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.