Mad. de Rosier started up; and Matilda, surprised at her sudden emotion, put the box and magnifying glass into her hand. Madame de Rosier’s hand trembled so much that she could not fix the glass.
“Je ne vois rien—lisez—vite!—ma chère amie—un mot de plus!” said she, putting the glass again into Matilda’s hand, and leaning over her shoulder with a look of agonizing expectation.
The word de was all Matilda could make out—Isabella tried—it was in vain—no other letters were visible.
“De what?—de Rosier!—it must be! my son is alive!” said the mother.
Henri-Montmorenci was the name of Mad. de Rosier’s son; but when she reflected for an instant that this might also be the name of some other person, her transport of joy was checked, and seemed to be converted into despair.
Her first emotions over, the habitual firmness of her mind returned. She sent directly to the repository—no news of the boy could there be obtained. Lady N—— was gone, for a few days, to Windsor; so no intelligence could be had from her. Mrs. Harcourt was out—no carriage at home—but Mad. de Rosier set out immediately, and walked to Golden-square, near which place she knew that a number of French emigrants resided. She stopped first at a bookseller’s shop; she described the person of her son, and inquired if any such person had been seen in that neighbourhood.
The bookseller was making out a bill for one of his customers, but struck with Mad. de Rosier’s anxiety, and perceiving that she was a foreigner by her accent, he put down his pen, and begged her to repeat, once more, the description of her son. He tried to recollect whether he had seen such a person—but he had not. He, however, with true English good-nature, told her that she had an excellent chance of finding him in this part of the town, if he were in London—he was sorry that his shopman was from home, or he would have sent him with her through the streets near the square, where he knew the emigrants chiefly lodged;—he gave her in writing a list of the names of these streets, and stood at his door to watch and speed her on her way.
She called at the neighbouring shops—she walked down several narrow streets, inquiring at every house, where she thought that there was any chance of success, in vain. At one a slip-shod maid-servant came to the door, who stared at seeing a well-dressed lady, and who was so bewildered, that she could not, for some time, answer any questions; at another house the master was out; at another, the master was at dinner. As it got towards four o’clock, Mad. de Rosier found it more difficult to obtain civil answers to her inquiries, for almost all the tradesmen were at dinner, and when they came to the door, looked out of humour, at being interrupted, and disappointed at not meeting with a customer. She walked on, her mind still indefatigable:—she heard a clock in the neighbourhood strike five—her strength was not equal to the energy of her mind—and the repeated answers of, “We know of no such person”—“No such boy lives here, ma’am,” made her at length despair of success.
One street upon her list remained unsearched—it was narrow, dark, and dirty;—she stopped for a moment at the corner, but a porter, heavily laden, with a sudden “By your leave, ma’am!” pushed forwards, and she was forced into the doorway of a small ironmonger’s shop. The master of the shop, who was weighing some iron goods, let the scale go up, and, after a look of surprise, said—
“You’ve lost your way, madam, I presume—be pleased to rest yourself—it is but a dark place;” and wiping a stool, on which some locks had been lying, he left Mad. de Rosier, who was, indeed, exhausted with fatigue, to rest herself, whilst, without any officious civility, after calling his wife from a back shop, to give the lady a glass of water, he went on weighing his iron and whistling.