Josiah felt his hat go, and could see the balloon shoot up with tremendous rapidity, though, as he reckoned, the rate of velocity would need to be divided by about half, as he was simultaneously descending rapidly. He felt the rush of air, and shrank from the moment, coming nearer and nearer, when he should strike the earth. He seemed an unconscionably long time falling. Still, through the clouds he went, and, it seemed to him at the end of five minutes, began to get glimpses of the earth. Down he went like a shot. The rushing noise in his ears grew more intolerable. There was a swift upgrowth of the hedgerows, a sudden vision of cows and horses, and of people running across fields.

Then a heavy b.u.mp, and Josiah, opening his eyes, found himself lying on the floor in the room in King Street.

On the table were an empty claret bottle and two tumblers. The room was full of the smoke, now growing stale, of cigars. Josiah was shivering with cold, and the room was dark save from what light flickered in from the lamp down the street. He struck a light, and there in its accustomed place on the mantelpiece was his watch, the hands pointing to three o'clock. Dazed and shivering he crept into bed, where he thought the matter over, and amid much that was bewildering groped his way to the conclusion that Captain Mulberry really had come into his room, had spent an hour with him, smoked cigars, drunk claret, and then gone off.

He remembered standing at the head of the stairs shaking hands with him, and promising to dine with him at his club one day in the following week. Then he had gone back and lain on the couch, where, overcome with the unaccustomed tumbler of claret and dazed with the tobacco smoke, he had fallen asleep, dreamed, and rolled off on to the floor.

HENRY W. LUCY.

NUMBER 7639.

CHAPTER I.

A poor garret on the sixth floor of one of the poorest houses in the poorest quarters of Paris, does not give much opportunity for a detailed description. There is little to be said about the furniture, which in this case consisted of a rickety old table, a wooden stool, and a small charcoal stove, all of the commonest kind, but all clean, and the room was not quite without adornment. The window, to be sure, was in the roof, but pinned to the wall were a few newspaper prints in strong blacks and whites, and--most remarkable of all--there was an alcove for the bed, which was carefully shut off from the room by a gaily variegated chintz. In spite of its poverty and bareness, there was nothing squalid or unwholesome about the place.

The house itself was a tall narrow slip. People of different callings, and different degrees of respectability, lived in it; on the whole it had not a bad character. The landlord was an immensely fat man, called Plon--a name which, irresistibly converted into Plon-Plon, seemed to give an aristocratic air to the house--and he lived and made shoes in a small room at the foot of the lowest flight of stairs, so that he acted as his own _concierge_, and boasted that no one came in or out without his knowledge. Probably some of his lodgers contrived to elude his vigilance, but he was as obstinate in his belief as an old Norman has a right to be, and was a kind-hearted old fellow in the main, though with the reputation of a _grognard_, and a ridiculous fear of being discovered in a good action. Perhaps with this fear, the more credit was due to him for occasionally running the risk, as when he saw young Monnier, the artist, coming down the stairs one evening with a look in his eyes, which Plon told himself gave him an immediate shuddering back-sensation, as of cold water and marble slabs. Plon did something for him, perhaps knocked off the rent, but he implored Monnier to show his grat.i.tude by saying nothing, and he never gave him more of a greeting than the sidelong twist he vouchsafed to the other lodgers. For the rest, his benevolence depended in a great measure upon his temper, and he prided himself upon being very terrible at times.

With five floors we have nothing to do, and need waste no time over them. The inmates mostly went out early and came in late, but the house kept better hours than its neighbours, for the simple reason that those who arrived after a certain time found themselves shut into the street for the night. They might hammer and appeal in the strongest language of their vocabulary, but Plon snored unmoved, and nothing short of a fire in the house would have turned him out of his bed. Gradually this became so well understood, that his lodgers accommodated themselves to it as to any other of the inexorable laws of fate.

On the sixth and highest floor the crowded house resolved itself into comparative quiet. Besides the garret of which we have spoken, there were two other rooms, but for some years past these had been used merely as store-rooms for furniture. No one knew to whom the furniture belonged, some curious speculators avowing that Plon had a child--a girl--at school in Normandy, and had collected it as part of her dowry; others that some mysterious tie of grat.i.tude bound him to the owner.

Whoever was right or wrong, the rooms remained closed and unlet.

The garret itself was inhabited by a young widow, whose story was sufficiently sad. She was the daughter of a farmer in the north of France, and married to a glazier, Jean Didier by name, with whom she had come to Paris in search of work. If there had been no war, and, above all, no Commune, things might have gone well with the young couple, but, unhappily, one followed the other, and there was an end of peace. Jean was no fool, but he was too certain that he was extremely wise not to make mistakes, and he possessed enough of the French nature to be easily influenced by the brag and fine promises which filled the air at that time. It is always satisfactory to reflect on changes which a.s.sure us the highest step of a ladder, which ordinarily takes a life-time for a step. Jean talked a great deal about it, not only to Marie, who would have been safe, but to others who agreed with him more thoroughly, and were dangerous. Nevertheless, when the Commune, in March, 1871, broke into actual life, and Jean began to see what it all meant, he was terrified by the outburst and held back. Things which look seductive in theory, have a way of losing their gloss when they appear as hard realities, with accompaniments which do not belong to the ideals; and the rabble rout of half-drunk citizens who marched, shouting, through the streets of the 19th _arrondiss.e.m.e.nt_, frightened Marie out of her senses. She clung to Jean, and implored him not to join them on pain of breaking her heart. To do him justice, common sense, perhaps aided by a desire to keep out of the way of rifle-b.a.l.l.s, was proving stronger than bombast; and, to do him justice again, he was desirous to keep others than himself from danger.

It was this which brought about the catastrophe. May came, and with it the conquering troops from Versailles poured into the city. It was sufficiently clear what the end would be; Jean, who never distrusted his own reasoning powers, insisted, in spite of his wife's prayers and Plon's expostulations, in going out into the streets, and trying to dissuade some of his comrades from fighting. He promised to return immediately, but he did not come, Marie became almost frenzied with terror. She would have rushed out to seek him, but that she knew not where to turn, and if he came, wanting help, and she was not there to give it, matters might go hardly with him. The din of battle drew nearer, sh.e.l.ls were falling, bullets were whizzing, it seemed hardly possible that any one could escape, and yet, men went by shouting and singing, mad with either drink or excitement. Plon, after entreating Madame Didier to come farther into shelter, shut himself into his little room with a white face, and was seen no more. Everything seemed to grow more horrid as the night drew on.

At about ten o'clock, Plon, hearing voices in the pa.s.sage, peeped out.

There still stood Madame Didier, wan as a ghost, but with the restless excitement gone. A man was speaking to her, an elderly, grimy, frightened-looking man, with a bald head. He was telling a story in a dull, hopeless kind of way, as if at such a time no one story was particularly distinguished from another, and pity had to wait for quieter seasons.

"He was shot in the next street; Jean says he never wished to go with them, but they forced him along. After that he got into a doorway, where he might have hidden himself, but Fort saw him, and denounced him. Fort might have left him alone, as it was he your husband was trying to persuade, but at such a time men look after their own skins. They dragged him out and set him up with some others against a wall, and that was the end of him, and of a good many others."

His listener flung up her hands with a gesture of wild despair, and turned her face to the wall, speechless. The man, who was by trade a _trieur_ or chief _chiffonnier_, seeing Plon's head appear, turned round and addressed himself to him.

"Fort is a traitor, he has denounced others. They will be here presently searching for arms. It is short work I can tell you."

"And my--my _locataire_ is shot!" murmured Plon, panic-struck. But the man whose mission was ended, turned round without another word and went out into the lurid darkness.

The landlord made a trembling effort to stagger across the pa.s.sage, and to pluck at Marie's gown. When he spoke, his voice quavered with fright.

"Come, come, Madame Didier, go upstairs, and--and--cry there like a good woman. Here it isn't safe. Besides, if they know who you are, I might be compromised. Poor Jean! Heavens!--"

For a volley of rifle shot poured down the street, a rush of feet followed; and Plon fled precipitously to his den, double-bolted his door, and rolled his mattress round him for protection. Marie Didier slowly turned her head, and, as if recognising the wisdom of his advice, felt her way along the wall and groped up the dark staircase. No one had lit the small oil lamp on the _premier_, but light from burning houses flashed in at windows; a child had been killed by the fragment of a sh.e.l.l, and the mother was loudly wailing; some were peering out of their doorways; they stared at Marie, who crept up like a ghost. In this rookery the young couple had kept themselves apart, and had no friends.

But it was instinctively known that something had happened to Jean, and only one woman was bold enough to question the wife. She answered steadily in a strange strained voice:

"They are searching the houses. We shall have them soon."

It was, however, an hour before a party of soldiers made a rough visitation. They dragged Plon out of his mattress, and made him climb the stairs, panting and protesting. When they reached the top garret, Marie was sitting in the darkness, with her arms on the poor table; she did not move as they entered.

"Bring in the lantern!" shouted the sergeant. "Now, good woman, who have you got hiding here?"

She turned a white face upon him, speechless. Plon, who was recovering his pomposity, pressed forward, and laid a hand on the soldier's arm.

"Don't worry her, sergeant," he said, "her husband has just been shot."

"Serve him right," said the man brutally. "Are there more of the brood about?"

"Not a soul. They lived here alone, these two."

"Well, we'll see."

"No cupboards here," said a soldier, whose face was bleeding from a bayonet scratch.

"There's a trap door, though," said the sergeant, holding the lantern up to the ceiling. He glanced sharply at Marie, but she remained immovable. "Humph," he grumbled, "if he is shot he is out of the way.

Now, friend Porpoise, the other rooms if you please."

They searched these thoroughly with no better success. But when they had satisfied themselves and were out again, the sergeant, whose suspicions seemed to have been aroused, flung open the door of the Didiers' garret, and turned the lantern full upon Marie once more. She had not moved hand or foot.

"What is that blood?" said the sergeant, pointing to a trail of red drops on the floor.

For answer she silently rolled back her sleeve, and unbandaging her arm, showed a deep cut, from which the blood still oozed.

"Good. She has no one," said the man, withdrawing the light.

This, as all the world knows, was in 1871. Four years afterwards, at the time my story begins, Marie Didier still occupied that attic. She lived by taking in needlework, and it was sometimes a wonder to the few who knew her, that working so hard as she did, she should remain so poor.

The furniture of her attic I have described, the sole addition she had made to it was the gay chintz which curtained off the alcove with the bed. She was always ready to do a kindness, but made no acquaintances, and the only persons who ever climbed to her attic were Plon, who made occasional weighty visitations, often discoursed upon his prowess at the time of the Commune; and an idiot girl called Perine, whom Marie one day found crying in the street; she had no father or mother, and the old rag-picker she lived with beat her. Once or twice Marie gave her food, and the poor creature attached herself to her like a dog, followed her upstairs and lay across her door. After a while Madame Didier admitted her into her room at times, and let her share her poor meals, and sleep on a heap of sacking outside the door. Perine, in such prosperity, was as happy as a queen. It is true that Plon at first objected, but Marie could persuade him into anything, and he only grumbled.

On one winter day, Marie was stooping over the stove stirring something in an earthen pipkin; Perine, seated on the wooden stool, leaned forward and watched her operations with excessive interest. Perhaps for want of an intelligent companion, Madame Didier was in the habit of soliloquising aloud, and at this moment she was saying cheerfully:

"Not much, to be sure, but something! I should have liked a carrot or two, but in these hard times that would have been extravagant. And, after all, there is some credit in making good soup out of nothing at all. If one could run here and there in the market--'A pound of your best veal, monsieur'--'A bunch of those fine turnips, and a stick of celery, madame'--well, truth obliges me to admit that it is possible the soup would have a finer flavour, but there would not be the satisfaction of seeing it grow out of a few onions a crust of bread, and a pinch of salt. And that is a satisfaction which I am favoured with tolerably often. Well, Perine, my child, it interests you--this occupation--does it not? Do you think you will ever learn to make soup?"

The girl nodded many times.

"Perine eat it," she said.

"Listen to her!" Marie exclaimed, patting her cheek approvingly. "And that any one should say she has no sense! She knows as well as any of us, that the great thing in soup is to eat it with an appet.i.te, and so she puts together two and two--"

She was interrupted by the girl.

"Four!" she said abruptly.

Madame Didier, instead of showing astonishment, began to laugh.

"There she is with her numbers again! How strange it is that she should never forget a number or make a mistake in a sum! In taking away or adding together one can't puzzle her. I don't mean that I can't," she continued, apparently addressing no one in particular, "because I am a poor ignorant woman; but wiser people than I. Now, Perine, you shall have your lesson. See here, I shall stand near my bed, and you over there with your face to the wall. Do you understand?"