”‘You were saying,’ said Pierre, trying to restrain his impatience, ‘how thankful you would be, were you assured that the Countess and her daughter were in safety like yourself; and I interrupted you entreating you to tell us where you believe them to be.’
”‘Where?’ said Ludovic; ‘in Paris. At least, I fear it is unlikely that they will again have attempted to leave.’
”‘Attempted to leave it! Did they do so? and did they not succeed?’ exclaimed the Germains together.
”‘Alas, no!’ replied Ludovic, shaking his white head. ‘That is how I come to be here alone. I will tell you all. You have heard, no doubt, the principal events of this sad time. My lady has been longing to return to Valmont almost ever since she left it, but the Marquis has always opposed it. Two years ago she at last gained his consent, and was on the point of starting, when some one put it into his head that it was undignified, and would have a bad effect for any member of his family to leave his house, and as my lady could get no money except from him, and as she was also unwilling to anger him, she again gave in. He is the most obstinate man—even now he will not believe that there is any danger for him or his. And my lady at last came to see that if she is to get away, it must be without his assistance. All these weary months she has been waiting for an opportunity. At last, about three weeks ago, all seemed favourable. The Marquis was away for a day or two, with some of his friends, who, like him, have refused to take warning, and all arrangements had been made for my ladies and myself to start quietly. We were to travel in a small plain carriage, not likely to attract attention, which a friend of the Marquis’s, less obstinate than he, and really concerned for the Countess and her daughter, had hired, with a driver he could trust. This gentleman,—how I do not know—had procured the necessary papers, which described the Countess as my daughter, returning to the country for her health. I was described as a shopkeeper of Tours. Well, we started—oh the joy of Mademoiselle Edmée! The only drawback was the poor boy Edmond, whom my lady dared not bring away, in face of his father’s commands that he was to stay. She had already fought hard to get leave for him to accompany them when they should leave—and who was heart-broken. At the last moment my lady got out of the carriage again to clasp him in her arms, and whisper some words of comfort; it caused a little delay; sometimes I have thought those three minutes might have saved us. It was not to be. I can hardly bear to tell you of our terrible disappointment. We had scarcely got the length of the street when we met the Marquis returning, in a furious temper at having found it impossible to get as far as the country house, a few miles out of Paris, where he was to meet his friends. He was furious, and, perhaps for the first time, alarmed; for, my friends, do you know what had happened the night before?—it was that of the 2nd of September!’ and Ludovic looked up hesitatingly. Germain bowed his head.
”‘I know,’ he said, ‘and so does Pierre. But we would not tell my poor wife. However, perhaps it is foolish,’ and turning to Madame Germain, he rapidly related to her how on that dreadful night bands of wretches, armed with pikes and hatchets, had burst open the doors of the prisons of Paris, and there slaughtered the unfortunate beings—all of the upper classes, and many innocent of any wrong—who had been seized and shut up as ‘suspected’ of disloyalty to the new Government. For which bloody deed the wretches who had committed it were liberally rewarded by the authorities!
”‘Yes,’ continued Ludovic, ‘for the first time the Marquis believed that the mob—the hounds and dogs he had despised—was a terrible enemy to have aroused, for the worst and lowest come to the front at such times. Perhaps he meant it for the best; but it was, I fear, an awful mistake. He turned the horses’ heads, and insisted on his sister returning to his hotel. It was utterly impossible, he maintained, for her to attempt the journey thus alone and unprotected, save by an old fool, as he amiably called me. But what did I care? And there we were again—half-an-hour after our hopeful departure—powerless and heart-broken with disappointment. What the Countess heard of the horrors I have told you I do not know—I dared not ask, for if she had not heard all, I would have been the last to tell her. But that evening, late, she sent for me privately, and gave me her instructions. She was as pale as death—she has changed terribly, and what wonder! Many a time I have thought our dear lady was not long for this world, and she thinks so, I believe, herself. “My good Ludovic,” she said, “this has been a terrible disappointment. But for the moment I can attempt nothing else. It may be here, as my brother says, that in spite of all our precautions, in the present terribly excited state of the town, had we got as far as the barriers it would but have been to be stopped, and perhaps seized and imprisoned. He insists that it is better to wait a few days. But he has promised me at once to arrange for our all flying to Valmont—poor man, at Sarinet there is no longer a roof to shelter him and his!—and so, my good Ludovic, I must try to take courage and hope, though my mind misgives me sorely. For that my poor brother has hitherto escaped seems to me scarcely short of a miracle, and I cannot feel confidence in his still doing so. Therefore, my faithful friend, I want you to set off at once for Valmont. It is for yourself; less risk than staying here, not that you think of that, I know, and it is the best service you can at present render me and my child. Alone you will have, I am assured, little difficulty in making your way. Here is all the money I have been able to collect; to give you any of my jewels would but expose you to suspicion; take it and go. And arrived at Valmont, seek at once my dear Germains. If by the end of this month they or you have no news of me—then I fear, it will not mean good news—then, I must trust to them to consider if in any way they can help me, or still more my child. Should my brother be taken, I have a plan in my head, for concealing ourselves here in Paris, till we can venture to try to escape. And Germain is a shrewd and clever man. I fancy there would be no risk for him in coming to Paris, and if he knows we are in danger, I believe nothing would keep him from attempting it. With his help and strong arm, we might manage a safe disguise. Should we succeed, as my brother hopes, in all leaving Paris together, I shall find means of letting you know at Valmont. Should we fail I shall still hope to conceal myself and Edmée, though at present I cannot make any detailed plan. One thing I may tell you”—and here my lady lowered her voice—“the only person I trust here is Marguerite Ribou. And now, my good Ludovic, the sooner you leave the better. The Marquis has no idea at present of my attempting anything. It will be time enough for me to tell him you are gone when you are beyond recall.” And then,’ continued Ludovic, ‘she held out her hand; I kissed it, in weeping you may be sure, and I obeyed her. That night I spent in a little tavern near the barriers, and I got out the next morning without difficulty. And here—here at last, after all my troubles, I am! I have told you, I think, my lady’s exact words. It is now—is it not?—near the end of September?’
”‘The twentieth,’ replied Pierre.
”‘And you have no news?’
”‘Not a word,’ said Germain.
”‘Then,’ said old Ludovic, ‘it is for you to decide what can be done. A few days still—a few days perhaps we can wait. It will give me time to recover my old wits a little, if it brings no news from our poor ladies.’”