The Child Wife

It was a conjecture that passed, quick as it had come; but only into a certainty. Despite the disordered dress and humiliating position of the man the young girl recognised her rescuer – he who, but the moment before, was occupying her thoughts!

And he saw her! Walking with head erect, and eyes upturned to the heaven he feared not to face, his glance fell upon a dark-skinned woman with a white toque on her head, and beside her a young girl shining like a Virgin of the Sun!

He had no time to salute them. No chance either, for his hands were in manacles!

In another instant he was beneath the balcony, forced forward by the chattering apes who were guarding him.

But he heard a voice above his head – above their curses and their clamour – a soft, sweet voice, crying out: “I’ll come to you! I will come!”

Chapter Thirty Five.

To the Prison

“I’ll come to you! I will come!”

True to the intention thus proclaimed, Blanche Vernon glided back into the room; and, hastily laying hold of hat and cloak, was making for the stair.

“You mad, missa!” cried the mulatto, throwing herself into the doorway with the design of intercepting her. “What will you fadda say? Dat’s danger outside ’mong dem noisy sojas. For lub ob de good Jesus, Missy Blanche, doan tink ob goin’ down to de ’treet?”

“There’s no danger. I don’t care if there is. Stand out of the way, Sabby, or I’ll be too late. Stand aside, I tell you!”

“Oh, Mass Freeman!” appealed Sabina to the footman, who had come out of his ante-chamber on hearing the excited dialogue, “you see what you young misress agoin’ to do?”

“What be it, Miss Blanche?”

“Nothing, Freeman; nothing for Sabby to make so much of. I’m only going to find papa. Don’t either of you hinder me!”

The command was spoken in that tone which the servants of England’s aristocracy are habituated to respect; and Blanche Vernon, though still only a child, was accustomed to their obedience.

Before Freeman could make reply, she had passed out of the room, and commenced descending the escalier.

Sabina rushed after, no longer with the design of intercepting but to accompany her. Sabby needed no bonnet. Her white toque was her constant coiffure, outdoors as in. Freeman, laying hold of his hat, followed them down the stair. On reaching the street, the young girl did not pause for an instant; but turned along the footway in the direction in which the prisoner had been conducted. Soldiers were still passing in troops, and citizens hurrying excitedly by, some going one way, some another. Dragoons were galloping along the wide causeway, and through the Tuileries Gardens; while the court inside the iron railing was alive with uniformed men.

Loud shouting was heard near at hand, with the rolling of drums and the sharp calling of trumpets.

Further off, in the direction of the Boulevards, there was a constant rattling, which she knew to be the fire of musketry, mingled with the louder booming of cannon!

She had no knowledge of what it could all mean. There were always soldiers in the streets of Paris and around the Tuileries. The marching of troops with beating drums, screaming bugles, and firing of guns, were things of every day occurrence; for almost every day there were reviews and military exercises.

This only differed from the rest in the more excited appearance of the soldiery, their ruder behaviour toward the pedestrians who chanced in their way, and the terrified appearance of the latter, as they rushed quickly out of it. Several were seen hastening, as if for concealment or refuge. The young girl noticed this, but paid no regard to it. She only hurried on, Sabina by her side, Freeman close following.

Her eyes were directed along the sidewalk, as if searching for some one who should appear at a distance before her. She was scanning the motley crowd to make out the Zouave dresses.

An exclamation at length told that she had discovered them. A group in Oriental garb could be distinguished about a hundred yards ahead of her. In their midst was a man in civilian costume, plainly their prisoner. It was he who had tempted her forth on that perilous promenade.

Whilst her eyes were still on them, they turned suddenly from the street, conducting their captive through a gateway that was guarded by sentinels and surrounded by a crowd of soldiers – Zouaves like themselves.

“Monsieur!” said she, on arriving in front of the entrance, and addressing herself to one of the soldiers, “why has that gentleman been taken prisoner?”

As she spoke in his own tongue the soldier had no difficulty in understanding her.

“Ho – ho!” he said, making her a mock salute, and bending down till his hairy face almost touched her soft rose-coloured cheek, “My pretty white dove with the chevelure d’or, what gentleman are you inquiring about?”

“He who has just been taken in there.”

She pointed to the gateway now closed.

“Parbleu! my little love! that’s no description. A score have been taken in there within the last half-hour – all gentlemen, I have no doubt. At least there were no ladies among them.”

“I mean the one who went in last. There have been none since.”

“The last – the last – let me see! Oh, I suppose he’s been shut up for the same reason as the others.”

“What is it, monsieur?”

“Par dieu! I can’t tell, my pretty sunbeam! Why are you so interested in him? You are not his sister, are you? No; I see you’re not,” continued the soldier, glancing at Sabina and Freeman, becoming also more respectful at the sight of the liveried attendant. “You must be une Anglaise?”

“Yes, I am,” was the reply.

“If you’ll stay here a moment,” said the Zouave, “I’ll step inside and inquire for you.”

“Pray, do, monsieur!”

Drawing a little to one side, with Sabina and Freeman to protect her from being jostled, Blanche waited for the man’s return.

True to his promise he came back; but without bringing the required information.

He could only tell them that “the young man had been made prisoner for some political offence – for having interfered with the soldiers when upon their duty.”

“Perhaps,” added he, in a whisper, “monsieur has been incautious. He may have called out, ‘Vive la République!’ when the parole for to-day is ‘Vive l’Empereur!’ He appears to be an Anglais. Is he a relative of yours, mam’selle?”

“Oh, no!” answered the young girl, turning hastily away, and without even saying “merci” to the man who had taken such trouble to serve her.

“Come, Sabina, let us go back to the house. And you, Freeman, run to the English Embassy! If you don’t find papa there, go in search of him. All over Paris if need be. Tell him he is wanted – that I want him. Bring him along with you. Dear Freeman! promise me you will not lose a moment’s time. It’s the same gentleman who saved my life at Liverpool! You remember it. If harm should come to him in this horrid city – go quick, sir! Take this! You may need a coach. Tell papa – tell Lord C – . You know what to say. Quick! quick!”

The handful of five-franc pieces poured into his palm would of itself have been sufficient to stimulate the footman; and, without protest, he started off in the direction of the English Embassy.

His young mistress, with her attendant, returned to the maison meublée– there to await the coming of her father.

Chapter Thirty Six.

To the Embassy

“Corneel! are you the woman to go with me?”

The question was from Julia Girdwood to her cousin, after their return to the Hotel de Louvre. They were alone in their chambre de coucher, still shawled and bonneted, as they had come in from their promenade:

Mrs Girdwood, yet engaged with the trio of gentlemen, was in a reception-room below. “Where?” asked Cornelia.