CHAPTER IV.
In the summer of ’49, an old acquaintance of mine, who had grown fat upon the Black Letter of the Profession; who, for twenty years, had hardly seen the outside of our parish; and whom I had supposed a fixture, so fixed, as no allurements of travel could draw beyond the limit of his daily rounds about the courts, came to my rooms, with wonder in his eyes, to tell me that he was about to leave for Europe; to visit England, and France, and Germany, and Italy, and the Levant, and the Holy Land, and heaven knew what horrid places beside; and, as it might be that he should never get back, he had called to bid me good-bye. I congratulated him on his new-born propensity to rove, and said to myself, now here is an opportunity for learning something of Paqueta, of whom I have dreamed so much since Charles’ sad fate. So, I related her story; and when my friend became interested in it—for he had a bit of romance beneath his Law—I asked him to call upon her in Paris, giving him her residence, with a letter addressed to “Madame Charles R——, Née Paqueta.” He put the letter in his pocket, saying, that really—after what he had heard—he should himself like to know what had become of the fair widow of the Deputy; then, charging him, in case of her removal from the hotel in which I had found her, to inquire for her of the wife of the commissaire, we joined hands and parted.
My fortunate brother went abroad, and saw a part of the countries he had enumerated, and returned with this tale of the message I had confided to him—mournful indeed, but which caused me to love Paqueta more and more. He said that, on arriving in Paris, he soon found out the street, and the number of the hotel I had given him, and put my letter into the commissaire’s hands. The old servant read the address, shrugged his shoulders, crossed himself, and was silent.
“Is Madame at home?”
“Non, Monsieur; she is dead!”
The wife of the commissaire, who stood near by, within the corridor, hearing the question, came forward and asked, whom Monsieur would be pleased to see?
“Madame Charles R——.”
“Mon Dieu!” exclaimed the little woman, also crossing herself, and beginning to cry—“Madame is with the virgin in heaven; and is happier now than she ever was with us; though Jean, my good man, knows she was then the sweetest and happiest angel alive. Did you know her, Monsieur?”
My friend gave the kind woman my name, and said I had heard of the Deputy’s death, and he had called, at my request, to learn something of his widow.
“Eh, I remember him very well. He loved Madame a great deal, and Madame loved him; I think he was her godfather. He was here in good King Philippe’s time. Mon Dieu, mon Dieu! we were well enough under good King Philippe, but now it is à bas this and à bas that, and vive this and vive that, and we shall never have done until we have cut every body’s throat. A bas les émeutes, say I; poor Monsieur Charles and Madame were killed in an émeute.” And then, amid many crosses and many sobs, she told how Paqueta had died.
“On the morning of the 25th of June, 1848, only four short months after Lamartine had proclaimed the Republic, with liberty, equality and fraternity as its watch-words—when the fight raged hottest at the Clos St. Lazare, Paqueta called to her the wife of the commissaire. ‘You,’ said she, ‘were born in Paris, and know all its streets and blind, crooked ways; be quick, put on that dress, and go with me.’ ‘I thought my good lady mad,’ said the commissaire’s wife, ‘for she stood before me habited in male attire, with a gentleman’s hat upon her head, and the dress she offered me was like her own. But she looked so firm, and so fearful, too, and her words were so hoarse and had such a command in them, that I obeyed without knowing why. ‘Now, no one will know us,’ said Madame; ‘do you hear that terrible cannon! For two days it has boomed in my ears, and in all that time Charles has not been with me. My God! my God! they are slaughtering the people in the streets, and he is in the battle!’ What could I do? The little creature, so soft, so pretty, so mild, so loving to all about her, looked like a giant, and I hastened after her, afraid to cry out, afraid to say any thing, as she rushed ever forward in search of her husband. Where the noise was greatest, where the shout was loudest, she ran to catch it, crying, ‘Come, quickly, quickly.’ Oh, monsieur, the poor people! Oh, monsieur, the blood, the dying, and the dead! And Madame heeding nothing of all that, but still crying, ‘Come, quickly, quickly.’ Mon Dieu, Monsieur, à bas les émeutes! The strife grew nearer every step we made, the combatants fleeing and pursuing, grew thicker, and when we entered the Clos St. Lazare, we saw the roar of the battle. ‘Ah, there is Monsieur Charles!’ said I. Madame sprang from me at the word, and was soon at his side fighting with the rest; oui, monsieur, fighting with a musket which she snatched from a falling soldier’s grasp. Monsieur, quel horreur! I could neither fly nor go forward, but stood where I was, and watched the war, until I saw Charles go down—and then Madame, comme un tigre, sprang upon the ouvrier who struck him, and was avenged, and sank not to rise any more. Oh, monsieur, quel horreur!”
When the fight was ended, and the smoke had cleared off, and quietude had returned with death, the good wife of the commissaire reclaimed Paqueta’s body. There was no hurt upon it, she said; and about her neck she found, fastened by a little black ribbon, a very small bronze medal, which she had never seen her wear before. And now she rests, side and side with the one she loved so much, in the bosom of the Pere la Chaise.
Of all who fell upon that terrible day, Paqueta was among the noblest. She fought on neither side; knew nothing of liberty, of despotism, of forms of government; knew only her love, and the man who kept it, her life and—her death. Generous Paqueta, noble Paqueta, brave Paqueta, my pen shall ever run riot when speaking of thee—Heaven bless thy soul.