CHAPTER XV.
AN ELOPEMENT FROM A DILIGENCE.
It came out, over the Burgundy, that Sir Hilary passed most of his time in Paris, but often repaired to Calais or Boulogne to be for the while nearer England. He still remained from his own country because he dreaded being called on by the law for an account of the killing of Mr. Bullcott,—not that he feared the outcome as to his bodily safety, but that such legal proceedings might bring out the name of his sister, and provide the Town and Country Magazine with a characteristic narrative, in which every one concerned should figure, the vowels in each name supplanted by dashes. Bold as he was in many things, the fox-hunter was timid as to that sort of celebrity.
But the non-existence of any one who would desire to see Squire Bullcott's removal avenged, promised eventual safety for Sir Hilary's person; and the general forgetfulness of things past would in time enable him to return home without risk of reviving interest in the affair at the Pelican, although he was forever officially branded by the coroner's verdict as having caused the death of Bullcott under circumstances to be further determined.
And now, at the fourth bottle, Sir Hilary insisted on repaying Mr. Wetheral, with interest, for having silenced the landlord of the Pelican. It seemed that Sir Hilary received plenty of money from his estate, and, being given to amusements of the country, knew not how to spend it on the pleasures of Paris. He required that Dick should go along immediately to a tailor's, and fit himself out handsomely, and Dick, seeing how much gratification the Englishman really took in this kind of generosity, made no protest. Nor did he object when the bountiful Berkshire baronet thrust upon him a well-filled purse. In those days, gentlemen had not the petty vanity of refusing to put themselves under obligations to one another. Without any affectation of pride, they readily accepted favors which they knew they would as readily bestow were conditions reversed.
So Dick remained Sir Hilary's guest at the hotel that day and night, and the next morning they took post-horses and rode to Samers, Sir Hilary's intention being to proceed in a leisurely way, seeing as much country and drinking as much wine as they could, to Paris. As for Dick, recalling that memorable afternoon's journey of his childhood, he considered now that the words of old Tom MacAlister had been those of an oracle, and that fate designed his road to lead to Paris, whatever plans he might make for himself.
Moreover, a definite purpose now formed in his mind, which purpose of itself called him Parisward. In the auberge at Samers, where Sir Hilary prolonged their stop to try thoroughly the wine of the country, Dick overheard a conversation between a voluble petit maître and a short-gowned Capuchin monk, in which the name of Washington instantly caught his ear. He soon found that the talk was on the American war, and that the talkers sympathized with the Americans. He learned that a recent daring blow struck by Washington at Trenton, and another victory, won at Princeton, had offset the effect of the British occupation of New York and the British victories connected therewith. He learned, too, that Franklin, a name spoken with as great honor at this little French inn as at home, had come to France as an agent of the Americans, and was now with his fellow agent, Mr. Silas Deane, at the Hotel d'Hambourg, in the Rue l'Université, in Paris. This news, at which Dick glowed inwardly, gave him the idea of offering his services to Franklin, to be used in any way and in any place proposable.
That same day the fellow travellers rode on, over the undulating country of the Boulonnois, by woods and streams, to Montreuil, where they had to give their names to a polite guard officer at the gates; leaped from their horses at the sign of the Crown of France, paid their post, and took lodging for the night.
Sir Hilary promptly ordered a roasted capon, a fricasseed hare, a wild duck, a salad, and a flask of Burgundy, the two gentlemen having chosen a table at a window. While they sat eating, they saw drive up to the inn a lumbering four-wheeled carriage, which let out a severe, stately, slender old lady, a demure-looking, black-eyed girl of seventeen, and a gaunt, gray-haired man-servant, in well-worn livery. Waiting while the old lady oversaw the removal of several ancient portmanteaus, the girl looked with indifferent curiosity at the inn. Her eyes, swiftly moving, met Dick's through the window, and rested a moment,—a moment only, but time sufficient to give him that sensation which fine eyes, so encountered, usually produce. The girl soon looked elsewhere, the old lady led the way into the inn, and the carriage moved off. Dick saw no more of the black-eyed girl that evening, yet he did not forget that she was under the same roof with him.