My Lady Ludlow (16 page)

"'Here he is,' he whispered as her gown would have touched him in
passing, without her perceiving him, in the heavy obscurity of the place.

"'The good God bless you, my friend!' she murmured, as she saw the
attitude of the old man, propped against a pillar, and holding Clement in
his arms, as if the young man had been a helpless baby, while one of the
poor gardener's hands supported the broken limb in the easiest position.
Virginie sat down by the old man, and held out her arms. Softly she
moved Clement's head to her own shoulder; softly she transferred the task
of holding the arm to herself. Clement lay on the floor, but she
supported him, and Jacques was at liberty to arise and stretch and shake
his stiff, weary old body. He then sat down at a little distance, and
watched the pair until he fell asleep. Clement had muttered 'Virginie,'
as they half-roused him by their movements out of his stupor; but Jacques
thought he was only dreaming; nor did he seem fully awake when once his
eyes opened, and he looked full at Virginie's face bending over him, and
growing crimson under his gaze, though she never stirred, for fear of
hurting him if she moved. Clement looked in silence, until his heavy
eyelids came slowly down, and he fell into his oppressive slumber again.
Either he did not recognize her, or she came in too completely as a part
of his sleeping visions for him to be disturbed by her appearance there.

"When Jacques awoke it was full daylight—at least as full as it would
ever be in that place. His breakfast—the gaol-allowance of bread and
vin ordinaire—was by his side. He must have slept soundly. He looked
for his master. He and Virginie had recognized each other now,—hearts,
as well as appearance. They were smiling into each other's faces, as if
that dull, vaulted room in the grim Abbaye were the sunny gardens of
Versailles, with music and festivity all abroad. Apparently they had
much to say to each other; for whispered questions and answers never
ceased.

"Virginie had made a sling for the poor broken arm; nay, she had obtained
two splinters of wood in some way, and one of their fellow-prisoners—having,
it appeared, some knowledge of surgery—had set it. Jacques felt more
desponding by far than they did, for he was suffering from the night he had
passed, which told upon his aged frame; while they must have heard some
good news, as it seemed to him, so bright and happy did they look. Yet
Clement was still in bodily pain and suffering, and Virginie, by her own
act and deed, was a prisoner in that dreadful Abbaye, whence the only
issue was the guillotine. But they were together: they loved: they
understood each other at length.

"When Virginie saw that Jacques was awake, and languidly munching his
breakfast, she rose from the wooden stool on which she was sitting, and
went to him, holding out both hands, and refusing to allow him to rise,
while she thanked him with pretty eagerness for all his kindness to
Monsieur. Monsieur himself came towards him, following Virginie, but
with tottering steps, as if his head was weak and dizzy, to thank the
poor old man, who now on his feet, stood between them, ready to cry while
they gave him credit for faithful actions which he felt to have been
almost involuntary on his part,—for loyalty was like an instinct in the
good old days, before your educational cant had come up. And so two days
went on. The only event was the morning call for the victims, a certain
number of whom were summoned to trial every day. And to be tried was to
be condemned. Every one of the prisoners became grave, as the hour for
their summons approached. Most of the victims went to their doom with
uncomplaining resignation, and for a while after their departure there
was comparative silence in the prison. But, by-and-by—so said
Jacques—the conversation or amusements began again. Human nature cannot
stand the perpetual pressure of such keen anxiety, without an effort to
relieve itself by thinking of something else. Jacques said that Monsieur
and Mademoiselle were for ever talking together of the past days,—it was
'Do you remember this?' or, 'Do you remember that?' perpetually. He
sometimes thought they forgot where they were, and what was before them.
But Jacques did not, and every day he trembled more and more as the list
was called over.

"The third morning of their incarceration, the gaoler brought in a man
whom Jacques did not recognize, and therefore did not at once observe;
for he was waiting, as in duty bound, upon his master and his sweet young
lady (as he always called her in repeating the story). He thought that
the new introduction was some friend of the gaoler, as the two seemed
well acquainted, and the latter stayed a few minutes talking with his
visitor before leaving him in prison. So Jacques was surprised when,
after a short time had elapsed, he looked round, and saw the fierce stare
with which the stranger was regarding Monsieur and Mademoiselle de
Crequy, as the pair sat at breakfast,—the said breakfast being laid as
well as Jacques knew how, on a bench fastened into the prison
wall,—Virginie sitting on her low stool, and Clement half lying on the
ground by her side, and submitting gladly to be fed by her pretty white
fingers; for it was one of her fancies, Jacques said, to do all she could
for him, in consideration of his broken arm. And, indeed, Clement was
wasting away daily; for he had received other injuries, internal and more
serious than that to his arm, during the melee which had ended in his
capture. The stranger made Jacques conscious of his presence by a sigh,
which was almost a groan. All three prisoners looked round at the sound.
Clement's face expressed little but scornful indifference; but Virginie's
face froze into stony hate. Jacques said he never saw such a look, and
hoped that he never should again. Yet after that first revelation of
feeling, her look was steady and fixed in another direction to that in
which the stranger stood,—still motionless—still watching. He came a
step nearer at last.

"'Mademoiselle,' he said. Not the quivering of an eyelash showed that
she heard him. 'Mademoiselle!' he said again, with an intensity of
beseeching that made Jacques—not knowing who he was—almost pity him,
when he saw his young lady's obdurate face.

"There was perfect silence for a space of time which Jacques could not
measure. Then again the voice, hesitatingly, saying, 'Monsieur!' Clement
could not hold the same icy countenance as Virginie; he turned his head
with an impatient gesture of disgust; but even that emboldened the man.

"'Monsieur, do ask mademoiselle to listen to me,—just two words.'

"'Mademoiselle de Crequy only listens to whom she chooses.' Very
haughtily my Clement would say that, I am sure.

"'But, mademoiselle,'—lowering his voice, and coming a step or two
nearer. Virginie must have felt his approach, though she did not see it;
for she drew herself a little on one side, so as to put as much space as
possible between him and her.—'Mademoiselle, it is not too late. I can
save you: but to-morrow your name is down on the list. I can save you,
if you will listen.'

"Still no word or sign. Jacques did not understand the affair. Why was
she so obdurate to one who might be ready to include Clement in the
proposal, as far as Jacques knew?

"The man withdrew a little, but did not offer to leave the prison. He
never took his eyes off Virginie; he seemed to be suffering from some
acute and terrible pain as he watched her.

"Jacques cleared away the breakfast-things as well as he could.
Purposely, as I suspect, he passed near the man.

"'Hist!' said the stranger. 'You are Jacques, the gardener, arrested for
assisting an aristocrat. I know the gaoler. You shall escape, if you
will. Only take this message from me to mademoiselle. You heard. She
will not listen to me: I did not want her to come here. I never knew she
was here, and she will die to-morrow. They will put her beautiful round
throat under the guillotine. Tell her, good old man, tell her how sweet
life is; and how I can save her; and how I will not ask for more than
just to see her from time to time. She is so young; and death is
annihilation, you know. Why does she hate me so? I want to save her; I
have done her no harm. Good old man, tell her how terrible death is; and
that she will die to-morrow, unless she listens to me.'

"Jacques saw no harm in repeating this message. Clement listened in
silence, watching Virginie with an air of infinite tenderness.

"'Will you not try him, my cherished one?' he said. 'Towards you he may
mean well' (which makes me think that Virginie had never repeated to
Clement the conversation which she had overheard that last night at
Madame Babette's); 'you would be in no worse a situation than you were
before!'

"'No worse, Clement! and I should have known what you were, and have lost
you. My Clement!' said she, reproachfully.

"'Ask him,' said she, turning to Jacques, suddenly, 'if he can save
Monsieur de Crequy as well,—if he can?—O Clement, we might escape to
England; we are but young.' And she hid her face on his shoulder.

"Jacques returned to the stranger, and asked him Virginie's question. His
eyes were fixed on the cousins; he was very pale, and the twitchings or
contortions, which must have been involuntary whenever he was agitated,
convulsed his whole body.

"He made a long pause. 'I will save mademoiselle and monsieur, if she
will go straight from prison to the mairie, and be my wife.'

"'Your wife!' Jacques could not help exclaiming, 'That she will never
be—never!'

"'Ask her!' said Morin, hoarsely.

"But almost before Jacques thought he could have fairly uttered the
words, Clement caught their meaning.

"'Begone!' said he; 'not one word more.' Virginie touched the old man as
he was moving away. 'Tell him he does not know how he makes me welcome
death.' And smiling, as if triumphant, she turned again to Clement.

"The stranger did not speak as Jacques gave him the meaning, not the
words, of their replies. He was going away, but stopped. A minute or
two afterwards, he beckoned to Jacques. The old gardener seems to have
thought it undesirable to throw away even the chance of assistance from
such a man as this, for he went forward to speak to him.

"'Listen! I have influence with the gaoler. He shall let thee pass out
with the victims to-morrow. No one will notice it, or miss thee—. They
will be led to trial,—even at the last moment, I will save her, if she
sends me word she relents. Speak to her, as the time draws on. Life is
very sweet,—tell her how sweet. Speak to him; he will do more with her
than thou canst. Let him urge her to live. Even at the last, I will be
at the Palais de Justice,—at the Greve. I have followers,—I have
interest. Come among the crowd that follow the victims,—I shall see
thee. It will be no worse for him, if she escapes'—

"'Save my master, and I will do all,' said Jacques.

"'Only on my one condition,' said Morin, doggedly; and Jacques was
hopeless of that condition ever being fulfilled. But he did not see why
his own life might not be saved. By remaining in prison until the next
day, he should have rendered every service in his power to his master and
the young lady. He, poor fellow, shrank from death; and he agreed with
Morin to escape, if he could, by the means Morin had suggested, and to
bring him word if Mademoiselle de Crequy relented. (Jacques had no
expectation that she would; but I fancy he did not think it necessary to
tell Morin of this conviction of his.) This bargaining with so base a man
for so slight a thing as life, was the only flaw that I heard of in the
old gardener's behaviour. Of course, the mere reopening of the subject
was enough to stir Virginie to displeasure. Clement urged her, it is
true; but the light he had gained upon Morin's motions, made him rather
try to set the case before her in as fair a manner as possible than use
any persuasive arguments. And, even as it was, what he said on the
subject made Virginie shed tears—the first that had fallen from her
since she entered the prison. So, they were summoned and went together,
at the fatal call of the muster-roll of victims the next morning. He,
feeble from his wounds and his injured health; she, calm and serene, only
petitioning to be allowed to walk next to him, in order that she might
hold him up when he turned faint and giddy from his extreme suffering.

"Together they stood at the bar; together they were condemned. As the
words of judgment were pronounced, Virginie tuned to Clement, and
embraced him with passionate fondness. Then, making him lean on her,
they marched out towards the Place de la Greve.

"Jacques was free now. He had told Morin how fruitless his efforts at
persuasion had been; and scarcely caring to note the effect of his
information upon the man, he had devoted himself to watching Monsieur and
Mademoiselle de Crequy. And now he followed them to the Place de la
Greve. He saw them mount the platform; saw them kneel down together till
plucked up by the impatient officials; could see that she was urging some
request to the executioner; the end of which seemed to be, that Clement
advanced first to the guillotine, was executed (and just at this moment
there was a stir among the crowd, as of a man pressing forward towards
the scaffold). Then she, standing with her face to the guillotine,
slowly made the sign of the cross, and knelt down.

"Jacques covered his eyes, blinded with tears. The report of a pistol
made him look up. She was gone—another victim in her place—and where
there had been a little stir in the crowd not five minutes before, some
men were carrying off a dead body. A man had shot himself, they said.
Pierre told me who that man was."

After a pause, I ventured to ask what became of Madame de Crequy,
Clement's mother.