Oh what actors every body in Paris became at that period! Some were so by nature; for very nearly one half of the world is always acting a part. Others did it because it was the tone of the day; and these formed the heroic or tragic band, who did every thing with Roman dignity and firmness, and carried the farce of representation into the very last act of the tragedy. Others were driven to act parts which did not belong to them, by the perils or necessities of their situation; and amongst these, was Madame de Salins, who, dressed somewhat in the mode paysanne, was out frequently, went boldly to police offices, and to military authorities, inquiring diligently after her husband, John Bonfin, and demanded intelligence regarding the state and condition of a man who had never existed. A change in the direction of civic affairs, and the decapitation of two or three gentlemen, who had watched her diligently while in her lodging near the Place du Petit Chatelet, had now set her comparatively free, and she used her powers of persuasion, and her liberty, so well, that she obtained letters of recommendation to the medical officers of the armies of Dumouriez and Kellerman, with a satisfactory pass for herself, and her father, with two children. Upon what pretence she made her traveling party so large, I do not know; but she certainly carried her point. She was out more than once at night, too, and I remarked that Mariette was now sent daily to the house of Doctor L——, to bring the bottles of medicine which were still required by Father Bonneville—a task, which I always previously fulfilled.
As the distance was considerable, and the way somewhat intricate, I was permitted to accompany and guide my little companion, as far as the street leading into the Place du Chatelet, but was directed to go no farther, and wait there for her return. I had learned by this time to ask no questions, but I could not help thinking that Mariette often stayed a long time.
I do not know that I was of a very observing disposition, or inclined to be particularly censorious, but one thing I remarked which surprised me a good deal, and I recollect, quite well, that it gave me uncomfortable feelings. In my first interview with Madame de Salins, she had appeared overwhelmed with grief and terror, her clothes stained with her husband’s blood, and a look of wild, almost frantic horror in her face, which was never to be forgotten. Now, however, she had not only completely recovered her composure, but was generally cheerful, and sometimes even gay. Clouds of anxiety, indeed, would occasionally float over her beautiful brow, and she would fall into deep fits of thought; but it often seemed to me very strange that she should have so soon and so completely forgotten the husband, for whom she had seemed to mourn so sincerely. Indeed, there is nothing which so shocks—I might say, so terrifies, the earnest heart of youth, as to perceive how transient are those feelings of which to them life is made up, in the bosoms of persons older, of more experience, and more world-hardened than themselves. I loved Mariette, however, and Mariette loved me, and that was a feeling which I then fondly fancied could never decay or alter.
At length, one day, Father Bonneville declared himself strong enough to go out, and as there was a slight lull at the time in the political storm, we went to see—that is he and I—some places of public interest. I recollect an elderly gentleman coming up and joining in conversation with us, in a very mild and placable tone. The good Father was very much upon his guard, however, and in answer to some questions, said he had been very ill since he had come to Paris, and had enjoyed no opportunity of seeing the sights of the capital till the time of his stay was nearly expired. Whether the old gentleman considered us as very stupid or not I do not know, but he soon left us, and we found afterward that he was one of those worthy public denunciators, who at that time brought so many heads under the axe of the guillotine. He lived to a good old age, and I saw him afterward in London, playing at cards with great devotion, and furnished with a handsome diamond snuff-box.
This little incident, which I have only mentioned as characteristic of the times, had no result that I know of upon our fate. Three days afterward, the two post-chaises were got in order, horses were brought from the post-house, and to my infinite satisfaction we all rolled away together out of that grim city of Paris, which will ever remain associated in my mind with memories of blood and crime. It was a fine day—one of those days in February which come as if to bid us prepare for summer, long ere summer is near, and which I think are more beautiful and striking in France, than in any other country I know. The sunshine lay softly upon the face of the country, and on the top of a tall, bare tree, near the post-house, where we first stopped to change horses, a thrush was pouring forth its evening song, and making the air thrill with melody. I got out of our own little post-chaise to call Mariette’s attention to the bird, but when I looked into their cabriolet, to my surprise I saw that Madame de Salins was weeping bitterly. The post-master approached and looked in likewise; but she had great presence of mind, and instantly beckoning the man up, she asked him some questions regarding the movements of the armies, and whether he could give her any news of Citizen Bonfin, who commanded a company in Davoust’s volunteers. The man, who seemed to compassionate her greatly, replied that he could not, and asked if she had any apprehensions regarding him. She answered that the last she had heard of her husband, was, that he had been very severely wounded, but that careful nursing might yet save his life. The good post-master was not a Parisian, nor a litterateur, and so without affecting atheism, he prayed God to bless her endeavors, and we rolled on upon our way.
We went on for two or three hours after dark, and lodged as we found it expedient, at a post-house some little distance from Clermont. There, however, our landlord, the post-master, proposed a change in our arrangements, which was a very agreeable one to me. He laughed at four persons of one family traveling in two post-chaises, assured us that it would be much more convenient for us to go in a larger vehicle, having one to dispose of which would exactly suit us, and that we should save a good deal of money by the number of post-horses. His arguments seemed quite conclusive both to Father Bonneville and Madame de Salins, although he demanded two hundred livres, and our two carriages, for the one he intended to supply, which was not worth two hundred livres in itself. I was surprised at their acquiescence; for I did not believe they had much money to spare; but I rather imagine that they were afraid to oppose any thing he thought fit to suggest, and that if he had known their exact situation, he might have taxed them still more largely. By one contrivance or another, however, the papers of the family had been put into such good order, that no suspicion seems to have been excited any where. Perhaps, indeed, we were too insignificant to attract much attention, and at the end of a four days’ journey, we found ourselves rapidly approaching the frontiers of France, somewhat to the right of our then victorious army. This was, perhaps, the most dangerous point of our whole expedition, and at a spot where two hours more would have placed us in security beyond the limits of France, we paused for the night, in order to consider carefully the next step, lest we should lose the fruit of all our exertions at the very moment that it seemed within our grasp.
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A BOY’S MANŒUVRE.
It was decided to drive right toward the frontier, beyond which the advance of the French army has already been considerable. All the country, almost to the banks of the Rhine was virtually in the hands of France; but no general system of administration had been thought of. The people were foreign, monarchical and anti-Gallican, and were ready enough to give every assistance to fugitives from a system which they hated and condemned.
This decision was taken, like all desperate ones, upon the calculation, right or wrong, of the chances. I was in the room when all points were discussed between Father Bonneville and Madame de Salins. Mariette lay sleeping in a corner of her mother’s bed, looking like a cherub; but I, more anxious perhaps, and more alive to the real perils of our situation than any one of my age could have been, not disciplined by the scenes which I had gone through during the last two months, was still up, and listening eagerly for every word. The order was given for the post-horses to be put to, the next morning, and as was necessary, the route was stated.