Free Dark Rosaleen by Marjorie Bowen Page A

Mademoiselle Adelaide, wearily. ‘He and M. Dumouriez are at Tournai — we mean to go there, to consult with them — one would think, after Valmy and Jemappes he might have some claim on France!’
    Madame de Sillery entered the pale room. Her face looked old and haggard, and her usual elegant energy had changed into what seemed a useless impatience of words and movements. Fitzgerald, looking at her with compassion, remembered the story that she had long been not only the intimate friend but the lover of the unfortunate prince just arrested. She had with her the other adopted child, Hermine Compton.
    ‘Ah, well, Mr. Fitzgerald, what do you think of our fortunes now?’ she asked. ‘I have at length been able to persuade Mademoiselle Adelaide to leave Paris. Do you accompany us?’
    ‘Without any doubt,’ answered Fitzgerald, and drew Pamela’s hand through his arm.

 
     
     
    CHAPTER 13
     
    The weather suddenly changed. A mighty storm broke over Paris, bending the bare trees in the gardens of the Tuileries, along the banks of the Seine and in the Bois de Boulogne, sending broken branches whirling with straw, placards and dirty newspapers down the long, grey streets.
    The packets were delayed. Fitzgerald received no letters from England, and his sense of being cut off from his home and his usual life increased strongly. It seemed to him that he had snatched Pamela to him amid a violent tempest which disturbed the earth and heavens and altered all the lives of men. Public affairs began to take a sinister turn, even his sanguine temperament could not deny that the National Assembly was losing ground. It seemed to have no authority to stop riots, massacres, murders; terrible tales came in from the provinces; a low, steady murmur demanded the head of Philippe Egalité; might soon demand the head of M. de Chartres and his young brothers and sisters. With all the haste possible, Fitzgerald made preparation for these people, who a few weeks before had been to him strangers, but who now were his dearest concern on earth, to escape from what was becoming a city where anarchy was let loose.
    *
    ‘Mr. Tone,’ — Fitzgerald, on a chance meeting, paused and spoke impulsively — ‘you see where affairs are leading. You would not wish this for Ireland?’
    ‘I am afraid, sir,’ replied the other, smiling and unmoved, ‘that what is happening in Ireland is worse than this. Have you read those papers I left with you?’
    ‘Yes. They were horrible, but even so —’
    ‘But I would not concern you, sir, with these affairs,’ interrupted Mr. Tone. ‘I hear of your approaching marriage.’
    ‘Yes. That pledges me deeply and away from you, I fear. It is difficult, but I do feel myself bound.’
    ‘I know. I understand. Perhaps if we were fortunate —’
    Fitzgerald flushed. ‘I should not like to appear a fair weather friend.’
    ‘Nay, but if we were fortunate,’ persisted Mr. Tone, ‘you might further help us.’
    ‘If in any way I could — without jeopardising the happiness of one who has suffered already! I do not disguise from you, Mr. Tone, that she and her family are flying for their lives, and I am busy on the preparation for this desperate journey.’
    ‘Good luck to you, sir, and every happiness. Since you are not remaining in Paris I will not tell you any of my secrets. Keep clear of me and all my affairs, Lord Edward.’
    But Fitzgerald could not bear to leave the man whom he so liked and admired, with this ease. He pressed Mr. Tone’s hand and asked: ‘But all goes as you would wish?’
    ‘No, I have an impatient mind. If all went as I wish I should be landing with fifty French frigates behind me in Bantry Bay to-morrow, but…well…one must curb one’s desires. Some of the progressives, Lazare Hoche, M. Carnot and others are good fellows…but forget their names, my Lord, forget you saw Wolfe Tone, John Sheares and Thomas Addis Emmett.’
    ‘I shall forget nothing,’ cried Fitzgerald, warmly.