Marjorie Bowen

“ Hilaire had the rest of her mother's jewels sewn in her bodice, and a frivolous travelling-case and a pathetic-looking bundle on the scat beside her; and as the cabriolet neared Paris she trembled and prayed, and shivered and glowed.
The cabriolet flashed through poorer quarters than great ladies usually graced, and stopped before an inn called “Mon Plaisir,” where a likely young fellow in a travelling coat walked up and down, biting his handsome lip in agitation. ”

“ Hilton began to think that it must be a mistake about the governess and that, after all, dear Amy. . .
It was Amy who found the heat excessive for games and who had to be entertained in the house. With infantile simplicity she turned the conversation to France.
“Would you not greatly like to go to Paris, Mrs. Dockura? I understand it is a city both instructive and amusing.”
“A trip to Paris would hardly be a diversion suitable for one of my years, my love,” smiled Mrs. Dockura, “and my husband had such an aversion to the city that I never went there in my youth. ”

“ Mademoiselle Vesey continued smoothly, as if he had not interrupted.
“My father was the Comte de Vesey, who made his living as a dancing master, my mother was the daughter of the Duc de Sangeaunis—both he and his wife were killed in the Revolution of 1780—on each side, you see, emigrés of a family now extinct, save to me, and in me, penniless and very obscure.”
“You are better born than any of us,” he said quickly. “I guessed as much—your look, your carriage——”
“The women hate me,” she said simply. “I cannot stay here—better in London, where there are other poor foreigners I may meet.” ”

“ However, Jaspar, knowing his master was resolved to leave Paris as soon as possible, had contrived to hire a cabriolet from a posting stables.
And there it stood waiting for them, elegant, jaunty, lemon-yellow and black, only a little out of fashion, only slightly cracked and dusty, worn and battered.
Mr. Dockura explained the Duchess to Jaspar, who climbed on the box, and the cabriolet rattled towards the gates of Paris. On the shabby velvet cushions the woman leant back, clasping her heart. ”

“ There were only a few loungers about, and these took no particular notice of a gallant springing into a modish cabriolet and drawing the blinds closely after him; and the black wheels spun round again and the elegant carriage rattled away over the cobbles.
As he drew the blinds she cast herself into his arms. “Is it true? Are we really going away together? Oh, my Edmund, answer me!”
Esquire Dockura took the little creature to his heart and strove to be manly and composed (they were neither of them twenty years old) . ”

“ Journey the First, 1760 THE cabriolet spun down the well-kept road between Versailles and Paris; two big Danish dogs ran in front to clear the way. the coachman flourished a long whip that sometimes flicked the ankles or shoulders of pedestrians who were not deft enough in leaping aside.
The cabriolet was so modish and elegant that everyone turned to gaze after it. It would certainly create a new fashion; it was closed, and the upper portion was pale lemon, the lower portion and the great wheels black. ”

“ They reached Darley and stopped at the entrance to the fair, where the gay pennons of the booths fluttered against the golden blue sky of late summer afternoon, and knots and clusters of gay and happy people wandered among the ropes and pegs of the tents that disfigured the worn grass, and joked with the battered clowns, and fed the piebald ponies with sugar and carrots. ”

“ Lantern and flambeaux cast angry flares on them, the crowd hem closely round the gay sides of the little cabriolet. One of the citizens, sharp-eyed, sees traces of a coat-of-arms under the first coat of lemon paint; he is for smashing the cabriolet as an aristocrat, the citizen-owner, driving, fiercely protests. There is a scuffle, oaths, shouting.
Then in the pale face of the woman so coldly facing her enemies someone recognises a suspect.
“Edmée de Sangeaunis, wife of an emigré.”
As they try to drag her out, Mr. Dockura fires, and someone else fires, and Edmée falls at his feet. ”

“ The footsteps halted; a man's tread, steady and sure; a firm blow was struck on the door.
The Duchess, with a proud shrug, opened te window and stepped on to the balcony.
“Eh, well, who is there?” she asked.
“Madame—good Heavens, it is the Duchess!” A masculine voice, eager and pleasant, speaking with a foreign accent, came strongly through the dusk. Are you alone. May I come up?”
“It is Richard Dockura,” she said quietly. “Now, what made you think of coming here?”
“I saw the candle. I heard you had all left Paris. ”

“ Dockura.
“Lots,” replied the lady again. “I've got no pictures of mine, so I fill the gallery with yours. We're self-made.”
“But we can trot out a duchess and duke or two,” said Riggles. “French Revolution, horrid fate, guillotine, powder, minuet, you know the recipe—like the kind of play you go to see, but wish you hadn’t.”
“I’m awfully keen on the French Revolution,” announced Mr. Dockura. “And you’re really French, then, Miss Franchion?”
“My grandmother was—she used to be a governess in this village. Can you conceive it? At the Rectory. Somewhere about 1860. Poor as a rat. ”

“ His handsome face grew troubled.
“There is a gentleman,” continued Mademoiselle Vesey, “who is willing to marry me—a M. Franchion, one of our little colony. He has a great gift for glass-making and earns a comfortable income with his tiny factory.”
“But you do not love him?” asked Mr. Dockura. ”