I had often heard that the day which should see the Count restored to us would be one of festivity and enjoyment. Again and again had we talked over all our plans of pleasure for that occasion; but the reality was destined to bring back disappointment! We were returning in sadness from the toll-house, when a messenger came running to tell of the Count's arrival; and my mother, leaving me with Raper, to whom she whispered a few hurried words, hastened homewards.
I thought it strange that she had not taken me along with her; but I walked along silently at Raper's side, lost in my own thoughts, and not sorry to have for my companion one little likely to disturb them. We sauntered onward through some meadows that skirted the river; and at last, coming down to the stream, seated ourselves by the brink, each still sunk in his own reflections.
It was a bright day of midsummer: the air had all that exhilaration peculiar to the season in these Alpine districts. The stream ran clear as crystal at our feet; and the verdure of grass and foliage was in its full perfection. But one single object recalled a thought of sorrow, and that was the curtained window of the little chamber wherein Herr Robert lay dead.
To this spot my eyes would return, do what I could; and thither, too, sped all my thoughts, in spite of me. The influence which for some time back he had possessed over me was perfectly distinct from that which originates in affectionate attachment. Indeed, all his appeals to me were the very reverse of such. His constant argument was, that a man fettered by affection, and restricted by ties of family, was worthless for all purposes of high ambition, and that for the real successes of life, one must sacrifice everything like individual enjoyment. So far had he impressed me with these notions that I already felt a kind of pleasure in little acts of self-denial, and rose in my own esteem by slight traits of self-restraint. The comparative isolation in which I lived, and my estrangement from those of my own age, favored this impression, and I grew by degrees to look upon the sports and pleasures of boyhood with all the disdainful compassion of an old ascetic.
I remember well how, as I lay in the deep grass and watched the rippling circles of the fast-flowing river, that a sudden thought shot through me. What if all this theory should prove but a well-disguised avarice,—that this passion for distinction be only the thirst for wealth,—these high purposes of philanthropy but another scheme for self-advancement! Is it possible that for such a price as this I would surrender all the enjoyments of youth, and all the budding affections of coming manhood?
“Mr. Joseph,” said I, suddenly, “what is the best life?”
“How do you mean, Jasper? Is it, how shall a man do most good to others?” said he.
“Not alone that; but how shall he best employ his faculties for his own sake?”
“That may mean for his personal advancement, Jasper, for objects purely selfish, and be the reverse of what your first question implied.”
“When I said the best, I meant the wisest,” replied I.
“The wisest choice is that of a career, every duty of which can be fulfilled without the sacrifice of kindly affections or the relinquishment of family ties. He who can adopt such is both wise and happy.”
“Are you happy, Mr. Joseph?” asked I; “for I know you are wise.”
“Far more happy than wise, Jasper,” said he, smiling. “For one like me, life has borne many blessings.”
“Like you!” exclaimed I, in surprise, for to my thinking he was a most enviable mortal; I knew of no one so learned, nor of such varied acquirements. “Like you, Mr. Joseph!”
“Just so, Jasper; I, who have had neither home nor family, have yet found both; I, whom no ties of affection encircled, have lived to feel what it is to be cared for; and I, that almost despaired of being aught to any one, have found that I can be of use to those whom it is my chief happiness to love.”
“Tell me your history, Mr. Joseph, or at least tell me something about yourself.”
“My story, my dear Jasper, is but the history of my own day. The least eventful of lives would be adventurous if placed alongside of mine. I began the world such as you see me, poor, humble-minded, and lowly. I continue my journey in the same spirit that I set out. The tastes and pursuits that then gave me pleasure are still the same real sources of enjoyment to me. What were duties are now delights. Your dear mother was once my pupil, as you are now; and it is my pride to see that she has neither forgotten our old lessons, nor lived to think them valueless. Even here have I seen her fall back upon the pursuits which occupied her childhood—ay, and they have served to lighten some gloomy hours too.”
Raper quickly perceived, from the anxiety with which I had listened, that he had already spoken too much; and he abruptly changed the topic by saying,—
“How we shall miss the poor Herr Robert! He had grown to seem one of ourselves.”
“And is my mother unhappy, Mr. Joseph?” said I, recurring to the former remarks.
“Which of us can claim an exemption from sorrow, Jasper? Do you not think that the little village yonder, in that cleft of the mountain—secluded as it looks—has not its share of this world's griefs? Are there not the jealousies, and the rivalries, and the heartburnings of large communities within that narrow spot?”
While he was yet speaking, a messenger came to summon me home. The Countess, he said, was waiting dinner for me, and yet no invitation came for Raper. He seemed, however, not to notice the omission, but, taking my hand, led me along homeward. I saw that some strong feeling was working within, for twice or thrice he pressed my hand fervently, and seemed as if about to say something; and then, subduing the impulse, he walked on in silence.
“Make my respectful compliments to the Count, Jasper,” said he, as we came to the door, “and say that I will wait upon him when it is his pleasure to see me.”
“That would be now, I 'm sure,” said I, eagerly.
“Perhaps not so soon; he will have so much to say to your mother. Another time;” and, hurriedly shaking my hand, he retired.
As I slowly, step by step, mounted the stair, I could not help asking myself, was this the festive occasion I had so often pictured to myself?—was this the happy meeting I had looked forward to so longingly? As I drew near the door, I thought I heard a sound like a. heavy sob; my hand trembled when I turned the handle of the lock and entered the room.
“This is Jasper,” said my mother, coming towards me, and trying to smile through what I could see were recent tears.
The Count was seated on an easy-chair, still dressed in the pelisse he had worn on the journey, and with his travelling-cap in his hand. He struck me as a handsome and distinguished-looking man, 'but with a countenance that alike betrayed passion and intemperance. The look he turned on me as I came forward was assuredly not one of kindness or affection, nor did he extend his hand to me in sign of salutation.
“And this is Jasper!” repeated he slowly after my mother. “He is n't tall of his age, I think.”
“We have always thought him so,” said my mother, gently, “and assuredly he is strong and well grown.”
“The better able will he be to brave fatigue and hardship,” said he, sternly. “Come forward, sir, and tell me something about yourself. What have they taught you at school?—has Raper made you a bookworm, dreamy and good-for-nothing as himself?”
“Would that he had made me resemble him in anything!” cried I, passionately.
“It were a pity such a moderate ambition should go unrewarded,” replied he, with a sneer. “But to the purpose: what do you know?”
“Little, sir; very little.”
“And what can you do?”
“Even less.”
“Hopeful, at all events,” rejoined he, with a shrug of the shoulders. “They haven't made you a scholar: they surely might have trained you to something.”
My mother, who seemed to suffer most acutely during this short dialogue, here whispered something in his ear, to which he as hastily replied,—
“Not a bit of it. I know him better than that; better than you do. Come, sir,” added he, turning to me, “the Countess tells me that you are naturally sensitive, quick to feel censure, and prone to brood over it. Is this the case?”
“I scarcely know if it be,” said I. “I have but a slight experience of it.”
“Ay, that's more like the truth,” said he, gayly. “The language of blame is not familiar to him. So, then, from Raper you have learned little. Now, what has the great financier and arch-swindler Law taught you?”
“Emile, Emile,” broke in my mother, “this is not a way to speak to the boy, nor is it by such lessons he will be trained to gratitude and affection.”
“Even there, then, will my teaching serve him,” said he, laughingly. “From all that I have seen of life, these are but unprofitable emotions.”
I did not venture to look at my mother; but I could hear how her breathing came fast and thick, and could mark the agitation she was under.
“Now, Jasper,” said he, “sit down here beside me, and let us talk to each other in all confidence and sincerity. You know enough of your history to be aware that you are an orphan, that both your parents died leaving you penniless, and that to this lady, whom till now you have called your mother, you owe your home.”
My heart was full to bursting, and I could only clasp my mother's hand and kiss it passionately, without being able to utter a word.
“I neither wish to excite your feelings nor to weary you,” said he, calmly; “but it is necessary that I should tell you we are not rich. The fact, indeed, may have occurred to you already,” said he, with a disdainful gesture of his hand, while his eye ranged over the poverty-stricken chamber where we sat. “Well,” resumed he, “not being rich, but poor,—so poor that I have known what it is to feel hunger and thirst and cold, for actual want! Worse again,” cried he, with a wild and savage energy, “have felt the indignity of being scoffed at for my poverty, and seen the liveried scullions of a great house make jests upon my threadbare coat and worn hat! It has been my own choosing, however, all of it!” and as he spoke, he arose, and paced the room with strides that made the frail chamber tremble beneath the tread.
“Dearest Emile,” cried my mother, “let us have no more of this. Remember that it is so long since we met. Pray keep these sad reflections for another time, and let us enjoy the happiness of being once more together.”
“I have no time for fooling, madame,” said he, sternly. “I have come a long and weary journey about this boy. It is unlikely that I can afford to occupy myself with his affairs again. Let him have the benefit—if benefit there be—of my coming. I would relieve you of the burden of his support, and himself of the misery of dependence.”
I started with surprise. It was the first time I had ever heard the word with reference to myself, and a sense of shame, almost to sickness, came over me as I stood there.
“Jasper is my child; he is all that a son could be to his mother,” cried Polly, clasping me in her arms, and kissing my forehead; and I felt as if my very heart was bursting. “Between us there is no question of burden or independence.”
“We live in an age of fine sentiments and harsh actions,” said the Count. “I have seen M. de Robespierre shed tears over a dead canary, and I believe that he could control his feelings admirably on the Place de Grève. Jasper, I see that we must finish this conversation when we are alone together. And now to dinner.”
He assumed a half air of gayety as he said this; but it was unavailing as a means of rallying my poor mother, whose tearful eyes and trembling lips told how sadly dispirited she felt at heart.
I had heard much from my mother about the charms of the Count's conversation, his brilliant tone, and his powers of fascination. It had been a favorite theme with her to dilate upon his wondrous agreeability, and the vast range of his acquaintance with popular events and topics. She had always spoken of him, too, as one of buoyant spirits, and even boyish light-heartedness. She had even told me that he would be my companion, like one of my own age. With what disappointment, then, did I find him the very reverse of all this! All his views of life savored of bitterness and scorn; all his opinions were tinged with scepticism and distrust; he sneered at the great world and its vanities, but even these he seemed to hold in greater estimation than the humble tranquillity of our remote village. I have him before me this instant as he leaned out of the window and looked down the valley towards the Splugen Alps. The sun was setting, and only the tops of the very highest glaciers were now touched with its glory; their peaks shone like burnished gold in the sea of sky, azure and cloudless. The rest of the landscape was softened down into various degrees of shade, but all sufficiently distinct to display the wild and fanciful outlines of cliff and crag, and the zigzag course by which the young Rhine forced its passage through the rocky gorge. Never had the scene looked in greater beauty,—never had every effect of light and shadow been more happily distributed; and I watched him with eagerness as he gazed out upon a picture which nothing in all Europe can surpass. His countenance for a while remained calm, cold, and unmoved; but at last he broke silence and said:
“This it was, then, that gave that dark coloring to all your letters to me, Polly; and I half forgive you as I look at it. Gloom and barbarism were never more closely united.”
“Oh, Emile, you surely see something else in this grand picture?” cried she, in a deprecating voice.
“Yes,” said he, slowly, “I see poverty and misery; half-fed and half-clad shepherds; figures of bandit rugged-ness and savagery. I see these, and I feel that to live amongst them, even for a brief space, would be to endure a horrid nightmare.”
He moved away as he spoke, and sauntered slowly out of the room, down the stairs, and into the street.
“Follow him, Jasper,” cried Polly, eagerly; “he is dispirited and depressed,—the journey has fatigued him, and he looks unwell. Go with him; but do not speak till he addresses you.”
I did not much fancy the duty, but I obeyed without a word. He seemed to have quickened his pace as he descended; for when I reached the street, I could detect his figure at some distance off in the twilight. He walked rapidly on, and when he arrived at the bridge, he stopped, and, leaning against the balustrade, looked up the valley.
“Are you weary of this, boy?” asked he, while he pointed up the glen.
I shook my head in dissent.
“Not tired of it,” he exclaimed, “not heartsick of a life of dreary monotony, without ambition, without an object! When I was scarcely older than you I was a garde du corps; at eighteen I was in the household, and mixing in all the splendor and gayety of Paris; before I was twenty I fought the Duc de Valmy and wounded him. At the Longchamps of that same year I drove in the carriage with La Marquese de Rochvilliers; and all the world knows what success that was! Well, all these things have passed away, and now we have a republic and the coarse pleasures and coarser tastes of the 'canaille.' Men like me are not the 'mode,' and I am too old to conform to the new school. But you are not so; you must leave this, boy,—you must enter the world, and at once, too. You shall come back with me to Paris.”
“And leave my mother?”
“She is not your mother,—you have no claim on her as such; I am more your relative than she is, for your mother was my cousin. But we live in times when these ties are not binding. The guillotine loosens stronger bonds, and the whisper of the spy is more efficacious than the law of divorce. You must see the capital, and know what life really is. Here you will learn nothing but the antiquated prejudices of Raper, or the weak follies of—others.”
He only spoke the last word after a pause of some seconds, and then moodily sank into silence.
I did not venture to utter a word, and waited patiently till he resumed, which he did by saying,—
“The Countess has told you nothing of your history,—nothing of your circumstances? Well, you shall hear all from me. Indeed, there are facts known to me with which she is unacquainted. For the present, Jasper, I will tell you frankly that the humble pittance on which she lives is insufficient for the additional cost of your support. I can contribute nothing; I can be but a burden myself. From herself you would never hear this; she would go on still, as she has done hitherto, struggling and pinching, battling with privations, and living that fevered life of combat that is worse than a thousand deaths. Raper, too, in his own fashion, would make sacrifices for you; but would you endure the thought of this? Does not the very notion revolt against all your feelings of honor and manly independence? Yes, boy, that honest grasp of the hand assures me that you think so! You must not, however, let it appear that I have confided this fact to you. It is a secret that she would never forgive my having divulged. The very discussion of it has cost us the widest estrangements we have ever suffered, and it would peril the continuance of our affection to speak of it.”
“I will be secret,” said I, firmly.
“Do so, boy; and remember that when I speak of your accompanying me to Paris, you express your wish to see the capital and its brilliant pleasures. Show, if not weary of this dreary existence here, that you at least are not dead to all higher and nobler ambitions. Question me about the life of the great world, and in your words and questions exhibit the interest the theme suggests. I have my own plan for your advancement, of which you shall hear later.”
He seemed to expect that I would show some curiosity regarding the future, but my thoughts were all too busy with the present. They were all turned to that home I was about to leave, to the fond mother I was to part from, to honest Joseph himself,—my guide, my friend, and my companion; and for what? An unknown sea, upon which I was to adventure without enterprise or enthusiasm.
The Count continued to talk of Paris and his various friends there, with whom he assured me I should be a favorite. He pictured the life of the great city in all its brightest colors. He mentioned the names of many who had entered it as unknown and friendless as myself, and yet, in a few years, had won their way up to high distinction. There was a vagueness in all this which did not satisfy me; but I was too deeply occupied with other thoughts to question or cavil at what he said.
When we went back to supper, Raper was there to pay his respects to the Count. De Gabriac received his respectful compliments coldly and haughtily; he even interrupted the little address poor Joseph had so carefully studied and committed to memory, by asking if he still continued to bewilder his faculties with Greek particles and obsolete dialects; and then, without waiting for his reply, he seated himself at the table, and arranged his napkin.
“Master Joseph,” said he, half sarcastically, “the world has been pleased to outlive these follies; they have come to the wise resolve that, when languages are dead, they ought to be buried; and they have little sympathy with those who wish to resuscitate and disinter them.”
“It is but an abuse of terms to call them dead, Count,” replied Joseph. “Truth, in whatever tongue it be syllabled, does not die. Fidelity to nature in our age will be acknowledged as correct in centuries after.”
“Our own time gives us as good models, and with less trouble to look for them,” said the Count, flippantly. “Your dreamy bookworm is too prone to delve in the earth, and not to coin the ore that he has discovered. Take Jasper there: you have taught him diligently and patiently; I 'll be sworn you have neglected him in nothing, so far as your own knowledge went; and yet, before he shall have been three months in Paris, he will look upon you, his master, as an infant. The interval between you will be wide as the broad Atlantic; and the obstacles and crosses, to overcome which will be with him the work of a second, would be to you difficulties insurmountable.”
“To Paris! Jasper go to Paris!” exclaimed my mother, as she grew deadly pale.
“Jasper leave us!” cried Raper, in a tone of terror.
“And why not?” replied the Count. “Is it here you would have him waste the best years of youth? Is it in the wild barbarism of this dreary valley that he will catch glimpses of the prizes for which men struggle and contend? The boy himself has higher and nobler instincts; he feels that this is but the sluggish existence of a mere peasant, and that yonder is the tournament where knights are jousting.”
“And you wish to leave us, Jasper?” cried my mother, with a quivering lip, and a terrible expression of anxiety in her features.
“To forsake your home!” muttered Raper.
“Ask himself; let him be as frank with you as he was half-an-hour ago with me, and you will know the truth.”
“Oh, Jasper, speak!—leave me not in this dreadful suspense!” cried my mother; “for in all my troubles I never pictured to my mind this calamity.”
“No, no!” said Raper; “the boy 's nature has no duplicity,—he never thought of this!”
“Ask him, I say,” cried the Count; “ask him if he wish not to accompany me to Paris.”
I could bear no longer the power of the gaze that I felt was fixed upon me, but, falling at her feet, I hid my face in her lap, and cried bitterly. My heart was actually bursting with the fulness of sorrow, and I sobbed myself to sleep, still weeping through my dreams, and shedding hot tears as I slumbered.
My dream is more graven on my memory than the events which followed my awaking. I could recount the strange and incoherent fancies which chased each other through my brain on that night, and yet not tell the actual occurrences of the following day.
I do remember something of sitting beside my mother, with my hand locked in hers, and feeling the wet cheek that from time to time was pressed against my own; of the soft hand as it parted the hair upon my forehead, and the burning kiss that seemed to sear it. Passages of intense emotion—how caused I know not—are graven in my mind; memories of a grief that seemed to wrench the heart with present suffering, and cast shadows of darkest meaning on the future. Oh, no, no!—the sorrows—if they be indeed sorrows—of childhood are not short-lived; they mould the affections, and dispose them in a fashion that endures for many a year to come.
While I recall to mind these afflictions, of the actual events of my last hours at Reichenau I can relate but the very slightest traits. I do remember poor Raper storing my little portmanteau with some of the last few volumes that remained to him of his little store of books; of my mother showing me a secret pocket of the trunk, not to be opened save when some emergency or difficulty had presented itself; of my astonishment at the number of things provided for my use, and the appliances of comfort and convenience which were placed at my disposal; and then, more forcibly than all else, of the contemptuous scorn with which the Count surveyed the preparation, and asked “if my ward robe contained nothing better than these rags?”
Of the last sad moment of parting,—the agony of my mother's grief as she clasped me in her arms, till I was torn away by force, and with my swimming faculties I thought to have seen her fall fainting to the ground,—of these I will not speak, for I dare not, even now!
Our journey was a dreary and wearisome one. The diligence travelled slowly, and as the weather was dull and rainy, the road presented nothing of interest, at least of interest sufficient to combat the grief that still oppressed me. We were upwards of a week travelling before we reached Paris, which I own presented a very different aspect from what my ardent imagination had depicted. The narrow streets were scarcely lighted,—it was night,—the houses seemed poor and mean and dilapidated, the inhabitants rude-looking and ill-dressed. The women especially were ill-favored, and with an air of savage daring and effrontery I had never seen before. Gangs of both sexes patrolled the streets, shouting in wild chorus some popular chant of the time; and as the diligence did not venture to pierce these crowds, we were frequently delayed in our progress to the “bureau,” which was held in the Rue Didier of the Battignolles; for it was in that unfashionable quarter in which my first impressions of the capital were conceived.
“Remember, boy, I am no longer a Count here,” said my companion, as we got out of the conveyance, “I am the citizen Gabriac; and be careful that you never forget it. Take that portmanteau on your shoulder, and follow me!”
We treaded a vast number of streets and alleys, all alike wretched and gloomy, till we entered a little “Place” which formed a “cul de sac” at the end of a narrow lane, and was lighted by a single lantern, suspended from a pole in the centre. This was called the Place de Trieze, in memory, as I afterwards learned, of thirteen assassins who had once lived there, and been for years the terror of the capital. It was now but scantily tenanted, none of the rooms on the ground-floor being inhabited at all; and in some instances an entire house having but one or two occupants. The superstitious terrors that were rife about it (and there were abundance of ghost stories in vogue) could scarcely account for this desertion, for assuredly the fears of a spiritual world could not have proved formidable to the class who frequented it; but an impression had got abroad that it was a favorite resort of the spies of the police, who often tracked the victims to this quarter, or at least here obtained information of their whereabouts. Plague itself would have been a preferable reputation to such a report, and accordingly few but the very poorest and most destitute would accept the shelter of this ill-omened spot.
A single light, twinkling like a faint star, showed through the gloom as we entered, where some watcher yet sat; but all the rest of the “Place” was in darkness. Gabriac threw some light gravel at the window, which was immediately opened, and a head enveloped in a kerchief, by way of nightcap, appeared.
“It is I, Pierre,” cried he; “come down and unbar the door!”
“Ma foi,” said the other, “that is unnecessary. The commissaire broke it down yesterday, searching for 'Torchon,' and the last fragment cooked my dinner to-day.”
“And Torchon, did they catch him?”
“No, he escaped, but only to reach the Pont Neuf, where he threw himself over the balustrade into the river.”
“And was drowned?”
“Doubtless, he was.”
“I scarcely regret him,” said Gabriac.
“And I not at all,” replied the other. “Good night;” and with this he closed the window, leaving us to find our way as best we could.
I followed Gabriac as he slowly groped his way up the stairs and reached a door on the third story, of which he produced the key. He struck a light as he passed in, and lighted a small lamp, by which I was enabled to see the details of a chamber poorer and more miserable than anything I had ever conceived. A board laid upon two chairs served for a table, and some wood-shavings, partially covered by a blanket, formed a bed; a couple of earthenware pipkins comprised the cooking utensils, and a leaden basin supplied the provisions for the toilet.
“Lie down there and take a sleep, Jasper, for I have no supper for you,” said Gabriac; but his voice had a touch of compassionate gentleness in it which I heard for the first time.
“And you, sir,” said I, “have you no bed?”
“I have no need of one. I have occupation that will not admit of sleep,” said he. “And now, boy, once for all, never question me, nor ask the reasons of what may seem strange or odd to you. Your own faculties must explain whatever requires explaining—or else you must remain in ignorance;” and with these words he passed into an inner chamber, from which he speedily issued forth to descend the stairs into the street, leaving me alone to my slumbers. And they were heavy and dreamless ones, for I was thoroughly wearied and worn out by the road.
I was still asleep, and so soundly that I resisted all efforts to awake me till a strong shake effectually succeeded, and, on looking up, I saw Gabriac standing by my side.
“Get up, boy, and dress. These are your clothes,” said he, pointing to a uniform of dark green and black, with a sword-belt of black leather, from which hung a short, broad-bladed weapon. The dress was without any richness, still a becoming one, and I put it on without reluctance.
“Am I to be a soldier, then?” asked I, in half shame at disobeying his injunction of the night before.
“All Paris, all France, is arrayed at one side or the other just now, Jasper,” said he, as he busied himself in the preparation of our coffee. “The men who have ruled the nation by the guillotine have exhausted its patience at last. A spirit, if not of resistance, of at least self-defence, has arisen, and the little that remains of birth and blood amongst us has associated with the remnant of property to crush the hell-hounds that live by carnage. One of these bands is called the battalion of 'La Jeunesse Dorée,' and into this I have obtained your admission. Meanwhile, you will be attached to the staff of General Danitan, who will employ you in the 'secrétariat' of his command. Remember, boy, your tale is, you are the son of parents that have died on the scaffold. You are the nephew of Emile de Gabriac, brother of Jules Louis de Gabriac, your father, whom you cannot remember. Your life in Switzerland you can speak of with safety. You will not talk of these matters save to the General, and to him only if questioned about them.”
“But is this disguise necessary, sir? May I not assume the name I have a right to, and accept the fate that would follow it?”
“The guillotine,” added he, sarcastically. “Are you so ignorant, child, as not to know that England and France are at war, and that your nationality would be your condemnation? Follow my guidance or your own,” said he, sternly, “but do not seek to weld the counsels together.”
“But may I not know in what service I am enrolled?”
“Later on, when you can understand it,” was the cold reply.
“I am not so ignorant,” said I, taking courage, “as not to be aware of what has happened of late years in France. I know that the king has been executed.”
“Murdered!—martyred!” broke in Gabriac.
“And monarchy abolished.”
“Suspended—interrupted,” added he, in the same voice. “But I will not discuss these matters with you. When you have eaten your breakfast, take that letter to the address in the Rue Lepelletier, see the General, and speak with him. As you go along the streets you will not fail to meet many of those to whom your duty will at some later period place you in opposition. If they by look, by dress, by bearing and manner captivate your imagination and seduce your allegiance to their ranks, tear off your colors then, and join them, boy; the choice is open to you. My charge is then ended; we are not, nor ever can be, aught to each other again.”
I saw that he would not be questioned by me, and, forbearing at once, from the risk of offending him, I ate my meal in silence.
“I am ready now, sir,” said I, standing up in front of him.
He wheeled me round by the arm to look at me in my new dress. He adjusted my belt, and arranged my sword-knot more becomingly, muttering to himself a few words of approval at my appearance, and then said aloud,—
“Salute all whom you see in this uniform, boy, and bear yourself haughtily as you pass the 'canaille.' Remember that between you and them must be the struggle at last, and show that you do not blink it.”
He patted me good-naturedly on the shoulder as he said this, and, with the word “Go,” half-pushed me from the room.
I soon found myself in the open air, and, having inquired my way to the Rue Lepelletier, walked rapidly along, endeavoring, as best I might, to disguise the astonishment I felt at so many new and wonderful objects. As I emerged from the meaner quarter of the Battignolles, the streets grew finer and more spacious, and the dress of the people and their appearance generally improved also. Still, there was none of that splendor of equipage of which I had heard so much. The carriages were few, and neither rich nor well-appointed. The horses were poor-looking, and seemed all over-worked and exhausted. The same tired and worn-out air pervaded the people too. They all looked as though fatigue and excitement had finally conquered them, and that they were no longer capable of endurance. At the bakers' shops that I passed, great crowds were assembled, waiting for the distribution of bread which the Government each morning doled out to the population. I watched these, and saw, to my amazement, that the ration was a small piece of black and coarse bread, weighing two ounces, and for this many were content to wait patiently the entire day. In my curiosity to see this, I had approached an old man of a strong, athletic appearance, who, leaning on his staff, made no effort to pierce the crowd, but waited calmly till his name was called aloud, and even then received his pittance as it was passed to him from hand to hand. There was something of dignity in the way he subdued every trace of that anxious impatience so perceptible around him, and I drew nigh to speak to him, with a sense of respect.
“Is that meant for a day's subsistence?” asked I.
He stared at me calmly for a few seconds, but made no reply.
“I asked the question,” began I, with an attempt to apologize, when he interrupted me thus:—
“Are you one of the Troupe Dorée, and ask this? Is it from you, who live in fine houses and eat sumptuously, that comes the inquiry, how men like me exist?”
“I am newly come to Paris; I am only a few hours here.”
“See here, comrades,” cried the old man, in a loud and ringing voice to the crowd, “mark what the 'Sections' are doing: drafting the peasants from the Provinces, dressing them in their livery, and arming them to slaughter us. Starvation marches too slowly for the wishes of these aristocrats!”
“Down with the 'aristos,' down with the 'Troupe!'” broke in one wild yell from the multitude, who turned at once towards me with looks of menace.
“Ay,” continued the old man, waving his hand to maintain silence, “he dared to taunt me with the pittance we receive, and to scoff at our mendicancy!”
“Down with him! down with him!” cried the crowd; but, interposing his staff like a barrier against the mob, the old fellow said,—
“Spare him, comrades; he is, as you see, only a boy; let him live to be wiser and better. Come, lad, break that sword upon your knee, tear off that green cockade, and go back to your village again!”
I stepped back, and, drawing my sword, motioned to those in front to give way.
“I'll cut down the first that opposes me!” cried I, with a wave of the steel round my head; and at the same instant I dashed forward.
The mass fell back, and left me a free passage, while a chorus of the wildest yells and screams burst around and about me. Mad with the excitement of the moment, I shook my sword at them as I went, in defiance, and even laughed my scorn of their cowardice. My triumph was brief; a stunning blow on the back of the head sent me reeling forwards, and at the same instant the ranks of the mob closed in, and, hurling me to the ground, trampled and jumped upon me. Stunned, but not unconscious, I could perceive that a battle was waged over me, in which my own fate was forgotten, for the multitude passed and repassed my body without inflicting other injury than their foot-treads. Even this was brief, too, and I was speedily raised from the earth, and saw myself in the arms of two young men in uniform like my own. One of them was bleeding from a wound in the temple, but seemed only to think of me and my injuries. We were soon joined by several others of the troop, who, having returned from a pursuit of the mob, now pressed around me with kindest questions and inquiries. My name, whence I came, and how long I had been in Paris, were all asked of me in a breath; while others, more considerate still, sought to ascertain if I had been wounded in the late scuffle. Except in some bruises, and even those not severe, I had suffered nothing; and when my clothes were brushed, and shako readjusted, and a new cockade affixed to it, I was as well as ever. From the kind attentions we met with in the shops, and the sympathy which the better-dressed people displayed towards us, I soon gathered that the conflict was indeed one between two classes of the population, and that the Troupe were the champions of property.
“Show him the Rue Lepelletier, Guillaume,” said an officer to one of the youths; and a boy somewhat older than myself now undertook to be my guide.
I had some difficulty in answering his questions as to the names and the number of my family who were guillotined, and when and where the execution had occurred; but I was spared any excessive strain on my imagination by the palpable indifference my companion exhibited to a theme now monstrously tiresome. He, however, was communicative enough on the subject of the Troupe and their duties, which he told me were daily becoming more onerous. The Government, harassed by the opposition of the National Guards and the Jeunesse Dorée together, had resorted to the terrible expedient of releasing above a thousand prisoners from the galleys; and these, he assured me, were now on their way to Paris, to be armed and formed into a regiment.
Though he told this with a natural horror, he still spoke of his own party with every confidence. They comprised, he said, the courage, the property, and the loyalty of France. The whole nation looked to them as the last stay and succor, and felt that the hope of the country was in their keeping.
I asked him what was the number now enrolled in the Troupe? and, to my astonishment, he could not tell me. In fact, he owned that many had of late assumed the uniform as spies, and General Danitan had resolved that each volunteer should present himself to him for acceptance before receiving any charge, or being appointed to any guard.
I had not time for further questioning, when we arrived at the hôtel of the general, when my companion, having given me full directions for my guidance, shook my hand cordially, and departed.
As I ascended the stairs I overtook an elderly gentleman in a gray military frock, who was slowly making his way upwards by the aid of the balustrade.
“Give me your arm, lad,” said he, “for this stair seems to grow steeper every day. Thanks; now I shall get on better. What has torn your coat-sleeve?”
I told him in a few words what had just occurred in the streets, and he listened to me with a degree of interest that somewhat surprised me.
“Come along, my lad. Let General Danitan hear this from your own lips;” and with an agility that I could not have believed him capable of, he hurried up the stairs, and, crossing a kind of gallery crowded with officers of different grades, he entered a chamber where two persons in military undress were writing.
“Can I see the general, François?” said he, abruptly.
The officer thus addressed, coolly replied that he believed not, and went on with his writing as before.
“But I have something important to say to him,—my business is of consequence,” said he.
“As it always is,” muttered the other, in a tone of sarcasm that fortunately was only overheard by myself.
“You will announce me, then, François?” continued he.
“My orders are not to admit any one, Captain.”
“They were never meant to include me, sir,—of that I 'm positive,” said the old man; “and if you will not announce me, I will enter without it;” and, half dragging me by the arm, he moved forward, opened the door, and passed into an inner room.
General Danitan, a small, dark-eyed, severe-looking man, was standing with his back to the fire, and in the act of dictating to a secretary, as we entered. An expression of angry impatience at our unauthorized appearance was the only return he vouchsafed to our salute; and he continued his dictation, as before.
“Don't interrupt me, sir,” said he, hastily, as the old captain made an effort to address him. “Don't interrupt me, sir.—'Which difficulties,'” continued he, as he took up the thread of his dictation,—“'which difficulties are considerably increased by the obtrusive habit of tendering advice by persons in whose judgment I place no reliance, and whose conduct, when they leave me, is open to the suspicion of being prejudicial to the public service. Amongst such offenders the chief is a retired captain of the 8th regiment of Chasseurs, called Hugues Le Bart—'”
“Why, General, it is of me—me myself—you are speaking!” broke in the captain.
“'An officer,'” continued the other, perfectly heedless of the interruption, “'into whose past services I would strenuously recommend some inquiry; since neither from the information which has reached me with regard to his habits, nor from the characters of his intimates, am I disposed to regard him as well affected to the Government, or in other respects trustworthy.' How do you do, Captain? Who is our young friend here?” continued he, with a smile and a bow towards us.
“In what way am I to understand this, General? Is it meant for a piece of coarse pleasantry—”
“For nothing of the kind, sir,” interrupted the other, sternly. “That you have been a witness to the words of a confidential communication is entirely attributable to yourself; and I have only to hope you will respect the confidence of which an accident has made you a participator. Meanwhile, I desire to be alone.”
The manner in which these words were uttered was too decisive for hesitation, and the old man bowed submissively and withdrew. As I was about to follow him, the general called out,—
“Stay: a word with you. Are you the captain's protégé, boy?”
I told him that our first meeting only dated a few moments back, and how it had occurred.
“Then you are not of the 'Troupe'? You have never worn the uniform till this morning?” said he, somewhat severely.
I bowed assent.
He turned hastily about at the moment, and said something to his secretary in a low voice, of which I just could catch the concluding words, which were far from flattering to the corps in whose livery I was dressed.
“Well, boy, go back and take off those clothes,” said he, sternly; “resume your trade or occupation, whatever it be, and leave politics and state affairs to those who can understand them. Tell your father—”
“I have none, sir.”
“Your mother, then, or your friends, I care not what they be. What letter is that you are crumpling in your fingers?” broke he in, suddenly.
“To General Danitan, sir.”
“Give it me,” said he, half snatching it from me.
He tore it hastily open and read it, occasionally looking from the paper to myself, as he went on. He then leaned over the table where the secretary sat, and, showed him the letter. They conversed eagerly for some seconds together, and then the general said,—
“Your friends have recommended you for a post in the 'chancellerie militaire': is that your liking, lad?”
“I should be proud to think myself capable of doing anything for my own support,” was my answer.
“D'Artans, see to him; let him be enrolled as a supernumerary, and lodged with the others.—This gentleman will instruct you in your duty,” added he to me, while, with a slight nod towards the door, he motioned me to withdraw.
I retired at once to the antechamber, where I sat down to think over my future prospects, and canvass in my mind my strange situation.
Troops of officers in full and half dress, orderlies with despatches, aides-de-camp in hot haste, came and went through that room for hours; and yet there I sat, unnoticed and unrecognized by any, till I began to feel in my isolation a sense of desertion and loneliness I had never known before.
It was already evening when D'Artans joined me, and taking my arm familiarly within his own, said,—
“Come along, Jasper, and let us dine together.”
The sound of my own name so overcame me that I could scarcely restrain my tears as I heard it. It was a memory of home and the past too touching to be resisted!