Sarah scarce knew what to make of the affair, though sisterly regard disposed her to do all she could to oblige her brother. Marie Moulin, however, was not easily persuaded into consenting to serve a mistress who was in prison. She held up her hands, turned up her eyes, uttered fifty exclamations, and declared, over and over again “c’est impossible;” and wondered how a female in such a situation could suppose any respectable domestic would serve her, as it would be very sure to prevent her ever getting a good place afterwards. This last objection struck Sarah as quite reasonable, and had not her brother been so very urgent with her, would of itself have induced her to abandon all attempt at persuasion. Marie, however, finally yielded to a feeling of intense curiosity, when no bribe in money could have bought her. John had said the prisoner knew her—had known her in Europe—and she was soon dying with the desire to know who, of all her many acquaintances in the old world, could be the particular individual who had got herself into this formidable difficulty. It was impossible to resist this feeling, so truly feminine, which was a good deal stimulated by a secret wish in Sarah, also, to learn who this mysterious person might be; and who did not fail to urge Marie, with all her rhetoric, to consent to go and, at least, see the person who had so strong a wish to engage her services. The Swiss had not so much difficulty in complying, provided she was permitted to reserve her final decision until she had met the prisoner, when she might gratify her curiosity, and return to town prepared to enlighten Miss Wilmeter, and all her other friends, on a subject that had got to be intensely interesting.
It was not late, next morning, when Marie Moulin, attended by John Wilmeter, presented herself to Mrs. Gott, as an applicant for admission to the gallery of Mary Monson. The young man did not show himself, on this occasion; though he was near enough to hear the grating of the hinges when the prison-door opened.
“C’est bien vous donc, Marie!” said the prisoner, in a quick but pleased salutation.
“Mademoiselle!” exclaimed the Swiss. The kisses of women succeeded. The door closed, and John Wilmeter learned no more, on that occasion.
CHAPTER VIII.
“And can you by no drift of conference
Get from him, why he puts on this confusion—”
Hamlet.
There is something imaginative, if not very picturesque, in the manner in which the lawyers of Manhattan occupy the buildings of Nassau street, a thoroughfare which connects Wall street with the Tombs. There they throng, resembling the remains of so many monuments along the Appian way, with a “siste viator” of their own, to arrest the footsteps of the wayfarer. We must now transfer the scene to a building in this street, which stands about half-way between Maiden Lane and John Street, having its front plastered over with little tin signs, like a debtor marked by writs, or what are now called “complaints.” Among these signs, which afforded some such pleasant reading as an almanac, was one that bore this simple and reasonably intelligent inscription: