The Waltzing Widow
Page 15
Even after hearing the officer's report, Lady Mary and Abigail could not bring themselves to return to the townhouse and they remained at the ramparts to listen to the heavy cannonade. In the course of the evening the cannonading became perfectly distinct and regular. Abigail clutched her mother's hand tighter. “Mama, it is coming closer,” she said tensely.
Lady Mary thought for a moment that her daughter was right; then she shook her head. “It is the stillness of the evening that makes it seem so,” she said with a show of confidence. She sensed the tension ease a little in Abigail's body. “Let us go home for dinner,” she said coolly. She and Abigail left the ramparts; their places were immediately taken by others.
In the park, people wandered about with restless, aimless steps, and Lady Mary hurried Abigail across, not wanting her daughter to have a good look at the expressions on the faces of those they passed.
The dull boom of the French cannon could be heard even through the walls of the town house. During dinner, Miss Steepleton shook so from nerves that her glass rattled against her teeth each time she sought to drink.
The cannonade continued for five hours after the last accounts came away. After picking listlessly at their plates, the ladies retired to the drawing room to spend the long tense evening, all unwilling to go upstairs to bed while the oppressive noise continued. The anxiety to know the result of the battle was maddening, but there was no relief. Toward ten o'clock the regularly resounding thunder became fainter and soon afterward entirely died away.
Lady Mary, Abigail, and Miss Steepleton looked at one another, each wearing much the same expression that teetered between dread and hope. But the cannon did not begin again. “Thank God,” Lady Mary breathed. With one accord the ladies went up to bed. But sleep was to elude them, for scarcely an hour after their heads touched their pillows, there began a new noise.
Between midnight and one o'clock, Lady Mary was startled up out of her fitful sleep by a rumbling noise. She leapt from her bed to rush to the window. She saw that heavy carriages were rolling rapidly in long succession down the street toward the Place Royale. Up and down la Rue de Musee doors opened, windows were thrown up, and the loud querying cries and exclamations of her neighbors filled the air as people hung out their windows or clattered into the streets.
The bedroom door was thrown open. She whirled, startled, as Abigail rushed in.
"Mama! Have you seen them? Oh, what does it mean?” She joined her mother at the window. Her arms were wrapped tightly about herself and she was shivering uncontrollably.
"I do not know, Abigail,” Lady Mary said, her heart pounding. For some minutes they listened in silence.
Faster and faster, louder and louder, the long train of artillery continued to roll over the cobbled streets. The frightened cries of the people increased.
"We must find out what is happening!” Lady Mary exclaimed, unable to stand it any longer. She snatched up a dressing gown, plunged her arms into it, and belted it even as she and Abigail ran hastily out of the bedroom.
The first person they encountered was a scared fille-de-chambre, who exclaimed upon seeing them, "Les Français sont touts près—dans une petite demi-heure ils seront ici. Que ferons-nous, que ferons-nous! Ils faut partir toute de suite.''
"What are you saying?” Lady Mary gasped, alarmed. “How do you know this? Who told you that the French are but a half-hour's march away?” She grasped the hysterical girl's shoulders and shook her. “Speak girl!"
But the fille-de-chambre was past reaching. She could only moan again and again, "Les Français sont touts près."
Abigail stared at her mother, her eyes huge in her white face. “Mama, I am so frightened."
"As I am, Abigail. But I do not think we should panic just yet,” Lady Mary said. She flew down the stairs, her daughter close behind her.
Lady Mary was struck of a sudden by the eeriness of the place. The house seemed deserted. Every room door was standing open. The candles were left burning on the tables. There was not another soul in evidence.
The street door stood wide. The solitude and silence which reigned within formed a fearful contrast to the increasing tumult without. Lady Mary and Abigail stepped outside onto the front steps. At the bottom of the stairs they discovered their servants, some of whom had just returned from the Place Royale. Consternation was plain on every countenance and the shrill edge of fear vibrated in their voices. Lady Mary stepped forward and said sharply, “What is the meaning of this?"
Her authoritative tone served to cut across the swift talk and wild gesticulations. The butler came up the steps. His voice shaking, he said, “My lady, we have but this moment learned. A large body of French have been seen advancing through the woods, only half an hour's march from the city, which, as you know, is wholly undefended. The English army...” His voice broke. “The English army is said to be in full retreat."
Lady Mary was stunned. She could hardly take it in. It was one thing to dismiss the ravings of the hysterical maid, but quite another to have the impossible confirmed by a man whom she had come to think of as immovable. “I do not believe it,” she said.
Her flat statement seemed to release the voices of the others. From every side was repeated, "C'est trop vrai—c'est trop vrai."
However, they all soon had the satisfaction of being assured by a passing officer that the artillery were moving through to join the army, that they were not retreating, but advancing. Completely reassured, Lady Mary and Abigail reentered the house, whereupon they were struck by the incongruous sight of their companion standing en déshabille at the head of the stairs. Miss Steepleton waved a smelling salt in one hand and clutched the top of her dressing gown to her skinny throat with the other. She asked shrilly, “Have they come? The French-have they come?"
Lady Mary realized that the woman was on the edge of hysteria. She went quickly up the stairs, Abigail following closely behind. When she reached Miss Steepleton, she said soothingly, “It is a false alarm only, Agatha. We may all return to our beds now."
Miss Steepleton was not so easily reassured. “But I heard the shouts. They shouted that the French are but a half hour's march away. My lady! What are we to do?"
Lady Mary firmly led the woman back to the door of her bedroom and gave her a gentle push. “You are going to lie down and rest, Agatha, as are Abigail and I. It was a false report, as I told you. In the morning this will all seem but a bad dream, I promise you.” Even as Miss Steepleton still exclaimed in fearful conjecture, she shut the door and then she and Abigail separated to find their own cold beds.
The alarm of the British community gradually subsided. Some people did take their departure, but as the French didn't make their appearance, some went to bed, while others merely lay down in their clothes, by no means assured that their slumbers might not be broken by the entrance of the French.
* * * *
On Saturday, the seventeenth of June, between five o'clock and six o'clock in the morning, those in Brussels were roused by a loud knocking at the door and cries of "Les Français sont ici! Les Français sont ici!''
The inhabitants started up from their beds and rushed to their windows. The first sight they beheld was a troop of cavalry covered in mud galloping through the town at full speed as if the enemy were at their heels. The troops shouted of rout, of slaughter, of Bonaparte.
Immediately upon the troops’ passing, the heavy baggage wagons in the Place Royale, which had been harnessed from the moment of the first alarm, set off at full gallop down la Montagne de la Cour and through every street by which it was possible to effect their escape. In less than two minutes the great square of the Place Royale, which had been crowded with men and horses, carts and baggage wagons, was completely cleared of everything and entirely deserted.
Apprehension held the city in suspense; only gradually did the uneasy inhabitants return to their beds.
Again were the cries repeated of "Les Français sont ici! ... Its s'emparent de la porte de la ville!"
It was impossible for the people of Brussels, who were wholly ignorant of the event of the battle and acquainted only with the unequal numbers under which it was being fought, not to fear that the enemy might at last have succeeded in breaking through the British or at least the Prussian lines, or that Bonaparte, ever fertile in expedients, might have contrived to elude their vigilance and sent a detachment under cover of night by a circuitous route to seize the unguarded city.
The news of the advance of the French, the alarming reports which had been brought in from all quarters during the night, the flight of the troops, and above all the failure of any intelligence from the British army, tended to corroborate this last alarm, and it seemed but too certain that the enemy were actually at hand. This time the panic did not die down.
At the Hotel d'Angleterre, Viscountess Catlin clutched her husband's arm. She was white of face and her voice was hoarse with fear. “Victor! We must go! We must!” He covered her tight fingers with his, squeezing hard, and nodded abruptly.
Coatless and without his cravat, Viscount Catlin threw open the door to their rooms. Aghast, Viscountess Catlin tried to catch him back even as he stepped into the hall. “Victor!"
He threw over his shoulder, “For God's sake, finish your dressing! I shall return in an instant.” He sharply closed the door, cutting off the viscountess's wail.
A fille-de-chambre was running past, and the viscount shot out his hand to detain her. “What news?” he demanded. The poor fille-de-chambre was nearly frightened out of her wits. She stood wringing her hands, unable to articulate anything until the viscount urgently shook her. Her eyes rolled wildly at him. She gasped, "Les Français! Les Français!"
He was unable to get anything more out of her and he let her go in disgust. She stumbled away as the viscount clattered quickly downstairs past the taproom to the hotel entrance. He paused in the doorway, staring in startled disbelief at the scene of dreadful confusion in the courtyard.
People of all classes milled about shoulder to shoulder, knocking one another aside, or engaged in heated exchanges. There was frantic scuffling to get at the horses and carriages. The air was rent with the squabbling of masters and servants, ostlers, chambermaids, coachmen, and gentlemen, all scolding at once, and swearing in French, English, and Flemish. Some made use of supplication and others had recourse to force. Words were followed by blows. One half of the Belgian drivers refused either to go themselves or to let their beasts go, and neither love nor money, nor threats nor entreaties, could induce them to alter their determination.
At the far side of the courtyard stood one of the coachmen that the viscount had employed during his and his wife's stay in the Low Countries. The viscount's thin lips tightened at sight of the man, and he swung abruptly back into the hotel.
Returning to his rooms, he assured his fearful wife that they would shortly be leaving and he advised her to have her maid finish the packing. She returned to the other bedroom, twisting her hands and exclaiming worriedly under her breath.
Viscount Catlin shouted for his manservant. He dressed hurriedly with the help of his valet, who glanced frequently toward the windows through which the shouts of alarm clearly penetrated. Once the viscount had made his appearance impeccable and shrugged on an overcoat, he turned to a portmanteau and from its depths withdrew a long flat case. Opening the case, he took out two dueling pistols.
The valet's eyes bulged. He swallowed convulsively as he watched his master coolly inspect the priming of the pistols before thrusting them deep in the overcoat pockets.
The viscount felt his servant's gaze on him and he glanced round at the valet's appalled expression. His eyes grew cold. “Pray do not permit me to keep you from your task, Vincent,'’ he said softly.
The valet started nervously, then hurried to pull the remaining items of the viscount's attire from the wardrobe. He cast a frightened glance after his master, who calmly went out of the bedroom.
The viscount crossed the private parlor and rapped sharply at his wife's bedroom door. There was a frightened gasp, then silence, from the other side of the door. Viscount Catlin ground out an expletive. “It is hardly credible that the French would be so courteous as to knock, my dear,” he said bitingly.
The door flew open and the viscountess fell into his arms. “Victor! Thank God it is really you!"
He set her back on her feet. “Have done, my dear. I came to inquire whether you have finished with your packing,” he said.
"Yes. At least ... I am not certain,” the viscountess said, completely distracted.
"Pray inquire of your maid, then. I shall await you in the parlor."
Viscount Catlin waited impatiently for his household to assemble. When they did so, his wife and her maid carrying portmanteaus and the valet bringing up the rear with the rest of the baggage, the viscount cautioned them all to stay close behind him. He led the way downstairs and the party was crossing the entry when the hotelier caught sight of them. Immediately the man garnered from their manner of dress and the baggage they carried that they were leaving. The hotelier hurried over, speaking agitatedly. “Ah, my lord! You too are going away. I am much saddened at the loss of your company, but ... My lord! My lord, your bill!"
Without so much as pausing, the viscount reached into his coat pocket and tossed a tied leather bag at the hotelier's face. The man flinched and the bag fell to the wooden floor with the unmistakable sound of silver. The viscountess gasped and swung startled eyes to her husband's face. “Victor, you have given him too much!” He was unheeding, but swept to the door of the hotel, the others hurrying to keep up with him.
The situation in the courtyard had not changed. Viscount Catlin viewed the scene with a faintly contemptuous expression. Then he plunged into the melee to make his way over to the coachman he had earlier spied. He stared at the man on the carriage box. “I wish to depart immediately for Antwerp,'’ he said, his voice rising clearly above the frantic and furious clamor all around.
The coachman shook his head rapidly. “Non, my lord. I do not take my animals out in such a panic. Not this day or any other. It would be madness to set out in this. I will not do it. I do not lose my animals, non."
The viscount smiled, a mere parting of his thin lips. His pale blue eyes were cold. “I do not give you a choice, my man."
With many gesticulations, the coachman called upon all the saints and angels in heaven to witness that he would not set out—"Non, not to save the Prince of Orange himself!” he declared.
The viscount withdrew from his pocket one of the loaded pistols. He cocked it, and the click was amazingly clear even in the tumult about them. “I am perfectly capable of handling the team myself,” he said in a hard voice.
The coachman looked at the silver-haired gentleman, at his lean wolfish face and cold, cold eyes. He shivered, crossing himself hastily. The Français were one kind of devil, and this Anglais another. “It shall be as you wish, my lord,” he said hoarsely. He was a practical man. One dealt with the devil at one's door before wasting a thought on the one who was still to come.
Viscount Catlin allowed a thin smile to flit across his lips.
"Very good. We depart immediately,” he said. The baggage was made secure and he told the valet and the maid to enter the carriage. He started to hand up the viscountess, but she hung back with a perturbed expression. “What is it, my dear?” the viscount asked irascibly.
"Victor, should we not procure a second coach?” she asked, plucking at his sleeve. “This one will be rather too crowded with the servants, do you not think?"
Viscount Catlin barked a laugh. “My dear lady, you must steel yourself. I fe
ar that the French have scuttled any chance of traveling in our usual style."
"Really, it is most inconvenient,” Viscountess Catlin complained, getting into the carriage. The viscount gave a short order to the driver before swinging up into the carriage and shutting the door. The carriage started with a jerk and then raided out of the courtyard of the hotel.
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Chapter 19
Wagons filled with wounded began to arrive, and the melancholy spectacle increased the general despondency. The streets were filled with the most pitiable sights. Numbers of wounded who were able to walk wandered upon every road, their bloodstained clothes and pale, haggard countenances giving testimony of the sufferings they had sustained.
The leaden skies wept misting rain as the wounded sprawled helter-skelter along the sidewalks where they had dropped from loss of blood and exhaustion, and numerous were the sorrowful groups standing round the dead bodies of those who had died of their wounds on the way home.
From their drawing-room window Lady Mary and Abigail witnessed a Belgian soldier dying at the door of his own home, surrounded by his relatives, who wept brokenheartedly over him. It was a moment too private and too painful for the public walkway, and with one accord they left the window, greatly affected.
Lady Mary's eyes glittered with tears, but her expression was one of settled determination. “I know that we had planned to go to the church to scrape lint for bandages, Abigail, but if you think that you can stand it, I believe we must do what we can to minister as best we might to those poor wretched men outside in our own street,” she said.
"Oh, indeed, Mama!” Abigail exclaimed, her eyes shining with both dread and excitement.
"We can do little for their wounds, but at least we may ease their distress with something to drink or even perhaps to eat,” Lady Mary said. She pulled on the bell rope, and to the footman who answered the summons she gave swift orders. The kitchen was galvanized into preparing soup and weak tea while Lady Mary and Abigail went upstairs to change into pelisses and bonnets that would help protect them from the rain.