At the period I speak of there were changes in Paris every day. True, one horror was only succeeded by another, and one fierce tyranny but made place for a tyranny more fierce and barbarous. The condemnation of the king, and his death, which followed shortly after, occupied for a time all thoughts, and filled many a bosom which had previously felt the strongest, nay, even the wildest aspirations for liberty, with gloom, and doubt, and dread. The moment, however, the head of the good king fell upon the scaffold the death-struggle began between the Mountain and the Gironde, and in the many heaves and throes of the contending factions, many persons found opportunity to escape from perils which had previously surrounded them. Although a mere boy at the time, I was quite familiar with the daily history of these events; for they were in every body’s mouth, and I might even greatly swell this little memoir, by narrating minutely the various scenes, some terrible, some ludicrous, which I myself beheld. The most terrible was the death of the king, of which, jammed in by the multitude, without a possibility of escape, I was myself present, and within a few yards of the instrument of death. But it is my object to pass as lightly as possible over these young recollections, though many of them were too deeply graven on memory ever to be effaced. I shall never forget, as long as I live, the face of a tall, gaunt man, who was close to me at the moment when the king attempted to speak to the people, and the drums were ordered to beat, to drown the voice of the royal martyr. Rage and indignation and shame were written in every line, and I heard him mutter between his teeth, “Oh, were there but an hundred men in Paris true to France and to themselves!”

My own belief is, that a very few acting at that moment in concert, and fearless of their own safety, might not only have saved the effusion of the king’s blood, but might have given a different direction to the revolution, and saved the lives of thousands. However that might be, I went away from the scene with horror, and shut myself up for the rest of the day with good Father Bonneville, who was now able to rise. The physician saw him twice during the day, and once I was sent out of the room for a short time. Doctor L—— spoke jokingly more than once in my presence, of the good priest’s daughter and granddaughter, and though I did not see the point of the jest, I imagined it was one way he had of amusing himself.

Father Bonneville, however, seemed to me to humor him strangely, answering him in the same strain, and inquiring when he thought his daughter would arrive.

“I really cannot tell,” replied the physician. “But, of course, you will have a letter from her before she comes.”

Three days afterward a letter was brought from the post-office, and Father Bonneville examined the seal with a smile. It had not been considered inviolable, that was clear; for either at the post-office or in the hotel, they had thought fit to open the letter without even taking the decent precaution of resealing it again. The contents of the epistle I saw, and they certainly puzzled me a good deal when first Father Bonneville gave the paper into my hand.

The letter began, “My dear Father,” and went on in the usual strain of a child writing to a parent, telling him how much grieved she was to hear that he had been sick in Paris, expressing fears that he had over-fatigued himself in seeking for news of her dear husband, and informing him that she would soon be in Paris herself, with her little girl, to pursue the inquiry. The letter throughout was filled with a great number of the cant expressions of republicanism, then common, and it ended with declaring that if the writer’s dear husband was dead, she could console herself with the thought that he had died in defense of his country, though she could not bear the idea that he might be lingering ill of his wounds without any affectionate hands to tend him. The letter was addressed to “Citizen Jerome Charlier,” was dated from a provincial town in Poitou, and was signed “Clarisse Bonfin.”

Father Bonneville smiled as he marked the expression of my face in reading the letter; and when I had done, he asked me if I knew who these relations of his were. I replied in the negative, and he answered, nodding his head, “Some whom you know very well; but you must remember, Louis, you are only to know them as my daughter and granddaughter, and as your own aunt and cousin. Call the lady ‘Aunt Clarisse,’ or ‘Aunt Bonfin,’ and the little girl, ‘Mariette Bonfin.’”

The last words threw a ray of light upon the whole affair—and I was delighted. There is nothing, I believe, that children love so much as a little mystery, especially boys of thirteen or fourteen; but I had the additional satisfaction of having to play a part in the drama—a task always charming to a child brought up in France. I acted my character rather well, I flatter myself; and when Father Bonneville, well knowing that the letter had been read before it reached him, sent me to talk to our good hostess about rooms for our expected relations, I gave the buxom dame quite enough of Aunt Bonfin and Cousin Mariette, and described them both so accurately, that she could have no doubt of my personal acquaintance with these supposed connections. She thought it best, however, to deal with Citizen Charlier himself in regard to the apartments to be engaged, and visited him in his room for that purpose.

The old gentleman was very taciturn, and seemed to think it a part of his character to drive a hard bargain.

“His daughter,” he said, “was not rich: she had a great deal of hard-work and traveling before her to find out what had become of her husband, who had been wounded if not killed at Jenappes, and she could not afford to throw her money away in inns.” There was a good deal of skirmishing on these points, and a good deal of laughter and jest upon the part of our hostess, who seemed as well contented, and as comfortable as if there were no such thing as a guillotine in the world, though her table d’hÔte rather suffered from time to time, in consequence of her guests being deprived of the organs of mastication amongst others. The whole, however, was settled at length, and two days afterward, I was informed that Madame Bonfin had arrived with her daughter in a little post-chaise.

The good priest was not yet well enough to quit his room, but I ran down the dingy stair-case into the court-yard, and as I expected, found Madame de Salins and Mariette just getting out of a dirty little vehicle, with a wooden apron, which bore the name of a cabriolet. Madame de Salins embraced me kindly, and I did not forget to call her Aunt Clarisse, while Mariette literally sprang into my arms, and I thought would have smothered me with caresses. If there had been any doubts previously in the minds of the people of the inn, they were all dissipated by the tenderness of this meeting, and Madame de Salins and her daughter followed me up stairs to the room of good Father Bonneville. One of the waiters accompanied us, but there the meeting was conducted as naturally as it had been below, and the words, “my daughter” and “my father,” passed habitually between the good priest and the high-born lady without any pause or hesitation.

Her own apartments were next shown to Madame de Salins, and her baggage was brought up from below, when I remarked that every thing had been carefully marked with the initials C. B., to signify Clarisse Bonfin.

Oh what actors every body in Paris became at that period! Some were so by nature; for very nearly one half of the world is always acting a part. Others did it because it was the tone of the day; and these formed the heroic or tragic band, who did every thing with Roman dignity and firmness, and carried the farce of representation into the very last act of the tragedy. Others were driven to act parts which did not belong to them, by the perils or necessities of their situation; and amongst these, was Madame de Salins, who, dressed somewhat in the mode paysanne, was out frequently, went boldly to police offices, and to military authorities, inquiring diligently after her husband, John Bonfin, and demanded intelligence regarding the state and condition of a man who had never existed. A change in the direction of civic affairs, and the decapitation of two or three gentlemen, who had watched her diligently while in her lodging near the Place du Petit Chatelet, had now set her comparatively free, and she used her powers of persuasion, and her liberty, so well, that she obtained letters of recommendation to the medical officers of the armies of Dumouriez and Kellerman, with a satisfactory pass for herself, and her father, with two children. Upon what pretence she made her traveling party so large, I do not know; but she certainly carried her point. She was out more than once at night, too, and I remarked that Mariette was now sent daily to the house of Doctor L——, to bring the bottles of medicine which were still required by Father Bonneville—a task, which I always previously fulfilled.

As the distance was considerable, and the way somewhat intricate, I was permitted to accompany and guide my little companion, as far as the street leading into the Place du Chatelet, but was directed to go no farther, and wait there for her return. I had learned by this time to ask no questions, but I could not help thinking that Mariette often stayed a long time.

I do not know that I was of a very observing disposition, or inclined to be particularly censorious, but one thing I remarked which surprised me a good deal, and I recollect, quite well, that it gave me uncomfortable feelings. In my first interview with Madame de Salins, she had appeared overwhelmed with grief and terror, her clothes stained with her husband’s blood, and a look of wild, almost frantic horror in her face, which was never to be forgotten. Now, however, she had not only completely recovered her composure, but was generally cheerful, and sometimes even gay. Clouds of anxiety, indeed, would occasionally float over her beautiful brow, and she would fall into deep fits of thought; but it often seemed to me very strange that she should have so soon and so completely forgotten the husband, for whom she had seemed to mourn so sincerely. Indeed, there is nothing which so shocks—I might say, so terrifies, the earnest heart of youth, as to perceive how transient are those feelings of which to them life is made up, in the bosoms of persons older, of more experience, and more world-hardened than themselves. I loved Mariette, however, and Mariette loved me, and that was a feeling which I then fondly fancied could never decay or alter.

At length, one day, Father Bonneville declared himself strong enough to go out, and as there was a slight lull at the time in the political storm, we went to see—that is he and I—some places of public interest. I recollect an elderly gentleman coming up and joining in conversation with us, in a very mild and placable tone. The good Father was very much upon his guard, however, and in answer to some questions, said he had been very ill since he had come to Paris, and had enjoyed no opportunity of seeing the sights of the capital till the time of his stay was nearly expired. Whether the old gentleman considered us as very stupid or not I do not know, but he soon left us, and we found afterward that he was one of those worthy public denunciators, who at that time brought so many heads under the axe of the guillotine. He lived to a good old age, and I saw him afterward in London, playing at cards with great devotion, and furnished with a handsome diamond snuff-box.

This little incident, which I have only mentioned as characteristic of the times, had no result that I know of upon our fate. Three days afterward, the two post-chaises were got in order, horses were brought from the post-house, and to my infinite satisfaction we all rolled away together out of that grim city of Paris, which will ever remain associated in my mind with memories of blood and crime. It was a fine day—one of those days in February which come as if to bid us prepare for summer, long ere summer is near, and which I think are more beautiful and striking in France, than in any other country I know. The sunshine lay softly upon the face of the country, and on the top of a tall, bare tree, near the post-house, where we first stopped to change horses, a thrush was pouring forth its evening song, and making the air thrill with melody. I got out of our own little post-chaise to call Mariette’s attention to the bird, but when I looked into their cabriolet, to my surprise I saw that Madame de Salins was weeping bitterly. The post-master approached and looked in likewise; but she had great presence of mind, and instantly beckoning the man up, she asked him some questions regarding the movements of the armies, and whether he could give her any news of Citizen Bonfin, who commanded a company in Davoust’s volunteers. The man, who seemed to compassionate her greatly, replied that he could not, and asked if she had any apprehensions regarding him. She answered that the last she had heard of her husband, was, that he had been very severely wounded, but that careful nursing might yet save his life. The good post-master was not a Parisian, nor a litterateur, and so without affecting atheism, he prayed God to bless her endeavors, and we rolled on upon our way.

We went on for two or three hours after dark, and lodged as we found it expedient, at a post-house some little distance from Clermont. There, however, our landlord, the post-master, proposed a change in our arrangements, which was a very agreeable one to me. He laughed at four persons of one family traveling in two post-chaises, assured us that it would be much more convenient for us to go in a larger vehicle, having one to dispose of which would exactly suit us, and that we should save a good deal of money by the number of post-horses. His arguments seemed quite conclusive both to Father Bonneville and Madame de Salins, although he demanded two hundred livres, and our two carriages, for the one he intended to supply, which was not worth two hundred livres in itself. I was surprised at their acquiescence; for I did not believe they had much money to spare; but I rather imagine that they were afraid to oppose any thing he thought fit to suggest, and that if he had known their exact situation, he might have taxed them still more largely. By one contrivance or another, however, the papers of the family had been put into such good order, that no suspicion seems to have been excited any where. Perhaps, indeed, we were too insignificant to attract much attention, and at the end of a four days’ journey, we found ourselves rapidly approaching the frontiers of France, somewhat to the right of our then victorious army. This was, perhaps, the most dangerous point of our whole expedition, and at a spot where two hours more would have placed us in security beyond the limits of France, we paused for the night, in order to consider carefully the next step, lest we should lose the fruit of all our exertions at the very moment that it seemed within our grasp.

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