I.

New Zealand Tablet, Volume XXIX, Issue 10, 7 March 1901, Page 23

I.

EARLY IN THE NIGHT. It was a terrible night. Not terrible because of storm, not terrible because of the lightning or ihe wind or iLo i«iin, but terrible became of tbe wickedness of men. The whole city of Paria seemed Lo have gone ruad. Persons who had been kindly enough, who had little children of their own, and dear old grandfathers and grandmothers, watched the carts go by that held old people on their way to have their heads cut off by the instrument called the guillotine. And those who saw all thip, who applauded it, had suddenly become cruel because they had turned their backs on God. It was a terrible night, over a. hundred years ago, when Hugh j O'Regan and Henry Bache met in the streets of Paris Hugh was the most wretched of boys, for he had just loet his mother ; and Henry was even more wretched, for he had lost both father and mother, and besides, he oould say no prayers, for he knew none. Louis XVI., now imprisoned by his people, had been kind to Americans. He had sent his troops over there to help George Washington in the great struggle against the tyranny of the English King George. And he had received Benjamin Franklin well at his oourt, and given him all the help he could. It waa through Mr. Franklin that young Bache and his parents had come to Paris from Philadelphia. They had been the guests of the good Marquise de Lafayette, wife of the celebrated Marquis : she had learned with great sorrow that the Baches were of that fashionable school of infidels who had done so much harm ia France. Hugh O'Regan was about the same age as young Bache. His grandfather, the Count O'Regan. had served under Dillon in the Irish Brigade, and he and his mother had come to Paris to live in this grandfather's house while he went to the Jesuits' school. Early in the evening he had left his mother, to go for some bread and fruit, as all their servants had deserted them. When he returned, she was gone. He found a piece of white paper on the floor, on which was scrawled in charcoal : ' I have been arrested. Trust in God. We shall, at best, meet in Heaven. 14 Je te laisse mon cceur." ' About the same time Henry Bache had followed a crowd who were singing and dancing. He was 15 years old, and his curioßity must be forgiven. When he returned to the house in which his parents had lodged since Lafayette had left Paris, they were gone. He ran through the deserted house until he found a servant hidden in a closet. 'The citizens had tak^n the aristocrats to the guillotine,'the servant paid, as well as Henry oould understand, for he did not know French well ; ' and he had better run or they would cut off his head, too.' And so, on th's terrible night, when the streets of Paris resounded with shouts and vile songs, and torches flared everywhere, and men and women and children, with red caps on their headu, dancei and e&r.g songs in honor of Liberty, theee two boya stood on the corner of a street, knowing not which way to turn. Hugh wore a black velvet suit, with fine lace at the "lccv"' and neck. His silver buckles flashed in the light of a fire that hail been kindled in the square, about which the people danced, ~ujgii.g a song they called the Carmagnole. His hair, long and curly, fell on hie shoulders. A li^ht sword. a gift from his grandfather, hung by his bide. He wa,^ l.rge f>r his age, and, at home in Ireland, so noted had he been in all Hiliktio exercises that he was rather too proud of his strength. lie held his three-cornered hat in his right hand and looked at tbe dn< cer->. Only a moment before, he heard it said that they had almo.'-r torn an aged prieat to pieces, who had been on his way to a b d of sickness. Henry Bach", who blood near him watching the hideous dana 1, was slighter than Hugh. Baseball had not been invented m Amerioa, but he could ride a pony with anybody, toes quoit 3, and he had even tried his bkill at quintain —an old-fashioned iorm <>t polo, which had betn revived at Mr. Robert Morris's place re^r Philadelphia. He wore a plain suit of linsey-woolsey ; hi 1* hair was cropped short under a broad-brimmed straw hat. lie had no buckles on his shoes, and no sword. His blue eyes had lost their usual look of keenness and interest ; they were full of paiu and anxiety. Hugh noticed him ; he saw at once that he was not a French boy. The dance became faster and fas fer. The torches flared ; the light and shadows mude the faces of the pecple under the led caps more wicked than ever. 1 Ca ira I ca ira 1' they howled. ' Tigers I' paid Henry Bache, half alou '. Hi«gh heard him. A little boy had fallen in making hih way through the crowd. His father, who wore the red ctp, held him in his unus and kisfed him. Even the red cap could not change the look of love on the fatht r's face, as he consoled th« little boy. Hugh saw Bacbc nervously clasp his bauds together, in the red light. Hugh was impulbive ; he touched Henry gently on the shoulder. Henry started ; but a glance at Hugh's honert eyes reassurfd him —bet-ides, that Hugh wanted to be friendly was evident from the low bow he made. The plain American almost smiled as he haw it. It reminded him of the airs and graces of 8' me French officers who had danced in a minuet at Mr. Robert Morris's grand house, and at whom the citizens had greatly laughed. ' You speak English,' Hugh said, in his Foft voice, ' and you are in trouble.' 'And you are Irish,' said Henry, holding out his hand, 'and ' — with a quick look at his face —' and are in trouble.'

1 Alas, yep,' answered Hugh, in that soft tone and accent whioh. betrayed hie nationality, ' lam very sad, and I know not what to do.' ' And I am even sadder,' said Henry, drawn to this boy by the tense of his loneliness. One who spoke hie language seemed like a friend. 'I am most wretched. My father and mother have been taken away by these demons who pretend they love liberty. Liberty means a different thing over in our country. We did not hurt women, or murder, or sing and dance like fools for liberty. We fought like men. Why, even old Parson Duohe, who wanted General Washington to betray the cause, was not hurt. Oh, that we were home again 1' • VVp would fight in Ireland, if we could,' said Hugh, who, grave and sad, looked much older than he was. 'We are not permitted to know what freedom is — but,' he added, brightening, Iwe helped you Americans. My coußin, Arthur Barry, was in the war.' ' There were many,' said Henry, 'of your oountry. And might I ask your name ? ' 'The Count Hugh O'Regan." 1 Count 1 ' whispered Henry, looking around. ' They would kill you if they heard yon say that. Many persons are guillotined every day simply because they bear titles. 1 ' I am what I am,' said Hugh, proudly. 'We were in Brittany when these horrors broke out, but my mother hastened hither, bel eying she could save my grandfather's honae, which waß in the charge of servants, and put me quietly to school. 1 had been only two days with the good Abbe Gaillard when — but what is that? ' What seemed to be a black bundle on the ground outside the circle of dancers moved and stood erect. A man, hideous in face, rushed at it and beat it to tbe stones. It fell with a groan. Hugh half drew his sword. 'Stop! 1 Henry Bach c said. 'If you fight you are lost. And I must ask you to help me, though I know not how. I have loet my father and mother, and I must save them ! ' ' And I, my mother. You must help me, too.' Henry felt a strange sense of consolation in thus recognising a fellow in misfortune. 'Donel' he said, striking his hand into Hugh's, and feeling better. ' Done ! ' Hugh was Bilent ; he rested his eyes on the dark object whioh eeemed crawling out of the circle of flickering red light. From above the black cloak showed a white head ; the figure half rose to its feet. And then, as the torches of the dancers flared up for a moment, he knew the face. ' Mother of God, help us ! ' he whispered, clutching Henry's arm. ' 'Tis Father Gaillard — the wretches have almost killed him 1 ' Henry looked, too. ' A Papist priest,' he said, bitterly. ' Let him alone. He ia as bad as the rest.' Hugh took his hand from his companion's arm. 'We muet part, sir," he said. 'I am but a boy ; but I will aave that priest or die You can go your way.' 1 You will be murdered 1 ' cried Bache. 1 Perhaps so — 'tia in a good cause : that old man is not only a priest, but my friend 1 ' Hugh wab about to rush forward. Bache held him in his strong, wiry clu'eh. ' S ay — he has reached the shadow of the tree. No — I spoke hastily. You promised to help me, and I will not desert you— even if I must risk my life for a Romish priest.' Hugh's face was flushed, his eyes blazed. Bache was cool — ' as cud,' he afterwards said, 'as a cucumber.' He drew a long-bladed prcket-kuife from his pocket, while he held fast to Hugh's arm with his right hand. 'If we go forward, we shall attract attention to the old man. Wait — a moment — let me think. I tell you,' be said, as Hugh struggled, ' that you tire a fool ! Wait ! I will help you ; and no Anuii 'a;i breaks his word 1 ' Hugh s-too'i still, his eyes fixed on the figure that now lay in tl c shadow of ihe trees. It was plain to him that his companion was li/ht. Some (soldiers had joined the dancing ring, aud two drums lay on the ground, cast there hastily — for there was no order amo^g the Boldiers in those day. • I will draw them around me,' Baid Bache, struck by a sudden thuopht. • God help us ! ' ejaculated Hugh. ■ You will run to the right, into the Faubourg ; at the first corner is my lodging ; it was an inn, and there is a sign hanging above the door. Go in — Jacques the servant has run away long ago. And now for it ! How do you say '■ lam an American"?' abked Bache. ' Je buis Americain ! ' Now." whispered Bache, growing very pale, and setting his teeth, 'go to your old man; but I expect you to help me to the death.' 'We never break our word 1 ' answered Hugh, creeping through the shadows towards the tree. Henry Baehe breathed hard. Then ho Rprang forward like a deer, jumped on the big drum, and seized the little one. Rat-rat— rat-tat— rat-tat — rat-tat 1 The dancing circle half stopped for a moment, but Borne continued to howl and sing. Henry rattled his drum again. •Je euis Amerieam ! ' he called out, in a shrill, high voice. ' Yankee Doodle.' And then he ciowed with all the strength of his lungs. 'Vive l'Amerique 1 ' cried the Boldierß. And Henry began in a high voice the song ' Yankee Doodle. 1 In an instant he was surrounded by a laughing, shouting crowd. He rattled away on his drum, and cried, looking towards Hugh : ' Run — for your life ! '

Then he began to sing. To make him stand higher, the ■oldiers brought him an empty wine cask. Some of them had been in America, too, evidently, for when he sang ' Yankee Doodle,' with many gestures with his drum-stioks, they joined in the chorus. There was nobody to watch Hugh and Father Gaillard now ; everybody gathered about the ' savage American boy ' on the oask. Even the little lad who had been hurt laughed, as Henry crowed at the end of each stanza. But suddenly there was a howl : a soldier had caught sight of Hugh and the priest. Henry became aware of this, ne jumped from his perch, and reached Hugh's side just in time to strike back the arm oi Lbo oulJior with hia clae^-kcife. Tho boy ani the priest vanished in the darkness. Henry faced the soldier, who made a movement Lo gr<tcp Luiu. Heury llirevv the Jrum at his face and ran. 'Je suis Americain ! ' he said. ' Aristocrat ! Aristocrat I Hang him ! ' called the soldier ; but Henry had disappeared.

AT NINE O'CLOCK. The dancers of the Carmagnole soon returned to their places. 1 Ah, what a droll, savage Amerioan boy I ' they said. And some of them listened to the stories told by the soldier, who had been in America, of the strange, barbarous manners of the country. And the old priest had escaped — what of it ? — to-morrow he would die, they said. All priests must be killed by good citizens sooner or later. When Henry crept into the doorway of his lodging house he was dripping with perspiration. It was not that he had run so fast, but that he had been afraid — terribly afraid even when he had Beemed boldest. He believed that if he lost his life his father and mother might be lost, and this was enough to make him afraid of death. He found Hugh and the Abbe Gaillard in one of the bedroomß of the deserted house. Hugh had got a candle, and as few boys then were ever without tinder and flint — there were no matches — he easily made a light. The old priest sat in an armchair ;he was very white, and a cut in his forehead was bandaged with Hugh's handkerchief. They both started as they heard Henry's footsteps. As he entered the old priest held out his thin hand. ' Ah, my brave bny ! ' he said, ' I thank you — you have saved our lives. And Hugh knows how grateful lam since I have with me the Blessed Sacrament.' Henry bowed ; he did not fully comprehend. 1 Monsieur,' said Hugh, gravely, ' I promise you that your father and mother shall be saved. You know not what you have done, but you have brought a great blessing on yourself to-night. I promise ! ' Henry was silent. Then he took Hughs hand. 'As sure,' he said, 'as my name is Henry Bache, if what you say turns out to be true — if your God saves my parents, I will worship Him — I will have your old priest tell me how to do it. I like his face.' ' But he is a Jesuit,' said Hugh looking straight into Henry's face. Henry hesitated. ' Well, I have been told— but never mmd — he must be good since ho has been evilly treated by those fiends. And he is a brave man. Now you must help me find my father and mother.' Father Gaillard had listened ; he understood English sufficiently to get at what Henry was saying. ' His father and mother ? ' he asked of Hugh. ' What says he of bis father and mother .' ' ' They are in prison.' ' In what prison / ' ' He does not know.' ' Oh, I do not know ' ' said Henry, tears coming into his eye?. ' And I shall go mad if I do not find them ; yet, I know not, as a stranger, where to begin. If I could only speak the language well ! ' The priest raisd himself on his elbow, with an effort. I You are English 1 ' 'No,' said the boy. ' I am an American,' ho added proudly. ' My name is Henry Bache.' ' American — Bache,' said the priest. ' Bache — Bache. 1 He tried it again to get the pronunciation. ' Ab, I remember. Your father and mother are with Madame o' Regan, in the Conciergerie. It was Madame who sent me by a trusfed servant a note, telling me that she and two Americans had been thrust into prison. She told me also of a dying nun in the same prison. To her I was going, when the mob, God forgive them ! recognised me.' Henry went towards the door. I 1 must go,' he said. •to find this prison. You are safe. There is wine in the cupboard and meat downstairs. I will leave you the key. The landlord will never come back. He was guillotined yesterday for harboring an aristocrat.' ' You mtibt not go,' said Hugh. 'It means death. We must consult.' ' I will not wait,' said Bache. ' They will die of pain without me.' ' You can do no good,' spoke the priest. ' When this pain abates bo that I can walk, I will go to the prison.' ' No,' said Henry, in a low voice ; ' I must go. You promised,' he said, turning to Hugh, ' that your God would save them.' 'I am ssume n said Hugh, ' that God will not let me break my word.' And he turned to the priest. Father Gaillard smiled gently, and his lips moved in prayer. ' Oh, Father,' said Hugh, the weight of grief getting heavier on his heart, ' I must go, too — I must, I must — think of my dear mother among those demons ! I will, at least, die with her.'

Henry took his hand again. ' Let us go !' Father Gaillard saw that he could not keep them, and he felt a faintness creeping over him. ' Kneel !' he said. Hugh drew Bache to his knee?) with him. And then the old priest blessed them both. Hugh rushed up to him and kissed him on both cheeks, and Henry hastily brought wine and bread, and put them, with the key, on the table within reach of the Abbe. The boys went downstairs together. ' Tho old man'o Llesoiug did uio gooJ — though my father would laugh over it with his friend, Mr, Tom Paine,' said Henry. ' I don't care if he is a Jebuil— he is a good wan. Bui— wliat shall I oall you V ' Hugh — that's my name.' 'Well, Hugh, you must put on some of my clothes. You had better not go out again with those clothes. They are too fine for these times. You are an aristocrat ; they will recognise you as a— what do they call it ?' He thanked Henry. In a few minutes he had dressed himself in a suit of coarse brown cloth, put on a round oap, and carefully laid his ruffles and sword aside. Henry gave him a stout stiok, ana they went into the street. The Abbe waved his hand to them. Surely two boys never started out to do a more hopeless thing. The Conciergerie, as the prison was called, was doubly guarded. They had no friends, and at any moment they might on some pretext be arrested and guillotined. At this time neither women nor children were spared. ' I feel,' said Hugh, as they went on, ' that only God can help us. I Bhall say the Litany of the Blessed Virgin as I go along. She went to look for the Infant Lord when He was lost, and we have lost our parents. She has felt our sorrow ; she oan understand us.' Henry said nothing ; but when they had walked on in silenoe for a time, he spoke : 1 If I knew a prayer, I would nay it.' ' Say, " Son of God, help us |" ' Henry repeated it reverently. ' Now,' said Hugh, ' we must leave the rest to Him.' They were passing some official house. A crowd of howling women ran down the steps, singing a blasphemous Bong. One of them Btopped, and insisted on pinning two stained rosettes on the jackets of the boys. ' Let them be,' said Henry, as Hugh was about to tear hia off. ' They are red, white, and blue.' They passed a group of men on a corner. Hugh asked one of them the way to the prison. ' Ah,' said the man, who had too much wine, pointing out the direction. ' You will be just in time, if you want to join the condemned. Robespierre has ordered that a great orowd of the prisoners shall be guillotined by moonlight. Hurry I It seems to me, citizens,' he said, turning to his friends, ' that if this goes on there will be none of us left.' The boys could not speak ; thpir hearts were like lead. They passed another group drinking in front of a tavern. These men were in their red shirts— for the night had grown hot— and these were open at the throat. One of them drew his hand across his neck as the boys passed. • The guillotine will work to-night well.' ' And, 1 said another voice, in a lower tone, ' perhaps Robespierre may fall himself.' ' Cheer up,' Hugh said. ' I cannot,' said Henry. "Ob, I wish we were home ! How different it is out in the quiet streets of Philadelphia 1 To think that perhaps they will never see the beautiful Delaware or the green fields about again. Oh, why did we come ? ' ' It ia fair in heaven — in our own land,' said Hugh softly. ' But my father and mother do not believe in heaven,' said Henry, in agony. ' I wish they did — I wish they did. It must be ' — his voice choked — ' it must be awful to die without hope — and they do not know whether I am alive or dead ! ' 'Henry,' Baid Hugh, earnestly. 'I will tell them— no matter if all the dirty red caps in creation stop the way, Faith, I will.' They had reached the prison. There was a waiting crowd in front of it, silent, not rejoicing as was usual with the crowds that waited the condemned to be brought out. The heat was intense. The month was Thermidor — as the Revolutionists called it— between July and August. The air was still. Slowly a heavy cart came out of the frowning gates, And just then a quarter to nine o'clock struck. The cart heavily moved onward. The facea of all the condemned could be plainly seen. There was no need of torches. The moon was full and silvery. Hugh felt Henry Bache clutch his arm. ' There ! ' Hugh looked. He saw his mother's face, calm, Berene, smiling at him ; she held her rosary in her hand. Leaning against her was a weeping woman ; and near the woman stood a man, pale, horrorstricken. Hugh knew at once that this was Henry's father. They were on their way to death. ' ' You promised — you promised,' whispered Henry, ' God cannot save them now ! ' he seemed frozen to the spot, Hia father did not see him, and his mother's face was hidden. Hugh was a strong boy. He thrust right and left with his stick — and perhaps the rosette on his jacket saved him from being knocked down at once. He made his way, however, thinking of nothing but the facea before him ; he sprang upon the oart, and clung to its side. ' Hugh, God blees ycu ! ' And he felt his mother's arms around his neck. ' Monsieur,' he said to the wild-eyed man. ' Henry is living j he prays for you— see I ' .

Henry's eyes met his father's, and a great sob rose from the man's throat, Strong hands tried to tear Hugh from his mother ; he olung to her, and Mr. Bache to him. ' Henry is alive ! ' he said again, and Mrs. Bache raised her pale, Agonised face to see her son, whom the people held back. ' You promised ! ' shrieked Henry, above the noise, ' you promised 1 ' 4 Don't you se a ,' Hugh cried, frantically, as the guards threw him to the ground, ' these people are Americans — my mother is aa Irish woman ! ' ' Aristocrats ! ' paid the guards. ' T^et me die with them ! ' cried Henry, jumping, bleeding as he was, on the wheel. ' I will die too — but. O Mother of God, I promised ! ' cried Hugh. The tumbril stopped ; it was impeded by the crowd ahead ; there had arisen a sudden commotion in advance — but the groups abont the condemned prisoners were sullenly silent. A pale man who stood near the car, muttered : ' Are whole families to be thus slaughtered ? ' 1 We have had enough of it,' murmured his companion. ' Leave me 1 Leave me ! ' whispered Mrs. Bache to Hugh, 1 And oh, my boy, turn to God ! This kind woman has taught me ' 'Halt!' called out a strong voice in front. 'Haiti — I command you ! ' 'It is too late ! — too late ! — too late ! ' shrieked Henry. ' No,' cried Hugh. 'It cannot be too late ! ' and with all his heart he prayed : ' Help of Christians 1 Help of Christians ! ' The cart moved on ; both the boys had climbed into it. Henry's arms were about his mother's neck. 4We are Americans ! ' he called out. ' You must not kill vs — we are not aristocrats ! ' * They are Americans,' repeated Hugh. They are the father and mother of this boy. See ! ' he cried, pointing to the rosettes, 'we wear the tricolour 1 ' 4 Robeepierre has fallen I ' called out another voice from the crowd. ' Let the prisoners go ! There has been too much blood.' Hugh and Henry were thrown to the ground. There were yells and cries, and the stamping of feet ; the cart was overturned, Hugh heard cine o'clock strike ; he knew no more until he found himself lying in bed in the lodging-house, with his hand in that of the Abbe Gaillard. Henry was kneeling beside him ; he felt his mother's lips on his brow ; he saw Mr. and Mrs. Bache at the foot of the bed, and then he fell asleep, hearing the Abbe cay : 'At nine o'clock I was on my knees for you ; and Faith has won !'

The worst of the Reign of Terror in France was over. Henry kept his promise and became a devout Catholic, and his father and mother, who had been so near to death, followed his example, in

spite of the jeers of Mr. Tom Paine. They saw their beloved Delaware again, and Hugh and his mother and the Abbe Gaillard went with them. The Count Hugh, in time, dropped his sword, which he was fond of wearing at all times, and his title, and became a good American and plain Hugh O'Regan. But there are a few old ladies living still who say that there was no bow so graceful as his in the minuet which was danced in the hall in Chestnut street when General Washington's great friend, Lafayette, came to visit America. — Maurice FRANCIS Egan, in the Catholic Times,