My poor dear mother! I may seem to have spoken unkindly and
undutifully about her in the course of these recollections. She was
too French, and I too English, ever to understand one another, but in
these last days that we were together she compensated for all that
was past. She could not see a good and brave young life consigned to
perpetual imprisonment only for being more upright than his
neighbours; she did remember the gratitude she owed even to a
creature comme ca, and I even believe she could not coolly see her
daughter's heart broken. She had not even Margaret to prompt or
persuade her, but she showed the letter at once to Eustace, and bade
him warn his friend. Oh, mother, I am thankful that you made me love
you at last!
Eustace drove first to the office, and got his passes countersigned
by the magistracy for himself and me and our servant, showing a
laquais whose height and complexion fairly agreed with those of
Clement Darpent. There was no time to be lost. In the dusk of an
August evening my brother was carried to the corner of the Rue St.
Antoine in my mother's sedan. He could not walk so far, and he did
not wish to attract observation, and he reached the house on foot,
cloaked, and with his hat slouched. He found that Clement had
received a note, as he believed from the Coadjutor, who always knew
everything, giving the like warning that he would be excluded from
the amnesty.
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