Free Dark Rosaleen by Marjorie Bowen Page B

‘But I shall not need to mention these matters.’
    *
    Twenty-four hours later, hired carriages took Madame de Sillery, Hermine Compton, Pamela, Edward Fitzgerald, Mademoiselle Adelaide d’Orléans, and a few servants across the frontier. The Irishman had in his pocket a letter which announced his dismissal from the English army on account of his attendance at the banquet at White’s Hotel. He did not mention this to Pamela, though he had at once told Madame de Sillery of the difference in his prospects.
    ‘Oh, heavens!’ that lady replied impatiently. ‘What does any of that matter if we can but save our necks?’
    *
    The journey, begun furtively, soon took on the character of open flight. The friends of liberty fled from the land of liberty and the ardent disciples of Jean Jacques Rousseau escaped in terror from the city where it was intended to transport his remains with all honour to the Pantheon.
    Madame de Sillery, who had from the early days of ’89 boldly entertained all the Republican leaders, all the deputies of the National Assembly at Belle Chase, whose encouragement had induced a royal prince to espouse the popular cause, now fled from her native country in open terror, leaving that Liberal friend of the people, Philippe Egalité, who had voted for the death of his cousin the King, himself in prison, and in terror of that same guillotine Louis XVI had mounted not so many months before, whilst the young sister of the hero of Valmy and Jemappes, whose victory had been toasted at that enthusiastic banquet at White’s, wore a veil to disguise her Bourbon features from hostile eyes. Madame de Sillery’s bitterness was beyond expression, and the three young girls were nervous with fatigue and fear.
    Mademoiselle d’Orléans left a father and two young brothers in the power of that spreading anarchy from which she had just fled, and continually broke into self-reproaches and would, but for Madame de Sillery’s firmness, have insisted on turning back to Paris to share the fate of her family.
    Fitzgerald alone was at ease, even happy. He was glad that Pamela was ruined, that she had nothing; he was glad that she was in peril, that he had been able to snatch her from it, he was infinitely pleased that she came to him thus forlorn, adorned only with the power of his dreams. The cold was intense; as they passed the frontiers the snow began to fall, but Madame de Sillery’s relief at not having her passport questioned, nor any delay enforced on her, helped her to endure the discomforts of the weather.
    The travelling carriages, changing horses at every post-house, proceeded as swiftly as the bad weather allowed across the muddy Flanders roads.
    At one posthouse he could get no fresh saddle horse and so Fitzgerald had to take his place in the carriage beside Pamela.
    It was the end of the short winter day and the cold seemed to increase with every hour. A heavy fall of sleet drifted down and was lost in the stiff furrows of mud that edged the roadside.
    A few poor farms broke the dark monotony of the fields, and a faint blur of murky red showed where the sun was breaking the western clouds briefly before the final dark.
    Pamela was huddled in one corner of the carriage, Hermine Compton leaning against her. Both the girls were half asleep, their coats turned up to their chins, folded shawls making pillows for their heads, and fatigue and cold seemed to emphasise the essential fragility of their youth.
    Fitzgerald sat down opposite them, and taking off his greatcoat, placed it gently across their knees.
    Pamela roused herself, pulled her hand out from her muff and gave it to him. He held it, leaning forward in his seat.
    They would stop at Tournai, where they would be met by M. de Chartres and M. Dumouriez, and there they would be married. A strange marriage for people of their quality, but the times were strange.
    The horses were fresh, and though the roads were uneven the carriage proceeded swiftly. The leathers at