The Little Old Portrait by Mrs. Molesworth
noaristocrat--why should you care? Stay! I heard tell--what was it then?They let the little lady go--that was it, I think. A nice little ladytoo, if she hadn't been one of the cursed breed. Many's the silverpiece she's given me as she passed. What was she to you that you shouldlook so, boy? Foster-sister, may be?'
"Pierre nodded. He could not speak.
"`They let her go--or she wasn't to be found. That was it. You'll find_her_ may be. They said Marguerite had a hand in it--do you knowMarguerite? She lives with the Citizeness. Nay, I forget her name, butyou may hear of her at the wine-shop at the corner of the Rue dePoitiers. She can tell you more than I, if she will,' and with thesewords the old woman hurried off more quickly than one could have thoughtshe could move, and drew to the door sharply, in Pierre's face.
"He walked slowly down the street, stunned and dazed by what he hadheard. He had known it might be so; he had heard plenty of the horrorstaking place in this very Paris where he stood. But it had not comehome to him till now, and he felt as if he could not believe it. Evento think of the Marquis and his wife coming to such an end--people hehad known, whose faces he could remember--made him shiver; but for hisown ladies! No, he could not believe it. `No one--not thehardest-hearted--could look in the Countess's face and not see howgentle and good she was! And Mademoiselle Edmee, if it were true thatthey had taken her mother, she would have died of grief. No--I shallhope still!' he said."
CHAPTER TEN.
"Pierre had wandered down the whole length of the Rue de Lille before hequite came to himself, and then he started to see how far he had come.He had crossed two or three side streets without noticing their names.
"`I may have passed the Rue de Poitiers,' he said to himself, `where shesaid the wine-shop was,' and he looked about him anxiously. A few stepsfurther brought him out of the quiet Rue de Lille into a widerthoroughfare, the noise of which had already begun to reach him. Herethere was life and movement enough--of a kind. Groups stood abouttalking, noisily laughing; some few passers-by, looking more serious, asif on their way to or from their daily work, were stopped and jeered at,and in some cases seemed to have difficulty in getting away.
"`Stay five minutes--they are coming this way--hark! you can hear themalready,' Pierre heard said in a group of blouses to one of theirfellows, who evidently wanted to get off.
"`My wife's ill,' he said, `and the noise frightens her when she hearsthem pass. Let me go, good friends; I would stay, and gladly, but forthat.'
"They let him go with a muttered oath. The man's face was pale, andbelied his words. Indeed, on many faces Pierre learnt to recognise thetraces of misery and deadly fear, though these very ones sometimeslaughed and shouted the loudest. But his attention was now caught by astrange sound coming nearer and nearer--a distant roar it had seemed atfirst, but by degrees it grew into the shouting and yelling, hardly tobe called singing--though there was some tune and measure in it, and thetime was marked by the beating of small drums, the clashing and clangingof tambourine;--of a multitude of human voices.
"`What is it?' said Pierre, half-timidly, to a boy a year or two youngerthan himself, who stood near. `Is it a procession?'
"The boy looked at him curiously. But his face was thin and pale; hedid not look as if he had come in for many of the good things to be hadfor the asking.
"`A procession!' he repeated, but in a low voice; `mind what you say.'For the word is associated in France with religious observances. `It isthe Carmagnole--the dance of rejoicing. Stay, you will see foryourself; you must be a new-comer never to have seen it before.'
"Many and many a time in his after-life, as he has often told me, didPierre Germain wish he had never seen that horrid sight at all. It usedto haunt him, strong and practical as he was, like a hideous nightmare.There they came--a band of men and women, or beings that had been such,though looking more like demons. Some were half-naked, with scarfs andribbons, generally of flaming red, flying from them; some in the mostabsurd and grotesque costumes that could be imagined: the women withlong hair streaming, the men daubed crimson with paint or what lookedlike worse, some brandishing sticks and clubs, some waving scarletflags--all leaping and dancing with a sort of monotonous rhythm,sometimes closing in together, sometimes stretching out with joinedhands in enormous wheels, all yelling and shouting, with yet a tune orrefrain that went in time to their steps, and somehow seemed to make thewhole more horrible.
"`Are they mad?' said Pierre, leaning back against the wall withunutterable loathing. The pale-faced boy was still beside him, for toproceed on one's way till the hideous crowd had passed was impossible.
"`Hush! hush!' said the boy in a tone of real terror. `Mad? Yes,indeed they are--mad with blood! Oh, I would not have risked coming outhad I known I would meet them again,' and he reeled as if he were goingto faint. Pierre caught him by the arm; something in the boy's air andtone seemed at variance with his shabby clothes.
"`Can I do nothing for you?' said Pierre. `You seem so weak. Will youtake my arm?'
"But the boy seemed better again, and as the crowd began to disperse alittle he was evidently in an agony to be gone.
"`No, no,' he said, `I have not far to go. Take care of yourself,' headded, and in an instant he had slipped away.
"Pierre stood for a moment, feeling almost as sick and faint as the poorboy he had pitied. Then afraid of attracting notice he crossed thestreet, and went down the first quiet one he came to. Here, after awhile, he passed some children playing about, whom he asked to directhim to the Rue de Poitiers. It happened to be very near, and in anothermoment he found himself again at a corner of the Rue de Lille. Herestood a wine-shop, sure enough. It must be here that Marguerite Ribouwas to be heard of.
"But his courage, or presence of mind rather, had begun to fail him alittle. He had met with such disappointment, and was confused andshocked by what he had seen and heard, and by the constant warnings to`beware' of he scarcely knew what. It was evident that his countrifiedair and anxious face made him remarked, and though he had no fear forhimself, he felt more than ever that all chance of finding and rescuingEdmee or her mother hung on him alone. He was faint and hungry too--hehad had nothing for many hours but his cup of coffee and bread--and hefelt as if even the fumes of the wine, for he distinguished severalblouses drinking inside, would mount to his head, and make him feelstill more confused, and he hung about irresolutely, even whileconscious that his doing so might attract attention. Happily for him,before any one inside had noticed him, a servant-maid with a basket onher arm came out of the shop and passed down the street. Pierrefollowed her quickly.
"`Pardon,' said he, lifting his cap--a vague idea had struck him thatthis perhaps might be the Marguerite he was in search of, but one glanceat the girl's round rosy face told him he was wrong; `is there anywherenear here I can get anything to eat at?'
"`Follow me,' said the girl, who seemed a matter-of-fact person, `thereis an eating-house round the corner.'
"`Do you live there?' said Pierre, glancing back to the wine-shop.
"`To be sure. I am the servant.'
"`Do you know any one called Marguerite, who comes there sometimes?'
"The girl shook her head.
"`She comes no more,' she said. `She and the mistress, the CitizenessVictorine, had words one day, and since then she comes no more.'
"`Do you know where she is now?'
"Again the stolid young person shook her head.
"`It is somewhere over by the church of Notre Dame--a good way fromhere. But I cannot tell you where,' said the girl. `It is possiblethat the Citizeness Victorine may know, and would tell you if she werein a good temper.'
"But Pierre, feeling sure that the Victorine she spoke of was none otherthan his old enemy of the same name, was unutterably thankful to haveavoided coming across her, so in his turn he shook his head.
"`It would not be worth while to derange the Citizeness, a mereinquiry,' he said vaguely, and then having arrived within sight of themodes
t restaurant, he thanked the girl, and entering, asked for the foodhe was much in need of.
"His spirits rose a little when he was no longer faint and hungry. Hedetermined to go in the direction the girl had mentioned, with a vaguehope of somehow or other coming upon some trace, for in his inexperiencehe did not realise the difficulty and improbability of doing so. Hespent the whole of the day in wandering about, seeing and hearing manystrange and startling things, doing his utmost to hide his impressions,for fear of attracting notice. But when night fell, and he could wanderabout no more he took refuge in a little room he had managed to find inthe house of a poor washerwoman, who let it to him cheaply, on thecondition of his paying a week in advance, and then poor
"Pierre nodded. He could not speak.
"`They let her go--or she wasn't to be found. That was it. You'll find_her_ may be. They said Marguerite had a hand in it--do you knowMarguerite? She lives with the Citizeness. Nay, I forget her name, butyou may hear of her at the wine-shop at the corner of the Rue dePoitiers. She can tell you more than I, if she will,' and with thesewords the old woman hurried off more quickly than one could have thoughtshe could move, and drew to the door sharply, in Pierre's face.
"He walked slowly down the street, stunned and dazed by what he hadheard. He had known it might be so; he had heard plenty of the horrorstaking place in this very Paris where he stood. But it had not comehome to him till now, and he felt as if he could not believe it. Evento think of the Marquis and his wife coming to such an end--people hehad known, whose faces he could remember--made him shiver; but for hisown ladies! No, he could not believe it. `No one--not thehardest-hearted--could look in the Countess's face and not see howgentle and good she was! And Mademoiselle Edmee, if it were true thatthey had taken her mother, she would have died of grief. No--I shallhope still!' he said."
CHAPTER TEN.
"Pierre had wandered down the whole length of the Rue de Lille before hequite came to himself, and then he started to see how far he had come.He had crossed two or three side streets without noticing their names.
"`I may have passed the Rue de Poitiers,' he said to himself, `where shesaid the wine-shop was,' and he looked about him anxiously. A few stepsfurther brought him out of the quiet Rue de Lille into a widerthoroughfare, the noise of which had already begun to reach him. Herethere was life and movement enough--of a kind. Groups stood abouttalking, noisily laughing; some few passers-by, looking more serious, asif on their way to or from their daily work, were stopped and jeered at,and in some cases seemed to have difficulty in getting away.
"`Stay five minutes--they are coming this way--hark! you can hear themalready,' Pierre heard said in a group of blouses to one of theirfellows, who evidently wanted to get off.
"`My wife's ill,' he said, `and the noise frightens her when she hearsthem pass. Let me go, good friends; I would stay, and gladly, but forthat.'
"They let him go with a muttered oath. The man's face was pale, andbelied his words. Indeed, on many faces Pierre learnt to recognise thetraces of misery and deadly fear, though these very ones sometimeslaughed and shouted the loudest. But his attention was now caught by astrange sound coming nearer and nearer--a distant roar it had seemed atfirst, but by degrees it grew into the shouting and yelling, hardly tobe called singing--though there was some tune and measure in it, and thetime was marked by the beating of small drums, the clashing and clangingof tambourine;--of a multitude of human voices.
"`What is it?' said Pierre, half-timidly, to a boy a year or two youngerthan himself, who stood near. `Is it a procession?'
"The boy looked at him curiously. But his face was thin and pale; hedid not look as if he had come in for many of the good things to be hadfor the asking.
"`A procession!' he repeated, but in a low voice; `mind what you say.'For the word is associated in France with religious observances. `It isthe Carmagnole--the dance of rejoicing. Stay, you will see foryourself; you must be a new-comer never to have seen it before.'
"Many and many a time in his after-life, as he has often told me, didPierre Germain wish he had never seen that horrid sight at all. It usedto haunt him, strong and practical as he was, like a hideous nightmare.There they came--a band of men and women, or beings that had been such,though looking more like demons. Some were half-naked, with scarfs andribbons, generally of flaming red, flying from them; some in the mostabsurd and grotesque costumes that could be imagined: the women withlong hair streaming, the men daubed crimson with paint or what lookedlike worse, some brandishing sticks and clubs, some waving scarletflags--all leaping and dancing with a sort of monotonous rhythm,sometimes closing in together, sometimes stretching out with joinedhands in enormous wheels, all yelling and shouting, with yet a tune orrefrain that went in time to their steps, and somehow seemed to make thewhole more horrible.
"`Are they mad?' said Pierre, leaning back against the wall withunutterable loathing. The pale-faced boy was still beside him, for toproceed on one's way till the hideous crowd had passed was impossible.
"`Hush! hush!' said the boy in a tone of real terror. `Mad? Yes,indeed they are--mad with blood! Oh, I would not have risked coming outhad I known I would meet them again,' and he reeled as if he were goingto faint. Pierre caught him by the arm; something in the boy's air andtone seemed at variance with his shabby clothes.
"`Can I do nothing for you?' said Pierre. `You seem so weak. Will youtake my arm?'
"But the boy seemed better again, and as the crowd began to disperse alittle he was evidently in an agony to be gone.
"`No, no,' he said, `I have not far to go. Take care of yourself,' headded, and in an instant he had slipped away.
"Pierre stood for a moment, feeling almost as sick and faint as the poorboy he had pitied. Then afraid of attracting notice he crossed thestreet, and went down the first quiet one he came to. Here, after awhile, he passed some children playing about, whom he asked to directhim to the Rue de Poitiers. It happened to be very near, and in anothermoment he found himself again at a corner of the Rue de Lille. Herestood a wine-shop, sure enough. It must be here that Marguerite Ribouwas to be heard of.
"But his courage, or presence of mind rather, had begun to fail him alittle. He had met with such disappointment, and was confused andshocked by what he had seen and heard, and by the constant warnings to`beware' of he scarcely knew what. It was evident that his countrifiedair and anxious face made him remarked, and though he had no fear forhimself, he felt more than ever that all chance of finding and rescuingEdmee or her mother hung on him alone. He was faint and hungry too--hehad had nothing for many hours but his cup of coffee and bread--and hefelt as if even the fumes of the wine, for he distinguished severalblouses drinking inside, would mount to his head, and make him feelstill more confused, and he hung about irresolutely, even whileconscious that his doing so might attract attention. Happily for him,before any one inside had noticed him, a servant-maid with a basket onher arm came out of the shop and passed down the street. Pierrefollowed her quickly.
"`Pardon,' said he, lifting his cap--a vague idea had struck him thatthis perhaps might be the Marguerite he was in search of, but one glanceat the girl's round rosy face told him he was wrong; `is there anywherenear here I can get anything to eat at?'
"`Follow me,' said the girl, who seemed a matter-of-fact person, `thereis an eating-house round the corner.'
"`Do you live there?' said Pierre, glancing back to the wine-shop.
"`To be sure. I am the servant.'
"`Do you know any one called Marguerite, who comes there sometimes?'
"The girl shook her head.
"`She comes no more,' she said. `She and the mistress, the CitizenessVictorine, had words one day, and since then she comes no more.'
"`Do you know where she is now?'
"Again the stolid young person shook her head.
"`It is somewhere over by the church of Notre Dame--a good way fromhere. But I cannot tell you where,' said the girl. `It is possiblethat the Citizeness Victorine may know, and would tell you if she werein a good temper.'
"But Pierre, feeling sure that the Victorine she spoke of was none otherthan his old enemy of the same name, was unutterably thankful to haveavoided coming across her, so in his turn he shook his head.
"`It would not be worth while to derange the Citizeness, a mereinquiry,' he said vaguely, and then having arrived within sight of themodes
"His spirits rose a little when he was no longer faint and hungry. Hedetermined to go in the direction the girl had mentioned, with a vaguehope of somehow or other coming upon some trace, for in his inexperiencehe did not realise the difficulty and improbability of doing so. Hespent the whole of the day in wandering about, seeing and hearing manystrange and startling things, doing his utmost to hide his impressions,for fear of attracting notice. But when night fell, and he could wanderabout no more he took refuge in a little room he had managed to find inthe house of a poor washerwoman, who let it to him cheaply, on thecondition of his paying a week in advance, and then poor