In the Lion's Mouth: the story of two English children in France, 1789-1793

Front matter

THE STORY OF TWO ENGLISH CHILDREN IN FRANCE 1789-1793 r.Y ELEANOR C. PRICE Acthob of "A Lost Battle," "A Lotal Mind," "The Little One," "Miss Latimee of Betans," etc. fLonion MACMILLAN AND CO. AND NEW YORK 1894 All rights reserved CONTENTS. CHAPTER PAGE I. King's Cross 1 II. The Violin-Player ....... 12 III. Across Country ........ 2-1 IV. At the Chateau ....... ■j -j V. Sheltered from the Storm . . . . .48 VI. The Maison Verte 57 VII. A Day in July 71 VIII. The Masters of Mercy 86 IX. Life in Exile 106 X. Citizens in a Garden ....... 118 XI. A Narrow Escape 131 XII. Betty's Enterprise 148 XIII. The Cavalcade 109 XIV. Captive 189 XV. Fugitives 202 XVI. Christmas in England 217 XVII. Christmas in France 230 XVIII. Prison Days CONTENTS. VI CHAPTER PAGE XIX. One Prisoner Free 271 XX. Revolutionary Justice ...... 291 XXI. Betty's Trial 310 XXII. Constantine to the Eescue ..... 322 XXIII. The White Parlour

Chapter I

king's CKOSS. ' ' Life went a-maying With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, When I was young ! ' ' On a March evening, rather more than a hundred years ago, the setting sun was shining red down the street of a little English town. The day had been cold and cloudy, a sort of day to make the most cheerful people shiver, and the prettiest country look desolate ; but a beautiful sunset like this, a glory of red and gold flowing out under a dark grey curtain — which every moment rose a little higher, discovering lakes of clear pale blue — seemed in its peaceful splendour to banish all melancholy. It lighted up the low thatched cot tages, making their latticed windows shine, and turned the swinging signs into glittering pictures, and dazzled the eyes of the people in the street, and gave a fine red glow to the old stone cross in the market-place, showing off its rich old carving in brilliant light and deep shadow, so that the hard usage of centuries was not so 1 n sadly evident as usual.

And beyond the cross, down the lane beyond the market-place, where more thatched cottages, with black beams and white plaster, crouched along each side of the way, the sunset light glorified some tall iron gates with brass points and flourishes, and shining full on the broad front, handsome old red brick, of the Manor-house beyond them, annoyed Mr. Julius Maynard so much that he angrily pushed back his chair, made one stride to the window, and pulled the curtain. He was talking very particular business with Lawyer Penn, in the white panelled parlour, and be sides this, his ways and character suited a cloudy sky better than a sunny one. So the beautiful rosy radi ance, falling like the shadow of an angel's wing on his snuffy brown coat and his piles of papers, and dazzling his eyes, which, like those of some animals, saw best in the dark, was not a welcome friend, but an enemy to be shut out as soon as possible.

Not many yards further down the lane was another iron gate, opening into the churchyard, where a leaf less avenue of limes, arching over a worn stone pavement, led to the south porch of the large, neglected old church. Its walls and tower were chiefly built of flints, a not uncommon thing in that part of the country. In the churchyard the long grass and nettles grew wild, and on the north side the ground sloped to a small deep ravine through which a little river ran, and day and night murmured a pleasant low song. To the east of the church, not far from the Manor-house garden wall, the ground was kept more neatly. One or two spaces enclosed with iron railings, and paved with slabs of stone, showed where the important families of the town were buried — those families whose names might also be found on tablets in the chancel, above the large pews where the living members appeared on Sunday.

These melancholy spaces were out of reach of the evening sunlight which shone so kindly over the rest of the churchyard ; but yet they were not quite neglected ; for the glory came through the great west window, over pews and all, and glowed upon the stately figures of old stained glass with which the east window was filled, so that at certain times of day and night — for the moon in her seasons did the same — kings and saints, a noble procession, seemed to look down on that dark corner where the iron railings were. Here, that evening, reading over and over again some freshly cut letters on one of the stone slabs within the railings, stood a girl and boy — Elizabeth and Constantine Maynard, more generally known as Betty and Con ; now just fifteen and thirteen years old. " Look at them, Betty !

" said the boy, his large brown eyes wide open — he had turned from the rail ings, and was gazing up at the window. " Look ! they seem to move: they are walking across the window." But Betty could not take her eyes from those letters on the stone, which told her how Constantine May nard, her dear father, had died on a certain day in February in that year, just one year later than her mother, his wife. And in her ears were always the last faint words she heard from him — "Betty — the boy — I leave my son in your care." The mother, too, had rested on Betty at the last, and had told her to take care of her father and brother. It was through no fault of Betty's — the dear mother knew, she thought — that the cold winter had taken and carried away a man much troubled and weary of life. He did not care to live, even for the children, and even though he left them with no relation but his brother Julius, a man with whom it was only his own gentle ness that had kept him on friendly terms at all.

" Look at them, Betty ! they'll be gone," cried the boy again, catching her hand. " Which was the king who made our cross, and changed the town's name? Is he there ? Is he one of those ? " " Yes, Con ; you know he is. King Henry the Sixth. There, in the corner, kneeling before the Bishop. If you minded your book, you would know all about him." " The Red Rose : I know," said the boy. " How I should like to be a king! Or else I should like to die for a king, as all those people did for King Charles. Kings don't have their heads cut off now." "No, except in savage countries," Betty answered quietly. Her .father's favourite study had been history, and the children had grown up with a deep interest in kings and queens ; also, as their father was a good old-fashioned churchman and politician, they were young Tories to the backbone.

But few modern theories, even in ihis year 1789, had found their way up the broad quiet street of King's Cross. No one there would have understood or welcomed them, certainly not Betty Maynard. Grave, severe, religious and obedient, with a perfectly simple and straight forward mind, she could only imagine one set of right opinions. They were her father's, with a little addi tional strictness of her own. Tall, strong, not attrac tive or pretty, though her straight young face might soften and light up with time, Betty was a girl to be trusted by all, and to be loved by those she loved. She knew nothing of the world outside King's Cross, and less than nothing of the world beyond the sea. She was coming gradually to suspect that there was a great deal of wickedness about somewhere, and not being curious or adventurous by nature, she never wished to leave the country town where she was born.

To please her father, she had read a great deal of poetry. Shakespeare and Spenser were especially familiar to her : but in her heart she cared more for plainer food, for what she called true. A more thoroughly English girl could not be found than Betty Maynard, as she stood there at the foot of her father's grave, and slowly, drawn by her brother's eagerness, lifted her eyes from the letters of his name to the painted sunlit glory of kings and saints above. Constantine was not in the least like Betty ; for a brother and sister, they were strangely different. People who called her boyish would have called him girlish ; for he was small and delicate, not active in games, and altogether young and helpless for his age. He had not been to school, for his father could not bear to part with him, and had taught the two together.

They had done the same lessons, in which Betty, by hard work and perseverance, had left her brother far behind. Yet Constantine was by no means stupid; he was only idle and careless, and unwilling to work at anything that did not interest him. He was a boy with an imagination, fond of drawing, fond of music, and especially fond of dreaming, fancying adventures, and making stories in his own mind. Betty, though she often did not understand him, and was sometimes angry with his idleness, loved and admired him with all her heart. The fat old Rector of King's Cross, who lived in a large country house a mile away, used to lay his hand on Constantine's head sometimes and call him " our young poet." Constan tine liked this. Betty knew that he had already written some verses, and they both thought that some day a printed book might appear, making Constantine Maynard as famous as Mr. Cowper or Mr. Pope.

But now the children's life seemed suddenly to have fallen into ruins. Lessons had stopped. Uncle Julius, the one person in authority, had not yet given any sign of what was to happen in the future. Betty was haunted by a fear that she and Con might be separated, sent to school, perhaps; and she had a chilly feeling in her heart that if Uncle Julius decided on this, there would be no help for it. Clever and sensible as she was, she knew very little about their affairs. The Manor-house, and a good deal of land about it — most of King's Cross, in fact — had belonged to her father ; she supposed therefore that it would belong some day to Constantine. But Uncle Julius had told them nothing. Immediately after their father's funeral, the kind old Rector had taken them away to his house for a week.

In the meanwhile, no doubt, the will was read, the affairs were arranged, without any knowledge of theirs. Two children — it was natural that their guardian should settle everything for them as he thought best. Now a month had passed. Uncle Julius had twice gone to London by the coach, and come back again — only a journey of forty miles. Mr. Penn, the attorney, who had a way of slinking along the street as if he expected people to set their dogs upon him, had spent a great deal of time in the parlour at the Manor-house. The tenants of Squire Maynard's houses had come by twos and threes to see Mr. Julius, who now appeared to be their landlord, and had generally gone away with lengthened faces. There was a great deal of talking and whispering among the people in the town, even among the servants at the Manor house ; but Julius had a way of making himself feared, and not a word of gossip reached the ears of the children.

"I tell you, Mr. Attorney," said Julius Maynard, "it will be best for you and me clearly to understand each other." " Softly, my dear sir ! " murmured his companion, with a frightened look. " There might be eavesdroppers." After drawing the curtain, and shutting out that evening glory from the room, Julius had tramped across the room and planted himself on the hearth-rug, in front of the fire. He was a tall, large man, with a loud voice and a rough manner. He went in for the character of " an honest John Bull " ; and his appearance bore this out well, except the look in his eyes, which was cunning and crafty. " Eavesdroppers ! They know better," he said ; but he went to the door, opened it, and shut it again with a bang. " All safe. Men and maids at their work, youngsters in the churchyard.

Listen to me, Mr. Attorney." Little Penn made him a kind of bow, moving uneasily in his chair, and shuffling the papers on the table. "'Tis plain enough to us both," said Mr. Julius, " that my late brother has left his affairs in a bad state ; that his property has been losing in value, his houses falling to pieces, his tenants paying irregularly — all for want of prudent management — Hey, what's that, Mr. Attorney ? " The lawyer had muttered something between his teeth, which now, turning red, he repeated aloud : " I said — for want of ready money." " I was coming to that, sir," said Mr. Julius, with a loud, short laugh. " It has pleased you to discover that within the last few years my poor brother Constantine has lent me various sums amounting to fifteen thousand pounds — odd. You think that now is the time for this money to be repaid.

There, sir, I am of a different opinion. No one knows of the debt but yourself. And I happen to have proof in my hands of a certain embezzlement of rent — a matter of ten years since, 'tis true, but if I happen to open my mouth on the subject, Mr. Joseph Penn will find himself between the four walls of a prison, besides being struck off the roll of His Majesty's Attorneys. So — things being thus — it seems to me that this is a fair bargain. I hold my tongue touching those hundreds. You hold yours touching those thousands. My poor brother died with out a will, which surely shows that he was lacking in prudence, as I said just now when you interrupted me. Thus I step in as the natural guardian of these minors, his children. The estate will be in my hands, mark you, till they are of age, and I shall manage it as I think best, Mr. Attorney, for their advantage — and mine — and yours, if you are true to me."

" Mr. Maynard, sir," replied the lawyer, rising from his chair, and leaning with both hands on the table, " your noble brother forgave me that old crime against him, for the sake of my wife and children. I believe he thought he had destroyed all proof of it. But as he did not — I am in your hands, as you justly point out to me. I am at your service, barring this — I cannot assist in any plans for the children which will be very disadvantageous for them — which would have given their parents great displeasure." Mr. Julius glared, and the little man trembled. " Do you think, sir, that I am likely to plan anything to the disadvantage of my nephew and niece ? If you are so suspicious, we had better part company on the spot." " No — no, sir ! But you said something of sending them to France, and by what I read in the news — you may not have observed it — that country is not precisely in a settled state."

"The newspapers are full of lies," replied Julius. " Besides, how could a small disturbance in the politics of Paris affect two children in a country town ? They will see the world. They will be better educated, and more cheaply, than at any English schools. They will learn to talk the language, which is useful. They can stay five years. After that, I must find a husband for my niece, and send my nephew to the University." The lawyer still looked unhappy, stooping over his papers and fumbling amongst them. "I have heard Miss Betty say that she hated the French," he murmured, half aloud. " I doubt whether her good father — 'Tis an infidel country, besides, where not Papist." "Miss Betty is an ignorant goose," said the uncle. " And as to religious objections, they come uncommon well from you, Mr. Penn."

While these two villains — one weak, the other strong — were talking and plotting thus, the red sunset light had died away, and a cold grey twilight had settled down on King's Cross. That glorious procession of saints and kings had ceased in the church window ; mists rose from the long damp grass and hovered about the old walls and the graves. Slowly, hand in hand, Betty and Constantine walked from the churchyard iuto their own garden, lingering under the trees, where Betty had done a good deal of hard digging lately. " We shall have a fine garden here," she said, " if I have time to conquer the weeds." Constantine thought there would be plenty of time. Betty had not shared with him her fears about school ; she saw no use in making the little fellow unhappy. " I shall come and sit here in the summer," he said, " and tell you stories while you are working."

Just then came the rough voice of Uncle Julius, calling across the lawn. " Here, youngsters ! Betty ! Con ! Come along into the white parlour. I've a piece of news to tell you."

Chapter II. The Violin-plater

" Heureux villageois, dansons: Sautez, Allettes Et gargons ! Unissez vos joyeux sons, Musettes Et chansons ! ' The population of Bec-sur-mer was dancing. Long shadows of tall gabled houses fell across the grass grown square and the plane-trees. On the other side a clear and golden glow of sunset lighted up the high fronts of white plaster and dark carved wood, totter ing and uneven from age, and made a hundred yellow lamps glow in the small and dim old windows. Under this illumination, in the mingled shadow and sunlight, which gave a curiously dazzling radiance to the whole scene, young and old were dancing. The few excep tions, idle or lame or sulky, stood looking on at the openings of the narrow dark streets which led into the square, or sat smiling with the mistress of the White Horse Inn, who was too fat to dance, under the arch of her gatewaj\ The women who danced were all well dressed ; some in a kind of fish-wife costume with THE VIOLIN- PLAYER. short blue petticoats, some with gold chains, smart silk aprons, the tall white caps of their district.

The men were in good clothes of dark cloth. All the faces were naturally grave ; but smiles of enjoyment broke over some as the dance, ruled as it was by strict etiquette, became faster, wilder, more and more carried away by the wild excitement of music and movement. A few of the older people broke into little hopeless laughs, and fell away out of the ranks, as the music hurried them beyond their powers. They staggered back against the wall of the White Horse, and there, as soon as breath came back, burst forth into remon strances to Madame Pommery. It was too quick ; it was unheard of ; it was ridiculous. Only children could keep up such a mad pace. Surely such madness was a sign of the times. When they were young — not so very long ago either — the great-great-grand fathers could dance with the children quite peacefully.

A proper time was kept by the musicians. As for this little monsieur, somebody ought to take the fiddle out of his hands. He had it too much his own way. If it amused him to play like a race-horse, it did not amuse the good folks of Bee to dance to his playing. Voila! Why should a little scamp of a fellow like that have it all his own way? Would madame kindly explain ? Most of this was poured out by the apothecary, who was himself growing fat, though at present a mere lath compared to madame. Her large cheeks were wrinkled with a smile. " It is a pity," she said, " that monsieur's condescen sion should be thrown away. All these things are a matter of habit. These good people are more active than monsieur; the music is not too fast for them. Look : they laugh and enjoy themselves. Such playing as Monsieur Camille's is not often to be heard in the square of Bee.

He is very obliging in his way. If he does not dance with the people like monsieur, he plays for them : we all have our turn. Monsieur will take a chair beside me and repose himself." The touch of malice in madame's words and manner was thinly enough veiled to be visible to the by standers. They smiled ; the apothecary's efforts after popularity were well known in Bee. The broadest and most contented smile was on the face of another fat woman somewhat younger and handsomer than madame, but very like her, with a black travelling hood tied over her head. She was sitting on the land lady's right, and when the name of Monsieur Camille was mentioned, her eyes returned to the object on which they had been fixed till the apothecary's words diverted them, with a frown of indignant wonder, to his red and disagreeable face.

This object, which was indeed the central object of the square and the mov ing spirit of the whole, was the young fellow who sat on a three-legged stool a few yards away, playing the violin. He was about eighteen, long and lanky, dressed in green cloth, with a green beaver hat very much on one side, and a quantity of curly reddish hair flowing under it. His skin and eyes were very dark, his features plain and rather odd. His lips were tight set, his eyes fixed upon the dancers, and yet as if he did not see them. He was playing to himself, not to them, and it was the playing of a genius. The wild, rapid music which stirred people's blood so strangely, and made them dance as they had never danced before, was not in itself glad or merry. It was a kind of race for life ; its desperate hurry was almost painful ; it seemed to belong to some other land than the easy, light-hearted land of France.

Perhaps the dancers would have felt this soon in spite of themselves ; in fact, as they danced on, as the shadows grew longer, darken ing half the front of houses that faced west, even the happiest faces among them grew a little grave. Then at the height of its frantic pace the music stopped suddenly, so suddenly that one or two of the most active dancers, who had been most entirely carried away, lost their footing and almost fell. There was a burst of gay laughter ; nobody was angry ; the crowd stood still, using all its eyes — for something new had just appeared on the scene. Monsieur Camille had been the first to see the three figures which came walking into the square from the short street which led to the ramparts and the sea gate. A ray of the setting sun, finding its way through some opening, fell upon them and lighted them up as they stood — a rough, broad-shouldered, red-faced English skipper, and a boy and girl holding each other by the hand — the boy pale and full of excitement, the girl's face set in a kind of steady, fierce, watchful endurance ; both dressed in black.

There was something terrible to Betty Maynard in that moment, when she and Constantine first faced a French crowd. The sudden silence, the stopping of the music and the ceasing of the dance, the feeling that she and her brother were the object of all those strange, foreign, unfriendly eyes — it was a moment that Betty never could forget. Only a moment : Camille had leaped from his stool, laid his violin with a hurried word in the lap of the fat woman who sat by Madame Pommery, and was striding with eager, awakened eyes across the square. " Good-day, sir ; good-day. Captain," he said, with a low bow. " Good-day, mademoiselle ; good-day, mon sieur ; " two more low bows for Betty and Constantine. It must be confessed that their manners forsook them, and they stared at the odd figure helplessly.

Only their friend the skipper was equal to the occasion. " That's the young gentleman, miss," he said to Betty. " That's Mr. Durand's son, as he's sent to meet you. — Ay, sir," he went on in French to Camille, " I've brought the young lady and gentleman safe across the Channel, as my charge was. Born sailors both of them. I could judge of that, though the sea was like a mill pond. They were as happy on board the Rose as in their own house at home — or would have been, if they'd known or liked where they was going to. I had my orders from Mr. Maynard to leave them with Mother Pommery, till called for by your father; that is, in case he hadn't sent for them." The Captain went on talking in a loud voice, glancing sideways at Betty and Constantine to see how much they understood, while Camille, with bows and signs, led the way across the square.

The Captain had a soft heart under his rough pilot-coat. He had not liked his charge, in spite of the high payment he received for his two young passengers. He had a daughter of his own not far from Betty's age, and nothing would have bribed him to send her across the Channel in a cargo boat, with no woman on board, and no companion but a little brother. He had done business for Mr. May nard before, but none quite so queer as this. He did not see why these two young English people could not be educated in their own country, or what advantage they could possibly gain by being placed under the care of Monsieur Durand. If he had not beheved M. Durand to be a solid and a rising man, connected with worthy people, and straightforward in business affairs, he would not have been inclined to carry out Mr. Maynard's wishes.

At least, so he assured himself ; but after all, the Captain was a weak human being with a wife and family, who did not always find it easy to make both ends meet. And no one knew better than Julius May nard how to choose his agents. He meant to get rid of his nephew and niece, at least for a time, but he wanted to save his own credit by doing it decently, as well as effectually, and as long as his object could be made to look outwardly respectable, he preferred employing respectable people to gain it for him. Certainly, a considerate uncle would hardly have packed off two helpless and ignorant children on board the Rose; but c he knew Captain Johns could be trusted to take care of them in a rough sort of way, and no better boat than the Rose sailed to a small trading and fishing port like Bec-sur-mer.

Besides, Captain Johns, Hke himself, was well acquainted in the way of business with M. Durand, the great wine-grower, exporter, general merchant, and Jack-of-all-trades of Mercy-le-Roy, who among his many talents was a student of the classics, and professed a great love of teaching and training the young. The arrangement was wheel within wheel. Julius Maynard had in a secret way consented to dirty his fingers with trade, sharing in some of Durand's speculations. A Coastguard appointment, which he had for some time held on the south coast, gave him certain facilities very cautiously and cleverly made use of. He took care not to risk his own neck ; at the same time, he was some times called in a wrong direction at a convenient moment, when a French boat might slip into some hidden little cove.

On the whole, though he had now given up this appointment, finding the work too hard and anxious for his constitution, there still existed a good deal of mutual obligation between him and M. Durand. Neither Betty nor Constantine Maynard was troubled with cowardice, and whatever was the feeling that occupied their hearts and minds, when they first trod French soil, it was not fear. Betty knew .inxiety, which Constantine did not. He felt safe as long as she was near him, and something adventurous and romantic in his nature helped him to enjoy new scenes so much, that his regret at leaving King's Cross had been far less keen than hers. He had enjoyed the passage, making friends with the sailors, resolving that he would be a sailor himself some day. He was laughing and chattering, while Betty sat silent on the deck, her young brow frowning, her eyes fixed on the last shadow of England till she could see it no more.

Her uncle had told her that he was sending them on a visit to good friends of his in France, who would teach them French and carry on their education. Betty could only submit ; but she told herself over and over again that she hated the French, that she would never make friends with a single French person. She would learn the language if she must ; she knew a little of it already ; besides, it would be good for Con stantine — a man, going about the world, ought to be able to speak French. But Betty vowed her whole heart to England, to the country where her father and mother lay. They had never left it : why should she and Con leave it ? She did not know. Uncle Julius meant to be kind, she supposed ; and Betty's loyal soul was unwilling to think any ill of her father's brother. But she had heard the talk of the servants and the villagers, and she could not help fearing that Uncle Julius was not a very good man.