So doubtful was the Government of the day in what way the people of Paris would be disposed to regard the trial of the Chouan prisoners,—how far public sympathy might side with misfortune and heroism, and in what way they would regard Moreau, whose career in arms so many had witnessed with pride and enthusiasm,—that for several days they did not dare to strike the decisive blow which was to establish their guilt, but advanced with slow and cautious steps, gradually accumulating a mass of small circumstances, on which the “Moniteur” each day commented, and the other journals of less authority expatiated, as if to prepare the public mind for further and more important revelations.
At last, however, the day arrived in which the mine was to be sprung. The secret police—whose information extended to all that went on in every class of the capital, and who knew the chitchat of the highest circles equally as they did the grumblings of the Faubourg St. Antoine— pronounced the time had come when the fatal stroke might no longer be withheld, and when the long-destined vengeance should descend on their devoted heads.
The want of energy on the part of the prosecution—the absence of important witnesses and of all direct evidence whatever—which marked the first four days of the trial, had infused a high hope and a strong sense of security into the prisoners' hearts. The proofs which they so much dreaded, and of whose existence they well knew, were not forthcoming against them. The rumored treachery of some of their party began at length to lose its terror for them; while in the lax and careless proceedings of the Procureur-Général they saw, or fancied they saw, a desire on the part of Government to render the public uninterested spectators of the scene, and thus prepare the way for an acquittal, while no danger of any excitement existed.
Such was the state of matters at the close of the fourth day. A tiresome and desultory discussion on some merely legal question had occupied the court for several hours, and many of the spectators, wearied and tired out, had gone home disappointed in their expectations, and secretly resolving not to return the following day.
This was the moment for which the party in power had been waiting,—the interval of false security, as it would seem, when all danger was past, and no longer any apprehension existed. The sudden shock of the newly-discovered proofs would then come with peculiar force; while, mo matter how rapid any subsequent step might be, all charge of precipitancy or undue haste had been disproved by the tardy nature of the first four days' proceedings.
For the change of scene about to take place, an early edition of the “Moniteur” prepared the public; and by daybreak the walls of Paris were placarded with great announcements of the discoveries made by the Government: how, by their untiring efforts, the whole plot, which was to deluge France with blood and subvert the glorious institutions of freedom they had acquired by the Revolution, had been laid open; new and convincing evidence of the guilt of the Chouans had turned up; and a frightful picture of anarchy and social disorganization was displayed,—all of which was to originate in an effort to restore the Bourbons to the throne of France.
While, therefore, the galleries of the court were crowded to suffocation at an early hour, and every avenue leading to the tribunal crammed with people anxious to be present at this eventful crisis, the prisoners took their places on the “bench of the accused,” totally unaware of the reason of the excitement they witnessed, and strangely puzzled to conceive what unknown circumstance had reinvested the proceedings with a new interest.
As I took my place among the rest, I stared with surprise at the scene: the strange contrast between the thousands there, whose strained eyes and feverish faces betokened the highest degree of excitement; and that little group on which every look was turned, calm and even cheerful. There sat George Cadoudal in the midst of them, his hands clasped in those at either side of him; his strongly-marked features perfectly at rest, and his eyes bent with a steady stare on the bench where the judges were seated. Moreau was not present, nor did I see some of the Chouans whom I remembered on the former day.
The usual formal proclamation of the court being made, silence was called by the crier,—a useless precaution, as throughout that vast assembly not a whisper was to be heard. A conversation of some minutes took place between the Procureur and the counsel for the prisoners, in which I recognized the voice of Monsieur Baillot, my own advocate; which was interrupted by the President, desiring that the proceedings should commence.
The Procureur-Général bowed and took his seat, while the President, turning towards George, said:—
“George Cadoudal, you have hitherto persisted in a course of blank denial regarding every circumstance of the conspiracy with which you are charged. You have asserted your ignorance of persons and places with which we are provided with proof to show you are well acquainted. You have neither accounted for your presence in suspected situations, nor satisfactorily shown what were the objects of your intimacy with suspected individuals. The court now desires to ask you whether, at this stage of the proceedings, you wish to offer more explicit revelations, or explain any of the dubious events of your career.”
“I will answer any question you put to me,” replied George, sternly; “but I have lived too long in another country not to have learned some of its usages, and I feel no desire to become my own accuser. Let him there” (he pointed to the Procureur-Général) “do his office; he is the paid and salaried assailant of the innocent.”
“I call upon the court,” said the Procureur, rising, when he was suddenly interrupted by the President, saying,—
“We will protect you, Monsieur le Procureur. And once again we would admonish the accused, that insolence to the authorities of this court is but a sorry plea in vindication of his innocence, and shall be no recommendation to our mercy.”
“Your mercy!” said George, in a voice of scorn and sarcasm. “Who ever heard of a tiger's benevolence or a wolf's charity? And even if you wished it, he whose slaves you are—”
“I call upon you to be silent,” said an advocate, rising from a bench directly behind him. “Another interruption of this kind, and I shall abandon the defence.”
“What?” said George, turning quickly round and staring at him with a look of withering contempt; “and have they bought you over too?”
“Call the first witness,” said the President; and an indistinct murmur was heard, and a slight confusion seen to agitate the crowd, as the gendarmes opened a path towards the witness bench. And then I saw two men carrying something between them, which I soon perceived to be a man. The legs, which were alone apparent, hung down listlessly like those of a corpse; and one arm, which fell over the shoulder of the bearer, moved to and fro, as they went, like the limb of a dead man. Every neck was stretched from the galleries above, and along the benches beneath, to catch a glimpse of the mysterious figure, which seemed like an apparition from the grave come to give evidence. His face, too, was concealed by a handkerchief; and as he was placed in a chair provided for the purpose, the assistants stood at either side to support his drooping figure.
“Let the witness be sworn,” said the President; and, with the aid of an officer of the court, a thin white hand was held up, on which the flesh seemed almost transparent from emaciation. A low, muttering sound followed, and the President spoke again,—“Let the witness be uncovered. George Cadoudal, advance!”
As the hardy Chouan stepped forward, the handkerchief fell from the witness's face, while his head slowly turned round towards the prisoner. A cry, like the yell of a wounded animal, broke from the stout Breton, as he bounded into the air and held up both his arms to their full height.
“Toi, toi!” screamed he, in accents that seemed the very last of a heart wrung to agony, while he leaned forward and fixed his eyes on him, till the very orbs seemed bursting from their sockets. “Oui,” added he, in a lower tone, but one which was felt in every corner of that crowded assemblage—“oui, c'est lui!” Then clasping his trembling hands together, as his knees bent beneath him, he turned his eyes upwards, and said, “Le bon Dieu, that makes men's hearts and knows their thoughts, deals with us as he will; and I must have sinned sorely towards him when such punishment as this has fallen upon me. Oh, my brother! my child! my own Bouvet de Lozier!”
“Bouvet de Lozier!” cried the other prisoners, with a shout wild as madness itself, while every man sprang forward to look at him. But already his head had fallen back over the chair, the limbs stretched out rigidly, and the arm fell heavily down.
“He is dying!” “He is dead!” were the exclamations of the crowd, and a general cry for a doctor was heard around. Several physicians were soon at his side, and by the aid of restoratives he was gradually brought back to animation; but cold and speechless he lay, unable to understand anything, and was obliged to be conveyed back again to his bed.
It was some time before the excitement of this harrowing scene was over; and when order at length was restored in the court, George Cadoudal was seen seated, as at first, on the bench, while around him his faithful followers were grouped. Like children round a beloved father, some leaned on his neck, others clasped his knees; some covered his hands with kisses, and called him by the most endearing names. But though he moved his head from, side to side, and tried to smile upon them, a cold vacancy was in his face; his lips were parted, and his eyes stared wildly before him; his very hair stood out from his forehead, on which the big drops of sweat were seen.
“Father; dear father, it is but one who is false; see, look how many of your children are true to you! Think on us who are with you here, and will go with you to death without shrinking.”
“He is but a child, too, father; and they have stolen away his reason from him,” said another.
“Yes, they have brought him to this by suffering,” cried a third, as with a clenched hand he menaced the bench, where sat the judges.
“Order in the court!” cried the President. But the command was reiterated again and again before silence could be obtained; and when again I could observe the proceedings, I saw the Procureur-Général addressing the tribunal, to demand a postponement in consequence of the illness of the last witness, whose testimony was pronounced all-conclusive.
A discussion took place on the subject between the counsel for the prisoners and the prosecution; and at length it was ruled that this trial should not be proceeded with till the following morning.
“We are, however, prepared to go on with the other cases,” said the Procureur, “if the court will permit.”
“Certainly,” said the President.
“In that case,” continued the Procureur, “we shall call on the accused Thomas Burke, lieutenant of the huitieme hussars, now present.”
For some minutes nothing more could be heard, for the crowded galleries, thronged with expectant hundreds, began now to empty. Mine was a name without interest for any; and the thronged masses rose to depart, while their over-excited minds found vent in words which, drowned all else. It was in vain silence and order were proclaimed; the proceedings had lost all interest, and with it all respect, and for full ten minutes the uproar lasted. Meanwhile, M. Baillot, taking his place by my side, produced some most voluminous papers, in which he soon became deeply engaged. I turned one look throughout the now almost deserted seats, but not one face there was known to me. The few who remained seemed to stay rather from indolence than any other motive, as they lounged over the vacant benches and yawned listlessly; and much as I dreaded the gaze of that appalling multitude, I sickened at the miserable isolation of my lot, and felt overwhelmed to think that for me there was not one who should pity or regret my fall.
At last order was established in the court, and the Procureur opened the proceeding by reciting the act of my accusation, in which all the circumstances already mentioned by my advocate were dwelt and commented on with the habitual force and exaggeration of bar oratory. The address was short, however,—scarcely fifteen minutes long; and by the tone of the speaker, and the manner of the judges, I guessed that my case excited little or no interest to the prosecution, either from my own humble and insignificant position, or the certainty they felt of my conviction.
My advocate rose to demand a delay, even a short one, pleading most energetically against the precipitancy of a proceeding in which the indictment was but made known the day previous. The President interrupted him roughly, and with an assurance that no circumstance short of the necessity to produce some important evidence not then forthcoming, would induce him to grant a postponement.
M. Baillot replied at once, “Such, sir, is our case; a witness, whose evidence is of the highest moment, is not to be found; a day or two might enable us to obtain his testimony. It is upon this we ground our hope, our certainty, of an acquittal. The court will not, I am certain, refuse its clemency in such an emergency as this.”
“Where is this same witness to be found? Is he in Paris? Is he in France?”
“We hope in Paris, Monsieur le President.”
“And his name?”
“The Abbé d'Ervan.”
A strange murmur ran along the bench of judges at the words; and I could see that some of them smiled in spite of their efforts to seem grave, while the Procureur-Général did not scruple to laugh outright.
“I believe, sir,” said he, addressing the President, “that I can accommodate my learned brother with this so-much desired testimony perhaps more speedily, I will not say than he wishes, but than he expects.”
“How is this?” said my advocate, in a whisper to me. “They have this Abbé then. Has he turned against his party?”
“I know nothing of him,” said I, recklessly; “falsehood and treachery seem so rife here, that it can well be as you say.”
“The Abbe d'Ervan!” cried a loud voice; and with the words the well-known figure moved rapidly from the crowd and mounted the steps of the platform.
“You are lost!” said Baillot, in a low, solemn voice; “it is Mehée de la Touche himself!”
Had the words of my sentence rung in my ears I had not felt them more, that name, by some secret spell, had such terror in it.
“You know the prisoner before you, sir?” said the President, turning towards the Abbé.
Before he could reply, my advocate broke in:—
“Pardon me, sir; but previous to the examination of this respectable witness, I would ask under what name he is to figure in this process? Is he here the Abbé d'Ervan, the agreeable and gifted frequenter of the Faubourg St. Germain?—is he the Chevalier Maupret, the companion and associate of the house of Bourbon?—or is he the no less celebrated and esteemed citizen Mehé e de la Touche, whose active exertions have been of such value in these eventful times that we should think no recompense sufficient for them had he not been paid by both parties? Yes, sir,” continued he, in an altered tone, “I repeat it: we are prepared to show that this man is unworthy of all credit; that he whose testimony the court now calls is a hired spy and bribed calumniator,—the instigator to the treason he prosecutes, the designer of the schemes for which other men's blood has paid the penalty. Is this abbé without, and gendarme within, to be at large in the world, ensnaring the unsuspecting youth of France by subtle and insidious doctrines disguised under the semblance of after-dinner gayety? Are we to feel that on such evidence as this, the fame, the honor, the life of every man is to rest?—he, who earns his livelihood by treason, and whose wealth is gathered in the bloody sawdust beneath the guillotine!”
“We shall not hear these observations longer,” said the President, with an accent of severity. “You may comment on the evidence of the witness hereafter, and, if you are able to do so, disprove it. His character is under the protection of the court.”
“No, sir!” said the advocate, with energy; “no court, however high,—no tribunal, beneath that of Heaven itself, whose decrees we dare not question,—can throw a shield over a man like this. There are crimes which stain the nation they occur in; which, happening in our age, make men sorry for their generation, and wish they had lived in other times.”
“Once more, sir, I command you to desist!” interrupted the President.
“If I dare to dictate to the honorable court?” said the so-called Abbé, in an accent of the most honeyed sweetness, and with a smile of the most winning expression, “I would ask permission for the learned gentleman to proceed. These well-arranged paragraphs, this indignation got by heart, must have vent, since they 're paid for; and it would save the tribunal the time which must be consumed in listening to them hereafter.”
“If,” said the advocate, “the coolness and indifference to blood which the headsman exhibits, be a proof of guilt in the victim before him, I could congratulate the prosecution on their witness. But,” cried he, in an accent of wild excitement, “great Heavens! are we again fallen on such times as to need atrocity like this? Is the terrible ordeal of blood through which we have passed to be renewed once more? Is the accusation to be hoarded, the calumnious evidence secreted, the charge held back, till the scaffold is ready,—and then the indictment, the slander, the sentence, and the death, to follow on one another like the flash and the thunder? Is the very imputation of having heard from a Bourbon to bear its prestige of sudden death?”
“Silence, sir!” cried the President, to whom the allusion to the Duc d'Enghien was peculiarly offensive, and who saw in the looks of the spectators with what force it told. “You know the prisoner?” said he, turning towards D'Ervan.
“I have that honor, sir,” said he, with a bland smile.
“State to the court the place and the occasion of your first meeting him.”
“If I remember correctly, it was in the Palais Royal, at Beauvilliers's. There was a meeting of some of the Chouan party arranged for that evening, but from some accident only three or four were present. The sous-lieutenant, however, was one.”
“Repeat, as far as your memory serves you, the conduct and conversation of the prisoner during the evening in question.”
In reply, the Abbé, recapitulated every minute particular of the supper; scarcely an observation the most trivial he did not recall, and apply, by some infernal ingenuity, to the scheme of the conspiracy. Although never, even in the slightest instance, falsifying any speech, he tortured the few words I did say into such a semblance of criminality that I started, as I heard the interpretation which now appeared so naturally to attach to them. (During all this time my advocate never interrupted him once, but occupied himself in writing as rapidly as he could follow the evidence.) The chance expression which concluded the evening,—the hope of meeting soon,—was artfully construed into an arranged and recognized agreement that I had accepted companionship amongst them, and formally joined their ranks.
From this he passed on to the second charge,—respecting the conversation I had overheard at the Tuileries, and which I so unhappily repeated to Beauvais. This the Abbé, dwelt upon with great minuteness, as evidencing my being an accomplice; showing how I had exhibited great zeal in the new cause I had embarked in, and affecting to mark how very highly the service was rated by those in whose power lay the rewards of such an achievement.
Then followed the account of my appointment at Versailles, in which I heard, with a sinking heart, how thoroughly even there the toils were spread around me. It appeared that the reason of the neglect I then experienced was an order from the minister that I should not be noticed in any way; that the object of my being placed there was to test my fidelity, which already was suspected; that it was supposed such neglect might naturally have the effect of throwing me more willingly into the views of the conspirators, and, as I was watched in every minute particular, of establishing my own guilt and leading to the detection of others.
Then came a narrative of his visits to my quarters, in which the omission of all mention of his name in my report was clearly shown as an evidence of my conscious culpability. And, to my horror and confusion, a new witness was produced,—the sentinel, Pierre Dulong, who mounted guard at the gate of the château on the morning when I passed the Abbé, through the park.
With an accuracy beyond my belief, he repeated all out conversations, making the dubious hints and dark suggestions which he himself threw out as much mine as his own; and having at length given a full picture of my treacherous conduct, he introduced my intimacy with Beauvais as the crowning circumstance of my guilt.
“I shall pause here,” said he, with a cool malignity, but ill concealed beneath a look of affected sorrow—“I shall pause here, and, with the permission of the court, allow the accused to make, if he will, a full confession of his criminality; or, if he refuse this, I shall proceed to the disclosure of other circumstances, by which it will be seen that these dark designs met favor and countenance in higher quarters; and among those, too, whose sex, if nothing else, should have removed them beyond the contamination of confederacy with assassination.”
“The court,” said the President, sternly, “will enter into no compromise of this kind. You are here to give such evidence as you possess, fully, frankly, and without reserve; nor can we permit you to hold out any promises to the prisoner that his confession of guilt can afford a screen to the culpability of others.”
“I demand,” cried the Procureur-Général, “a full disclosure from the witness of everything he knows concerning this conspiracy.”
“In that case I shall speak,” said the Abbé.
At this instant a noise was heard in the hall without; a half murmur ran through the court; and suddenly the heavy curtain was drawn aside, and a loud voice called out,—
“In the name of the Republic, one and indivisible, an order of council.”
The messenger, splashed and covered with mud, advanced through the court, and delivered a packet into the hands of the President, who, having broken the large seals, proceeded leisurely to read it over.
At the same moment I felt my arm gently touched, and a small pencil note was slipped into my hand. It ran thus:—
Before I could recover from the shock of such glad tidings, the President rose, and said,—
“In the matter of the accused Burke, this court has no longer cognizance, as he is summoned before the tribunal of the army. Let him withdraw, and call on the next case,—Auguste Leconisset.”
D'Ervan stooped down and whispered a few words to the Procureur-Général, who immediately demanded to peruse the order of council. To this my advocate at once objected, and a short and animated discussion on the legal question followed. The President, however, ruled in favor of my defender; and at the same instant a corporal's guard appeared, into whose charge I was formally handed over, and marched from the court.
Such was the excited state of my mind, in such a confused whirl were all my faculties, that I knew nothing of what was passing around me; and save that I was ordered to mount into a carriage, and driven along at a rapid pace, I remembered no more. At length we reached the quay Voltaire, and entered the large square of the barrack. The tears burst out and ran down my cheeks, as I looked once more on the emblems of the career I loved. We stopped at the door of a large stone building, where two sentries were posted; and the moment after I found myself the occupant of a small barrack-room, in which, though under arrest, no feature of harsh confinement appeared, and from whose windows I could survey the movement of the troops in the court, and hear the sounds which for so many a day had been the most welcome to my existence.
Although my arrest was continued with all its strictness, I never heard one word of my transmission before the military tribunal; and a fortnight elapsed, during which I passed through every stage of expectancy, doubt, and at last indifference, no tidings having ever reached me as to what fortune lay in store for me.
The gruff old invalid that carried my daily rations seemed but ill-disposed to afford me any information, even as to the common events without, and seldom made any other reply to my questioning than an erect position as if on parade, a military salute, and “Connais pas, mon lieutenant,”—a phrase which I actually began to abhor from its repetition. Still, his daily visits showed I was not utterly forgotten; while from my window I had a view of all that went on in the barrack-yard. There—for I had neither books nor newspapers—I spent my day watching the evolutions of the soldiers: the parade at daybreak, the relieving guards, the drill, the exercise, the very labors of the barrack-square,—all had their interest for me; and at length I began to know the very faces of the soldiers, and could recognize the bronzed and weather-beaten features of the veterans of the republican armies.
It was a cuirassier regiment, and one that had seen much service; most of the sous-officiers and many of the men were decorated, and their helmets bore the haughty device of “Dix centre un!” in memory of some battle against the Austrians, where they repulsed and overthrew a force of ten times their own number.
At first their heavy equipments and huge unwieldy horses seemed strange and uncouth to my eyes, accustomed to the more elegant and trim style of a hussar corps; but gradually I fancied there was something almost more soldierlike about them. Their dark faces harmonized too with the great black cuirass; and the large massive boot mounting to the middle of the thigh, the long horsehaired helmet, the straight sword, and peculiar, heavy, plodding step, reminded me of what I used to read of the Roman centurion; while the horses, covered with weighty and massive trappings, moved with a warlike bearing and a tramp as stately as their riders.
When evening came, and set the soldiers free from duty, I used to watch them for hours long, as they sat in little groups and knots about the barrack-yard, smoking and chatting,—occasionally singing too. Even then, however, their distinctive character was preserved: unlike the noisy, boisterous merriment of the hussar, the staid cuirassier deemed such levity unbecoming the dignity of his arm of the service, and there reigned a half-solemn feature over all their intercourse, which struck me forcibly. I knew not then—as I have learned full well since—how every department of the French army had its distinctive characteristic, and that Napoleon studied and even encouraged the growth of these singular manners to a great extent; doubtless, too, feeling a pride in his own thorough intimacy with their most minute traits, and that facility with which, by a single word, he could address himself to the cherished feeling of a particular corps. And the tact by which the monarch wins over and fascinates the nobles of his court was here exercised in the great world of a camp,—and with far more success too; a phrase, a name, some well-known battle, the date of a victory, would fall from his lips as he rode along the line, and be caught up with enthusiasm by thousands, who felt in the one word a recognition of past services. “Thou”—he always addressed the soldiers in the second person—“thou wert with me at Cairo,” “I remember thee at Arcole,” were enough to reward wounds, suffering, mutilation itself; and he to whom such was addressed became an object of veneration among his fellows.
Certain corps preserved more studiously than others the memories of past achievements,—the heirlooms of their glory; and to these Bonaparte always spoke with a feel ing of friendship most captivating to the soldier's heart, and from them he selected the various regiments that composed his “Guard.” The cuirassiers belonged to this proud force; and even an unmilitary eye could mark, in their haughty bearing and assured look, that they were a favored corps.
Among those with whose faces I had now grown familiar there was one whom I regarded with unusual interest; he seemed to me the very type of his class. He was a man of gigantic size, towering by half a head above the very tallest of his fellows, while his enormous breadth of chest and shoulder actually seemed to detract from his great height. The lower part of his face was entirely concealed by a beard of bright red hair that fell in a huge mass over the breast of his cuirass, and seemed by its trim and fashion to be an object of no common pride to the wearer; his nose was marked by a sabre-cut that extended across one entire cheek, leaving a deep blue welt in its track. But saving these traits, wild and savage enough, the countenance was singularly mild and pleasing. He had large and liquid blue eyes, soft and lustrous as any girl's,—the lashes, too, were long and falling; and his forehead, which was high and open, was white as snow. I was not long in remarking the strange influence this man seemed to possess over the rest,—an ascendency not in any way attributable to the mark on his sleeve which proclaimed him a corporal. It seemed as though his slightest word, his least gesture, was attended to; and though evidently taciturn and quiet, when he spoke I could detect in his manner an air of promptitude and command that marked him as one born to be above his fellows. If he seemed such in the idle hours, on parade he was the beau ideal of a cuirassier. His great warhorse, seemingly small for the immense proportions of the heavy rider, bounded with each movement of his wrist, as if instinct with the horseman's wishes.
I waited with some impatience for the invalid's arrival, to ask who this remarkable soldier was, certain that I should hear of no common man. He came soon after, and as I pointed out the object of my curiosity, the old fellow drew himself up with pride, and while a grim effort at a smile crossed his features, replied,—
“That 's Pioche,—le gros Pioche!”
“Pioche!” said I, repeating the name aloud, and endeavoring to remember why it seemed well known to me.
“Yes,—Pioche,” rejoined he, gruffly. “If monsieur had ever been in Egypt, the name would scarcely sound so strange in his ears.” And with this sarcasm he hobbled from the room and closed the door, while I could hear him grumbling along the entire corridor, in evident anger at the ignorance that did not know “Pioche!”
Twenty times did I repeat the name aloud, before it flashed across me as the same Madame Lefebvre mentioned at the soiree in the Palace. It was Pioche who shouldered the brass fieldpiece, and passed before the general on parade. The gigantic size, the powerful strength, the strange name,—all could belong to no other; and I felt as though at once I had found an old acquaintance in the great cuirassier of the Guard.
If the prisoner in his lonely cell has few incidents to charm his solitary hours, in return he is enabled by some happy gift to make these the sources of many thoughts. The gleam of light that falls upon the floor, broken by the iron gratings of his window, comes laden with storied fancies of other lands,—of far distant countries where men are dwelling in their native mountains free and happy. Forgetful of his prison, the captive wanders in his fancy through valleys he has seen in boyhood, and with friends to be met no more. He turns gladly to the past, of whose pleasures no adverse fortune can deprive him, and lives over again the happy hours of his youth; and thinks, with a melancholy not devoid of its own pleasure, of what they would feel who loved him could they but see him now. He pictures their sympathy and their sorrow, and his heart feels lighter, though his eyes drop tears.
In this way the great cuirassier became an object for my thoughts by day and my dreams by night. I fancied a hundred stories of which he was the hero; and these imaginings served to while away many a tedious hour, and gave me an interest in watching the little spot of earth that was visible from my barred window.
It was in one of these reveries I sat one evening, when I heard the sounds of feet approaching along the corridor that led to my room; the clank of a sabre and the jingle of spurs sounded not like my gruff visitor. My door was opened before I had time for much conjecture, and Greneral d'Auvergne stood before me.
“Ah! mon lieutenant,” cried he, gayly, “you have been thinking very hardly of me since we met last, I 'm sure; charging me with forgetfulness, and accusing me of great neglect.”
“Pardon me, General,” said I, hurriedly; “your former kindness, for which I never can be grateful enough, has been always before my mind. I have not yet forgotten that you saved my life; more still,—you rescued my name from dishonor.”
“Well, well; that's all past and gone now. Your reputation stands clear at last. De Beauvais has surrendered himself to the authorities at Rouen, and made a full confession of everything, exculpating you completely in every particular; save the indiscretion of your intercourse with Mehée de la Touche, or, as you know him better, the Abbé, d'Ervan.”
“And poor De Beauvais, what is to become of him?” said I, eagerly.
“Have no fears on his account,” said he, with something like confusion in his manner. “She (that is, Madame Bonaparte) has kindly interested herself in his behalf, and he is to sail for Guadaloupe in a few days,—his own proposition and wish.”
“And does General Bonaparte know now that I was guiltless?” cried I, with enthusiasm.
“My dear young man,” said he, with a bland smile, “I very much fear that the general has little time at this moment to give the matter much of his attention. Great events have happened,—are happening while we speak. War is threatening on the side of Austria. Yes, it is true: the camp of Boulogne has received orders to break up; troops are once more on their march to the Rhine; all France is arming.”
“Oh, when shall I be free?”
“You are free!” cried he, clapping me gayly on the shoulder. “An amnesty against all untried prisoners for state of offences has been proclaimed. At such a moment of national joy—”
“What do you mean?”
“What! and have I not told you my great news? The Senate have presented to Bonaparte an address, praying his acceptance of the throne of France; or, in their very words, to make his authority eternal.”
“And he?” said I, breathless with impatience to know the result.
“He,” continued the general, “has replied as became him, desiring them to state clearly their views,—by what steps they propose to consolidate the acquired liberties of the nation. And while avowing that no higher honor or dignity can await him than such as he has already received at the hands of the people, 'Yet,' added he, 'when the hour arrives that I can see such to be the will of France,—when one voice proclaims it from Alsace to the Ocean, from Lisle to the Pyrenees,—then shall I be ready to accept the throne of France.'”
The general entered minutely into all the circumstances of the great political change, and detailed the effect which the late conspiracy had had on the minds of the people, and with what terror they contemplated the social disorders that must accrue from the death of their great ruler; how nothing short of a Government based on a Monarchy, with the right of succession established, could withstand such a terrific crisis. As he spoke, the words I had heard in the Temple crossed my mind, and I remembered that such was the anticipation of the prisoners, as they said among themselves, “When the guillotine has done its work, they 'll patch up the timbers into a throne.”
“And George Cadoudal, and the others?” said I.
“They are no more. Betrayed by their own party, they met death like brave men, and as worthy of a better cause. But let us not turn to so sad a theme. The order for your liberation will be here to-morrow; and as I am appointed to a brigade on active service, I have come to offer you the post of aide-de-camp.”
I could not speak; my heart was too full for words. I knew how great the risk of showing any favor to one who stood in such a position as I did; and I could but look my gratitude, while the tears ran down my cheeks.
“Well,” cried he, as he took my hand in his, “so much is settled. Now to another point, and one in which my frankness must cause you no offence. You are not rich,—neither am I; but Bonaparte always gives us opportunities to gather our epaulettes,—ay, and find the bullion to make them, too. Meanwhile, you may want money—”
“No, Général,” cried I, eagerly; “here are three thousand francs some kind friend sent me. I know not whence they came; and even if I wanted, did not dare to spend them. But now—”
The old man paused, and appeared confused, while he leaned his finger on his forehead, and seemed endeavoring to recall some passing thought.
“Did they come from you, sir?” said I, timidly.
“No, not from me,” repeated he, slowly. “You say you never found out the donor?”
“Never,” said I, while a sense of shame prevented my adding what rose to my mind,—Could they not be from Mademoiselle de Meudon?
“Well, well,” said he, at length, “be it so. And now till to-morrow: I shall be here at noon, and bring the minister's order with me. And so, good-by.”
“Good-by,” said I, as I stood overcome with happiness. “Let what will come of it, this is a moment worth living for.”
True to his appointment, the general appeared the following day as the hour of noon was striking. He brought the official papers from the Minister of War, as well as the formal letter naming me his aide-de-camp. The documents were all perfectly regular; and being read over by the military commission, I was sent for, when my sword was restored to me by the colonel of the regiment in garrison, and I was free once more.
“You have received a severe lesson, Burke,” said the general, as he took my arm to lead me towards his carriage, “and all owing to the rashness with which, in times of difficulty and danger, you permitted yourself to form intimacies with men utterly unknown to you. There are epochs when weakness is the worst of evils. You are very young, to be sure, and I trust the experience you have acquired here will serve for a lifetime.”
“Still, sir, in all this sad business, my faith never wavered; my attachment to the Consul was unshaken.”
“Had it been otherwise, do you think you had been here now?” said he, dryly. “Were not the evidences of your fidelity set off against your folly, what chance of escape remained for you? No, no; she who befriended you so steadily throughout this tangled scheme for your ruin, had never advocated your cause were there reason to suppose you were involved in the conspiracy against her husband's life.”
“Who do you mean?” said I. “I scarcely understand.”
“The Consulesse, of course. But for Madame Bonaparte you were lost; even since I saw you last, I have learned how deeply interested she became in your fortunes. The letter you received in the Temple came from her, and the enclosure also. And now, with your leave, we can do nothing better than pay our respects to her, and make our acknowledgments for such kindness. She receives at this hour, and will, I know, take your visit in good part.”
While I professed my readiness to comply with the suggestion, we drove into the court of the Tuileries. It was so early that, except the officers of the Consul's staff and some of those on guard, we were the only persons visible.
“We are the first arrivals,” said the general, as we drew up at the door of the pavilion. “I am not sorry for it; we shall have our audience over before the crowd assembles.”
Giving our names to the usher, we mounted the stairs, and passed on from room to room until we came to a large salon, in which seats were formally arranged in a semicircle, an armchair somewhat higher than the rest occupying the centre. Several full-length portraits of the generals of the Revolutionary armies adorned the walls, and a striking likeness of the Consul himself, on horseback, held the principal place. I had but time to see thus much, when the two sides of the folding-doors were flung open, and Madame Bonaparte, followed by Mademoiselle de Meudon, entered. Scarcely were the doors closed, when she said, smiling,—
“I heard of your arrival. General, and guessed its purport, so came at once. Monsieur Burke, I am happy to see you at liberty once more.”
“That I owe it to you, Madame, makes it doubly dear to me,” said I, faltering.
“You must not overrate my exertions on your behalf,” replied the Consulesse, in a hurried voice. “There was an amende due to you for the treatment you met with at Versailles,—all Savary's fault; and now I am sincerely sorry I ever suffered myself to become a party to his schemes. Indeed, I never guessed them, or I should not. General d'Auvergne has made you his aide-decamp, he tells me.”
“Yes, Madame; my good fortune has showered favors on me most suddenly. Your kindness has been an augury of success in everything.”
She smiled, as if pleased, and then said, “I have a piece of advice to give you, and hope you 'll profit by it.” Then, turning towards the general, who all this time was deeply engaged in talking to Mademoiselle de Meudon, she added, “Don't you think. General, that it were as well Monsieur Burke should not be in the way of meeting the Consul for some short time to come. Is there any garrison duty, or any service away from Paris, where for a week or so he could remain?”
“I have thought of that, Madame,” said the général. “Two of the regiments in my brigade are to march tomorrow for the east of France, and I intend my young friend to proceed to Strasburg at once.”
“This is not meant for banishment,” said she to me, with a look of much sweetness; “but Bonaparte will now and then say a severe thing, likely to dwell in the mind of him to whom it was addressed long after the sentiment which dictated it has departed. A little time will efface all memory of this sad affair, and then we shall be happy to see you here again.”
“Or events may happen soon, Madame, by which he may make his own peace with General Bonaparte.”
“True, very true,” said she, gravely. “And as to that. General, what advices are there from Vienna?”
She drew the general aside into one of the windows, leaving me alone with Mademoiselle de Meudon. But a minute before, and I had given the world for such an opportunity, and now I could not speak a syllable. She, too, seemed equally confused, and bent over a large vase of moss-roses, as if totally occupied by their arrangement. I drew nearer, and endeavored to address her; but the words would not come, while a hundred gushing thoughts pressed on me, and my heart beat loud enough for me to hear it. At last I saw her lips move, and thought I heard my name. I bent down my head lower; it was her voice, but so low as to be scarcely audible.
“I cannot thank you, sir, as I could wish,” said she, “for the service you rendered me, at the risk of your own life and honor. And though I knew not the dangers you were to incur by my request, I asked it as of the only one I knew who would brave such danger at my asking.” She paused for a second, then continued: “The friend of Charles could not but be the friend of Marie de Meudon. There is now another favor I would beg at your hands,” said she, while a livid paleness overspread her features.
“Oh, name it!” said I, passionately. “Say, how can I serve you?”
“It is this,” said she, with an accent whose solemnity sank into the very recesses of my heart. “We have ever been an unlucky race; De Meudon is but a name for misfortune not only have we met little else in our own lives, but all who have befriended us have paid the penalty of their friendship. My dear brother knew this well; and I—.” She paused, and then, though her lips moved, the words that followed were inaudible. “There is but one on earth,” continued she, as her eyes, brimful of tears, were turned towards Madame Bonaparte, who still stood talking in the window, “over whose fortunes my affection has thrown no blight. Heaven grant it may be ever so!” Then suddenly, as if remembering herself, she added: “What I would ask is this,—that we should meet no more. Nay, nay; look not so harshly at me. If I, alone in the world, ask to be deprived of his friendship who loved my brother so—”
“Oh! if you be alone in the world, feel for one like me, who has not even a country he can call his own. Take not the one hope from my heart, I ask you. Leave me the thought that there is one, but one, in all this land, to whom my name, if ever mentioned with praise, can bring one moment's pleasure,—who can say 'I knew him.' Do not forget that Charles, with his dying breath, said you would be my sister.”
The door of the salon opened suddenly, and a name was announced, but in my confusion, I heard not what. Madame Bonaparte, however, advanced towards the new arrival with an air of welcome, as she said,—
“We were just wishing for you, general. Pray tell us all the news of Paris.”
The person thus addressed was a very tall and singularly handsome man, whose dark eyes, and dark whiskers meeting in the middle of his chin, gave him the appearance of an Italian. He was dressed in a hussar uniform, whose gorgeous braiding of gold was heightened in effect by a blaze of orders and stars that covered the entire breast; the scarlet pantaloons, tight to the leg, displayed to advantage the perfect symmetry of his form; while his boots of yellow morocco, bound and tasselled with gold, seemed the very coquetry of military costume. A sabre, the hilt actually covered with precious stones, clanked at his side, and the aigrette of his plumed hat was a large diamond. There was something almost theatrical in the manner of his approach, as with a stately step and a deep bow he took Madame Bonaparte's hand and kissed it; a ceremony he repeated to Mademoiselle de Meudon, adding, as he did so,—
“And my fair rose de Provence, more beautiful than ever!—how is she?”
“What flattery is he whispering, Marie?” said the Consulesse, laughing. “Don't you know, Général, that I insist on all the compliments here being paid to myself. What do you think of my robe? Your judgment is said to be perfect.”
“Charming, absolutely charming!” said he, in an attitude of affected admiration. “It is only such taste as yours could have devised anything so beautiful. Yet the roses,—I half think I should have preferred them white.”
“You can scarcely imagine that vain fellow with the long ringlets the boldest soldier of the French army,” said the general, in a low whisper, as he drew me to one side.
“Indeed! And who is he, then?”
“You a hussar, and not know him! Why, Murat, to be sure.”
“So, then, Madame, all my news of Monsieur Talleyrand's ball, it seems, is stale already. You 've heard that the russian and Austrian ministers both sent apologies?”
“Oh dear!” said she, sighing; “have I not heard it a thousand times, and every reason for it canvassed, until I wished both of their excellencies at—at Madame Lefebvre's dinner-party?”
“That was perfect,” cried Murat, aloud; “a regular bivouac in a salon. You'd think that the silver dishes and the gilt candelabras had just been captured from the enemy, and that the cuisine was made by beat of drum.”
“The general is an honest man and a brave officer,” said D'Auvergne, somewhat nettled at the tone Murat spoke in.
“No small boast either,” replied the other, shrugging his shoulders carelessly, “in the times and the land we live in.”
“And what of Cambacèrés's soiree,—how did it go off?” interposed Madame Bonaparte, anxious to relieve the awkward pause that followed.
“Like everything in his hotel,—sombre, stately, and stupid; the company all dull, who would be agreeable everywhere else; the tone of the reception labored and affected; and every one dying to get away to Fouché's,—it was his second night for receiving.”
“Was that pleasanter, then?”
“A hundred times. There are no parties like his: one meets everybody; it is a kind of neutral territory for the Faubourg and the Jacobin, the partisan of our people and the followers of Heaven knows who. Fouché slips about, whispering the same anecdote in confidence to every one, and binding each to secrecy. Then, as every one comes there to spy his neighbor, the host has an excellent opportunity of pumping all in turn; and while they all persist in telling him nothing but lies, they forget that with him no readier road could lead to the detection of truth.”
“The Consul!” said a servant, aloud, as the door opened and closed with a crash; and Bonaparte, dressed in the uniform of the Chasseurs of the Guard, and covered with dust, entered.
“Was Decrés here?” And then, without waiting for a reply, continued: “It is settled, all finally arranged; I told you, Madame, the 'pear was ripe.' I start to-morrow for Boulogne; you, Murat, must accompany me; D'Auvergne, your division will march the day after. Who is this gentleman?”
This latter question, in all its abruptness, was addressed to me, while a dark and ominous frown settled on his features.
“My aide-de-camp, sir,” said the old general, hastily, hoping thus to escape further inquiry.
“Your name, sir?” said the Consul, harshly, as he fixed his piercing eyes upon me.
“Burke, sir; sous-lieutenant—”
“Of the Eighth Hussars,” continued he. “I know the rest, sir. Every conspiracy is made up of knaves and fools; you figured in the latter capacity. Mark me, sir, your name is yet to make; the time is approaching when you may have the opportunity. Still, General d' Auvergne, it is not in the ranks of a Chouan plot I should have gone to select my staff.”
“Pardon me, sir; but this young man's devotion to you—”
“Is on record. General; I have seen it in Mehée de la Touche's own writing,” added Bonaparte, with a sneer. “Give me the fidelity, sir, that has no tarnish,—like your own, D'Auvergne. Go, sir,” said he, turning to me, while he waved his hand towards the door; “it will need all your bravery and all your heroism to make me acquit General d'Auvergne of an act of folly.”