Complete Works of Thomas Hardy (Illustrated) (912 page)

“‘That is trivial. You are the man I say you are.”

“‘How did you know my real name, Mademoiselle?”

“‘I saw you in years gone by, when you did not see me. You were formerly Member of the Committee of Public Safety, under the Convention.”

“‘I was.”

“‘You guillotined my father, my brother, my uncle — all my family, nearly, and broke my mother’s heart. They had done nothing but keep silence. Their sentiments were only guessed. Their headless corpses were thrown indiscriminately into the ditch of the Mousseaux Cemetery, and destroyed with lime.”

‘He nodded.

‘“You left me without a friend, and here I am now, alone in a foreign land.”

‘“I am sorry for you,” said he. “ Sorry for the consequence, not for the intent. What I did was a matter of conscience, and, from a point of view indiscernible by you, I did right. I profited not a farthing. But I shall not argue this. You have the satisfaction of seeing me here an exile also, in poverty, betrayed by comrades, as friendless as yourself.”

“‘It is no satisfaction to me, Monsieur.”

“‘Well, things done cannot be altered. Now to the question: are you quite recovered? “

“‘Not from dislike and dread of you — otherwise, yes.”

“‘Good morning, Mademoiselle.”

‘“Good morning.”

‘They did not meet again till one evening at the theatre (which my mother’s friend was with great difficulty induced to frequent, to perfect herself in English pronunciation, the idea she entertained at that time being to become a teacher of English in her own country later on), She found him sitting next to her, and it made her pale and restless.

“‘You are still afraid of me?”

“‘I am. O cannot you understand!”

‘ He signified the affirmative.

“‘ I follow the play with difficulty,” he said presently.

“‘So do I — now,” said she.

‘He regarded her long, and she was conscious of his look; and while she kept her eyes on the stage they filled with tears. Still she would not move, and the tears ran visibly down her cheek, though the play was a merry one, being noother than Mr. Sheridan’s comedy of “The Rivals,” with Mr. S. Kemble as Captain Absolute. He saw her distress, and that her mind was elsewhere; and abruptly rising from his seat at candle-snuffing time he left the theatre.

‘Though he lived in the old town, and she in the new, they frequently saw each other at a distance. One of these occasions was when she was on the north side of the harbour, by the ferry, waiting for the boat to take her across. Hewas standing by Cove Row, on the quay opposite. Instead of entering the boat when it arrived she stepped back from the quay; but looking to see if he remained she beheld him pointing with his finger to the ferry-boat.

“‘Enter!” he said, in a voice loud enough to reach her.

‘Mademoiselle V — stood still.

“‘Enter!” he said, and, as she did not move, he repeated the word a third time.

‘She had really been going to cross, and now approached and stepped down into the boat. Though she did not raise her eyes she knew that he was watching her over. At the landing steps she saw from under the brim of her hat a hand stretched down. The steps were steep and slippery.

“‘No, Monsieur,” she said. “ Unless, indeed, you believe in God, and repent of your evil past!”

“‘I am sorry you were made to suffer. But I only believe in the god called Reason, and I do not repent. I was the instrument of a national principle. Your friends were not sacrificed for any ends of mine.”

‘She thereupon withheld her hand, and clambered up unassisted. He went on, ascending the Look-out Hill, and disappearing over the brow. Her way was in the same direction, her errand being to bring home the two young girls under her charge, who had gone to the cliff for an airing. When she joined them at the top she saw his solitary figure at the further edge, standing motionless against the sea. All the while that she remained with her pupils he stood without turning, as if looking at the frigates in the roadstead, but more probably in meditation, unconscious where he was. In leaving the spot one of the children threw away half a sponge-biscuit that she had been eating. Passing near it he stooped, picked it up carefully, and put it in his pocket.

‘Mademoiselle V — came homeward, asking herself, “Can he be starving?”

‘From that day he was invisible for so long a time that she thought he had gone away altogether. But one evening a note came to her, and she opened it trembling.

‘I am here ill,’ it said, ‘and, as you know, alone. There are one or two little things I want done, in case my death should occur, and I should prefer not to ask the people here, if it could be avoided. Have you enough of the gift of charity to come and carry out my wishes before it is too late?’

‘Now so it was that, since seeing him possess himself of the broken cake, she had insensibly begun to feel something that was more than curiosity, though perhaps less than anxiety, about this fellow-countryman of hers; and it was not in her nervous and sensitive heart to resist his appeal. She found his lodging (to which he had removed from the Old Rooms inn for economy) to be a room over a shop, half-way up the steep and narrow street of the old town, to which the fashionable visitors seldom penetrated. With some misgiving she entered the house, and was admitted to the chamber where he lay.

‘“You are too good, too good,” he murmured. And presently, “You need not shut the door. You will feel safer, and they will not understand what we say.”

“‘Are you in want, Monsieur? Can I give you — ”

“‘No, no. I merely want you to do a trifling thing or two that I have not strength enough to do myself. Nobody in the town but you knows who I really am — unless you have told?”

“‘I have not told... I thought you might have acted from principle in those sad days, even — ”

‘“You are kind to concede that much. However, to the present. I was able to destroy my few papers before I became so weak. . , . But in the drawer there you will find some pieces of linen clothing — only two or three — marked with initials that may be recognized. Will you rip them out with a penknife?

‘She searched as bidden, found the garments, cut out the stitches of the lettering, and replaced the linen as before. A promise to post, in the event of his death, a letter he put in her hand, completed all that he required of her.

‘He thanked her. “I think you seem sorry for me, he murmured. “ And I am surprised. You are sorry?”

‘She evaded the question. “Do you repent and believe? “ she asked.

“‘No.”

‘Contrary to her expectations and his own he recovered, though very slowly; and her manner grew more distant thenceforward, though his influence upon her was deeper than she knew. Weeks passed away, and the month of May arrived. One day at this time she met him walking slowly along the beach to the northward.

“‘You know the news?” he said.

“‘You mean of the rupture between France and England again?”

“‘Yes; and the feeling of antagonism is stronger than it was in the last war, owing to Bonaparte’s highhanded arrest of the innocent English who were travelling in our country for pleasure. I feel that the war will be long and bitter; and that my wish to live unknown in England will be frustrated. See here.”

‘He took from his pocket a piece of the single newspaper which circulated in the county in those days, and she read —

“‘The magistrates acting under the Alien Act have been requested to direct a very scrutinizing eye to the Academies in our towns and other places, in which French tutors are employed, and to all of that nationality who profess to be teachers in this country. Many of them are known to be inveterate Enemies and Traitors to the nation among whose people they have found a livelihood and a home.”

‘He continued: “I have observed since the declaration of war a marked difference in the conduct of the rougher class of people here towards me. If a great battle were to occur — as it soon will, no doubt — feeling would grow to a pitch that would make it impossible for me, a disguised man of no known occupation, to stay here. With you, whose duties and antecedents are known, it may be less difficult, but still unpleasant. Now I propose this. You have probably seen how my deep sympathy with you has quickened to a warm feeling; and what I say is, will you agree to give me a title to protect you by honouring me with your hand? I am older than you, it is true; but as husband and wife we can leave England together, and make the whole world our country. Though I would propose Quebec, in Canada, as the place which offers the best promise of a home.”

“‘My God! You surprise me!” said she.

“‘But you accept my proposal?

“‘No, no!”

“‘And yet I think you will, Mademoiselle, some day!”

“‘I think not.” “‘I won’t distress you further now.”

“‘Much thanks. . . . I am glad to see you looking better, Monsieur; I mean you are looking better.”

“‘Ah, yes. I am improving. I walk in the sun every day.”

‘And almost every day she saw him — sometimes nodding stiffly only, sometimes exchanging formal civilities. “You are not gone yet,” she said on one of these occasions.

“‘No. At present I don’t think of going without you.”

“‘But you find it uncomfortable here?”

“‘Somewhat. So when will you have pity on me?”

‘She shook her head and went on her way. Yet she was a little moved. “He did it on principle,” she would murmur. “ He had no animosity towards them, and profited nothing!”

‘She wondered how he lived. It was evident that he could not be so poor as she had thought; his pretended poverty might be to escape notice. She could not tell, but she knew that she was dangerously interested in him.

‘And he still mended, till his thin, pale face became more full and firm. A she mended she had to meet that request of his, advanced with even stronger insistency.

‘The arrival of the King and Court for the season as usual brought matters to a climax for these two lonely exiles and fellow country-people. The King’s awkward preference for a part of the coast in such dangerous proximity to France made it necessary that a strict military vigilance should be exercised to guard the royal residents. Half-a-dozen frigates were every night posted in a line across the bay, and two lines of sentinels, one at the water’s edge and another behind the Esplanade, occupied the whole sea-front after eight every night. The watering-place was growing an inconvenient residence even for Mademoiselle V — herself, her friendship for this strange French tutor and writing-master who never had any pupils having been observed by many who slightly knew her. The General’s wife, whose dependent she was, repeatedly warned her against the acquaintance; while the Hanoverian and other soldiers of the Foreign Legion, who had discovered the nationality of her friend, were more aggressive than the English military gallants who made it their business to notice her.

‘In this tense state of affairs her answers became more agitated. “O Heaven, how can I marry you!” she would say.

“‘You will; surely you will!” he answered again. “I don’t leave without you. And I shall soon be interrogated before the magistrates if I stay here; probably imprisoned. You will come?”

‘She felt her defences breaking down. Contrary to all reason and sense of family honour she was, by some abnormal craving, inclining to a tenderness for him that was founded on its opposite. Sometimes her warm sentiments burnt lower than at others, and then the enormity of her conduct showed itself in more staring hues.

‘Shortly after this he came with a resigned look on his face. “It is as I expected,” he said. “I have received a hint to go. In good sooth, I am no Bonapartist — I am no enemy to England; but the presence of the King made it impossible for a foreigner with no visible occupation, and who may be a spy, to remain at large in the town. The authorities are civil, but firm, They are no more than reasonable. Good. I must go. You must come also.”

‘She did not speak. But she nodded assent, her eyes drooping.

‘On her way back to the house on the Esplanade she said to herself, “ I am glad, I am glad! I could not do otherwise. It is rendering good for evil!” But she knew how she mocked herself in this, and that the moral principle had not operated one jot in her acceptance of him. In truth she had not realised till now the full presence of the emotion which had unconsciously grown up in her for this lonely and severe man, who, in her tradition, was vengeance and irreligion personified. He seemed to absorb her whole nature, and, absorbing, to control it.

‘A day or two before the one fixed for the wedding there chanced to come to her a letter from the only acquaintance of her own sex and country she possessed in England, one to whom she had sent intelligence of her approaching marriage, without mentioning with whom. This friend’s misfortunes had been somewhat similar to her own, which fact had been one cause of their intimacy; her friend’s sister, a nun of the Abbey of Montmartre, having perished on the scaffold at the hands of the same Comite de Salut Public which had numbered Mademoiselle V — ’s affianced among its members. The writer had felt her position much again of late, since the renewal of the war, she said; and the letter wound up with a fresh denunciation of the authors of their mutual bereavement and subsequent troubles.

‘Coming just then, its contents produced upon Mademoiselle V — the effect of a pail of water upon a somnambulist. What had she been doing in betrothing herself to this man! Was she not making herself a parricide after the event? At this crisis in her feelings her lover called. He beheld her trembling, and, in reply to his question, she told him of her scruples with impulsive candour.

‘She had not intended to do this, but his attitude of tender command coerced her into frankness. Thereupon he exhibited an agitation never before apparent in him. He said, “But all that is past. You are the symbol of Charity, and we are pledged to let bygones be.”

‘His words soothed her for the moment, but she was sadly silent, and he went away.

‘That night she saw (as she firmly believed to the end of her life) a divinely sent vision. A procession of her lost relatives — father, brother, uncle, cousin seemed to cross her chamber between her bed and the window, and when she endeavoured to trace their features she perceived them to be headless, and that she had recognized them by their familiar clothes only. In the morning she could not shake off the effects of this appearance on her nerves. All that day she saw nothing of her wooer, he being occupied in making arrangements for their departure. It grew towards evening — the marriage eve; but, in spite of his reassuring visit, her sense of family duty waxed stronger now that she was left alone. Yet, she asked herself, how could she, alone and unprotected, go at this eleventh hour and reassert to an affianced husband that she could not and would not marry him while admitting at the same time that she loved him? The situation dismayed her. She had relinquished her post as governess, and was staying temporarily in a room near the coach office, where she expected him to call in the morning to carry out the business of their union and departure.