A Girl of the Commune

by G. A. Henty

  CHAPTER XXI.

  It was on the last day of March that Cuthbert Hartington reached Paris.During the six weeks that had elapsed since he had left it many eventshad taken place. He himself had gone away a comparatively poor man, andreturned in the possession of the estates inherited from his father,unimpaired save by the mortgage given upon them by Mr. Brander. He hadsucceeded beyond his hopes; and having obtained unlooked-for proofs ofthe fraud that had been practised, had been able to obtainrestitution--which was to him the most important point--and all had beendone without the slightest publicity. In Paris, the danger he hadforeseen had culminated in the Commune. The battalions of NationalGuards from Montmartre and Belleville had risen against the ProvisionalGovernment; the troops had fraternized with them and their generals hadbeen murdered in cold blood.

  The National Guards of the business quarters had for a time held aloof,but, in the absence of support from without and being enormouslyoutnumbered, they were powerless, and the extreme party were now inabsolute possession of the city. M. Thiers and the Assembly atVersailles had so far been unable to take any steps to reduce therevolted capital. Such troops as had been hastily collected could not berelied upon to act and it seemed probable that the National Guards andParis would, in a short time, take the offensive and obtain possessionof Versailles, in which case the flame of insurrection would spread atonce to all the great towns of France, and the horrors of the Terrormight be repeated.

  The line of railway to Paris was still open, for upon the Communistspreparing to cut off all communications, the Germans, still in greatforce near the town, pending the carrying out of the terms of the treatyof peace, threatened to enter Paris were such a step taken. A vastemigration had taken place among the middle classes, and over fiftythousand persons had left Paris. So far the Communists had abstainedfrom excesses, and from outrage upon peaceable citizens; had it beenotherwise, Cuthbert would have returned to fetch Mary away at once. Herletters to him, however, had assured him that there was no causewhatever for uneasiness about her, and that everything was going onprecisely as it had done, during the siege by the Germans. He had beenanxious that she should, if possible, remain for the present in Paris,for he did not wish her to return to her family, and had made up hismind that if it became absolutely necessary for her to leave Paris sheshould arrange to go straight down to Newquay and stay there with herfriends.

  As he alighted from the carriage at the Northern Railway Station hefound the place occupied by National Guards. There was no semblance ofdiscipline among them; they smoked, lounged about, scowled at the fewpassengers who arrived, or slept upon the benches, wrapt in theirblankets. There were none of the usual hotel omnibuses outside and butone or two fiacres; hailing one of these he was driven to his lodgings.He was greeted by the concierge with surprise and pleasure.

  "So monsieur has come back. We did not expect you, though MonsieurCaillard, who comes here every day, told us that you would be sure to beback again in spite of the Reds. Ah, monsieur, what horror to think thatafter all Paris has gone through, these monsters should have becomemasters of the city! It would have been a thousand times better to havehad the Prussians here, they would have kept order, and those wildbeasts of Montmartre would not have dared even to have murmured. Youhave heard how they shot down peaceful citizens in the Rue de la Paix?Have you come to stay, monsieur?"

  "For a time, anyhow;" and taking the key of his rooms Cuthbert carriedup his pormanteau, and then at once came down and drove to MadameMichaud's.

  Mary was half expecting him, for in his last letter to her he had toldher he hoped to arrive in Paris that evening.

  "I have been horribly anxious about you, Mary," he said, after the firstgreeting.

  "There was no occasion for your being so," she replied, "everything ispefectly quiet here, though from what they say there may be fighting anyday, but if there is it will be outside the walls and will not affect ushere."

  "I don't think there will be much fighting," he said; "if the troopsfraternize with the Communists there's an end of the business, allFrance will join them, and we shall have the Reign of Terror over again,though they will not venture upon any excesses here in Paris, for,fortunately, the Germans are still within gunshot, and they would havethe hearty approval of all Europe in marching in here, and stamping thewhole thing out. If the troops, on the other hand, prove faithful, Ifeel sure, from what I saw of the Belleville battalions, that there willbe very little fighting outside the walls. They may defend Paris for atime, and perhaps bravely, for they will know they are fighting withropes round their necks, and the veriest cur will fight when cornered.Your people here are not thinking of leaving, I hope?"

  "No, and they could not now if they wanted; the Commune has put a stopto emigration, and though the trains still run once or twice a day, theygo out as empty as they come in. Have you got through your business?"she asked, with a shade of anxiety.

  "Yes, dear, and most satisfactorily; everything has been arranged in thehappiest way. I unexpectedly obtained proofs that the sale of Fairclosewas altogether irregular, and indeed, invalid. I have seen your father,who at once, upon my laying the proofs before him, recognized theposition. Our arrangement has been a perfectly amicable one. He is goingto retire altogether from business, and will probably take up hisresidence at some seaside place where there is a bracing climate. Thedoctor recommends Scarborough, for I may tell you that he has had aslight stroke of apoplexy, and is eager himself for rest and quiet.Fairclose and the estate comes back to me, nominally as your dowry, andwith the exception that there is a mortgage on it for L20,000, I shallbe exactly in the same position that I was on the day my father died. Imay say that your mother and the girls are delighted with thearrangement, for, somehow, they have not been received as cordially asthey had expected in the county--owing of course to a foolish prejudicearising from your father's connection with the bank, whose failure hiteveryone heavily--and they are, in consequence, very pleased indeed atthe prospect of moving away altogether."

  Mary's forehead was puckered up in little wrinkles of perplexity as shelistened. "I am glad of course, very glad, that you have got Faircloseback," she said, "though it all seems very strange to me--is that allthat I am to know, Cuthbert?"

  "That is all it is necessary that you should know, Mary, and no one elsewill know any more. Your father's illness and the doctor's injunctionsthat he should retire from business altogether and settle in some placewith a mild climate, is an ample reason for his leaving Fairclose, andyour engagement to me, and my past connection with the place are equallyvalid reasons why I should be his successor there. I do not say, Mary,that there may not have been other causes which have operated to bringabout this result, but into these there is no need, whatever, for us toenter. Be contented, dear, to know that all has turned out in the bestpossible way, that I have recovered Fairclose, that your family are allvery pleased at the prospect of leaving it, and in that fact the matterends happily for everyone."

  "I lunched at the old place only yesterday," he went on lightly, "andthe girls were in full discussion as to where they should go. Yourfather is picking up his strength fast, and with rest and quiet, will, Ihope, soon be himself again. I expect, between ourselves, that he willbe all the better for getting away from that work in the town, with itslunches and dinners. The Doctor told me that he had warned him that hewas too fond of good living, specially as he took no exercise. Now thathe will be free from the office, and from all that corporation business,he will no doubt walk a good deal more than he has done for many yearsand live more simply, and as the doctor told me yesterday, the chancesare that he will have no recurrence of his attack. I may tell you thatfrom a conversation I had with him I learned that your father will stilldraw a very comfortable income from the business, and will have amplysufficient to live in very good style at Scarborough."

  The fact that Cuthbert had lunched at Fairclose did more to sootheMary's anxiety than anything else he had said. It seemed a proof thathowever this strange change ha
d come about, an amicable feeling existedbetween Cuthbert and her father, and when he wound up with "Are youcontented, dear?" she looked up at him with tears in her eyes.

  "More than contented, Cuthbert. I have been worrying myself greatlywhile you have been away, and I never thought that it would end ashappily as this. I know, dear, that you have concealed a great deal fromme, but I am contented to know no more than that. I am as sure as if youhad told me that you have brought all these things about in thisfriendly way for my sake. And now," she said after a pause, "what areyour plans for yourself?"

  "You mean for us, Mary. Well, dear, my plan is that we shall wait onhere and see how things turn out. I don't want to go back to Englandtill all these arrangements are carried out. I don't intend to have togo to Scarborough to marry you, and I think it will be vastly better forus to be married quietly here as soon as the chaplain at the embassyreturns, which, of course, he will do directly these troubles are over.My present idea is, that I shall let the house at Fairclose, or shut itup if I cannot let it, and let the rents of the property go to payingoff this mortgage, and I intend to take a modest little place nearLondon, to live on our joint income, and to work hard until Fairclose isclear of this incumbrance."

  "That is right, Cuthbert. I have been wondering ever since you told meyou were to have Fairclose again, if you would give up painting, andhoping that you would still go on with it. I should so like you to win aname for yourself as a great painter."

  Cuthbert laughed. "My dear child, you are jumping a great deal too fastat conclusions. I am not yet out from school. I have painted my twofirst pictures, which you like, principally because your face is in oneof them, but that is a short step towards becoming a great artist. Youare like a young lady in love with a curate, and therefore convincedthat some day he will be Archbishop of Canterbury, and with almostequally good foundation; however, I shall do my best, and as I shallstill have a strong motive for work, and shall have you to spur me on Ihope I may make a modest success."

  "I am sure you will, and more than that," she said, warmly; "if not,"she added, with a saucy laugh, "I think you might as well give it upaltogether; a modest success means mediocrity, and that is hateful, andI am sure you yourself would be no more satisfied with it than Ishould."

  "Well, I will go on for a bit and see. I agree with you, that a thing isnot worth doing unless it is done well, but I won't come to any finaldecision for another year or two. Now it is past ten o'clock, and I mustbe going."

  "When will you come? To-morrow?"

  "I will come at three o'clock. Have your things on by that time, and wewill go for a ramble."

  Rene Caillard came into Cuthbert's room at nine o'clock the nextmorning.

  "I came round yesterday evening, Cuthbert, and heard from the conciergethat you had arrived and had gone out again. As she said you had drivenoff in a fiacre, it was evidently of no use waiting. I thought I wouldcome down and catch you the first thing this morning. You look well andstrong again, your native air evidently suits you."

  "I feel quite well again, though not quite so strong. So things haveturned out just as I anticipated, and the Reds are the masters ofParis."

  Rene shrugged his shoulders. "It is disgusting," he said. "It does nottrouble us much, we have nothing to lose but our heads, and as thesescoundrels would gain nothing by cutting them off, I suppose we shall beallowed to go our own way."

  "Is the studio open again?"

  "Oh, yes, and we are all hard at work, that is to say, the few thatremain of us. Goude has been fidgeting for you to come back. He hasasked several times whether I have news of you, and if I was sure youhad not left Paris forever. I know he will be delighted when I tell himthat you have returned; still more so if you take the news yourself."

  "I suppose Minette has resumed her duties as model?"

  "Not she," Rene said scornfully, "she is one of the priestesses of theCommune. She rides about on horseback with a red flag and sash.Sometimes she goes at the head of a battalion, sometimes she rides aboutwith the leaders. She is in earnest but she is in earnest theatrically,and that fool, Dampierre, is as bad as she is."

  "What! Has he joined the Commune?".

  "Joined, do you say? Why, he is one of its leaders. He plays the part ofLa Fayette, in the drama, harangues the National Guards, assures them ofthe sympathy of America, calls upon them to defend the freedom they havewon by their lives and to crush back their oppressors, as his countrymencrushed their British tyrants. Of course it is all Minette's doing; heis as mad as she is. I can assure you that he is quite a popular heroamong the Reds, and they would have appointed him a general if he hadchosen to accept it, but he said that he considered himself as therepresentative of the great Republic across the sea, that he wouldaccept no office, but would fight as a simple volunteer. He, too, goesabout on horseback, with a red scarf, and when you see Minette you maybe sure that he is not far off."

  "Without absolutely considering Dampierre to be a fool, I have alwaysregarded him as being, well, not mad, but different to other people. Hisalternate fits of idleness and hard work, his infatuation for Minette,his irritation at the most trifling jokes, and the moody state intowhich he often fell, all seem to show as the Scots say, 'a bee in hisbonnet,' and I can quite fancy the excitement of the times, and hisinfatuation for that woman may have worked him up to a point much morenearly approaching madness than before. I am very sorry, Rene, for therewas a good deal to like about him, he was a gentleman and a chivalrousone. In Minette he saw not a clever model, but a peerless woman, and wascarried away by enthusiasm, which is, I think, perfectly real: she is inher true element now, and is, I should say, for once not acting. Well,it is a bad business. If the Commune triumphs, as I own that it seemslikely enough, it will do, he will in time become disgusted with theadventurers and ambitious scoundrels by whom he is surrounded, and will,like the Girondists, be among the first victims of the wild beasts hehas helped to bring into existence. If the troops prove faithful, theCommune will be crushed, and all those who have made themselvesconspicuous are likely to have but a short shrift of it when martial lawis established. Well, Rene, as there is nothing that can be done in thematter, it is of no use troubling about it. None of the others have gonethat way, I suppose."

  "Of course not," Rene exclaimed indignantly. "You don't suppose thatafter the murder of the generals any decent Frenchman would join such acause, even if he were favorable to its theories. Morbleu! Although Ihate tyrants I should be tempted to take up a rifle and go out anddefend them were they menaced by such scum as this. It is not even as itwas before; then it was the middle class who made the Revolution, andthere was at least much that was noble in their aims, but thesecreatures who creep out from their slums like a host of obnoxious beastsanimated sorely by hatred for all around them, and by a lust for plunderand blood, they fill one with loathing and disgust. There is not amongthem, save Dampierre, a single man of birth and education, if onlyperhaps you except Rochefort. There are plenty of Marats, but certainlyno Mirabeau.

  "No, no, Cuthbert, we of the studio may be wild and thoughtless. We livegayly and do not trouble for the morrow, but we are not altogetherfools; and even were there nothing else to unite us against the Commune,the squalor and wretchedness, the ugliness and vice, the brutalcoarseness, and the foul language of these ruffians would band ustogether as artists against them. Now, enough of Paris, what have youbeen doing in England, besides recovering your health?"

  "I have been recovering a fortune, too, Rene. A complicated questionconcerning some property that would, in the ordinary course of things,have come to me has now been decided in my favor."

  "I congratulate you," Rene said, "but you will not give up art, I hope?"

  "No, I intend to stick to that, Rene. You see I was not altogetherdependent on it before, so that circumstances are not much changed."

  "You finished your pictures before you went away, did you not? Thetemptation to have a peep at them has been very strong, but I haveresisted--nobly it was heroic, wa
s it not?"

  "It must have been. Yes, I put the finishing touches to them before Iwent away, and now I will show them to you Rene; it is the least I cando after all your kindness. Now go and look out of the window until Ifix the easels in a good light, I want your first impressions to befavorable. There," after a pause, "the curtain is drawn up and the showhas begun." He spoke lightly, but there was an undertone of anxiety inhis voice. Hitherto no one but Mary had seen them, and her opinion uponthe subject of art was of little value. He, himself, believed that thework was good, but yet felt that vague dissatisfaction and doubt whetherit might not have been a good deal better, that most artists entertainas to their own work. In the school Rene's opinion was always sought foreagerly; there were others who painted better, but none whose feeling ofart was more true or whose critical instinct keener.

  Rene looked at the pictures for a minute or two in silence, then heturned to Cuthbert and took one of his hands in his own. "My dearfriend," he said, "it is as I expected. I always said that you hadgenius, real genius, and it is true; I congratulate you, my dear friend.If it were not that I know you English object to be embraced, I shoulddo so, but you are cold and do not like a show of feeling. Thesepictures will place you well in the second rank; in another year or twoyou will climb into the first. They will be hung on the line, that goeswithout saying. They are charming, they are admirable, and to thinkthat you are still at the school. I might paint all my life and I shouldnever turn out two such canvases; and it is a sin that one who can paintlike that should expose himself to be shot at by Prussians. Now, do yousit down and let me look at them."

  "Do so, Rene, and please remember that I want not praise, but honestcriticism; I know they have defects, but I want you to point them out tome, for while I feel that they might be improved, I have my own ideas sostrongly in my head, that I cannot see where the faults are as you can.Remember, you can't be too severe, and if possible to do so, withoutentirely having to repaint them, I will try to carry out yoursuggestions."

  Rene produced a pipe, filled and lighted it, then placed a chair so thathe could sit across it and lean upon the back. He sat for upwards of aquarter of an hour puffing out clouds of tobacco-smoke without speaking.

  "You mean what you say, Cuthbert?" he said at last. "Very well, I willtake the bright one first. As to the figure I have nothing to say; theeffect of the light falling on her head and face is charming; the dressis perhaps a little stiff, it would have been bettered if relieved bysome light lace or gauze, but we will let that pass; it is a portraitand a good one. It is your pretty nurse at the Ambulance. Am I tocongratulate you there too?"

  Cuthbert nodded.

  "I thought so," Rene went on, without moving his gaze from the pictures,"and will congratulate you presently. The background of the figure isthe one weak point of the picture, that, too, like the portrait, I doubtnot, was taken from reality, for with your artistic feeling you wouldnever have placed that bare wall behind the figure. You have tried bythe shadows from the vine above to soften it, and you have done all youcould in that way, but nothing could really avail. You want a vine tocover that wall. It should be thrown into deep cool shadow, with a touchof sunlight here and there, streaming upon it, but less than you nowhave falling on the wall. As it is now, the cool gray of the dress isnot sufficiently thrown up, it, like the wall, is in shade except wherethe sun touches the head and face; but, with a dark cool green, somewhatundefined, and not too much broken up by the forms of the foliage, thefigure would be thrown forward, although still remaining in the shade,and I am sure the picture would gain at once in strength and repose.Now, as to the other. It is almost painfully sombre, it wants relief. Itexpresses grief and hopelessness; that is good; but it also expressesdespair, that is painful; one does not feel quite sure that the youngwoman is not about to throw herself into the sea. Now, if you were tomake a gleam of watery sunshine break through a rift in the cloud,lighting up a small patch of foam and breaker, it would be a relief; ifyou could arrange it so that the head should stand up against it, itwould add greatly to the effect. What do you think?" he asked, breakingoff suddenly and turning to Cuthbert.

  "You are right in both instances, Rene. Both the backgrounds are fromsketches I made at the time; the veranda in the one case, and the seaand sky and rock in the other are as I saw them, and it did not occur tome to change them. Yes, you are a thousand times right. I see now why Iwas discontented with them, and the changes you suggest will beinvaluable. Of course, in the sea-scene the light will be ill-defined,it will make its way through a thin layer of cloud, and will contrastjust as strongly with the bright warm sunshine on the other picture, asdoes the unbroken darkness. There is nothing else that you can suggest,Rene?"

  "No, and I almost wish that I had not made those suggestions, thepictures are so good that I am frightened, lest you should spoil them bya single touch of the brush."

  "I have no fear of that, Rene, I am sure of the dark picture, and I hopeI can manage the other, but if I fail I can but paint the wall in again.I will begin at once. I suppose you are going round to Goude's; tell himthat I am back, and will come round this evening after dinner. Ask allthe others to come here to supper at ten; thank goodness we shall have adecent feed this time."

  Directly Rene had left, Cuthbert set to work with ardor. He felt thatRene had hit upon the weak spots that he had felt and yet failed torecognize. In four hours the sea-scape was finished, and as he steppedback into the window to look at it, he felt that the ray of misty lightshowing rather on the water than on the air, had effected wonders, andadded immensely to the poetry of the picture.

  "I have only just time to change, and get there in time," he said, witha very unlover-like tone of regret, as he hastily threw off his paintingblouse, ate a piece of bread left over from breakfast, and drank a glassof wine. He glanced many times at the picture.

  "Curious," he muttered, "how blind men are to their own work. I candetect a weak point in another man's work in a moment, and yet, though Ifelt that something was wrong, I could not see what it was in my own. IfI succeed as well with the other as I have done with this I shall besatisfied indeed."

  "You are a quarter of an hour late, sir," Mary said, holding up herfinger in reproof as he entered. "The idea of keeping me waiting, thevery first time after our engagement. I tremble when I look forward tothe future."

  "I have been painting, Mary, and when one is painting one forgets howtime flies; but I feel greatly ashamed of myself, and am deeplycontrite."

  "You don't look contrite at all, Cuthbert. Not one bit."

  "Well, I will not press for forgiveness now, I think when you see what Ihave been doing you will overlook the offence."

  "What have you been doing? I thought you told me that you had quitefinished the two pictures, the day you came to say good-bye before youstarted for Brussels."

  "Rene has been criticising them and has shown me where I committed twoegregious blunders."

  "Then I think it was very impertinent of him," Mary said in a tone ofvexation. "I am sure nothing could have been nicer than they were evenwhen I saw them, I am certain there were no blunders in them, and Idon't see how they could be improved."

  "Wait until you see them again, Mary. I altered one this morning, butthe other will take me three or four days steady work. I am not so sureof success there, but if you don't like it when you see it, I promiseyou that I will restore it to its former condition, now let us be off;if I am not mistaken there is something going on, I saw severalbattalions of National Guards marching through the streets; and there isa report that 50,000 men are to march against Versailles. We may as wellsee them start, it may turn out to be an historic event."