The Adventures of Philip

utterly broken by the thought of her calamity. Then her father had been brought

  to her, who had been made to believe some of the stories against poor Philip,

  and who was commanded by his wife to impress them upon the girl. And Baynes

  tried to obey orders; but he was scared and cruelly pained by the sight of his

  little maiden's grief and suffering. He attempted a weak expostulation, and

  began a speech or two. But his heart failed him. He retreated behind his wife.

  She never hesitated in speech or resolution, and her language became more bitter

  as her ally faltered. Philip was a drunkard; Philip was a prodigal; Philip was a

  frequenter of dissolute haunts, and loose companions. She had the best authority

  for what she said. Was not a mother anxious for the welfare of her own child?

  ("Begad, you don't suppose your own mother would do anything that was not for

  your welfare, now?" broke in the general, feebly.) "Do you think if he had not

  been drunk he would have ventured to commit such an atrocious outrage as that at

  the Embassy? And do you suppose I want a drunkard and a beggar to marry my

  daughter? Your ingratitude, Charlotte, is horrible!" cries mamma. And poor

  Philip, charged with drunkenness, had dined for seventeen sous, with a carafon

  of beer, and had counted on a supper that night by little Charlotte's side. So,

  while the child lay sobbing on her bed, the mother stood over her, and lashed

  her. For General Baynes??a brave man, a kind-hearted man??to have to look on

  whilst this torture was inflicted, must have been a hard duty. He could not eat

  the boarding-house dinner, though he took his place at the table at the sound of

  the dismal bell. Madame herself was not present at the meal; and you know poor

  Charlotte's place was vacant. Her father went upstairs, and paused by her

  bed-room door, and listened. He heard murmurs within, and madame's voice, as he

  stumbled at the door, cried harshly, "Qui est l??" He entered. Madame was

  sitting on the bed, with Charlotte's head on her lap. The thick brown tresses

  were falling over the child's white nightdress, and she lay almost motionless,

  and sobbing feebly. "Ah, it is you, general!" said madame. "You have done a

  pretty work, sir!" "Mamma says, won't you take something, Charlotte, dear?"

  faltered the old man. "Will you leave her tranquil?" said madame, with her deep

  voice. The father retreated. When madame went out presently to get that panacea,

  une tasse de th?, for her poor little friend, she found the old gentleman seated

  on a portmanteau at his door. "Is she??is she a little better now?" he sobbed

  out. Madame shrugged her shoulders, and looked down on the veteran with superb

  scorn. "Vous n'?tes qu'un poltron, g?n?ral!" she said, and swept downstairs.

  Baynes was beaten indeed. He was suffering horrible pain. He was quite unmanned,

  and tears were trickling down his old cheeks as he sate wretchedly there in the

  dark. His wife did not leave the table as long as dinner and dessert lasted. She

  read Galignani resolutely afterwards. She told the children not to make a noise,

  as their sister was upstairs with a bad headache. But she revoked that statement

  as it were (as she revoked at cards presently), by asking the Miss Bolderos to

  play one of their duets.

  I wonder whether Philip walked up and down before the house that night? Ah! it

  was a dismal night for all of them: a racking pain, a cruel sense of shame,

  throbbed under Baynes's cotton tassel; and as for Mrs. Baynes, I hope there was

  not much rest or comfort under her old nightcap. Madame passed the greater part

  of the night in a great chair in Charlotte's bedroom, where the poor child heard

  the hours toll one after the other, and found no comfort in the dreary rising of

  the dawn.

  At a very early hour of the dismal rainy morning, what made poor little

  Charlotte fling her arms round madame, and cry out, "Ah, que je vous aime! ah,

  que vous etes bonne, madame!" and smile almost happily through her tears? In the

  first place, madame went to Charlotte's dressing-table, whence she took a pair

  of scissors. Then the little maid sat up on her bed, with her brown hair

  clustering over her shoulders; and madame took a lock of it, and cut a thick

  curl; and kissed poor little Charlotte's red eyes; and laid her pale cheek on

  the pillow, and carefully covered her; and bade her, with many tender words, to

  go to sleep. "If you are very good, and will go to sleep, he shall have it in

  half an hour," madame said. "And as I go downstairs, I will tell Francoise to

  have some tea ready for you when you ring." And this promise, and the thought of

  what madame was going to do, comforted Charlotte in her misery. And with many

  fond, fond prayers for Philip, and consoled by thinking, "Now she must have gone

  the greater part of the way; now she must be with him; now he knows I will

  never, never love any but him," she fell asleep at length on her moistened

  pillow: and was smiling in her sleep, and I daresay dreaming of Philip, when the

  noise of the fall of a piece of furniture roused her, and she awoke out of her

  dream to see the grim old mother, in her white nightcap and white dressing-gown,

  standing by her side.

  Never mind. "She has seen him now. She has told him now," was the child's very

  first thought as her eyes fairly opened. "He knows that I never, never will

  think of any but him." She felt as if she was actually there in Philip's room,

  speaking herself to him; murmuring vows which her fond lips had whispered many

  and many a time to her lover. And now he knew she would never break them, she

  was consoled and felt more courage.

  "You have had some sleep, Charlotte?" asks Mrs. Baynes.

  "Yes, I have been asleep, mamma." As she speaks, she feels under the pillow a

  little locket containing?? what? I suppose a scrap of Mr. Philip's lank hair.

  "I hope you are in a less wicked frame of mind than when I left you last night,"

  continues the matron.

  "Was I wicked for loving Philip? Then I am wicked still, mamma!" cries the

  child, sitting up in her bed. And she clutches that little lock of hair which

  nestles under her pillow.

  "What nonsense, child! This is what you get out of your stupid novels. I tell

  you he does not think about you. He is quite a reckless, careless libertine."

  "Yes, so reckless and careless that we owe him the bread we eat. He doesn't

  think of me! Doesn't he? Ah??" Here she paused as a clock in a neighbouring

  chamber began to strike. "Now," she thought, "he has got my message!" A smile

  dawned over her face. She sank back on her pillow, turning her head from her

  mother. She kissed the locket, and murmured: "Not think of me! Don't you, don't

  you, my dear!" She did not heed the woman by her side, hear her voice, or for a

  moment seem aware of her presence. Charlotte was away in Philip's room; she saw

  him talking with her messenger; heard his voice so deep, and so sweet; knew that

  the promises he had spoken he never would break. With gleaming eyes and flushing

  cheeks she looked at her mother, her enemy. She held her talisman locket and

  pressed it to her heart. No, she would never be untrue to him! No, he would

&
nbsp; never, never desert her! And as Mrs. Baynes looked at the honest indignation

  beaming in the child's face, she read Charlotte's revolt, defiance, perhaps

  victory. The meek child who never before had questioned an order, or formed a

  wish which she would not sacrifice at her mother's order, was now in arms

  asserting independence. But I should think mamma is not going to give up the

  command after a single act of revolt; and that she will try more attempts than

  one to cajole or coerce her rebel.

  Meanwhile let Fancy leave the talisman locket nestling on Charlotte's little

  heart (in which soft shelter methinks it were pleasant to linger.) Let her wrap

  a shawl round her, and affix to her feet a pair of stout goloshes; let her walk

  rapidly through the muddy Champs Elys?es, where, in this inclement season, only

  few a policemen and artisans are to be found moving. Let her pay a halfpenny at

  the Pont des Invalides, and so march stoutly along the quays, by the Chamber of

  Deputies, where as yet deputies assemble: and trudge along the river-side, until

  she reaches Seine Street, into which, as you all know, the Rue Poussin

  debouches. This was the road brave Madame Smolensk took on a gusty, rainy autumn

  morning, and on foot, for five-franc pieces were scarce with the good woman.

  Before the H?tel Poussin (ah, qu'on y ?tait bien ? vingt ans!) is a little

  painted wicket which opens, ringing; and then there is the passage, you know,

  with the stair leading to the upper regions, to Monsieur Philippe's room, which

  is on the first floor, as is that of Bouchard, the painter, who has his atelier

  over the way. A bad painter is Bouchard, but a worthy friend, a cheery

  companion, a modest, amiable gentleman. And a rare good fellow is Laberge of the

  second floor, the poet from Carcassonne, who pretends to be studying law, but

  whose heart is with the Muses, and whose talk is of Victor Hugo and Alfred de

  Musset, whose verses he will repeat to all comers. Near Laberge (I think I have

  heard Philip say) lived Escasse, a Southern man too??a capitalist??a clerk in a

  bank, quoi!??whose apartment was decorated sumptuously with his own furniture,

  who had Spanish wine and sausages in cupboards, and a bag of dollars for a

  friend in need. Is Escassse alive still? Philip Firmin wonders, and that old

  colonel, who lived on the same floor, and who had been a prisoner in England?

  What wonderful descriptions that Colonel Dujarret had of les meess anglaises and

  their singularities of dress and behaviour! Though conquered and a prisoner,

  what a conqueror and enslaver he was, when in our country! You see, in his rough

  way, Philip used to imitate these people to his friends, and we almost fancied

  we could see the hotel before us. It was very clean; it was very cheap; it was

  very dark; it was very cheerful;??capital coffee and bread-and-butter for

  breakfast for fifteen sous; capital bedroom au premier for thirty francs a

  month;?? dinner, if you would, for I forget how little; and a merry talk round

  the pipes and the grog afterwards?? the grog, or the modest eau sucr?e. Here

  Colonel Dujarret recorded his victories over both sexes. Here Colonel Tymowski

  sighed over his enslaved Poland. Tymowski was the second who was to act for

  Philip, in case the Ringwood Twysden affair should have come to any violent

  conclusion. Here Laberge bawled poetry to Philip, who no doubt in his turn

  confided to the young Frenchman his own hopes and passion. Deep into the night

  he would sit talking of his love, of her goodness, of her beauty, of her

  innocence, of her dreadful mother, of her good old father??que s?ais-je? Have we

  not said that when this man had anything on his mind, straightway he bellowed

  forth his opinions to the universe? Philip, away from his love, would roar out

  her praises for hours and hours to Laberge, until the candles burned down, until

  the hour for rest was come and could be delayed no longer. Then he would hie to

  bed with a prayer for her; and the very instant he awoke begin to think of her,

  and bless her, and thank God for her love. Poor as Mr. Philip was, yet as the

  possessor of health, content, honour, and that priceless pure jewel the girl's

  love, I think we will not pity him much; though, on the night when he received

  his dismissal from Mrs. Baynes, he must have passed an awful time, to be sure.

  Toss, Philip, on your bed of pain, and doubt, and fear. Toll, heavy hours, from

  night till dawn. Ah! 'twas a weary night through which two sad young hearts

  heard you tolling.

  At a pretty early hour the various occupants of the crib at the Rue Poussin used

  to appear in the dingy little salle-?-manger, and partake of the breakfast there

  provided. Monsieur Menou, in his shirt-sleeves, shared and distributed the meal.

  Madame Menou, with a Madras handkerchief round her grizzling head, laid down the

  smoking coffee on the shining oil-cloth, whilst each guest helped himself out of

  a little museum of napkins to his own particular towel. The room was small: the

  breakfast was not fine: the guests who partook of it were certainly not

  remarkable for the luxury of clean linen; but Philip??who is many years older

  now than when he dwelt in this hotel, and is not pinched for money at all, you

  will be pleased to hear (and, between ourselves, has become rather a gourmand)

  ??declares he was a very happy youth at this humble H?tel Poussin, and sighs for

  the days when he was sighing for Miss Charlotte.

  Well, he has passed a dreadful night of gloom and terror. I doubt that he has

  bored Laberge very much with his tears and despondency. And now morning has

  come, and, as he is having his breakfast with one or more of the before-named

  worthies, the little boy-of-all-work enters, grinning, his plumet under his arm,

  and cries "Une dame pour M. Philippe!"

  "Une dame," says the French colonel, looking up from his paper; "allez, mauvais

  sujet!"

  "Grand Dieu! what has happened?" cries Philip, running forward, as he recognizes

  madame's tall figure in the passage. They go up to his room, I suppose,

  regardless of the grins and sneers of the little boy with the plumet, who aids

  the maid servant to make the beds; and who thinks Monsieur Philippe has a very

  elderly acquaintance.

  Philip closes the door upon his visitor, who looks at him with so much hope,

  kindness, confidence in her eyes, that the poor fellow is encouraged almost ere

  she begins to speak. "Yes, you have reason; I come from the little person,"

  Madame Smolensk said; "the means of resisting that poor dear angel! She has

  passed a sad night. What? You, too, have not been to bed, poor young man!"

  Indeed Philip had only thrown himself on his bed, and had kicked there, and had

  groaned there, and had tossed there; and had tried to read, and, I daresay,

  remembered afterwards, with a strange interest, the book he read, and that other

  thought which was throbbing in his brain all the time whilst he was reading, and

  whilst the wakeful hours went wearily tolling by.

  "No, in effect," says poor Philip, rolling a dismal cigarette; "the night has

  not been too fine. And she has suffered too? Heaven bless her!" And then Madame


  Smolensk told how the little dear angel had cried all the night long, and how

  the Smolensk had not succeeded in comforting her, until she promised she would

  go to Philip, and tell him that his Charlotte would be his for ever and ever;

  that she never could think of any man but him; that he was the best, and the

  dearest, and the bravest, and the truest Philip, and that she did not believe

  one word of those wicked stories told against him by??"Hold, Monsieur Philippe,

  I suppose Madame la G?n?rale has been talking about you, and loves you no more,"

  cried Madame Smolensk. "We other women are assassins??assassins, see you! But

  Madame la G?n?rale went too far with the little maid. She is an obedient little

  maid, the dear Miss!?? trembling before her mother, and always ready to yield

  ??only now her spirit is roused; and she is yours and yours only. The little

  dear, gentle child! Ah, how pretty she was, leaning on my shoulder. I held her

  there??yes, there, my poor garcon, and I cut this from her neck, and brought it

  to thee. Come, embrace me. Weep; that does good, Philip. I love thee well. Go??

  and thy little??It is an angel!" And so, in the hour of their pain, myriads of

  manly hearts have found woman's love ready to soothe their anguish.

  Leaving to Philip that thick curling lock of brown hair (from a head where now,

  mayhap, there is a line or two of matron silver), this Samaritan plods her way

  back to her own house, where her own cares await her. But though the way is

  long, madame's step is lighter now, as she thinks how Charlotte at the journey's

  end is waiting for news of Philip; and I suppose there are more kisses and

  embraces, when the good soul meets with the little suffering girl, and tells her

  how Philip will remain for ever true and faithful; and how true love must come

  to a happy ending; and how she Smolensk, will do all in her power to aid,

  comfort, and console her young friends. As for the writer of Mr. Philip's

  memoirs, you see I never try to make any concealments. I have told you, all

  along, that Charlotte and Philip are married, and I believe they are happy. But

  it is certain that they suffered dreadfully at this time of their lives; and my

  wife says that Charlotte, it she alludes to the period and the trial, speaks as

  though they had both undergone some hideous operation, the remembrance of which

  for ever causes a pang to the memory. So, my young lady, will you have your

  trial one day, to be borne, pray heaven, with a meek spirit. Ah, how surely the

  turn comes to all of us! Look at Madame Smolensk at her luncheon-table, this day

  after her visit to Philip at his lodging, after comforting little Charlotte in

  her pain. How brisk she is! How goodnatured! How she smiles! How she speaks to

  all her company, and carves for her guests! You do not suppose she has no griefs

  and cares of her own? You know better. I daresay she is thinking of her

  creditors; of her poverty: of that accepted bill which will come due next week,

  and so forth. The Samaritan who rescues you, most likely, has been robbed and

  has bled in his day; and it is a wounded arm that bandages yours when bleeding.

  If Anatole, the boy who scoured the plain at the H?tel Poussin, with his plumet

  in his jacket-pocket, and his slippers soled with scrubbing brushes, saw the

  embrace between Philip and his good friend, I believe, in his experience at that

  hotel, he never witnessed a transaction more honourable, generous, and

  blameless. Put what construction you will on the business, Anatole, you little

  imp of mischief! your mother never gave you a kiss more tender than that which

  Madame Smolensk bestowed on Philip??than that which she gave Philip? ??than that

  which she carried back from him and faithfully placed on poor little Charlotte's

  pale round cheek. The world is full of love and pity, I say. Had there been less

  suffering, there would have been less kindness. I, for one, almost wish to be