Pierre,completely disheartened, beginning to doubt if after all he had doneright in coming off as he had done, threw himself upon the little bedand burst into tears.
"The history of that day was very much the history of many thatfollowed. At the wine-shop of the Rue de Poitiers, they would not orcould not direct him to Marguerite Ribou, and Pierre wandered about,glancing in every face he passed in the hopes of seeing some one whomight help him in his quest, though rarely, very rarely, venturing tomake any inquiry. He forced himself to frequent places that wereabhorrent to him; many an hour he hung about the streets through whichwould, as he came to know, pass the fearful `tumbrils,' as they werecalled--the heavy waggons crowded every day with the victims for theguillotine. Never in after-life did he forget the faces he saw--on thisghastly journey to death; some strong in despair, some fainting andunconscious as if already dead, a few, but very few, shrieking wildlyfor mercy to their brutal keepers--others, many even, with looks ofsweet resignation and noble courage, to whom the guillotine was indeedbut the gate of Heaven. Put among them all, never did he perceive thepale, beautiful features of the Countess of Valmont, nor, thoughyouthful boys and girls, little children even, were often among thecondemned, did he ever catch sight of Edmee's fair head and blue eyes,which he felt sure he would have known among a thousand. Some few timeshe forced himself to make one of the crowd in the dreadful Place de laRepublique, where the guillotine stood: but he grew too sick with horrorto repeat often his search there, feeling, too, how awful would havebeen his success! He learnt to know all the principal prisons, and thedoors at which came out both the condemned and the appallingly smallnumber of the released. But in vain--always, always in vain, till hishope began to die out, and his sad and wistful eyes told their own tale,had any one cared to read it. His money, too, was running low; he sawno possibility of gaining any; he felt that his days in Paris werenumbered, and that he must return to Valmont having failed. But for hispoor father and mother, he felt that he would rather die than do so.
"At last came the first ray of hope. One evening, in a sort of oldcuriosity shop, not far from the neighbourhood where he had been told tolook for Marguerite Ribou, he fancied he caught sight, as he passed, ofa picture resembling the well-remembered portrait of the baby Edmee. Itwas some little way back in the shop, and the owner was just closing forthe night, so he could see no more. But with the first of the morninghe was back again, waiting till the window was opened, and the contentsexposed to view. It was a quiet street, and there were few peopleabout. What were his feelings when, able at last to press his faceagainst the glass and peer into the shop, he saw that his glance thenight before had not deceived him! It was indeed the well-knownportrait of his little lady. This time Pierre threw caution to thewinds: he entered the shop boldly, and walking up to the picture, askedthe old man behind the counter, just preparing to enjoy his earlybreakfast of a bowl of soup, if he could tell him from whence it hadcome. The shopman's first glance of suspicion--everybody in Parislooked at everybody else with suspicion, it seemed to simple Pierre--fell before the boy's earnest and straightforward manner.
"`Yes,' he said, `if you have any particular reason for wanting toknow.'
"`I have the best of reasons,' said Pierre. `It belongs--it belonged tothe friends I owe most to in the world, and if they were not in greattrouble, it would not be here.'
"`You are right,' said the old man. `Many people to whom trouble is neware having a sharp taste of it now. I do not take any part in thesethings. I live as I have always done, and for my business it is a goodtime just now. You would wonder at the objects of value I have boughtfor almost nothing. It is not my fault. I cannot give more. And itwill only be afterwards that I shall reap my benefit; when thingsrecover themselves I daresay many will be glad to buy back at a profitthe things I have. I should be glad to do the owners a good turn if Ican, so I label the things carefully, and when I cannot get the realname I distinguish them somehow.'
"`And thus,' said Pierre, beside himself with impatience, `you can tellme where this came from?'
"`Yes,' said the old man, `for you seem honest and trustworthy. It camefrom some people living in the first street round the corner there,' andhe pointed through the window, `the first street to the right. I do notknow their name, but they have been there some time, and are, no doubt,as you say, in great trouble. I have several things of theirs--I markthem all with the name of the street and the number.'
"`What is it?' asked Pierre breathlessly.
"`Nine, number nine,' said the man, and scarcely waiting to thank him,young Germain, in a bewilderment of feeling, such as he had never known,rushed out of the shop and in the direction pointed out.
"It was a poor place, and it was not till he had knocked at severaldoors, and repeated several times the description of what he wanted--alady--a citizeness, he was obliged to say--with her young daughter, ayoung girl with fair hair and blue eyes, that he was at last directed tothe right rooms. Up at the very top of the house they were--rooms thatwould be dreary even to those who had never known any better: what mustthey have been to the Countess and her child? Pierre's tremulous knockwas twice repeated before it was responded to. Then the door wasopened, hesitatingly and unwillingly, by a boy. At first Pierre's heartsank with new disappointment; then, looking again, fresh perplexityseized him--it was the boy, though still paler and thinner, the same boyhe had met in the crowd that first day in Paris. And as he stared athim a new idea struck him like a revelation.
"`I am not mistaken,' he said suddenly; `they must be here. You are--are you not?--you are Edmond de Sarinet?' though, strangely enough,through all his search, the remembrance of his childish enemy, thethought of him as perhaps with his aunt and cousin, had never beforeoccurred to him.
"The boy drew himself up haughtily; thin and miserable as he looked,there would have been something ludicrous in his manner had it not beenso piteous.
"`And what if I am?' he was beginning, when he was suddenly pushedaside. A girl, as tall as he, nearly, and far stronger and healthier inappearance, though her face was pale, and her eyes swollen with muchcrying, her flaxen hair tossed back over her shoulders, as if she hadnot had the time or the heart to arrange it, came flying forward, and inanother instant her arms were round Pierre's neck, her fair face pressedagainst his sturdy shoulders as he bent to meet her.
"`Oh, Pierrot! my own good Pierrot!' she cried, though her voice shookwith sobs, `you have come at last. I knew your voice at once. Oh,Pierrot, pity your poor Edmee!--Mamma is dying! But come, come,' shewent on, dragging him forward before he had time to utter a word of thesorrow and sympathy which were choking him; `she will know you still--she will speak to you. It will make the leaving me less hard; she hasprayed so, that God has answered at last. Come, Pierre, and comforther.'
"And before he could take in that he had really found them, feeling asif he were dreaming, Pierre Germain was standing in a small andpoorly-furnished room, where the evident efforts to make it ascomfortable as possible but made its bareness more touching--standingbeside a bed, on which, whiter than the pillows that supported her, layhis dearly-loved lady, the sweet and gentle Countess of Valmont!
"`That I should have found you _thus_!' were the first words he uttered,while the tears ran down his sunburnt cheeks. `After my long search--why has it come too late?'
"But the Countess checked his words. With the beautiful calm of thedying for whom death has no terrors she smiled up into his face.
"`Not too late,' she whispered; `in time--just in time, say rather, myboy. I think God has let me live for this. I think I should have diedsome days ago but for a strange hope that you would come. You will takeher home to your mother, Pierre; she will love my Edmee as her ownchild. I cannot see into the future--I am too tired to think. But shewill be safe with you, safer than anywhere else. O God, I thank Thee!'
"Her words were scarcely audible--she had to stop between every two orthree. She did not seem surprised to see Pierre, nor di
d she ask why hedid not come before. Her spirit was already on the wing, only, as itwere, recalled, or held back, by her great mother-love. And not forEdmee alone. After a pause, during which Pierre, kneeling beside her,murmured, amidst his sobs, his most solemn promises to devote his life,his strength, his everything to the girl so soon to be orphan andalone--promises which seemed to increase the soft peace on the dyingface--she glanced round as if seeking some one.
"`Edmond, my poor Edmond!' she whispered; `him too--you will be kind tohim too, Pierre?'
"`God helping me, I will,' said Pierre.
"`Where are you, Edmond? Give me your hand,' she said.
"The poor boy came from behind the thin curtain of the bed, where he hadhidden.
"`Take me with you,
The Little Old Portrait Page 18