“Ah, if M. le Maire takes the point of view of the highest morals! It is well known that the blessed apostles were but fishermen and labourers,” said the lady; “but we could not now invite a sailor smelling of the sea, or a ploughman fresh from the fields, to eat with us. There are lines of demarcation.”
“Madame,” said the Maire, “I have been warned from the police of a person completely comme il faut, handsome, young, tall, well brought up, a hero of romance—you would be enchanted with his description,—who has done everything that a man can do of perfidious and wicked—if he should pay us a visit here——”
“Ah, monsieur, what a dreadful idea! But perhaps it is evil companions, bad influences—and then, when one is young, everything may be recovered.”
“With le beau sexe youth is always the first of virtues,” said the Notaire.
“Listen—they are not always young; madame should have seen the journals of England a little time ago—monsieur here could tell us, no doubt. A great company of merchants in London has lately made bankruptcy. Impossible to tell you what ruin they have produced. The great, the small, widows and orphans, poor officers in retreat, little functionaries, priests—what in England they call clergymen—all ruined, without a penny, without bread!” said the Maire, throwing up his hands. “Mon Dieu! even to hear of it makes one suffer. And figure to yourself the chief—he who was first in this compagnie, a man rich as the Indies, living en prince, and for whom nothing was too good, has taken flight, instead of ending his life with a pistol-shot, as would have been done in France—has taken flight, with enormously of money in his pockets! You have seen it, perhaps, in the journals. Such things happen only in England. Mon Dieu! he has saved himself with the money of others. And one talks of canaille!” the Maire concluded, wiping his forehead. He was warm with indignation, feeling the force of his own eloquence.
Helen did not understand all this—or nearly all; but she caught a word now and then, and her father’s face filled her with alarm. It had been smiling enough at first, though with that drawn and artificial smile which she had only remarked of late; but by degrees Mr Goulburn’s head had dropped, he stooped over his plate, fixing his attention on that, yet now and then directed a furtive glance from under his eyebrows at the speaker. And his face grew ghastly pale, yet he took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead with it. His hands trembled as he raised his glass to his lips. The vin du pays was not likely to inspire much courage, but he drank a large quantity, large enough to make the Maire and the Notaire stare. All this Helen remarked, though perhaps no one else did. He did everything he could to preserve appearances; but her attention was roused, and she was on the alert and saw everything, and almost more than everything. What had he to do with this story of disgrace and ruin? Some one came in at this moment, a stranger, who was placed in a seat on her other hand; but she was so intent upon her father that she did not even see who it was. There was a pause, which seemed terrible to her—and to him; but which to the others was a most natural and simple, nay, flattering moment of silence after the Maire’s impressive remarks.
“You say such things happen only in England; is no one ever bankrupt in France?” Mr Goulburn said at last.
“Alas!” said M. le Maire, “misfortune comes in all countries. But a French commerçant bears it—not so well as your countrymen, monsieur. I have known men who have undergone that and now hold up their heads again; and I have known men, ma foi! who could not bear it, who thought of nothing but a pistol-shot. One follows the customs of one’s country. I have heard that Englishmen grow fat upon it. Pardon! you understand that is a pleasantry. No one can have more respect for the English than I.”
“It is a pleasantry, M. le Maire, which an Englishman hears with very little pleasure,” said Mr Goulburn. Helen looking at him with her anxious eyes, felt that her father was glad of some cause for seeming angry, and caught at this justification of his own excitement. But while her mind was intent upon him, watching him with an eager anxiety and curiosity beyond words, she started to hear herself addressed on the other side. “Is it possible that it is Miss Goulburn? Can I be mistaken? a pleasant voice said in English. She turned round quickly, and found a fair-haired and very sunburnt young man, whom she did not at first recognise, and upon whom she looked with suspicion and alarm. Her fears had been excited, she could scarcely tell how or why. Every one who knew her seemed a possible enemy. Were they not fugitives, whatever might be the cause?
“You do not remember me,” said the new-comer; “which, perhaps, is not wonderful. I left Fareham four years ago, Miss Goulburn; but I think I cannot be mistaken in you. You were only a child then; and now!—but still I think it is you: and perhaps you will remember my name—Charley Ashton? I went to India——”