The Child Wife

It was not from observation of these Parisian peculiarities that Maynard had been led to make the remark we have recorded, but from a scene to which he had been witness on the preceding night.

Straying through the Palais Royal, then called “National,” he had entered the Café de Mille Colonnes, the noted resort of the Algerine officers. With the recklessness of one who seeks adventure for its own sake, and who has been accustomed to having it without stint, he soon found himself amidst men unaccustomed to introductions. Paying freely for their drinks – to which, truth compels me to say, as far as in their purses they corresponded – he was soon clinking cups with them, and listening to their sentiments. He could not help remarking the recurrence of that toast which has since brought humiliation to France.

“Vive l’Empereur!”

At least a dozen times was it drunk during the evening – each time with an enthusiasm that sounded ominous in the ears of the republican soldier. There was a unanimity, too, that rendered it the more impressive. He knew that the French President was aiming at Empire; but up to that hour he could not believe in the possibility of his achieving it.

As he drank with the Chasseurs d’Afrique in the Café de Mille Colonnes, he saw it was not only possible but proximate; and that ere long Louis Napoleon would either wrap his shoulders in the Imperial purple or in a shroud.

The thought stung him to the quick. Even in that company he could not conceal his chagrin. He gave expression to it in a phrase, half in soliloquy, half meant for the ear of a man who appeared the most moderate among the enthusiasts around him.

“Pauvre France!” was the reflection.

“Pauvre France!” cried a fierce-looking but diminutive sous-lieutenant of Zouaves, catching up the phrase, and turning toward the man who had given utterance to it.

“Pauvre France! Pourquoi, monsieur?”

“I pity France,” said Maynard, “if you intend making an Empire of it.”

“What’s that to you?” angrily rejoined the Zouave lieutenant, whose beard and moustache, meeting over his mouth, gave a hissing utterance to his speech. “What does it concern you, monsieur?”

“Not so fast, Virocq!” interposed the officer to whom Maynard had more particularly addressed himself. “This gentleman is a soldier like ourselves. But he is an American, and of coarse believes in the republic. We have all our political inclinings. That’s no reason why we should not be friends socially – as we are here!”

Virocq, after making a survey of Maynard, who did not quail before his scrutiny, seemed contented with the explanation. At all events, he satisfied his wounded patriotism by once more turning to the clique of his comrades, tossing his glass on high, and once more vociferating “Vive l’Empereur!”

It was the remembrance of this scene of last night that led Maynard to reflect, when passing along the Boulevard, there was mischief in the atmosphere of Paris.

He became more convinced of it as he walked on toward the Boulevard de Bastille. There the stream of promenaders showed groups of a different aspect: for he had gone beyond the point where the genteel bourgeoisie takes its turn; where patent-leather boots and eau sucré give place to a coarser chassure and stronger beverage. Blouses were intermingled with the throng; while the casernes on both sides of the street were filled with soldiers, drinking without stint, and what seemed stranger still, with their officers along with them!

With all his republican experience – even in the campaign of Mexico even under the exigencies of the relaxed discipline brought about by the proximity of death upon the battle-field, the revolutionary leader could not help astonishment at this. He was still more surprised to see the French people along the street – even the blouses submitting to repeated insults put upon them by those things in uniform; the former stout, stalwart fellows; the latter, most of them, diminutive ruffians, despite their big breeches and swaggering gait, looking more like monkeys than men.

From such a scene, back toward Montmartre he turned with disgust.

While retracing his steps, he reflected:

“If the French people allow themselves to be bullied by such bavards as these, it’s no business of mine. They don’t deserve to be free.”

He was on the Boulevard des Italiens as he made this reflection, heading on for the widening way of the Rue de la Paix. He had already noticed a change in the aspect of the promenaders.

Troops were passing along the pavement; and taking station at the corners of the streets. Detachments occupied the casernes and cafés, not in serious, soldier-like sobriety, but calling imperiously for refreshments, and drinking without thought or pretence of payment. The bar-keeper refusing them was threatened with a blow, or the thrust of a sabre!

The promenaders on the pave were rudely accosted. Some of them pushed aside by half-intoxicated squads, that passed them on the double-quick, as if bent on some exigent duty.

Seeing this, some parties had taken to the side streets to regain their houses. Others, supposing it only a soldierly freak – the return from a Presidential review – were disposed to take it in good part; and thinking the thing would soon be over, still stayed upon the Boulevard.

Maynard was among those who remained.

Interrupted by the passing of a company of Zouaves, he had taken stand upon the steps of a house, near the embouchure of the Rue de Vivienne. With a soldier’s eye he was scrutinising these military vagabonds, supposed to be of Arab race, but whom he knew to be the scourings of the Parisian streets, disguised under the turbans of the Mohammed. He did not think in after years such types of military would be imitated in the land he had left behind, with such pride in its chivalry.

He saw that they were already half-intoxicated, staggering after their leader in careless file, little regarding the commands called back to them. Out of the ranks they were dropping off in twos and threes, entering the cafés, or accosting whatever citizen chanced to challenge their attention.

In the doorway where Maynard had drawn up, a young girl had also taken refuge. She was a pretty creature and somewhat elegantly dressed; withal of modest appearance. She may have been “grisette” or “cocotte.” It mattered not to Maynard, who had not been regarding her.

But her fair proportions had caught the eye of one of the passing Zouaves; who, parting from the ranks of his comrades, rushed up the steps and insisted upon kissing her!

The girl appealed to Maynard, who, without giving an instant to reflection, seized the Zouave by the collar, and with a kick sent him staggering from the steps.

A shout of “Secours!” traversed along the line, and the whole troop halted, as if surprised by a sudden assault of Arabs. The officer leading them came running back, and stood confronting the stranger.

“Sacré!” he cried. “It’s you, monsieur! you who go against the Empire!”

Maynard recognised the ruffian, who on the night before had disputed with him in the Café de Mille Colonnes.

“Bon!” cried Virocq, before Maynard could make either protest or reply. “Lay hold upon him, comrades! Take him back to the guard-house in the Champs Elysées. You’ll repent your interference, monsieur, in a country that calls for the Empire and order. Vive l’Empereur!”

Half a dozen crimson-breeched ruffians springing from the ranks threw themselves around Maynard, and commenced dragging him along the Boulevard.

It required this number to conquer and carry him away.

At the corner of the Rue de la Paix a strange tableau was presented to his eyes. Three ladies, accompanied by three gentlemen, were spectators of his humiliation. Promenading upon the pavement, they had drawn up on one side to give passage to the soldiers who had him in charge.

Notwithstanding the haste in which he was carried past them, he saw who they were: Mrs Girdwood and her girls – Richard Swinton, Louis Lucas, and his acolyte, attending upon them!

There was no time to think of them, or why they were there. Dragged along by the Zouaves, occasionally cursed and cuffed by them, absorbed in his own wild rage, Maynard only occupied himself with thoughts of vengeance. It was to him an hour of agony – the agony of an impotent anger!

Chapter Thirty Three.

A Nation’s Murder

“By Jawve!” exclaimed Swinton. “It’s that fellaw, Maynard. You remember him, ladies? The fellaw who, at Newpawt, wan away after gwosely insulting me, without giving me the oppawtunity of obtaining the satisfaction of a gentleman?”

“Come, come, Mr Swinton,” said Lucas, interposing. “I don’t wish to contradict you; but you’ll excuse me for saying that he didn’t exactly run away. I think I ought to know.”

The animus of Lucas’s speech is easily explained. He had grown rather hostile to Swinton. And no wonder. After pursuing the Fifth Avenue heiress all through the Continental tour, and as he supposed with fair prospect of success, he was once more in danger of being outdone by his English rival, freshly returned to the field.

“My deaw Mr Lucas,” responded Swinton, “that’s all vewy twue. The fellaw, as you say, wote me a lettaw, which did not weach me in proper time. But that was no weason why he should have stolen away and left no addwess faw me to find him.”

“He didn’t steal away,” quietly rejoined Lucas.

“Well,” said Swinton, “I won’t argue the question. Not with you, my deaw fwend, at all events – ”

“What can it mean?” interposed Mrs Girdwood, noticing the ill feeling between the suitors of Julia, and with the design of turning it off. “Why have they arrested him? Can any one tell?”

“Pawhaps he has committed some kwime?” suggested Swinton.

“That’s not likely, sir,” sharply asserted Cornelia.

“Aw – aw. Well, Miss Inskip, I may be wong in calling it kwime. It’s a question of fwaseology; but I’ve been told that this Mr Maynard is one of those wed wepublicans who would destwoy society, weligion, in shawt, evewything. No doubt, he has been meddling heaw in Fwance, and that’s the cause of his being a pwisoner. At least I suppose so.”

Julia had as yet said nothing. She was gazing after the arrested man, who had ceased struggling against his captors, and was being hurried off out of sight.

In the mind of the proud girl there was a thought Maynard might have felt proud of inspiring. In that moment of his humiliation he knew not that the most beautiful woman on the Boulevard had him in her heart with a deep interest, and a sympathy for his misfortune – whatever it might be. “Can nothing be done, mamma?”

“For what, Julia?”

“For him,” and she pointed after Maynard. “Certainly not, my child. Not by us. It is no affair of ours. He has got himself into some trouble with the soldiers. Perhaps, as Mr Swinton says, political. Let him get out of it as he can. I suppose he has his friends. Whether or not, we can do nothing for him. Not even if we tried. How could we – strangers like us?”

“Our Minister, mamma. You remember Captain Maynard has fought under the American flag. He would be entitled to its protection. Shall we go the Embassy?”

“We’ll do nothing of the kind, silly girl. I tell you it’s no affair of ours. We shan’t make or meddle with it. Come! let us return to the hotel. These soldiers seem to be behaving strangely. We’d better get out of their way. Look yonder! There are fresh troops of them pouring into the streets, and talking angrily to the people?”

It was as Mrs Girdwood had said. From the side streets armed bands were issuing, one after the other; while along the open Boulevard came rolling artillery carriages, followed by their caissons, the horses urged to furious speed by drivers who appeared drunk!

Here and there one dropped off, throwing itself into battery and unlimbering as if for action. Before, or alongside them, galloped squadrons of cavalry, lancers, cuirassiers, and conspicuously the Chasseurs d’Afrique – fit tools selected for the task that was before them.

All wore an air of angry excitement as men under the influence of spirits taken to prepare them for some sanguinary purpose. It was proclaimed by a string of watchwords passing occasionally between them, “Vive l’Empereur! Vive l’armée! À bas les canailles de députés et philosophes!”

Each moment the turmoil increased, the crowd also augmenting from streams pouring in by the side streets. Citizens became mingled with the soldiery, and here and there could be heard angry shouts and speeches of remonstrance.

All at once, and as if by a preconcerted signal, came the crisis. It was preconcerted, and by a signal only entrusted to the leaders.

A shot fired in the direction of the Madeleine from a gun of largest calibre, boomed along the Boulevards, and went reverberating over all Paris. It was distinctly heard in the distant Bastille, where the sham barricades had been thrown up, and the sham-barricaders were listening for it. It was quickly followed by another, heard in like manner. Answering to it rose the shout, “Vive l’République – Rouge et Démocratique!”

But it was not heard for long. Almost instantaneously was it drowned by the roar of cannon, and the rattling of musketry, mingled with the imprecations of ruffians in uniform rushing along the street.

The fusillade commencing at the Bastille did not long stay there. It was not intended that it should; nor was it to be confined to the sans culottes and ouvriers. Like a stream of fire – the ignited train of a mine – it swept along the Boulevards, blazing and crackling as it went, striking down before it man and woman blouse and bourgeoise, student and shopkeeper, in short all who had gone forth for a promenade on that awful afternoon. The sober husband with wife on one arm and child on the other, the gay grisette with her student protector, the unsuspicious stranger, lady or gentleman, were alike prostrated under that leaden shower of death. People rushed screaming towards the doorways, or attempted to escape through side streets. But here, too, they were met by men in uniform. Chasseurs and Zouaves, who with foaming lips and cheeks black from the biting of cartridges, drove them back before sabre and bayonet, impaling them by scores, amidst hoarse shouts and fiendish cachinnation, as of maniacs let forth to indulge in a wild saturnalia of death!

And it continued till the pave was heaped with dead bodies, and the gutters ran blood; till there was nothing more to kill, and cruelty stayed its stroke for want of a victim!

A dread episode was that massacre of the Second of December striking terror to the heart, not only of Paris, but France.

Chapter Thirty Four.

“I’ll Come to you!”

In the balconied window of a handsome house fronting on the Tuileries Gardens were two female figures, neither of which had anything to pronounce them Parisian. One was a young girl with an English face, bright roseate complexion, and sunny hair; the other was a tawny-skinned mulatto.

The reader will recognise Blanche Vernon and her attendant, Sabina.

It was not strange that Maynard could not find Sir George at any of the hotels. The English baronet was quartered as above, having preferred the privacy of a maison meublée.

Sir George was not at home; and his daughter, with Sabina by her side, had stepped out upon the balcony to observe the ever-changing panorama upon the street below.

The call of a cavalry bugle, with the braying of a military band, had made them aware that soldiers were passing – a sight attractive to women, whether young or old, dark or fair.

On looking over the parapet, they saw that the street was filled with them: soldiers of all arms – infantry, cavalry, artillery – some halted, some marching past; while officers in brilliant uniforms, mounted on fine horses, were galloping to and fro, vociferating orders to the various squadrons they commanded.

For some time the young English girl and her attendant looked down upon the glittering array, without exchanging speech.

It was Sabina who at length broke silence.

“Dey ain’t nowha longside ow British officas, for all dat gildin’ an’ red trowsas. Dey minds me ob a monkey I once see in ’Badoes dress’ up soja fashion – jes’ like dat monkey some o’ ’em look?”

“Come, Sabby! you are severe in your criticism. These French officers have the name of being very brave and gallant.”

The daughter of Sir George Vernon was a year older than when last seen by us. She had travelled a great deal of late. Though still but a child, it was not strange she should talk with the sageness of a woman.

“Doan blieve it,” was the curt answer of the attendant. “Dar only brave when dey drink wine, an’ gallant when de womans am good-looking. Dat’s what dese French be. Affer all dey’s only ’publicans, jess de same as in dem ’Meriky States.”

The remark seemed to produce a sudden change in the attitude of the young girl. A remembrance came over her; and instead of continuing to gaze at the soldiers below, she stood abstracted and thoughtful.

Sabina noticed her abstraction, and had some suspicion of what was causing it. Though her young mistress had long since ceased to be a communicative child, the shrewd attendant could guess what was passing through her thoughts.

The words “Republic” and “America,” though spoken in Badian patois, had recalled incidents, by Blanche never to be forgotten.

Despite her late reticence on the subject of these past scenes, Sabina knew that she still fondly remembered them. Her silence but showed it the more.

“’Deed yes, Missy Blanche,” continued the mulatto, “dem fellas down dar hab no respeck for politeness. Jess see de way dey’s swaggerin’! Look how dey push dem poor people ’bout!”

She referred to an incident transpiring on the street below. A small troop of Zouaves, marching rapidly along the sidewalk, had closed suddenly upon a crowd of civilian spectators. Instead of giving fair time for the latter to make way, the officer at the head of the troop not only vented vociferations upon them, but threatened them with drawn sword; while the red-breeched ruffians at his back seemed equally ready to make use of their bayonets!

Some of the people treated it as a joke, and laughed loudly; others gave back angry words or jeers; while the majority appeared awed and trembling.

“Dem’s de sojas ob de ’public – de officas, too!” exultingly pursued the loyal Badian. “You nebba see officas ob de Queen of England do dat way. Nebba!”

“No, nor all republican officers, Sabby. I know one who would not, and so do you.”

“Ah! Missy Blanche; me guess who you peakin’ of. Dat young genlum save you from de ’tagin’ ob de steama. Berry true. He was brave, gallant offica – Sabby say dat.”

“But he was a republican!”

“Well, maybe he wa. Dey said so. But he wan’t none ob de ’Meriky ’publicans, nor ob dese French neida. Me hear you fadda say he blong to de country ob England.”

“To Ireland.”

“Shoo, Missy Blanche, dat all de same! Tho’ he no like dem Irish we see out in de Wes’ Indy. Dar’s plenty ob dem in ’Badoes.”

“You’re speaking of the Irish labourers, whom you’ve seen doing the hard work. Captain Maynard – that’s his name, Sabby – is a gentleman. Of course that makes the difference.”

“Ob course. A berry great diff’rence. He no like dem nohow. But Missy Blanche, wonda wha he now am! ’Trange we no mo’ hear ob him! You tink he gone back to de ’Meriky States?”

The question touched a chord in the bosom of the young girl that thrilled unpleasantly. It was the same that for more than twelve months she had been putting to herself, in daily repetitions. She could no more answer it than the mulatto.

“I’m sure I cannot tell, Sabby.”

She said this with an air of calmness which her quick-witted attendant knew to be unreal.

“Berry trange he no come to meet you fadda in de big house at Seven Oak. Me see de gubnor gib um de ’dress on one ob dem card. Me hear your fadder say he muss come, and hear de young genlum make promise. Wonda wha for he no keep it?”

Blanche wondered too, though without declaring it. Many an hour had she spent conjecturing the cause of his failing to keep that promise. She would have been glad to see him again; to thank him once more, and in less hurried fashion, for that act of gallantly, which, it might be, was the saving of her life.

She had been told then that he intended to take part in some of the revolutions. But she knew that all these were over; and he could not be now engaged in them. He must have stayed in England or Ireland. Or had he returned to the United States? In any case, why had he not come down to Sevenoaks, Kent? It was but an hour’s ride from London!

Perhaps in the midst of his exalted associations – military and political – he had forgotten the simple child he had plucked from peril? It might be but one of the ordinary incidents of his adventurous life, and was scarce retained in his memory?

But she remembered it; with a deep sense of indebtedness – a romantic gratitude, that grew stronger as she became more capable of appreciating the disinterestedness of the act.

Perhaps all the more, that the benefactor had not returned to claim his reward. She was old enough to know her father’s position and power. A mere adventurer would have availed himself of such a chance to benefit by them. Captain Maynard could not be this.

It made her happy to reflect that he was a gentleman; but sad to think she should never see him again.

Often had these alternations of thought passed through the mind of this fair young creature. They were passing through it that moment, as she stood looking out upon the Tuileries, regardless of the stirring incidents that were passing upon the pavement below.

Her thoughts were of the past: of a scene on the other side of the Atlantic; of many a little episode on board the Cunard steamer; of one yet more vividly remembered, when she was hanging by a rope above angry hungering waves, till she felt a strong arm thrown around her, that lifted her beyond their rage! She was startled from her reverie by the voice of her attendant, uttered in a tone of unusual excitement.

“Look! Lookee yonder, Missy Blanche! Dem Arab fellas hab take a man prisoner! See! dey fotch im this way – right under de winda. Poor fella! Wonda what he been an’ done?” Blanche Vernon bent over the balcony, and scanned the street below. Her eye soon rested on the group pointed out by Sabina.

Half a dozen Zouaves, hurrying along with loud talk and excited gesticulation, conducted a man in their midst. He was in civilian dress, of a style that bespoke the gentleman, notwithstanding its disorder.

“Some political offender!” thought the daughter of the diplomatist, not wholly unacquainted with the proceedings of the times.

It was a conjecture that passed, quick as it had come; but only into a certainty. Despite the disordered dress and humiliating position of the man the young girl recognised her rescuer – he who, but the moment before, was occupying her thoughts!

And he saw her! Walking with head erect, and eyes upturned to the heaven he feared not to face, his glance fell upon a dark-skinned woman with a white toque on her head, and beside her a young girl shining like a Virgin of the Sun!

He had no time to salute them. No chance either, for his hands were in manacles!

In another instant he was beneath the balcony, forced forward by the chattering apes who were guarding him.

But he heard a voice above his head – above their curses and their clamour – a soft, sweet voice, crying out: “I’ll come to you! I will come!”

Chapter Thirty Five.

To the Prison

“I’ll come to you! I will come!”

True to the intention thus proclaimed, Blanche Vernon glided back into the room; and, hastily laying hold of hat and cloak, was making for the stair.

“You mad, missa!” cried the mulatto, throwing herself into the doorway with the design of intercepting her. “What will you fadda say? Dat’s danger outside ’mong dem noisy sojas. For lub ob de good Jesus, Missy Blanche, doan tink ob goin’ down to de ’treet?”

“There’s no danger. I don’t care if there is. Stand out of the way, Sabby, or I’ll be too late. Stand aside, I tell you!”