University of Virginia Library

27. CHAPTER XXVI.

With the deepest anxiety that had ever winged his
steps, Claude left Ida to the charge of Annette, and
flew again to La Tour for advice and assistance in the
singular situation in which he now found himself. La
Tour was more alarmed, more wavering than before.
He was almost resolved upon flight himself; but eyes
were upon him, as he well knew, which would detect
his first motion towards such a measure. Danger
makes us selfish. He could but advise Claude to fly
with his new companion, and to take his chance for
getting out of France. As for Carolan, he assured
him that the only consequences which would follow
an attempt in his favour would be the arrest, and perhaps
the destruction, of those who should make it.

Disappointed in the succour—which, indeed, he
scarcely expected—from La Tour, Claude next proceeded
to the person whose address he had procured
from James, and who had been recommended as one
so able, from various circumstances, to afford him aid
in an emergency like the present. Ida had already
informed him that her uncle, Colonel St. Marie, was
still at his chateau a few leagues from Paris, and that,
if she could reach it, she would there take up her
abode, and consider the best means of rescuing her
father from his unhappy and perilous situation. By
the aid of the person alluded to, measures were arranged
for their immediate departure, and the next
day they succeeded in escaping safely out of Paris,
and in reaching the Chateau St. Marie.

We will not detain the reader with the various hopes,
fears, and emotions which animated each of the little
party who, thus removed from the immediate scene of
action, here debated upon the means of Carolan's deliverance
and their subsequent flight out of France.

Claude was often in Paris, where he beheld scenes
of which the reader would scarcely wish to hear the
dark and bloody details. But, notwithstanding his exertions,
he could not succeed in gaining admission to
Carolan, or learning more of his fate than that he was
in the Conciergerie, and was not likely to be released.
The frightful massacre of the first, second, and third
of September—the formal commencement of the Republic—the
opening of the National Convention—the
execution of the king, of the queen, and many more
of the horrors of that remarkable period, took place;
while Ida, sheltered in the chateau of her uncle, and
kept, as far as was possible, in ignorance of the scenes
around her, waited, with an anxiety which preyed upon
her health, the dreadful course of events, till some vicissitude
should either deprive her of a father whom,
with all his eccentricities, she deeply loved, or should
return him to her arms. Indeed, the sources of her anguish
were numerous as well as profound. She had
heard but indirectly from her mother, till Claude, by the
arrangements which he had made with James, opened
a new and more certain mode of communication. But,
alas! it rather added to her grief, for she learned that
her mother was dangerously ill from the effects of the
agonizing suspense into which the peril of the count
and Ida had thrown her.

Several months passed away, and, notwithstanding
the exertions of Claude, without producing any event
favourable to his wishes. The whole time was by no
means spent by him at the chateau. He was sometimes
weeks together at Paris — mingling with the
mobs—shouting the cant watchwords—attending the
tribunals, and playing the rôle of a zealous revolutionist.
In the course of the various enterprises to learn
the details of Carolan's present situation, he had made
several attempts to see Danton, whose life he had
saved, and whose real character and influence he had
now learned better to appreciate. The faithful agent
and ally supplied by James at length aided him in

presenting the affair in such a light to Danton, that
that terrible arbiter of life began to listen to the propositions
of a pecuniary nature which, as the time advanced
and the danger grew more perilous, began to
be large enough to tempt the cupidity of a much more
scrupulous magistrate.

It was with feelings of such gratification as he had
rarely experienced, that Claude was one day returning
from Paris to the chateau St. Marie, after having
nearly brought these negotiations to a conclusion, when,
being almost arrived, he was alarmed by the sound of
horse's feet, and a body of troops overtook him on their
way to join the army of the Alps. It was about noon,
and the towers of the chateau were just visible at a
little distance from the road. At the sight of them the
colonel ordered a halt. Claude had succeeded in hiding
himself amid some thick shrubbery, in such a way
that he could, without being seen, overhear the conversation.
From this place of concealment he perceived
that a peasant had been arrested and brought before
the commander, who put several inquiries to him
respecting the chateau and its occupants. The replies
were of a nature to awaken considerable alarm. The
man questioned was a bigoted Jacobin; and, whether
from party zeal, private enmity, or the mere desire to
behold a scene of carnage and plunder, related many
particulars, which aroused the fury of the colonel, who
seemed to be a low, coarse man, with that determined
bent towards cruelty which marked so many minds
during this period. The sum of the information thus
received was, that the owner of the chateau was a royalist;
that he had a brother, who was not only a rank
aristocrat, but a Prussian nobleman; that the latter
had come into France with the avowed intention of
aiding the royal cause, in consequence of which he had
been imprisoned, and was either beheaded or was
awaiting execution; that the present occupant of the
chateau was also an officer of decidedly royal sentiments,
and that he was waiting to emigrate only till he

should ascertain whether the brother could be saved.
The informant added, that the daughter of the imprisoned
Prussian was also a resident of the chateau,
and that she was a very beautiful girl, who refused to
quit France from fidelity to her father; and that there
was an English spy, also in the habit of remaining
much with the family, although disguised under the
character of a revolutionist. Claude heard, with as
much astonishment as alarm, these and many other
particulars related of himself and the precious charge
over whose safety he had watched with so much care,
some of which could only have been ascertained by a
system of espionage which he had too carelessly concluded
he had escaped.

“The sacré aristocrat!” then demanded Colonel
Dubois, “has taken no part in the revolution?”

“No, citizen colonel,” replied the peasant; “they
are determined to emigrate as soon as the proper time
comes.”

“That they never shall,” said the colonel. “What
say you, my brave fellows? For us or against us is
our motto; these are traitors. Shall we down with the
old crow's nest about their ears?”

An enthusiastic shout announced the delight with
which this proposition was received by the licentious
troops; for, notwithstanding the victorious career of the
French armies under the Republic, they frequently interrupted
their march to indulge in excesses characteristic
rather of undisciplined banditti than of regular
troops.

A short council was immediately called, consisting
of two or three of the officers, of which Claude did not
wait to hear the result. He crept from the thicket,
which fortunately led through a narrow lane shaded
with trees and bushes in such a way as to conceal him
from the view of the soldiery, who were, moreover, too
expectant of the orders of their chief and of their anticipated
booty to regard his motions. Following, therefore,
the path, which lay in a direct line to it, he reached

the chateau, breathless, covered with dust, and pale
with the terror which the incident had conjured up.
His sudden appearance and agitation at once announced
that he was the messenger of evil. Colonel St.
Marie had been asleep upon a sofa, and Ida was sitting
by his side lost in thought. They both started up and
heard with inexpressible terror the danger which was
approaching. St. Marie, although superannuated and
scarcely able to walk, rose with an indignation which
for a moment recalled the strength of youth to his
limbs. The domestics were instantly collected, and
preparations for defence were commenced. He called
for his arms, and gave twenty different orders in the
same minute. Three or four bewildered serving-men,
incapable of rendering aid, even had there been any
chance of defence, ran to and fro, scarcely knowing
what they did; and St. Marie, even while grasping his
sword with one trembling hand and a pistol with the
other, as if determined himself to confront the ruffians
who threatened him, sank back exhausted into a fauteuil,
and his weapons fell from his nerveless grasp.

“Ida,” said St. Marie, “you must fly. Wyndham,
it is to you alone I dare intrust her. I know not
which of the servants, if any, are worthy of confidence.
One mile back through the wood is the hut of Susanne,
an old family nurse, who has a certain place of
concealment. I will never leave my hearthstone for
these recreants. Do not seek to persuade me. This
man,” he added, pointing to the trembling old domestic
who supported his feeble steps, “is the only one in
the family who knows it besides myself. I will call
the others in, and they shall not see the road you take.
Fly. I commit her to your care.”

“My beloved uncle—my father! Oh, merciful
Heaven! preserve me,” murmured Ida, fainting with
terror.

“Do you fear to accompany him, my child?” demanded
the old man.

“Oh, no, no!” cried Ida; “but come with us, my
uncle!”

“Never.”

“Then I will not desert you—”

“I command you, Ida. Your presence here will
make things worse.”

“These are dangers,” said Claude, “which make
flight imperative—for you, monsieur, as well as for her.
Your age—your—”

“Never. I have never fled from the enemies of
France; shall I fly from her children? Never. I will
receive these rude visiters in my hall as becomes a
host. I will retain them if I can—at least till you are
out of their reach. I will—Hark! Ida! sweet child!
away.”

They embraced as those embrace who may never
meet again.

The trumpet sounded a blast almost under the window.
There was a trampling of horses' feet upon the
stone pavement of the court, and three hoarse cheers
announced the numbers and the spirit of the new-comers.
Claude led his affrighted companion, with gentle
force, from the arms of the high-hearted old man,
and withdrew, tenderly sustaining her hasty and faltering
steps. He thought himself the sport of some
wild dream. He passed hastily through the gate.
One of the soldiers, by the precaution of the enemy,
had been already planted there. His glittering bayonet
arrested them, and he levelled his musket.

“No, my fair friend!” cried he, laughing, “you
are just the one we want.

“Back! Back, I say! Ha, cochon!” he continued,
as Claude raised a pistol. He accompanied the
last exclamation by discharging his musket; but, before
he had time to bring it to a correct aim—before
even the words had fairly left his lips, the ball, winged
from the rapid hand of Claude, laid him dead upon
the grass. The contents of his musket spent themselves
harmlessly in the air. A wild shout from the
house winged Claude's feet with yet new swiftness;
and, lifting Ida upon his arm, he gained a thick grove

within a few yards of the wall, just as a crowd of
shouting ruffians turned the angle of the building,
which, indeed, was already a scene of shrieks, tumult,
and uproar.

Completely sheltered by the bowers of the tangled
wood, he fled hastily with his beloved burden.
It was not long, however, when, by the increased
weight upon his arm, he perceived that he bore a senseless
form. He stooped to gaze upon that face, the
image of so many a delicious dream, and a thousand
times more beautiful in reality even than in imagination.
He bathed her pale temples and closed eyes
with water from a spring, that gushed from the rock
against which he leaned, and, with a tremour at his
heart such as he had never known before, he measured
her beautiful, senseless form with fearful eyes,
to assure himself that the ball of the ruffian who had
fired at them had not marred the fairest mortal that
ever came from the hand of nature. Terrified, yet
dazzled—enraptured, yet in despair—a tenderness,
which would have made him too happy to lay down
his life for her, entered yet more deeply into his soul.
With inexpressible rapture he perceived that she was
not wounded, and that she already began to give signs
of life. Her head hung back upon his arm—upon his
bosom. Her eyes opened. Her mouth almost touched
his own. He felt her fragrant breath upon his
cheek.

At this moment he would have forgotten the danger
which surrounded him had his own life alone been
at stake. The obstacles to his union with Ida were
removed; and her whole demeanour towards him during
the time which had elapsed since their meeting
in Paris, had filled his heart with new fervour, while
it inspired his mind with deeper respect. Both seemed
to feel that, amid the dreadful events going on
around them, and in which they themselves were so
deeply interested, any formal expression of their own
sentiments would be out of place. The language of

both, therefore, had been only that of a friendship full
of tender confidence and deep happiness, strangely
mingled with apprehension and anguish. But now,
with the object of his long-cherished love thus committed
to his single care—thus abandoned to himself
alone — thus beautiful — thus clinging to his bosom,
amid the bowers of a wood hidden from every eye—
he could scarcely avoid flinging himself at her feet,
and declaring the passion which inspired him. But
the poor girl did not participate in his forgetfulness of
danger, although her very terror unconsciously betrayed
the love with which she had long regarded him.
As he sustained her trembling form with the delicacy
of a brother, feeling that even to die for a being so
dear was a greater happiness than had ever before
been allotted to his dark and lonely life, he saw
enough in the unguarded tenderness and dependance,
which even her fear and grief betrayed, to swell his
breast with rapture, that rendered him, as far as regarded
his own safety, totally regardless of the tempest
around.

“Do not fear,” he cried; “no peril shall reach you,
dearest, beloved girl.”

A shout again came from the chateau.

“My uncle—my father! Oh, save me! save me!”
she murmured, sinking from mingled fear and affection
upon his bosom.

With a Herculean arm he lifted her once more, and
did not pause again till he reached the hut of old Susanne.