Authors: Marjorie Bowen
He put on his cloak and went out into the street. It was earlier than he had thought. The oil lamps that lit the streets showed through a curtain of fog. He looked up at the facade of the hotel across which was written in large letters: ‘Propriétè Nationale.
Liberté, Egalité, Fraternité
.’
He found himself at the entrance to a theatre, a stream of reddish light poured out on the dirty pavement where beggars, fruit vendors, sellers of newspapers and pamphlets gathered.
He went in, paid for a seat and took his place. The theatre was full. Among the audience was that same air of exalted, almost hysterical gaiety and high spirits that he had noted in the restaurants.
The piece was dull, the orchestra poor; he could find no distraction in the entertainment. At the end of the first act he was about to leave when, chancing to glance up he saw a woman he knew. Madame de Sillery, a famous blue-stocking whom he had met in London and whom, despite his dislike of learned ladies, he had found amusing and attractive.
Her principles were his own. She too, was an ardent disciple of Jean Jacques Rousseau. She had been the governess of that Duke of Orléans who had renounced his title, re-naming himself Philippe Egalité, and she had had the honour of inculcating the first principles of democracy into the young Bourbon prince who had fought on the side of the people at Valmy. Her influence over Philippe Egalité was well known to be unbounded, and it was believed that it was she who had brought him openly over on the side of the revolutionaries.
It should have been her hour of triumph; but Fitzgerald knew that she was very little in Paris and that she seemed to live in a perpetual disquiet. He was, therefore, surprised to see her openly at the theatre.
It was with an instinctive desire to offer some protection as well as to obtain some diversion for himself that he hastened to her box.
Madame de Sillery received the young Irishman with unfeigned joy. She was a woman past middle age, supremely elegant, at once enthusiastic and shrewd. Her lean features were attractive and she wore the fantastic fashions of the first year of Liberty with distinction. Her husband, the Marquis de Sillery, was in prison and would probably be guillotined, but she bore no trace of either mourning or despondency on that account; she had long been separated from the man whose name she used, and there were few who believed in the platonic turn she so coolly gave to her friendship with Philippe Egalité.
‘Oh, Lord Edward’ — she spoke English well, and on every possible occasion — ‘sit down behind me. Do not attract any attention. That is Mademoiselle d’Orléans.’ She nodded to a pale girl seated behind her. ‘I thought it well we should make a public appearance here. What are you doing in Paris? Ah, it is pleasant to see a friendly face. You must come home with me afterwards and have a little supper.’
Fitzgerald bowed to the young princess for whom he felt great compassion.
The curtain went up and the people became absorbed in the play. Madame de Sillery held up her muff, and under cover of it spoke rapidly to the young man.
‘You know everything does not go well here. I have come back to fetch Mlle. d’Orléans away — to Switzerland. One does not care to talk of these things. The people are going mad. I believe no one is safe. And you — was it not risky for you to come here? But, of course, you have your uniform, but if we are at war with Britain, will that protect you?’
‘Madame,’ he whispered back, ‘tell me of yourself, I pray you. Are you indeed in any danger?’
‘I — I don’t know.’ Her thin smile was bitter. ‘But Monsieur d’Orléans, you see, he did everything, even voted for the death of the King. But it was not enough — the people are not satisfied. My friend, I feel as if we all walked on a volcano.’
‘But Monsieur de Chartres,’ protested Fitzgerald; ‘is he not the hero of France after fighting at Valmy?’
‘You think so? But indeed no! Neither he nor General Dumouriez. No, there is this jealousy of the high-born and nothing can wipe it out! These people after all are the
canaille
…’ The narrow nostrils of the Marquise de Sillery distended with scorn.
‘Yes, one feels that. The cause is right but the people all wrong,’ said Fitzgerald.
‘As I can tell you!’ whispered the lady rapidly. ‘You would think after what I have done to persuade these royal children to renounce their rights, to be good Frenchmen and firm patriots, that there would be some reward for me? But nothing!’
‘Yet you have moderate men in power, men like Carnot.’
‘Just because they are moderate, my friend, they will be swept away. Believe me, it will soon not be safe in Paris for moderate men. Are you staying long?’ she added swiftly, turning the conversation.
‘No, Madame, I have only a brief leave.’
‘That is as well for you.’
He glanced at the pale young girl who sat in the shadow of the box. She seemed overwhelmed with anxiety for her father, her young brothers. Fitzgerald, thinking of the water-colour which Reynolds had shown him, said: ‘You should get her away from Paris, madame.’
‘Indeed, I mean to, as soon as possible,’ and she added: ‘I think it is almost certain that they will guillotine M. d’Orléans, and then what is to become of his children? You think M. de Chartres is able to do anything with these people? No, all the Bourbons will be penniless exiles.’ She changed the subject: ‘You will come home to supper with us? We are no longer in the Maison
Egalité
as they call the Palais Royal now, but we have a decent apartment.’
‘I will come, very gratefully.’
‘We shall be alone save for my poor adopted daughters. There is unprotected innocence there, Monsieur — what am I to do with them?’ She added, as if to herself: ‘They too will be ruined.’
Fitzgerald knew that she referred to the two young girls whom she had adopted in their infancy and brought up with the Orléans children. They were supposed to be American orphans of war, who had, by a series of changing circumstances, fallen into her hands, but the common belief was they were her own children by M. d’Orléans.
When the little party left the theatre the fog had dispersed and a bleak moon was shining high over Paris. It had become much colder and the beggars had wandered away from the porch of the theatre where the lights were being rapidly extinguished.
Madame de Sillery summoned one of the hired carriages that were loitering for a chance fare.
‘It is neither prudent nor economical now to keep one’s own vehicle,’ she remarked. Then, half in derision, half in earnest, she smiled. ‘If I had known how inconvenient a revolution would be I doubt if I should have worked to have brought one about. Theory is one thing, sir, and practice another.’
Fitzgerald got into the carriage with the grave, silent girl in her plain hood and cloak, and the vivacious, elegantly-dressed woman, whose brilliant chatter seemed to hide a desperate anxiety. As if to distract herself by dwelling constantly on the commonplace, she demanded of Fitzgerald where he was staying. He told her, adding that he thought to move to White’s Hotel on the morrow.
He felt the night heavy and cold about him. They went, by Madame de Sillery’s direction, through the back streets, and she seemed relieved to reach the modest house. She knocked three times on the narrow door; a manservant opened it with an air of apprehension.
‘It is I, Pierre. All is well? You have not been disturbed?’
‘Yes, yes, Madame, all is well. But there has been much noise and, I think, rioting in the streets — the windows of the house nearby were broken. Madame and Mademoiselle should not go out alone…’
‘I have found, by a miracle, an escort, Pierre, and I judged it wise to put in a public appearance. It would be fatal to seem to be in hiding. Has Mr. Carnot been here to-night?’
‘Yes, Madame, but he could not stay. He has gone again, to the military depôt, I think.’
‘Ah, well, it does not matter.’ She turned to Fitzgerald. ‘Pardon the disorder of my household, Monsieur, and be good enough to step upstairs to the
salon
.’
Fitzgerald followed her to a room which was brilliantly lit by a fine crystal chandelier. The walls were painted white and the windows draped by fine, clear muslin, the furniture was in grey ash wood. Fitzgerald had the impression of entering into something pure and cold, like the interior of a shell. The fire had almost burnt out, and a young girl lay half asleep on a sofa drawn up by the heap of cinders on the hearth.
‘Pamela!’ exclaimed Madame de Sillery, putting down her muff with an air of vexation. ‘The child has gone to sleep! And let the fire out! And what was Pierre doing that he did not come up to see to it!’
‘Ah, Madame,’ said Mademoiselle d’Orléans in a low voice. ‘Pierre is frightened. He has been on guard downstairs. We must never go out again. We must never leave each other until we are safe across the frontier.’
‘Mademoiselle,’ exclaimed Fitzgerald, ‘if I can be of the slightest use to you — some protection —’
Madame de Sillery instantly took to herself this offer, which the young princess only accepted by a proud smile.
‘Indeed, Monsieur, we need all the friends we can get, and one like yourself is doubly welcome. Pamela, Pamela, are you really asleep? Mademoiselle, have the goodness to pull the bell and demand from Pierre some fresh wood. Monsieur, I regret that you should have found us in this confusion.’
Fitzgerald did not hear her excuses; he had approached the cold hearth and was looking down at the sleeping girl. She could have been no more than eighteen years of age and her face, flushed with sleep and surrounded by unbound hair, was lovely. A small book had fallen from her hand and a harp with some sheets of music was standing by the sofa.
As if his glance had the power to penetrate her sleep she stirred and sat up, then, seeing a stranger, with an air of confusion pulled straight her white frilled gown.
‘This is Pamela,’ said Madame de Sillery, who had already lightly touched several objects in the room into a more orderly arrangement. ‘If you would be formal, she is Mademoiselle Ann Caroline Stephanie Sims, and this, Pamela, is Lord Edward Fitzgerald, of whom you have heard me speak. I met him in England — at Isleworth at Mr. Sheridan’s house.’
Fitzgerald kept his eyes on the lovely face of Pamela, who smiled at him in silence.
‘Your name should be Louise,’ he breathed.
‘I have a great many names, Monsieur, but that was never one of them.’
‘It should have been,’ he insisted, loyal to his dreams.
‘Do I remind you of some one?’
‘Of yourself only.’
‘But you have never seen me before?’
‘Do not be too sure, Mademoiselle.’
The elegant person of Madame de Sillery suddenly and rapidly interposed between them. ‘You must not spoil my Pamela, Monsieur. She is both wild and wilful — I have a great deal of trouble with the dear girl, one moment in a melancholy and the next in the wildest high spirits.’
‘How should I spoil her, Madame? I have not passed her a single compliment.’
Pamela suddenly moved away. Going up to Mademoiselle d’Orléans she put her arm round her. ‘Oh, Adelaide, I would we were out of Paris. It was so lonesome to sit here alone listening to the noises of the street, and knowing that Pierre was frightened!’
‘We are leaving,’ cried Madame de Sillery quickly, ‘at once, as soon as we can move. We are in danger of being detained if we delay.’
The mysterious Pamela that he had come upon so unexpectedly completely filled the mind and soul of Fitzgerald. He knew that he need look no further for the fulfilment of his dreams; all was here.
His usual easy flow of conversation was subdued to a few words; he watched Pamela. Madame de Sillery, in her agitation, did not notice the absorption of her guest in her adopted daughter; she was distracted by fear and the keynote of all she said was that they must leave Paris immediately.
Mademoiselle d’Orléans broke her grave silence to protest: ‘But, Madame, we cannot if my father is arrested.’
This dreadful sentence made them all look at the speaker.
‘Surely, Mademoiselle,’ exclaimed Fitzgerald, ‘that is not possible? The Assembly, after all, are composed of enlightened, moderate and intelligent men, patriots, opposed to all violence…’
‘But already,’ interrupted Madame de Sillery, scornfully, ‘there
has
been violence, massacres, unnecessary executions, horrible things that you know nothing of, my poor friend. Indeed, indeed, I greatly fear that what Adelaide said has but too sure a ground.’
The young princess leant back in her chair. She could neither eat nor drink.
‘If we stay,’ urged Madame de Sillery, ‘it may be all of us — arrested. Worse.’
‘Then,’ cried Fitzgerald, thinking of nothing but Pamela, ‘you must not stay. I will myself see you over the frontier.’
Pamela, who was less disturbed than the other two women, smiled at him over the edge of a glass of water.
‘Did you come to Paris for that — to play knight-errant to distressed females? Nay, rather, I thought, for patriotic schemes of your own.’
‘I believe I came to Paris precisely to see you, Mademoiselle Pamela. As for schemes, I think I have no heart for politics.’
He remembered Tom Paine and Mr. Reynolds with a little regret, a little remorse, but this new and powerful emotion absorbed him. As if to justify himself he continued with much animation: ‘I fear if I meddle I may do harm. I must think of my brother and my English relatives.’
‘Your Irish affairs!’ interrupted Madame de Sillery. ‘Have no dealings with your rebel countrymen, they are lunatics.’
‘It is strange to hear you say that,’ said Pamela, smiling, ‘you who were so ardent in this wonderful cause of liberty and the rights of man.’
Madame de Sillery stared at the girl. Absorbed in her secret terrors, she seemed to hear very little of what was going on around her.
‘I tell you people get out of hand, the mob will govern soon. The voice of reason, of toleration, of moderation will be no longer heard. Take care, Lord Edward, it will be the same in Ireland!’
The Irishman defended the new French government which had, he declared, so far behaved in a way to arouse the enthusiasm and respect of all intelligent and enlightened men, and as for Ireland, he laughed aside any danger there. Why, the United Irishmen and kindred societies were officially recognised; they had objects at which no one could cavil, merely to enlist all creeds and opinions to help in the betterment of the country, the clearing away of the manifold corruptions which hindered parliamentary reform.
Madame de Sillery interrupted impatiently: ‘It began like that over here, societies and clubs and intelligent, enlightened men talking! Bah, it is useless! What is the end, people like ourselves, ruined, robbed, flying for their lives!’
Mademoiselle d’Orléans rose and suddenly left the table. Pamela followed her to the fireplace.
A clock struck. With an effort Fitzgerald told himself that he must leave. Neither Madame de Sillery nor Mademoiselle Adelaide took much notice of him, their courtesy was overruled by their intense apprehension. But Pamela looked at him and gave him her hand, and when he said ‘Till to-morrow’ she nodded as if this appointment with a stranger was the most natural thing in the world.