It was refreshing to steal away from these evening debates in the drawing-room to the peaceful atmosphere of madame’s apartment. I frequently found her saying her beads, of which I knew nothing, only that they were exceedingly beautiful to the sight, and composed of very costly materials. I used to enter her room very quietly, and take my accustomed seat in silence, until her devotions were closed. Of her religion I knew no more than the name; but its evident influence upon every action of her life left an indelible impression upon my mind that it was a power above and beyond any of the prevailing forms around us. She never spoke expressly of her religion to me, but the purely Christian tone of her instructions upon all the duties of life, social and domestic, exemplified by her own conduct, proved abundantly that it was more than a mere sentiment or a name. I was too young at that time to reason upon these things, but, as I have said, they left an indelible impression, and, as life advanced, furnished food for many reveries which at length ripened into serious thought.
How the weary months must have dragged along for those exiled unfortunates! Yet the cheerfulness, even gayety, with which they endured their misfortunes and the torturing suspense of their position, was a matter of constant marvel to their New England friends. They watched the arrival of every ship from France with intense anxiety, and a renewal of grief and mourning was sure to follow the tidings it brought. Yet the polite amenities and courtesies of their daily life, which seemed a part of their nature, were never for a moment abated, and in the wildest storm of grief even the women never lost that exquisite sense of propriety which distinguishes their nation.
And so the time wore on until a certain memorable night in September, 1794. My father’s residence was situated upon an elevated street which commanded a wide view of the city and its environs. How well I remember standing with my sisters by the window of our attic dormitory, looking out upon the quiet city sleeping under the calm light of the harvest moon, on that never-to-be-forgotten night! The contemplation of the scene was too pleasant to be easily relinquished, and it was late before we could turn away from its fascinations to our rest. We were scarcely lost in sleep when we were awakened suddenly by a thrilling shout in the street, accompanied by the wild huzzahs of an excited multitude. We hastened to the lower rooms, where we found the strangers gathered around the open windows, from which they were waving handkerchiefs, hats, and scarfs, and mingling their shouts with those of the throng outside.
In the street the city crier moved along in advance of the crowd, mounted on a tall white horse, and waving an immense banner. At every crossing he would pause and shout through a speaking-trumpet, “Rejoice! rejoice! Robespierre, the tyrant, has fallen! has fallen!” Then followed the jubilant cheers of the rapidly-increasing crowd. And so they passed on through every street in the city.
I sought madame’s apartment, and found her kneeling in the same reverent attitude of humble devotion with which I had so long been familiar. Strange to say, my first thought upon hearing the news so joyful to others was one of dismal apprehension, and my first emotion one of ineffable sadness! Quick as thought came the painful assurance to my heart that this was the signal for my final separation from the loving friend, the gentle teacher, to whom I had become inexpressibly attached. As she arose and extended her arms towards me, I threw myself into them, and, hiding my face in her bosom, gave way to a burst of uncontrollable grief. Words were not necessary to explain its cause. Understanding it at a glance, she caressed and soothed me with assurances of her undying love, and that she could never forget or cease to pray for the child whom heaven had appointed to be her dearest consolation under her great afflictions.
My apprehensions proved well founded. The same ship which brought tidings of the tyrant’s fall brought letters also to madame from faithful friends, urging her immediate return to France.
My father accompanied her to Boston, in order to make needful preparation for her departure on the next outward-bound vessel. I was thrown into such an agony of grief at the thought of parting with her that madame begged I might be permitted to go with them, urging that the change of scene and a visit to relatives in Boston might divert my thoughts and soothe the bitter anguish of my young heart. He consented, and, when we reached the city, he left us at the house of his sister, where I found my cousins all engaged preparing for an examination and exhibition which was to take place the next day to close the term of the school they were attending, on the same street and near by.
They insisted that I should go with them, and madame dressed me in a white muslin with a blue sash. She then hung the locket you so much admire, suspended from a delicate gold chain, around my neck, and I set off with my cousins.
We found the girls grouped together in great glee, awaiting the opening exercises. In the centre of the group was a fair and graceful girl, near my own age and size, with a large basket containing bouquets of flowers arranged with admirable taste, which the girls were purchasing for themselves and to decorate the school-room.
My cousins replied to my questions about the young stranger: “Oh! we call her the little flower girl. She lives with a farmer just out of the city. The family are very fond of her, and he gives her a little place in the garden to cultivate flowers, and lets her come with him on market days to sell them for herself in the city. She heard of what was going on here, and thought this would be a good market for her bouquets; and so it has been, for she has sold them all.”