The Waltzing Widow (19 page)

The anxious babel did not abate, and Lady Mary eventually closed the window against it. “Surely we shall hear something soon,” she said, to reassure both her daughter and herself. She and Abigail continued to watch through the window as numbers of people in carriages and on horseback set off toward the pounding of the cannon.

In the evening, having heard nothing all day, Lady Mary and Abigail set out walking toward the park. Miss Steepleton had been invited to join them, but she had declined with a nervousness that she could not conceal.

On all sides, the ladies heard different stories from those who had earlier set out and had now returned no wiser than when they had gone. A thousand absurd reports, totally devoid of foundation, were circulated.

Lady Mary and Abigail found the ramparts crowded by others like themselves. Speculation among the waiting citizens and the British was intense. It was known that only thirteen thousand British troops had marched out of Brussels that morning and that the rest of the army was unconcentrated. Rumors flew about that the French were thirty- or forty-thousand strong. Under such circumstances it was impossible, even with the fullest confidence in British valor, not to feel extreme anxiety for the army.

At length intelligence came from the army, brought by an officer who had left the field after five o'clock. The British in their march encountered the enemy on the plains of Fleurs, about fifteen miles from Brussels. The Highland regiments had received the furious onset of the whole French army without yielding one inch of ground. According to the officer's account, the Highlanders had fought to the last with resolute, unshaken valor, and fell upon the very spot where they first drew their swords.

When she heard it, Abigail moaned and covered her face with her hands. “Hush, Abigail,” Lady Mary said, straining to hear the rest of the reported intelligence.

The combat was terrible, said the officer. The enemy were in much more formidable force than had been represented, and, deriving confidence from their immense superiority, they fought most furiously. Yet the brave handful of British had stood their ground, repulsed every attack, and were still fighting.

Even after hearing the officer's report, Lady Mary and Abigail could not bring themselves to return to the townhouse and they remained at the ramparts to listen to the heavy cannonade. In the course of the evening the cannonading became perfectly distinct and regular. Abigail clutched her mother's hand tighter. “Mama, it is coming closer,” she said tensely.

Lady Mary thought for a moment that her daughter was right; then she shook her head. “It is the stillness of the evening that makes it seem so,” she said with a show of confidence. She sensed the tension ease a little in Abigail's body. “Let us go home for dinner,” she said coolly. She and Abigail left the ramparts; their places were immediately taken by others.

In the park, people wandered about with restless, aimless steps, and Lady Mary hurried Abigail across, not wanting her daughter to have a good look at the expressions on the faces of those they passed.

The dull boom of the French cannon could be heard even through the walls of the town house. During dinner, Miss Steepleton shook so from nerves that her glass rattled against her teeth each time she sought to drink.

The cannonade continued for five hours after the last accounts came away. After picking listlessly at their plates, the ladies retired to the drawing room to spend the long tense evening, all unwilling to go upstairs to bed while the oppressive noise continued. The anxiety to know the result of the battle was maddening, but there was no relief. Toward ten o'clock the regularly resounding thunder became fainter and soon afterward entirely died away.

Lady Mary, Abigail, and Miss Steepleton looked at one another, each wearing much the same expression that teetered between dread and hope. But the cannon did not begin again. “Thank God,” Lady Mary breathed. With one accord the ladies went up to bed. But sleep was to elude them, for scarcely an hour after their heads touched their pillows, there began a new noise.

Between midnight and one o'clock, Lady Mary was startled up out of her fitful sleep by a rumbling noise. She leapt from her bed to rush to the window. She saw that heavy carriages were rolling rapidly in long succession down the street toward the Place Royale. Up and down la Rue de Musee doors opened, windows were thrown up, and the loud querying cries and exclamations of her neighbors filled the air as people hung out their windows or clattered into the streets.

The bedroom door was thrown open. She whirled, startled, as Abigail rushed in.

"Mama! Have you seen them? Oh, what does it mean?” She joined her mother at the window. Her arms were wrapped tightly about herself and she was shivering uncontrollably.

"I do not know, Abigail,” Lady Mary said, her heart pounding. For some minutes they listened in silence.

Faster and faster, louder and louder, the long train of artillery continued to roll over the cobbled streets. The frightened cries of the people increased.

"We must find out what is happening!” Lady Mary exclaimed, unable to stand it any longer. She snatched up a dressing gown, plunged her arms into it, and belted it even as she and Abigail ran hastily out of the bedroom.

The first person they encountered was a scared
fille-de-chambre,
who exclaimed upon seeing them,
"Les Français sont touts près—dans une petite demi-heure ils seront ici. Que ferons-nous, que ferons-nous! Ils faut partir toute de suite.''

"What are you saying?” Lady Mary gasped, alarmed. “How do you know this? Who told you that the French are but a half-hour's march away?” She grasped the hysterical girl's shoulders and shook her. “Speak girl!"

But the
fille-de-chambre
was past reaching. She could only moan again and again,
"Les Français sont touts près."

Abigail stared at her mother, her eyes huge in her white face. “Mama, I am so frightened."

"As I am, Abigail. But I do not think we should panic just yet,” Lady Mary said. She flew down the stairs, her daughter close behind her.

Lady Mary was struck of a sudden by the eeriness of the place. The house seemed deserted. Every room door was standing open. The candles were left burning on the tables. There was not another soul in evidence.

The street door stood wide. The solitude and silence which reigned within formed a fearful contrast to the increasing tumult without. Lady Mary and Abigail stepped outside onto the front steps. At the bottom of the stairs they discovered their servants, some of whom had just returned from the Place Royale. Consternation was plain on every countenance and the shrill edge of fear vibrated in their voices. Lady Mary stepped forward and said sharply, “What is the meaning of this?"

Her authoritative tone served to cut across the swift talk and wild gesticulations. The butler came up the steps. His voice shaking, he said, “My lady, we have but this moment learned. A large body of French have been seen advancing through the woods, only half an hour's march from the city, which, as you know, is wholly undefended. The English army...” His voice broke. “The English army is said to be in full retreat."

Lady Mary was stunned. She could hardly take it in. It was one thing to dismiss the ravings of the hysterical maid, but quite another to have the impossible confirmed by a man whom she had come to think of as immovable. “I do not believe it,” she said.

Her flat statement seemed to release the voices of the others. From every side was repeated,
"C'est trop vrai
—
c'est trop vrai."

However, they all soon had the satisfaction of being assured by a passing officer that the artillery were moving through to join the army, that they were not retreating, but advancing. Completely reassured, Lady Mary and Abigail reentered the house, whereupon they were struck by the incongruous sight of their companion standing
en déshabille
at the head of the stairs. Miss Steepleton waved a smelling salt in one hand and clutched the top of her dressing gown to her skinny throat with the other. She asked shrilly, “Have they come? The French-have they come?"

Lady Mary realized that the woman was on the edge of hysteria. She went quickly up the stairs, Abigail following closely behind. When she reached Miss Steepleton, she said soothingly, “It is a false alarm only, Agatha. We may all return to our beds now."

Miss Steepleton was not so easily reassured. “But I heard the shouts. They shouted that the French are but a half hour's march away. My lady! What are we to do?"

Lady Mary firmly led the woman back to the door of her bedroom and gave her a gentle push. “You are going to lie down and rest, Agatha, as are Abigail and I. It was a false report, as I told you. In the morning this will all seem but a bad dream, I promise you.” Even as Miss Steepleton still exclaimed in fearful conjecture, she shut the door and then she and Abigail separated to find their own cold beds.

The alarm of the British community gradually subsided. Some people did take their departure, but as the French didn't make their appearance, some went to bed, while others merely lay down in their clothes, by no means assured that their slumbers might not be broken by the entrance of the French.

On Saturday, the seventeenth of June, between five o'clock and six o'clock in the morning, those in Brussels were roused by a loud knocking at the door and cries of
"Les Français sont ici! Les Français sont ici!''

The inhabitants started up from their beds and rushed to their windows. The first sight they beheld was a troop of cavalry covered in mud galloping through the town at full speed as if the enemy were at their heels. The troops shouted of rout, of slaughter, of Bonaparte.

Immediately upon the troops’ passing, the heavy baggage wagons in the Place Royale, which had been harnessed from the moment of the first alarm, set off at full gallop down la Montagne de la Cour and through every street by which it was possible to effect their escape. In less than two minutes the great square of the Place Royale, which had been crowded with men and horses, carts and baggage wagons, was completely cleared of everything and entirely deserted.

Apprehension held the city in suspense; only gradually did the uneasy inhabitants return to their beds.

Again were the cries repeated of
"Les Français sont ici! ... Its s'emparent de la porte de la ville!"

Once more the doors of all the bedrooms were thrown open and the people flew out with their nightcaps on, scarcely half-dressed. Distracted, they ran about pale and trembling they knew not where, with packages under their arms. Some carried huge heterogeneous collections of things down to the cellars and others loaded with their property went flying up to the garrets.

It was impossible for the people of Brussels, who were wholly ignorant of the event of the battle and acquainted only with the unequal numbers under which it was being fought, not to fear that the enemy might at last have succeeded in breaking through the British or at least the Prussian lines, or that Bonaparte, ever fertile in expedients, might have contrived to elude their vigilance and sent a detachment under cover of night by a circuitous route to seize the unguarded city.

The news of the advance of the French, the alarming reports which had been brought in from all quarters during the night, the flight of the troops, and above all the failure of any intelligence from the British army, tended to corroborate this last alarm, and it seemed but too certain that the enemy were actually at hand. This time the panic did not die down.

At the Hotel d'Angleterre, Viscountess Catlin clutched her husband's arm. She was white of face and her voice was hoarse with fear. “Victor! We must go! We must!” He covered her tight fingers with his, squeezing hard, and nodded abruptly.

Coatless and without his cravat, Viscount Catlin threw open the door to their rooms. Aghast, Viscountess Catlin tried to catch him back even as he stepped into the hall. “Victor!"

He threw over his shoulder, “For God's sake, finish your dressing! I shall return in an instant.” He sharply closed the door, cutting off the viscountess's wail.

A
fille-de-chambre
was running past, and the viscount shot out his hand to detain her. “What news?” he demanded. The poor
fille-de-chambre
was nearly frightened out of her wits. She stood wringing her hands, unable to articulate anything until the viscount urgently shook her. Her eyes rolled wildly at him. She gasped,
"Les Français! Les Français!"

He was unable to get anything more out of her and he let her go in disgust. She stumbled away as the viscount clattered quickly downstairs past the taproom to the hotel entrance. He paused in the doorway, staring in startled disbelief at the scene of dreadful confusion in the courtyard.

People of all classes milled about shoulder to shoulder, knocking one another aside, or engaged in heated exchanges. There was frantic scuffling to get at the horses and carriages. The air was rent with the squabbling of masters and servants, ostlers, chambermaids, coachmen, and gentlemen, all scolding at once, and swearing in French, English, and Flemish. Some made use of supplication and others had recourse to force. Words were followed by blows. One half of the Belgian drivers refused either to go themselves or to let their beasts go, and neither love nor money, nor threats nor entreaties, could induce them to alter their determination.

At the far side of the courtyard stood one of the coachmen that the viscount had employed during his and his wife's stay in the Low Countries. The viscount's thin lips tightened at sight of the man, and he swung abruptly back into the hotel.

Returning to his rooms, he assured his fearful wife that they would shortly be leaving and he advised her to have her maid finish the packing. She returned to the other bedroom, twisting her hands and exclaiming worriedly under her breath.

Viscount Catlin shouted for his manservant. He dressed hurriedly with the help of his valet, who glanced frequently toward the windows through which the shouts of alarm clearly penetrated. Once the viscount had made his appearance impeccable and shrugged on an overcoat, he turned to a portmanteau and from its depths withdrew a long flat case. Opening the case, he took out two dueling pistols.