When the French army fell back across the Sambre, after the battle of Mons, a considerable portion of the rear, who covered the retreat, were cut off by the enemy, for it became their onerous duty to keep the allied forces in check, while the Republicans took measures to secure and hold fast the three bridges over the river. In this service many distinguished French officers fell, and many more were left badly wounded on the field; among the latter was a young captain of dragoons, who, with his hand nearly severed by a sabre-cut, yet found strength enough to crawl under cover of a hedge, and there lie down in the fierce resolve to die where he was, rather than surrender himself as a prisoner.
Although the allied forces had gained the battle, they quickly foresaw that the ground they had won was untenable; and scarcely had night closed in when they began their preparations to fall back. With strong pickets of observation to watch the bridges, they slowly withdrew their columns towards Mons, posting the artillery on the heights around Grandrengs. From these movements, the ground of the late struggle became comparatively deserted, and before day began to dawn, not a sound was heard over its wide expanse, save the faint moan of a dying soldier, or the low rumble of a cart, as some spoiler of the dead stole stealthily along. Among the demoralising effects of war, none was more striking than the number of the peasantry who betook themselves to this infamous trade, and who, neglecting all thoughts of honest industry, devoted themselves to robbery and plunder. The lust of gain did not stop with the spoil of the dead, but the wounded were often found stripped of everything, and in some cases the traces of fierce struggle, and the wounds of knives and hatchets, showed that murder had consummated the iniquity of these wretches.
In part from motives of pure humanity, in part from feelings of a more interested nature—for the terror to what this demoralisation would tend was now great and widespread—the nobles and gentry of the land instituted a species of society to reward those who might succour the wounded, and who displayed any remarkable zest in their care for the sufferers after a battle. This generous philanthropy was irrespective of country, and extended its benevolence to the soldiers of either army. Of course, personal feeling enjoyed all its liberty of preference, but it is fair to say that the cases were few where the wounded man could detect the political leanings of his benefactor.
The immense granaries, so universal in the Low Countries, were usually fitted up as hospitals, and many rooms of the château itself were often devoted to the same purpose, the various individuals of the household, from the ‘seigneur’ to the lowest menial, assuming some office in the great work of charity. And it was a curious thing to see how the luxurious indolence of château life became converted into the zealous activity of useful benevolence; and not less curious to the moralist to observe how the emergent pressure of great crime so instinctively, as it were, suggested this display of virtuous humanity.
It was a little before daybreak that a small cart drawn by a mule drew up beside the spot where the wounded dragoon sat, with his shattered arm bound up in his sash, calmly waiting for the death that his sinking strength told could not be far distant. As the peasant approached him, he grasped his sabre in the left hand, resolved on making a last and bold resistance; but the courteous salutation, and the kindly look of the honest countryman, soon showed that he was come on no errand of plunder, while, in the few words of bad French he could muster, he explained his purpose.
‘No, no, my kind friend,’ said the officer, ‘your labour would only be lost on me. It is nearly all over already! A little farther on in the field, yonder, where that copse stands, you’ll find some poor fellow or other better worth your care, and more like to benefit by it. Adieu!’
But neither the farewell, nor the abrupt gesture that accompanied it, could turn the honest peasant from his purpose. There was something that interested him in this very disregard of life, as well as in the personal appearance of the sufferer, and, without further colloquy, he lifted the half-fainting form into the cart, and disposing the straw comfortably on either side of him, set out homeward. The wounded man was almost indifferent to what happened, and never spoke a word nor raised his head as they went along. About three hours’ journey brought them to a large old-fashioned chateau beside the Sambre, an immense straggling edifice which, with a facade of nearly a hundred windows, looked out upon the river. Although now in disrepair and neglect, with ill-trimmed alleys and grass-grown terraces, it had been once a place of great pretensions, and associated with some of the palmiest days of Flemish hospitality. The Chateau d’Overbecque was the property of a certain rich merchant of Antwerp, named D’ Aerschot, one of the oldest families of the land, and was, at the time we speak of, the temporary abode of his only son, who had gone there to pass the honeymoon. Except that they were both young, neither of them yet twenty, too people could not easily be found so discrepant in every circumstance and every quality. He the true descendant of a Flemish house, plodding, commonplace, and methodical, hating show and detesting expense. She a lively, volatile girl, bursting with desire to see and be seen, fresh from the restraint of a convent at Bruges, and anxious to mix in all the pleasures and dissipations of the world. Like all marriages in their condition, it had been arranged without their knowledge or consent. Circumstances of fortune made the alliance suitable; so many hundred thousand florins on one side were wedded to an equivalent on the other, and the young people were married to facilitate the ‘transaction.’
That he was not a little shocked at the gay frivolity of his beautiful bride, and she as much disappointed at the staid demureness of her stolid-looking husband, is not to be wondered at; but their friends knew well that time would smooth down greater discrepancies than even these. And if ever there was a country, the monotony of whose life could subdue all to its own leaden tone, it was Holland in old days. Whether engaged in the active pursuit of gain in the great cities, or enjoying the luxurious repose of château life, a dull, dreary uniformity pervaded everything—the same topics, the same people, the same landscape, recurred day after day; and save what the season induced, there was nothing of change in the whole round of their existence. And what a dull honeymoon was it for that young bride at the old Château of Overbecque! To toil along the deep sandy roads in a lumbering old coach with two long-tailed black horses—to halt at some little eminence, and strain the eyes over a long unbroken flat, where a windmill, miles off, was an object of interest—to loiter beside the bank of a sluggish canal, and gaze on some tasteless excrescence of a summer-house, whose owner could not be distinguished from the wooden effigy that sat, pipe in mouth, beside him—to dine in the unbroken silence of a funeral feast, and doze away the afternoon over the Handelsblatt, while her husband smoked himself into the seventh heaven of a Dutch Elysium—poor Caroline! this was a sorry realisation of all her bright dreamings! It ought to be borne in mind, that many descendants of high French families, who were either too proud or too poor to emigrate to England or America, had sought refuge from the Revolution in the convents of the Low Countries; where, without entering an order, they lived in all the discipline of a religious community. These ladies, many of whom had themselves mixed in all the elegant dissipations of the Court, carried with them the most fascinating reminiscences of a life of pleasure, and could not readily forget the voluptuous enjoyments of Versailles, and the graceful caprices of ‘Le Petit Trianon.’ From such sources as these the young pupils drew all their ideas of the world, and assuredly it could have scarcely worn colours more likely to fascinate such imaginations.
What a shortcoming was the wearisome routine of Overbecque to a mind full of all the refined follies of Marie Antoinette’s Court! Even war and its chances offered a pleasurable contrast to such dull monotony, and the young bride hailed with eagerness the excitement and bustle of the moving armies—the long columns which poured along the highroad, and the clanking artillery heard for miles off! Monsieur d’Aerschot, like all his countrymen who held property near the frontier, was too prudent to have any political bias. Madame was, however, violently French. The people who had such admirable taste in toilet could scarcely be wrong in the theories of government; and a nation so invariably correct in dress, could hardly be astray in morals. Besides this, all their notions of mortality were as pliant and as easy to wear as their own well-fitting garments. Nothing was wrong but what looked ungracefully; everything was right that sat becomingly on her who did it—a short code, and wonderfully easy to learn. If I have dealt somewhat tediously on these tendencies of the time, it is that I may pass the more glibly over the consequences, and not pause upon the details by which the young French captain’s residence at Overbecque gradually grew, from the intercourse of kindness and good offices, to be a close friendship with his host, and as much of regard and respectful devotion as consisted with the position of his young and charming hostess.
He thought her, as she certainly was, very beautiful; she rode to perfection, she sang delightfully; she had all the volatile gaiety of a happy child, with the graceful ease of coming womanhood. Her very passion for excitement gave a kind of life and energy to the dull old château, and made her momentary absence felt as a dreary blank.
It is not my wish to speak of the feelings suggested by the contrast between her husband and the gay and chivalrous young soldier, nor how little such comparisons tended to allay the repinings at her lot. Their first effect was, however, to estrange her more and more from D’Aerschot, a change which he accepted with the most Dutch indifference. Possibly, piqued by this, or desirous of awakening his jealousy, she made more advances towards the other, selecting him as the companion of her walks, and passing the greater part of each day in his society. Nothing could be more honourable than the young soldier’s conduct in this trying position. The qualities of agreeability which he had previously displayed to requite, in some sort, the hospitality of his hosts, he now gradually restrained, avoiding as far as he could, without remark, the society of the young countess, and even feigning indisposition to escape from the peril of her intimacy.
He did more—he exerted himself to draw D’Aerschot more out, to make him exhibit the shrewd intelligence which lay buried beneath his native apathy, and display powers of thought and reflection of no mean order. Alas! these very efforts on his part only increased the mischief, by adding generosity to his other virtues! He now saw all the danger in which he was standing, and, although still weak and suffering, resolved to take his departure. There was none of the concealed vanity of a coxcomb in this knowledge. He heartily deplored the injury he had unwittingly done, and the sorry return he had made for all their generous hospitality.
There was not a moment to be lost; but the very evening before, as they walked together in the garden, she had confessed to him the misery in which she lived by recounting the story of her ill-sorted marriage. What it cost him to listen to that sad tale with seeming coldness—to hear her afflictions without offering one word of kindness; nay, to proffer merely some dry, harsh counsels of patience and submission, while he added something very like rebuke for her want of that assiduous affection which should have been given to her husband!
Unaccustomed to even the slightest censure, she could scarcely trust her ears as she heard him. Had she humiliated herself, by such a confession, to be met by advice like this? And was it he that should reproach her for the very faults his own intimacy had engendered? She could not endure the thought, and she felt that she could hate, just at the very moment when she knew she loved him!
They parted in anger—reproaches, the most cutting and bitter, on her part; coldness, far more wounding, on his! Sarcastic compliments upon his generosity, replied to by as sincere expressions of respectful friendship. What hypocrisy and self-deceit together! And yet deep beneath all, lay the firm resolve for future victory. Her wounded self-love was irritated, and she was not one to turn from an unfinished purpose. As for him, he waited till all was still and silent in the house, and then seeking out D’Aerschot’s chamber, thanked him most sincerely for all his kindness, and, affecting a hurried order to join his service, departed. While in her morning dreams she was fancying conquest, he was already miles away on the road to France.
It was about three years after this, that a number of French officers were seated one evening in front of a little café in Freyburg. The town was then crammed with troops moving down to occupy the passes of the Rhine, near the Lake of Constance, and every hour saw fresh arrivals pouring in, dusty and wayworn from the march. The necessity for a sudden massing of the troops in a particular spot compelled the generals to employ every possible means of conveyance to forward the men to their destination, and from the lumbering old diligence with ten horses, to the light charrette with one, all were engaged in this pressing service.
When men were weary, and unable to march forward, they were taken up for twelve or fourteen miles, after which they proceeded on their way, making room for others, and thus forty and even fifty miles were frequently accomplished in the same day.
The group before the café were amusing themselves criticising the strange appearance of the new arrivals, many of whom certainly made their entry in the least military fashion possible. Here came a great country waggon, with forty infantry soldiers all sleeping on the straw. Here followed a staff-officer trying to look quite at his ease in a donkey-cart. Unwieldy old bullock-carts were filled with men, and a half-starved mule tottered along with a drummer-boy in one pannier, and camp-kettles in the other.
He who was fortunate enough to secure a horse for himself was obliged to carry the swords and weapons of his companions, which were all hung around and about him on every side, together with helmets and shakos of all shapes and sizes, whose owners were fain to cover their head with the less soldierlike appendages of a nightcap or a handkerchief. Nearly all who marched carried their caps on their muskets, for in such times as these all discipline is relaxed, save such as is indispensable to the maintenance of order; and so far was freedom conceded, that some were to be seen walking barefoot in the ranks, while their shoes were suspended by a string on their backs. The rule seemed to be ‘Get forward—it matters not how—only get forward!’
And with French troops, such relaxation of strict discipline is always practicable; the instincts of obedience return at the first call of the bugle or the first roll of the drum; and at the word to ‘fall in!’ every symptom of disorder vanishes, and the mass of seeming confusion becomes the steady and silent phalanx.
Many were the strange sights that passed before the eyes of the party at the café, who, having arrived early in the day, gave themselves all the airs of ease and indolence before their wayworn comrades. Now laughing heartily at the absurdity of this one, now exchanging some good-humoured jest with that, they were in the very full current of their criticism, when the sharp, shrill crack of a postillion’s whip informed them that a traveller of some note was approaching. A mounted courier, all slashed with gold lace, came riding up the street at the same moment, and a short distance behind followed a handsome equipage, drawn by six horses, after which came a heavy fourgon, with four.
One glance showed that the whole equipage betokened a wealthy owner. There was all that cumbrous machinery of comfort about it that tells of people who will not trust to the chances of the road for their daily wants. Every appliance of ease was there; and even in the self-satisfied air of the servants who lounged in the rumble might be read habits of affluent prosperity. A few short years back, and none would have dared to use such an equipage. The sight of so much indulgence would have awakened the fiercest rage of popular fury; but already the high fever of democracy was gradually subsiding, and, bit by bit, men were found reverting to old habits and old usages. Still each new indication of these tastes met a certain amount of reprobation. Some blamed openly, some condemned in secret; but all felt that there was at least impolicy in a display which would serve as pretext for the terrible excesses that were committed under the banner of ‘Equality.’
‘If we lived in the days of princes,’ said one of the officers, ‘I should say there goes one now. Just look at all the dust they are kicking up yonder; while, as if to point a moral upon greatness, they are actually stuck fast in the narrow street, and unable, from their own unwieldiness, to get farther.’
‘Just so,’ cried another; ‘they want to turn down towards the “Swan,” and there isn’t space enough to wheel the leaders.’
‘Who or what are they?’ asked a third.
‘Some commissary-general, I’ll be sworn,’ said the first. ‘They are the most shameless thieves going; for they are never satisfied with robbery, if they do not exhibit the spoils in public.’
‘I see a bonnet and a lace veil,’ said another, rising suddenly, and pushing through the crowd. ‘I’ll wager it’s a danseuse of the Grand Opéra.’
‘Look at Mérode!’ remarked the former, as he pointed to the last speaker. ‘See how he thrusts himself forward there. ‘Watch, and you’ll see him bow and smile to her, as if they had been old acquaintances.’
The guess was so far unlucky, that Mérode had no sooner come within sight of the carriage-window, than he was seen to bring his hand to the salute, and remain in an attitude of respectful attention till the equipage moved on.
‘Well, Mérode, who is it?—who are they?’ cried several together, as he fell back among his comrades.
‘It’s our new adjutant-general, parbleu!’ said he, ‘and he caught me staring in at his pretty wife.’
‘Colonel Mahon!’ said another, laughing. ‘I wish you joy of your gallantry, Mérode.’ ‘And, worse still,’ broke in a third, ‘she is not his wife. She never could obtain the divorce to allow her to marry again. Some said it was the husband—a Dutchman, I believe—refused it; but the simple truth is, she never wished it herself.’
‘How not wish it?’ remarked three or four in a breath.
‘Why should she? Has she not every advantage the position could give her, and her liberty into the bargain? If we were back again in the old days of the Monarchy, I agree with you she could not go to Court; she would receive no invitations to the petits soupers of the Trianon, nor be asked to join the discreet hunting-parties at Fontainebleau; but we live in less polished days; and if we have little virtue, we have less hypocrisy.’
‘Voilà!’ cried another; ‘only I, for one, would never believe that we are a jot more wicked or more dissolute than those powdered and perfumed scoundrels that played courtier in the king’s bedchamber.’
‘There, they are getting out, at the “Tour d’Argent!”’ cried another. ‘She is a splendid figure, and what magnificence in her dress!’
‘Mahon waits on her like a lackey,’ muttered a grim old lieutenant of infantry.
‘Rather like a well-born cavalier, I should say,’ interposed a young hussar. ‘His manner is all that it ought to be—full of devotion and respect.’
‘Bah!’ said the former; ‘a soldier’s wife, or a soldier’s mistress—for it’s all one—should know how to climb up to her place on the baggage-waggon, without three lazy rascals to catch her sleeve or her petticoats for her.’
‘Mahon is as gallant a soldier as any in this army,’ said the hussar; ‘and I’d not be in the man’s coat who disparaged him in anything.’
‘By St. Denis!’ broke in another, ‘he’s not more brave than he is fortunate. Let me tell you, it’s no slight luck to chance upon so lovely a woman as that, with such an immense fortune, too.’
‘Is she rich?’
‘Enormously rich. He has nothing. An émigré of good family, I believe, but without a sou; and see how he travels yonder!’
While this conversation was going forward, the new arrivals had alighted at the chief inn of the town, and were being installed in the principal suite of rooms, which opened on a balcony over the ‘Place.’ The active preparations of the host to receive such distinguished guests—the hurrying of servants here and there—the blaze of wax-lights that shone half-way across the street beneath—and, lastly, the appearance of a regimental band to play under the windows—were all circumstances well calculated to sustain and stimulate that spirit of sharp criticism which the group around the café were engaged in.
The discussion was, however, suddenly interrupted by the entrance of an officer, at whose appearance every one arose and stood in attitudes of respectful attention. Scarcely above the middle size, and more remarkable for the calm and intellectual cast of his features, than for that, air of military pride then so much in vogue amongst the French troops, he took his place at a small table near the door, and called for his coffee. It was only when he was seated, and that by a slight gesture he intimated his wishes to that effect, that the others resumed their places, and continued the conversation, but in a lower, more subdued tone.
‘What distinguished company have we got yonder?’ said he, after about half an hour’s quiet contemplation of the crowd before the inn, and the glaring illumination from the windows.
‘Colonel Mahon, of the Fifth Cuirassiers, general,’ replied an officer.
‘Our Republican simplicity is not so self-denying a system, after all, gentlemen,’ said the general, smiling half sarcastically. ‘Is he very rich?’
‘His mistress is, general,’ was the prompt reply.
‘Bah!’ said the general, as he threw his cigar away, and, with a contemptuous expression of look, arose and walked away.
‘Parbleu! he’s going to the inn!’ cried an officer, who peered out after him. ‘I’ll be sworn Mahon will get a heavy reprimand for all this display and ostentation.’
‘And why not?’ said another. ‘Is it when men are arriving half dead with fatigue, without rations, without billets, glad to snatch a few hours’ rest on the stones of the “Place,” that the colonel of a regiment should travel with all the state of an eastern despot?’
‘We might as well have the Monarchy back again,’ said an old weather-beaten captain; ‘I say far better, for their vices sat gracefully and becomingly on those essenced scoundrels, whereas they but disfigure the plainness of our daily habits.’
‘All this is sheer envy, comrades,’ broke in a young major of hussars—‘sheer envy; or what is worse, downright hypocrisy. Not one of us is a whit better or more moral than if he wore the livery of a king, and carried a crown on his shako instead of that naked damsel that represents French Liberty. Mahon is the luckiest fellow going, and, I heartily believe, the most deserving of his fortune! And see if General Moreau be not of my opinion.
There he is on the balcony, and she is leaning on his arm.’
‘Parbleu! the major is right!’ said another; ‘but, for certain, it was not in that humour he left us just now; his lips were closely puckered up, and his fingers were twisted into his sword-knot—two signs of anger and displeasure there’s no mistaking.’
‘If he’s in a better temper, then,’ said another, ‘it was never the smiles of a pretty woman worked the change. There’s not a man in France so thoroughly indifferent to such blandishments.’
‘Tant pis pour lui,’ said the major; ‘but they’re closing the window-shutters, and we may as well go home.’
Whatever opinion may be formed of the character of the celebrated conspiracy of Georges and Pichegru, the mode of its discovery, and the secret rules by which its plans were detected, are among the great triumphs of police skill. From the hour when the conspirators first met together in London, to that last fatal moment when they expired in the Temple, the agents of Fouché never ceased to track them.
Their individual tastes and ambitions were studied; their habits carefully investigated; everything that could give a clue to their turn of thought or mind well weighed; so that the Consular Government was not only in possession of all their names and rank, but knew thoroughly the exact amount of complicity attaching to each, and could distinguish between the reckless violence of Georges and the more tempered, but higher ambition of Moreau. It was a long while doubtful whether the great general would be implicated in the scheme. His habitual reserve—a habit less of caution than of constitutional delicacy—had led him to few intimacies, and nothing like even one close friendship; he moved little in society; he corresponded with none, save on the duties of the service. Fouché‘s well-known boast of, ‘Give me, two words of a man’s writing and I’ll hang him,’ were then scarcely applicable here.
To attack such a man unsuccessfully, to arraign him on a weak indictment, would have been ruin; and yet Bonaparte’s jealousy of his great rival pushed him even to this peril, rather than risk the growing popularity of his name with the army.
Fouché, and, it is said also, Talleyrand, did all they could to dissuade the First Consul from this attempt, but he was fixed and immutable in his resolve, and the Police Minister at once addressed himself to his task with all his accustomed cleverness.
High play was one of the great vices of the day. It was a time of wild and varied excitement, and men sought even in their dissipations, the whirlwind passions that stirred them in active life. Moreau, however, was no gambler; it was said that he never could succeed in learning a game. He, whose mind could comprehend the most complicated question of strategy, was obliged to confess himself conquered by écarté! So much for the vaunted intellectuality of the play-table! Neither was he addicted to wine. All his habits were temperate, even to the extent of unsociality.
A man who spoke little, and wrote less, who indulged in no dissipations, nor seemed to have taste for any, was a difficult subject to treat; and so Fouché found, as, day after day, his spies reported to him the utter failure of all their schemes to entrap him. Lajolais, the friend of Pichegru, and the man who betrayed him, was the chief instrument the Police Minister used to obtain secret information. Being well born, and possessed of singularly pleasing manners, he had the entrée of the best society of Paris, where his gay, easy humour made him a great favourite. Lajolais, however, could never penetrate into the quiet domesticity of Moreau’s life, nor make any greater inroad on his intimacy than a courteous salutation as they passed each other in the garden of the Luxembourg. At the humble restaurant where he dined each day for two francs, the ‘General,’ as he was distinctively called, never spoke to any one. Unobtrusive and quiet, he occupied a little table in a recess of the window, and arose the moment he finished his humble meal After this he was to be seen in the garden of the Luxembourg, with a cigar and a book, or sometimes without either, seated pensively under a tree for hours together.
If he had been conscious of the espionage established over all his actions, he could scarcely have adopted a more guarded or more tantalising policy. To the verbal communications of Pichegru and Armand Polignac, he returned vague replies; their letters he never answered at all; and Lajolais had to confess that, after two months of close pursuit, the game was as far from him as ever!
‘You have come to repeat the old song to me, Monsieur Lajolais,’ said Fouché one evening, as his wily subordinate entered the room; ‘you have nothing to tell me, eh?’
‘Very little, Monsieur le Ministre, but still something. I have at last found out where Moreau spends all his evenings. I told you that about half-past nine o’clock every night all lights were extinguished in his quarters, and, from the unbroken stillness, it was conjectured that he had retired to bed. Now it seems that about an hour later, he is accustomed to leave his house, and, crossing the Place de l’Odéon, to enter the little street called the “Allée du Caire,” where, in a small house next but one to the corner, resides a certain officer, en retraite—a Colonel Mahon of the Cuirassiers.’
‘A Royalist?’
‘This is suspected, but not known. His polities, however, are not in question here; the attraction is of a different order.’
‘Ha! I perceive; he has a wife or a daughter.’
‘Better still, a mistress. You may have heard of the famous Caroline de Stassart, that married a Dutchman named D’Aersohot.’
‘Madame Laure, as they called her.’ said Fouché, laughing.
‘The same. She has lived as Mahon’s wife for some years, and was as such introduced into society; in fact, there is no reason, seeing what society is in these days, that she should not participate in all its pleasures.’
‘No matter for that,’ broke in Fouché; ‘Bonaparte will not have it so. He wishes that matters should go back to the old footing, and wisely remarks, that it is only in savage life that people or vices go without clothing.’
‘Be it so, monsieur. In the present case no such step is necessary. I know her maid, and from her I have heard that her mistress is heartily tired of her protector. It was originally a sudden fancy, taken when she knew nothing of life—had neither seen anything, nor been herself seen. By the most wasteful habits she has dissipated all, or nearly all, her own large fortune, and involved Mahon heavily in debt; and they are thus reduced to a life of obscurity and poverty—the very things the least endurable to all her notions.’
‘Well, does she care for Moreau?’ asked Fouché quickly; for all stories to his ear only resolved themselves into some question of utility or gain.
‘No, but he does for her. About a year back she did take a liking to him. He was returning from his great German campaign, covered with honours and rich in fame; but as her imagination is captivated by splendour, while her heart remains perfectly cold and intact, Moreau’s simple, unpretending habits quickly effaced the memory of his hard-won glory, and now she is quite indifferent to him.’
‘And who is her idol now, for, of course, she has one?’ asked Fouché.
‘You would scarcely guess,’ said Lajolais. ‘Parbleu! I hope it is not myself,’ said Fouché, laughing.
‘No, Monsieur le Ministre, her admiration is not so well placed. The man who has captivated her present fancy is neither good-looking nor well-mannered; he is short and abrupt of speech, careless in dress, utterly indifferent to woman’s society, and almost rude to them.’
‘You have drawn the very picture of a man to be adored by them,’ said Fouché, with a dry laugh.
‘I suppose so,’ said the other, with a sigh; ‘or General Ney would not have made this conquest.’
‘Ah! it is Ney, then. And he, what of him?’
‘It is hard to say. As long as she lived in a grand house of the Rue St. Georges, where he could dine four days a week, and, in his dirty boots and unbrushed frock, mix with all the fashion and elegance of the capital; while he could stretch full length on a Persian ottoman, and brush the cinders from his cigar against a statuette by Canova, or a gold embroidered hanging; while in the midst of the most voluptuous decorations he alone could be dirty and uncared for, I really believe that he did care for her, at least, so far as ministering to his own enjoyments; but in a miserable lodging of the “Allée du Caire,” without equipage, lackeys, liveried footmen——’
‘To be sure,’ interrupted Fouché, ‘one might as well pretend to be fascinated by the beauty of a landscape the day after it has been desolated by an earthquake. Ney is right! Well, now, Monsieur Lajolais, where does all this bring us to?’
‘Very near to the end of our journey, Monsieur le Ministre. Madame, or mademoiselle, is most anxious to regain her former position; she longs for all the luxurious splendour she used to live in. Let us but show her this rich reward, and she will be our own!’
‘In my trade, Monsieur Lajolais, generalities are worth nothing. Give me details; let me know how you would proceed.’
‘Easily enough, sir: Mahon must first of all be disposed of, and perhaps the best way will be to have him arrested for debt. This will not be difficult, for his bills are everywhere. Once in the Temple, she will never think more of him. It must then be her task to obtain the most complete influence over Moreau. She must affect the deepest interest in the Royalist cause—I’ll furnish her with all the watchwords of the party—and Moreau, who never trusts a man, will open all his confidence to a woman.’
‘Very good; go on!’ cried Fouché, gathering fresh interest as the plot began to reveal itself before him.
He hates writing; she will be his secretary, embodying all his thoughts and suggestions, and, now and then, for her own guidance, obtaining little scraps in his hand. If he be too cautious here, I will advise her to remove to Geneva for change of air; he likes Switzerland, and will follow her immediately.
‘This will do; at least it looks practicable,’ said Fouché thoughtfully. ‘Is she equal to the part you would assign her?’
‘Ay, sir, and to a higher one, too! She has considerable ability, and great ambition. Her present narrow fortune has irritated and disgusted her; the moment is most favourable for us.’
‘If she should play us false,’ said Fouché, half aloud.
‘From all I can learn, there is no risk of this; there is a headlong determination in her, when once she has conceived a plan, from which nothing turns her; overlooking all but her object, she will brave anything, do anything, to attain it.’
‘Bonaparte was right in what he said of Necker’s daughter,’ said Fouché musingly, ‘and there is no doubt it adds wonderfully to a woman’s head that she has no heart. And now, the price, Monsieur Lajolais? Remember that our treasury received some deadly wounds lately—what is to be the price?’
‘It may be a smart one; she is not likely to be a cheap purchase.’
‘In the event of success—I mean of such proof as may enable us to arrest Moreau, and commit him to prison——’
He stopped as he got thus far, and paused for some seconds—’ Bethink you, then, Lajolais,’ said he, ‘what a grand step this would be, and how terrible the consequences if undertaken on rash or insufficient grounds. Moreau’s popularity with the army is only second to one man’s! His unambitious character has made him many friends; he has few, very few, enemies.’
‘But you need not push matters to the last—an implied, but not a proven guilt, would be enough; and you can pardon him!’
‘Ay, Lajolais, but who would pardon us?’ cried Fouché, carried beyond all the bounds of his prudence by the thought of a danger so imminent. ‘Well, well, let us come back; the price—will that do?’ And taking up a pen he scratched some figures on a piece of paper.
Lajolais smiled dubiously, and added a unit to the left of the sum.
‘What! a hundred and fifty thousand francs!’ cried Fouché.
‘And a cheap bargain, too,’ said the other; ‘for, after all, it is only the price of a ticket in the lottery, of which the great prize is General Ney!’
‘You say truly,’ said the Minister; ‘be it so.’
‘Write your name there, then,’ said Lajolais, ‘beneath those figures; that will be warranty sufficient for my negotiation, and leave the rest to me.’
‘Nature evidently meant you for a chef de police, Master Lajolais.’
‘Or a cardinal, Monsieur le Ministre,’ said the other, as he folded up the paper—a little insignificant slip, scrawled over with a few figures and an almost illegible word, and yet pregnant with infamy to one, banishment to another, ruin and insanity to a third.
This sad record need not be carried further. It is far from a pleasant task to tell of baseness unredeemed by one trait of virtue—of treachery, unrepented even by regret. History records Moreau’s unhappy destiny; the pages of private memoir tell of Ney’s disastrous connection; our own humble reminiscences speak of poor Mahon’s fate, the least known of all, but the most sorrowful victim of a woman’s treachery!
Poor Mahon’s melancholy story made a deep impression upon me, and I returned to Paris execrating the whole race of spies and mouchards, and despising, with a most hearty contempt, a Government compelled to use such agencies for its existence. It seemed to me so utterly impossible to escape the snares of a system so artfully interwoven, and so vain to rely on innocence as a protection, that I felt a kind of reckless hardihood as to whatever might betide me, and rode into the cour of the Préfecture with a bold indifference as to my fate that I have often wondered at since.
The horse on which I was mounted was immediately recognised as I entered; and the obsequious salutations that met me showed that I was regarded as one of the trusty followers of the Minister; and in this capacity was I ushered into a large waiting-room, where a considerable number of persons were assembled, whose air and appearance, now that necessity for disguise was over, unmistakably pronounced them to be spies of the police. Some, indeed, were occupied in taking off their false whiskers and moustaches; others were removing shades from their eyes; and one was carefully opening what had been the hump on his back in search of a paper he was anxious to discover.
I had very little difficulty in ascertaining that these were all the very lowest order of mouchards, whose sphere of duty rarely led beyond the Faubourgs or the Batignolles, and indeed soon saw that my own appearance amongst them led to no little surprise and astonishment.
‘You are looking for Nicquard, monsieur?’ said one, ‘but he has not come yet.’
‘No; monsieur wants to see Boule-de-Fer,’ said another.
‘Here’s José can fetch him,’ cried a third.
‘He ‘ll have to carry him, then,’ growled out another, ‘for I saw him in the Morgue this morning!’ ‘What! dead?’ exclaimed several together.
‘As dead as four stabs in the heart and lungs can make a man! He must have been meddling where he had no business, for there was a piece of a lace ruffle found in his fingers.’
‘Ah, voilà!, cried another, ‘that comes of mixing in high society.’
I did not wait for the discussion that followed, but stole quietly away as the disputants were waxing warm. Instead of turning into the cour again, however, I passed out into a corridor, at the end of which was a door of green cloth. Pushing open this, I found myself in a chamber, where a single clerk was writing at a table.
‘You’re late to-day, and he’s not in a good-humour,’ said he, scarcely looking up from his paper. ‘Go in!’
Resolving to see my adventure to the end, I asked no further questions, but passed on to the room beyond. A person who stood within the doorway withdrew as I entered, and I found myself standing face to face with the Marquis de Maurepas, or, to speak more properly, the Minister Fouché. He was standing at the fireplace as I came in, reading a newspaper, but no sooner had he caught sight of me than he laid it down, and, with his hands crossed behind his back, continued steadily staring at me.
‘Diable! exclaimed he, at last, ‘how came you here?’ ‘Nothing more naturally, sir, than from the wish to restore what you were so good as to lend me, and express my sincere gratitude for a most hospitable reception.’ ‘But who admitted you?’
‘I fancy your saddle-cloth was my introduction, sir, for it was speedily recognised. Gesler’s cap was never held in greater honour.’
‘You are a very courageous young gentleman, I must say—very courageous, indeed,’ said he, with a sardonic grin that was anything but encouraging.
‘The better chance that I may find favour with Monsieur de Fouché,’ replied I.
‘That remains to be seen, sir,’ said he, seating himself in his chair, and motioning me to a spot in front of it. ‘Who are you?’
‘A lieutenant of the Ninth Hussars, sir; by name Maurice Tiernay.’
‘I don’t care for that,’ said he impatiently; ‘what’s your occupation?—how do you live?—with whom do you associate?’
‘I have neither means nor associates. I have been liberated from the Temple but a few days back; and what is to be my future, and where, are facts of which I know as little as does Monsieur de Fouché of my past history.’
‘It would seem that every adventurer, every fellow destitute of home, family, fortune, and position, thinks that his natural refuge lies in this Ministry, and that I must be his guardian.’
‘I never thought so, sir.’
‘Then why are you here? What other than personal reasons procures me the honour of this visit?’
‘As Monsieur de Fouché will not believe in my sense of gratitude, perhaps he may put some faith in my curiosity, and excuse the natural anxiety I feel to know if Monsieur de Maurepas has really benefited by the pleasure of my society.’
‘Hardi, monsieur, bien hardi,’ said the minister, with a peculiar expression of irony about the mouth that made me almost shudder. He rang a little hand-bell as he spoke, and a servant made his appearance.
‘You have forgotten to leave me my snuff-box, Geoffroy,’ said he mildly to the valet, who at once left the room, and speedily returned with a magnificently chased gold box, on which the initials of the First Consul were embossed in diamonds.
‘Arrange those papers, and place those books on the shelves,’ said the Minister. And then turning to me, as if resuming a previous conversation, went on—
‘As to that memoir of which we were speaking t’ other night, monsieur, it would be exceedingly interesting just now; and I have no doubt that you will see the propriety of confiding to me what you already promised to Monsieur de Maurepas.—That will do, Geoffroy; leave us.’
The servant retired, and we were once more alone.
‘I possess no secrets, sir, worthy the notice of the Minister of Police,’ said I boldly.
‘Of that I may presume to be the better judge,’ said Fouché calmly. ‘But waiving this question, there is another of some importance. You have, partly by accident, partly by a boldness not devoid of peril, obtained some little insight into the habits and details of this Ministry; at least, you have seen enough to suspect more, and misrepresent what you cannot comprehend. Now, sir, there is an almost universal custom in all secret societies of making those who intrude surreptitiously within their limits to take every oath and pledge of that society, and to assume every responsibility that attaches to its voluntary members——’
‘Excuse my interrupting you, sir; but my intrusion was purely involuntary; I was made the dupe of a police spy.’
‘Having ascertained which,’ resumed he coldly, ‘your wisest policy would have been to have kept the whole incident for yourself alone, and neither have uttered one syllable about it, nor ventured to come here, as you have done, to display what you fancy to be your power over the Minister of Police. You are a very young man, and the lesson may possibly be of service to you; and never forget that to attempt a contest of address with those whose habits have taught them every wile and subtlety of their fellow-men will always be a failure. This Ministry would be a sorry engine of government if men of your stamp could outwit it.’
I stood abashed and confused under a rebuke which at the same time I felt to be but half deserved.
‘Do you understand Spanish?’ asked he suddenly.
‘No, sir, not a word.’
‘I’m sorry for it; you should learn that language without loss of time. Leave your address with my secretary, and call here by Monday or Tuesday next.’
‘If I may presume so far, sir,’ said I, with a great effort to seem collected, ‘I would infer that your intention is to employ me in some capacity or other. It is, therefore, better I should say at once, I have neither the ability nor the desire for such occupation. I have always been a soldier. Whatever reverses of fortune I may meet with, I would wish still to continue in the same career. At all events, I could never become a—a—’
‘Spy. Say the word out; its meaning conveys nothing offensive to my ears, young man. I may grieve over the corruption that requires such a system, but I do not confound the remedy with the disease.’
‘My sentiments are different, sir,’ said I resolutely, as I moved towards the door. ‘I have the honour to wish you a good-morning.’
‘Stay a moment, Tiernay,’ said he, looking for something amongst his papers; ‘there are, probably, situations where all your scruples could find accommodation, and even be serviceable, too.’
‘I would rather not place them in peril, Monsieur le Ministre.’
‘There are people in this city of Paris who would not despise my protection, young man—some of them to the full as well supplied with the gifts of fortune as Monsieur Tiernay.’
‘And, doubtless, more fitted to deserve it!’ said I sarcastically; for every moment now rendered me more courageous.
‘And, doubtless, more fitted to deserve it,’ repeated he after me, with a wave of the hand in token of adieu.
I bowed respectfully, and was retiring, when he called out in a low and gentle voice—
‘Before you go, Monsieur de Tiernay, I will thank you to restore my snuff-box.’
‘Your snuff-box, sir?’ cried I indignantly; ‘what do I know of it?’
‘In a moment of inadvertence, you may, probably, have placed it in your pocket,’ said he, smiling; ‘do me the favour to search there.’
‘This is unnecessary insult, sir,’ said I fiercely; ‘and you forget that I am a French officer!’
‘It is of more consequence that you should remember it,’ said he calmly. ‘And now, sir, do as I have told you.’
‘It is well, sir, that this scene has no witness,’ said I, boiling over with passion, ‘or, by Heaven, all the dignity of your station should not save you.’
‘Your observation is most just,’ said he, with the same coolness. ‘It is as well that we are quite alone; and for this reason I beg to repeat my request. If you persist in a refusal, and force me to ring that bell——’
‘You would not dare to offer me such an indignity,’ said I, trembling with rage.
‘You leave me no alternative, sir,’ said he, rising, and taking the hell in his hand. ‘My honour is also engaged in this question. I have preferred a charge—’
‘You have,’ cried I, interrupting, ‘and for whose falsehood I am resolved to hold you responsible.’
‘To prove which you must show your innocence.’
‘There, then—there are my pockets; here are the few things I possess. This is my pocket-book—my purse. Oh, heavens, what is this?’ cried I, as I drew forth the gold box, along with the other contents of my pocket; and then staggering back, I fell, overwhelmed with shame and sickness, against the wall. For some seconds I neither saw nor heard anything; a vague sense of ineffable disgrace—of some ignominy that made life a misery, was over me, and I closed my eyes with the wish never to open them more.’
‘The box has a peculiar value in my eyes, sir,’ said he—‘it was a present from the First Consul—otherwise I might have hesitated——’
‘Oh, sir, you cannot, you dare not, suppose me guilty of a theft. You seem bent on being my ruin; but, for mercy’s sake, let your hatred of me take some other shape than this. Involve me in what snares, what conspiracies you will, give me what share you please in any guilt, but spare me the degradation of such a shame!’
He seemed to enjoy the torments I was suffering, and actually revel in the contemplation of my misery; for he never spoke a word, but continued steadily to stare me in the face.
‘Sit down here, monsieur,’ said he, at length, while he pointed to a chair near him; ‘I wish to say a few words to you, in all seriousness, and in good faith also.’
I seated myself, and he went on.
‘The events of the last two days must have made such an impression on your mind that even the most remarkable incidents of your life could not compete with. You fancied yourself a great discoverer, and that, by the happy conjuncture of intelligence and accident, you had actually fathomed the depths of that wonderful system of police, which, more powerful than armies or councils, is the real government of France! I will not stop now to convince you that you have not wandered out of the very shallowest channels of this system. It is enough that you have been admitted to an audience with me, to suggest an opposite conviction, and give to your recital, when you repeat the tale, a species of importance. Now, sir, my counsel to you is, never to repeat it; and for this reason: nobody possessed of common powers of judgment will ever believe you! not one, sir! No one would ever believe that Monsieur Fouché had made so grave a mistake, no more than he would believe that a man of good name and birth, a French officer, could have stolen a snuff-box. You see, Monsieur de Tiernay, that I acquit you of this shameful act. Imitate my generosity, sir, and forget all that you have witnessed since Tuesday last. I have given you good advice, sir; if I find that you profit by it, we may see more of each other.’
Scarcely appreciating the force of his parable, and thinking of nothing save the vindication of my honour, I muttered a few unmeaning words, and withdrew, glad to escape a presence which had assumed, to my terrified senses, all the diabolical subtlety of Satanic influence. Trusting that no future accident of my life should ever bring me within such precincts, I hurried from the place as though it were contaminated and plague-stricken.