Tom Burke Of "Ours", Volume II

Before I had finished reading the letter, my eyes grew so dimmed I could scarcely trace the letters. Each word of kindness, every token of praise, now cut me to the heart. How agonizing are the congratulations of friends on those events in life where our own conscience bears reproach against us! how poignant the self-accusation that is elicited by undeserved eulogy! How would he think of my conduct? By what means should I convince him that no alternative remained to me? I turned away, lest the honest soldier should witness my trouble; and as I approached the window, I beheld in the courtyard beneath the beautiful charger which, with the full trappings of a hussar saddle, stood proudly flapping his deep flanks with his long silken tail. With what a thrill I surveyed him! How my heart leaped, as I fancied myself borne along on the full tide of battle, each plunge he gave responsive to the stroke of my sword-arm! For an instant I forgot all that had happened, and gazed on his magnificent crest and splendid shape with an ecstasy of delight.

“Ay,” said the dragoon, whose eyes were riveted in the same quarter, “there's not a marshal of France so well mounted; and he knows the trumpet-call like the oldest soldier of the troop.”

“You will return to-morrow,” said I, recovering myself suddenly, and endeavoring to appear composed and at ease. “Well, then, to-night I shall give you an answer for the general; be here at eight o'clock.”

I saw that my troubled air and broken voice had not escaped the soldier's notice, and was glad when the door closed, and I was again alone.

My first care was to write to the general; nor was it till after many efforts I succeeded to my satisfaction in conveying, in a few and simple words, the reasons of that step which must imbitter my future life. I explained how deeply continued mistrust had wounded me; how my spirit, as a soldier and a gentleman, revolted at the espionage established over my actions; that it was in weighing these insults against the wreck of all my hopes, I had chosen that path which had neither fame nor rank nor honor, but still left me an untrammelled spirit and a mind at peace with itself. “I have now,” said I, “to begin the world anew, without one clew to guide me. Every illusion with which I had invested life has left me; I must choose both a career and a country, and bear with me from this nothing but the heartfelt gratitude I shall ever retain for one who befriended me through weal and woe, and whose memory I shall bless while I live.”

I felt relieved and more at ease when I finished this letter; the endeavor to set my conduct in its true light to another had also its effect upon my own convictions. I knew, besides, that I had sacrificed to my determination all my worldly prospects, and believed that where self-interest warred with principle, the right course could scarcely be doubtful.

All this time, not one thought ever occurred to me of how I was to meet the future. It was strange; but so perfectly had the present crisis filled my mind, there was not room for even a glance at what was to come.

My passport was made out for Paris, and thither I must go. So much was decided for me without intervention on my part; and now it only remained for me to dispose of the little trappings of my former estate, and take the road.

The Jews who always accompanied the army, offered a speedy resource in this emergency. My anxiety to leave Berlin by daybreak, and thus avoid a meeting of any acquaintances there, made me accept of the sums they offered. To them such negotiations were of daily occurrence, and they well knew how to profit by them. My whole worldly wealth consisted of two hundred napoleons; and with this small pittance to begin life, I sat myself down to think whither I should turn, or what course adopt.

The night passed over thus, and when day dawned, I had not closed my eyes. About four o'clock the diligence in which I had secured a place for Weimar drew up at my door. I hurried down, and mounting to a seat beside the conducteur, I buried my face in the folds of my cloak, nor dared to look up until we had passed beyond the precincts of the city, and were travelling along on the vast plain of sand which surrounds Berlin.

The conducteur was a Prussian, and divining my military capacity in my appearance, he maintained a cold and distant civility; never speaking, except when spoken to, and even then in as few words as possible. This was itself a relief to me; my heart was too full of its own sufferings to find pleasure in conversation, and I dreamed away the hours till nightfall.

CHAPTER XXVI. A FOREST PATH.

When I reached Wiemar I quitted the diligence, resolved to make the remainder of the journey on foot; for thus I should both economize the little means I possessed, and escape many of the questionings and inquiries to which as a traveller by public conveyance I was exposed. Knapsack on shoulder, then, and staff in hand, I plodded onward, and although frequently coming up with others on their way homeward, I avoided all companionship with those whom I could no longer think of as comrades.

The two tides of population which met upon that great highway told the whole history of war. Here came the young soldiers, fresh enrolled in the conscription, glowing with ardor, and bounding with life and buoyancy, and mingling their village songs with warlike chants. There, footsore and weary, with tattered uniform and weather-beaten look, toiled along the tired veteran, turning as he went a glance of compassionate contempt on those whose wild vivas burst forth in greeting. As for me, I could neither partake of the high hopes of the one, nor sympathize with the war-worn nature of the other. Disappointment, bitter disappointment, in every cherished expectation, had thrown a chill over me, and I wanted even the energy to become reckless. In this state, I did not dare to face the future, but in moody despondency reflected on the past. Was this the destiny Marie de Meudon predicted for me? was the ever-present thought of my mind. Is it thus I should appear before her?

A hundred times came the thought to join the new levies as a soldier, to carry a musket in the ranks. But then came back in all its force the memory of the distrust and suspicion my services had met with: the conviction hourly became clearer to me, that I fought not for liberty, but despotism; that it was not freedom, but slavery, in whose cause I shed my blood.

To avoid meeting with the detachments which each day occupied the road, I turned from the chaussée on passing Eisenach, and took a forest path that led through Murbach to Fulda. My path led through the Creutz Mountains,—a wild and unfrequented tract of country, where few cottages were to be seen, and scarcely a village existed. Vast forests of dark pines, or bleak and barren mountains, stretched away on either side; a few patches of miserable tillage here and there met the view; but the scene was one of saddening influence, and harmonized but too nearly with my own despondency.

To reach a place of shelter for the night, I was more than once obliged to walk twelve leagues during the day, and had thus to set out before daylight. This exertion, however, brought its own reward: the stimulant of labor, the necessity of a task, gradually allayed the mental irritation I suffered under; a healthier and more manly tone of thinking succeeded to my former regrets; and with a heart elevated, if not cheered, I continued my way.

The third day of my toilsome journey was drawing to a close. A mass of heavy and lowering clouds, dark and thunder-charged, slowly moved along the sky; and a low, moaning sound, that seemed to sigh along the ground, boded the approach of a storm. I was still three leagues from my halting-place, and began to deliberate within myself whether the dense pine-wood, which came down to the side of the road, might not afford a safer refuge from the hurricane than the chances of reaching a house before it broke forth.

The shepherds who frequented these dreary tracts often erected little huts of bark as a shelter against the cold and severity of the wintry days, and to find out one of these now was my great endeavor. Scarcely had I formed the resolve, when I perceived a small path opening into the wood, at the entrance to which a piece of board nailed against the trunk of a tree, gave tidings that such a place of security was not far distant. These signs of forest life I had learned in my wanderings, and now strode forward with renewed vigor.

The path led gradually upwards, along the mountain-side, which soon became so encumbered with brushwood that I had much difficulty in pushing my way, and at last began to doubt whether I might not have wandered from the track. The darkness was now complete; night had fallen, and a heavy crashing rain poured down upon the tree-tops, but could not penetrate through their tangled shelter. The wind, too, swept in loud gusts above, and the long threatened storm began. A loud, deafening roar, like that of the sea itself, arose, as the leafy branches bent before the blast, or snapped with sudden shock beneath the hurricane; clap after clap of thunder resounded, and then the rain descended in torrents,—the heavy drops at last, trickling from leaf to leaf, reaching me as I stood. Once more I pushed forward, and had not gone many paces when the red glare of a fire caught my eye. Steadfastly fastening my gaze upon the flame, I hurried on, and at length perceived with ecstasy that the light issued from the window of a small hovel, such as I have already mentioned. To gain the entrance of the hut I was obliged to pass the window, and could not resist the temptation to give a glance at the interior, whose cheerful blaze betokened habitation.

It was not without surprise that, instead of the figure of a shepherd reposing beside his fire, I beheld that of an old man, whose dress bespoke the priest, kneeling in deep devotion at the foot of a small crucifix attached to the wall. Not all the wild sounds of the raging storm seemed to turn his attention from the object of his worship; his eyes were closed, but the head thrown backwards showed his face upturned, when the lips moved rapidly in prayer. Never had I beheld so perfect a picture of intense devotional feeling; every line in his marked countenance indicated the tension of a mind filled with one engrossing thought, while his tremulous hands, clasped before him, shook with the tremor of strong emotion.

What a contrast to the loud warring of the elements, that peaceful figure, raised above earth and its troubles, in the spirit of his holy communing! how deeply touching the calm serenity of his holy brow, with the rolling crash of falling branches, and the deep baying of the storm! I did not dare to interrupt him; and when I did approach the door it was with silent step and noiseless gesture. As I stood, the old priest—for now I saw that he was such—concluded his prayer, and detaching his crucifix from the wall, he kissed it reverently, and placed it in his bosom; then, rising slowly from his knees, he turned towards me. A slight start of surprise, as quickly followed by a smile of kindly greeting, escaped him, while he said in French,—

“You are welcome, my son; come in and share with me the shelter, for it is a wild night.”

“A wild night, indeed, Father,” said I, casting my eyes around the little hut, where nothing indicated the appearance of habitation. “I could have wished you a better home than this against the storms of winter.”

“I am a traveller like yourself,” said he, smiling at my mistake; “and a countryman, too, if I mistake not.”

The accents in which these words were spoken pronounced him a Frenchman, and a very little sufficed to ratify the terms of our companionship; and having thrown a fresh billet on the fire, we both seated ourselves before it My wallet was, fortunately, better stored than the good father's; and having produced its contents, we supped cheerfully, and like men who were not eating their first bivouac meal.

“I perceive, Father,” said I, as I remarked the manner in which he disposed his viands, “I perceive you have campaigned ere now; the habits of the service are not easily mistaken.”

“I did not need that observation of yours,” replied he, laughing slightly, “to convince me you were a soldier; for, as you truly say, the camp leaves its indelible traces behind it. You are hastening on to Berlin, I suppose?”

I blushed deeply at the question; the shame of my changed condition had been hitherto confined to my own heart, but now it was to be confessed before a stranger.

“I ask your pardon, my son, for a question I had no right to ask; and even there, again, I but showed my soldier education. I am returning to France; and in seeking a short path from Eisenach, found myself where you see; as night was falling, well content to be so well lodged,—all the more, if I am to have your companionship.”

Few and simple as these words were, there was a tone of frankness in them, not less than the evidence of a certain good breeding, by which he apologized for his own curiosity in speaking thus freely of himself, that satisfied me at once; and I hastened to inform him that circumstances had induced me to leave the service, in which I had been a captain, and that I was now, like himself, returning to France.

“You must not think, Father,” added I, with some eagerness, “you must not think that other reasons than my own free will have made me cease to be a soldier.”

“It would ill become me to have borne such a suspicion,” interrupted he, quickly. “When one so young and full of life as you are leaves the path where lie honor and rank and fame, he must have cause to make the sacrifice; for I can scarce think, that at your age, these things seem nought to your eyes.”

“You are right, Father, they are not so. They have been my guiding stars for many a day; alas, that they can be such no longer!”

“There are higher hopes to cherish than these,” said he, solemnly,—“higher than the loftiest longings of ambition; but we all of us cling to the things of life, till in their perishable nature they wean us off with disappointment and sorrow. From such a trial am I now suffering,” added he, in a low voice, while the tears rose to his eyes and slowly coursed along his pale cheeks.

There was a pause neither of us felt inclined to break, when at length the priest said,—

“What was your corps in the service?”

“The Eighth Hussars of the Guard,” said I, trembling at every word.

“Ah, he was in the Guides,” repeated he, mournfully, to himself; “you knew the regiment?”

“Yes, they belonged to the Guard also; they wore no epaulettes, but a small gold arrow on the collar.”

“Like this,” said he, unfastening the breast of his cassock, and taking out a small package, which, among other things, contained the designation of the Corps des Guides in an arrow of gold embroidery. “Had he not beautiful hair, long and silky as a girl's?” said he, as he produced a lock of light and sunny brown. “Poor Alphonse! thou wouldst have been twenty hadst thou lived till yesterday. If I shed tears, young man, it is because I have lost the great earthly solace of my solitary life. Others have kindred and friends, have happy homes, which, even when bereavements come, with time will heal up the wound; I had but him!”

“He was your nephew, perhaps?” said I, half fearing to interfere with his sorrow.

The old man shook his head in token of dissent, while he muttered to himself,—

“Auerstadt may be a proud memory to some; to me it is a word of sorrow and mourning. The story is but a short one; alas! it has but one color throughout:—

“Count Louis de Meringues—of whom you have doubtless heard that he rode as postilion to the carriage of his sovereign in the celebrated flight to Varennes—fell by the guillotine the week after the king's trial; the countess was executed on the same scaffold as her husband. I was the priest who accompanied her at the moment; and in my arms she placed her only child,—an infant boy of two years. There was a cry among the crowd to have the child executed also, and many called out that the spawn would be a serpent one day, and it were better to crush it while it was time; but the little fellow was so handsome, and looked so winningly around him on the armed ranks and the glancing weapons, that even their cruel hearts relented, and he was spared. It is to me like yesterday, as I remember every minute circumstance; I can recall even the very faces of that troubled and excited assemblage, that at one moment screamed aloud for blood, and at the next were convulsed with savage laughter.

“As I forced my way through the dense array, a rude arm was stretched out from the mass, and a finger dripping with the gore of the scaffold was drawn across the boy's face, while a ruffian voice exclaimed, 'The Meringues were ever proud of their blood; let us see if it be redder than other people's.' The child laughed; and the mob, with horrid mockery, laughed too.

“I took him home with me to my presbytère at Sèvres,—for that was my parish,—and we lived together in peace until the terrible decree was issued which proclaimed all France atheist. Then we wandered southwards, towards that good land which, through every vicissitude, was true to its faith and its king,—La Vendée. At Lyons we were met by a party of the revolutionary soldiers, who, with a commissary of the Government, were engaged in raising young men for the conscription. Alphonse, who was twelve years old, felt all a boy's enthusiasm at the warlike display before him, and persuaded me to follow the crowd into the Place des Terreaux, where the numbers were read out.

“'Paul Ducos,' cried a voice aloud, as we approached the stage on which the commissary and his staff were standing; 'where is this Paul Ducos?'

“'I am here,' replied a fine, frank-looking youth, of some fifteen years; 'but my father is blind, and I cannot leave him.'

“'We shall soon see that,' called out the commissary. 'Clerk, read out his signalement.'

“'Paul Ducos, son of Eugène Ducos, formerly calling himself Count Ducos de la Brèche—'

“'Down with the Royalists! à bas the tyrants!' screamed the mob, not suffering the remainder to be heard.

“'Approach, Paul Ducos!' said the commissary.

“'Wait here, Father,' whispered the youth; 'I will come back presently.'

“But the old man, a fine and venerable figure, the remnant of a noble race, held him fast, and, as his lips trembled, said, 'Do not leave me, Paul; my child, my comforter, stay near me.'

“The boy looked round him for one face of kindly pity in this emergency, when, turning towards me, he said rapidly, 'Stand near him!' He broke from the old man's embrace, and rushing through the crowd, mounted the scaffold.

“'You are drawn for the conscription, young man,' said the commissary; 'but in consideration of your father's infirmity, a substitute will be accepted. Have you such?'

“The boy shook his head mournfully and in silence.

“'Have you any friend who would assist you here? Bethink you awhile,' rejoined the commissary, who, for his station and duties, was a kind and benevolent man.

“'I have none. They have left us nothing, neither home nor friends,' said the youth, bitterly; 'and if it were not for his sake, I care not what they do with me.'

“'Down with the tyrants!' yelled the mob, as they heard these haughty words.

“'Then your fate is decreed,' resumed the commissary.

“'No, not yet!' cried out Alphonse, as, breaking from my side, he gained the steps and mounted the platform; 'I will be his substitute!'

“Oh! how shall I tell the bitter anguish of that moment, which at once dispelled the last remaining hope I cherished, and left me destitute forever. As I dashed the tears from my eyes and looked up, the two boys were locked in each other's arms. It was a sight to have melted any heart, save those around them; but bloodshed and crime had choked up every avenue of feeling, and left them, not men, but tigers.

“'Alphonse de Meringues,' cried out the boy, in answer to a question regarding his name.

“There is no such designation in France,' said a grim-looking, hard-featured man, who, wearing the tri-colored scarf, sat at the table beside the clerk.

“'I was never called by any other,' rejoined the youth, proudly.

“'Citizen Meringues,' interposed the commissary, mildly, 'what is your age?'

“'I know not the years,' replied he; 'but I have heard that I was but an infant when they slew my father.'

“A fierce roar of passion broke from the mob below the scaffold as they heard this; and again the cry broke forth, 'Down with the tyrants!'

“'Art thou, then, the son of that base sycophant who rode courier to the Capet to Varennes?' said the hard-featured man at the table.

“'Of the truest gentleman of France,' called out a loud voice from below the platform; 'Vive le roi!' It was the blind man who spoke, and waved his cap above his head.

“'To the guillotine! to the guillotine!' screamed a hundred voices, in tones wilde than the cries of famished wolves, as, seizing the aged man, they tore his clothes to very rags.

“In an instant all attention was turned from the platform to the scene below it, where, with shouts and screams of fury, the terrible mob yelled aloud for blood. In vain the guards endeavored to keep back the people, who twice rescued their victim from the hands of the soldiery; and already a confused murmur arose that the commissary himself was a traitor to the public, and favored the tyrants, when a dull, clanking sound rose above the tumult, and a cheer of triumph proclaimed the approach of the instrument of torture.

“In their impetuous torrent of vengeance they had dragged the guillotine from the distant end of the 'Place,' where it usually stood; and there now still knelt the figure of a condemned man, lashed with his arms behind him, on the platform, awaiting the moment of his doom. Oh, that terrible face, whereon death had already set its seal! With glazed, lack-lustre eye, and cheek leaden and quivering, he gazed around on the fiendish countenances like one awakening from a dream, his lips parted as though to speak; but no sound came forth.

“'Place! place for Monsieur le Marquis!' shouted a ruffian, as he assisted to raise the figure of the blind man up the steps; and a ribald yell of fiendish laughter followed the brutal jest.

“'Thou art to make thy journey in most noble company,' said another to the culprit on the platform.

“'An he see not his way in the next world better than in this, thou must lend him a hand, friend,' said a third. And with many a ruffian joke they taunted their victims, who stood on the last threshold of life.

“Among the crowd upon the scaffold of the guillotine I could see the figure of the blind man as it leaned and fell on either side, as the movement of the mob bore it.

“'Parbleu! these Royalists would rather kneel than stand,” said a voice, as they in vain essayed to make the old man place his feet under him; and ere the laughter which this rude jest excited ceased, a cry broke forth of—'He is dead! he is dead!' And with a heavy sumph, the body fell from their hands; for when their power of cruelty ended, they cared not for the corpse.

“It was true: life was extinct, none knew how,—whether from the violence of the mob in its first outbreak, or that a long-suffering heart had burst at last; but the chord was snapped, and he whose proud soul lately defied the countless thousands around, now slept with the dead.

“In a few seconds it seemed as though they felt that a power stronger than their own had interposed between them and their vengeance, and they stood almost aghast before the corpse, where no trace of blood proclaimed it to be their own; then, rallying from this stupor, with one voice they demanded that the son should atone for the crimes of the father.

“'I am ready,' cried the youth, in a voice above the tumult. 'I did not deem I could be grateful to ye for aught, but I am for this.'

“To no purpose did the commissary propose a delay in the sentence; he was unsupported by his colleagues. The passions of the mob rose higher and higher; the thirst for blood, unslaked, became intense and maddening; and they danced in frantic glee around the guillotine, while they chanted one of the demoniac songs of the scaffold.

“In this moment, when the torrent ran in one direction, Alphonse might have escaped all notice, but that the condemned youth turned to embrace him once more before he descended from the people.

“'They are so sorry to separate, it is a shame to part them,' cried a ruffian in the crowd.

“'You forget, Citizen, that this boy is his substitute,' said the commissary, mildly; 'the Republic most not be cheated of its defenders.'

“'Vive la République!' cried the soldiers; and the cry was re-echoed by thousands, while amid their cheers there rose the last faint sigh of an expiring victim.

“The scene was over; the crowd dispersed; and the soldiers marched back to quarters, accompanied by some hundred conscripts, among whom was Alphonse,—a vague, troubled expression betokening that he scarce knew what had happened around him.

“The regiment to which he was appointed was at Toulon, and there I followed him. They were ordered to the north of Italy soon after, and thence to Egypt. Through the battlefields of Mount Tabor and the Pyramids I was ever beside him; on the heights of Austerlitz I stanched his wounds; and I laid him beneath the earth on the field of Auerstadt.”

The old man's voice trembled and became feeble as he finished speaking, and a settled expression of grief clothed his features, which were pale as death.

“I must see Sèvres once more,” said he, after a pause. “I must look on the old houses of the village, and the little gardens, and the venerable church; they will be the only things to greet me there now, but I must gaze on them ere I close my eyes to this world and its cares.”

“Come, come, Father,” said I; “to one who has acted so noble a part as yours, life is never without its own means of happiness.”

“I spoke not of death,” replied he, mildly; “but the holy calm of a convent will better suit my seared and worn heart than all that the world calls its joys and pleasures. You, who are young and full of hope—”

“Alas! Father, speak not thus. One can better endure the lowering skies of misfortune as the evening of life draws near than when the morn of existence is breaking. To me, with youth and health, there is no future,—no hope.”

“I will not hear you speak thus,” said the priest; “fatigue and weariness are on you now. Wait until to-morrow,—we shall be fellow-travellers together; and then, if you will reveal to me your story, mayhap my long experience of the world may suggest comfort and consolation where you can see neither.”

The storm by this time had abated much of its violence, and across the moon the large clouds were wafted speedily, disclosing bright patches of light at every moment.

“Such is our life here,” said the father,—“alternating with its days of happiness and sorrow. Let us learn, in the dark hour of our destiny, to bear the glare of our better fortunes; for, believe me, that when our joys are greatest, so are our trials also.”

He ceased speaking, and I saw that soon afterwards his lips moved as if in prayer. I now laid myself down in my cloak beside the fire, and was soon buried in a sleep too sound even for a dream.

CHAPTER XXVII. A CHANCE MEETING.

With the good priest of Sèvres I journeyed along towards the frontier of France, ever selecting the least frequented paths, and such as were not likely to be taken by the troops of soldiery which daily moved towards Berlin. The frankness of my companion had made me soon at ease with him; and I told him, without reserve, the story of my life, down to the decisive moment of my leaving the army.

“You see, Father,” said I, “how completely my career has failed; how, with all the ardor of a soldier, with all the devotion of a follower, I have adhered to the Emperor's fortunes; and yet—”

“Your ambition, however great it was, could not stifle conscience. I can believe it well. They who go forth to the wars with high hopes and bounding hearts, who picture to their minds the glorious rewards of great achievements, should blind their eyes to the horrors and injustice of the cause they bleed for. Any sympathy with misfortune would sap the very principle of that heroism whose essence is success. Men cannot play the double game, even in matters of worldly ambition. Had you not listened to the promptings of your heart, you had been greater; had you not followed the dazzling glare of your hopes, you had been happier: both you could scarcely be. Be assured of this, my son, the triumphs of a country can only be enjoyed by the child of the soil; the brave soldier, who lends his arm to the cause, feels he has little part in the glory.”

“True, indeed,—most true; I feel it.”

“And were it otherwise, how unsatisfying is the thirst for that same glory! how endless the path that leads to it! how many regrets accompany it! how many ties broken! how many friendships forfeited! No, no; return to your own land,—to the country of your birth; some honorable career will always present itself to him who seeks but independence and the integrity of his own heart. Beneath the conquering eagles of the Emperor there are men of every shade of political opinion; for the conscription is pitiless. There are Royalists, who love their king and hate the usurper; there are Jacobins, who worship freedom and detest the tyrant; there are stern Republicans—Vendéens, and followers of Moreau: but yet all are Frenchmen. 'La belle France' is the watchword that speaks to every heart, and patriotism is the bond between thousands. You have no share in this; the delusion of national glory can never throw its deception around you. Return, then, to your country; and be assured, that in her cause your least efforts will be more ennobling to yourself than the boldest deeds the hand of a mercenary ever achieved.”

The inborn desire to revisit my native land needed but the counsels of the priest to make it all-powerful; and as, day by day, I plodded onward, my whole thoughts turned to the chances of my escape, and the means by which I could accomplish my freedom; for the war still continued between France and England, and the blockade of the French ports was strictly maintained by a powerful fleet. The difficulty of the step only increased my desire to effect it; and a hundred projects did I revolve in my mind, without ever being able to fix on one where success seemed likely. The very resolve, however, had cheered my spirits, and given new courage to my heart; and an object suggested a hope,—and with a hope, life was no longer burdensome.

Each morning now I set forward with a mind more at ease, and more open to receive pleasure from the varied objects which met me as I went. Not so my poor companion; the fatigue of the journey, added to great mental suffering, began to prey upon his health, and brought back an ague he had contracted in Egypt, from the effect of which his constitution had never perfectly recovered. At first the malady showed itself only in great depression of spirits, which made him silent for hours of the way. But soon it grew worse; he walked with much difficulty, took but little nourishment, and seemed impressed with a sad foreboding that the disease must be fatal.

“I wanted to reach my village; my own quiet churchyard should have been my resting-place,” said he, as he sank wearied and exhausted on a little bank at the roadside. “But this was only a sick man's fancy. Poor Alphonse lies far away in the dreary plain of Auerstadt.”

The sun was just setting of a clear day in December as we halted on a little eminence, which commanded a distant view on every side. Behind lay the dark forest of Germany, the tree-tops presenting their massive wavy surface, over which the passing clouds threw momentary shadows; before, but still some miles away, we could trace the Rhine, its bright silver current sparkling in the sun; beyond lay the great plains of France, and upon these the sick man's eyes rested with a steadfast gaze.

“Yes!” said he, after a long silence on both sides, “the fields and the mountains, the sunshine and the shade, are like those of other lands; but the feeling which attaches the heart to country is an inborn sense, and the very word 'home' brings with it the whole history of our affections. Even to look thus at his native country is a blessing to an exile's heart.”

I scarcely dared to interrupt the reverie which succeeded these few words; but when I perceived that he still remained seated, his head between his hands and lost in meditation, I ventured to remind him that we were still above a league from Heimbach, the little village where we should pass the night, and that on a road so wild and unfrequented there was little hope of finding shelter any nearer.

“You must lean on me, Father; the night air is fresh and bracing, and after a little it will revive you.”

The old man rose without speaking, and taking my arm, began the descent of the mountain. His steps, however, were tottering and uncertain, his breathing hurried and difficult, and his carriage indicated the very greatest debility.

“I cannot do it, my son,” said he, sinking upon the grassy bench which skirted the way; “you must leave me. It matters little now where this frail body rests; a few hours more, and the rank grass will wave above it and the rain beat over it unfelt. Let us part here: an old man's blessing for all your kindness will follow you through life, and may cheer you to think on hereafter.”

“Do you then suppose I could leave you thus?” said I, reproachfully. “Is it so you think of me?”

“My minutes are few now, my child,” replied he, more solemnly, “and I would pass the last moments of my life alone. Well, then, if you will not,—leave me now for a little, and return to me; by that time my mind will be calmer, and mayhap, too, my strength greater, and I may be able to accompany you to the village.”

I acceded to this proposal the more willingly, because it afforded me the hope of finding some means to convey him to Heimbach; and so, having wrapped him carefully in my cloak, I hastened down the mountain at the top of my speed.

The zigzag path by which I went discovered to me from time to time the lights of the little hamlet, which twinkled star-like in the valley; and as I drew nearer, the confused hum of voices reached me. I listened, and to my amazement heard the deep, hoarse bray of a trumpet. How well I knew that sound! it was the night-call to gather in the stragglers. I stopped to listen; and now, in the stillness, could mark the tramp of horsemen and the clank of their equipments: again the trumpet sounded, and was answered by another at some distance. The road lay straight below me at some hundred yards off, and leaving the path, I dashed directly downwards just as the leading horsemen of a small detachment came slowly up. To their loud Qui vive? I answered by giving an account of the sick man, and entreating the sergeant who commanded the party to lend assistance to convey him to the village.

“Yes, parbleu! that we will,” said the honest soldier; “a priest who has made the campaign of Egypt and Austria is worthy of all our care. Where is he?”

“About a mile from this; but the road is not practicable for a horseman.”

“Well, you shall have two of my men; they will soon bring him hither.” And as he spoke, he ordered two troopers to dismount, who, quickly disencumbering themselves of their sabres, prepared to follow me.

“We shall expect you at the bivouac,” cried the sergeant, as he resumed his way; while I, eager to return, breasted the mountain with renewed energy.

“You belong to the Guard, my friends,” said I, as I paused for breath at a turn of the path.

“The Fourth Cuirassiers of the Guard,” replied the soldier I addressed; “Milhaud's brigade.”

How my heart leaped as he said these words! They were part of the division General d'Auvergne once commanded; it was the regiment of poor Pioche, too, before the dreadful day of Austerlitz.

“You know the Fourth, then?” rejoined the man, as he witnessed the agitation of my manner.

“Know the Fourth?” echoed his comrade, in a voice of half-indignant meaning. “Sacrebleu!who does not know them? Does not all the world know them by this time?”

“It is the Fourth who wear the motto 'Dix contre un' on their caps,” said I, desirous to flatter the natural vanity of my companions.

“Yes, Monsieur; I see you have served also.”

I answered by a nod, for already every word, every gesture, recalled to me the career I had quitted; and my regrets, so late subdued by reason and reflection, came thronging back, and filled ray heart to bursting.

Hurrying onward now, I mounted the steep path, and soon regained the spot I sought. The poor father was sleeping; overcome by fatigue and weariness, he had fallen on the mossy bank, and lay in a deep, soft slumber. Lifting him gently, the strong troopers crossed their hands beneath, and bore him along between them. For an instant he looked up; but seeing me at his side, he merely pressed my hand, and closed his eyes again.

“Ma foi!” said one of the dragoons, in a low voice, “I should not be surprised if this were the Père Arsène, who served with the army in Italy. We used to call him 'old Scapulaire'. He was the only priest I ever saw in the van of a brigade. You knew him too, Auguste.”

“Yes, that I did,” replied the other soldier. “I saw him at Elkankah, where one of ours was unhorsed by a Mameluke, spring forward, and seizing a pistol at the holster, shoot the Turk through the head, and then kneel down beside the dying man he was with before, and go on with his prayers. Ventrebleu! that's what I call discipline.”

“Where was that, Comrade?”

“At Elkankah.”

“At Quoreyn, rather, my friend, two leagues to the southward,” whispered a low voice.

“Tonnerre de ciel!” cried the two soldiers in a breath, “it is himself;” for the words were spoken by the priest, who was no other than the Père Arsène they spoke of.

The effort of speech and memory was, however, a mere passing one; for to all their questions he was now deaf, and lay apparently unconscious between them. On me, therefore, they turned their inquiries, but with little more of success; and thus we descended the mountain, eager to reach some place of succor for the good father.

As we approached the village, I was soon made aware of the objects of the party who occupied it. The little street was crowded with cattle, bullocks, and sheep, fast wedged up amid huge wagons of forage and carts of corn; mounted dragoons urging on the jaded animals, regardless of the angry menaces or the impatient appeals incessantly making by the peasantry, who in great numbers had followed their stock from their farms.