Chapter XV
Flight
"Repousser sa croix, c'est l'appesantir."
During the first week of August the excitement in Paris reached itsgreatest height, and culminated on the Saturday after the battle ofWeissenburg. Of this defeat John Turner had, as I believe, the newsbefore any other in Paris. Indeed, the evil tidings came to the cityfrom the English _Times_. The stout banker, whose astuteness I hadnever doubted, displayed at this time a number of thosequalities--such as courage, cool-headedness and foresight--to which weundoubtedly owe our greatness in the world. We are, as our neighbourssay, a nation of shopkeepers, but we keep a rifle under the counter. Aman may prove his courage in the counting-house as effectually as onthe field of battle.
"These," I said to Turner, "are stirring times. I suppose you are veryanxious."
I had passed before the Bourse in coming to the Avenue d'Antan, andhad, as I spoke, a lively recollection of the white-faced andpanic-stricken financiers assembled there. For one franc that thesemen had at stake, it was probable that John Turner had a thousand.
"Yes--I am anxious," he said, quietly. "These are stirring times, asyou say; they stimulate the appetite wonderfully, and, I think, helpthe digestion."
As he spoke a clerk came into the room without knocking--his eyesbright with excitement. He gave John Turner a note, which that stoutgentleman read at a glance, and rose from the breakfast table.
"Come with me," he said, "and you will see some history."
We drove rapidly to the Bourse, through crowded streets, and there Iwitnessed a scene of the greatest excitement that it has been my lotto look upon; for it has pleased God to keep me from any battle-field.
Above a sea of hats a score of tricolour flags fluttered in the dustyair, and wild strains of the Marseillaise dominated the roar andbabble of a thousand tongues wagging together. The steps of the greatbuilding were thronged with men, and on the bases of the statuaryorators harangued high heaven, for no man had the patience to listen.
"What is it?" I asked my companion.
"News of a French victory; but it wants confirmation."
A MAN CLAMBERED ON THE BOX BESIDE THE COACHMAN. "I WILLSING YOU THE MARSEILLAISE!" HE SHOUTED.]
Some who could sing, and others who only thought they could, wereshouting the Marseillaise from any elevation that presented itself--anomnibus or a street refuse-box served equally well for thesemusicians.
"How on earth these people have ever grown to a great nation!"muttered John Turner, who sat in his carriage. A man clambered on thebox beside the coachman.
"I will sing you the Marseillaise!" he shouted.
"Thank you," replied John Turner.
But already the humour of the throng was changing, and some began toreflect. In a few minutes doubt swept over them like a shower of rain,and the expression of their faces altered. Almost immediately it wasannounced that the news of the victory had been a hoax.
"I am going to my office," said Turner, curtly. "Come and see meto-morrow morning. I may have some advice to give you."
In the evening I saw Madame, and told her that things were going badlyon the frontier; but I did not know that the Germans were, at the timeof speaking, actually on French territory, and that MacMahon had beenbeaten at Metz.
"Get the women out of the country," said John Turner to me the nextmorning, "and don't bother me."
I went back to the Hotel Clericy and there found Alphonse Giraud. Hewas in the morning-room with the two ladies.
"I have come," he said, "to bid you all good-by, as I was just tellingthese ladies.
"You remember," he went on, taking my hand and holding it in hiseffusive French way--"you remember that I said I would buy myself acommission? The good God has sent me one, but it is a rifle instead ofa sword."
"Alphonse has volunteered to fight as a common soldier!" criedLucille, her face glowing with excitement. "Is it not splendid? Ah, ifI were only a man!"
Madame looked gravely and almost apprehensively at her daughter. Shedid not join in Giraud's proud laugh.
"There is bad news," she said, looking at my face. "What is it?"
"Yes, there is bad news, and it is said that Paris is to be placedunder martial law. You and Mademoiselle must leave."
Alphonse protested that it was only a temporary reverse, and thatGeneral Frossard had but retreated in order to strike a harder blow.He nodded and winked at me, but I ignored his signals; for I havenever held that women are dolls or children, that the truth must bewithheld from them because it is unpleasant.
So Alphonse Giraud departed to fight for his country. He was draftedinto a cavalry regiment, "together with some grooms and hostlers fromthe stables of the Paris Omnibus Company," as he wrote to me later ingood spirits. He proved himself, moreover, a brave soldier as well asa true and honest French gentleman.
Madame de Clericy and Lucille made preparations for an earlydeparture, but were averse to quitting Paris until such time asnecessity should drive them into retreat. I saw nothing of John Turnerat this time, but learnt from others that he was directing the courseof his great banking house with a steady hand and a clear head. Iwanted money, but did not go to him, knowing that he would requireexplanations which I was in no wise prepared to give him. Instead Itelegraphed to my lawyer in London, who negotiated a loan for me,mortgaging, so far as I could gather from his technicalcommunications, my reversion of Hopton in case Isabella Gayersonshould marry another than myself. The money was an absolute necessity,for without it Madame and Lucille could not leave France, and I tookbut little heed of the manner in which it was procured.
It was in the evening of August 28th, a few hours after GeneralTrochu's decree calling upon foreigners to quit Paris, that I sought aconsultation with Madame. The Vicomtesse came to my study, diviningperhaps that what I had to say to her were better spoken in theabsence of Lucille.
"You wish to speak to me, _mon ami_," she said.
In reply I laid before her the proclamation issued by General Trochu.In it all foreigners were warned to leave, and persons who were not ina position to "_faire face a l'ennemi_" invited to quit Paris. Sheglanced through the paper hurriedly.
"Yes," she said; "I understand. You as a foreigner cannot stay."
"I can stay or go," I replied; "but I cannot leave you andMademoiselle in Paris."
"Then what are we to do?"
I then laid before her my plan, which was simple enough in itself.
"To England?" said Madame de Clericy, when I had finished, and in hervoice I detected that contempt for our grey country which is held bynearly all Frenchwomen. "Has it come to that? Is France then unsafe?"
"Not yet--but it may become so. The Germans are nearer than any oneallows himself to suppose."
I saw that she did not believe me. Madame de Clericy was not verylearned, and it is probable that her history was all forgotten. Parishad always seemed to her the centre of civilisation and safelywithdrawn from the perils of war or internal disorder.
I begged her to leave the capital, and painted in lurid colours thepossible effects of further defeat and the resulting fall of theFrench Empire.
"See," I said, opening the drawer of my writing table, "I have themoney here. All is prepared, and in England I have arranged for yourreception at a house which, if it is not palatial, will at all eventsbe comfortable."
"Where is the house?"
"At a place called Hopton, on the border of Suffolk and Norfolk. Itstands empty and quite ready for your reception. The servants arethere."
"And the rent?" said she, without looking at me. "Is that within ourmeans?"
"The rent will be almost nominal," I replied. "That can be arrangedwithout difficulty. Many of our English country houses are nowneglected. It is the fashion for our women, Madame, to despise acountry life. They prefer to wear out themselves and their bestattributes on the pavement."
Madame smiled.
"Everything is so strong about you," she said; "especially yourprejudices. And this hou
se to which we are to be sent--is it large? Isit well situated? May one inquire?"
I could not understand her eyes, which were averted with somethinglike a smile.
"It is one of the best situated houses in England," I answered,unguardedly, and Madame laughed outright.
"My friend," she said, "one reason why I like you is that you are notat all clever. This house is yours, and you are offering Lucille andme a home in our time of trouble--and I accept."
She laid her hand, as light as a leaf, on my shoulder, and when Ilooked up she was gone.
On the morning of Saturday, September 3d, I received a note from JohnTurner.
"If you have not gone--go!" he wrote.
Our departure had been fixed for a later date, but the yacht of anEnglish friend had been lying in the port of Fecamp at my disposal forsome days. We embarked there the same evening, having taken train atthe St. Lazare station within two hours of the receipt of JohnTurner's warning. The streets of Paris, as we drove through them, weresingularly quiet, and men passing their friends on the pavement noddedin silence, without exchanging other greeting. Hope seemed at last tohave folded her wings and fled from the bright city. Some indefinableknowledge of coming catastrophe hovered over all.
It was a quiet sunset that clothed sea and sky with a goldensplendour as we steamed out of Fecamp harbour that evening. I walkedon the deck of the trim yacht with its captain until a late hour, andlooked my last on the white cliffs and headlands of the doomed landabout midnight--the hour at which the news was spreading over France,as black, swift and terrible as night itself, that hope was dead, thatthe whole army had been captured at Sedan, and the Emperor himselfmade prisoner. All this, however, we did not learn until we landed inEngland, although I have no doubt that John Turner knew it when hegave us so sharp a warning.
The weather was favourable to us, and the ladies came on deck the nextmorning in a calm sea as we sped past the North Foreland between theGoodwin Lightships and the land. It was a lovely morning, and the seaall stripes of deep blue and green, and even yellow where the greatsand banks of the Thames estuary lay beneath the rippled surface.
Lucille thought but little of England, as she judged it from the tamebluffs of Thanet.
"Are these the famous white cliffs of England?" she said to thecaptain, for she rarely addressed herself unnecessarily to me. "Whythey are but one quarter of the height of those of St. Valery that Isaw from the cabin window last night."
The captain, a simple man, sought to prove that England hadcounterbalancing advantages. He knew not that in certain humours awoman will find fault with anything. I thought that Mademoiselle tookexception to the poor cliffs because they were those of my nativeland.
Madame proved more amenable to reason, however, and the captain, whoseknowledge of French was not great, made an easier convert of her thanof Lucille, who spoke English prettily enough, while her mother knewonly the one tongue.
"There is bad weather coming," said the captain to me later in theday. "And I wish the tide served for Lowestoft harbour earlier thanten o'clock."
We anchored just astern of the coast-service gunboat, and a fewhundred yards south of the pier at Lowestoft, awaiting the rise of thetide. At eleven o'clock we moved in, and passing through the dock intothe river, anchored there for the night. I gave Madame the choice ofpassing the night on board and going ashore to the hotel, as it wastoo late to drive to Hopton. She elected to remain on board.
As ill fortune would have it, the evil weather foreseen by the captaincame upon us in the night, and daylight next morning showed a grey andhopeless sea, with lowering clouds and a slantwise rain drivingacross all. The tide was low when the ladies came on deck, and themuddy banks of the river looked dismal enough, while the flatmeadowland stretched away on all sides into a dim and mournfulperspective of mist and rain.
The Hopton carriage was awaiting us at the landing-stage, and to thoseunaccustomed to such work the landing in a small boat no doubtpresented difficulties and dangers of which we men took no account.The streets of Lowestoft were sloppy and half-deserted as we drovethrough them. A few fishermen in their oilskins seemed to emphasisethe wetness and dismalness of England as they hurried down to theharbour in their great sea-boots. On the uplands a fine drizzle veiledthe landscape, and showed the gnarled and sparse trees to smalladvantage.
Lucille sat with close-pressed lips and looked out of the streamingwindows. There were unshed tears in her eyes, and I grimly realisedthe futility of human effort. All my plans had been frustrated by apassing rain.
At home, however, I found all comfortable enough, and fires alight inthe hall and principal rooms.
It was late in the day that I came upon Lucille alone in thedrawing-room. She was looking out of the window across the bleaktable-land to the sea.
"I am sorry, Mademoiselle," I said, suddenly conscious of the stiffbareness of my ancestral home, "that things are not brighter. I havedone my best."
"Thank you," she said, and there was still resentment in her voice."You have been very kind."
She stood for a few moments in silence, and then turning flashed anangry glance at me.
"I do not know who constituted you our protector," she saidscornfully.
"Fate, Mademoiselle."
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