A MAN OF THE PEOPLE.
(RENE BESSON.)
CHAPTER I.
CONCERNING HIS PARENTAGE AND EARLY YOUTH.
I was born in the village of Islettes, on the banks of a little river called the Biesme, in the Forest of Argonne, situated between St. Menehould and Clermont, on the 14th of July, in the year 1775.
I never had the happiness to experience a mother’s love; she survived but a few days after my birth. My father, who was a poor carpenter, out-stayed her loss but five years.
At five years of age, therefore, I was an orphan, without a friend in the world.
I am wrong and ungrateful to say that. I had one—my uncle, my mother’s brother, who had the post of keeper in the Forest of Argonne. His wife, on my mother’s death, supplied her place; and he, on the death of my father, found me bread.
My father died so poor, that all had to be sold to pay his little debts, with the exception of his box of carpenter’s tools, which had been taken to Father Descharmes (that was my uncle’s name), and placed out of sight in a little room belonging to me.
The Forest of Argonne was Government property, and was preserved for the pleasure of the nobles attendant on the Court; but that did not hinder the young people of the environs from coming secretly with the keepers, to enjoy a little sport with the deer and the hares.
There was one, who took part in these hunting parties, whom I knew well—Jean Baptiste Drouet, son of a postmaster at St. Menehould; also William, a friend of his; and one Billaut, who afterwards took the name of his native place, and called himself Billaut Varennes.
All three were to acquire a certain celebrity in the middle of those revolutionary movements, still hidden in the future.
Certain young noblemen, by very special favor received privileges of game denied to the outer world.
Amongst the number of those young nobles, was M. de Dampierre, the Count de Mannes, and the Viscount de Malmy.
The former was at this time a man of about forty-five years, the latter not over twenty.
I select these out of the number, because they will play leading parts in the events I am about to describe.
Even when I was quite a child, I learned the difference that subsisted in their characters.
Every now and then, on hearing that a herd of wild boars had been seen in the forest, or that the snowstorm had driven out the wolves, a courier would arrive from Paris, and announce “The gentlemen of the Court.”
Then it was that the fun took place.
If it were summer, a tent was pitched, in which the gentlemen took their meals.
If it were winter, they stopped at St. Menehould, and put up at the “Hotel de Metz,” making a rendezvous with the keepers at daybreak at a likely spot for wild boars or wolves. When there, the dogs were unleashed, and the sport commenced.
When they went, away, they would leave twenty or twenty-five louis to be divided among the keepers.
In general, these nobles of the Court were exceedingly polite towards the underlings. Twice the Prince de Condé and his son, the Duke D’Enghien came.
On such occasions, being, as it were, high holiday, I would follow the sportsmen. Once when the Duke D’Enghien lost his way, I put him right, and he offered me a louis. I refused it. (I was only nine years old.)
He looked at me with astonishment, and asked my name.
“Réné Besson. I am the nephew of Father Descharmes,” I replied.
“Good, my boy,” said he; “I won’t forget thee!”
Two years afterwards the Prince came back. I was then eleven, and thought that he must have lost all remembrance of me.
But he had not; and he came to me.
“Ah, art thou not Réné Besson?” he said. “Nephew of Father Descharmes?”
“Yes, Prince.”
“Then here is something for thee,” said he, giving me a gun. “And this is for thy uncle,” he continued, handing me a folded paper.
This paper contained the appointment of my uncle to the vacant post of chief huntsman.
As for the gun, it was a beautiful weapon, and I have carefully kept it through my career, in memory of the unfortunate Prince who gave it.
In the meantime I was growing up. I had learned to read and write indifferently well; and whilst my uncle was busy in his vocation, I used to occupy myself with carpentry, a calling for which I evinced much aptitude and taste.
I was now twelve years of age. I knew every inch of the Forest of Argonne, and I was as good a shot as any of the keepers, and my sole ambition was to take my uncle’s place when he resigned, which he intended to do in four or five years.
There was a place, however, left vacant by the resignation of a keeper, which I thought would just suit me for the time; and I determined to solicit the patronage of the Duke D’Enghien.
Time passed on, and we arrived at the opening of the year 1788.
For five years we had not seen M. Drouet, for, after a quarrel with his father, he had enlisted in the Queen’s Dragoons.
One fine morning, however, we heard from his friend William that Father Drouet had become reconciled to him, and had resigned to him his situation of postmaster.
One day, we saw a dragoon stop in front of our house, get off his horse, fasten his bridle to a ring, and then come tramping up to the door.
“Well, Father Descharmes,” said the soldier, “haven’t you a glass of wine in the house for an old friend?”
My uncle looked at him amazed.
“Ah!” said I; “don’t you recognize him, uncle? It is Monsieur Jean Baptiste.”
“Well, I never—so it is!” cried my uncle, coming forward with outstretched hands.
But, stopping for a moment, he added, “I beg your pardon, Monsieur Drouet.”
“Pardon for what?—for remembering a friend? The fault would have been to forget him. Come, shake hands. Are not all Frenchmen brothers?”
“They are; but, at the same time, there are great and small.”
“Good! but, in two or three years, I will say to you, ‘There are neither great nor small. All are children of one mother, and all will have their rights before man, as before heaven.’”
“Ha! Is that the sort of schooling they give you in the Queen’s Dragoons, Monsieur Jean Baptiste?”
“Not only in the Queen’s Dragoons, but in all other regiments, old Nimrod.”
My uncle took three glasses from the cupboard, filled two, and half-filled the other for me.
Drouet took up his glass.
“To the nation!” said he.
“What is that word?” inquired my uncle.
“It is a new one, which I hope will yet gain the rights of the middle classes. That youngster there; what are you going to do with him?”
“Make him my successor.”
Drouet shook his head.
“My good old Descharmes!” said he, “you belong to the past. Better far an independent and honorable position for a man, than to wear a livery which, no matter how gay it is, puts you at the mercy of the first whippersnapper that comes. I thought Réné was a carpenter?”
“So I am, Monsieur Jean Baptiste; but I only play at joiner work.”
“Nay, look you here!” said my uncle, proud to be able to show some of my handiwork. “Here is a wardrobe the youngster has made.”
Drouet went forward, and examined the construction in question with more interest than it deserved.
“Good—very good!” he said. “Go on as you are doing, my boy; and, believe me, it is far better to work for the public, than to be a game-keeper dependent on a prince, liable to be turned away should a wild boar make an unforeseen bolt, or a wolf force the line of beaters.”
“But,” answered I, “you must know that I have a gun, Monsieur Jean Baptiste; and a gun, too, given me by the Duke D’Enghien.”
And saying this, I showed him the cherished weapon, with as much pride as my uncle had displayed in exhibiting my efforts at wardrobe making.
“A pretty gun,” he said, looking at it attentively; “and I see that it bears the royal mark. If you take my advice, you will not hesitate between the plane which your father left you, and a gun which a prince gave you. The carpenter’s plane is the bread-winner that the philosopher of Geneva put into the hands of his favorite pupil; and ever since the day that ‘Emile’ appeared, the plane has been ennobled.”
“What is ‘Emile,’ Monsieur Jean Baptiste?” I asked.
“It is the work of one who teaches that all men are citizens together, and that all citizens are brothers. Keep your gun, Réné, to preserve your country; but also keep your plane to preserve your independence. Be a carpenter to the people at large, my boy; but be no one’s servant, not even if he be a prince. The first opportunity I have, I will send you ‘Emile’ to read.”
So saying, and squeezing the hand of his old friend, M. Jean Baptiste remounted his horse. As I held his stirrup he lifted me gently to his saddle bow, and placed his hand on my head.
“Réné Besson,” he said, with dignity, “in the name of that grand future of liberty, with which France is even now in travail, I baptize thee citizen.”
Then relinquishing me, and striking his spurs into his horse, he disappeared down the forest.
Next day a messenger came from M. Jean Baptiste Drouet, who, faithful to his promise of the night before, sent me a little book, with these words written on the first page—
“To the Citizen Réné Besson, carpenter.”
The little book in question was “Emile.”