My skill at the sword exercise carried me safely through many of these encounters. My recklessness of life may perhaps have served to preserve it, for I was utterly reckless of it! My neglect of politics, and all interest about them, procured my dismissal from the Government journal. The “Vendee” soon followed the example; and although the violence of my articles in the “Avant Scène” had for a time amused the town, the editors told me that my defence of Mademoiselle Margot had now been carried far enough, and that I should look elsewhere for a new topic.
Not a few of Margot's warmest admirers condemned the ill-advised zeal of my advocacy. Some even affirmed that much of her unpopularity had its origin in my indiscreet defence. I was coldly told I had “written too much.” One said I had “fought too often.” The fastidious public—which acknowledged no sincerity, nor would recognize such a thing as truth—condemned, as bad taste, the excesses into which my heartfelt indignation had hurried me. Mademoiselle Mars was a half convert to this opinion; I shuddered one day as I suspected that even Margot seemed to entertain it. I had been pressing her to do something—a mere trifle—to which she dissented. I grew eager, and at last insisted; when, looking at me steadily for some seconds, she said,—
“Has it never occurred to you that over-zeal is apt to defeat itself, from the very suspicion that it excites, that there may be a deeper motive than that which meets the eye?”
The words smote me to the heart. They were the death-knell to all the hope that had sustained me through my long struggle; and though I tried to read them in various ways less wounding to my feelings, one terrible signification surmounted all the others, and seemed to proclaim itself the true meaning. What if it were really so? was the dreadful question that now struck me. What if I had been the cause of her downfall? The thought so stunned me that I sat powerless under the spell of its terror,—a terror which has tempered every hour of life from that day to this.
One of the noted characters about Paris at this time was a certain Captain Fleury; he called himself “Fleury de Montmartre.” He had been, it was said, on Bonaparte's staff in Egypt, but got into disgrace by having taken Kléber's side, in the differences between the two generals. Disgusted with the service, in which he saw no prospect of promotion, he quitted the army and came to live in Paris, as some thousands live there, no one can tell how or in what manner. His chief, if not only, occupation seemed to be the frequenting of all the low gambling-houses, where, however, he rarely was seen to play, but rather waited for the good fortune which befell some other, with whom he either dined, or succeeded in borrowing a few francs. Less reputable habits than even these were likewise attributed to him: it was said that he often thrust quarrels upon people at the tables, which he afterwards compromised for money, many preferring to pay rather than risk an encounter with a professed duellist.
In his threadbare military frock and shabby hat, with broken boots and ragged gloves, he still maintained the semblance of his former condition, for he was eminently good-looking, and, in gait and bearing, every inch a soldier. I had made his acquaintance by an accident. I happened to have let fall beside my chair a bank-note for one hundred francs, one night at play. The waiter hurried after me to restore it, just as I was descending the stairs with this Captain Fleury at my side. I was not aware of my loss, and insisted that the money could not be mine. The waiter was equally positive, and appealed to the Captain to decide the question. Fleury, instead of replying, took out a much-worn pocket-book, and proceeded to examine its contents.
“I'll wager as much,” cried I, “that this gentleman is the owner of the note.”
“And you would win, sir,” said Fleury, taking it from the waiter's reluctant fingers, and carefully enclosing it within his case.
The waiter never uttered a syllable, but, with a look that revealed an entire history, bowed and retired. I complimented the Captain on the good fortune of his presence in such a critical moment, touched my hat to him, and departed.
It was only the next morning that I recollected the sum of money I had had about me, and perceived that the note must have been my own. It was of course too late to think of repairing the loss, but I was far from desiring to do so. The man's appearance had interested me; I was deeply struck by the signs of poverty in his dress, and only happy to have had this slight occasion to serve him, without any infringement on his self-respect. It was, indeed, a question I often debated with myself whether or not he really believed that he was the owner of the note.
From that day forth we saluted whenever we met; and if by any chance we came together, we exchanged the usual courtesies of acquaintance. There was a degree of pleasure afforded him by even this much of recognition, from one whose air betokened more prosperous circumstances, that I gladly yielded. I had known even harder fortune than his, and could well understand the importance he might attach to such a trifle.
By degrees I began to feel a strange kind of interest for this man,—so calm, so self-possessed as he seemed in the midst of scenes of passionate and violent excitement. What signified any sudden reverse of fortune, thought I, in comparison with the daily misery of such a lot as his? And yet day after day I saw him unmoved and tranquil; he came and went like one to whom all the vicissitudes of life brought no emotion. He was a study for me, whether I met him at the play-table or the restaurant, or saw him at night in the theatre in his accustomed spot, close to the orchestra, where, with folded arms and bent brows, he stood the entire night without moving. I watched him closely during that terrible week when, each night of Margot's appearance, the conflict of public opinion grew stronger and stronger, when, as her enemies gained strength, her former friends either gathered in little despairing knots together, or abandoned the field in defeat. I thought, or rather I seemed to feel, that this man's eyes were fixed upon me oftentimes when I was not looking at him. I had a strange sense of consciousness that, affect what bearing I might, he was reading my secret thoughts at his leisure, and conning over traits of my character. Whenever any momentary burst of disapprobation from the audience had made me fall back in shame and anger within my box, I could feel that his eyes were following me with a glance of persecuting keenness.
Margot's enemies were triumphant; they came each night in crowds, and by a hundred contrivances of insult displayed their bitter and undying hatred of her. The leader of the party was a Vicomte Dechaine, whose mistress was the rival of Margot,—if even third-rate powers could aspire to contend with genius such as hers! Her friend, it was said, had organized the entire conspiracy, and, being a rich man, his purse and his influence were powerful allies. At his supper-table, the writers of the papers, the young fashionables of society, and the professed critics who swayed public taste, were said to meet and concert their measures. Their victory cost them less than they had ever anticipated. Margot's own indiscretions—I have no other word for them—had worked faster for her ruin than all their bitterest animosity. It was not a mere indifference to public opinion she displayed,—it was a downright contempt for it. If they censured any peculiarity of expression,—a pause, or a gesture,—she was sure not only to repeat, but even exaggerate it. Did any detail of her costume excite reproof, she at once assumed it as a reason for maintaining it. In a word, it seemed that all the arts others employ to win praise and secure popularity were used by her to show her utter disdain of the world's opinion; and this, too, in a career where such opinion is the law, and where there exists no appeal against it.
To restrain this spirit, even to moderate it, her friends utterly failed. She who once heard even the humblest with deference, and accepted suggestions with a degree of humility, now rejected all counsel and guidance, and boldly proclaimed herself the only competent judge of what regarded her. A frequent subject of censure amongst her critics was a habit she had fallen into, of pressing both hands to her temples in moments of intense passion. The gesture was not alone ungraceful, but from its frequency it became, in a measure, a trick; and this they assailed with a degree of virulence far out of proportion to the offence. Mademoiselle Mars counselled her to guard against any mannerism, and mentioned this one in illustration. Margot—once the very emblem of obedience to her gifted friend—resented the advice with angry indignation, and flatly declared that her own inspirations were her best advisers.
In the temper she had now assumed, it may be imagined how difficult had all intercourse with her become. Her waywardness increased as the public favor declined; and she who once might have been permitted to indulge any caprice, was now rigidly denied even the commonest liberty. At first, the hardest task was to blind her to the censures the press was heaping upon her. Now, however, a new difficulty arose. It was to hint that she no longer could count upon the fickle favor of the multitude, and that the hour of her triumph had gone by.
At moments, it is true, in some scenes of intense passion, where a deep emotion of the soul was to find its utterance in a few broken words, a cry, or perhaps a look, her wonderful genius shone forth still; and, surmounting all the prejudices of sworn enemies, the theatre would burst forth into one of those thundering peals of applause that sound like the very artillery of human feeling. Such a passage was there in “Bajazet.” It is the scene where Roxalane listens to the warm protestations of her lover, of whose perfidy she is assured, and whom she herself overheard declaring that his love for her was little other than compassion. For a few seconds the words of adoration seemed to act on her like a spell. She drinks them eagerly and madly; her eyes sparkle; her bosom heaves, her half-opened lips seem, as it were, to catch the accents; when suddenly the truth flashes across her. Her color flies; her face becomes livid in its paleness. A terrible shudder shakes her frame. She snatches her hand from his grasp, and turns him a look of loathing, contemptuous aversion such as actually sickens the very heart to behold!
From, I know not what caprice, she disliked this part now, although once it had been her favorite above all others. Her friends made every effort to induce her to resume it, but in vain. Their entreaties, indeed, only served to excite her opposition; and the subject was at last dropped as hopeless. The Court, however, had fixed on a night to visit the “Français” and “Bajazet” was their choice. There was now no alternative left her but to accept her part or see it filled by another. The latter was her immediate resolve; and Mademoiselle Leonie, her rival, was at length installed in all the honors of the “first character.” It was evident now to all Margot's friends that her career was over. An act of abdication like this was always irrevocable; and the Parisian public was never known to forgive what they regarded as an open act of insult to their authority in taste. Well knowing that all attempts at dissuasion would be hopeless, we made no appeal against her determination, but in calm submission waited for the course of events,—waited, in fact, to witness the last crash of ruin to that fame in whose edifice we once had gloried.
Mademoiselle Mars advised Margot to travel. Italy had been always the land of her predilection. She had even acted there with immense success in Alfieri's tragedies, for her knowledge of the language equalled that of her own country. It would be a good opportunity to revisit it; “And perhaps, who knew,” said she, “but that the echo of her fame coming over the Alps might again rouse the enthusiasm of Paris in her favor?” I warmly supported this plan, and Margot consented to it. A dame de compagnie, an old friend of Mademoiselle de Mars, was chosen to be her travelling companion, and I was to be of the party as secretary.
We hurried on all the arrangements as rapidly as possible. We desired that she should leave Paris before the night of the command, and thus remove her from all the enthusiasm of praise the press had prepared to shower down on her rival, with the customary expressions of contemptuous contrast for the fallen idol. We well knew the excess of adulation that was in readiness to burst forth, and dreaded less the effect it might produce on Margot's mind regarding her rival than that it should inspire her with a curiosity to witness her performance; for such was exactly the wayward character of her mode of thinking and acting.
To our joy, we discovered that Margot's impatience equalled, if not exceeded, our own. She entered with an almost childish delight into all the preparations for the journey. We hung over the map for hours together, tracing our route, and revelling in anticipated pleasure at the thought of all those glorious old cities of the peninsula. We consulted guide-books and journals, and pictured to ourselves all the delights of a happy journey. With what ecstasy she recalled the various scenes of her former visit to Italy, and the names of those whose friendship she had acquired, and with whom she longed to make me acquainted! In her enthusiasm she seemed to recover her long-lost buoyancy of heart, and to be of the same gay and happy nature I had known her. I dare not trust myself with more of these memories; they come upon me like the thought of those moments when on a sick bed some dear friend has uttered words to be treasured up for years long,—words of promise, mayhap words of hope, for a future that was never to come; plans for a time that dark destiny had denied us!
Our arrangements were all completed, our passports procured, a courier engaged, and everything in readiness for the road. We were to set out on the following day. It was a Friday, and Margot's prejudices would not permit her to begin a journey on such an inauspicious day. I reasoned with her and argued earnestly, for I remembered it was on that night Mademoiselle Leonie was to appear at the Français. She was resolved, however, to have her way, and I gave in. No allusion to the theatre, nor to anything concerning it, had ever escaped either of us. By as it were a tacit understanding, each avoided the theme as one only suggestive of distressing memories; and then we had so many topics that were delightful to talk over.
I went out early in the morning to make some purchases, some trifling things we wanted for the road, and on my return I found Margot with flushed face and feverish look rapidly walking to and fro in the drawing-room. She tried to seem calm and composed as I entered, she even made jest of her own agitation, and tried to laugh it off as a weakness she was ashamed of; but her efforts were sad failures: her quivering lip and trembling accents showed that deep agitation was at work within her.
“I cannot tell you, I will not tell you, what is the matter with me,” said she, at last; “it would but lead to some rash outbreak of your temper,—the very last thing I could endure at such a time. No, no; let us go; let us leave Paris at once,—to-day, now, if you wish it; I am ready.”
This was impossible; all our arrangements had been made, and horses ordered for the next day. My curiosity now became an agony, and I grew almost angry at her continued refusal to satisfy me; when at last, after exacting from me a solemn oath to do nothing nor to take any step without her concurrence, she placed in my hands a letter, saying, “This came while you were out.”
It ran to this effect:—
“The Vicomte Dechaine begs to offer to Mademoiselle De La Veronie [Margot's name in the theatre] his box at the Français for this evening, as it must doubtless be interesting to her to witness the performance of Roxalane by one who labors under the double difficulty of her beauty and her reason. An answer will be called for.”
“You cannot expect me to endure this outrage, Margot!” cried I, trembling with passion; “you could not suppose that I can live under it?”
“I have your oath, sir,” said she, solemnly, and with a dignity that at once recalled me to myself.
“But if I am to drag out life dishonored and degraded even to my own heart, Margot,” said I, imploringly, “you surely would take pity on me!”
“And who would pity me, sir, were I to make you a murderer? No, no!” cried she, “you would have this secret,—you insisted on it; show yourself worthy of this confidence, by keeping your solemn pledge. We leave this to-morrow; a few hours is not too much sacrifice for one who will give her whole life to you after.”
As she spoke she fell into my arms, and sobbed as though her heart was breaking. As for me, my transports knew no bounds. I dropped at her feet; I vowed and swore a thousand times that not only my life, but that my fame, my honor, were all hers; that to deserve her there was no trial I would not dare. Oh, the glorious ecstasy of that moment comes back like a flood of youth once more upon this old and shattered heart; and, as I write these lines, the hot tears are falling on the paper, and my lips are murmuring a name I have not strength to write.
“I will put your loyalty to the test at once,” said she, gayly, and with a degree of wild joyousness the very opposite to her late emotion. “Sit down there, and write as I dictate.”
I obeyed, and she began:—
“'Mademoiselle De La Veronie begs to acknowledge, with a gratitude suitable to the occasion, the polite note of the Vicomte Déchaîne, and to accept—'”
“What!” cried I, dropping the pen.
“Go on,” said she, calmly; “write as I tell you: 'to accept his box this evening at the Français.'”
“Margot, you are not in earnest!” said I, entreatingly.
“I am resolved, sir,” said she, with a voice of determination and a look of almost reproving sternness. “I hope it is not from you, at least, will come any doubts of my courage!”
These words seemed to indicate the spirit in which her resolution had been taken, and to show that she preferred accepting, as it were, this challenge, to the humbler alternative of an escape from it.
I wrote as she bade me, and despatched the letter.
If the triumphs of genius be amongst the most exalted pleasures of our nature, its defeats and reverses are also the very saddest of all afflictions. He who has learned to live, as it were, on the sympathies of his fellows—to be inspired by them at times, and inspire them at others—to feel his existence like a compact with the world, wherein he alternately gives and receives, cannot endure the thought of being passed over and forgotten. The loss of that favor in which, as in a sunshine, he basked, is a bereavement too great to be borne. He may struggle for a while against this depression—he may arm himself with pride against what his heart denounces as injustice—he may even deceive him* self into a mock indifference of such judgments; but, do all he will, he comes at the last to see that his greatest efforts were prompted by the very enthusiasm they evoked,—that the impression he produced upon others was like an image in a mirror, by which he could view the proportions of his mind, and that the flame of his intellect burned purest and brightest when fanned by the breath of praise.
It will be seen that I limit these observations to dramatic success; that I am only speaking of the stage and the actor. For him there is no refuge in the calmer judgment of posterity; there is no appeal to a dispassionate future. The value stamped upon him now is to be his fame forever. No other measure of his powers can be taken than the effect he produced upon his contemporaries; and hence the great precariousness of a career wherein each passing mood of illness, sorrow, anxiety, or exhaustion may influence the character of a reputation that might seem established beyond reversal.
How leniently, then, should we deal with those who labor for our pleasure in these capacities! How indulgent should we show ourselves even to their caprices,—justly remembering the arduous nature of a struggle in which so many requirements are summoned, and that genius itself is insufficient, if there be not the vigor of health, the high promptings of ambition, and the consciousness of power that springs from unimpaired faculties.
I have come to think over these things with a sad heart. Within the circle of such memories lies enshrined the greatest sorrow of a life that has not been without its share of trials. I had intended to have revealed to my reader a painful incident, but I find that age has not yet blunted the acute misery of my feelings; nor can I, with all the weight of long years upon me, endure to open up again a grief whose impress has stamped every hour of existence. Let me not be supposed as uttering these words in any spirit of querulousness with fortune; I have had much, far more than most men, to feel grateful for. Well do I know, besides, that to my successes in life I can lay no claim in any merits or deservings of my own; that my shortcomings have been numerous, and leniently dealt with. I speak, therefore, not complainingly. I would not, moreover, like to spend in repinings the last hours of a long life: the goal cannot well be distant now; and as, footsore and weary, I tread the few remaining miles of my earthly pilgrimage, I would rather cheer my heart with the prospect of rest before me, than darken the future with one shadow of the past.
Margot had insisted on remaining. She felt as though a challenge had been offered to her, and it would be cowardice to decline it. Over and over again was she wont to repeat to herself the contempt she felt for that applause in which it was believed she exulted. She burned, therefore, for a moment wherein she could display this haughty contempt, and throw back with proud disdain their homage, by showing herself as indifferent to rebuke as she had ever been to adulation. The day was passed in moods of silence, or paroxysms of the wildest excitement. After an hour or more perhaps of unbroken calm, she would burst forth into a passionate denunciation of the world's injustice, with bitter and poignant regrets for the hour when she became a suppliant for its favors. The proudest efforts she would make to rise above this were sure to be defeated by some sudden sense of defeat,—an agonizing conviction that threw her into violent weeping; a state of suffering that even now I dread to think of.
She grew calmer towards evening, but it was a calm that terrified me: there was a slow and careful precision in every word she spoke that denoted effort; her smile, too, had a fixity in it that remained for seconds after the emotion which occasioned it; and while a stern and impassive quietude characterized her expression generally, her eyes at times flashed and sparkled like the glaring orbs of a lioness. She descended to the drawing-room most magnificently attired, a splendid diamond tiara on her head, and a gorgeous bouquet of rubies and brilliants on the corsage of her dress. Although pale as death,—for she wore no rouge,—I had never seen her look so beautiful. There is a Titian picture of Pompey's daughter receiving the tidings of Pharsalia, and, while too proud to show her agony, is yet in the very struggle of a breaking heart: the face is like enough to have been her portrait, and even to the color of the massive, waving hair, is wonderfully identical.
The play had already begun when we arrived at the theatre, and in the little bustle caused by our entry into the box, a half impatient expression ran through the audience; but as suddenly suppressed, it became a murmur of wondering admiration. The stage was forgotten, and every eye turned at once towards her who so often had moved their hearts by every emotion, and who now seemed even more triumphant in the calm self-possession of her beauty. Rank over rank leaned forward in the boxes to gaze at her, and the entire pit turned and stood, as it were, spell-bound at her feet. Had she wished for a triumph over her rival, she could not have imagined a more signal one; for none now directed their attention to the business of the play, but all seemed forgetful of everything save her presence. Margot appeared to accept this homage with the naughty consciousness of its being her due; her eyes ranged proudly over the dense crowd, and slowly turned away, as though she had seen nothing there to awaken one sentiment of emotion.
There was less an expression of disdain than of utter indifference in her look,—it was almost like the cold impassive-ness of a statue.
For myself I am unable to speak. I saw nothing of the play or the actors. Margot, and Margot alone, filled my eyes; and I sat far back in the box. My glances revelled on her, watching with unceasing anxiety that pale and passionless face. In the fourth act comes the scene where Roxalane, aware of her lover's falsehood, hears him profess the vows that he but feigns to feel. It was the great triumph of Margot's genius,—the passage of power in which she rose unapproachably above all others; and now in the stilled and silent assembly might be noted the anxiety with which they awaited her rival's delineation. Unlike the cold, unmoved, and almost patient bearing which Margot displayed at first, as though, having schooled her mind to a lesson, she would practise it, had not aversion or contempt overmastered her, and in the very sickness of her soul revealed her sorrow, the other burst forth into a wild and passionate declamation,—an outburst of vulgar rage. A low murmur of discontent ran through the house, and, swelling louder and louder, drowned the words of the piece. The actress faltered and stopped; and, as if by some resistless impulse, turned towards the box where Margot sat, still and motionless. The entire audience turned likewise, and every eye was now bent on her whose genius had become so interwoven with the scene that it was as though associated with her very identity. Slowly rising from her seat, Margot stood erect, gazing on that dense mass with the proud look of one who defied them. The same stern, cold stare of insult she had once bestowed on the stage she now directed on the spectators. It was a moment of terrible interest, as thus she stood, confronting, almost daring, those who had presumed to condemn her; and then, in the same words Roxalane uses, she addressed them, every accent tremulous with passion, and every syllable vibrating with the indignant hate that worked within her. The measured distinctness of every word rang out clear and full. It was less invective than scornful, and scorn that seemed to sicken her as she spoke it.
The effect upon the audience will best evidence the power of the moment. On all sides were seen groups gathered around one who had swooned away. Many were carried out insensible, and fearful cries of hysteric passion betrayed the secret sympathies her words had smitten. She paused, and, with that haughty gesture with which she takes eternal farewell of her lover, she seemed to say, “Adieu forever!” and then pushing back her dark ringlets, and tearing away the diamond coronet from her brows, she burst into a fit of laughter. Oh! how terribly its very cadence sounded,—sharp, ringing, and wild! the cry of an escaped intellect,—the shriek of an intelligence that had fled forever!
Margot was mad. The violent conflict of passion to which her mind was exposed had made shipwreck of a glorious intellect, and the very exercise of emotion had exhausted the wells of feeling. I cannot go on. Already have these memories sapped the last foundations of my broken strength, and my old eyes are dimmed with tears.
The remainder of her life was passed in a little château near Sèvres, where Mademoiselle Mars had made arrangements for her reception. She lingered for three years, and died out, like one exhausted. As for me, I worked as a laborer in the garden of the château to the day of her death; and although I never saw her, the one thought that I was still near her sustained and supported me,—not, indeed, with hope, for I had long ceased to hope.
I knew the window of the room she sat in; and when, at evening, I left the garden, I knew it was the time she walked there. These were the two thoughts that filled up all my mind; and out of these grew the day-dreams in which my hours were passed. Still fresh as yesterday within my heart are the sensations with which I marked a slight change in the curtain of her window, or bent over the impress of her foot upon the gravel. How passionately have I kissed the flowers that I hoped she might have plucked! how devotedly knelt beside the stalks from which she had broken off a blossom!
These memories live still, nor would I wish it otherwise. In the tender melancholy, I can sit and ponder over the past, more tranquilly, may be, than if they spoke of happiness.
For some years after the death of Margot, my life was like a restless dream,—a struggle, as it were, between reality and a strange scepticism with everything and every one. At moments a wish would seize me to push my fortune in the world,—to become rich and powerful; and then as suddenly would I fall back upon my poverty as the condition least open to great reverses, and hug myself in the thought that my obscurity was a shield against adverse fortune. I tried to school my mind to a misanthropy that might throw me still more upon myself; but I could not. Even in my isolated, friendless condition, I loved to contemplate the happiness of others. I could watch children for hours long at their play; and if the sounds of laughter or pleasant revelry came from a house as I passed at nightfall, my heart beat responsively to every note of joy, and in my spirit I was in the midst of them. I had neither home nor country, and my heart yearned for both. I felt the void like a desert, bleak and desolate, within me; and it was in vain I endeavored, by a hundred artifices, to make me suffice to myself. I came, at length, to think that it were better to attach myself to the world by even the interests of a crime than to live on thus, separated and apart from all sympathy. In humble life, he who retreats from association with his fellows must look to be severely judged. The very lightest allegation against him will be a charge of pride; and even this is no slight offence before such a tribunal. Vague rumors of worse will gain currency, and far weightier derelictions be whispered about him. His own rejection of the world now recoils upon himself, and he comes to discover that he has neglected to cultivate the sympathies which are not alone the ties of brotherhood between men, but the strong appeals to mercy when mercy is needed.
By much reflection on these things, I was led to feel at last that nothing but a strong effort could raise me from the deep depression I had fallen into; that I should force myself to some pursuit which might awaken zeal or ambition within me; and that, at any cost, I should throw off the hopeless, listless lethargy of my present life. While I was yet hesitating what course to adopt, my attention was attracted one morning to a large placard affixed to the walls of the Hôtel de Ville, and which set forth the tidings that “all men who had not served as soldiers, and were between the ages of fifteen and thirty, were to present themselves at the Prefecture at a certain hour of a certain day.” The consternation this terrible announcement called forth may easily be imagined; for although only a very limited number of these would be drafted, yet each felt that the evil lot might be his own.
I really read the announcement with a sense of pleasure, It seemed to me as though fate no longer ignored my very existence, but had at length agreed to reckon me as one amongst the wide family of men. Nor was it that the life of a soldier held out any prize to my ambition; I had never at any time felt such. It was the simple fact that I should be recognized by others, and no longer accounted a mere waif upon the shore of existence.
The conscription is a stern ordinance. Whatever its necessities, there is something painfully afflicting in every detail of its execution. The disruption of a home, and the awful terrors of a dark future, are sad elements to spread themselves over the peaceful monotony of a village life. Nor does a war contain anything more heart-rending in all its cruel history than the tender episodes of these separations. I have the scene before me now as I saw it on that morning, and a sadder sight I never have looked upon. The little village was crowded, not alone by those summoned by the conscription, but by all their friends and relations; and as each new batch of twelve were marched forward within the gloomy portals of the Hôtel de Ville, a burst of pent-up sorrow would break forth, that told fearfully the misery around. But sad as was this, it was nothing to the scene that ensued when the lot had fallen upon some one well known and respected by his neighbors. He who had drawn the lowest number was enlisted, and instead of returning to join his fellows outside, never made his appearance till his hair had been closely cropped, and the addition of a tri-colored ribbon to his cap proclaimed him a soldier. Of these poor fellows some seemed stunned and stupefied, looked vaguely about them, and appeared incapable to recognize friends or acquaintances; some endeavored to carry all off with an air of swaggering recklessness, but in the midst of their assumed indifference natural feeling would burst forth, and scenes of the most harrowing misery be exhibited; and, lastly, many came forth so drunk that they knew nothing either of what happened or where they were; and to see these surrounded by the friends who now were to take their last leave of them was indescribably painful.
Like most of those who care little for fortune, I was successful; that is, I drew one of the highest numbers, and was pronounced “exempt from service.” There was not one, however, to whom the tidings could bring joy, nor was there one to whom I could tell the news with the hope of hearing a word of welcome in return. I was turning away from the spot, not sorry to leave a place so full of misery, when I came upon a group around a young man who had fainted and been carried out for fresh air. He had been that moment enlisted, and the shock had proved over-much for him. Poor fellow! well might it—the same week saw him the happy father of his firstborn, and the sworn soldier of the Empire. What a wide gulf separates such fortunes!
I pushed my way into the midst, and offered myself to take his place. At first none so much as listened to me; they deemed my proposal absurd, perhaps impossible. An old sergeant who was present, however, thought differently, and, measuring me calmly with his eye, left the spot. He returned soon, and beckoned me to follow. I did so. A few brief questions were put to me. I answered them, was desired to pass on to an inner room, where, in a file of some twenty strong, the chosen recruits were standing before a desk. A man rapidly repeated certain words, to which we were ordered to respond by lifting the right hand to the face.
This was an oath of allegiance, and when taken we moved on to the barber, and in a few minutes the ceremony was completed, and we were soldiers of France.
I had imagined, and indeed I had convinced myself, that I was so schooled in adversity I could defy fortune. I thought that mere bodily privations and sufferings could never seriously affect me, and that, with the freedom of my own thoughts unfettered, no real slavery could oppress me. In this calculation I had forgotten to take count of those feelings of self-esteem which are our defences against the promptings of every mean ambition. I had not remembered that these may be outraged by the very same rules of discipline that taught us to fire and load, and march and manouvre! It was a grievous error!
France was once more at war with all the world: her armies were now moving eastward to attack Austria, and more than mere menaces declared the intention to invade England. Fresh troops were called for with such urgency that a fortnight or three weeks was only allowed to drill the new recruits and fit them for regimental duty. Severity compensated for the briefness of the time, and the men were exercised with scarcely an interval of repose. In periods of great emergency many things are done which in days of calmer influences would not be thought of; and now the officers in command of depots exercised a degree of cruelty towards the soldiers which is the very rarest of all practices in the French army; in consequence, desertions became frequent, and, worse again, men maimed and mutilated themselves in the most shocking manner to escape from a tyranny more insupportable than any disease. It is known to all that such practices assume the characteristics of an epidemic, and when once they have attained to a certain frequency, men's minds become familiarized to the occurrence, and they are regarded as the most ordinary of events. The regiment to which I was attached—the 47th of the line—was one of the very worst for such acts of indiscipline; and although the commanding officers had been twice changed, and one entire battalion broken up and reformed, the evil repute still adhered to the corps. It is a mistake to suppose that common soldiers are indifferent to the reputation of their regiment; even the least subordinate, those in whom military ardor is lowest, feel acutely, too, the stigma of a condemned corps. We had reason to experience this, on even stronger grounds. We were despatched to Brest to garrison the prison, and hold in check that terrible race who are sentenced to the galleys for life. This mark of disgrace was inflicted on us as the heaviest stain upon a regiment openly pronounced unworthy to meet the enemies of France in the field.
This act seemed to consummate the utter degradation of our corps, from which, weekly, some one or other was either sentenced to be shot, or condemned to the even worse fate of a galley-slave. I shrink from the task of recalling a period so full of horror. It was one long dream of ruffian insubordination and cruel punishment. Time, so far from correcting, seemed to confirm the vices of this fated regiment; and at length a commission arrived from the ministry of war to examine into the causes of this corruption. This inquiry lasted some weeks; and amongst those whose evidence was taken, I was one. It chanced that no punishment had ever been inflicted on me in the corps; nor was there a single mark in the “conduct roll” against my name. Of course, these were favorable circumstances, and entitled any testimony that I gave to a greater degree of consideration. The answers I returned, and the views I had taken, were deemed of consequence enough to require further thought. I was ordered to be sent to Paris to be examined by General Caulincourt, at that time the head of the état major.
It would little interest the reader to enter further into this question, to which I have only made allusion from its reference to my own fortunes. The opinions I gave, and the suggestions I made, attracted the notice of my superiors, and I received, as a reward, the grade of corporal, and was attached to the Chancellerie Militaire at Strasburg,—a post I continued to occupy for upwards of two years. Two peaceful, uneventful years were they, and to look back upon, they seem but as a day.
The unbroken monotony of my life, the almost apathetic calm which had come over me, and my isolation from all other men, gave me the semblance of a despondent and melancholy nature; but I was far from unhappy, and had schooled myself to take pleasure in a variety of simple, uncostly pursuits which filled up my leisure hours; and thus my little flower-garden, stolen from an angle of the glacis, was to me a domain of matchless beauty. Every spare moment of my time was passed here, and every little saving of my humble pay was expended on this spot. The rose, the clematis, and the jessamine here twined their twigs together to make an arbor, in which I used to sit at evening, gazing out upon the spreading Rhine, or watching the sunset on the Vosges mountains. I had trained myself not to think of the great events of the world, momentous and important as they then were, and great with the destiny of mankind. I never saw a newspaper,—I held no intercourse with others; to me life had resolved itself into the very simplest of all episodes,—it was mere existence, and no more.
This dream might possibly have ended without a waking shock, and the long night of the grave have succeeded to the dim twilight of oblivion, had not an event occurred to rouse me from my stupor, and bring me back to life and its troubles.
An order had arrived from Paris to put the fortress into a state of perfect defence. New redoubts and bastions were to be erected, the ditches widened, and an additional force of guns to be mounted on the walls. The telegraph had brought the news in the morning, and ere the sunset that same evening my little garden was a desert; all my care and toil scattered to the winds; the painful work of long months in ruin, and my one sole object in life obliterated and gone. I had thought that all emotions were long since dead within me. I fervently believed that every well of feeling was dry and exhausted in my nature; but I cried and cried bitterly as I beheld this desolation. There seemed to my eyes a wantonness in the cruelty thus inflicted, and in my heart I inveighed against the ruthless passions of men, and the depravity by which their actions are directed. Was the world too much a paradise for me, I asked, that this small spot of earth could not be spared to me? Was I over-covetous in craving this one corner of the vast universe? In my folly and my selfishness I fancied myself the especial mark of adversity, and henceforth I vowed a reckless front to fortune.
He who lives for himself alone, has not only to pay the penalty of unguided counsels, but the far heavier one of following impulses of which egotism is the mainspring. The care for others, the responsibilities of watching over and protecting something besides ourselves, are the very best of all safeguards against our own hearts. I have a right to say this.
From a life of quiet and orderly regularity, I now launched out into utter recklessness and abandonment. I formed acquaintances with the least reputable of my comrades, frequented their haunts, and imitated their habits. I caught vice as men catch a malady. It was a period little short of insanity, since every wish was perverted, and every taste the opposite of my real nature. I, who was once the type of punctuality and exactness, came late and irregularly to my duties. My habits of sobriety were changed for waste, and even my appearance, my very temper, altered; I became dissolute-looking and abandoned, passionate in my humors, and quick to take offence.
The downward course is ever a rapid one, and vices are eminently suggestive of each other. It took a few weeks to make me a spendthrift and a debauchee; a few more, and I became a duellist and a brawler. I ceased to hold intercourse with all who had once held me in esteem, and formed friends among the dissolute and the depraved. Amidst men of this stamp the sentence of a Provost-Marshal, or the durance of the Salle de Police, are reckoned distinctions; and he who has oftenest insulted his superiors and outraged discipline is deemed the most worthy of respect. I had won no laurels of this kind, and resolved not to be behind my comrades in such claims. My only thought was how to obtain some peculiar notoriety by my resistance to authority.
I had now the rank of sergeant,—a grade which permitted me to frequent the café resorted to by the officers; but as this was a privilege no sous-officer availed himself of, I of course did not presume to take. It now, however, occurred to me that this was precisely the kind of infraction the consequences of which might entail the gravest events, and yet be, all the while, within the limits of regimental discipline. With this idea in my head I swaggered, one evening, into the “Lion Gaune,” at that time the favorite military café of Strasburg. The look of astonishment at my entrance was very soon converted into a most unmistakable expression of angry indignation; and when, calling for the waiter, I seated myself at a table, my intrusion was discussed in terms quite loud enough for me to hear.
It was well known that the Emperor distinguished the class I belonged to, by the most signal marks of favor: the sergeant and the corporal might have dared to address him when the field-marshal could not have uttered a word. It was part of his military policy to unbend to those whose position excluded them from even the very shadow of a rivalry, and be coldly distant to all whose station approached an equality. This consideration restrained the feelings of those who now beheld me, and who well knew, in any altercation, into which scale would be thrown the weight of the imperial influence.
To desert the side of the room where I sat, and leave me in a marked isolation, was their first move; but seeing that I rather assumed this as a token of victory, they resorted to another tactic,—they occupied all the tables, save one at the very door, and thus virtually placed me in a position of obloquy and humiliation. For a night or two I held my ground without flinching; but I felt that I could not continue a merely defensive warfare, and determined, at any hazard, to finish the struggle. Instead, therefore, of resuming the humble place they had assigned me, I carried my coffee with me, and set the cup on a table at which a lieutenant-colonel was seated, reading his newspaper by the fire. He started up as he saw me, and called out, “What means this insolence? Is this a place for you?”
“The general instructions of the army declare that a sous-officer has the entrée to all public cafés and restaurants frequented by regimental officers, although not to such as are maintained by them as clubs and messrooms. I am, therefore, only within the limits of a right, Monsieur Colonel,” said I, offering a military salute as I spoke.
“Leave the room, sir, and report yourself to your captain,” said he, boiling over with rage.
I arose, and prepared to obey his command.
“If that fellow be not reduced to the ranks on to-morrow's parade, I 'll leave the service,” said he to an officer at his side.
“If I have your permission to throw him out of the window, Monsieur Colonel, I 'll promise to quit the army if I don't do it,” said a young lieutenant of cuirassiers. He was seated at a table near me, and with his legs in such a position as to fill up the space I had to pass out by.