“Take her away; she’s deranged,” said O’Leary to the gens d’armes. “Sure, if I’m a Pole, that’s enough of misfortune.”
“I’ll follow him to the end of the earth, I will.”
“I’m going to the galleys, God be praised,” said O’Leary.
“To the galleys—to the guillotine—any where,” responded she, throwing herself upon his neck, much less, as it seemed, to his gratification, than that of the mob, who laughed and shouted most uproariously.
“Mrs. Ram, ain’t you ashamed?”
“He calls me by my name,” said she, “and he attempts to disown me. Ha! ha! ha! ha!” and immediately fell off into a strong paroxysm of kicking, and pinching, and punching the bystanders, a malady well known under the name of hysterics; but being little more than a privileged mode, among certain ladies, of paying off some scores, which it is not thought decent to do in their more sober moments.
“Lead me away—anywhere—convict me of what you like,” said he, “but don’t let her follow me.”
The gens d’armes, who little comprehended the nature of the scene before them, were not sorry to anticipate a renewal of it on Mrs. Ram’s recovery, and accordingly seized the opportunity to march on with O’Leary, who turned the corner of the Rue Rivoli, under a shower of “meurtriers” and “scelerats” from the mob, that fell fortunately most unconsciously upon his ears.
The possibility of figuring in such a procession contributed much to the force of Trevanion’s reasonings, and I resolved to leave Paris at once.
“Promise me, then, to involve yourself in no more scrapes for half-an-hour. Pack every thing you shall want with you, and, by seven o’clock, I shall be here with your passport and all ready for a start.”