The soldiers, who were detachments of different corps, were also quarrelling among themselves for their share of the spoil; and these altercations, in which more than once I saw a sabre flash, added to the discord. It was, indeed, a scene of tumult and confusion almost inconceivable. Here were a party of cuirassiers, carbine in hand, protecting a drove of sheep; around which the country people were standing, seemingly irresolute whether they should essay an attack,—a movement often prompted by the other soldiers, who hoped in the mêlée to seize a part of the prey. Many of the oxen were bestrode by hussars or lancers, whose gay trappings formed a strange contrast with the beasts they rode on; while more than one stately horseman held a sheep before him on the saddle, for whose protection a cocked pistol seemed no ineffectual guarantee.
The task of penetrating this dense and turbulent mob seemed to me almost impossible, and I expressed my fears to the soldiers. But they replied that there were too many braves of Egypt there not to remember the Père Arsène; saying which, one of the soldiers, whispering a word to his companion, laid the priest gently upon the ground, and then mounting rapidly on a forage-cart, he shouted, in a voice heard above the din,—
“Comrades of the Fourth, we have found an old companion; the Père Scapulaire is here. Place for the good father! place there!”
A hundred loud vivas welcomed this announcement; for the name was well known to many who never had seen the priest, and cheer after cheer for the bon père now rang through this motley assemblage.
To the wild confusion of a moment before the regularity of discipline at once succeeded, and a lane was quickly formed for the soldiers to advance with the priest between them, each horseman saluting as he passed as if to his general on parade.
“To the Trauben,—the Trauben!” cried several voices, as we went along; and this I learned was the little inn of the village, where the non-commissioned officers in charge of the several parties were seated in council to arrange the subdivision of the booty.
Had not a feeling stronger than mere personal consideration occupied me, I would have now left the good priest among his old comrades, with whom he was certain to meet kindness and protection. But I could not so readily part with one whom, even in the few hours of our intercourse, I had learned to like; and therefore, enduring as well as I was able the rugged insubordination of a soldiery free from the restraint of discipline, I followed on, and soon found myself at the door of the Trauben.
A dismounted dragoon, with drawn sword, guarded the entrance, around which a group of angry peasants were gathered, loudly protesting against the robbery of their flocks and farmyards. It was with great difficulty I could persuade the sentry to suffer me to enter; and when I at last succeeded, I found none willing to pay any attention to my request regarding a billet for the priest, for unhappily his name and character were unknown to those to whom I addressed myself. In this dilemma I was deliberating what step to take, when one of the soldiers, who with such zealous devotion had never left us, came up to say that his corporal had just given up his own quarters for the good father's use; and this, happily, was a small summer-house in the garden at the back of the inn.
“He cannot come with us himself,” said the soldier, “for he is engaged with the forage rations, but I have got his leave to take the quarters.”
A small wicket beside the inn led us into a large, wildly-grown orchard, through which a broad path led to the summer-house in question; at least such we guessed to be the little building from whose windows there gleamed the bright glare of a cheerful fire.
The door lay open into a little hall, from which two doors led into different chambers. Over one of these was marked in chalk “quartier-général,” in imitation of the title assigned to a general's quarters, and this the soldiers pronounced must belong to the corporal. I opened it accordingly and entered. The room was small and neatly furnished, and with the blazing wood upon the hearth, looked most comfortable and inviting.
“Yes, we are all right here; I know his helmet,—this is it,” said the dragoon. “So here we must leave you. You'll tell the good father it was two troopers of the Fourth who carried him hither, won't ye? Ay, and say Auguste Prévôt was one of them; he 'll know the name,—he nursed me in a fever I had in Italy.”
“I wish he were able to give me his blessing again,” said the other; “I had it before that affair at Brescia, and there were four of my comrades killed about me, and never a shot touched me. But good-night, Comrade; goodnight.” And so saying, having left the father at his length upon a couch, they made their military salute and departed.
A rude-looking flagon of beer which stood on the table was the only thing I could discover in the chamber, save a canvas bag of tobacco and some pipes. I filled a goblet with the liquor and placed it to the priest's lips. He swallowed a little of it, and then opening his eyes, slowly looked around him, while he murmured to my question a faint sound of “Better,—much better.” I knew enough of such matters to be aware that perfect rest and repose were the greatest aids to his recovery; and so, replenishing the fire, I threw myself down on the large dragoon cloak which lay on the floor, and prepared to pass my night where I was.
The long-drawn breathings of the sleeping man, the perfect quiet and stillness of all around,—for though not far distant from the village, the thick wood of trees intercepted every sound from that quarter,—and my fatigue combined, soon brought on drowsiness.
I struggled, so long as I was able, against the tendency; but a humming sound filled my ears, the objects grew fainter before my vision, and I sank into that half-dreamy state when consciousness remains, but clouded and indistinct in all its perceptions. Twice the door was opened and some persons entered; but though they spoke loudly, I heard not their words, nor could I recognize their appearance. To this succeeded a deep, sound sleep, the recompense of great fatigue.
The falling of a piece of firewood on the hearth awoke me. I opened my eyes and looked about. The room had no other light than from the embers of the wood fire and the piece of blazing pine which had just fallen; but even by that uncertain glare I could see enough to amaze and confuse me.
On the couch where I had left the priest sleeping, the old man was now seated, his head uncovered, and a scarf of light blue silk across his shoulders and falling to his feet. Before him, and kneeling, was a figure, of which for some minutes I in vain endeavored to ascertain the traits; for while in the military air of the dress there was something to mark the soldier, a waving mass of hair loosely falling on the back bespoke another sex. While I yet doubted, the flickering flame burst forth and showed me the small and beautiful shaped foot which from beneath a loose trouser peeped forth, and in the neat boot and tastefully ornamented spur I recognized in an instant it was a vivandière of the army,—one of those who, amid all the reckless abandon of the life of camps and battlefields, can yet preserve some vestige of coquetry and feminine grace.
So strange the sight, so complete the heavy stupor of my faculties, that again and again I doubted whether the whole might not be the creation of a dream; but the well-known tones of the old man's voice soon reassured me, as I heard him say,—
“I know it too, my child; I have followed too long the fortunes of an army not to feel and to sorrow for these things. But be comforted.”
A passionate burst of tears from her who knelt at his feet interrupted him here; nor did it seem that all he could speak of consolation was able to assuage the deep sorrow of the poor girl, whose trembling frame bespoke her agony.
By degrees, however, she grew calmer. A deep sob or a long-drawn sigh alone would be heard, as the venerable father, with impassioned eloquence, depicted the happiness of those who sought the blessings of religion, and could tear themselves from the world and its ambitions. Warming with his theme, he descanted on the lives of those saints on earth whose every minute was an offering of heavenly love; and contrasted the holy calm of a convent with the wild revelry of the camp, or the more revolting carnage of the battlefield.
“Speak not of these things, Father; your own voice trembles with proud emotion at the mention of glorious war. Tell me, oh! tell me that I may have hope, and yet leave not all that makes life endurable.”
The old man spoke again; but his tones were low, and his words seemed a reproof, for she bowed her head between her hands and sobbed heavily.
To the long and impassioned appeal of the priest there now succeeded a silence, only broken by the deep-drawn sighs of her who knelt in sadness and penitence before him.
“And his name?” said the father; “you have not told his name.”
A pause followed, in which not even a breathing was heard; then a low, murmuring sound came, and it seemed to meas though I heard my own name uttered. I started at the sound, and with the noise the vivandière sprang to her feet.
“I heard a noise there,” said she, resolutely.
“It is my companion of the journey,” said the priest. “Poor fellow! he is tired and weary; he sleeps soundly.”
“I did not know you had a fellow-traveller, Father.”
“Yes; we met in the Creutz Mountains, and since that» have wended our way together. A soldier—”
“A soldier! Is he wounded, then?”
“No, my child; he is leaving the army.”
“Leaving the army, and not wounded! He is old and disabled, perhaps.”
“Neither; he is both young and vigorous.”
“Shame on him, then, that he turn his back on fame and fortune, and leave the path that brave men tread! He never was a soldier! No, Father; he in whose heart the noble passion once has lived can never forget it.”
“Hush, child, hush!” said the priest, motioning with his hand to her to be silent.
“Let me look on him!” said the vivandière, as she stooped down and took from the hearth a piece of lighted wood; “let me see this man, and learn the features of one who can be so craven of spirit, so poor of heart, as to fly the field, while thousands are flocking towards it.”
Burning with shame and indignation, I arose, just as she approached me. The pine-branch threw its red gleam over her bright uniform, and then upon her face.
“Minette! Minette!” I exclaimed. But with a wild shriek she let fall the burning wood, and fell senseless to the ground.
It was some time before, with all our care, she recovered consciousness; and even then, in her wild, excited glance, one might read the struggles of her mind to credit what had occurred. A few broken, unconnected phrases would escape her at intervals; and she seemed laboring to regain the lost clew to her recollections, when again she turned her eyes towards me. At the same instant, the trumpet sounded without for the réveil, and was answered by many a call from other parties around. With a steadfast gaze of wonderment she fixed her look on me; and twice passed her hands across her eyes, as though she doubted the evidence of her senses.
“Minette, hear me! let me speak but one word.” “There it is again,” cried she, as the blast rang out a second time, and the clatter of horsemen resounded from the street. “Adieu, sir; our roads lie not together. Father, your blessing; if your good counsel this night has not made its way to my heart, the lesson has come elsewhere. Good-by! good-by!” She pressed the old man's hand to her lips, and darted from the room.
Stunned, and like one spell-bound, I could not move for a few seconds; and then, with a wild cry, I bounded after her through the garden. The wicket, however, was fastened on the outside, and it was some time before I could scale the wall and reach the street.
The day was just breaking, but already the village was thronged with soldiers, who were preparing for the march, and arranging their parties to conduct the wagons. Hurrying on through the crowded and confused mass, I looked on every side for the vivandière; but in vain. Groups of different regiments passed and repassed me; but to my questions they returned either a jeering reply, or a mere laugh of derision. “But a few days ago,” thought I, “and these fellows had scarce dared to address me; and now—” Oh, the blighting misery of that thought! I was no longer a soldier; the meanest horseman of his troop was my superior.
I passed through the village, and reached the highroad. Before me was a party of dragoons, escorting a drove of cattle; I hastened after them, but on coming near, discovered they were a light cavalry detachment. Sick at heart, I leaned against a tree at the wayside, when again I heard the tramp of horses approaching. I looked, and saw the tall helmets of the Fourth, who were coming slowly along, conducting some large wagons, drawn by eight or ten horses. In front of the detachment rode a man, whose enormous stature made him at once remarkable, as well as the air of soldierly bearing he displayed. Beside him was Minette; the reins had fallen on her horse's neck, and her face was buried in her hands.
“Ah! if I had thought that priest would have made thee so sad, Mademoiselle, I'd have let him spend his night beneath a wagon rather than in my quarters,” said a deep, hollow voice I at once recognized as that of Pioche. “But the morning air will revive thee; so let us forward: by threes—open order—trot.”
The word was obeyed; the heavy tramp of the horses, with the dull roll of the wagons, drowned all other sounds The cortège moved on, and I was alone.
When I returned to the garden, I found that the Père Arsène was seized by an access of that dreadful malady, whose intervals of comparative release are but periods of dread or despondence. The tertian of Egypt, so fatal among the French troops, now numbered him among its victims, and he looked worn and exhausted, like one after weeks of illness.
My first care was to present myself to the official whose business it was to inspect the passports, and by explaining the condition of my poor friend, to entreat permission to delay my journey,—at least until he should be somewhat recovered. The gruff old sergeant, however, deliberately examined my passport, and as rigidly decided that I could not remain. The words of the minister were clear and definite,—“Day by day, without halt, to the nearest frontier of France,” was the direction; and with this I must comply. In vain I assured him that no personal convenience, no wish of my own, urged the request, but the duty of humanity towards a fellow-traveller, and one who had strong claims on every soldier of the Empire.
“Leave him to me, Monsieur,” was the only reply I could obtain; and the utmost favor he would grant was the permission to take leave of my poor friend before I started.
Amid all the sufferings of his malady, I found the good priest dwelling in his mind on the scene with the vivandière,—which, perhaps, from the impressionable character of a sick man's temperament, had entirely filled his thoughts; and thus he wandered from the subject of his sorrows to hers, with scarcely a transition between them.
When I mentioned the necessity of our parting, he seemed to feel it more on my account than his own.
“I wished to have reached Paris with you,” he repeated over and over. “It was not impossible I could have arranged your return home. But you must go down to Sèvres,—the priest there, whoever he may be, will know of me; tell him everything without reserve. I am too ill to write, but if I get better soon—Well, well; that poor girl is an orphan too; and Alphonse was an orphan. With what misery have we struggled in France since this man has ruled our destinies! how have the crimes of a people brought their retribution to every heart and every home!—none too low, none too humble, to feel them. Leave this land; no blessing can rest upon it now. Poor thing! how worthy of a better lot she is! If this same officer should know,—it is not impossible. But, why do I say this? No, no; you'll never meet him now.”
He continued to mutter thus some broken and disjointed sentences, half-aloud, for some minutes, apparently unconscious of my presence.
“He was in a regiment of the Guard. Alas! she told me which, but I forget it now; but his name, surely I remember his name! Well, well, it is a sad story. Adieu, my dear child! good-by! We have each a weary road before us; but my journey, although the longest, will be soonest accomplished. Do not forget my words to you. Your own country, and your country's cause, above every other; all else is the hireling's part. The sense of duty alone can sustain a man in the trials which fit him for this world, or that better one which is to follow. Adieu!” He threw his arm around me as he said this, and leaned exhausted and faint upon my shoulder.
The few who journey through life with little sympathy or friendship from their fellow-men, may know how it rent my heart to part with one to whom I clung every hour closer; my throat swelled and throbbed, and I could only articulate a faint good-by as we parted. As the door was closing, I heard his voice again.
“Yes, I have it now; I remember it well,—'Le Capitaine Burke.'”
I started in amazement, for during all our intercourse he had never asked nor had I told my name, and I stood unable to speak; when he continued,—“You 'll think of the name,—she said, too, he was on the staff,—'Burke!' Poor girl!”
I did not wait for more, but like one flying from some dreaded enemy I rushed through the garden, and gained the road, my heart torn with many a conflicting thought; the bitterest of all being the memory of Minette, the orphan girl, who alone of all the world cared for me. Oh! if strong, deep-rooted affection, the love of a whole heart, can raise the spirit above the every-day contentions of the world,—can ennoble thought, refine sentiments, and divest life of all its meaner traits, making a path of flowers among the rocks and briers of our worldly pilgrimage; so does the possession of affection for which we cannot give requital throw a gloom over the soul, for which there is no remedy. Better, a thousand times better, had I borne all the solitary condition of my lot, unrelieved by one token of regard, than think of her who had wrecked her fortunes on my own.
With many a sad thought I plodded onward. The miles passed over seemed like the events in some troubled dream; and of my journey I have not a recollection remaining. It was late in the evening when I reached the Barrière de l'Étoile, and entered Paris. The long lines of lamps along the quays, the glittering reflection in the calm river, the subdued but continual hum of a great city, awoke me from my reverie, and I bethought me that my career of life must now begin anew, and all my energies must be called on to fashion out my destiny.
On the morning after my arrival I presented myself, in compliance with the requisite form, before the minister of police. Little information of mine was necessary to explain the circumstances under which I was placed. He was already thoroughly acquainted with the whole, and seemed in nowise disposed to evince any undue lenity towards one who had voluntarily quitted the service of the Emperor.
“Where do you purpose to remain, sir?” said the préfet, as he concluded a lengthened and searching scrutiny of my appearance.
“In Paris,” I replied, briefly.
“In Paris, I suppose,” said he, with a slight derisive curl of the lip,—“of that I should think there can be little doubt; but I wished to ascertain more accurately your address,—in what part of the city.”
“As yet I cannot tell; I am almost a stranger here. A day or two will, however, enable me to choose, and then I shall return here with the intelligence.”
“That is sufficient, sir; I shall expect to see you soon.”
He waved his hand in sign to me to withdraw, and I was but too happy to follow the indication. As I hastened down the stairs, and forced my way through the crowd of persons who awaited an audience with the préfet, I heard a voice close to my ear whisper, “A word; one word with you, Monsieur.” Conceiving, however, it could not have been intended for me, to whom no face there was familiar, I passed on, and reached the court.
The noise of footsteps rapidly moving on the grave behind me induced me to turn; and I beheld a small, miserably-dressed man, whose spare and wasted form bespoke the sorest trials of poverty, advancing towards me, hat in hand.
“Will you deign me one word, Monsieur?” said he, in a voice whose tone, although that of entreaty, was yet remote from the habitual accent of one asking alms.
“You must mistake me,” said I, desirous to pass on; “I am unknown to you.”
“True, sir; but it is as a stranger I take the liberty of addressing you. I heard you say just now that you had not fixed on any place of abode in Paris; now, if I might venture to entreat your preference for this establishment, it would be too much honor for me, its poor master.”
Here he placed in my hands a small card, inscribed with the words, “Pension Bourgeoise, Rue de Mi-Carême, Boulevard Mont Parnasse, No. 46,” at top; and beneath was a paragraph, setting forth the economical fact that a man might eat, drink, and sleep for the sum of twelve francs a week, enjoying the delights of “agreeable society, pleasant environs, and all the advantages of a country residence.”
It was with difficulty I could avoid a smile at the shivering figure who ventured to present himself as an inducement to try the fare of his house. Whether my eyes did wander from the card to his countenance, or any other gesture of mine betrayed my thoughts, the old man seemed to divine what was passing in my mind, and said,—
“Monsieur will not pronounce on the 'pension' from the humble guise of its master. Let him but try it; and I promise that these poor rags, this miserable figure, has no type within the walls.”
There was a tone of deep dejection, mingled with a sense of conscious pride, in which he said these few words, that at once decided me not to grieve him by a refusal.
“You may count on me, then, Monsieur,” said I. “My stay here is so far uncertain, that it depends not altogether on myself; but for the present I am your guest.”
I took my purse from my pocket as I spoke, knowing the custom in these humbler boarding-houses was to pay in advance; but the old man reddened slightly, and motioned with his hand a refusal.
“Monsieur is a captain in the Guards,” said he, proudly; “no more is necessary.”
“You mistake, friend, I am no longer so; I have left the army.”
“Left it, en retraite?” said he, inquiringly.
“Not so; left it at my own free will and choice. And now, perhaps, I had better tell you, that as I may not enjoy any considerable share of goodwill from the police authorities here, my presence might be less acceptable to your other guests, or to yourself.”
The old man's eyes sparkled as I spoke, and his lips moved rapidly, as though he were speaking to himself; then, taking my hand, he pressed it to his lips, and said,—
“Monsieur could not be more welcome than at present. Shall we expect you to-day at dinner?”
“Be it so. Your hour?”
“Four o'clock, to the moment. Do not forget the number, 46 Monsieur Rubichon; the house with a large garden in front.”
“Till then,” said I, bowing to my host, whose ceremonious politeness made me feel my own salute an act of rudeness in comparison.
As I parted from the old man, I was glad at the relief to my own thoughts which even thus much of speculation afforded, and sauntered on, fancying many a strange conceit about the “pension” and its inhabitants. At last the hour drew near; and having placed my few effects in a cabriolet, I set out for the distant boulevard of Mont Parnasse.
I remarked with pleasure, that as we went along the streets and thoroughfares became gradually less and less crowded; scarcely a carriage of any kind was to be met with. The shops were, for the most part, the quiet, unpretending-looking places one sees in a provincial town; and an air of peacefulness and retirement prevailed, strongly at variance with the clamor and din of the heart of the capital. This was more than ever so as we emerged upon the boulevard itself: on one side of which houses, at long straggling intervals, alone were to be seen; at the other, the country lay open to the view, with its orchards and gardens, for miles away.
“Saprelotte!” said the driver, who, like so many of his calling, was a blunt son of Alsace,—“saprelotte! we have come to the end of the world here. How do you call the strange street you are looking for?”
“The Rue de Mi-Carême.”
“Mi-Carême? I 'd rather you lived there than me; that name does not promise much in regard to good feeding. Can this be it?”
As he spoke he pointed with his whip to a narrow, deserted-looking street, which opened from the boulevard. The houses were old and dilapidated, but stood in small gardens, and seemed like the remains of the villa residences of the Parisians in times long past. A few more modern edifices, flaring with red brick fronts, were here and there scattered amongst them; but for all the decay and dismantlement of the others, they seemed like persons of rank and condition in the company of their inferiors.
Few of the larger houses were inhabited. Large placards, “à louer,” on the gateways or the broken railings of the garden, set forth the advantages of a handsome residence, situated between court and garden; but the falling roofs and broken windows were in sad discordance with the eulogy.
The unaccustomed noise of wheels, as we went along, drew many to the doors to stare at us, and in the gathering groups I could mark the astonishment so rare a spectacle as a cabriolet afforded in these secluded parts.
“Is this the Rue Mi-Carême?” said the driver to a boy, who stood gazing in perfect wonderment at our equipage.
“Yes,” muttered the child,—“yes. Who are you come for now?”
“Come for, my little man? Not for any one. What do you mean by that?”
“I thought it was the commissary,” said the boy.
“Ah, sapperment! I knew we were in a droll neighborhood,” murmured the driver. “It would seem they never see a cabriolet here except when it brings the commissaire de police to look after some one.”
If this reflection did not tend to allay my previous doubts upon the nature of the locality, it certainly aided to excite my curiosity, and I was determined to persist in my resolution of at least seeing the interior of the “pension.”
“Here we are at last,” cried the driver, throwing down his whip on the horse's back, as he sprang to the ground, and read aloud from a board fastened to a tree, “'Pension Bourgeoise. M. Rubichon, propriétaire.' Shall I wait for monsieur?”
“No. Take out that portmanteau and cloak; I'm not going back now.”
A stare of most undisguised astonishment was the only reply he made, as he took forth my baggage, and placed it at the little gate.
“You 'll be coming home at night,” said he, at length; “shall I come to fetch you? Not to-night,” repeated he, in amazement. “Well, adieu, Monsieur,—you know best; but I 'd not come a-pleasuring up here, if I was a young fellow like you.”
As he drove away, I turned to look at the building before me, which up to this time I had not sufficiently noted. It was a long, two-storied house, which evidently at an early period had been a mansion of no mean pretension. The pilasters which ornamented the windows, the balustrades of the parapet, and the pediment above the entrance, were still remaining, though in a dilapidated condition. The garden in front showed also some signs of that quaint taste originally borrowed from the Dutch, and the yew-trees still preserved some faint resemblance to the beasts and animals after which they had once been fashioned, though time and growth had altered the outlines, and given to many a goodly lion or stag the bristly coat of a porcupine. A little fountain, which spouted from a sea-monster's nostrils, was grass-grown and choked with weeds. Everything betokened neglect and ruin; even the sundial had fallen across the walk, and lay moss-grown and forgotten; as though to say that Time had no need of a record there. The jalousies, which were closed in every window, permitted no view of the interior; nor did anything, save a faint curl of light blue smoke from one chimney, give token of habitation.
I could not help smiling to myself at the absurd fancy which had suffered me to feel that this deserted quarter, this lonesome dwelling, contained anything either adventurous or strange about it, or that I should find either in the “pension” or its guests wherewithal to interest or amuse me. With this thought I opened the wicket, and, crossing the garden, pulled the bell-rope that hung beside the door.
The deep clanging echoed again and again to my summons, and ere it ceased the door was opened, and M. Rubichon himself stood before me: no longer, however, the M. Rubichon of the morning, in garments of worn and tattered poverty, but attired in a suit which, if threadbare, was at least clean and respectable-looking,—a white vest, and ruffles also, added to the air of neatness of his costume; and whether from his own deserts, or my surprise at the transformation, he seemed to me to possess the look and bearing of a true gentleman.
Having welcomed me with the well-bred and easy politeness of one who knew the habits of society, he gave orders to a servant girl to conduct me to a room, adding, “May I beg of monsieur to make a rapid toilet, for the dinner will be served in less than ten minutes?”
The M. Rubichon of the morning no more prepared me for that gentleman at evening than did the ruinous exterior of the dwelling for the neat and comely chamber into which I was now installed. The articles of furniture were few, but scrupulously clean; and the white curtains of the little bed, the cherry-wood chairs, the table, with its gray marble top,—all were the perfection of that propriety which gives even to humble things a look of elegance.
I had but time to make a slight change in my dress when the bell sounded for dinner, and at the same instant a gentle knock came to my door. It was M. Rubichon, come to conduct me to the salle, and anxious to know if I were satisfied with my chamber.
“In summer, Monsieur, if we shall have the happiness of possessing you here at that season, the view of the garden is delightful from this window; and,—you have not noticed it, of course, but there is a little stair, which descends from the window into the garden, which you will find a great convenience when you wish to walk. This way, now. We are a small party to-day, and indeed shall be for a few weeks. What name shall I have the honor to announce?”
“Mr. Burke.”
“Ah! an Irish name,” said he, smiling, as he threw open the door of a spacious but simply furnished apartment, in which about a dozen persons were standing or sitting around the stove.
I could not help remarking, that as Monsieur Rubichon presented me to his other guests, my name seemed to meet a kind of recognition from each in turn. My host perceived this, and explained it at once by saying,—
“We have a namesake of yours amongst us; not exactly at this moment, for he is in Normandy, but he will be back in a week or so. Madame de Langeac, let me present Mr. Burke.”
Monsieur Rubichon's guests were all persons somewhat advanced in life; and though in their dress evincing a most unvarying simplicity and economy, had yet a look of habitual good tone and breeding which could not be mistaken. Among these, the lady to whom I was now introduced was conspicuous, and in her easy and graceful reception of me, showed the polished manners of one accustomed to the best society.
After some half-jesting observations, expressive of surprise that a young man—and consequently, as she deemed, a gay one—should have selected as his residence an unvisited quarter and a very retired house, she took my arm, and proceeded to the dinner-room.
The dinner itself, and the table equipage, were in keeping with the simplicity of the whole establishment; but if the fare was humble and the wine of the very cheapest, all the habitudes of the very highest society presided at the meal, and the polished ease and elegance, so eminently the gift of ancient French manners, were conspicuous.
There prevailed among the guests all the intimacy of a large family; at the same time a most courteous deference was remarkable, which never approached familiarity. And thus they talked lightly and pleasantly together of mutual friends and places they had visited; no allusion ever being made to the popular topics of the day,—to me a most inexplicable circumstance, and one which I could not avoid slightly expressing my astonishment at to the lady beside me. She smiled significantly at my remark, and merely said,—
“It is so agreeable to discuss matters where there can be no great difference of opinion,—at least, no more than sharpens the wit of the speakers,—that you will rarely hear other subjects talked of here.”
“But have the great events which are yet passing no interest?”
“Perhaps they interest too deeply to admit of much discussion,” said she, with some earnestness of manner.
“But I am myself transgressing; and, what is still worse, losing you the observations of Monsieur de Saint George on Madame de Sévigné.”
The remark was evidently made to change the current of our conversation; and so I accepted it,—listening to the chit-chat around me, which, from its novelty alone, possessed a most uncommon charm to my ears. It was so strange to hear the allusions to the courtiers and the beauties of bygone days made with all the freshness of yesterday acquaintance; and the stores of anecdotes about the court of Louis the Fifteenth and the Regency told with a piquancy that made the event seem like an occurrence of the morning.
Before we retired to the drawing-room for coffee, I saw that the “pension” was a Royalist establishment, and wondered how it happened that I should have been selected by the host to make one of his guests. Yet unquestionably there seemed no reserve towards me; on the contrary, each evinced a tone of frankness and cordiality which made me perfectly at ease, and well satisfied at the fortune which led me to the Rue Mi-Carême.
The little parties of dominoes and piquet scattered through the salon; some formed groups to converse; the ladies resumed their embroidery; and all the occupations of indoor life were assumed with a readiness that betokened habit, and gave to the “pension” the comfortable air of a home.
Thus passed the first evening. The next morning the party assembled at an early hour to breakfast; after which the gentlemen went out, and did not appear until dinnertime,—day succeeding day in unvarying but to me not unpleasing monotony. I rarely wandered from the large wilderness of a garden near the house, and saw weeks pass over without a thought ever occurring to me that life must not thus be suffered to ebb.
About a month after I came to live in the “pension,” I was sitting one evening at the window, watching, with the interest an idle man will ever attach to slight things,—the budding leaves of an early spring,—when I heard a step approach my chair, and on turning my head perceived Madame de Langeac. She carried her taboret in her hand, and came slowly towards me.
“I am come to steal some of your sunshine, Monsieur Burke,” said the old lady, smiling good-naturedly, as I rose to present a chair, “but not to drive you away, if you will be generous enough to keep me company.”
I stammered out some commonplace civility in reply, and was silent, for my thoughts were bent upon my future, and I was ill disposed to interruption.
“You are fond of flowers, I have remarked,” continued she, as if perceiving my preoccupation, and willing to relieve it by taking the burden of the conversation. “And it is a taste I love to witness; it seems to me like the evidence of a homely habit. It is only in childhood we learn this love; we may cultivate it in after life as we will.”
“My mother was passionately fond of them,” said I, calling up a long-buried memory of home and kindred.
“I thought so. These simple tastes are the inheritance a mother gives her child; and happily they survive every change of fortune.”
I sighed heavily as she spoke, for thus accidentally was touched the weakest chord of my heart.
“And, better still,” resumed she, “they are the links that unite us to the past, that bind the heart of manhood to infancy, that can bring down pride and haughtiness, and call forth guileless affection and childlike faith.”
“They are happy,”' said I, musing, “who can mingle such early memories with the present.”
“And who cannot?” interrupted she, rapidly. “Who has not felt the love of parents,—the halo of a home? Old as I am, even I can recall the little walks I trod in infancy, and the hand that used to guide me. I can bring up the very tones of that voice which vibrated on my heart as they spoke my name. But how much happier they to whom these memories are linked with tokens of present affection, and who, in their manhood's joys, can feel a father's or a mother's love!”
“I was left an orphan when a mere child,” said I, as though the observation had been specially addressed to me.
“But you have brothers,—sisters, perhaps.”
I shook my head. “A brother, indeed; but we have never met since we were children.”
“And yet your country has not suffered the dreadful convulsion of ours; no social wreck has scattered those who once lived in close affection together. It is sad when such ties are broken. You came early to France, I think you told me?”
“Yes, Madame. When a mere child my heart conceived a kind of devotion to the Emperor: his fame, his great exploits, seemed something more than human,—filled every thought of my brain; and to be a soldier,his soldier, was the limit of my ambition. I fancied, too, that the cause he asserted was that of freedom; that liberty, universal liberty, was the watchword that led to victory.”
“And you have discovered your error,” interrupted she. “Alas! it were better to have followed the illusion. A faith once shaken leaves an unsettled spirit, and with such there is little energy.”
“And less of hope,” said I, despondingly.
“Not so, if there be youth. Come, you must tell me your story. It is from no mere curiosity I ask you; but that I have seen much of the world, and am better able than you to offer counsel and advice. I have remarked, for some time past, that you appear to have no acquaintance in Paris,—no friend. Let me be such. If the confidence have no other result, it will relieve your heart of some portion of its burden; besides, the others here will learn to regard you with less distrust.”
“And is such their feeling towards me?”
“Forgive me; I did not exactly use the word I sought for. But now that I have ventured so far, I may as well confess that you are an object of the greatest interest in their eyes; nor can they divest themselves of the impression that some deep-laid plot had led you hither.”
“Had I known this before—”
“You had left us. I guessed as much: I have remarked it in your character already, that a morbid dread of being suspected is ever uppermost in your thoughts; and accounted for it by supposing that you might have been thrown at too early an age into life. But you must not feel angry with us here. As for me, I have no merit in my right appreciation of you: Monsieur Rubichon told me how you met,—a mere accident, at the bureau of the préfet.”
“It was so; nor have I been able to divine why he addressed himself to me, nor what circumstance could have led him to believe my sentiments in accordance with those of his guests.”
“Simple enough the reason. He heard from your own lips you were a stranger, without any acquaintance in Paris. The police for a time have been somewhat frequent in their visits here, when the exclusively Royalist feature of the 'pension' excited some dissatisfaction. To overcome the impression, M. Rubichon determined to wait each day at the bureau of the préfet, and solicit at hazard among the persons there to patronize his house. We all here consented to the plan, feeling its necessity. Our good fortune sent us you. Still, you must not be surprised if long sorrows and much suffering have engendered suspicion, nor that the old followers of a king look distrustfully on the soldier of”—she hesitated and blushed slightly, then added, in a low voice—“of the Emperor.”
The word seemed to have cost a pang in its utterance; for she did not speak for several minutes after.
“And these gentlemen,—am I to conclude that they cherish disaffection to the present Government, or harbor a hope of its downfall?”
Whether some accidental expression of disdain escaped me as I said this, I cannot say; but Madame de Langeao quickly replied,—
“They are good Frenchmen, sir, and loyal gentlemen; what they hope must be a matter for their own hearts.”
“I entreat your pardon, Madame, if I have said one syllable which could reflect upon their motives.”
“I forgive you readily,” said she, smiling courteously; “he who has worn a sabre so long, may well deem its influence all-powerful. But believe me, young man, there is that within the heart of a nation against which mere force is nothing; opposed to it, armed squadrons and dense ranks are powerless. Devotion to a sovereign, whose claim comes hallowed by a long line of kings, is a faith to which religion lends its sanction and tradition its hope. Look on these very persons here; see, has adversity chilled their affection, or poverty damped their ardor? You know them not; but I will tell you who they are.
“There, at the fire, that venerable old man with the high, bold forehead, he is Monsieur de Plessis (Comte Plessis de Riancourt). His grandfather entertained Louis the Fourteenth and his suite within his château; he himself was grand falconer to the king. And what is he now? I shame to speak it,—a fencing-master at an humble school of the Faubourg.
“And the other opposite to him (he is stooping to pick something from the floor), I myself saw him kneel at the levée of his Majesty, and beheld the king assist him to rise, as he said, 'Monsieur de Maurepas, I would make you a duke, but that no title could be so dear to a Maurepas as that his ancestors have borne for six hundred years.' And he, whose signature was but inferior to the royal command, copies pleadings of a lawyer to earn his support.
“And that tall man yonder, who has just risen from the table,—neither years nor poverty have erased the stamp of nobility from his graceful figure,—Comte Felix d'Ancelot, captain of the Gardes du Corps; the same who was left for dead on the stairs at Versailles pierced by eleven wounds. He gives lessons in drawing! two leagues from this, at the other extremity of Paris.
“You ask me if they hope; what else than hope, what other comforter, could make such men as these live on in want and indigence, declining every proffer of advancement, refusing every temptation that should warp their allegiance? I have read of great deeds of your Emperor,—I have heard traits of heroism of his generals, compared to which the famed actions of the Crusaders paled away; but tell me if you think that all the glory ever won by gallant soldier, tried the courage or tested the stout heart like the long struggle of such men as these? And here, if I mistake not, comes another, not inferior to any.”
As she spoke, the steps of a calèche at the door were suddenly lowered, and a tall and powerfully built man stepped lightly out. In an instant we heard his footstep in the hall, and in another moment the door of the salon opened, and M. Rubichon announced “Le Général Count Burke.”
The general had just time to divest himself of his travelling pelisse as he entered, and was immediately surrounded by the others, who welcomed him with the greatest enthusiasm.
“Madame la Marquise de Langeac,” said he, approaching the old lady, as she sat in the recess of the window, and lifted her hand to his lips, “I am overjoyed to see you in such health. I passed three days with your amiable cousin, Arnold de Rambuteau; who, like yourself, enjoys the happiest temperament and the most gifted mind.”
“If you flatter thus, General,” said Madame de Langeac, “my young friend here will scarcely recognize in you a countryman,—a kinsman, perhaps. Let me present Mr. Burke.”
The general's face flushed, and his eyes sparkled, as taking my hand in both of his own, he said,—
“Are you indeed from Ireland? Is your name Burke? Alas! that I cannot speak one word of English to you. I left my country thirty-eight years since, and have never revisited it.”
The general overwhelmed me with questions: first about my family, of which I could tell him little; and then of my own adventures, at which, to my astonishment, he never evinced those symptoms of displeasure I so confidently expected from an old follower of the Bourbons. This he continued to do, as he ate a hurried meal which was laid out for him in the salon; all the rest standing in a circle around, and pressing him with questions for this friend or that at every pause he made.
“You see, gentlemen,” cried he, as I replied to some inquiry about my campaign, “this is an instance of what I have so often spoken to you. Here is a youth who leaves his country solely for fighting sake; he does not care much for the epaulette, he cares less for the cause. Come, come, don't interrupt me; I know you better than you know yourself. You longed for the conflict and the struggle and the victory; and, parbleu! we may say as we will, but you could have scarcely made a better selection than with his Majesty, Emperor and King, as they style him.”
This speech met with a sorry reception from the bystanders, and in the dissatisfied expression of their faces, a less confident speaker might have read his condemnation; but the general felt not this, or, if he did, he effectually concealed it.
“You have not inquired for Gustave de Me is in,” said he, looking round at the circle.
“You have not seen him, surely?” cried several together; “we heard he was at Vienna.”
“No, parbleu! he lives about a league from his old home,—the very house we spent our Christmas at eighteen years ago. They have made a barrack of his château, and thrown his park into a royal chasse; but he has built a hut on the river-side, and walks every day through his own ground, which he says he never saw so well stocked for many a year. He is as happy as ever, and loves to look out on the Seine before his door when the bright stream is rippling through many a broad leaf; ay, Messieurs, of good augury, too,—the lilies of France.” He lifted a bumper to his lips as he spoke, and drank the toast with enthusiasm.
This sudden return to loyalty, so boldly announced, served to reinstate him in their estimation; and once again all their former pleasure at his appearance came back, and again the questions poured in from every quarter.
“And the abbé,” said one; “what of him? Has he made up his mind yet?”
“To be sure he has, and changed it too, at least twice every twenty-four hours. He is ever full of confidence and brimming with hope when the wind is from the eastward; but let it only come a point west, his spirits fall at once, and he dreams of frigates and gunboats, and the hulks in the Thames; and though they offered him a cardinal's hat, he 'd not venture out to sea.”
The warning looks of the bystanders, and even some signals to be cautious, here interrupted the speaker, who paused for a few seconds, and then fixed his eyes on me.
“I have no fears, gentlemen, on that score. I know my countrymen well, though I have lived little among them. My namesake here may like the service of the Emperor better than that of a king,—he may prefer the glitter of the eagle to the war-cry of Saint Louis,—but he 'll never betray the private conversations nor expose the opinions expressed before him in all the confidence of social intercourse.
“We are speaking, Mr. Burke, of an abbé who is about to visit Ireland, and whose fears of the English cruisers seem little reasonable to some of my friends here, though you can explain, perhaps, that they are not groundless. I forgot,—you were but a boy when you crossed that sea.”
“But he will go at last,” said Madame de Langeac; “I suppose we may rely on that?”
“We hope,” said the general, shrugging his shoulders with an air of doubt, “because, when we can do nothing else, we can always hope.” And so saying he arose from the table, and taking a courteous leave of each person in turn, pleading the fatigue of his journey, he retired for the night.
I left the saloon soon after, and went to my room full of all I had heard, and pondering many thoughts about the abbé and his intended voyage. I spent a sleepless night. Thoughts of home, long lost in the excitement of my career, came flocking to my brain, and a desire to revisit my country—stronger, perhaps, because undefined in its object—made me restless and feverish. It was with delight I perceived the day dawning, and dressing myself hastily, I descended into the garden. To my surprise, I found General Burke already there. He was sauntering along slowly by himself, and seemed wrapped in meditation. The noise of my approach startled him, and he looked up.
“Ah! my countryman,—so early astir?” said he, saluting me courteously. “Is this a habit of yours?”
“No, sir; I cannot claim the merit of such wakefulness. But last night I never closed my eyes. A few words you dropped in conversation in the drawing-room kept possession of my heart, and even yet I cannot expel them.”
“I saw it at the time I spoke,” replied the general, with a keen, quick glance; “you changed color twice as I mentioned the Abbé Gernon. Do you know him?”
“No, sir; it was his intended journey, not himself, for which I felt interested.”
“You would wish to accompany him, perhaps. Well, the matter is not impossible; but as time presses, and we have little leisure for mysteries, tell me frankly why are you here?”
In few words, and without a comment on any portion of my conduct, I told him the principal circumstances of my life, down to the decisive moment of my leaving the army.
“After that step,” said I, “feeling that no career can open to me here, I wish to regain my own country.”
“You are right,” said the general, slowly; “it is your only course now. The venture is not without risk,—less from the English cruisers than the French, for the abbé is well known in England, and Ireland too; but his Royalist character would find slight favor with Fouché. You are willing to run the risk, I suppose?”
“I am.”
“And to travel as the abbe's servant, at least to Falaise? there the disguise will end.”
“Perfectly so.”
“And for this service, are you also ready to render us one in return?” said he, peering at me beneath his eyelashes.
“If it involve the good faith I once swore to preserve towards the Emperor Napoleon, I refuse it at once. On such a condition, I cannot accept your aid.”
“And does your heart still linger where your pride has been so insulted?”
“It does, it does; to be his soldier once more, I would submit to everything but dishonor.”
“In that case,” said he, smiling good-naturedly, “my conscience is a clear one; and I may forward your escape with the satisfying reflection that I have diminished the enemies of his Majesty Louis the Eighteenth by one most inveterate follower of Napoleon. I shall ask no conditions of you. When are you ready?”
“To-day,—now.”
“Let me see; to-morrow will be the 8th,—to-morrow will do. I will write about it at once. Meanwhile, it is as well you should not drop any hint of your intended departure, except to Madame de Langeac, whose secrecy may be relied on.”
“May I ask,” said I, “if you run any risk in thus befriending me? It is an office, believe me, of little promise.”
“None whatever. Rarely a month passes over without some one or other leaving this for England. The intercourse between Rome and Ireland is uninterrupted, and has been so during the hottest period of the war.”
“This seems most unaccountable to me; I cannot understand it.”
“There is a key to the mystery, however,” said he, smiling. “The English Government have confidence in the peaceful efforts of the priesthood as regards Ireland, and permit them to hold unlimited intercourse with the Holy See, which fears France and the spirit of her Emperor. The Bourbons look to the Church as the last hope of the Restoration. It is in the Catholic religion of this country, and its traditions, that monarchy has its root. Sap one, and you undermine the other. Legitimacy is a holy relic,—like any other, the priests are the guardians of it; and as for the present ruler of France, he trusts in the spirit of the Church to increase its converts, and believes that Ireland is ripening to revolt through the agency of the priests. Fouché alone is not deceived. Between him and the Church the war is to the knife; and but for him the high seas would be more open than the road to Strasburg,—at least, to all with a shaven crown and a silk frock. Here, then, is the simple explanation of what seemed so difficult; and I believe you will find it the true one.”
“But two out of the three parties must be deceived,” said I.
“Perhaps all three are,” replied he, smiling sarcastically. “There are some, at least, who deem the return of the rightful sovereign is more to be hoped from the sabre than the crosier, and think that Rome never was true except to Rome. As to your journey, however, its only difficulty or danger is the transit through France; once at the coast, and all is safe. Your passport shall be made out as a retired sous-officier returning to his home. You will take Marboeuf in the route, and I will give you the necessary directions for discovering the abbé.”
“Is it not possible,” said I, “that he may feel no inclination to encumber himself with a fellow-traveller, and particularly one a stranger to him?”
“Have no fear on that head. Your presence, on the contrary, will give him courage, and we must let him suppose you accompany him at our suggestion.”
“Not with any implied knowledge or any connection with your views, however,” said I. “This is well understood between us?”
“Perfectly so. And now meet me here this evening, after coffee, and I will give you your final instructions, Adieu, for the present.”
He waved his hand and left me. Then, after walking a few paces, turned quickly round, and said,—
“You will remember, a blouse and knapsack are indispensable for your equipment. Adieu!”