first time with his elder companion, who stood apart, and almost haughtily silent, a dark shade seeming to gather on his thin and dusky cheek, as he gazed into the street, having even withdrawn his momentary notice of the spirited horse. Yet the baronet felt less annoyed thus than by the prolonged politeness of his friend; he involuntarily bit his lip; there was something disagreeable even in being so promptly addressed in his own language.
“Might it be possible for one to assist monsieur in any yet further manner?” inquired the stranger, with the same easy grace; though a peculiar smile, at the time unintelligible to Sir Godfrey, had hovered about his lips.
“My best thanks, monsieur,” was the stiff response. “I think not—it is a mere ordinary piece of business;” and, bowing deeply towards his horse’s shoulder, the English baronet turned in the direction indicated. He could see them from the distance, however, overtaken by a light cabriolet, which seemed to have been slowly following them all the while; the young élégant stepped leisurely in, and with a gesture of adieu to his friend, was driven swiftly off towards the city again; the white plume of the garde-du-corps disappeared among the passengers.
When Sir Godfrey had found the commissary’s office, shown the indispensable passport, and received, as he had expected, but little prospect of speedy information, he yet rode homewards in considerable ease of mind; the thing had in fact passed from his thoughts as he took the nearer way from the grand avenues of the Champs Elysées, thronging with gaiety, by the overhanging shade of garden walls and backs of stables, across the open spaces flushed green with the afternoon light, alive with strolling girls in their teens, beside their prim gouvernantes, or children scattered about the groups of their sitting, gossipping, sewing bonnes; while here and there, into a line of secluded street, full of tall, stately, old-fashioned houses in massy blocks, or separate in their high-walled court-yards, sloped lazily the white, gushing glory from far above; till the way towards a bridge, or some glimpse of the bustle about the airy quays, renewed again the sense of being in Paris. But it seemed as if some of its occurrences, otherwise as apparently fragmentary as the street-cries or confused accents, bore every now and then a more connected purport to the baronet as he came in contact with them.
He had already thrown a coin or two mechanically to some squalid cripple, or some one-eyed beggar in his route, thinking no more of it; as he turned into the thoroughfare near home, however, out of one of these sun-bright and silent streets, where a few figures crossed here and there, a singular little incident presented itself, which was but part of many such scenes throughout the quieter quarters of the French capital. It was one of the strangest symptoms of that strange time, that while the king had been suppressing dungeons and projecting the good of the people, while the nobles desired reform of abuses, and the whole nation seemed to breathe peace, philanthropy, and enthusiasm—the very fashion of the salons had conceived a sudden sensibility to the miseries and wants of the lowest class. The late winters had been severe, and the last desperate, amidst dear provisions: there had been fêtes, lotteries, and performances of classic dramas in the theatre, although for these last the curés had refused to distribute their unhallowed proceeds: yet greatest of all had been the activity of the ladies in the genteel faubourgs, who, in graceful toilettes de quête, the most becoming of dresses, and with purses bearing embroideries of flowers, cupids, and touching mottoes, turned their morning calls into a quest for alms. In the less aristocratic quarters, where morning calls were scarcely made, it had taken hold chiefly on the little girls, from mere childhood up to their teens; lasting longer, doubtless, because exercised only in the open air on the street-passengers, with all the amusement of a play mingled in its touch of reality. How interesting was it, too, to the subjects of the performance, as they were chosen from the passing current with all that faculty of prompt organisation so peculiar to the race of France; for the rendezvous was made in the neighbouring archway of some porte-cochère, apart from the bustle of the crowd, to hold the table with its white fringed cloth, and the silver salver, where the savings of their own pocket-money had been first put for a handsel, as they gathered from the various houses near. The old gentleman, as he approached, had his skirts pulled by some lisping little one, with chubby cheeks, and curls that had vainly been flattened, while her face peered from under the grey stuff of the mimic beggar’s cloak: the most simply dressed would hold the salver to the lady of quality; the most polite to the bourgeois; the plainest-featured to the widow, the spinster, or faded beauty; the tallest to the middle-aged gentleman, the prettiest to the gallant: and no rivalry, but how to get most, disturbed the co-operation of those young quêteuses. The English baronet, indeed, knew nothing of it as he trotted forward, before the archway could be seen, with its lurking, listening, peeping group, holding their breath in expectation: he only saw a slender young form, too tall for the grey cloak to smother the whole of her white summer dress, trip from beside the wall, and hold up her rosy palm before him, like a beggar; they had chosen the eldest, for her eyes and complexion, to try the rich Englishman.
“Pour nos pauvres, s’il vous plait, Monsieur,” said a clear sweet voice, plaintively. Sir Godfrey had checked his horse with a start; she was a girl little younger than his own Rose, with the very blue eyes and that palest yellow hair, which are so rare in France, though with that warmly-bright complexion which is never seen out of it, suffused as it seems through a strange shadow of brown. The folds and hood of the cloak could not disguise the girlish grace of her figure, just shooting towards womanhood; the studiously plain arrangement of the hair à la quête, virgin-like, added to her pure beauty, and did not take away from the slightly coquettish glance from her drooped head as she thus made her appeal. “My dear little one!” ejaculated Sir Godfrey hastily—“how—what—you are not a—in poverty?”
Her cheek reddened as she drew up her head proudly. “Me? Yes, we are poor, but noble—Armand and I. It is for the poor of the city, Monsieur—of Paris.”
Sir Godfrey reddened too, and listened calmly to her eager explanation. “Ah, you are rich—you are English!” she added anxiously, as if afraid he hesitated. His glance of surprised inquiry did not escape her.
“I know you, Monsieur,” she said, “for you live close to our convent in the Rue Debilly, near the Quai de Change, where I am a pensionnaire, and where my aunt is the superior. I come often with one of the sisters to arrange the quête here. There are so many poor!”
“And to whom do you give this money, belle petite?” asked the baronet, smiling at her delighted thanks for the gold he placed in her hand.
“To the curés and their vicars, Monsieur,” she said gravely, “who will distribute it—they know every one so well!” Sir Godfrey mused.
“And you live near us!” he said, thinking of his own daughter, as he asked her name.
“It is Aimée—and my brother is Armand de l’Orme, an officer at Versailles. We are orphans, Armand and I, and we do not belong to Paris. We were both born in the south, in Provence—Were you ever in Provence, Monsieur—ah, how much more beautiful it is!” With an air of empressement she clasped her hands, and standing there in the quietly sunny street, while the stream of the populous chaussée passed athwart its end, the girl seemed to forget her impatient company beyond, whose whispers and exclamations at last betrayed them to the surprised glance of Sir Godfrey. “Was she allowed,” he asked, however, “to make visits from her convent—for he had a daughter, little older than herself, who had no companions of her own age in Paris.” And the young quêteuse responded eagerly to the hint. “Oh, yes—she was allowed—on certain days—and she would positively come. Indeed—perhaps—mademoiselle herself would assist at their quête.”
The baronet shook his head, almost starting in his saddle at the thought. But it struck him suddenly that his oddly-made new acquaintance, through her friends the curés, might aid him in discovery of the missing Suzanne Deroux; and she was all readiness and sanguine expectation when he explained the matter. There was one young vicar in particular, so mild, so missionnaire, so apostolique, whose acquaintance with all the poorer quarters was miraculous: she would be able to bring the news, she was sure, very soon indeed. So giving her, at her request, the same paper he had recalled from his banker, Sir Godfrey saw her rejoin her archway amidst the impatient welcome of her companions, and took his way into the Rue Debilly, with a feeling half-amused, half-meditative.
At home, there were fresh letters and newspapers awaiting him, with the dinner-time, unwontedly late. There had been already the expected tidings from Francis to his mother, though brief, that he was finally free of term-times, having reached London, which he was ready to leave next week; his father’s remaining business there seemed fully settled, but he was to dine, before starting, at their friend the solicitor’s, and bring over with him everything wanted. He enclosed his sister’s letter, however, from her dearest school-fellow, crossed and recrossed, with all its precious gossip for common use, its inexpressible sentiments that were not to be seen by another creature, and its postscript with the sole piece of real, intelligible information. Mrs Mason’s correspondence also, whose contents had at no time been breathed to any one, had been forwarded: while Sir Godfrey himself had a packet from Mr Hesketh’s office in Exeter, giving on the whole satisfactory prospects, and containing a few papers from among the late Sir John’s dreary mass of lumber; hitherto overlooked, but which he might care to examine. They were for the most part unimportant, but he saw, from the first glance at one of them, that had it arrived that morning, it might have simply saved him a little trouble and uncertainty; as it was a French letter of date not long before his brother’s death, evidently written by some humble notary’s clerk, to state the case of the Suzanne in question, who had received a pension for an injury received while in his service, probably interrupted through the change of abode by her children, whose work supported them; but her son had been ill, and the winter severe; the application had been rather made at the penman’s instance, as he lived au quatrième in the house where their attic was, and had himself discovered the address by going to the banker’s, where he had obtained no other prospect. It stated the place and number distinctly, and had in all likelihood led to the memorandum of Sir John,—though no doubt thrown aside at the moment, and with his confused mind in those latter days, so busy amidst out-door matters or convivial meetings, its chief point had been forgotten.
Joining in the eager table-talk it had all excited, with a mind at rest, the baronet could fully share the pleasure of home-thoughts: the very atmosphere of the room seemed English, for all its bare waxed floor and patch of carpet, its airy paper-hangings of pastoral scenes, its light curtains and tall glaring windows with flimsy frames, its stove-filled chimney-place, and the white folding-doors of its antechamber, about all which there lurked no corner of substantial comfort, as round the wainscot and panelling, the recesses and embayments, corner-cupboards, and hearth-places, and presses of home, with its high-backed arm-chair, noiseless floors, and family pictures: the sound of the convent-bell, and Sir Godfrey’s account of his pretty little quêteuse, alone brought back their recollection. It had been long since Lady Willoughby saw her husband so cheerful, even when he turned to his newspaper, and sat absorbed in its varied matter, leaning back on that hard diminutive sofa;—Mrs Mason, as her custom was, has withdrawn to the mysterious privacy of her own apartment; Mr Thorpe, to a book, apart in the wide naked antechamber; while at its further windows, looking out, sit the two young people in their unwearied charge of the street;—till, as that after-dinner repose steals through the sitting-room, with cool shade from the early May twilight, she feels instinctively that his old easy habit of middle age has returned on him, the first time since reaching France—nay, on second thought, since the day of that melancholy message from Devonshire—of sinking at that hour into a doze. It scarce needs her turning her head, to see how the affairs and concerns of the world at large have fallen from his mind; while gently netting on, without word or other motion, perhaps with no particular thought besides, she sits quiet that it may last the longer. It had seemed vague, in its connection with a trifle; but neither she nor he could have told the indescribable relief it had given him to find the only singularity in Sir John’s memoranda cleared up; in this commonplace way, too, when even casual circumstances had seemed joining to give it a feverish importance. That intended but ineffectual will of his, by which he had evidently contemplated a formal bequest, with those slight exceptions, of everything to the colonel, already his legal heir, could after all have had no rational motive; it was probably but one of those strangely groundless suspicions, those longings to exercise influence from the very tomb, which cross an unsound mind. The colonel had not been unconscious of the superior abilities of his eldest brother, nor of the still brighter parts which were attributed to his brother John in early life; he only felt reassured by the conviction, again confirmed, that the unhappy results of his foolish match had been such as to touch his brain with insanity. There was a vulgar old story about their family, in fact—a sort of absurd country superstition—that owing to some ancient ancestral impiety, even when the ghost ceased to be heard of in the long portrait-gallery at Stoke, over the great staircase—which had been invisible to the family alone—then somewhere or other a Willoughby was mad. Often had the colonel smiled at it, when merely a younger brother in the army; a wound once received in his head in America, which had cost him delirious days and nights, seemed formerly to entitle him doubly to his smile at the corroboration, when restored to full health: nay, from some cause, he had found himself thinking of it once or twice in the full blaze of the streets of Paris, with their vivid reminiscences—though his smile had been but faint, now he was the younger brother no longer. For why, really, after all, had he come to Paris in particular, or lingered there, persuading himself under so many different forms about its convenience, the novelty to his children, the advantage of his brother’s banker, the little legacy, the comparative privacy, the rapid post, or the many notices of places to let? Why, in that indirect way, had he sought to make inquiries of the police, and caught himself listening to words in the street, of unknown suicides, baffled investigations, and French ennui? Why had he mechanically shrunk from the Boulevards and rushing St Honoré, yet glanced askance at windows full of faces, or looked again with an irresistible suspicion, to see if he recognised or was recognised by any one—not merely on that day, but on previous ones also? Actually, in the hot, beating sun, it had for a moment or two resembled the preface to his fever in the colonies, after that affair with their rabble of militia, among whom he had fancied he saw a known visage disguised; and the strong effort of his understanding which recovered him had only brought more keenly the sudden question—whether his brother indeed, or he himself, had been touched with the germs of a growing madness. There had been strange horror in the thought. For, had there really been a deliberate, sober meaning in his brother’s stray purposes, through the confusion of all his neglect, and though cut off by death? While the quick, clear self-suspicion had seemed to pierce his own mind with shame, how, amidst an uneasiness to associate with his countrymen, he was still traversing Paris everywhere, under cover of guidance to his family, mingling private anxieties with the grandeur of royal edifices, and continuing to expect some chance vestige of things which his brother might have chosen wisely to leave in silence. Since his succession to Stoke he must have been altering insensibly. Even selfish feelings, impatient wishes, hidden thoughts, or half-fretful expressions towards her who had been so long his solace, had then recurred to mind with a painful surprise; compared with which, his brother’s eccentricity appeared innocent indeed, sadly as his earlier follies had brought it on. And had he heard before from Mr Hesketh what he learned from the letter on his return, that the manor-house and park were unlikely to be soon let, or to bring any profitable addition to the rents at present, from a fresh and growing rumour that they were haunted, it would have startled him with a superstitious feeling far more oppressive than any at Stoke. But, as it was, with a sober return to accustomed thoughts, calmed by his unwonted self-scrutiny, for him so deep—and soothed by gentle presence—Sir Godfrey slipped from his practical, matter-of-fact English newspaper to repose; though with the melancholy conviction that his brother’s understanding had indeed partially given way. They had not latterly seen very much of each other: John was now at peace; his fruitless life had come to an end. The baronet was awoke only by the rustling entrance of Mrs Mason to pour out the chocolate—Mr Thorpe’s awkward haste to set her chair—the bringing in of wax-lights—the pause before grace was said, with the tutor’s devout formality. The evening talk was as duly closed by Mr Thorpe’s reading of the appointed prayers—another advantage never gained by Lady Willoughby till their departure abroad required a tutor.
As if there were not strange noises dying far and wide through the city, till across the river could be heard the great clock of the Invalides. As if the atmosphere of the world were not at that hour infected with inscrutable sympathies and mysterious desires; which gathered in Paris, as after long heat that malady of the air, felt keenly by the lower creatures: so that it might have been working vaguely even with Sir Godfrey. And as if, though clouded and stagnant, even well-nigh lost, the judgment of the departed might not have exercised some acute thought—deeper even than the sharpest lawyer could track it.
So quiet, after prayers, was the outer night over the bare roofs, and lights, and distant pinnacles of the city—the glimpse of the river, the lamps on the bridge, the trees of the Champ de Mars—and so wide with its floating films of fair May-cloud, softening the few stars—that Rose Willoughby shaded her candle to peep out at it, lifting the blind, and putting her face close to the window-glass, after she had said her prayers, and was half ready to go to bed. Listening to Mrs Mason’s steps in the next room, extinguisher in hand, lest her door should suddenly be opened to that lady’s most indignant surprise—Rose thought still of to-morrow’s drive toward Versailles.