Chapter XX.

Otago Witness, Issue 2173, 17 October 1895, Page 39

Chapter XX.

Under Red Pinions. The Cnpid that presided over the loves of Mathilda de Louret and Henri, Count do Fournier, and of Jaffray Bllicott and Mario Bruyset was the ABmodeo of Le Sage rather than the winged infant of Ovid. In deference to the worship of classical and mythological deities under the chiefs of the French Revolution, the god of Love | assumed as many shapes as the ancients gave him. Entering Into the spirit of the mad fancies of the time, one might Imagine Paris ai having sworn allegiance to the son of Nox and Erebus, not to the ingenious offspring oE Japiter and Vanus. He was mostly a malignant spirit that held sway when Gardes Frangalsesand Gardea Natlonales, dames de* 1 halles and triumphant sansculottes nsxi

and dnnsmsd and spiked the guns or Abolished royalty. And yet he was not all malice, not all Asmodeo, not all devilish, this demon of K»ytbic*l power. Onoa in a way ho put on tbe wings of purity and breathed the breath : ot love into tbe most forlorn lives that were besting against tbo bars of La Force, the Abbsje, and tho Concfergorie. Now and then, his white pinions stained with the blood of poor perseoatod humanity, be assisted Heaven's own at gels to rob attassination of ita terrors. But the fiendish god had special license in the days of Marat and Robespierre. It was under his bat-like wings, bis mephistopheUan Impulse, that the great tragedy of Paris marched on from scene to scene, with passlog influences of higher deities ; but upon every pinion of god or god dee?, mytbioal,' poetic, or religious, there were gouts of blood. Faith, hepo, charity, liberty, every idealisation of virtue and patriotism, every image of love* honour, and beauty that appeal to tbe~ imagination or stir the nobler pa««ionc, were dyed in the blood of a great people. Here and there virtue and love were spared the proof of martyrdom. Hero and there battle and murder, famine, lust, torture of body and sou'i were stayed by the barrier of a divine providence or an aot of fate, behind which there still reigned domesiio peace and nninterrupted social life ; but not without attendant shadows, for everywhere within the;boundarios of the belated city was beard the tocsin, everywhere the signal gnn, everywhere the new song of the Marseillaise, everywhere strange cries and tho drum-beat of civil war. Beyond tbe gates and barriers, away in country villages, and in distant cities there came from tbe frontiers alaims of advancing foreign forces ; met from Paris >with sanguinary messages from the Revolutionary Tribunal, inciting provincial cities to insurrectionary risings that discovered sanguinary rivals of the red masters of Paris.

There were, however, glints of sunlight between the shadows, intervals of country that were spared the worst crimes of the devolution, stray villages that escaped the ravages of war ; and even in Paris there were humble garrets and out-of-the-way abodes where a certain close imitation of quiet and repose and happiness lul<4 almost uninterrupted Bway. Jaffray Ellioott's tablets gave the home of Madame Laroche, in tbe Roe Barnabe, as bis most habitual retreat during the hours when his services were not required in the office of his patron and employer. Madame was a patient drudge, as we know— an industrious, unimaginative Frenchwoman, who spent her time between the market and her kitchen, and who oared not who occupied the Palace of tbe Taileries so long as she had money enough to keep her suite of rooms going and Laroche was in a reasonably good temper.

Jaffray bad taken the hint of Marie Bruyset, madame's stepdaughter, to make friends with Laroche's " gr a«s winow," for Laroohe bad not been henrd of since he took his leave of Marie. No word, no sign of him, either in the Rue Barnabe or at his official rendezvous in the ante-room or office of the Dsputy Grebauval.

The young Auglo-Amoriean spent much more time in the gxrret of Mare Bruyset than in the rooms of M.<darm: Ltroche; and Marie had, moreover, became quite friendly with her. Oiiginally, as we know, Maria had taken her father's second marriage as an offence, and it hurt her to see how much better be treated her stepmother than be had treated his first wife, Mario's devoted and miserable mother. Bat Marie wab young, and jouth is easily consol&d. Madame encouraged Jaffray's visits, and neither blamed nor praised, nor noticed, indeed, how frequently a short visit to her meant a lorg one to Marie in the little miniature-painter* garret. • Marie and Jaffray often sat for the hour together, late and early, talking of everything undor tho aan— Jaffray'e childhood and Marie'a artistic ambition, Jaffray's father and mother, and Mario's hopes and fears for the De Louvets. The tocsin boomed, the drums beat, but Marie drew the blinds and lighted her lamp, and love made for them a selfish sensuous music of its owd, none the less sweet for the harsh sounds without, none the less delightful for tbe occasional impulse of fear that came and vent with the dallying hoars. Moreover, every parting was an adieu ; for who could say when they might meet again ? So every parting was a lover's farewell, the tender caresses of whioh were worth every 'peril short of death it-elf.

The interval of comparative inaction that followed the double escape of Jaffray Ellicott and the Count de Fournier was marked by varied turns of fortune's wheel for and against the persons in whom we are most interested. Simon the printer, who he,gau the work of mischief in the Rue Barnabe, had ignominicußiy dropped out of the running. Poir Jean, whose loyalty had been more than half Buspected, had lost his life through his devotion to the man who bad doubted him. It may possibly be that Jean's lot was tbe beet. His troubles were over. Many a man and woman had cause to envy him within a brief day or two. Pierre Qrappin was ruined, but he had tbe consolation of a stroke of vengeance upon the pompous commiseary of police and his arrogant offioer, and the enlargement of the liberty of his friend, the Count, besides hopes of something further in those directions when he should have recovered his health and strength. He was a ruined man, it was true ; but he was already on tbe way to poverty before the fire, and the Lion d'Or-waß not his property, though its oontents belonged to him, and he much regretted the loss of his stock of wines, some of which were of famous vintages. His sister more than anything deplored Pierre's wound?, one of whioh would assuredly change bis appearance almost beyond tbe r< cognition of his friend?. Pierre was something of an optimist, and the seeds of religion eown in bis heart when he was a lad blossomed now into comforting helpe to bis patience. He reminded his sister that there were worse disfigurements among the men who had resisted the friendly claims of Monsieur Bertin and the brave Ddantys, acd that furthermore some of them were dead und buried ; and, after all, if a man's face. was disfigured his heart remained whole, and that it might still please Qod to made his ■urn strong for Franoo and D? Foamier,

Neither of them mentioned Madame Gr&ppln after Pierre's description of the revolt, though Pierre continued to think of her in regretful reminisoenoes of the days of their courtship. For the time beirg perhaps De Fournier aud Mathilda were the happiest of our little oompany. Witbin four-and-twenty hoars of their arrival at St. Germain thay were launohed into the bliss of ap unexpected honeymoon. Monsieur Bertin conducted them to a country house in an out-of-tbe-

way corner of an estate between 8

Germain and Liseaux— « email form, far from the main road, in tbe valley of a tiny stream that made its way through woods and forest and meadow landg to tbo Seine. It •vaa a quaint old oottage, mostly built of wood, with thick, timbered floors that exhaled the scent of pine and beeswax. An old man and bis wife and one servant (a farm band) were the only occupants. They had been placed there by a philanthropic relative of M. Bertin. to whom they were devoted. Tbelr farm consisted of a few acres, which they cultivated themselves, the produce going chiefly to Monsieur Bertin'e residence at St. Garmaln. At the time of year which an eccentric fate had setected for the honeymoon of Da Bouroier and Mathilde, the Hermitage, aa the farm was called, w&s at its best. The little orchard was laden with fruit. A small

patch of wheat was heavy with golden grain. In tbe adjaoent wood and about the natural hedges, and on the slopes of the banks of the stream that ran by the meadow, where a couple of cows chewed the cud in calm content, many kinds of flowers grew. The wild scabious, the white and pink convolvuli, and tbe blue campanula were oommon. A cluster of fading summer blossoms still enriched the honey suokle bush that spread its branches over the cottage porch, and there were roses in a tangle of red and white among the lavender and old-fashioned herbs that fringed the kitchen garden with its beet and potatoes, it* parocipi and vegetable marrows, its oalery and beans— some of tbe latter in flower, others thiok with seed pods for the coming autumn. There was just a touch of sadness in the reddening berries here and there and in the brown and yellow leaves that gave aitistic oolour to the woodn. The robin's note, down by the old summer or tool house, was in plaintive competition with the tinkling of the brook as it rau over a little artificial weir which the farmer had made for a pool that supplied fresh fish for the honeymoon table. What a grades time it was ! Monsienr Bertia and the Duke oonspired to lift the shadows of the Revolution from the tempoiary home of the occupants of the Hermitage. Monsienr Bertin sent scraps of news by a trusty mesveng^r, and visited the farm himself. Jcß9ph had corrupted his friend the National Guard— not with gold nor rations of wine and meat, but with reminiecsnceo of their boyish days— to the extont of being, on oocafion, wilfully blind and deaf, and permi ting Joeepb, in a queer disguise, to pass out o f the Chateau grounds unchallenged. Joseph, whenever he desired to ride, managed to have a certain little cob saddled aad ready at a osrtain habitation empowered with trees and out of tbe way of truflio. He carried meßsages between tho o'itieau and tl c Hermitage that excused Di F 'umier for remainicg ia hie pleasant b'dlnß place. The days went by one by one, with soft dreamy autumn evenings and mornings of tiauquil calm. The little patoh of wheat was cut and bound in Bheavep, the roses began to scatter their red and ;white petals upon the gardon path, tbe sun set earlier every day, autumn brooded over the forest, and, with sadder notea of news that began to make dleoord in its harmony, the honeymoon began to wane. Mathilde feared for her father's life and her mother's already limited liberty.

On a false scent, Laroche had followed the Deiaunyg, to hark back again to the neighbourhood of St. Germain, where he had succeeded in earpriaiog M. de la Galetierre, who had been added to the list of prisoners in the Oonoiergarle. Monsieur Bertin's bouse was under strict surveillacoe. Every nook and corner had been searched • madanie and her daughters interrogated and threatened. Joseph had been abl 0 to oonvey this painful Intelligence t 1 the Count, and with it news from Paris that fulfilled the worst forecasts of the D j chess de Louvet. A battalion of the National Guard, with a munioipal officer at its head, under the authority of the Revolutionary Tribunal, bad made domiciliary visit 8 in a circuit of six leagues in and around Paris ; and the new machine, henceforth to be known as the guillotine, had praotiEed upon Its first political victim, D'Anglermont, his orime being that he waa an ngent of the court. Laporte oame next, and the third martyr to duty wos the Baron Bichmont, coramandent of the Swiss Guard, by whose side Do Fournier had made his last stand amidst the butchery of tbe Tulleries. " It is not possible that you o»n remain in this place," said Joseph to the Count, when Matbilde had left them aloco for a few minutes on this last day of his hazardous visit. " What do you advise, Joseph 7 " asked De Fournier. " If Monsieur le O^mte will feel it no dishonour to put on the dingntee I havfl brought from M. Bertin's and Madame la Comtesse will condescend to make such change in her at (ire as the woman of the Hermitage may assist la Oomtesse to arrange, then wo shall ride through the forest to Evrlenx, where he makes no donbt the widow Stainton will receive you. I have brought a valise with tbe attire of a merchant for Monsieur Ie Comte, and I have two good horses besides the grey mare I rode from the Chateau, the horses provided by M. Bartin's groom." " You advise this 7 " " It is M. Bertin's advice, and I approve it, raonsit ur, entirely." " And when do we sot forth 7 " " At, onco, monsieur." " Very well, Joseph ; come, then, and let us see our masquerading oostnme. And you, my friend, what will you w«ar 1 " " I make no obange, Monsieur le Oomte. I attend you with discretion, to be of your company, monsieur, or not, as occasion may require. I have a written permit that assigns me a commission of importance by order of the Commune," said Joseph, a smile hoverirjg for a moment over his serious faoyj.

in It was already 9 o'clock w^hen the bride t, and bridegroom had donned their bourgeois^ in habits and announced themselves as ready to ir start. Mathilda looked none the less attractive in her old-fashioned woollen cloak and >r hood and her curious tall bat. The Count le wore his mou*e-coloured long frook coat and re embroidered waistooat, his throv-oornered a hat, and hi« top boots with an air that did el not make the new olothes very much of a d dfggulae. )- There was a moon olouded over now and fc. then. Da Fournier wont to the door. The i, sUenca was profound. y " Bring your horses, Joseph 1 " V " They are at the gate, monsieur." g "I forget whether yon said you bad seen >, M. Bertin or only had his inunctions second i hand?" 1 "I did not sco monsieur, but madame ex9 pressed bis wishes. Tbere are many eor- • vanta in the mansion, and it is dlffloult to » know whom one may trust. Madame only \ trusts herself." f " And you, Joseph ! " 11 Oh 1 yes, certainly," Joseph replied, " I r am privileged." " I will go and see If madarae is ready," : said the Count. " The light has gone from 3 her chamber. I hope we may relight it, i Joseph, in this same old house. It is not i necessary to live in a palace to be happy, I Joseph." " I hope not, monsienr," Joseph replied. I An hour Inter the honeymoon bad waned E to entire eclipse. From the Hermitage, with i a smouldering fire that made a flickering • light on the parlour windows, bride and I bridegroom passed out into the night. | (To ht continued.')