A Beleaguered City

by Mrs. Oliphant

well as I could,the questions of the women. Even in the intensest excitement wearynature will claim her dues. I slept. I can even remember the gratefulsense of being able to put all anxieties and perplexities aside for themoment, as I went to sleep. I felt the drowsiness gain upon me, and Iwas glad. To forget was of itself a happiness. I woke up, however,intensely awake, and in perfect possession of all my faculties, while itwas yet dark; and at once got up and began to dress. The moment ofhesitation which generally follows waking--the little interval ofthought in which one turns over perhaps that which is past, perhaps thatwhich is to come--found no place within me. I got up without a moment'spause, like one who has been called to go on a journey; nor did itsurprise me at all to see my wife moving about, taking a cloak from herwardrobe, and putting up linen in a bag. She was already fully dressed;but she asked no questions of me any more than I did of her. We were inhaste, though we said nothing. When I had dressed, I looked round me tosee if I had forgotten anything, as one does when one leaves a place. Isaw my watch suspended to its usual hook, and my pocketbook, which I hadtaken from my pocket on the previous night. I took up also the lightovercoat which I had worn when I made my rounds through the city on thefirst night of the darkness. 'Now,' I said, 'Agnes, I am ready.' I didnot speak to her of where we were going, nor she to me. Little Jean andmy mother met us at the door. Nor did _she_ say anything, contrary toher custom; and the child was quite quiet. We went downstairs togetherwithout saying a word. The servants, who were all astir, followed us. Icannot give any description of the feelings that were in my mind. I hadnot any feelings. I was only hurried out, hastened by something which Icould not define--a sense that I must go; and perhaps I was too muchastonished to do anything but yield. It seemed, however, to be no forceor fear that was moving me, but a desire of my own; though I could nottell how it was, or why I should be so anxious to get away. All theservants, trooping after me, had the same look in their faces; they wereanxious to be gone--it seemed their business to go--there was noquestion, no consultation. And when we came out into the street, weencountered a stream of processions similar to our own. The childrenwent quite steadily by the side of their parents. Little Jean, forexample, on an ordinary occasion would have broken away--would have runto his comrades of the Bois-Sombre family, and they to him. But no; thelittle ones, like ourselves, walked along quite gravely. They asked noquestions, neither did we ask any questions of each other, as, 'Whereare you going?' or, 'What is the meaning of a so-early promenade?'Nothing of the kind; my mother took my arm, and my wife, leading littleJean by the hand, came to the other side. The servants followed. Thestreet was quite full of people; but there was no noise except the soundof their footsteps. All of us turned the same way--turned towards thegates--and though I was not conscious of any feeling except the wish togo on, there were one or two things which took a place in my memory. Thefirst was, that my wife suddenly turned round as we were coming out ofthe _porte-cochere_, her face lighting up. I need not say to any one whoknows Madame Dupin de la Clairiere, that she is a beautiful woman.Without any partiality on my part, it would be impossible for me toignore this fact: for it is perfectly well known and acknowledged byall. She was pale this morning--a little paler than usual; and her blueeyes enlarged, with a serious look, which they always retain more orless. But suddenly, as we went out of the door, her face lighted up, hereyes were suffused with tears--with light--how can I tell what itwas?--they became like the eyes of angels. A little cry came from herparted lips--she lingered a moment, stooping down as if talking to someone less tall than herself, then came after us, with that light still inher face. At the moment I was too much occupied to enquire what it was;but I noted it, even in the gravity of the occasion. The next thing Iobserved was M. le Cure, who, as I have already indicated, is a man ofgreat composure of manner and presence of mind, coming out of the doorof the Presbytery. There was a strange look on his face of astonishmentand reluctance. He walked very slowly, not as we did, but with a visibledesire to turn back, folding his arms across his breast, and holdinghimself as if against the wind, resisting some gale which blew behindhim, and forced him on. We felt no gale; but there seemed to be astrange wind blowing along the side of the street on which M. le Curewas. And there was an air of concealed surprise in his face--greatastonishment, but a determination not to let any one see that he wasastonished, or that the situation was strange to him. And I cannot tellhow it was, but I, too, though pre-occupied, was surprised to perceivethat M. le Cure was going with the rest of us, though I could not havetold why.

  Behind M. le Cure there was another whom I remarked. This was JacquesRichard, he of whom I have already spoken. He was like a figure I haveseen somewhere in sculpture. No one was near him, nobody touching him,and yet it was only necessary to look at the man to perceive that hewas being forced along against his will. Every limb was in resistance;his feet were planted widely yet firmly upon the pavement; one of hisarms was stretched out as if to lay hold on anything that should comewithin reach. M. le Cure resisted passively; but Jacques resisted withpassion, laying his back to the wind, and struggling not to be carriedaway. Notwithstanding his resistance, however, this rough figure wasdriven along slowly, struggling at every step. He did not make onemovement that was not against his will, but still he was driven on. Onour side of the street all went, like ourselves, calmly. My motheruttered now and then a low moan, but said nothing. She clung to my arm,and walked on, hurrying a little, sometimes going quicker than Iintended to go. As for my wife, she accompanied us with her light step,which scarcely seemed to touch the ground, little Jean pattering by herside. Our neighbours were all round us. We streamed down, as in a longprocession, to the Porte St. Lambert. It was only when we got there thatthe strange character of the step we were all taking suddenly occurredto me. It was still a kind of grey twilight, not yet day. The bells ofthe Cathedral had begun to toll, which was very startling--not ringingin their cheerful way, but tolling as if for a funeral; and no othersound was audible but the noise of footsteps, like an army making asilent march into an enemy's country. We had reached the gate when asudden wondering came over me. Why were we all going out of our housesin the wintry dusk to which our July days had turned? I stopped, andturning round, was about to say something to the others, when I becamesuddenly aware that here I was not my own master. My tongue clave to theroot of my mouth; I could not say a word. Then I myself was turnedround, and softly, firmly, irresistibly pushed out of the gate. Mymother, who clung to me, added a little, no doubt, to the force againstme, whatever it was, for she was frightened, and opposed herself to anyendeavour on my part to regain freedom of movement; but all that herfeeble force could do against mine must have been little. Several othermen around me seemed to be moved as I was. M. Barbou, for one, made astill more decided effort to turn back, for, being a bachelor, he had noone to restrain him. Him I saw turned round as you would turn a_roulette_. He was thrown against my wife in his tempestuous course, andbut that she was so light and elastic in her tread, gliding out straightand softly like one of the saints, I think he must have thrown her down.And at that moment, silent as we all were, his '_Pardon, Madame, millepardons, Madame_,' and his tone of horror at his own indiscretion,seemed to come to me like a voice out of another life. Partially rousedbefore by the sudden impulse of resistance I have described, I was yetmore roused now. I turned round, disengaging myself from my mother.'Where are we going? why are we thus cast forth? My friends, help!' Icried. I looked round upon the others, who, as I have said, had alsoawakened to a possibility of resistance. M. de Bois-Sombre, without aword, came and placed himself by my side; others started from the crowd.We turned to resist this mysterious impulse which had sent us forth. Thecrowd surged round us in the uncertain light.

  Just then there was a dull soft sound, once, twice, thrice repeated. Werushed forward, but too late. The gates were closed upon us. The twofolds of the great Porte St. Lambert, and the little postern forfoot-passengers, all at once, not hurriedly, as from any fear of us, butslowly, softly,
rolled on their hinges and shut--in our faces. I rushedforward with all my force and flung myself upon the gate. To what use?it was so closed as no mortal could open it. They told me after, for Iwas not aware at the moment, that I burst forth with cries andexclamations, bidding them 'Open, open in the name of God!' I was notaware of what I said, but it seemed to me that I heard a voice of whichnobody said anything to me, so that it would seem to have been unheardby the others, saying with a faint sound as of a trumpet, 'Closed--inthe name of God.' It might be only an echo, faintly brought back to me,of the words I had myself said.

  There was another change, however, of which no one could have any doubt.When I turned round from these closed doors, though the moment beforethe darkness was such that we could not see the gates closing, I foundthe sun shining gloriously round us, and all my