The Child Wife

They had arrived in London with little more than the clothes they stood in; and taken lodgings in that cheap, semi-genteel neighbourhood where almost every street, square, park, place, and terrace, has got Westbourne for its name.

Toward this quarter Mr Swinton turned his face, after reaching the head of Bond Street; and taking a twopenny “bus,” he was soon after set down at the Royal Oak, at no great distance from his suburban domicile.

“They’re gone!” he exclaimed, stepping inside the late taken apartments, and addressing himself to a beautiful woman, their sole occupant.

It was “Fan,” in a silk gown, somewhat chafed and stained, but once more a woman’s dress! Fan, with her splendid hair almost grown again – Fan no longer disguised as a valet, but restored to the dignity of a wife!

“Gone! From London, do you mean? Or only the hotel?” The question told of her being still in her husband’s confidence. “From both.”

“But you know where, don’t you?”

“I don’t.”

“Do you think they’ve left England?”

“I don’t know what to think. They’ve left the Clarendon on the 25th of last month – ten days ago. And who do you suppose has been there – back and forward to see them?”

“I don’t know.”

“Guess!”

“I can’t.”

She could have given a guess. She had a thought, but she kept it in her own heart, as about the same man she had kept other thoughts before. Had she spoken it, she would have said, “Maynard.”

She said nothing, leaving her husband to explain. He did so, at once undeceiving her.

“Well, it was Lucas. That thick-skulled brute we met in Newport, and afterwards in New York.”

“Ay; better you had never seen him in either place. He proved a useless companion, Dick.”

“I know all that. Perhaps I shall get square with him yet.”

“So they’ve gone; and that, I suppose, will be the end of it. Well, let it be; I don’t care. I’m contented enough to be once more in dear old England!”

“In cheap lodgings like this?”

“In anything. A hovel here is preferable to a palace in America! I’d rather live in a London garret, in these mean lodgings, if you like, than be mistress of that Fifth Avenue house you were so delighted to dine in. I hate their republican country?”

The sentiment was appropriate to the woman who uttered it.

“I’ll be the owner of it yet,” said Swinton, referring not to the country, but the Fifth Avenue house. “I’ll own it, if I have to spend ten years in carrying out the speculation.”

“You still intend going on with it then?”

“Of course I do. Why should I give it up?”

“Perhaps you’ve lost the chance. This Mr Lucas may have got into the lady’s good graces?”

“Bah! I’ve nothing to fear from him – the common-looking brute! He’s after her, no doubt. What of that? I take it he’s not the style to make much way with Miss Julia Girdwood. Besides, I’ve reason to know the mother won’t have it. If I’ve lost the chance in any other way, I may thank you for it, madam.”

“Me! And how, I should like to know?”

“But for you I might have been here months ago; in good time to have taken steps against their departure; or, still better, found some excuse for going along with them. That’s what I could have done. It’s the time we have lost – in getting together the cash to buy tickets for two.”

“Indeed! And I’m answerable for that, I suppose? I think I made up my share. You seem to forget the selling of my gold watch, my rings and bracelets – even to my poor pencil-case?”

“Who gave them to you?”

“Indeed! it’s like you to remember it! I wish I had never accepted them.”

“And I that I had never given them.”

“Wretch!”

“Oh! you’re very good at calling names – ugly ones, too.”

“I’ll call you an uglier still, coward!”

This stung him. Perhaps the only epithet that would; for he not only felt that it was true, but that his wife knew it.

“What do you mean?” he asked, turning suddenly red.

“What I say; that you’re a coward – you know you are. You can safely insult a woman; but when a man stands up you daren’t – no, you daren’t say boo to a goose. Remember Maynard?”

It was the first time the taunt had been openly pronounced; though on more than one occasion since the scenes in Newport, she had thrown out hints of a knowledge of that scheme by which he had avoided meeting the man named. He supposed she had only suspicions, and could know nothing of that letter delivered too late. He had taken great pains to conceal the circumstances. From what she now said, it was evident she knew all.

And she did; for James, the waiter, and other servants, had imparted to her the gossip of the hotel; and this, joined to her own observation of what had transpired, gave the whole story. The suspicion that she knew it had troubled Swinton – the certainty maddened him.

“Say that again!” he cried, springing to his feet; “say it again, and by G – , I’ll smash in your skull?”

With the threat he had raised one of the cane chairs, and held it over her head.

Throughout their oft-repeated quarrels, it had never before come to this – the crisis of a threatened blow.

She was neither large nor strong – only beautiful – while the bully was both. But she did not believe he intended to strike; and she felt that to quail would be to acknowledge herself conquered. Even to fail replying to the defiance.

She did so, with additional acerbity.

“Say what again? Remember Maynard? I needn’t say it; you’re not likely to forget him!”

The words had scarce passed from her lips before she regretted them. At least she had reason: for with a crash, the chair came down upon her head, and she was struck prostrate upon the floor!

Chapter Thirty.

Inside the Tuileries

There is a day in the annals of Paris, that to the limits of all time will be remembered with shame, sorrow, and indignation.

And not only by the people of Paris, but of France – who on that day ceased to be free.

To the Parisians, more especially, was it a day of lamentation; and its anniversary can never pass over the French capital without tears in every house, and trembling in every heart.

It was the Second of December, 1851.

On the morning of that day five men were met within a chamber of the Tuileries. It was the same chamber in which we have described a conspiracy as having been hatched some months before.

The present meeting was for a similar purpose; but, notwithstanding a coincidence in the number of the conspirators, only one of them was the same. This was the president of the former conclave – the President of France!

And there was another coincidence equally strange – in their titles; for there was a count, a field-marshal, a diplomatist, and a duke, the only difference being that they were now all of one nation – all Frenchmen.

They were the Count de M., the Marshal Saint A., the Diplomatist La G., and the Duke of C.

Although, as said, their purpose was very similar, there was a great difference in the men and their mode of discussing it. The former five have been assimilated to a gang of burglars who had settled the preliminaries for “cracking a crib.” Better might this description apply to the conspirators now in session; and at a still later period, when the housebreakers are about entering on the “job.”

Those had conspired with a more comprehensive design – the destruction of Liberty throughout all Europe. These were assembled with similar aim, though it was confined to the liberties of France.

In the former case, the development seemed distant, and would be brought about by brave soldiers fighting on the battle-field. In the latter the action was near, and was entrusted to cowardly assassins in the streets, already prepared for the purpose.

The mode by which this had been done will be made manifest, by giving an account of the scenes that were passing in the chambers occupied by the conspirators.

There was no persiflage of speech, or exchange of light drolleries, as in that conclave enlivened by the conversation of the English viscount. The time was too serious for joking; the occasion for the contemplated murder too near.

Nor was there the same tranquillity in the chamber. Men came and went; officers armed and in full uniform. Generals, colonels, and captains were admitted into the room, as if by some sign of freemasonry, but only to make reports or receive orders, and then out again.

And he who gave these orders was not the President of France, commander-in-chief of its armies, but another man of the five in that room, and for the time greater than he!

It was the Count de M.

But for him, perhaps, that conspiracy might never have been carried to a success, and France might still have been free!

It was a strange, terrible crisis, and the “man of a mission,” standing back to the fire, with split coat tails, was partially appalled by it. Despite repeated drinks, and the constant smoking of a cigar, he could not conceal the tremor that was upon him.

De M – saw it, and so did the murderer of Algerine Arabs, once strolling-player, now field-marshal of France.

“Come!” cried the sinful but courageous Count, “there must be no half measures – no weak backslidings! We’ve resolved upon this thing, and we must go through with it! Which of you is afraid?”

“Not I,” answered Saint A.

“Nor I,” said La G – , ci-devant billiard-sharper of Leicester Square, London.

“I’m not afraid,” said the Duke. “But do you think it is right?”

His grace was the only man of the five who had a spark of humanity in his heart. A poor weak man, he was only allied with the others in the intimacy of a fast friendship.

“Right?” echoed La G – . “What’s wrong in it? Would it be right to let this canaille of demagogues rule Paris – France? That’s what it’ll come to if we don’t act. Now, or never, say I!”

“And I!”

“And all of us?”

“We must do more than say,” said De M – , glancing toward the tamer of the Boulogne eagle, who still stood against the fire-place, looking scared and irresolute. “We must swear it!”

“Come, Louis!” he continued, familiarly addressing himself to the Prince-President. “We’re all in the same boat here. It’s a case of life or death, and we must stand true to one another. I propose that we swear it!”

“I have no objection,” said the nephew of Napoleon, led on by a man whom his great uncle would have commanded. “I’ll make any oath you like.”

“Enough!” cried De M – , taking a brace of duelling pistols from the mantelshelf and placing them crosswise on the table, one on top of the other. “There, gentlemen! There’s the true Christian symbol, and over it let us make oath, that in this day’s work we live or die together?”

“We swear it on the Cross!”

“On the Cross, and by the Virgin!”

“On the Cross, and by the Virgin!”

The oath had scarce died on their lips when the door was once more opened, introducing one of those uniformed couriers who were constantly coming and going.

They were all officers of high rank, and all men with fearless but sinister faces.

“Well, Colonel Gardotte!” asked De M – , without waiting for the President to speak; “how are things going on in the Boulevard de Bastille?”

“Charmingly,” replied the Colonel. “Another round of champagne, and my fellows will be in the right spirit – ready for anything!”

“Give it them! Twice if it be needed. Here’s the equivalent for the keepers of the cabarets. If there’s not enough, take their trash on a promise to pay. Say that it’s on account of – Ha! Lorrillard!”

Colonel Gardotte, in brilliant Zouave uniform, was forgotten, or at all events set aside, for a big, bearded man in dirty blouse, at that moment admitted into the room.

“What is it, mon brave?”

“I come to know at what hour we are to commence firing from the barricade? It’s built now, and we’re waiting for the signal?”

Lorrillard spoke half aside, and in a hoarse, hurried whisper.

“Be patient, good Lorrillard?” was the reply. “Give your fellows another glass, and wait till you hear a cannon fired in front of the Madeleine. Take care you don’t get so drunk as to be incapable of hearing it. Also, take care you don’t shoot any of the soldiers who are to attack you, or let them shoot you!”

“I’ll take special care about the last, your countship. A cannon, you say, will be fired by the Madeleine?”

“Yes; discharged twice to make sure – but you needn’t wait for the second report. At the first, blaze away with your blank cartridges, and don’t hurt our dear Zouaves. Here’s something for yourself, Lorrillard! Only an earnest of what you may expect when this little skirmish is over.”

The sham-barricader accepted the gold coins passed into his palm; and with a salute such as might have been given by the boatswain of a buccaneer, he slouched back through the half-opened doorway, and disappeared.

Other couriers continued to come and go, most in military costumes, delivering their divers reports – some of them in open speech, others in mysterious undertone – not a few of them under the influence of drink!

On that day the army of Paris was in a state of intoxication – ready not alone for the suppression of a riot they had been told to prepare for; but for anything – even to the slaughter of the whole Parisian people!

At 3 p.m. they were quite prepared for this. The champagne and sausages were all consumed. They were again hungry and thirsty, but it was the hunger of the hell-hound, and the thirst of the bloodhound.

“The time has come!” said De M – to his fellow-conspirators. “We may now release them from their leash! Let the gun be fired?”

Chapter Thirty One.

In the Hotel de Louvre

“Come, girls! It’s time for you to be dressing. The gentlemen are due in half an hour.”

The speech was made in a handsome apartment of the Hotel de Louvre, and addressed to two young ladies, in elegant dishabille, one of them seated in an easy chair, the other lying full length upon a sofa.

A negress, with chequered toque, was standing near the door, summoned in to assist the young ladies in their toilet.

The reader may recognise Mrs Girdwood, daughter, niece, and servant.

It is months since we have met them. They have done the European tour up the Rhine, over the Alps, into Italy. They are returning by way of Paris, into which capital they have but lately entered; and are still engaged in its exploration.

“See Paris last,” was the advice given them by a Parisian gentleman, whose acquaintance they had made; and when Mrs Girdwood, who smattered a little French, asked, Pourquoi? she was told that by seeing it first she would care for nothing beyond.

She had taken the Frenchman’s hint, and was now completing the programme.

Though she had met German barons and Italian counts by the score, her girls were still unengaged. Nothing suitable had offered itself in the shape of a title. It remained to be seen what Paris would produce.

The gentlemen “due in half an hour” were old acquaintances; two of them her countrymen, who, making the same tour, had turned up repeatedly on the route, sometimes travelling in her company. They were Messrs Lucas and Spiller.

She thought nothing of these. But there was a third expected, and looked for with more interest; one who had only called upon them the day before, and whom they had not seen since the occasion of his having dined with them in their Fifth Avenue house in New York.

It was the lost lord.

On his visit of yesterday everything had been explained; how he had been detained in the States on diplomatic business; how he had arrived in London after their departure for the Continent, with apologies for not writing to them – ignorant of their whereabouts.

On Mr Swinton’s part this last was a lie, as well as the first. In the chronicles of the time he had full knowledge of where they might have been found. He had studiously consulted the American newspaper published in London, which registered the arrivals and departures of transatlantic tourists, and knew to an hour when Mrs Girdwood and her girls left Cologne, crossed the Alps, stood upon the Bridge of Sighs, or climbed to the burning crater of Vesuvius.

And he had sighed and burned to be along with them, but could not. There was something needed for the accomplishment of his wishes – cash.

It was only when he saw recorded the Girdwood arrival in Paris, that he was at length enabled to scrape together sufficient for the expenses of a passage to, and short sojourn in, the French capital; and this only after a propitious adventure in which he had been assisted by the smiles of the goddess Fortune, and the beauty of his beloved Fan. Fan had been left behind in the London lodging. And by her own consent. She was satisfied to stay, even with the slender stipend her husband could afford to leave for her maintenance. In London the pretty horse-breaker would be at home.

“You have only half an hour, my dears!” counselled Mrs Girdwood, to stimulate the girls towards getting ready.

Cornelia, who occupied the chair, rose to her feet, laying aside the crochet on which she had been engaged, and going off to be dressed by Keziah.

Julia, on the sofa, simply yawned.

Only at a third admonition from her mother, she flung the French novel she had been reading upon the floor, and sat up.

“Bother the gentlemen?” she exclaimed, repeating the yawn with arms upraised. “I wish, ma, you hadn’t asked them to come. I’d rather have stayed in all day, and finished that beautiful story I’ve got into. Heaven bless that dear Georges Sand! Woman that she is, she should have been a man. She knows them as if she were one; their pretensions and treachery. Oh, mother! when you were determined on having a child, why did you make it a daughter? I’d give the world to have been your son!”

“Fie, fie, Jule! Don’t let any one hear you talk in that silly way!”

“I don’t care whether they do or not. I don’t care if all Paris, all France, all the world knows it. I want to be a man, and to have a man’s power.”

“Pff, child! A man’s power! There’s no such thing in existence, only in outward show. It has never been exerted, without a woman’s will at the back of it. That is the source of all power.”

The storekeeper’s relict was reasoning from experience. She knew whose will had made her the mistress of a house in the Fifth Avenue; and given her scores, hundreds, of other advantages, she had never credited to the sagacity of her husband.

“To be a woman,” she continued, “one who knows man and how to manage him, that is enough for me. Ah! Jule, if I’d only had your opportunities, I might this day have been anything.”

“Opportunities! What are they?”

“Your beauty for one.”

“Oh, ma! you had that. You still show it.”

To Mrs Girdwood the reply was not unpleasant. She had not lost conceit in that personal appearance that had subdued the heart of the rich retailer; and, but for a disinheriting clause in his will, might have thought of submitting her charms to a second market. But although this restrained her from speculating on matrimony, she was still good for flattery and flirtation.

“Well,” she said, “if I had good looks, what mattered they without money? You have both, my child.”

“And both don’t appear to help me to a husband – such as you want me to have, mamma.”

“It will be your own fault if they don’t. His lordship would never have renewed his acquaintance with us if he didn’t mean something. From what he hinted to me yesterday, I’m sure he has come to Paris on our account. He almost said as much. It is you, Julia, it is you.”

Julia came very near expressing a wish that his lordship was at the bottom of the sea; but knowing how it would annoy her mother, she kept the sentiment to herself. She had just time to get enrobed for the street; as the gentleman was announced. He was still plain Mr Swinton, still travelling incognito, on “seqwet diplomatic business for the Bwitish Government.” So had he stated in confidence to Mrs Girdwood.

Shortly after, Messrs Lucas and Spiller made their appearance, and the party was complete.

It was only to be a promenade on the Boulevards, to end in a little dinner in the Café Riche, Royale, or the Maison Doré.

And with this simple programme, the six sallied forth from the Hotel de Louvre.

Chapter Thirty Two.

On the Boulevards

On the afternoon of that same Second of December, a man, sauntering along the Boulevards, said to himself:

“There’s trouble hanging over this gay city of Paris. I can smell mischief in its atmosphere.”

The man who made this remark was Captain Maynard. He was walking out alone, having arrived in Paris only the day before.

His presence in the French metropolis may be explained by stating, that he had read in an English newspaper a paragraph announcing the arrival of Sir George Vernon at Paris. The paragraph further said, that Sir George had returned thither after visiting the various courts of Europe on some secret and confidential mission to the different British ambassadors.

Something of this Maynard knew already. He had not slighted the invitation given him by the English baronet on the landing-wharf at Liverpool. Returning from his Hungarian expedition, he had gone down to Sevenoaks, Kent. Too late, and again to suffer disappointment. Sir George had just started for a tour of travel on the Continent, taking his daughter along with him. He might be gone for a year, or maybe more. This was all his steward could or would tell.

Not much more of the missing baronet could Maynard learn in London. Only the on dit in political circles that he had been entrusted with some sort of secret circular mission to the European courts, or those of them known as the Great Powers.

Its secrecy must have been deemed important for Sir George to travel incognito. And so must he have travelled; else Maynard, diligently consulting the chronicles of the times, should have discovered his whereabouts.

This he had daily done, making inquiries elsewhere, and without success; until, months after, his eye fell upon the paragraph in question.

Had he still faith in that presentiment, several times so confidently expressed?

If so, it did not hinder him from passing over to Paris, and taking steps to help in the desired destiny.

Certain it was still desired. The anxiety he had shown to get upon the track of Sir George’s travel, the haste made on discovering it, and the diligence he was now showing to find the English baronet’s address in the French capital, were proofs that he was not altogether a fatalist.

During the twenty-four hours since his arrival in Paris, he had made inquiries at every hotel where such a guest was likely to make stay. But no Sir George Vernon – no English baronet could be found.

He had at length determined to try at the English Embassy. But that was left for the next day; and, like all strangers, he went out to take a stroll along the Boulevards.

He had reached that of Montmartre as the thought, chronicled above, occurred to him.

It could scarce have been suggested by anything he there saw. Passing and meeting him were the Parisian people – citizens of a free republic, with a president of their own choice. The bluff bourgeois, with sa femme linked on his left arm, and sa fille, perhaps a pretty child, hand-led, on his right. Behind him it might be a brace of gaily-dressed grisettes, close followed by a couple of the young dorés, exchanging stealthy glance or bold repartee.

Here and there a party of students, released from the studies of the day, a group of promenaders of both sexes, ladies and gentlemen, who had sallied out to enjoy the fine weather, and the walk upon the broad, smooth banquette of the Boulevard, all chatting in tranquil strain, unsuspicious of danger, as if they had been sauntering along a rural road, or the strand of some quiet watering-place.

A sky over them serene as that which may have canopied the garden of Eden; an atmosphere around so mild that the doors of the cafés had been thrown open, and inside could be seen the true Parisian flaneur– artists or authors – seated by the marble-topped table, sipping his eau sucré, slipping the spare sugar lumps into his pocket for home use in his six francs-a-week garret, and dividing his admiration between the patent-leather shoes on his feet and the silken-dressed damsels who passed and repassed along the flagged pavement in front.