The Child Wife

“Where! I’m astonished you should ask! Of course after him!”

“Dear Jule! I know what you mean. I was thinking of it myself. But what will aunt say, if we so expose ourselves? There’s danger in the streets. I believe they were firing upon the people – I’m sure they were! You hear the shooting now? Isn’t that the roaring of cannon? It sounds like it!”

“Don’t be a coward, cousin! You remember a roaring loud as that against the rocky cliffs of Newport! Did he hold back when we were in danger of our lives? Perhaps we may save his!”

“Julia! I did not think of holding back. I’m ready to go with you, if we can do anything for him. What do you propose?”

“First, find out to where they have taken him. I’ll know that soon. You saw me speak to a commissaire!”

“I did. You put something into his hand?”

“A five-franc piece for him to follow the Zouaves, and see where they took their prisoner. I promised him twice as much to come back and make report. I warrant he’ll soon be here.”

“And what then, Julia? What can we do?”

“Of ourselves, nothing. I don’t know any more than yourself why Captain Maynard has got into trouble with these Parisian soldiers. No doubt it’s on account of his republican belief. We’ve heard about that; and God bless the man for so believing!”

“Dear Julia! you know how I agree with you in the sentiment!”

“Well – no matter what he’s done. It’s our duty to do what we can for him.”

“I know it is, cousin. I only ask you what can we do?”

“We shall see. We have a Minister here. Not the man he should be: for it’s the misfortune of America to send to European Governments the very men who are not true representatives of our nation. The very opposite are chosen. The third-rate intellects, with a pretended social polish, supposed to make them acceptable at kingly courts – as if the great Republic of America required to be propped up with pretension and diplomacy. Corneel! we’re losing time. The man, to whom we perhaps both owe our lives, may be at this moment in danger of losing his! Who knows where they’ve taken him? It is our duty to go and see.”

“Will you tell aunt?”

“No. She’d be sure to object to our going out. Perhaps take steps to hinder us. Let us steal downstairs, and get off without telling her. We needn’t be long absent. She’ll not know anything about it till we’re back again.”

“But where do you propose going, Julia?”

“First, down to the front of the hotel. There we shall await the commissaire. I told him the Hotel de Louvre; and I wish to meet him outside. He may be there now. Come, Corneel!”

Still in their promenade dresses, there was no need of delay; and the two ladies, gliding down the stone stairway of the Louvre Hotel stood in the entrance below. They had no waiting to do. The commissaire met them on the steps, and communicated the result of his errand.

His account was simple. Accustomed only to speculate upon what he was paid for, he had observed only to the limits of the stipulation. The Zouaves had carried their prisoner to a guardroom fronting the Tuileries Gardens, and there shut him up. So the commissary supposed.

He had made memorandum of the number, and handed it over to the lady who commissioned him, receiving in return a golden coin, for which no change was required.

“That will do,” muttered Julia to her cousin, as they sallied forth upon the street, and took their way toward the unpretentious building that over the door showed the lettering, “U.S. LEGATION.”

There, as everywhere else, they found excitement – even terror. They had to pass through a crowd mostly composed of their own countrymen.

But these, proverbially gallant towards women, readily gave way to them. Who would not to women such as they?

A Secretary came forth to receive them. He regretted that the Minister was engaged.

But the proud Julia Girdwood would take no denial. It was a matter of moment – perhaps of life and death. She must see the representative of her country, and on the instant!

There is no influence stronger than woman’s beauty. Perhaps none so strong. The Secretary of Legation succumbed to it; and, disregarding the orders he had received, opened a side door, and admitted the intercessors to an interview with the Ambassador.

Their story was soon told. A man who had borne the banner of the Stars and Stripes through the hailstorm of more than one battle – who had carried it up the steep of Chapultepec, till it fell from his arm paralysed by the enemy’s shot – that man was now in Paris – prisoner to drunken Zouave soldiers – in peril of his life!

Such was the appeal made to the American Minister.

It needed not such beautiful appellants. Above the conservatism of the man – after all only social – rose the purer pride of his country’s honour.

Yielding to its dictates, he sallied forth, determined upon doing his duty.

Chapter Thirty Seven.

Death upon the Drum-Head

“I’ll come to you! I will come!”

Proud was the heart of the prisoner, as he heard that cheering speech, and saw whence it had come. It repaid him for the insults he was enduring.

It was still ringing sweetly in his ears, as he was forced through a doorway, and on into a paved court enclosed by gloomy walls.

At the bottom of this, an apartment resembling a prison-cell opened to receive him.

He was thrust into it, like a refractory bullock brought back to its pen, one of his guards giving him a kick as he stepped over the threshold.

He had no chance to retaliate the brutality. The door closed upon him with a clash and a curse – followed by the shooting of a bolt outside.

Inside the cell all was darkness; and for a moment he remained standing where the propulsion had left him.

But he was not silent. His heart was full of indignation; and his lips mechanically gave utterance to it in a wild anathema against all forms and shapes of despotism.

More than ever did his heart thrill for the Republic; for he knew they were not its soldiers who surrounded him.

It was the first time he had experienced in his own person the bitterness of that irresponsible rule confined to the one-man power; and better than ever he now comprehended the heart-hatred of Roseveldt for priests, princes, and kings!

“It’s plain the Republic’s at an end here?” he muttered to himself after venting that anathema upon its enemies.

“C’est vrai, monsieur,” said a voice, speaking from the interior of the cell. “C’est fini! It ends this day!”

Maynard started. He had believed himself alone.

“You French speak?” continued the voice. “Vous êtes Anglais?”

“To your first question,” answered Maynard, “Yes! To your second, No! Je suis Irlandais!”

“Irlandais! For what have they brought you here? Pardonnez-moi, monsieur! I take the liberties of a fellow-prisoner.” Maynard frankly gave the explanation.

“Ah! my friend,” said the Frenchman, on hearing it, “you have nothing to fear then. With me it is different.” A sigh could be heard closing the speech. “What do you mean, monsieur?” mechanically inquired Maynard. “You have not committed a crime?”

“Yes! A great crime – that of patriotism! I have been true to my country – to freedom. I am one of the compromised. My name is L – .”