University of Virginia Library

25. CHAPTER XXV.

The current of events never stands still; the tide of cause and effect never ebbs,
but still, advancing with a flood equally noiseless and invisible, whether it be slow or
rapid, overtops the landmarks of the most sage experience, and shakes the bulwarks of
the firmest resolution. Still, even in the most eventful periods of the most eventful
lives, there will be many a pause, many a breathing space of seeming quiet, during which
it not seldom happens, that when we deem ourselves most tranquil and secure in our
ignorance of what is passing elsewhere, accidents are actually going on, in places we
have never heard of, and among persons we have never seen, which are to alter the
whole course and tenor of our lives, and work our happiness or wo. For well-nigh two
months after their disembarking at Boulogne, nothing apparently occurred, nothing assuredly

transpired, that could effect the Selbys either for good or evil. They soon, indeed,
received replies from their Parisan friends, some kind, and warm, and cordial; others
as cold and ungenial as a July hailstorm. The kindest from those persons on whom
they had the slighter claims, who had least loudly tongued their protestations! the
coldest from the most indebted, and the most prodigal of former offers! To this, there
was but one exception: Madame de Gondi's letters were all that could be wished for
or expected; so hospitably anxious to embrace her lovely niece, so strenuous in her delight
at offering her a home in her heart of hearts, that she seemed positively to rejoice
at the calamities, which had enabled her to enjoy her society, and to give scope to
all the largeness of her own generous spirit. After the first strong pressing invitation,
she was induced, however, to admit the prudence of Henry Chaloner's advice, and to
content to their remaining tranquilly in private lodgings at Boulogne until the court should
return to Paris, and the war be brought to a conclusion, which all the royalists now
prophesied aloud, must, ere long, be the consequence of Turenne's martial skill. Meanwhile,
the life of Alice and her father passed on as stagnantly as can well be imagined.
Letters came now and then from Chaloner, accompanying the promised bales of books
and habiliments, but there was little in them of grand or stirring interest: relating as they
did for the most part to local matters, to the tenantry, and poor, and household at Woolverton,
which had been formally sequestrated and granted in due course of law to
Chaloner, who hastened to remit the proceeds of the rents; while all the charities of the
late owners were still continued, and the establishment kept up almost upon its ancient
footing. At times, long gossiping epistles would arrive from Madame Gondi, full of
descriptions of the progress of the royal arms, of loyal hopes and exultations, and
copious praises of the loyal leaders, among whom, more than once, poor Alice found
enumerated the name of Major Wivil, as one distinguished, far above his fellows, for
desperate valor and high conduct. beyond this, nothing of any kind occurred to disturb
the monotonous gloom of the life which they led, day after day, in the small uninteresting
seaport. A solitary walk upon the cliffs, or on the strip of yellow sand below
them, a wistful straining of the eyes toward the invisible shores beloved, and now and then
a drive through the dull environs—these were her only occupations beyond the doors
of their cheerless home. Her father, who now had fallen back completely into his
ancient habits, seemed to be scarcely conscious of the change which had occured in his
fortunes; but a few of his favored authors being forwarded to him by Henry, he read,
and wrote, and mused, and methodized in a small dingy chamber in Boulogne, with the
same unremitting studiousness which keept him ensconced for weeks together in his
delightful library at Woolverton; and seemed to be as happy now as he had been at
any period of his life.

Two months passed, and the summer flowers had passed away, the harvest had been
gathered in, the vintage had been pressed, and brown October was painting busily the
woods with the rich hues of his autumnal pallet. From time to time they had learned
that the Spaniards had retreated into Flanders; that Monsieur de Lorraine was advancing
a second time on Paris; that Turenne had marched to intercept him, but
having failed to prevent his junction with the princes, had taken up a strong position
in the angle of the Seine and Heyère—the very same which had been occupied in June
by the duke, and was too strong to be attacked with any probability of success, although
the enemy were confident of speedily reducing him by want of forage and provision
for his men. Soon afterwards, news reached them, that at the very moment when the
princes imagined that the royal army must surrender within the space of a few days,
the great French captain had bridged the Scine with boats in several places, and extricated
all his troops without the loss of a single man, or the discovery by the enemy that
he so much as meditated the evacuation of his lines. Then came intelligence that the
royalists had passed the Marne at Meaux, and, marching by Borest and Mont l'Evêque,
had taken a position at Courteuil near Senlis; and that the rebels, utterly discouraged
at finding themselves thus out-manœuvred, and left in a devastated region with all their
work to do a second time—their foreign friends deserting them meanwhile, and their

abettors, the most of the great cities, becoming weary of them—had fallen back into
Champagne and Lorraine; the Spanish leaders having engaged to meet them at Rethel
on the Aisne, and aid them to reduce such fortresses and strongholds in those provinces
as might be necessary to secure their winter-quarters. The consequence of these
events, it was predicted strongly, would be the return of the court to Paris; and Alice
was encouraged to expect a speedy summons thither.

Such was the state of affairs in the realm of France, when, on one bright clear morning,
it was announeed with no small bustle throughout the streets of Boulogne, that an
English barque had come into port a little after sunrise; and that a government courier
was at the moment entering the town with dispatches, it was suppoced, of great moment.
An hour or two afterwards, the attention of Alice was attracted by the great concourse
which began to pour through all the thoroughfares toward the market-place, where she
soon learned, from the exclamations of the people, that the governor of the royal garrison
was about to address the citizens, touching some news which had arrived from
Paris. She had already risen from the window by which she had been sitting, with
the intent of sending one of the men to learn what was passing, when the door opened,
and her maid came in bearing two letters, with a face full of well-pleased smiles, exclaiming,
“From England, Mistress Alice, from England! and from Paris too; and all
the town are mad, I think, for joy, for the great marshal, I forget his name, has beat
the roundheads.”

“The roundheads!” replied Alice, with a smile. “The rebels, you mean, Margaret;
there are no roundheads here.”

“Well, then, the rebels, Mistress Alice,” answered the girl; “but I thought it was
all one. Our roundheads, I am sure, were rebels. But beaten they are, and glad I am
of it; and the king, and our good duke of York, and all the gentle cavaliers have been
carried back in triumph to Paris.”

“Well, that is good news, Margaret, if it be true,” said Alice; “for in that case, we
can go at once to the city.”

“Oh, I shall be so glad! oh, so glad!” exclaimed the country girl, her whole face
radiant with delight. “They say it is the finest in all the universal world. When shall
we go, Mistress Alice? Oh, I am so glad!”

“I doubt it not,” said Alice, laughing somewhat sadly; “but be not too quick in
your gladness, Margaret: for many a thing, which seems to us all joy in the beginning,
brings in the end much sadness; and it is well, if not repentance also. But, leave me
now, my good girl, that I may read these letters, and you shall hear all in season.”
And as she spoke she tore the cover off the English letter, which was addressed in the
familiar hand of her cousin, and seemed, from its bulk, to contain several inclosures.
The first on which her eye fell, as she broke the seal, was a small note directed separately
to herself, with the word “private,” added to the superscription. The writing
was still Henry's, and her heart beat tumultuously, as she opened it, for she half feared
that he might have procured her pardon from the lord general, coupled with some conditions,
which it would have been painful for her to refuse, and to admit, impossible
But her heart smote her for the imperfect thought, even as she began to form it; and
her fears were relieved at once when she began to read, as follows:

What were the thoughts of the sweet girl as she perused, line after line, the welcome
letter which assured her that she had falsely blamed her lover—that he was true and
stainless of every blot upon his honor—that so far from forgetting her, he had seized the
first, as it seemed, safe opportunity of correspondence—can be more readily imagined
than described. The tears gushed to her eyes before she had read one half of it, and
blinded her for several minutes; yet they were pleasant tears, and as they flowed they
soothed her restless and perturbed imagination. She dried them and read on, and wept
again; and wept and read alternately, till she had run it over many times, and had its
contents, as it were, by heart; then she sat for a long while immoveable and silent,
communing with her own soul in secret; and then at last, as she yielded altogether to
the conviction, that she had indeed been in error all the time; that all her hopes, when
she had most believed them withering and blighted, were in fair progress toward fulfilment,

she fell down on her knees and poured forth to the great Giver of all human joy
and sorrow, a flood of holy heartfelt gratitude and humble adoration. She prayed for
pardon of her past doubts and secret murmurings; for strength to bear this sudden
change from the abyss of sorrow to happiness unspeakable without undue and impious
exultation; and having prayed, she rose refreshed and strengthened, and more like
herself than she had felt for months. This duty finished, as soon as she felt sufficiently
composed to betake herself to less exciting matters, she opened the other letter, which
she saw at once was from her kind relation, Madame de Gondi. This confirmed fully
the tidings which had been brought to Boulogne by the courier: the court was once
more reinstated in the Louvre, the good Parisians having received their king—whom for
many months they had banished from their capital, which they had even suffered to be
filled with the red scarfs of the Spanish soldiers and the Burgundian standards of his
most desperate enemies—with acclamations of enthusiastic joy, and such outbursts of
joyous loyalty, that any one would have supposed that he had absented himself for so
long a time in opposition to the wishes of his subjects. The army of the princes had
retreated into Champagne, and the king's troops under the indefatigable Turenne were
in full pursuit of them, having already taken Chateau Porcien and Rethel on the Aisne.
“Come, then at, once—come, dearest Alice!” ran the concluding sentences; “persuade
your father to tear himself without delay from his dull books, and come to us
while we are arrayed in smiles and merriment. There are more fêtes and balls, more
masques and carousels, than we have seen for many a year; and as, to say the truth,
we are the least in the world changeable and capricious—we good citizens of Paris—so
that six months hence we may be again all rebels, and blockaded and besieged, and
famishing, and furious: it is best that you should come immediately, and see us au plus
beau! But seriously, the roads are all clear now, and there is nothing to hinder you,
but everything on the contrary to make it wise that you should set out instantly. So
order out your horses, and get into your carriage the very day you get this letter, and
I will look for you within the week. Your English king is here; but the Duke of York,
who entre nous is much more to my taste, is absent with the army: so are the most
part, and the best, of your countrymen; except a dozen noble buffoons and profligates,
noisy without gayety and vicious without wit, who are King Charles's familiar friends.
One of your braves is here, however, and we are all mad with admiration of him. He
was a little wounded at Rethel on the Aisne, and invalided for a time; so they have
given him a company in the Garde Royale. He wears his arm in a broidered scarf;
but the ladies say it is but to render himself more interesting, which is needless, for by
all accounts he is beau comme un ange! I suppose I need scarcely add that this cavalier
parfait is no other than the Major Wyvil, concerning whom I have so often written
to you. Adieu—a thousand remembrances to your dear father. Now come at once;
for, since I know that I can have you here so easily, je me desole without you.

“In the sweet hope of soon embracing you,
“Yours, ever, ever,
“Henriette de Gondi.

“Hotel de Gondi, Fanbourg St. Germain, October 26.”

She had scarcely finished reading these two, to her, most interesting letters, when,
disturbed from his meditations and studies by the exclamations of the great loyal mob,
which had been constantly increasing, ever since the arrival of the courier, her father
entered the room in his sad-colored morning gown, carrying in his hand an open volume
of Longinus, with an air of extreme dissatisfaction. “I wish, beyond all measure,
that we could leave this odious town,” he began, before Alice had an opportunity of
addressing him; “I never have had a moment's quiet from sunrise to bed-time; what
with poissardes yelling and howling through the streets at dawn—like the Eumenides of
Orestes, and fifty thousand other trades and eallings, all bellowing out their miserable
wares; and now, since nine o'clock, there has been one continuous stream of madmen
parading to and fro beneath my windows—I verily believe that this must be Babel;

and that the confusion of tongues was nothing more than causing all the nations
simultancously to begin speaking French—for I am quite sure of this, that they cannot
understand one another. I would give anything in the world to quit this place, even if
it was to go to the Bastile.”

“I am sure, then—I am very glad, my dear father,” replied Alice, almost laughing,
when she thought of the long protracted annoyance which he must have endured before
his naturally calm and placid temper was worked into this fume and ferment—“very
glad, to tell you that you can leave it when you please; within two hours if you think
proper.”

“How is that, Alice? I do not understand—what is it? I thought we could not go
to Paris on account of this civil war—the people are mad, I believe, all the world over—
for it seems to me that the only occupation of every nation, on the whole face of the
globe, is cutting its own throat; as if there were not foreigners and strangers, or enemies
as they call them, enough to kill—if they must be for ever killing.”

“The war, however, is at an end, father—I have just received one letter from
Madame de Gondi, telling me that the king and all the court have returned to Paris,
and praying us to set forth this very day.”

“Well! and have you not given orders? have you not caused the carriage to be
prepared? have you not directed the horses to be harnessed? I am sure I can be ready
in a quarter of an hour.”

“I do not doubt it in the least,” said Alice, laughing merrily; “you have only got to
change your morning gown for you black velvet doublet, and to shut up that volume
of Sycophron, I suppose it is—for that's the hardest book in the world, they say—and
then, you know, you would be ready to go to the top of Mount Caucasus.”

“Now you are laughing at me, Alice—now you are laughing at me; and this is not
Sycophron at all, but Longinus on the sublime and beautiful! But why can we not
set forth in half an hour?”

“Oh! for a hundred reasons,” she replied. “In the first place, because ladies cannot
prepare themselves for journeying with quite so much rapidity as you of the ruder
sex—secondly, because we have got to send to the bankers for some money to pay our
bills, and to pack our trunks and mails—and lastly, because it is necessary to have our
passports visès, before we can proceed any farther. All this, however, I will send
Charles, who speaks French perfectly well, to arrange immediately; and, if you will
but moderate your impatience a little, we will set off this afternoon. But you must
listen to be now; for I have much to tell you that is of importance, though you have
been too much excited hitherto to listen to me. I have another letter—from cousin
Henry! and he has obtained Cromwell's promise that we shall both receive a full pardon,
and be at liberty to return to dear Woolverton, in the spring—is not that good
news, father? and he goes on to say, that there was nothing in Captain Wyvil's letter to
his kinsman relating in the least degree to any of us; and that the whole was discovered
from his letter to myself; which the lord general blamed the council exceedingly for
opening, and burnt, as soon as it came into his hands. He was pleased too with Captain
Wyvil's style of sentiments and tone of writing, and will grant him a pardon likewise,
if he ask for it, on parole not to act against the government. So everything, you see,
is going to end happy.”

“God grant it may,” answered the old man solemnly; “I would fain once again see
Woolverton, before I die; but there is on my mind a deep impression, I know not
wherefore, that I shall not. It is, however, I doubt not, only an old man's fancy. And
you see that I was right about your young cavalier. I was quite sure, it was not in the
nature of things that he could be so base a villain as gratuitously to betray those who
had risked their lives to save him. But I will go and arrange my books and papers,
for I have something more to do, you saucy one, than to shut up this one volume of
Longinus—and I beseech you make all haste you can with your preparations, for I do
evidently desire to leave this noisy town.”

“I will—I will indeed, dear father,” answered Alice; “but upon my word, I am

very much afraid, that in going to Paris you will only exchange a small tumult for a
great one. The people, I fancy, from Madame de Gondi's letter, are madder there
than anywhere else in the world.”

“Ay: but I shall not be forced to live there out in the street, which I might as well
be doing as occupying that miserable little room looking on that place, which seems to
me to be the particular resort of all the market-women, and knaves and swindlers in
Boulonge; but for that matter, I believe the whole population of the place is made up
of the three species. Besides, there are some great Grecians in the Sarbonne, and I
shall meet with some one fit to speak to upon reasonable subjects.”

“That is to say, upon the most unreasonable subjects in the world,” said she laughing
again; “but I am glad to hear that you anticipate pleasure, where I feared you would
only find annoyance: but I will go now, and make my arrangements.”

This was soon done; and immediately after dinner, which was served in those primitive
days about noon, they set forth on their journey with their own horses and outriders,
and a French courier in a half military dress, with a short hanger at his side and
a gold-laced chapeau, perched on the box in front of the huge and cumbrous vehicle.
The weather was lovely, with that pure blue sky which indicates the existence of a
slight degree of frost; and the country, though not in itself very varied or attractive,
looked beautiful to eyes which had been long confined to the dull range of dingy streets
of the small seaport town; particularly as it was now decked with all the gay and various
tints of autumn, and was enlivened by the glorious sunshine, which poured over it from
the unclouded heaven. Those were times, when journeys were not made with the
lightning-speed of steam-carriages and railways, nor even with the less wonderful rapidity
of post-horses and light chariots; and accordingly, many days elapsed before they
reached the neighborhood of the metropolis. Nothing occurred, however, to impede
their progress; no accident beyond the ordinary casualties, such as the casting of a
leader's shoe, or the breaking of a wheeler's trace, befell them; but still they did not
meet Madame de Gondi's expectations, if she indeed looked for them, as she said,
within the week in which they started. The weather still continued fine, and though
it was in some sort wearisome to be confined for so many days to the narrow compass
of a carriage, there were still many intervals of rest, when they halted at noonday in
some pleasant hamlet, or at some comfortable wayside hostelry to bait their jaded horses—
there was still much to see that was new and strange to the English eyes of Alice; and
on the whole, the time could not be said to pass unpleasantly. As for her father, he
having taken the precaution of bringing along with him as travelling companions, four
or five volumes of the most obscure and difficult Greek authors, it made very little difference
to him whether he was rolling heavily over the deep and sandy roads, in a
tolerably roomy vehicle, or sitting in a small close study. Indeed, he once or twice expressed
his preference of the carriage to the lodging he had vacated at Boulogne.
Making their way thus daily by gentle journeys, it was late in the afternoon of the
ninth day, that the comparatively crowded state of the roads gave notice to the travellers
that they were beginning to approach the suburbs of the gay metropolis. At every
mile, the number both of carriages and passengers increased; now they would pass a
rude ox-cart creaking and groaning under the weight of huge pipes of wine, and now
they would in turn be passed by some gay equipage drawn by six stately horses covered
with gilded trappings, with outriders in gorgeous liveries, glittering through the dust
which they raised in their rapid transit—now it would be a group of jovial farmers jogging
home after disposing of the produce of their fields or dairies, with heavy pockets
and light hearts; now an old crone plodding along with her panniers full of eggs or
chickens, on the slow sober palfry; and now a gang of hideous-looking beggars with
loathsome sores displayed to excite compassion, or some keen-witted and sharp visaged
fry of youthful rogues and swindlers, with ever and anon a gay cavalier with
waving plumes and jingling spurs, and lace and embroidery enough on their doublets to
furnish forth a warehouse, dashing impetuously forward, and almost trampling the lower
and more infirm of the pedestrians under foot—or a gen-d'arme of the police, frowning

from beneath the shade of his steel cap, on the known face of some incorrigible and
notorious vagabond—or spurring furiously along with belted waist and leathern dispatch-bag,
some government courier, bearing unconsciously the fate of nations at his back.
All was gay bustle and excitement, increasing more and more, as they drew nigher to
the gates of Paris. At length, they came so near that they might see the huge square
towers of Notre Dame looming up clear and massive above the house-tops, and hear the
humming din which rises from the vast and busy throng that swarm in the dense streets
of the great metropolis—and now the barrier was before them close at hand, and their
courier was fumbling already in his portfolio for the passports, when a loud ringing
laugh, distinctly audible above the clatter of several horses' feet in rapid motion, came
to the ears of Alice; and the next moment, as she leaned forward to the open window,
several persons galloped past the carriage at an extremely rapid pace. The foremost was
a tall and splendidly-formed girl, with large and rather bold black eyes, and a profusion
of long jet ringlets falling from under the brim of her green velvet riding hat; she was
superbly dressed in the magnificent fashion of the day, her velvet habit all laced and
braided with gold cords, and slashed with satin, and the housings of her beautiful horse,
which she sat fearlessly and managed with much skill, bedecked with embroidery and
fringes of the same rich material. At her left hand, on the side farthest from the
carriage, rode a fine military-looking man, of an erect and stately figure, with hair as
white as snow, attired in a rich civil suit; and beyond him a singularly handsome youth,
of a dark complexion, with an expression of keen vivid daring, clad in the complete
uniform of the French garde a cheval. Three or four servants followed in scarlet liveries,
and everything bespoke them persons of quality and distinction; but Alice had
not time to observe all these particulars before the young lady, whose eyes had encountered
her own as she passed by, exclaimed, to her great surprise, in English—for her
beauty was rather of an Italian or Spanish character—with a voice very musical and
sweet, but pitched a little too high, “Oh! father, look—look what a lovely English girl
is in that carriage!” and instantly directed the attention of the whole party to the object
of her admiration. They passed so rapidly, however, that she had scarcely time to
draw back, blushing and confused, before they had swept onward. The moment afterwards
another officer, in the same showy uniform, drove by the window, galloping even
more rapidly than those who went before, as if trying to overtake them, and calling
loudly after them to wait for him. He too spoke English, and there was something in
the tones of his voice that induced Alice, who had shrunk back into the corner of the
carriage, to look forth at the person. One glance was enough to show her the keen
aquiline features, the bright blue eye, and the soft flowing hair of her affianced lover
—for it was Wyvil—but he dashed onward without seeing her, or suspecting that the
heavy travel-stained carriage contained any one with whom he was acquainted, and in
a moment was riding by the side of the dark beauty.

“Oh!” Alice cried, while he was yet in sight—“oh! that was Captain Wyvil who
rode by then.”

“Was it? was it, indeed? why did you not call to him, Alice; you might have done
so very fitly, for, of course, he did not see you, or he would certainly have stopped.”

“Oh, no; he did not see me, I know that quite well,” said she; “but he rode by so
very fast that I had not time—I had but barely recognized him before he was gone;
for he was galloping as hard as he could to overtake one of the most beautiful girls I
ever saw in all my life, who had cantered on before. An English girl she was, too, for
I heard her speak; but very dark, with coal-black hair and eyes. I wonder who she
was; there was a noble-looking gray-haired man, whom she called father, by her side,
and a handsome young French officer; and they had several servants in rich liveries:
they must have been persons of distinction.”

“Well, Alice, it will not, after all, make so much difference, for we will find out
where he lives to-morrow, and send him word that we have come to Paris, and doubtless
he will be at your feet in a minute. But, I declare, here we are at the gates already!”

A few minutes passed while the courier was parleying with the gen-d'arme on duty,

and displaying the passports, which proved to be correct, and then they drove on slowly
through the ill-paved and narrow streets for nearly half an hour, before they reached
the faubourg wherein was situated the Hotel de Gondi—a noble pile of dark red brick
with a courtyard in front, to which a stately porte côchere gave access, and a magnificent
façade adorned with columns, all bearing witness of the wealth and dignity of the
owner, who was, indeed, closely connected with the greatest families of France; the
husband of the lady being the nephew of the Duke of Retz, and cousin to the celebrated
cardinal of that name, who, after having opposed the queen-regent and her
favorite, Mazarin, by every factious means imaginable, had, nevertheless, played his
part with so much dexterity and skill, that now, on the banishment of that wily minister,
he had contrived to ingratiate himself with Anne of Austria and her son, from whose
hands he had recently received the cardinal's hat, which he had so long coveted in vain.
The hall of the hotel was crowded with lacqueys in superb liveries; and a tall gray-headed
maitre d'hôtel hurrying out to assist Alice to descend from the carriage, and
saying that he presumed he had the honor to address Mademoiselle Selby, escorted
her, bowing at every landing-place, up a magnificent staircase with gilded balustrades,
and the walls finely painted with subjects of the Odyssey and Iliad; and through a
suite of stately rooms, all furnished in the superbly massive style which has taken its
name from the luxurious monarch in whose days it was introduced, with cabinets of
buhl and marquetry, gigantic mirrors in huge sculptured frames, arm-chairs and ottomans
of velvet and embroidery, fine pictures, tapestry, and curtains fringed with gold; into
the boudoir of the marquise. But the Marchioness de Gondi was, by far, too important
a personage, both in her own estimation and the opinion of her friends, to be introduced
thus at the fag-end of a chapter.