The Child Wife

A shot fired in the direction of the Madeleine from a gun of largest calibre, boomed along the Boulevards, and went reverberating over all Paris. It was distinctly heard in the distant Bastille, where the sham barricades had been thrown up, and the sham-barricaders were listening for it. It was quickly followed by another, heard in like manner. Answering to it rose the shout, “Vive l’République – Rouge et Démocratique!”

But it was not heard for long. Almost instantaneously was it drowned by the roar of cannon, and the rattling of musketry, mingled with the imprecations of ruffians in uniform rushing along the street.

The fusillade commencing at the Bastille did not long stay there. It was not intended that it should; nor was it to be confined to the sans culottes and ouvriers. Like a stream of fire – the ignited train of a mine – it swept along the Boulevards, blazing and crackling as it went, striking down before it man and woman blouse and bourgeoise, student and shopkeeper, in short all who had gone forth for a promenade on that awful afternoon. The sober husband with wife on one arm and child on the other, the gay grisette with her student protector, the unsuspicious stranger, lady or gentleman, were alike prostrated under that leaden shower of death. People rushed screaming towards the doorways, or attempted to escape through side streets. But here, too, they were met by men in uniform. Chasseurs and Zouaves, who with foaming lips and cheeks black from the biting of cartridges, drove them back before sabre and bayonet, impaling them by scores, amidst hoarse shouts and fiendish cachinnation, as of maniacs let forth to indulge in a wild saturnalia of death!

And it continued till the pave was heaped with dead bodies, and the gutters ran blood; till there was nothing more to kill, and cruelty stayed its stroke for want of a victim!

A dread episode was that massacre of the Second of December striking terror to the heart, not only of Paris, but France.

Chapter Thirty Four.

“I’ll Come to you!”

In the balconied window of a handsome house fronting on the Tuileries Gardens were two female figures, neither of which had anything to pronounce them Parisian. One was a young girl with an English face, bright roseate complexion, and sunny hair; the other was a tawny-skinned mulatto.

The reader will recognise Blanche Vernon and her attendant, Sabina.

It was not strange that Maynard could not find Sir George at any of the hotels. The English baronet was quartered as above, having preferred the privacy of a maison meublée.

Sir George was not at home; and his daughter, with Sabina by her side, had stepped out upon the balcony to observe the ever-changing panorama upon the street below.

The call of a cavalry bugle, with the braying of a military band, had made them aware that soldiers were passing – a sight attractive to women, whether young or old, dark or fair.

On looking over the parapet, they saw that the street was filled with them: soldiers of all arms – infantry, cavalry, artillery – some halted, some marching past; while officers in brilliant uniforms, mounted on fine horses, were galloping to and fro, vociferating orders to the various squadrons they commanded.

For some time the young English girl and her attendant looked down upon the glittering array, without exchanging speech.

It was Sabina who at length broke silence.

“Dey ain’t nowha longside ow British officas, for all dat gildin’ an’ red trowsas. Dey minds me ob a monkey I once see in ’Badoes dress’ up soja fashion – jes’ like dat monkey some o’ ’em look?”

“Come, Sabby! you are severe in your criticism. These French officers have the name of being very brave and gallant.”

The daughter of Sir George Vernon was a year older than when last seen by us. She had travelled a great deal of late. Though still but a child, it was not strange she should talk with the sageness of a woman.

“Doan blieve it,” was the curt answer of the attendant. “Dar only brave when dey drink wine, an’ gallant when de womans am good-looking. Dat’s what dese French be. Affer all dey’s only ’publicans, jess de same as in dem ’Meriky States.”

The remark seemed to produce a sudden change in the attitude of the young girl. A remembrance came over her; and instead of continuing to gaze at the soldiers below, she stood abstracted and thoughtful.

Sabina noticed her abstraction, and had some suspicion of what was causing it. Though her young mistress had long since ceased to be a communicative child, the shrewd attendant could guess what was passing through her thoughts.

The words “Republic” and “America,” though spoken in Badian patois, had recalled incidents, by Blanche never to be forgotten.

Despite her late reticence on the subject of these past scenes, Sabina knew that she still fondly remembered them. Her silence but showed it the more.

“’Deed yes, Missy Blanche,” continued the mulatto, “dem fellas down dar hab no respeck for politeness. Jess see de way dey’s swaggerin’! Look how dey push dem poor people ’bout!”

She referred to an incident transpiring on the street below. A small troop of Zouaves, marching rapidly along the sidewalk, had closed suddenly upon a crowd of civilian spectators. Instead of giving fair time for the latter to make way, the officer at the head of the troop not only vented vociferations upon them, but threatened them with drawn sword; while the red-breeched ruffians at his back seemed equally ready to make use of their bayonets!

Some of the people treated it as a joke, and laughed loudly; others gave back angry words or jeers; while the majority appeared awed and trembling.

“Dem’s de sojas ob de ’public – de officas, too!” exultingly pursued the loyal Badian. “You nebba see officas ob de Queen of England do dat way. Nebba!”

“No, nor all republican officers, Sabby. I know one who would not, and so do you.”

“Ah! Missy Blanche; me guess who you peakin’ of. Dat young genlum save you from de ’tagin’ ob de steama. Berry true. He was brave, gallant offica – Sabby say dat.”

“But he was a republican!”

“Well, maybe he wa. Dey said so. But he wan’t none ob de ’Meriky ’publicans, nor ob dese French neida. Me hear you fadda say he blong to de country ob England.”

“To Ireland.”

“Shoo, Missy Blanche, dat all de same! Tho’ he no like dem Irish we see out in de Wes’ Indy. Dar’s plenty ob dem in ’Badoes.”

“You’re speaking of the Irish labourers, whom you’ve seen doing the hard work. Captain Maynard – that’s his name, Sabby – is a gentleman. Of course that makes the difference.”

“Ob course. A berry great diff’rence. He no like dem nohow. But Missy Blanche, wonda wha he now am! ’Trange we no mo’ hear ob him! You tink he gone back to de ’Meriky States?”

The question touched a chord in the bosom of the young girl that thrilled unpleasantly. It was the same that for more than twelve months she had been putting to herself, in daily repetitions. She could no more answer it than the mulatto.

“I’m sure I cannot tell, Sabby.”

She said this with an air of calmness which her quick-witted attendant knew to be unreal.

“Berry trange he no come to meet you fadda in de big house at Seven Oak. Me see de gubnor gib um de ’dress on one ob dem card. Me hear your fadder say he muss come, and hear de young genlum make promise. Wonda wha for he no keep it?”

Blanche wondered too, though without declaring it. Many an hour had she spent conjecturing the cause of his failing to keep that promise. She would have been glad to see him again; to thank him once more, and in less hurried fashion, for that act of gallantly, which, it might be, was the saving of her life.

She had been told then that he intended to take part in some of the revolutions. But she knew that all these were over; and he could not be now engaged in them. He must have stayed in England or Ireland. Or had he returned to the United States? In any case, why had he not come down to Sevenoaks, Kent? It was but an hour’s ride from London!

Perhaps in the midst of his exalted associations – military and political – he had forgotten the simple child he had plucked from peril? It might be but one of the ordinary incidents of his adventurous life, and was scarce retained in his memory?

But she remembered it; with a deep sense of indebtedness – a romantic gratitude, that grew stronger as she became more capable of appreciating the disinterestedness of the act.

Perhaps all the more, that the benefactor had not returned to claim his reward. She was old enough to know her father’s position and power. A mere adventurer would have availed himself of such a chance to benefit by them. Captain Maynard could not be this.

It made her happy to reflect that he was a gentleman; but sad to think she should never see him again.

Often had these alternations of thought passed through the mind of this fair young creature. They were passing through it that moment, as she stood looking out upon the Tuileries, regardless of the stirring incidents that were passing upon the pavement below.

Her thoughts were of the past: of a scene on the other side of the Atlantic; of many a little episode on board the Cunard steamer; of one yet more vividly remembered, when she was hanging by a rope above angry hungering waves, till she felt a strong arm thrown around her, that lifted her beyond their rage! She was startled from her reverie by the voice of her attendant, uttered in a tone of unusual excitement.

“Look! Lookee yonder, Missy Blanche! Dem Arab fellas hab take a man prisoner! See! dey fotch im this way – right under de winda. Poor fella! Wonda what he been an’ done?” Blanche Vernon bent over the balcony, and scanned the street below. Her eye soon rested on the group pointed out by Sabina.

Half a dozen Zouaves, hurrying along with loud talk and excited gesticulation, conducted a man in their midst. He was in civilian dress, of a style that bespoke the gentleman, notwithstanding its disorder.

“Some political offender!” thought the daughter of the diplomatist, not wholly unacquainted with the proceedings of the times.