Murad the Unlucky and Other Tales

M >> Maria Edgeworth >> Murad the Unlucky and Other Tales


"Tu verras--Tout va bien--Ca ira," were the only answers they deigned to
make; frequently they continued smoking their pipes in obdurate silence.
She occupied the back rooms of her house, because her guards apprehended
that she might from the front windows receive intelligence from her
friends. One morning she was awakened by an unusual noise in the
streets; and, upon her inquiring the occasion of it, her guards told her
she was welcome to go to the front windows and satisfy her curiosity. She
went, and saw an immense crowd of people surrounding a guillotine that
had been erected the preceding night. Madame de Fleury started back with
horror--her guards burst into an inhuman laugh, and asked whether her
curiosity was satisfied. She would have left the room; but it was now
their pleasure to detain her, and to force her to continue the whole day
in this apartment. When the guillotine began its work, they had even the
barbarity to drag her to the window, repeating, "It is there you ought to
be!--It is there your husband ought to be!--You are too happy, that your
husband is not there this moment. But he will be there--the law will
overtake him--he will be there in time--and you too!"

The mild fortitude of this innocent, benevolent woman made no impression
upon these cruel men. When at night they saw her kneeling at her
prayers, they taunted her with gross and impious mockery; and when she
sank to sleep, they would waken her by their loud and drunken orgies--if
she remonstrated, they answered, "The enemies of the constitution should
have no rest."

Madame de Fleury was not an enemy to any human being; she had never
interfered in politics; her life had been passed in domestic pleasures,
or employed for the good of her fellow-creatures. Even in this hour of
personal danger she thought of others more than of herself: she thought
of her husband, an exile in a foreign country, who might be reduced to
the utmost distress now that she was deprived of all means of remitting
him money. She thought of her friends, who, she knew, would exert
themselves to obtain her liberty, and whose zeal in her cause might
involve them and their families in distress. She thought of the good
Sister Frances, who had been exposed by her means to the unrelenting
persecution of the malignant and powerful Tracassier. She thought of her
poor little pupils, now thrown upon the world without a protector. Whilst
these ideas were revolving in her mind one night as she lay awake, she
heard the door of her chamber open softly, and a soldier, one of her
guards, with a light in his hand, entered; he came to the foot of her
bed, and, as she started up, laid his finger upon his lips.

"Don't make the least noise," said he in a whisper; "those without are
drunk, and asleep. Don't you know me?--don't you remember my face?"

"Not in the least; yet I have some recollection of your voice."

The man took off the bonnet-rouge--still she could not guess who he was.
"You never saw me in a uniform before nor without a black face."

She looked again, and recollected the smith to whom Maurice was bound
apprentice, and remembered his _patois_ accent.

"I remember you," said he, "at any rate; and your goodness to that poor
girl the day her arm was broken, and all your goodness to Maurice. But
I've no time for talking of that now--get up, wrap this great coat round
you--don't be in a hurry, but make no noise--and follow me."

She followed him; and he led her past the sleeping sentinels, opened a
back door into the garden, hurried her (almost carried her) across the
garden to a door at the furthest end of it, which opened into Les Champs
Elysees--"La voila!" cried he, pushing her through the half-opened door.
"God be praised!" answered a voice, which Madame de Fleury knew to be
Victoire's, whose arms were thrown round her with a transport of joy.

"Softly; she is not safe yet--wait till we get her home, Victoire," said
another voice, which she knew to be that of Maurice. He produced a dark
lantern, and guided Madame de Fleury across the Champs Elysees, and
across the bridge, and then through various by-streets, in perfect
silence, till they arrived safely at the house where Victoire's mother
lodged, and went up those very stairs which she had ascended in such
different circumstances several years before. The mother, who was
sitting up waiting most anxiously for the return of her children, clasped
her hands in an ecstasy when she saw them return with Madame de Fleury.

"Welcome, madame! Welcome, dear madame! but who would have thought of
seeing you here in such a way? Let her rest herself--let her rest; she
is quite overcome. Here, madame, can you sleep on this poor bed?"

"The very same bed you laid me upon the day my arm was broken," said
Victoire.

"Ay, Lord bless her!" said the mother; "and though it's seven good years
ago, it seemed but yesterday that I saw her sitting on that bed beside my
poor child looking like an angel. But let her rest, let her rest--we'll
not say a word more, only God bless her; thank Heaven, she's safe with us
at last!"

Madame de Fleury expressed unwillingness to stay with these good people,
lest she should expose them to danger; but they begged most earnestly
that she would remain with them without scruple.

"Surely, madame," said the mother, "you must think that we have some
remembrance of all you have done for us, and some touch of gratitude."

"And surely, madame, you can trust us, I hope," said Maurice.

"And surely you are not too proud to let us do something for you. The
lion was not too proud to be served by the poor little mouse," said
Victoire. "As to danger for us," continued she, "there can be none; for
Maurice and I have contrived a hiding-place for you, madame, that can
never be found out--let them come spying here as often as they please,
they will never find her out, will they, Maurice? Look, madame, into
this lumber-room; you see it seems to be quite full of wood for firing;
well, if you creep in behind, you can hide yourself quite sung in the
loft above, and here's a trap-door into the loft that nobody ever would
think of, for we have hung these old things from the top of it, and who
could guess it was a trap-door? So you see, dear madame, you may sleep
in peace here, and never fear for us."

Though but a girl of fourteen, Victoire showed at this time all the sense
and prudence of a woman of thirty. Gratitude seemed at once to develop
all the powers of her mind. It was she and Maurice who had prevailed
upon the smith to effect Madame de Fleury's escape from her own house.
She had invented, she had foreseen, she had arranged everything; she had
scarcely rested night or day since the imprisonment of her benefactress,
and now that her exertions had fully succeeded, her joy seemed to raise
her above all feeling of fatigue; she looked as fresh and moved as
briskly, her mother said, as if she were preparing to go to a ball.

"Ah! my child," said she, "your cousin Manon, who goes to those balls
every night, was never so happy as you are this minute."

But Victoire's happiness was not of long continuance; for the next day
they were alarmed by intelligence that Tracassier was enraged beyond
measure at Madame de Fleury's escape, that all his emissaries were at
work to discover her present hiding-place, that the houses of all the
parents and relations of her pupils were to be searched, and that the
most severe denunciations were issued against all by whom she should be
harboured. Manon was the person who gave this intelligence, but not with
any benevolent design; she first came to Victoire, to display her own
consequence; and to terrify her, she related all she knew from a
soldier's wife, who was M. Tracassier's mistress. Victoire had
sufficient command over herself to conceal from the inquisitive eyes of
Manon the agitation of her heart; she had also the prudence not to let
any one of her companions into her secret, though, when she saw their
anxiety, she was much tempted to relieve them, by the assurance that
Madame de Fleury was in safety. All the day was passed in apprehension.
Madame de Fleury never stirred from her place of concealment: as the
evening and the hour of the domiciliary visits approached, Victoire and
Maurice were alarmed by an unforeseen difficulty. Their mother, whose
health had been broken by hard work, in vain endeavoured to suppress her
terror at the thoughts of this domiciliary visit; she repeated
incessantly that she knew they should all be discovered, and that her
children would be dragged to the guillotine before her face. She was in
such a distracted state, that they dreaded she would, the moment she saw
the soldiers, reveal all she knew.

"If they question me, I shall not know what to answer," cried the
terrified woman. "What can I say?--What can I do?"

Reasoning, entreaties, all were vain; she was not in a condition to
understand, or even to listen to, anything that was said. In this
situation they were when the domiciliary visitors arrived--they heard the
noise of the soldiers' feet on the stairs--the poor woman sprang from the
arms of her children; but at the moment the door was opened, and she saw
the glittering of the bayonets, she fell at full length in a swoon on the
floor--fortunately before she had power to utter a syllable. The people
of the house knew, and said, that she was subject to fits on any sudden
alarm; so that her being affected in this manner did not appear
surprising. They threw her on a bed, whilst they proceeded to search the
house: her children stayed with her; and, wholly occupied in attending to
her, they were not exposed to the danger of betraying their anxiety about
Madame de Fleury. They trembled, however, from head to foot when they
heard one of the soldiers swear that all the wood in the lumber-room must
be pulled out, and that he would not leave the house till every stick was
moved; the sound of each log, as it was thrown out, was heard by
Victoire; her brother was now summoned to assist. How great was his
terror when one of the searchers looked up to the roof, as if expecting
to find a trap door; fortunately, however, he did not discover it.
Maurice, who had seized the light, contrived to throw the shadows so as
to deceive the eye. The soldiers at length retreated; and with
inexpressible satisfaction Maurice lighted them down stairs, and saw them
fairly out of the house. For some minutes after they were in safety, the
terrified mother, who had recovered her senses, could scarcely believe
that the danger was over. She embraced her children by turns with wild
transport; and with tears begged Madame de Fleury to forgive her
cowardice, and not to attribute it to ingratitude, or to suspect that she
had a bad heart. She protested that she was now become so courageous,
since she found that she had gone through this trial successfully, and
since she was sure that the hiding-place was really so secure, that she
should never be alarmed at any domiciliary visit in future. Madame de
Fleury, however, did not think it either just or expedient to put her
resolution to the trial. She determined to leave Paris; and, if
possible, to make her escape from France. The master of one of the Paris
diligences was brother to Francois, her footman: he was ready to assist
her at all hazards, and to convey her safely to Bourdeaux, if she could
disguise herself properly; and if she could obtain a pass from any friend
under a feigned name.

Victoire--the indefatigable Victoire--recollected that her friend Annette
had an aunt, who was nearly of Madame de Fleury's size, and who had just
obtained a pass to go to Bourdeaux, to visit some of her relations. The
pass was willingly given up to Madame de Fleury; and upon reading it over
it was found to answer tolerably well--the colour of the eyes and hair at
least would do; though the words _un nez gros_ were not precisely
descriptive of this lady's. Annette's mother, who had always worn the
provincial dress of Auvergne, furnished the high _cornette_, stiff stays,
bodice, &c.; and equipped in these, Madame de Fleury was so admirably
well disguised, that even Victoire declared she should scarcely have
known her. Money, that most necessary passport in all countries, was
still wanting: as seals had been put upon all Madame de Fleury's effects
the day she had been first imprisoned in her own house, she could not
save even her jewels. She had, however, one ring on her finger of some
value. How to dispose of it without exciting suspicion was the
difficulty. Babet, who was resolved to have her share in assisting her
benefactress, proposed to carry the ring to a _colporteur_--a pedlar, or
sort of travelling jeweller--who had come to lay in a stock of hardware
at Paris: he was related to one of Madame de Fleury's little pupils, and
readily disposed of the ring for her: she obtained at least two-thirds of
its value--a great deal in those times.

The proofs of integrity, attachment, and gratitude which she received in
these days of peril, from those whom she had obliged in her prosperity,
touched her generous heart so much, that she has often since declared she
could not regret having been reduced to distress. Before she quitted
Paris she wrote letters to her friends, recommending her pupils to their
protection; she left these letters in the care of Victoire, who to the
last moment followed her with anxious affection. She would have followed
her benefactress into exile, but that she was prevented by duty and
affection from leaving her mother, who was in declining health.

Madame de Fleury successfully made her escape from Paris. Some of the
municipal officers in the towns through which she passed on her road were
as severe as their ignorance would permit in scrutinising her passport.
It seldom happened that more than one of these petty committees of public
safety could read. One usually spelled out the passport as well as he
could, whilst the others smoked their pipes, and from time to time held a
light up to the lady's face to examine whether it agreed with the
description.

"Mais toi! tu n'as pas le nez gros!" said one of her judges to her. "Son
nez est assez gros, et c'est moi qui le dit," said another. The question
was put to the vote; and the man who had asserted what was contrary to
the evidence of his senses was so vehement in supporting his opinion,
that it was carried in spite of all that could be said against it. Madame
de Fleury was suffered to proceed on her journey. She reached Bordeaux
in safety. Her husband's friends--the good have always friends in
adversity--her husband's friends exerted themselves for her with the most
prudent zeal. She was soon provided with a sum of money sufficient for
her support for some time in England; and she safely reached that free
and happy country, which has been the refuge of so many illustrious
exiles.



CHAPTER XI


"Cosi rozzo diamante appena splende
Dalla rupe natia quand' esce fuora,
E a poco a poco lucido se rende
Sotto l'attenta che lo lavora."

Madame de Fleury joined her husband, who was in London, and they both
lived in the most retired and frugal manner. They had too much of the
pride of independence to become burthensome to their generous English
friends. Notwithstanding the variety of difficulties they had to
encounter, and the number of daily privations to which they were forced
to submit, yet they were happy--in a tranquil conscience, in their mutual
affection, and the attachment of many poor but grateful friends. A few
months after she came to England, Madame de Fleury received, by a private
hand, a packet of letters from her little pupils. Each of them, even the
youngest, who had but just begun to learn joining-hand, would write a few
lines in this packet.

In various hands, of various sizes, the changes were rung upon these
simple words:--

"MY DEAR MADAME DE FLEURY,

"I love you--I wish you were here again--I will be _very very_ good
whilst you are away. If you stay away ever so long, I shall never
forget you, nor your goodness; but I hope you will soon be able to
come back, and this is what I pray for every night. Sister Frances
says I may tell you that I am very good, and Victoire thinks so too."

This was the substance of several of their little letters. Victoire's
contained rather more information:--

"You will be glad to learn that dear Sister Frances is safe, and that
the good chestnut-woman, in whose cellar she took refuge, did not get
into any difficulty. After you were gone, M. T--- said that he did
not think it worth while to pursue her, as it was only you he wanted
to humble. Manon, who has, I do not know how, means of knowing, told
me this. Sister Frances is now with her abbess, who, as well as
everybody else that knows her, is very fond of her. What was a
convent is no longer a convent--the nuns are turned out of it. Sister
Frances' health is not so good as it used to be, though she never
complains. I am sure she suffers much; she has never been the same
person since that day when we were driven from our happy schoolroom.
It is all destroyed--the garden and everything. It is now a dismal
sight. Your absence also afflicts Sister Frances much, and she is in
great anxiety about all of us. She has the six little ones with her
every day in her own apartment, and goes on teaching them as she used
to do. We six eldest go to see her as often as we can. I should have
begun, my dear Madame de Fleury, by telling you, that, the day after
you left Paris, I went to deliver all the letters you were so very
kind to write for us in the midst of your hurry. Your friends have
been exceedingly good to us, and have got places for us all. Rose is
with Madame la Grace, your mantua-maker, who says she is more handy
and more expert at cutting out than girls she has had these three
years. Marianne is in the service of Madame de V---, who has lost a
great part of her large fortune, and cannot afford to keep her former
waiting-maid. Madame de V--- is well pleased with Marianne, and bids
me tell you that she thanks you for her. Indeed, Marianne, though she
is only fourteen, can do everything her lady wants. Susanne is with a
confectioner. She gave Sister Frances a box of _bonbons_ of her own
making this morning; and Sister Frances, who is a judge, says they are
excellent--she only wishes you could taste them. Annette and I
(thanks to your kindness!) are in the same service with Madame
Feuillot, the _brodeuse_, to whom you recommended us. She is not
discontented with our work, and, indeed, sent a very civil message
yesterday to Sister Frances on this subject; but believe it is too
flattering for me to repeat in this letter. We shall do our best to
give her satisfaction. She is glad to find that we can write
tolerably, and that we can make out bills and keep accounts, this
being particularly convenient to her at present, as the young man she
had in the shop is become an orator, and good for nothing but _la
chose publique_; her son, who could have supplied his place, is ill;
and Madame Feuillot herself, not having had, as she says, the
advantage of such a good education as we have been blessed with,
writes but badly, and knows nothing of arithmetic. Dear Madame de
Fleury, how much, how very much we are obliged to you! We feel it
every day more and more; in these times what would have become of us
if we could do nothing useful? Who would, who could be burdened with
us? Dear madame, we owe everything to you--and we can do nothing, not
the least thing for you! My mother is still in bad health, and I fear
will never recover; Babet is with her always, and Sister Frances is
very good to her. My brother Maurice is now so good a workman that he
earns a louis a week. He is very steady to his business, and never
goes to the revolutionary meetings, though once he had a great mind to
be an orator of the people, but never since the day that you explained
to him that he knew nothing about equality and the rights of men, &c.
How could I forget to tell you, that his master the smith, who was one
of your guards, and who assisted you to escape, has returned without
suspicion to his former trade? and he declares that he will never more
meddle with public affairs. I gave him the money you left with me for
him. He is very kind to my brother. Yesterday Maurice mended for
Annette's mistress the lock of an English writing-desk, and he mended
it so astonishingly well, that an English gentleman, who saw it, could
not believe the work was done by a Frenchman; so my brother was sent
for, to prove it, and they were forced to believe it. To-day he has
more work than he can finish this twelve-month--all this we owe to
you. I shall never forget the day when you promised that you would
grant my brother's wish to be apprenticed to the smith, if I was not
in a passion for a month; that cured me of being so passionate.

"Dear Madame de Fleury, I have written you too long a letter, and not
so well as I can write when I am not in a hurry; but I wanted to tell
you everything at once, because, may be, I shall not for a long time
have so safe an opportunity of sending a letter to you.

"VICTOIRE."

Several months elapsed before Madame do Fleury received another letter
from Victoire; it was short and evidently written in great distress of
mind. It contained an account of her mother's death. She was now left
at the early age of sixteen an orphan. Madame Feuillot, the _brodeuse_,
with whom she lived, added few lines to her letter, penned with
difficulty and strangely spelled, but, expressive of her being highly
pleased with both the girls recommended to her by Madame de Fleury,
especially Victoire, who she said was such a treasure to her, that she
would not part with her on any account, and should consider her as a
daughter. "I tell her not to grieve so much; for though she has lost one
mother she has gained another for herself, who will always love her; and
besides she is so useful, and in so many ways, with her pen and her
needle, in accounts, and everything that is wanted in a family or a shop;
she can never want employment or friends in the worst times, and none can
be worse than these, especially for such pretty girls as she is, who have
all their heads turned, and are taught to consider nothing a sin that
used to be sins. Many gentlemen, who come to our shop, have found out
that Victoire is very handsome, and tell her so; but she is so modest and
prudent that I am not afraid for her. I could tell you, madame, a good
anecdote on this subject, but my paper will not allow, and, besides, my
writing is so difficult."

Above a year elapsed before Madame de Fleury received another letter from
Victoire: this was in a parcel, of which an emigrant took charge; it
contained a variety of little offerings from her pupils, instances of
their ingenuity, their industry, and their affection; the last thing in
the packet was a small purse labelled in this manner--

"_Savings from our wages and earnings for her who taught us all we
know_."



CHAPTER XII


"Dans sa pompe elegante, admirez Chantilly,
De heros en heros, d'age en age, embelli."--DE LILLE.

The health of the good Sister Frances, which had suffered much from the
shock her mind received at the commencement of the revolution, declined
so rapidly in the course of the two succeeding years, that she was
obliged to leave Paris, and she retired to a little village in the
neighbourhood of Chantilly. She chose this situation because here she
was within a morning's walk of Madame de Fleury's country-seat. The
Chateau de Fleury had not yet been seized as national property, nor had
it suffered from the attacks of the mob, though it was in a perilous
situation, within view of the high road to Paris. The Parisian populace
had not yet extended their outrages to this distance from the city, and
the poor people who lived on the estate of Fleury, attached from habit,
principle, and gratitude, to their lord, were not disposed to take
advantage of the disorder of the times, to injure the property of those
from whom they had all their lives received favours and protection. A
faithful old steward had the care of the castle and the grounds. Sister
Frances was impatient to talk to him and to visit the chateau, which she
had never seen; but for some days after her arrival in the village she
was so much fatigued and so weak that she could not attempt so long a
walk. Victoire had obtained permission from her mistress to accompany
the nun for a few days to the country, as Annette undertook to do all the
business of the shop during the absence of her companion. Victoire was
fully as eager as Sister Frances to see the faithful steward and the
Chateau de Fleury, and the morning was now fixed for their walk; but in
the middle of the night they were awakened by the shouts of a mob, who
had just entered the village fresh from the destruction of a neighbouring
castle. The nun and Victoire listened; but in the midst of the horrid
yells of joy no human voice, no intelligible word could be distinguished;
they looked through a chink in the window-shutter and they saw the street
below filled with a crowd of men, whose countenances were by turns
illuminated by the glare of the torches which they brandished.