The Little Old Portrait

”‘I know, I know,’ said Edmée. ‘I am ready now, Marguerite. Poor Marguerite!’ she added, almost caressingly; ‘how good you are! I want to be resigned, but you can understand how hard it is.’

“But Pierre, who was standing close to her, heard the girl mutter under her breath, ‘No, I understand nothing. I have no heart, no feelings any more, thank God.’

“The boy shuddered, but intense pity softened his horror at her words. ‘She knows not what she says,’ he thought. ‘Her actions show how good and generous a heart she had.’

“Marguerite accompanied them only to the door, and then repeated her directions.

”‘Speak to each other in an ordinary way as you go along,’ she said. ‘You must hide your grief till there is no one to remark you. Speak to her of Valmont, of country things, Pierre; it is best for you to speak with your country accent,’ though, to tell the truth, he had but little, for in Touraine, as you know, the pronunciation, even of the peasants, is unusually good.

“They reached the place indicated without difficulty, and on saying they were there to wait for the Citizeness Marguerite, the short stout woman at once led them into a little back parlour, where she served them a good meal. Poor things! they were very hungry by this time, and it was a better dinner than any of the three had tasted for many days. (Often has my mother told me how strangely shocked she was at herself for being so hungry – in such circumstances).

“Edmond remained silent, and took no notice of Pierre’s little overtures of friendliness, so young Germain ended by leaving him alone. It grew very dreary after their dinner – they had nothing to do, and for, no doubt, a good reason, the Citizeness Dupuis left them without a light. As it grew darker, several men in blouses, and a few women, strolled into the shop, which at first had been empty, and Edmée began to understand Marguerite’s warning. For such snatches of talk as came to them were far from reassuring, and as the evening went on and more wine was drunk, the loud laughing, the coarse jokes about ‘Madame Guillotine,’ and the good work she had done lately, the threats of what was yet to be done, grew so terrible, that more than once Edmée put her fingers in her ears. But she had to take them out again to sooth Edmond, who became wildly excited, at one moment declaring he would burst into the shop and tell the wretched hounds what he thought of them, and who he was, with a touch of his old braggadocio; and next, bursting into tears, and saying it was all a trick, Marguerite had decoyed them there to betray them, and as soon as she came would herself give them up to their enemies. Pierre could not think her capable of such hideous treachery, but still his mind misgave him somewhat, and when at last Marguerite herself came in by another door from that by which they had entered, he had been on the point of suggesting to Edmée to take flight and trust to themselves.

”‘What is the matter?’ said the girl, when she had lighted a small taper and saw the state that Edmond was in.

“Edmée and Pierre explained to her.

”‘Well, did I not warn you?’ she said. ‘Though I own I did not think it would have been so noisy to-night, and I had hoped to be here sooner. It will do that fool no harm, all the same,’ she added, and when Edmond, wild with fury, started up as if to strike her, she calmly seized his two arms and held them tightly behind his back, with a sort of contemptuous pity in her face, for she was very strong, twice as strong as poor thin Edmond.

”‘No, you shall not strike me, little Sarinet,’ she said, and as if moved by a spirit of contradiction, ‘I will save you in spite of yourself, you foolish boy.’

“Then in a stern, grave whisper she told them to come with her, and without waiting to say good-bye to the Citizeness Dupuis, who I daresay was not sorry to find them gone, she led them out by the way she had entered.

“In silence for some length of time the two boys followed their strange guide, who had made Edmée take her arm, she herself carrying the bag containing all of her small possessions that the last of the Valmonts had ventured to bring away. Marguerite chose the darkest and narrowest streets, but she seemed to know her way with wonderful cleverness, considering she was not a Parisian by birth or breeding. At last she stopped.

”‘I can go no further,’ she said. ‘If I stay so late my friends will wonder what I am doing. In ten minutes, taking the first road to your left, you will arrive at the barriers. I know the sergeant who at this hour will probably be there. Show him these papers; you will have no trouble. Pierre must speak. Tell him you mean to spend the night just outside the town, that you may be ready for a friend who is going your way in the morning, and ask him the nearest way to Choisy-le-roi. He will offer to send some one with you, as if out of good nature. Accept his offer. You may trust your guide, but you need not speak to him. He will take you to the cottage where you will spend the night. Start with the earliest dawn, and get as far as you can on your way before night. Do not hesitate to take any chance of getting on quicker, either in the public carriages if you meet them, or in any passing cart. The great thing is to get away far from Paris as fast as possible.’

”‘But,’ said Pierre, ‘we have no choice, my good Marguerite. We have no money.’

”‘I was coming to that,’ she said. ‘Here is more than enough for your journey in the only way in which you will dare to travel. I could give you more, but it would only expose you to danger.’

”‘But we cannot take your money, Marguerite,’ said Pierre. ‘At least only as a loan.’

”‘And also,’ began Edmée, and then she hesitated.

”‘I know,’ said the girl; ‘it is what the Countess said. She would rather have starved than take money from me, because she thought it ill come by. But this you can take without scruple.’ She turned slightly aside, so that only Pierre and Edmée could hear her. ‘The Hotel de Sarinet was sacked last week; yesterday they threw me for my share some of his mother’s jewels. I sold some; the rest I will pack among your things. I would not touch them. Now,’ she went on, ‘this is all I can do. You must now trust to your own sense and courage. It is only he,’ and she nodded towards Edmond, standing apart, ‘who may get you into trouble, as he nearly did to-night, mistrusting me for having brought you there – the safest place for you this evening, because the last they would have looked for you in! Now farewell.’

”‘Farewell, Marguerite, and God bless you!’ said Pierre and Edmée together, and the latter added, ‘If you would but have come with us, as my mother begged you.’

“But Marguerite shook her head.

”‘There will always be a home for you at Valmont,’ added Edmée, ‘and we will always pray for you, dear Marguerite.’

”‘Ah,’ said the poor girl, ‘you may do that. Your prayers may be heard; mine have never been answered.’

“And with these words she turned away, and was lost to sight.

“At first all happened as their protectress had said. The sergeant at the gates let them pass with some rough good-natured words loudly spoken, as if he never supposed them to be other than their papers and Pierre’s explanation represented them to be – two peasant lads and their sister making their way back to their friends in the country, as many of the better class poor, getting shocked at the state of things in Paris, were glad to do at that time. And after directing them to Choisy-le-roi, a second thought seemed to strike him. ‘I can do more than that,’ he said. ‘Here Jean, Choisy is your road. Show these little citizens the way,’ and up started a man, young or old they could not tell, for they never saw his face, which seemed muffled up, nor did he speak all the way. And they never knew who he was, nor for what motive he had rendered them this service.

“At Choisy-le-roi they spent the night with the old woman who seemed to be expecting them. Before daybreak they were some miles further on their way to Bretigny, the first stage, one might say, on the road home, driven in a cart by a boy, the grandson of the old woman, and accustomed to take her eggs into Paris for the market. Some days of pretty steady travelling followed; the weather was fine, fortunately, for had it not been so, the poor children were but scantily protected; and Edmond kept up better than they could have hoped. Edmée herself, during those first days, was scarcely conscious of fatigue, or even of anxiety. She felt as if in a dream, and constantly expected to wake and find herself again in the wretched lodgings, beside her mother. The thought of that mother, of the terrible parting from all that was left of her, possessed her to such an extent, that for herself she would have felt no fear, hardly emotion of any kind had they been seized and carried back to Paris. Pierre was sometimes frightened by her very quietness; it was unlike her to be so dreamy and silent, even in sorrow, and more than once he endeavoured to rouse her by reminding her that she must not let herself fall ill. ‘We are obeying the dear Countess,’ he said. ‘Her last thought was for you – the only comfort of those last moments was the belief that you would yet be safe at Valmont.’

”‘I know it was so,’ said Edmée. ‘Yes, Pierre, my kind Pierrot, you are right. I will try to wish what she did.’

“But before they had reached the longed-for end of their journey, danger came so near them that all the girl’s faculties were roused, and, terrible as it was, she has sometimes said to me that she thought this very experience saved her from falling into a sort of half-stupid, almost idiotic state, from which she might never have recovered. For till now, there had been nothing to make them realise along what a precipice-brink they were moving. Once out of Paris, both Edmée and her cousin had imagined themselves safe, and the girl had yielded to her overpowering sorrow, the boy to his grief, not less sincere, but less unselfish than hers. But for wide-awake, practical Pierre what would have become of them?

“It happened thus: it was, as Marguerite had foreseen, the fault of Edmond.

“One evening – they had been travelling, sometimes on foot and sometimes in a cart or in one of the public coaches, running short distances – they would not of course have ventured to take places right through to Tours, the nearest point to Valmont for the regular diligences – one evening they reached a village not very far from Sarinet. Pierre had judged it wise to skirt Sarinet, both because Edmond might have been recognised, and also out of pity for the boy, to spare his feelings as much as possible, and as they were now in a part of the country he thoroughly knew, he found it easy to make their way round at what he thought a safe distance. But they had had a long day’s walk before they arrived weary and foot-sore at a village where Pierre had decided to spend the night. There was a small inn in the village – a while ago Pierre would have been horrified at the idea of Edmée’s entering such a place, but he had grown used to the necessity of such things, and the young girl never by word or glance murmured or seemed to notice the roughness and coarseness to which she was for the first time exposed. Pierre bespoke a bed for his ‘sister,’ and a corner of the barn for himself and Edmond, and then they sat down in the rude kitchen to such a supper as could be provided for them. There were one or two peasants drinking in a corner, but quietly enough, when suddenly the door was pushed roughly open, and a couple of men in blouses came noisily in, shouting for something to drink. The innkeeper’s wife, a timid, civil woman, hurried forward, but before she had time to serve the new-comers, one of them came up to the fire-place, near where the three young strangers were seated, and kicked the burning logs with his foot. Some embers flew out, and a spark or two lighted on Edmée’s dress, though she at once extinguished it. But up started Edmond.

”‘Mind what you’re about, fellow!’ he cried, with the true Sarinet tone.

“The offender turned round and eyed him curiously, but without speaking a word. Then he kicked the logs again till more sparks flew out in all directions. Edmond was springing to his feet, but Pierre held him forcibly back. ‘Are you mad – quite mad?’ he whispered in a low, stern voice, while Edmée clasped his hand under the table with her trembling ones. The boy seemed startled into submission, and Pierre, rising from his seat, went forward to the fire.

”‘If you don’t object, citizen,’ he said good-humouredly, ‘I think I can make it burn better without scorching your feet or my sister’s dress,’ and he skilfully turned and arranged the logs till a bright glow rewarded him.

“The man eyed Pierre with curiosity.

”‘You are a handy fellow, and a civil one,’ he said; ‘how come you in company with such a young insolent as that one yonder?’ and he jerked his thumb towards Edmond.

“Pierre laughed, though his heart was beating so fast that he fancied it must be heard. But for knowing that Edmée was holding her cousin tight, he dared not have risked that laugh or his words.

”‘A spoilt child,’ he said lightly. ‘He was brought up in Paris; I and our sister in the country. Now we are on our way to Tours, and my brother is tired. We have had a long tramp. You must excuse him, citizen.’

“In his turn the man laughed, but the laugh had not a pleasant sound.

”‘He is not worth chastising; it is easy to see he is not country-bred,’ he said. But Pierre, watching, saw him shoot an expressive glance over to his companion, who was sitting still and had taken no part in the discussion. And Pierre’s heart stood still with horror, for to him the glance spoke terrible things.

”‘And but for Edmond,’ he reflected, ‘we might have passed unnoticed. Marguerite was right. Oh, my dear lady, I would have died for you and Edmée, but it will be too hard to have her sacrificed for him!’”