Produced by David Widger





TOM BURKE OF “OURS.”


By Charles James Lever

With Illustrations By Phiz. and Browne



IN TWO VOLUMES

VOL. I


Transcriber's Note: Two print editions have been used for this Project
Gutenberg Edition of “Tom Burke of 'Ours'”: The Little Brown edition
(Boston) of 1913 with illustrations by Phiz; and the Chapman and Hall
editon (London) of 1853 with illustrations by Browne. Illegible and
missing pages were found in both print editions.

DW


TO

MISS EDGEWORTH.



Madam,--This weak attempt to depict the military life of France, during
the brief but glorious period of the Empire, I beg to dedicate to you.
Had the scene of this, like that of my former books, been laid chiefly
in Ireland, I should have felt too sensibly my own inferiority to
venture on the presumption of such a step. As it is, I never was more
conscious of the demerits of my volume than when inscribing it to you;
but I cannot resist the temptation of being, even thus, associated with
a name,--the first in my country's literature.

Another motive I will not conceal,--the ardent desire I have to assure
you, that, amid the thousands you have made better, and wiser, and
happier, by your writings, you cannot count one who feels more proudly
the common tie of country with you, nor more sincerely admires your
goodness and your genius, than

Your devoted and obedient servant,

CHARLES J. LEVER.

Temple-O Nov. 25, 1848.



PREFATORY EPISTLE FROM MR. BURKE.



My dear O'Flaherty,--It seems that I am to be the “next devoured.” Well,
be it so; my story, such as it is, you shall have. Only one condition
would I bargain for,--that you seriously disabuse your readers of the
notion that the life before them was one either of much pleasure or
profit. I might moralize a little here about neglected opportunities and
mistaken opinions; but, as I am about to present you with my narrative,
the moral--if there be one--need not be anticipated.

I believe I have nothing else to premise, save that if my tale have
little wit, it has some warning; and as Bob Lambert observed to the
hangman who soaped the rope for his execution, “even that same 's a
comfort.” If our friend Lorrequer, then, will as kindly facilitate my
debut, I give him free liberty to “cut me down” when he likes, and am,

Yours, as ever,

TOM BURKE.

To T. O'Flaherty, Esq.




PREFACE.



I WAS led to write this story by two impulses: first, the fascination
which the name and exploits of the great Emperor had ever exercised on
my mind as a boy; and secondly, by the favorable notice which the Press
had bestowed upon my scenes of soldier life in “Charles O'Malley.”

If I had not in the wars of the Empire the patriotic spirit of a great
national struggle to sustain me, I had a field far wider and grander
than any afforded by our Peninsular campaigns; while in the character of
the French army, composed as it was of elements derived from every rank
and condition, there were picturesque effects one might have sought for
in vain throughout the rest of Europe.

It was my fortune to have known personally some of those who filled
great parts in this glorious drama. I had listened over and over to
their descriptions of scenes, to which their look, and voice, and manner
imparted a thrilling intensity of interest. I had opportunities of
questioning them for explanations, of asking for solutions of this and
that difficulty which had puzzled me, till I grew so familiar with the
great names of the time, the events, and even the localities, that when
I addressed myself to my tale, it was with a mind filled by my topics to
the utter exclusion of all other subjects.

Neither before nor since have I ever enjoyed to the same extent the
sense of being so entirely engrossed by a single theme. A great tableau
of the Empire, from its gorgeous celebrations in Paris to its numerous
achievements on the field of battle, was ever outspread before me, and
I sat down rather to record than to invent the scenes of my story. A
feeling that, as I treated of real events I was bound to maintain
a degree of accuracy in relation to them, even in fiction, made me
endeavor to possess myself of a correct knowledge of localities, and,
so far as I was able, with a due estimate of those whose characters I
discussed.

Some of the battlefields I have gone over; of others, I have learned the
particulars from witnesses of the great struggles that have made them
famous. To the claim of this exactness I have, therefore, the pretension
of at least the desire to be faithful. For my story, it has all the
faults and shortcomings which beset everything I have ever written; for
these I can but offer regrets, only the more poignant that I feel how
justly they are due.

The same accuracy which I claim for scenes and situations, I should
like, if I dared, to claim for the individuals who figure in this tale;
but I cannot, in any fairness, pretend to more than an attempt to paint
resemblances of those whom I have myself admired in the description
of others. Pioche and Minette are of this number. So is, but of a very
different school, the character of Duchesne; for which, however, I had
what almost amounted to an original. As to the episodes of this story,
one or two were communicated as facts; the others are mere invention.

I do not remember any particulars to which I should further advert;
while I feel, that the longer I dwell upon the theme, the more occasion
is there to entreat indulgence,--an indulgence which, if you are not
weary of according, will be most gratefully accepted by

Your faithful servant,

CHARLES LEVER

Casa Capponi, Florence, May, 1867.




CONTENTS.





TOM BURKE OF “OURS.”



CHAPTER I. MYSELF.

It was at the close of a cold, raw day in January--no matter for the
year--that the Gal way mail was seen to wind its slow course through
that long and dull plain that skirts the Shannon, as you approach the
“sweet town of Athlone.” The reeking box-coats and dripping umbrellas
that hung down on every side bespoke a day of heavy rain, while the
splashed and mud-stained panels of the coach bore token of cut-up
roads, which the jaded and toil-worn horses amply confirmed. If the
outsiders--with hats pressed firmly down, and heads bent against the
cutting wind--presented an aspect far from comfortable, those within,
who peeped with difficulty through the dim glass, had little to charm
the eye; their flannel nightcaps and red comforters were only to be seen
at rare intervals, as they gazed on the dreary prospect, and then sank
back into the coach to con over their moody thoughts, or, if fortunate,
perhaps to doze.

In the rumble, with the guard, sat one whose burly figure and rosy
cheeks seemed to feel no touch of the inclement wind that made his
companions crouch. An oiled-silk foraging-cap fastened beneath the chin,
and a large mantle of blue cloth, bespoke him a soldier, if even the
assured tone of his voice and a certain easy carriage of his head had
not conveyed to the acute observer the same information. Unsubdued in
spirit, undepressed in mind, either by the long day of pouring rain or
the melancholy outline of country on every side, his dark eye flashed as
brightly from beneath the brim of his cap, and his ruddy face beamed as
cheerily, as though Nature had put forth her every charm of weather
and scenery to greet and delight him. Now inquiring of the guard of the
various persons whose property lay on either side, the name of some poor
hamlet or some humble village; now humming to himself some stray verse
of an old campaigning song,--he passed his time, diversifying these
amusements by a courteous salute to a gaping country girl, as, with
unmeaning look, she stared at the passing coach. But his principal
occupation seemed to consist in retaining one wing of his wide cloak
around the figure of a little boy, who lay asleep beside him, and whose
head jogged heavily against his arm with every motion of the coach.

“And so that's Athlone, yonder, you tell me,” said the captain, for such
he was,--“'the sweet town of Athlone, ochone!' Well, it might be worse.
I 've passed ten years in Africa,--on the burning coast, as they call
it: you never light a fire to cook your victuals, but only lay them
before the sun for ten minutes, game something less, and the joint's
done; all true, by Jove! Lie still, my young friend, or you'll heave us
both over! And whereabouts does he live, guard?”

“Something like a mile and a half from here,” replied the gruff guard.

“Poor little fellow! he's sleeping it out well. They certainly don't
take overmuch care of him, or they'd never have sent him on the top of
a coach in weather like this, without even a greatcoat to cover him.
I say, Tom, my lad, wake up; you're not far from home now. Are you
dreaming of the plum-pudding and the pony and the big spaniel, eh?”

“Whisht!” said the guard, in a low whisper. “The chap's father is dying,
and they've sent for him from school to see him.”

A loud blast of the horn now awoke me thoroughly from the half-dreamy
slumber in which I had listened to the previous dialogue, and I sat up
and looked about me. Yes, reader, my unworthy self it was who was then
indulging in as pleasant a dream of home and holidays as ever blessed
even a schoolboy's vigils. Though my eyes were open, it was some minutes
before I could rally myself to understand where I was, and with what
object. My senses were blunted by cold, and my drenched limbs were
cramped and stiffened; for the worthy captain, to whose humanity I owed
the share of his cloak, had only joined the coach late in the day,
and during the whole morning I had been exposed to the most pitiless
downpour of rain and sleet.

“Here you are!” said the rough guard, as the coach drew up to let me
down. “No need of blowing the horn here, I suppose?”

This was said in allusion to the miserable appearance of the ruined
cabin that figured as my father's gate lodge, where some naked children
were seen standing before the door, looking with astonishment at the
coach and passengers.

“Well, good-by, my little man. I hope you 'll find the governor better.
Give him my respects; and, hark ye, if ever you come over to Athlone,
don't forget to come and see me: Captain Bubbleton,--George Frederick
Augustus Bubbleton, Forty-fifth Regiment; or, when at home, Little
Bubbleton, Herts, and Bungalow Hut, in the Carnatic^ that's the mark. So
good-by! good-by!”

I waved my hand to him in adieu, and then turned to enter the gate.

“Well, Freney,” said I, to a half-dressed, wild-looking figure that
rushed out to lift the gate open,--for the hinges had been long broken,
and it was attached to the pier by some yards of strong rope,--“how is
my father?”

A gloomy nod and a discouraging sign with his open hand were the only
reply.

“Is there any hope?” said I, faintly.

“Sorrow one of me knows; I dare n't go near the house. I was sarved with
notice to quit a month ago, and they tell him I 'm gone. Oh vo, vo! what
's to become of us all!”

I threw the bag which contained my humble wardrobe on my shoulder,
and without waiting for further questioning, walked forward. Night
was falling fast, and nothing short of my intimacy with the place from
infancy could have enabled me to find my way. The avenue, from long
neglect and disuse, was completely obliterated; the fences were broken
up to burn; the young trees had mostly shared the same fate; the cattle
strayed at will through the plantations; and all bespoke utter ruin and
destruction.

If the scene around me was sad, it only the better suited my own heart.
I was returning to a home where I had never heard the voice of kindness
or affection; where one fond word, one look of welcome, had never
met me. I was returning, not to receive the last blessing of a loving
parent, but merely sent for as a necessary ceremony on the occasion. And
perhaps there was a mock propriety in inviting me once more to the house
which I was never to revisit. My father, a widower for many years, had
bestowed all his affection on my elder brother, to whom so much of his
property as had escaped the general wreck was to descend. He had been
sent to Eton under the guidance of a private tutor, while an obscure
Dublin school was deemed good enough for me. For him every nerve was
strained to supply all his boyish extravagance, and enable him to
compete with the sons of men of high rank and fortune, whose names,
mentioned in his letters home, were an ample recompense for all the
lavish expenditure their intimacy entailed. My letters were few and
brief; their unvaried theme the delay in the last quarter's payment,
or the unfurnished condition of my little trunk, which more than once
exposed me to the taunts of my schoolfellows.

He was a fair and delicate boy, timid in manner and retiring in
disposition; I, a browned-faced varlet, who knew every one from the herd
to the high-sheriff. To him the servants were directed to look up as the
head of the house; while I was consigned either to total neglect, or
the attentions of those who only figured as supernumeraries in our Army
List. Yet, with all these sources of jealousy between us, we loved each
other tenderly. George pitied “poor Tommy,” as he called me; and for
that very pity my heart clung to him. He would often undertake to plead
my cause for those bolder infractions his gentle nature never ventured
on; and it was only from long association with boys of superior rank,
whose habits and opinions he believed to be standards for his imitation,
that Â» at length a feeling of estrangement grew up between us, and we
learned to look somewhat coldly on each other.

From these brief details it will not be wondered at it I turned
homeward with a heavy heart. From the hour I received the letter of my
recall--which was written by my father's attorney in most concise and
legal phrase--I had scarcely ceased to shed tears; for so it is, there
is something in the very thought of being left an orphan, friendless
and unprotected, quite distinct from the loss of affection and kindness
which overwhelms the young heart with a very flood of wretchedness.
Besides, a stray word or two of kindness had now and then escaped my
father towards me, and I treasured these up as my richest possession.
I thought of them over and over. Many a lonely night, when my heart has
been low and sinkings I repeated them to myself, like talismans against
grief; and when I slept, my dreams would dwell on them and make my
waking happy.

As I issued from a dark copse of beech-trees, the indistinct outline of
the old house met my eye. I could trace the high-pitched roof, the
tall and pointed gables against the sky; and with a strange sense of
undefinable fear,' beheld a solitary light that twinkled from the window
of an upper room, where my father lay. The remainder of the building
was in deep shadow. I mounted the long flight of stone steps that led
to what once had been a terrace; but the balustrades were broken many a
year ago; and even the heavy granite stone had been smashed in several
places. The hall door lay wide open, and the hall itself had no other
light save such as the flickering of a wood fire afforded, as its
uncertain flashes fell upon the dark wainscot and the floor.

I had just recognized the grim, old-fashioned portraits that covered
the walls, when my eye was attracted by a figure near the fire. I
approached, and beheld an old man doubled with age. His bleared eyes
were bent upon the wood embers, which he was trying to rake together
with a stick; his clothes bespoke the most miserable poverty, and
afforded no protection against the cold and cutting blast. He was
croning some old song to himself as I drew near, and paid no attention
to me. I moved round so as to let the light fall on his face, and then
perceived it was old Lanty, as he was called. Poor fellow! Age and
neglect had changed him sadly since I had seen him last. He had been
the huntsman of the family for two generations; but having somehow
displeased my father one day at the cover, he rode at him and struck him
on the head with his loaded whip. The man fell senseless from his horse,
and was carried home. A few days, however, enabled him to rally and be
about again; but his senses had left him forever. All recollection
of the unlucky circumstance had faded from his mind, and his rambling
thoughts dwelt on his old pursuits; so that he passed his days about
the stables, looking after the horses and giving directions about them.
Latterly he had become too infirm for this, and never left his own
cabin; but now, from some strange cause, he had come up to “the house,”
 and was sitting by the fire as I found him.

They who know Ireland will acknowledge the strange impulse which, at the
approach of death, seems to excite the people to congregate about the
house of mourning. The passion for deep and powerful excitement--the
most remarkable feature in their complex nature--seems to revel in
the details of sorrow and suffering. Not content even with the tragedy
before them, they call in the aid of superstition to heighten the
awfulness of the scene; and every story of ghost and banshee' is conned
over in tones that need not the occasion to make them thrill upon the
heart. At such a time the deepest workings of their wild spirits are
revealed. Their grief is low and sorrow-struck, or it is loud and
passionate; now breaking into some plaintive wail over the virtues
of the departed, now bursting into a frenzied appeal to the Father of
Mercies as to the justice of recalling those from earth who were its
blessing: while, stranger than all, a dash of reckless merriment will
break in upon the gloom; but it is like the red lightning through the
storm, that as it rends the cloud only displays the havoc and desolation
around, and at its parting leaves even a blacker darkness behind it.

From my infancy I had been familiar with scenes of this kind; and my
habit of stealing away unobserved from home to witness a country wake
had endeared me much to the country-people, who felt this no small
kindness from “the master's son.” Somehow the ready welcome and
attention I always met with had worked on my young heart, and I learned
to feel all the interest of these scenes fully as much as those about
me. It was, then, with a sense of desolation that I looked upon the one
solitary mourner who now sat at the hearth,--that poor old idiot man
who gazed on vacancy, or muttered with parched lip some few words to
himself. That he alone should be found to join his sorrows to ours,
seemed to me like utter destitution, and as I leaned against the chimney
I burst into tears.

“Don't cry, alannah! don't cry,” said the old man; “it 's the worst way
at all. Get up again and ride him at it bould. Oh vo! look at where the
thief is taking now,--along the stonewall there!” Here he broke out into
a low, wailing ditty:--

     “And the fox set him down and looked about--
        And many were feared to follow;
     'Maybe I 'm wrong,' says he, 'but I doubt
        That you 'll be as gay to-morrow.
     For loud as you cry, and high as you ride,
        And little you feel my sorrow,
     I'll be free on the mountain-side,
        While you 'll lie low to-morrow.
                         Oh, Moddideroo, aroo, aroo!'”

“Ay, just so; they 'll run to earth in the cold churchyard.
Whisht!--hark there! Soho, soho! That's Badger I hear.”

I turned away with a bursting heart, and felt my way up the broad oak
stair, which was left in complete darkness. As I reached the corridor,
off which the bedrooms lay, I heard voices talking together in a low
tone; they came from my father's room, the door of which lay ajar. I
approached noiselessly and peeped in: by the fire, which was the only
light now in the apartment, sat two persons at a set table, one of
whom I at once recognized as the tall, solemn-looking figure of Doctor
Finnerty; the other I detected, by the sharp tones of his voice, to be
Mr. Anthony Basset, my father's confidential attorney.

On the table before them lay a mass of papers, parchments, leases,
deeds, together with glasses and a black bottle, whose accompaniments of
hot water and sugar left no doubt as to its contents. The chimney-piece
was crowded with a range of vials and medicine bottles, some of them
empty, some of them half finished.

[Illustration: Law and Physic in the Chamber of Death 008]

From the bed in the corner of the room came the heavy sound of snoring
respiration, which either betokened deep sleep or insensibility. If
I enjoyed but little favor in my father's house, I owed much of the
coldness shown to me to the evil influence of the very two persons who
sat before me in conclave. Of the precise source of the doctor's dislike
I was not quite clear, except, perhaps, that I recovered from the
measles when he predicted my certain death; the attorney's was, however,
no mystery.

About three years before, he had stopped to breakfast at our house on
his way to Ballinasloe fair. As his pony was led round to the stable, it
caught my eye. It was a most tempting bit of horseflesh, full of spirit
and in top condition, for he was going to sell it. I followed him round,
and appeared just as the servant was about to unsaddle him. The attorney
was no favorite in the house, and I had little difficulty in persuading
the man, instead of taking off the saddle, merely to shorten the
stirrups to the utmost limit. The next minute I was on his back flying
over the lawn at a stretching gallop. Fences abounded on all sides, and
I rushed him at double ditches, stone walls, and bog-wood rails, with a
mad delight that at every leap rose higher. After about three quarters
of an hour thus passed, his blood, as well as my own, being by this time
thoroughly roused, I determined to try him at the wall of an old pound
which stood some few hundred yards from the front of the house. Its
exposure to the window at any other time would have deterred me from
even the thought of such an exploit, but now I was quite beyond the pale
of such cold calculations; besides that, I was accompanied by a select
party of all the laborers, with their wives and children, whose praises
of my horsemanship would have made me take the lock of a canal if before
me. A tine gallop of grass sward led to the pound, and over this I went,
cheered with as merry a cry as ever stirred a light heart. One glance I
threw at the house as I drew near the leap. The window of the breakfast
parlor was open; my father and Mr. Basset were both at it, I saw
their faces red with passion; I heard their loud shout; my very
spirit sickened within me. I saw no more; I felt the pony rush at the
wall,--the quick stroke of his feet,--the rise,--the plunge,--and then
a crash,--and I was sent spinning over his head some half-dozen yards,
ploughing up the ground on face and hands. I was carried home with a
broken head; the pony's knees were in the same condition. My father said
that he ought to be shot for humanity's sake; Tony suggested the same
treatment for me, on similar grounds. The upshot, however, was, I
secured an enemy for life; and worse still, one whose power to injure was
equalled by his inclination.

Into the company of these two worthies I now found myself thus
accidentally thrown, and would gladly have retreated at once, but that
some indescribable impulse to be near my father's sickbed was on me; and
so I crept stealthily in and sat down in a large chair at the foot of
the bed, where unnoticed I listened to the long-drawn heavings of his
chest, and in silence wept over my own desolate condition.

For a long time the absorbing nature of my own grief prevented me
hearing the muttered conversation near the lire; but at length, as the
night wore on and my sorrow had found vent in tears, I began to listen
to the dialogue beside me.

“He 'll have five hundred pounds under his grandfather's will, in spite
of us. But what 's that?” said the attorney.

“I 'll take him as an apprentice for it, I know,” said the doctor, with
a grin that made me shudder.

“That's settled already,” replied Mr. Basset. “He's to be articled to
me for five years; but I think it 's likely he 'll go to sea before the
time expires. How heavily the old man is sleeping! Now, is that natural
sleep?”

“No, that's always a bad sign; that puffing with the lips is generally
among the last symptoms. Well, he'll be a loss anyhow, when he's gone.
There's an eight-ounce mixture he never tasted yet,--infusion of gentian
with soda. Put your lips to that.”

“Devil a one o' me will ever sup the like!” said the attorney,
finishing his tumbler of punch as he spoke. “Faugh! how can you drink
them things that way?”

“Sure it's the compound infusion, made with orangepeel and cardamom
seeds. There is n't one of them did n't cost two and ninepence. He 'll
be eight weeks in bed come Tuesday next.”

“Well, well! If he lived till the next assizes, it would be telling me
four hundred pounds; not to speak of the costs of two ejectments I have
in hand against Mullins and his father-in-law.”

“It's a wonder,” said the doctor, after a pause, “that Tom didn't come
by the coach. It's no matter now, at any rate; for since the eldest
son's away, there's no one here to interfere with us.”

“It was a masterly stroke of yours, doctor, to tell the old man the
weather was too severe to bring George over from Eton. As sure as he
came he'd make up matters with Tom; and the end of it would be, I 'd
lose the agency, and you would n't have those pleasant little bills for
the tenantry,--eh. Fin?”

“Whisht! he's waking now. Well, sir; well, Mr. Burke, how do you feel
now? He 's off again!”

“The funeral ought to be on a Sunday,” said Basset, in a whisper;
“there 'll be no getting the people to come any other day. He 's saying
something, I think.”

“Fin,” said my father, in a faint, hoarse voice,--“Fin, give me a drink.
It 's not warm!”

“Yes, sir; I had it on the fire.”

“Well, then, it 's myself that 's growing cold. How 's the pulse now.
Fin? Is the Dublin doctor come yet?”

“No, sir; we 're expecting him every minute. But sure, you know, we 're
doing everything.”

“Oh! I know it. Yes, to be sure, Fin; but they 've many a new thing up
in Dublin there, we don't hear of. Whisht! what's that?”

“It 's Tony, sir,--Tony Basset; he 's sitting up with me.”

“Come over here, Tony. Tony, I'm going fast; I feel it, and my heart is
low. Could we withdraw the proceedings about Freney?”

“He 's the biggest blackguard--”

“Ah! no matter now; I 'm going to a place where we 'll all need mercy.
What was it that Canealy said he 'd give for the land?”

“Two pound ten an acre; and Freney never paid thirty shillings out of
it.”

“It's mighty odd George didn't come over.”

“Sure, I told you there was two feet of snow on the ground.”

“Lord be about us, what a severe season! But why isn't Tom here?” I
started at the words, and was about to rush forward, when he added,--“I
don't want him, though.”

“Of course you don't,” said the attorney; “it's little comfort he ever
gave you. Are you in pain there?”

“Ay, great pain over my heart. Well, well! don't be hard to him when I
'm gone.”

“Don't let him talk so much,” said Basset, in a whisper, to the doctor.

“You must compose yourself, Mr. Burke,” said the doctor. “Try and take a
sleep; the night isn't half through yet.”

The sick man obeyed without a word; and soon after, the heavy
respiration betokened the same lethargic slumber once more.

The voices of the speakers gradually fell into a low, monotonous sound;
the long-drawn breathings from the sickbed mingled with them; the fire
only sent forth an occasional gleam, as some piece of falling turf
seemed to revive its wasting life, and shot up a myriad of bright
sparks; and the chirping of the cricket in the chimney-corner sounded to
my mournful heart like the tick of the death-watch.

As I listened, my tears fell fast, and a gulping fulness in my throat
made me feel like one in suffocation. But deep sorrow somehow tends to
sleep. The weariness of the long day and dreary night, exhaustion, the
dull hum of the subdued voices, and the faint light, all combined to
make me drowsy, and I fell into a heavy slumber.

I am writing now of the far-off past,--of the long years ago of my
youth,--since which my seared heart has had many a sore and scalding
lesson; yet I cannot think of that night, fixed and graven as it lies in
my memory, without a touch of boyish softness. I remember every waking
thought that crossed my mind: my very dream is still before me. It
was of my mother. I thought of her as she lay on a sofa in the old
drawing-room; the window open, and the blinds drawn, the gentle breeze
of a June morning flapping them lazily to and fro as I knelt beside
her to repeat my little hymn, the first I ever learned; and how at each
moment my eyes would turn and my thoughts stray to that open casement,
through which the odor of flowers and the sweet song of birds were
pouring, and my little heart was panting for liberty, while her gentle
smile and faint words bade me remember where I was. And then I was
straying away through the old garden, where the very sunlight fell
scantily through the thick-woven branches, loaded with perfumed
blossoms; the blackbirds hopped fearlessly from twig to twig, mingling
their clear notes with the breezy murmur of the leaves and the deep hum
of summer bees. How happy was I then! And why cannot such happiness be
lasting? Why can we not shelter ourselves from the base contamination of
worldly cares, and live on amid pleasures pure as these, with hearts as
holy and desires as simple as in childhood?

Suddenly a change came over my dream, and the dark clouds began to
gather from all quarters, and a low, creeping wind moaned heavily along.
I thought I heard ray name called. I started and awoke. For a second or
two the delusion was so strong that I could not remember where I was;
but as the gray light of a breaking morning fell through the half-open
shutters, I beheld the two figures near the fire. They were both
sound asleep, the deep-drawn breathing and nodding heads attesting the
heaviness of their slumber.

I felt cold and cramped, but still afraid to stir, although a longing to
approach the bedside was still upon me. A faint sigh and some muttered
words here came to my ear, and I listened. It was my father; but so
indistinct the sounds, they seemed more like the ramblings of a dream.
I crept noiselessly on tiptoe to the bed, and drawing the curtain gently
over, gazed within. He was lying on his back, his hands and arms outside
the clothes. His beard had grown so much and he had wasted so far that I
could scarcely have known him. His eyes were wide open, but fixed on the
top of the bed; his lips moved rapidly, and by his hands, as they were
closely clasped, I thought it was in prayer. I leaned over him, and
placed my hand in his. For some time he did not seem to notice it; but
at last he pressed it softly, and rubbing the fingers to and fro, he
said, in a low, faint voice,--“Is this your hand, my boy?”

I thought my heart had split, as in a gush of tears I bent down and
kissed him.

“I can't see well, my dear; there's something between me and the light,
and a weight is on me--here--here--”

A heavy sigh, and a shudder that shook his whole frame, followed these
words.

“They told me I wasn't to see you once again,” said he, as a sickly
smile played over his mouth; “but I knew you'd come to sit by me. It
's a lonely thing not to have one's own at such an hour as this. Don't
weep, my dear, my own heart's failing me fast.”

A broken, muttering sound followed, and then he said, in a loud voice;
“I never did it! it was Tony Basset. He told me,--he persuaded me. Ah!
that was a sore day when I listened to him. Who 's to tell me I 'm not
to be master of my own estate? Turn them adrift,--ay, every man of them.
I 'll weed the ground of such wretches,--eh, Tony? Did any one say
Freney's mother was dead? they may wake her at the cross roads, if they
like. Poor old Molly! I 'm sorry for her, too. She nursed me and my
sister that's gone; and maybe her deathbed, poor as she was, was
easier than mine will be,--without kith or kin, child or friend. Oh,
George!--and I that doted on you with all my heart! Whose hand's this?
Ah, I forgot; my darling boy, it's you. Come to me here, my child! Was
n't it for you that I toiled and scraped this many a year? Wasn't it for
you that I did all this? and--God, forgive me!--maybe it 's my soul
that I 've perilled to leave you a rich man. Where 's Tom? where 's that
fellow now?”

“Here, sir!” said I, squeezing his hand, and pressing it to my lips.

He sprang up at the words, and sat up in his bed, his eyes dilated to
their widest, and his pale lips parted asunder.

“Where?” cried he, as he felt me over with his thin fingers, and drew me
towards him.

“Here, father, here!”

“And is this Tom?” said he, as his voice fell into a low, hollow sound;
and then added: “Where's George? answer me at once. Oh, I see it! He
isn't here; he would n't come over to see his old father. Tony! Tony
Basset, I say!” shouted the sick man, in a voice that roused the
sleepers, and brought them to his bedside, “open that window there. Let
me look out,--do it as I bid you,--open it wide. Turn in all the cattle
you can find on the road. Do you hear me, Tony? Drive them in from every
side. Finnerty, I say, mind my words; for” (here he uttered a most awful
and terrific oath), “as I linger on this side of the grave, I 'll not
leave him a blade of grass I can take from him.”

His chest heaved with a convulsive spasm; his face became pale as death;
his eyes fixed; he clutched eagerly at the bedclothes; and then, with
a horrible cry, he fell back upon the pillow, as a faint stream of red
blood trickled from his nostril and ran down his chin.

“It 's all over now!” whispered the doctor.

“Is he dead?” said Basset.

The other made no reply; but drawing the curtains close, he turned away,
and they both moved noiselessly from the room.



CHAPTER II. DARBY THE “BLAST.”

If there are dreams which, by their vividness and accuracy of detail,
seem altogether like reality, so are there certain actual passages in
our lives which, in their indistinctness while occurring, and in the
faint impression they leave behind them, seem only as mere dreams. Most
of our early sorrows are of this kind. The warm current of our young
hearts would appear to repel the cold touch of affliction; nor can grief
at this period do more than breathe an icy chill upon the surface of our
affections, where all is glowing and fervid beneath. The struggle
then between the bounding heart and the depressing care renders our
impressions of grief vague and ill defined.

A stunning sense of some great calamity, some sorrow without hope,
mingled in my waking thoughts with a childish notion of freedom.
Unloved, uncared for, my early years presented but few pleasures. My
boyhood had been a long struggle to win some mark of affection from one
who cared not for me, and to whom still my heart had clung, as does the
drowning man to the last plank of all the wreck. The tie that bound me
to him was now severed, and I was without-one in the wide world to look
up to or to love.

I looked out from my window upon the bleak country. A heavy snowstorm
had fallen during the night. A lowering sky of leaden hue stretched
above the dreary landscape, across which no living thing was seen to
move. Within doors all was silent. The doctor and the attorney had both
taken their departure; the deep wheel-track in the snow marked the
road they had followed. The servants, seated around the kitchen fire,
conversed in low and broken whispers. The only sound that broke the
stillness was the ticking of the clock upon the stair. There was
something that smote heavily on my heart in the monotonous ticking of
that clock: that told of time passing beside him who had gone; that
seemed to speak of minutes close to one whose minutes were eternity. I
crept into the room where the dead body lay, and as my tears ran fast, I
bent over it. I thought sometimes the expression of those cold features
changed,--now frowning heavily, now smiling blandly on me. I watched
them, till in my eager gaze the lips seemed to move and the cheek to
flush. How hard is it to believe in death! how difficult to think that
“there is a sleep that knows no waking!” I knelt down beside the bed
and prayed. I prayed that now, as all of earth was nought to him who was
departed, he would give me the affection he had not bestowed in life.
I besought him not to chill the heart that in its lonely desolation had
neither home nor friend. My throat sobbed to bursting as in my words I
seemed to realize the fulness of my affliction. The door opened behind
me as with bent-down head I knelt. A heavy footstep slowly moved along
the floor; and the next moment the tottering figure of old Lanty stood
beside me, gazing on the dead man. There was that look of vacancy in his
filmy eye that showed he knew nothing of what had happened.

“Is he asleep. Master Tommy?” said the old man, in a faint whisper.

My lips trembled, but I could not speak the word.

“I thought he wanted the 'dogs' up at Meelif; but I 'm strained here
about the loins, and can't go out myself. Tell him that, when he wakes.”

“He'll never wake now, Lanty; he's dead!” said I, as a rush of tears
half choked my utterance.

“Dead!” said he, repeating the word two or three times,--“dead! Well,
well! I wonder will Master George keep the dogs now. There seldom comes
a better; and 'twas himself that liked the cry o' them.”

He tottered from the room as he spoke, and I could hear him muttering
the same words over and over, as he crept slowly down the stair.

I have said that this painful stroke of fortune was as a dream to me;
and so for three days I felt it. The altered circumstances of everything
about me were inexplicable to my puzzled brain. The very kindness of the
servants, so unusual to me, struck me forcibly. They felt that the time
was past when any sympathy for me had been the passport to disfavor, and
they pitied me.

The funeral took place on the third morning. Mr. Basset having
acquainted my brother that there was no necessity for his presence, even
that consolation was denied me,--to meet him who alone remained of all
my name and house belonging to me. How I remember every detail of that
morning! The silence of the long night broken in upon by heavy footsteps
ascending the stairs; strange voices, not subdued like those of all in
our little household, but loud and coarse; even laughter I could hear,
the noise increasing at each moment. Then the muffled sound of wheels
upon the snow, and the cries of the drivers as they urged their horses
forward. Then a long interval, in which nought was heard save the happy
whistle of some poor postilion, who, careless of his errand, whiled away
the tedious time with a lively tune. And lastly, there came the dull
noise of feet moving step by step down the stair, the muttered words,
the shuffling sound of feet as they descended, and the clank of the
coffin as it struck against the wall.

The long, low parlor was filled with people, few of whom I had ever
seen before. They were broken up into little knots, chatting cheerfully
together while they made a hurried breakfast. The table and sideboard
were covered with a profusion I had never witnessed previously.
Decanters of wine passed freely from hand to hand; and although the
voices fell somewhat as I appeared amidst them, I looked in vain for one
touch of sorrow for the dead, or even respect for his memory.

As I took my place in the carriage beside the attorney, a kind of dreamy
apathy settled down on me, and I scarcely knew what was passing. I only
remember the horrible shrinking sense of dread with which I recoiled
from his one attempt at consolation, and the abrupt way in which he
desisted, and turned to converse with the doctor. How my heart sickened
as we drew near the churchyard, and I beheld the open gate that stood
wide awaiting us! The dusky figures, with their mournful black cloaks,
moved slowly across the snow, like spirits of some gloomy world; while
the death-bell echoed in my ears, and sent a shuddering through my
frame.

“What is to become of the second boy?” said the clergyman, in a low
whisper, but which, by some strange fatality, struck forcibly on my ear.

“It's not much matter,” replied Basset, still lower; “for the present he
goes home with me. Tom, I say, you come back with me to-day.”

“No,” said I, boldly; “I'll go home again.”

“Home!” repeated he, with a scornful laugh,--“home I And where may that
be, youngster?”

“For shame, Basset!” said the clergyman; “don't speak that way to him.
My little man, you can't go home today. Mr. Basset will take you with
him for a few days, until your late father's will is known, and his
wishes respecting you.”

“I'll go home, sir!” said I, but in a fainter tone, and with tears in my
eyes.

“Well, well! let him do so for to-day; it may relieve his poor heart.
Come, Basset, I 'll take him back myself.”

I clasped his hand as he spoke, and kissed it over and over.

“With all my heart,” cried Basset. “I'll come over and fetch him
to-morrow;” and then he added, in a lower tone, “and before that you
'll have found out quite enough to be heartily sick of your charge.”

All the worthy vicar's efforts to rouse me from my stupor or interest me
failed. He brought me to his house, where, amid his own happy children,
he deemed my heart would have yielded to the sympathy of my own age. But
I pined to get back; I longed--why, I knew not--to be in my own little
chamber, alone with my grief. In vain he tried every consolation his
kind heart and his life's experience had taught him; the very happiness
I witnessed but reminded me of my own state, and I pressed the more
eagerly to return.

It was late when he drew up to the door of the house, to which already
the closed window shutters had given a look of gloom and desertion. We
knocked several times before any one came, and at length two or three
heads appeared at an upper window, in half-terror at the unlooked-for
summons for admission.

“Good-by, my dear boy!” said the vicar, as he kissed me; “don't forget
what I have been telling you. It will make you bear your present sorrow
better, and teach you to be happier when it is over.”

“Come down to the kitchen, alannah!” said the old cook, as the hall
door closed; “come down and sit with us there. Sure it 's no wonder your
heart 'ud be low.”

“Yes, Master Tommy; and Darby “the Blast” is there, and a tune and the
pipes will raise you.”

I suffered myself to be led along listlessly between them to the
kitchen, where, around a huge fire of red turf, the servants of the
house were all assembled, together with some neighboring cottagers;
Darby “the Blast” occupying a prominent place in the party, his pipes
laid across his knees as he employed himself in concocting a smoking
tumbler of punch.

“Your most obadient!” said Darby, with a profound reverence, as I
entered. “May I make so bowld as to surmise that my presence is n't
unsaysonable to your feelings? for I wouldn't be contumacious enough to
adjudicate without your honor's permission.”

What I muttered in reply I know not; but the whole party were speedily
reseated, every eye turned admiringly on Darby for the very neat and
appropriate expression of his apology.

Young as I was and slight as had been the consideration heretofore
accorded me, there was that in the lonely desolation of my condition
which awakened all their sympathies, and directed all their interests
towards me; and in no country are the differences of rank such slight
barriers in excluding the feeling of one portion of the community from
the sorrows of the others: the Irish peasant, however humble, seems
to possess an intuitive tact on this subject, and to minister all
the consolations in his power with a gentle delicacy that cannot be
surpassed.

The silence caused by my appearing among them was unbroken for some time
after I took my seat by the fire; and the only sounds were the
clinking of a spoon against the glass, or, the deep-drawn sigh of some
compassionate soul, as she wiped a stray tear from the corner of her eye
with her apron.

Darby alone manifested a little impatience at the sudden change in a
party where his powers of agreeability had so lately been successful,
and fidgeted on his chair, unscrewed his pipes, blew into them, screwed
them on again, and then slyly nodded over to the housemaid, as he raised
his glass to his lips.

“Never mind me,” said I to the old cook, who, between grief and the
glare of a turf fire, had her face swelled out to twice its natural
size,--“never mind me, Molly, or I 'll go away.”

“And why would you, darlin'? Troth, no! sure there 's nobody feels for
you like them that was always about you. Take a cup of tay, alannah; it
'll do you good.”

“Yes, Master Tom,” said the butler; “you never tasted anything since
Tuesday night.”

“Do, sir, av ye plaze!” said the pretty housemaid, as she stood before
me, cup in hand.

“Arrah! what's tay?” said Darby, in a contemptuous tone of voice. “A
few dirty laves, with a drop of water on top of them, that has neither
beatification nor invigoration. Here 's the _fons animi_!” said he,
patting the whisky bottle affectionately. “Did ye ever hear of the
ancients indulging in tay? D'ye think Polyphamus and Jupither took tay?”

The cook looked down abashed and ashamed.

“Tay's good enough for women,--no offence, Mrs. Cook!--but you might
boil down Paykin, and it'd never be potteen. _Ex quo vis ligno non fit
Mercurius_,--'You can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear.' That's
the meaning of it; ligno 's a sow.”

Heaven knows I was in no mirthful mood at that moment; but I burst into
a fit of laughing at this, in which, from a sense of politeness, the
party all joined.

“That's it, acushla!” said the old cook, as her eyes sparkled with
delight; “sure it makes my heart light to see you smilin' again. Maybe
Darby would raise a tune now, and there 's nothing equal to it for the
spirits.”

“Yes, Mr. M'Keown,” said the housemaid; “play 'Kiss me twice!' Master
Tom likes it.”

“Devil a doubt he does!” replied Darby, so maliciously as to make poor
Kitty blush a deep scarlet; “and no shame to him! But you see my fingers
is cut. Master Tom, and I can't perform the reduplicating intonations
with proper effect.”

“How did that happen. Darby?” said the butler.

“Faix, easy enough. Tim Daly and myself was hunting a cat the other
evening, and she was under the dhresser, and we wor poking her with a
burnt stick and a raypinghook, and she somehow always escaped us, and
except about an inch of her tail, that we cut off, there was no getting
at her; and at last I hated a toastin'-fork and put it in, when out
she flew, teeth and claws, at me. Look, there 's where she stuck
her thieving nails into my thumb, and took the piece clean out. The
onnatural baste!”

“Arrah!” said the old cook, with a most reflective gravity, “there 's
nothing so treacherous as a cat! “--a moral to the story which I found
met general assent among the whole company.

“Nevertheless,” observed Darby, with an air of ill-dissembled
condescension, “if it isn't umbrageous to your honor, I 'll intonate
something in the way of an ode or a canticle.”

“One of your own. Darby,” said the butler, interrupting.

“Well, I've no objection,” replied Darby, with an affected modesty;
“for you see, master, like Homer, I accompany myself on the pipes,
though--glory be to God!--I'm not blind. The little thing I 'll give
you is imitated from the ancients--like Tibullus or Euthropeus--in the
natural key.”

Mister M'Keown, after this announcement, pushed his empty tumbler
towards the butler with a significant glance gave a few preparatory
grunts with the pipes, followed by a long dolorous quaver, and then a
still more melancholy cadence, like the expiring bray of an asthmatic
jackass; all of which sounds, seeming to be the essential preliminaries
to any performance on the bagpipes, were listened to with great
attention by the company. At length, having assumed an imposing
attitude, he lifted up both elbows, tilted his little finger affectedly
up, dilated his cheeks, and began the following to the well-known air of
“Una:”--


MUSIC.

     Of all the arts and sciences,
       'T is music surely takes the sway;
     It has its own appliances
       To melt the heart or make it gay.
                To raise us,
                Or plaze us,
     There 's nothing with it can compare;
                To make us bowld,
                Or hot or cowld,
     Just as suits the kind of air.

     There 's not a woman, man, or child.
        That has n't felt its powers too;
     Don't deny it!--when you smiled
        Your eyes confess'd, that so did you.

     The very winds that sigh or roar;
        The leaves that rustle, dry and sear;
     The waves that beat upon the shore,--
        They all are music to your ear.
                   It was of use
                   To Orpheus,--
     He charmed the fishes in the say;
                   So everything
                   Alive can sing,--
     The kettle even sings for tay!

     There's not a woman, man, or child.
        That hau n't felt its power too;
     Don't deny it!--when you smiled
        Your eyes confess'd, that so did you.


I have certainly since this period listened to more brilliant musical
performances, but for the extent of the audience, I do not think it was
possible to reap a more overwhelming harvest of applause. Indeed, the
old cook kept repeating stray fragments of the words to every air that
crossed her memory for the rest of the evening; and as for Kitty, I
intercepted more than one soft glance intended for Mister M'Keown as a
reward for his minstrelsy.

Darby, to do him justice, seemed fully sensible of his triumph, and
sat back in his chair and imbibed his liquor like a man who had won his
laurels, and needed no further efforts to maintain his eminent position
in life.

As the wintry wind moaned dismally without, and the leafless trees
shook and trembled with the cold blast, the party drew in closer to the
cheerful turf fire, with that sense of selfish delight that seems
to revel in the contrast of indoor comfort with the bleakness and
dreariness without.

“Well, Darby,” said the butler, “you weren't far wrong when you took my
advice to stay here for the night; listen to how it 's blowing.”

“That 's hail!” said the old cook, as the big drops came pattering down
the chimney, and hissed on the red embers as they fell. “It 's a cruel
night, glory be to God!” Here the old lady blessed herself,--a ceremony
which the others followed.

“For all that,” said Darby, “I ought to be up at Crocknavorrigha this
blessed evening. Joe Neale was to be married to-day.”

“Joe! is it Joe?” said the butler.

“I wish her luck of him, whoever she is!” added the cook.

“Faix, and he's a smart boy!” chimed in the housemaid, with something
not far from a blush as she spoke.

“He was a raal devil for coortin', anyhow!” said the butler.

“It's just for peace he's marrying now, then,” said Darby; “the women
never gave him any quietness. Just so, Kitty; you need n't be looking
cross that way,--it 's truth I'm telling you. They were always coming
about him, and teasing him, and the like, and he could n't bear it any
longer.”

“Arrah, howld your prate!” interrupted the old cook, whose indignation
for the honor of the sex could not endure more. “He's the biggest liar
from this to himself; and that same 's not a small word. Darby M'Keown.”

There was a pointedness in the latter part of this speech which might
have led to angry consequences, had I not interposed by asking Mr.
M'Keown himself if he ever was in love.

“Arrah, it 's wishing it, I am, the same love. Sure my back and sides
is sore with it; my misfortunes would fill a book. Did n't I bind myself
apprentice to a carpenter for love of Molly Scraw, a niece he had, just
to be near her and be looking at her; and that 's the way I shaved off
the top of my thumb with the plane. By the mortial, it was near killing
me. I usedn't to eat or drink; and though I was three years at the
thrade, faix, at the end of it, I could n't tell you the gimlet from the
handsaw!”

“And you wor never married, Mister M'Keown?” said Kitty.

“Never, my darling, but often mighty near it. Many 's the quare thing
happened to me,” said Darby, meditatingly; “and sure if it was n't my
guardian angel, or something of the kind, prevented it, I 'd maybe have
more wives this day than the Emperor of Roossia himself.”

“Arrah, don't be talking!” grunted out the old cook, whose passion could
scarcely be restrained at the boastful tone Mister M'Keown assumed in
descanting on his successes.

“There was Biddy Finn,” continued Darby, without paying any attention
to the cook's interruption; “she might be Mrs. M'Keown this day, av it
wasn't for a remarkable thing that happened.”

“What was that?” said Kitty, with eager curiosity.

“Tell us about it. Mister M'Keown,” said the butler.

“The devil a word of truth he'll tell you,” grumbled the cook, as she
raked the ashes with a stick.

“There 's them here does not care for agreeable intercoorse,” said
Darby, assuming a grand air.

“Come, Daxby; I 'd like to hear the story,” said I.

After a few preparatory scruples, in which modesty, offended dignity,
and conscious merit struggled, Mr. M'Keown began by informing us that
he had once a most ardent attachment to a certain Biddy Finn, of
Ballyclough,--a lady of considerable personal attractions, to whom for a
long time he had been constant, and at last, through the intervention of
Father Curtin, agreed to marry. Darby's consent to the arrangements was
not altogether the result of his reverence's eloquence, nor indeed the
justice of the case; nor was it quite owing to Biddy's black eyes and
pretty lips; but rather to the soul-persuading powers of some fourteen
tumblers of strong punch which he swallowed at a _séance_ in Biddy's
father's house one cold evening in November, after which he betook
himself to the road homewards, where--But we must give his story in his
own words:

“Whether it was the prospect of happiness before me, or the potteen,”
 quoth Darby, “but so it was,--I never felt a step of the road home that
night, though it was every foot of five mile. When I came to a stile, I
used to give a whoop, and over it; then I'd run for a hundred yards
or two, flourish my stick, cry out, 'Who 'll say a word against Biddy
Finn?' and then over another fence, flying. Well, I reached home at
last, and wet enough I was; but I did n't care for that. I opened the
door and struck a light; there was the least taste of kindling on the
hearth, and I put some dry sticks into it and some turf, and knelt down
and began blowing it up.

“'Troth,' says I to myself, 'if I wor married, it isn't this way I'd
be,--on my knees like a nagur; but when I 'd come home, there 'ud be
a fine fire blazin' fornint me, and a clean table out before it, and
a beautiful cup of tay waiting for me, and somebody I won't mintion,
sitting there, looking at me, smilin'.'

“'Don't be making a fool of yourself, Darby M'Keown,' said a gruff voice
near the chimley.

“I jumped at him, and cried out, 'Who 's that?' But there was no answer;
and at last, after going round the kitchen, I began to think it was only
my own voice I heard; so I knelt down again, and set to blowing away at
the fire.

“'And it's yerself, Biddy,' says I, 'that would be an ornament to a
dacent cabin; and a purtier leg and foot--'

“'Be the light that shines, you're making me sick. Darby M'Keown,' said
the voice again.

“'The heavens be about us!' says I, 'what 's that? and who are you at
all?' for someways I thought I knew the voice.

“'I 'm your father!' says the voice.

“'My father!' says I. 'Holy Joseph, is it truth you 're telling me?'

“'The divil a word o' lie in it,' says the voice. 'Take me down, and
give me an air o' the fire, for the night 's cowld.'

“'And where are you, father,' says I, 'av it's plasing to ye?'

“'I 'm on the dhresser,' says he. 'Don't you see me?'

“'Sorra bit o' me. Where now?'

“'Arrah, on the second shelf, next the rowling-pin. Don't you see the
green jug?--that's me.'

“'Oh, the saints in heaven be about us!' says I; 'and are you a green
jug?'

“'I am,' says he; 'and sure I might be worse. Tim Healey's mother is
only a cullender, and she died two years before me.'

“'Oh! father, darlin',' says I, 'I hoped you wor in glory; and you only
a jug all this time!'

“'Never fret about it,' says my father; 'it 's the transmogrification
of sowls, and we 'll be right by and by. Take me down, I say, and put me
near the fire.'

“So I up and took him down, and wiped him with a clean cloth, and put
him on the hearth before the blaze.

“'Darby,' says he, 'I'm famished with the druth. Since you took to
coortin' there 's nothing ever goes into my mouth; haven't you a taste
of something in the house?'

“I wasn't long till I hated some wather, and took down the bottle of
whiskey and some sugar, and made a rousing jugful, as strong as need be.

“'Are you satisfied, father?' says I.

“'I am,' says he; 'you 're a dutiful child, and here 's your health,
and don't be thinking of Biddy Finn,'

“With that my father began to explain how there was never any rest nor
quietness for a man after he married,--more be token, if his wife was
fond of talking; and that he never could take his dhrop of drink in
comfort afterwards.

“'May I never,' says he, 'but I 'd rather be a green jug, as I am now,
than alive again wid your mother. Sure it 's not here you'd be sitting
to-night,' says he, 'discoorsing with me, av you wor married; devil a
bit. Fill me,' says my father, 'and I 'll tell you more.'

“And sure enough I did, and we talked away till near daylight; and then
the first thing I did was to take the ould mare out of the stable, and
set off to Father Curtin, and towld him all about it, and how my father
would n't give his consent by no means.

“'We'll not mind the marriage,' says his rivirence; 'but go back and
bring me your father,--the jug, I mean,--and we 'll try and get him out
of trouble; for it 's trouble he 's in, or he would n't be that way.
Give me the two pound ten,' says the priest; 'you had it for the
wedding, and it will be better spent getting your father out of
purgatory than sending you into it. '”

“Arrah, aren't you ashamed of yourself?” cried the cook, with a look of
ineffable scorn, as he concluded.

“Look now,” said Darby, “see this; if it is n't thruth--”

“And what became of your father?” interrupted the butler.

“And Biddy Finn, what did she do?” said the housemaid.

Darby, however, vouchsafed no reply, but sat back in his chair with an
offended look, and sipped his liquor in silence.

A fresh brew of punch under the butler's auspices speedily, however,
dispelled the cloud that hovered over the conviviality of the party; and
even the cook vouchsafed to assist in the preparation of some rashers,
which Darby suggested were beautiful things for the thirst at this
hour of the night; but whether in allaying or exciting it, he did n't
exactly lay down. The conversation now became general; and as they
seemed resolved to continue their festivities to a late hour, I took the
first opportunity I could, when unobserved, to steal away and return to
my own room.

No sooner alone again than all the sorrow of my lonely state came back
upon me; and as I laid my head on my pillow, the full measure of my
misery flowed in upon my heart, and I sobbed myself to sleep.



CHAPTER III. THE DEPARTURE

The violent beating of the rain against the glass, and the loud crash of
the storm as it shook the window-frames or snapped the sturdy branches
of the old trees, awoke me. I got up, and opening the shutters,
endeavored to look out; but the darkness was impenetrable, and I could
see nothing but the gnarled and grotesque forms of the leafless trees
dimly marked against the sky, as they moved to and fro like the arms
of some mighty giant. Masses of heavy snow melted by the rain fell at
intervals from the steep roof, and struck the ground beneath with a
low sumph like thunder. A grayish, leaden tinge that marked the horizon
showed it was near daybreak; but there was nought of promise in this
harbinger of morning. Like my own career, it opened gloomily and
in sadness: so felt I at least; and as I sat beside the window, and
strained my eyes to pierce the darkening storm, I thought that even
watching the wild hurricane without was better than brooding over the
sorrows within my own bosom.

How long I remained thus I know not; but already the faint streak that
announces sunrise marked the dull-colored sky, when the cheerful sounds
of a voice singing in the room underneath attracted me. I listened, and
in a moment recognized the piper. Darby M'Keown. He moved quickly about,
and by his motions I could collect that he was making preparations for
his journey.

If I could venture to pronounce, from the merry tones of his voice and
the light elastic step with which he trod the floor, I certainly would
not suppose that the dreary weather had any terror for him. He spoke so
loud that I could catch a great deal of the dialogue he maintained with
himself, and some odd verses of the song with which from time to time he
garnished his reflections.

“Marry, indeed! Catch me at it--nabocklish--with the countryside
before me, and the hoith of good eating and drinking for a blast of the
chantre. Well, well! women 's quare craytures anyway.

          'Ho, ho! Mister Ramey,
          No more of your blarney,
     I 'd have yoa not make so free;
          You may go where you plaze.
          And make love at your ease.
     But the devil may have you for me.'

Very well, ma'am. Mister M'Keown is your most obedient,--never say it
twice, honey; and isn't there as good fish, eh?--whoop!

     'Oh! my heart is unazy.
     My brain is run crazy,
  Sure it 's often I wish I was dead;
     'Tis your smile now so sweet!
     Now your ankles and feet.
  That 's walked into my heart, Molly Spread!
                   Tol de rol, de rol, oh!'

Whew! thttt 's rain, anyhow. I would n't mind it, bad as it is, if I
hadn't the side of a mountain before me; but sure it comes to the same
in the end. Catty Delany is a good warrant for a pleasant evening; and,
please God, I 'll be playing 'Baltiorum' beside the fire there before
this time to-night.

          'She 'd a pig and boneens.
             And a bed and a dresser.
          And a nate little room
             For the father confessor;
     With a cupboard and curtains, and something, I 'm towld.
     That his riv'rance liked when the weather was cowld.
                   And it 's hurroo, hurroo! Biddy O'Rafferty!'

After all, aix, the priest bates us out. There 's eight o'clock now, and
I'm not off; devil a one's stirring in the house either. Well, I believe
I may take my leave of it; sorrow many tunes of the pipes it's likely to
hear, with Tony Basset over it. And my heart 's low when I think of that
child there. Poor Tom! and it was you liked fun when you could have it.”

I wanted but the compassionate tone in which these few words were spoken
to decide me in a resolution that I had been for some time pondering
over. I knew that ere many hours Basset would come in search of me;
I felt that, once in his power, I had nothing to expect but the
long-promised payment of his old debt of hatred to me. In a few seconds
I ran over with myself the prospect of misery before me, and determined
at once, at every hazard, to make my escape. Darby seemed to afford me
the best possible opportunity for this purpose; and I dressed myself,
therefore, in the greatest haste, and throwing whatever I could find of
my wardrobe into my carpet-bag, I pocketed my little purse, with all
my worldly wealth,--some twelve or thirteen shillings,--and noiselessly
slipped downstairs to the room beneath. I reached the door at the very
moment Darby opened it to issue forth. He started back with fear, and
crossed himself twice.

“Don't be afraid. Darby,” said I, uneasy lest he should make any
noise that would alarm the others; “I want to know which road you are
travelling this morning.”

“The saints be about us, but you frightened me. Master Tommy; though,
intermediately, I may obsarve, I 'm by no ways timorous. I 'm going
within two miles of Athlone.”

“That's exactly where I want to go. Darby; will you take me with you?”
 for at the instant Captain Bubbleton's address flashed on my mind, and I
resolved to seek him out and ask his advice in my difficulties.

“I see it all,” replied Darby, as he placed the tip of his finger on his
nose. “I conceive your embarrassments,--you're afraid of Basset;
and small blame to you. But don't do it. Master Tommy,--don't do it,
alannah! that 's the hardest life at all.”

“What?” said I, in amazement.

“To 'list! Sure I know what you're after. Faix, it would sarve you
better to larn the pipes.”

I hastened to assure Darby of his error; and in a few words informed him
of what I had overheard of Basset's intentions respecting me.

“Make you an attorney!” said Darby, interrupting me abruptly; “an
attorney! There's nothing so mean as an attorney. The police is
gentlemen compared to them,--they fight it out fair like men; but the
other chaps sit in a house planning and contriving mischief all day
long, inventing every kind of wickedness, and then getting people to
do it. See, now, I believe in my conscience the devil was the first
attorney, and it was just to serve his own ends that he bred a ruction
between Adam and Eve. But whisht! there's somebody stirring. Are you for
the road?”

“Yes, Darby; my mind's made up.”

Indeed, his own elegant eulogium on legal pursuits assisted my
resolution, and filled my heart with renewed disgust at the thought of
such a guardian as Tony Basset.

We walked stealthily along the gloomy passages, traversed the old
hall, and noiselessly withdrew the heavy bolts and the great chain that
fastened the door. The rain was sweeping along the ground in torrents,
and the wind dashed it against the window panes in fitful gusts. It
needed all our strength to close the door after us against the storm,
and it was only after several trials that we succeeded in doing so. The
hollow sound of the oak door smote upon my heart as it closed behind me;
in an instant the sense of banishment, of utter destitution, was present
to my mind. I turned my eyes to gaze upon the old house,--to take my
last farewell of it forever! Gloomy as my prospect was, my sorrow was
less for the sad future than for the misery of the moment.

“No, Master Tom! no, you must go back,” said Darby, who watched with
a tender interest the sickly paleness of my cheek, and the tottering
uncertainty of my walk.

“No, Darby,” said I, with an effort at firmness; “I'll not look round
any more.” And bending my head against the storm, I stepped out boldly
beside my companion. We walked on without speaking, and soon left the
neglected avenue and ruined gate lodge behind us, as we reached the
highroad that led to Athlone.

Darby, who only waited to let my first burst of sorrow find its natural
vent, no sooner perceived from my step and the renewed color of my cheek
that I had rallied my courage once more, than he opened all his stores
of agreeability, which, to my inexperience in such matters, were by
no means inconsiderable. Abandoning at once all high-flown
phraseology,--which Mr. M'Keown, I afterwards remarked, only retained as
a kind of gala suit for great occasions,--he spoke freely and naturally.
Lightening the way with many a story,--now grave, now gay,--he seemed
to care little for the inclemency of the weather, and looked pleasantly
forward to a happy evening as an ample reward for the present hardship.

“And the captain, Master Tom; you say he's an agreeable man?” said
Darby, alluding to my late companion on the coach, whose merits I was
never tired of recapitulating.

“Oh, delightful! He has travelled everywhere, and seems to know
everybody and everything. He 's very rich, too; I forget how many houses
he has in England, and elephants without number in India.”

“Faix, you were in luck to fall in with him!” observed Darby.

“Yes, that I was I I 'm sure he 'll do something for me; and for you
too, Darby, when he knows you have been so kind to me.”

“Me! What did I do, darling? and what could I do, a poor piper like me?
Wouldn't it be honor enough for me if a gentleman's son would travel the
road with me? Darby M'Keown's a proud man this day to have you beside
him.”

A ruined cabin in the road, whose blackened walls and charred timbers
denoted its fate, here attracted my companion's attention. He stopped
for a second or two to look on it; and then, kneeling down, he muttered
a short prayer for the eternal rest of some one departed, and taking
up a stone, he threw it on a heap of similar ones which lay near the
doorside.

“What happened there, Darby?” said I, as he resumed his way.

“They wor out in the thrubles!” was his only reply, as he cast a glance
behind, to perceive if any one had remarked him.

Though he made no further allusion to the fate of those who once
inhabited the cabin, he spoke freely of his own share in the eventful
year of 'Ninety-eight' justifying, as it then seemed to me, every step
of the patriotic party, and explaining the causes of their unsuccess so
naturally and so clearly that I could not help following with interest
every detail of his narrative, and joining in his regrets for the
unexpected and adverse strokes fortune dealt upon them. As he warmed
with his subject, he spoke of France with an enthusiasm that I soon
found contagious. He told me of the glorious career of the French armies
in Italy and Austria; and of that wonderful man, of whom I then
heard for the first time, as spreading a halo of victory over his
nation,--contrasting, as he went on, the rewards which awaited heroism
and bravery in that service with the purchased promotion in ours,
artfully illustrating his position by a reference to myself, and what
my fortunes would have been if born under that happier sky. “No elder
brother there,” said he, “to live in affluence, while the younger ones
are turned out to wander on the wide world, houseless and penniless. And
all these things we might have done, had we been but true to ourselves.”
 I drank in all he said with avidity. The bearing of his arguments on my
own fortunes gave them an interest and an apparent truth my young mind
eagerly devoured; and when he ceased to speak, I pondered over all he
told me in a spirit that left its impress on my whole future life.

It was a new notion to me to connect my own fortunes with anything in
the political condition of the country; and while it gave my young heart
a kind of martyred courage, it set my brain a-thinking on a class of
subjects which never before possessed any interest for me. There was a
flattery, too, in the thought that I owed my straitened circumstances
less to any demerits of my own, than to political disabilities. The time
was well chosen by my companion to instil his doctrines into my heart.
I was young, ardent, enthusiastic; my own wrongs had taught me to
hate injustice and oppression; my condition had made me feel, and feel
bitterly, the humiliation of dependence; and if I listened with eager
curiosity to every story and every incident of the bygone Rebellion, it
was because the contest was represented to me as one between tyranny on
one side and struggling liberty on the other. I heard the names of those
who sided with the insurgent party extolled as the great and good men of
their country; their ancient families and hereditary claims furnishing
a contrast to many of the opposite party, whose recent settlement in the
island and new-born aristocracy were held up in scoff and derision. In
a word, I learned to believe that the one side was characterized by
cruelty, oppression, and injustice; the other, conspicuous only for
endurance, courage, patriotism, and truth. What a picture was this to a
mind like mine! and at a moment, too, when I seemed to realize in my own
desolation an example of the very sufferings I heard of!

If the portrait McKeown drew of Ireland was sad and gloomy, he painted
France in colors the brightest and most seductive. Dwelling less on the
political advantages which the Revolution had won for the popular party,
he directed my entire attention to the brilliant career of glory
the French army had followed; the triumphant success of the Italian
campaign; the war in Germany; and the splendor of Paris, which he
represented as a very paradise on earth; but above all, he dwelt on
the character and achievements of the First Consul, recounting many
anecdotes of his early life, from the period when he was a schoolboy
at Brienne to the hour when he dictated the conditions of peace to the
oldest monarchies of Europe, and proclaimed war with the voice of one
who came as an avenger.

I drank in every word he spoke with avidity. The very enthusiasm of his
manner was contagious; I felt my heart bound with rapturous delight
at some hardy deed of soldierlike daring, and conceived a kind of
wild idolatry for the man who seemed to have infused his own glorious
temperament into the mighty thousands around him, and converted a whole
nation into heroes.

Darby's information on all these matters--which seemed to me something
miraculous--had been obtained at different periods from French
emissaries who were scattered through Ireland; many of them old soldiers
who had served in the campaigns of Egypt and Italy.

“But sure, if you 'd come with me, Master Tom, I could bring you where
you'll see them yourself; and you could talk to them of the battles and
skirmishes, for I suppose you spake French.”

“Very little. Darby. How sorry I am now that I don't know it well.”

“No matter; they'll soon teach you, and many a thing besides. There 's
a captain I know of, not far from where we are this minute, could learn
you the small sword,--in style, he could. I wish you saw him in his
green uniform with white facings, and three elegant crosses upon it
that General Bonaparte gave him with his own hands; he had them on one
Sunday, and I never see'd anything equal to it.”

“And are there many French officers hereabouts?”

“Not now; no, they're almost all gone. After the rising they went back
to France, except a few. Well, there'll be call for them again, please
God.”

“Will there be another Rebellion, then, Darby?”

As I put this question fearlessly, and in a voice loud enough to be
heard at some distance, a horseman, wrapped up in a loose cloth cloak,
was passing. He suddenly pulled up short, and turning his horse
round, stood exactly opposite to the piper. Darby saluted the stranger
respectfully, and seemed desirous to pass on; but the other, turning
round in his saddle, fixed a stern look on him, and he cried out,--

“What! at the old trade, M'Keown. Is there no curing you, eh?”

“Just so, major,” said Darby, assuming a tone of voice he had not
made use of the entire morning; “I 'm conveying a little instrumental
recreation.”

“None of your damned gibberish with me. Who 's that with you?”

“He 's the son of a neighbor of mine, your honor,” said Darby, with
an imploring look at me not to betray him. “His father 's a
schoolmaster,--a philomath, as one might say.”

I was about to contradict this statement bluntly, when the stranger
called out to me,--

“Mark me, young sir, you 're not in the best of company this morning,
and I recommend you to part with your friend as soon as may be. And
you,” said he, turning to Darby, “let me see you in Athlone at ten
o'clock to-morrow. D' ye hear me?”

The piper grew pale as death as he heard this command, to which he only
responded by touching his hat in silence; while the horseman, drawing
his cloak around, dashed his spurs into his beast's flanks, and was soon
out of sight. Darby stood for a moment or two looking down the road,
where the stranger had disappeared; a livid hue colored his cheek, and
a tremulous quivering of his under-lip gave him the appearance of one in
ague.

“I'll be even with ye yet,” muttered he between his clenched teeth; “and
when the hour comes--”

Here he repeated some words in Irish with a vehemence of manner that
actually made my blood tingle; then suddenly recovering himself, he
assumed a kind of sickly smile. “That's a hard man, the major.”

“I'm thinking,” said Darby, after a pause of some minutes,--“I 'm
thinking it 's better for you not to go into Athlone with me; for if
Basset wishes to track you out, that 'll be the first place he 'll try.
Besides, now that the major has seen you, he'll never forget you.”

Having pledged myself to adopt any course my companion recommended, he
resumed,--

“Ay, that 's the best way. I 'll lave you at Ned Malone's in the Glen;
and when I 've done with the major in the morning, I 'll look after your
friend the captain, and tell him where you are.”

I readily assented to this arrangement; and only asked what distance it
might yet be to Ned Malone's, for already I began to feel fatigue.

“A good ten miles,” said Darby,--“no less; but we 'll stop here above,
and get something to eat, and then we 'll take a rest for an hour or
two, and you 'll think nothing of the road after.”

I stepped out with increased energy at the cheering prospect; and
although the violence of the weather was nothing abated, I consoled
myself with thinking of the rest and refreshment before me, and resolved
not to bestow a thought upon the present. Darby, on the other hand,
seemed more depressed than before, and betrayed in many ways a state of
doubt and uncertainty as to his movements,--sometimes pushing on rapidly
for half a mile or so; then relapsing into a slow and plodding
pace; often looking back too, and more than once coming to a perfect
stand-still, talking the whole time to himself in a low muttering voice.

In this way we proceeded for above two miles, when at last I descried
through the beating rain the dusky gable of a small cabin in the
distance, and eagerly asked if that were to be our halting place.

“Yes,” said Darby, “that 's Peg's cabin; and though it 's not very
remarkable in the way of cookery or the like, it 's the only house
within seven miles of us.”

As we came nearer, the aspect of the building became even less enticing.
It was a low mud hovel, with a miserable roof of sods, or scraws, as
they are technically called; a wretched attempt at a chimney occupying
the gable; and the front to the road containing a small square aperture,
with a single pane of glass as a window, and a wicker contrivance in
the shape of a door, which, notwithstanding the severity of the day,
lay wide open to permit the exit of the smoke, which rolled more freely
through this than through the chimney. A filthy pool of stagnant,
green-covered water stood before the door, through which a little
causeway of earth led. Upon this a thin, lank-sided sow was standing to
be rained, on, her long, pointed snout turned meditatively towards the
luscious mud beside her. Displacing this Important member of the family
with an unceremonious kick. Darby stooped to enter the low doorway,
uttering as he did so the customary “God save all here!” As I followed
him in, I did not catch the usual response to the greeting, and from the
thick smoke which filled the cabin, could see nothing whatever around
me.

“Well, Peg,” said Darby, “how is it with you the day?”

A low grunting noise issued from the foot of a little mud wall beside
the fireplace. I turned and beheld the figure of a woman of some seventy
years of age, seated beside the turf embers; her dark eyes, bleared with
smoke and dimmed with age, were still sharp and piercing; and her nose,
thin and aquiline, indicated a class of features by no means common
among the people. Her dress was the blue frieze coat of a laboring man,
over the woollen gown usually worn by women. Her feet and legs were
bare; and her head was covered with an old straw bonnet, whose faded
ribbon and tarnished finery betokened its having once belonged to some
richer owner. There was no vestige of any furniture,--neither table nor
chair, nor dresser, nor even a bed, unless some straw laid against the
wall in one corner could be thus called; a pot suspended over the wet
and sodden turf by a piece of hay rope, and an earthen pipkin with water
stood beside her. The floor of the hovel, lower in many places than the
road without, was cut up into sloppy mud by the tread of the sow, who
ranged at will through the premises. In a word, more dire and wretched
poverty it was impossible to conceive.

Darby's first movement was to take off the lid and peer into the pot,
when the bubbling sound of the boiling potatoes assured him that we
should have at least something to eat; his next, was to turn a little
basket upside down for a seat, to which he motioned me with his hand;
then, approaching the old woman, he placed his hand to his mouth and
shouted in her ear,--

“What 's the major after this morning, Peg?”

She shook her head gloomily a couple of times, but gave no answer.

“I 'm thinking there 's bad work going on at the town there,” cried he,
in the same loud tone as before.

Peg muttered something in Irish, but far too low to be audible.

“Is she mad, poor thing?” said I, in a whisper.

The words were not well uttered when she darted on me her black and
piercing eyes, with a look so steadfast as to make me quail beneath
them.

“Who 's that there?” said the hag, in a croaking, harsh voice.

“He 's a young boy from beyond Loughrea.”

“No!” shouted she, in a tone of passionate energy; “don't tell me a lie.
I 'd know his brows among a thousand,--he 's a son of Matt Burke's, of
Cronmore.”

“Begorra, she is a witch; devil a doubt of it!” muttered Darby between
his teeth. “You 're right, Peg,” continued he, after a moment. “His
father's dead, and the poor child's left nothing in the world.”

“And so ould Matt's dead?” interrupted she. “When did he die?”

“On Tuesday morning, before day.”

“I was driaming of him that morning, and I thought he kem up here to the
cabin door on his knees, and said, 'Peggy, Peggy M'Casky! I'm come to
ax your pardon for all I done to you.' And I sat up in my bed, and cried
out, 'Who 's that?' and he said, ''T is me,--'t is Mister Burke; I 'm
come to give you back your lease.' 'I 'll tell you what you 'll give
me back,' says I; 'give me the man whose heart you bruck with bad
treatment; give me the two fine boys you transported for life; give me
back twenty years of my own, that I spent in sorrow and misery.'”

“Peg, acushla! don't speak of it any more. The poor child here, that
's fasting from daybreak, he is n't to blame for what his father did. I
think the praties is done by this time.”

So saying, he lifted the pot from the fire, and carried it to the door
to strain off the water. The action seemed to rouse the old woman, who
rose rapidly to her legs, and, hastening to the door, snatched the pot
from his hand and pushed him to one side.

“'Tis two days since I tasted bit or sup; 'tis God himself knows when
and where I may have it again; but if I never broke my fast, I'll not do
it with the son of him that left me a lone woman this day, that brought
the man that loved me to the grave, and my children to shame forever.”

As she spoke, she dashed the pot into the road with such force as to
break it into fifty pieces; and then, sitting down on the outside of the
cabin, she wrung her hands and moaned piteously, in the very excess of
her sorrow.

“Let us be going,” said Darby, in a whisper. “There 'a no spaking to her
when she 's one of them fits on her.”

We moved silently from the hovel, and gained the road. My heart was full
to bursting; shame and abasement overwhelmed me, and I dated not look
up.

“Good-by, Peg. I hope we 'll be better friends when we meet again,” said
Darby, as he passed out.

She made no reply, but entered the cabin, from which, in an instant
after, she emerged, carrying a lighted sod of turf in a rude wooden
tongs.

[Illustration: The Curse 42]

“Come along quick!” said Darby, with a look of terror; “she's going to
curse you.”

I turned round, transfixed and motionless. If my life depended on it, I
could not have stirred a limb. The old woman by this time had knelt down
on the road, and was muttering rapidly to herself.

“Gome along, I say I,” said Darby, pulling me by the arm.

“And now,” cried the hag aloud, “may bad luck be your shadow wherever
you walk, with sorrow behind and bad hopes before you! May you never
taste happiness nor ease; and, like this turf, may your heart be always
burning here, and--”

I heard no more, for Darby, tearing me away by main force, dragged me
along the road, just as the hissing turf embers had fallen at my feet
where the hag had thrown them.



CHAPTER IV. MY WANDERINGS.

I CANNOT deny it,--the horrible imprecation I had heard uttered against
me seemed to fill up the cup of my misery. An outcast, without home,
without a friend, this alone was wanting to overwhelm me with very
wretchedness; and as I covered my face with both hands, I thought my
heart would break.

“Come, come. Master Tom!” said Darby, “don't be afeard; it'll never do
you harm, all she said. I made the sign of the cross on the road between
you and her with the end of my stick, and you 're safe enough this time.
Faix, she 's a quare divil when she 's roused,--to destroy an illigint
pot of praties that way! But sure she had hard provocation. Well, well!
you war n't to blame, anyhow; Tony Basset will have a sore reckoning
some day for all this.”

The mention of that name recalled me in a moment to the consideration
of my own danger if he were to succeed in overtaking me, and I eagerly
communicated my fear to Darby.

“That's thrue,” said he; “we must leave the highroad, for Basset will be
up at the house by this, and will lose no time in following you out. If
you had a bit of something to eat.”

“As to that. Darby,” said I, with a sickly effort to smile, “Peg's curse
took away my appetite, full as well as her potatoes would have done.”

“'T is a bad way to breakfast, after all,” said Darby. “Do you ever take
a shaugh of the pipe, Master Tom?”

“No,” said I, laughing, “I never learned to smoke yet.”

“Well,” replied he, a little piqued by the tone of my answer, “'t is
worse you might be doin' than that same. Tobacco's a fine thing for the
heart! Many's the time, when I 'm alone, if I had n't the pipe I 'd be
lone and sorrowful,--thinking over the hard times and the like; but when
I 've filled my dudeen, and do be watching the smoke curling up, I begin
dhraming about sitting round the fire with pleasant companions, chatting
away, and discoorsing, and telling stories. And then I invint the
stories to myself about quare devils of pipers travelling over the
country, making love here and there, and playing dhroll tunes out of
their own heads; and then I make the tunes to them. And after that,
maybe, I make words, and sometimes lay down the pipe and begin singing
to myself; and often I take up the bagpipes and play away with all my
might, till I think I see the darlingest little fairies ever you seen
dancing before me, setting to one another, and turning round, and
capering away,--down the middle and up again; small chaps, with
three-cornered hats, and wigs, and little red coats all slashed with
goold; and beautiful little craytures houlding their petticoats,
this way to show a nate leg and foot; and I do be calling out to
them,--'Hands round!' 'That 's your sowl!' 'Look at the green fellow;
'tis himself can do it!' 'Rise the jig, hoo!'--and faix 't is sorry
enough I 'm when they go, and lave me all alone by myself.”

“And how does all that come into your head. Darby?” “Troth, 'tis hard
to tell,” said Darby, with a sigh. “But my notion is, that the poor man
that has neither fine houses, nor fine clothes, nor horses, nor sarvants
to amuse him, that Providence is kind to him in another way, and fills
his mind with all manner of dhroll thoughts and quare stories and bits
of songs, and the like, and lets him into many a sacret about fairies
and the good people that the rich has no time for. And sure you must
have often remarked it, that the quality has never a bit of fun in
them at all, but does be always coming to us for something to make them
laugh. Did you never lave the parlor, when the company was sitting with
lashings of wine and fruit, and every convaniency, and go downstairs to
the kitchen, where maybe there was nothing but a salt herrin' and a jug
of punch; and if you did, where wais the most fun, I wondher? Arrah,
when they bid me play a tune for them, and I look at their sorrowful
pale faces, and their dim eyes and the stiff way they sit upon their
chairs, I never put heart in it; but when I rise 'Dirty James,' or 'The
Little Bould Fox,' or 'Kiss my Lady,' for the boys and girls, sure 't is
my whole sowl does be in the bag, and I squeeze the notes out of it with
all my might.”

In this way did Darby converse until we reached a cross road, when,
coming to a halt, he pointed with his finger to the distance, and
said,--

“Athlone is down beyond that low mountain. Now, Ned Malone's is only six
short miles from this. You keep this byroad till you reach the smith's
forge; then turn off to the lift, across the fields, till you come to an
ould ruin; lave that to your right hand, and follow the boreen straight;
'twill bring you to Ned's doore.”

“But I don't know him,” said I.

“What signifies that? Sure 'tis no need you have. Tell him you 'll stop
there till Darby the Blast comes for you. And see, now, here 's all you
have to do: put your right thumb in the palm of your lift hand,--this
way,--and then kiss the other thumb, and then you have it. But mind
you don't do that till you 're alone with him; 't is a token between
ourselves.”

“I wish you were coming with me, Darby; I'd rather not leave you!”

“'Tis myself mislikes it, too,” said Darby, with a sigh. “But I daren't
miss going to Athlone; the major would soon ferret me out; and it's
worse it would be for me.”

“And what am I to do if Mr. Basset comes after me?”

“If he has n't a throop of horse at his back, you may laugh at him in
Ned Malone's, And now good-by, acushla; and don't let your heart be
low,--you 'll be a man soon, you know.”

The words of encouragement could not have been more happily chosen to
raise my drooping spirits. The sense of opening manhood was already
stirring within me, and waited but for some direct occasion to elicit it
in full vigor.

I shook Darby's hand with a firm grasp, and assuming the easiest smile I
could accomplish, I set out on the path before me with all the alacrity
in my power.

The first thought that shot across my mind when I parted with my
companion was the utter loneliness of my condition; the next--and
it followed immediately on the other--was the bold consciousness of
personal freedom. I enjoyed at the moment the untrammelled liberty to
wander without let or control. All memory of Tony Basset was forgotten,
and I only remembered the restraint of school and the tyranny of my
master. My plan--and already I had formed a plan--was to become a
farmer's servant, to work as a daily laborer. Ned Malone would probably
accept of me, young as I was, in that capacity; and I had no other
ambition than such as secured my independence.

As I travelled along I wove within my mind a whole web of imaginary
circumstances: of days of peaceful toil; of nights of happy and
contented rest; of friendship formed with those of my own age and
condition; of the long summer evenings when I should ramble alone to
commune with myself on my humble but happy lot; on the red hearth in
winter, around which the merry faces of the cottagers were beaming, as
some pleasant tale was told;--and as I asked myself, would I exchange a
life like this for all the advantages of fortune my brother's position
afforded him, my heart replied, No! Even then the words of the piper
had worked upon me, and already had I connected the possession of wealth
with oppression and tyranny, and the lowly fortunes of the poor man as
alone securing high-souled liberty of thought and freedom of speech and
action.

I trudged along through the storm, turning from time to time to see
that I was not pursued; for as the day waned, my fear of being overtaken
increased, and in every moaning of the wind and every rustle of
the branches I thought I heard Tony Basset summoning me to stop and
surrender myself his prisoner. This dread gradually gave way, as the
loneliness of the road was unbroken by a single traveller; the wild
half-tilled fields presented no living object far or near; the thick
rain swooped along the swampy earth, and, in its misty darkness, shut
out all distant prospect; and a sadder picture eye never rested on.

At length I reached the ruined church Darby spoke of, and following the
track he indicated, soon came out upon the boreen, where for the first
time some little shelter existed.

It was only at nightfall, when fatigue and hunger had nearly obtained
the victory over me, that I saw, at some short distance in front, the
long roof of a well-thatched cabin. As I came nearer, I could perceive
that it contained several windows, and that the door was sheltered by a
small porch,--marks of comfort by no means common among the neighboring
farmers; lights moved here and there through the cabin; and the voices
of people driving in the cows, and the barking of dogs, were welcome
sounds to my ear. A half-clad urchin, of some seven years old, armed
with a huge bramble, was driving a flock of turkeys before him as I
approached; but instead of replying to my question, “If this were Ned
Malone's,” the little fellow threw down his weapon, and ran for his
life. Before I could recover from my surprise at his strange conduct,
the door opened, and a large, powerful-looking man, in a long blue
coat, appeared. He carried a musket in his hand, which, as soon as he
perceived the figure before him, he laid down within the porch, calling
out to some one inside,--

“Go back, Maurice,--it's nothing. Well, sir,” continued he, addressing
me, “do you want anybody hereabouts?”

“Is this Ned Malone's, may I ask?” said I.

“It is,” answered he; “and I am Ned Malone, at your service. And what
then?”

There was something in the cold, forbidding tone in which he spoke, as
well as in the hard severity of his look, that froze all my resolution
to ask a favor, and I would gladly have sought elsewhere for shelter for
the night had I known where to look.

The delay this indecision on my part created, caused him to repeat
his question, while he fixed his eyes on me with a dark and piercing
expression.

“Darby the Blast told me,” said I, with a great effort to seem at ease,
“that you would give me shelter to-night. To-morrow morning he 's to
come here for me.”

“And who are you,” said he, harshly, “that I am to take into my house?
In these troublesome times a man may ask the name of his lodger.”

“My name is Burke. My father's name was Burke, of Cremore; but he 's
dead now.”

“'T is you that Basset is after all day, is it?”

“I can't tell; but I fear it may be.”

“Well, some one told him that you took the Dublin road, and another sent
him up here, and the boys here sent him to Durragh. And what are you
after, young gentleman? Do you dislike Tony Basset? Is that it?”

“Yes,” said I; “I 'm resolved never to go home and live with him. He
made my father hate me, and through him I have been left a beggar.”

“There 's more than you has a score to settle with Tony. Come into the
house and get your clothes dried. But stop, I have a bit of a caution
to give you. If you see anything or anybody while you 're under my roof
that you did n't expect--”

“Trust me there!” interrupted I, eagerly, and making the sign the piper
had taught me.

“What!” cried Malone, in astonishment; “are you one of us? Is a son
of Matt Burke's going to redress the wrongs his father and grandfather
before him inflicted? Give me your hand, my brave boy; there 's nothing
in this house isn't your own from this minit.”

I grasped his strong hand in mine, and with a proud and swelling heart,
followed him into the cabin.

A whisper crept round the various persons that sat and stood about the
kitchen fire as I appeared among them; and the next moment one after
another pressed anxiously forward to shake hands with me.

“Help him off with his wet clothes, Maurice,” said Malone, to a young
man of some twenty years; and in a few seconds my wet garments were hung
on chairs before the blaze, and I myself, accompanied with a frieze
coat that would make a waistcoat for an elephant, sat basking before
the cheerful turf fire. The savory steam of a great mess of meat and
potatoes induced me to peep into the large pot over the fire. A hearty
burst of laughing from the whole party acknowledged their detection of
my ravenous hunger, and the supper was smoking on the board in a few
minutes after. Unhappily, a good number of years have rolled over my
head since that night; but I still hesitate to decide whether to my
appetite or to Mrs. Malone's cookery should attribute it, but certainly
my performance on that occasion called forth unqualified admiration.

I observed during the supper that one of the girls carried a plateful of
the savory dish into a small room at the end of the kitchen, carefully
closing the door after her as she entered; and when she came out,
exchanging with Malone a few hurried words, to which the attention of
the others was evidently directed. The caution I had already received,
and my own sense of propriety, prevented my paying any attention to
this, and I conversed with those about me, freely narrating the whole
circumstances of my departure from home, my fear of Basset, and my firm
resolve, come what might, never to become an inmate of his house and
family. Not all the interest they took in my fortunes, nor even the warm
praises of what they called my courage and manliness, could ward off the
tendency to sleep, and my eyes actually closed as I lay down in my bed,
and notwithstanding the noise of voices and the sounds of laughter near
me, sank into the heaviest slumber.



CHAPTER V. THE CABIN.

Before day broke the stir and bustle of the household awoke me, and
had it not been for the half-open door, which permitted a view of the
proceedings in the kitchen, I should have been sadly puzzled to remember
where I was. The cheerful turf fire, the happy faces, and the pleasant
voices all reminded me of the preceding night, and I lay pondering over
my fortunes, and revolving within myself many a plan for the future.

In all the daydreams of ambition in which youth indulges, there is this
advantage over the projects of maturer years,--the past never mingles
with the future. In after life our bygone existence is ever tingeing the
time to come; the expectations friends have formed of us, the promises
we have made to our own hearts, the hopes we have created, seem to
pledge us to something which, if anattained, sounds like failure. But
in earlier years, the budding consciousness of our ability to reach the
goal doea but stimulate us, and never chills our efforts by the dread
of disappointment; we have, as it were, only bound ourselves in
recognizances with our own hearts,--the world has not gone bail for us,
and our falling short involves not the ruin of others, nor the loss of
that self-respect which is but the reflex of the opinion of society. I
felt this strongly; and the more I ruminated on it, the more resolutely
bent was I to adopt some bold career,--some enterprising path, where
ambition should supply to me the pleasures and excitements that others
found among friends and home.

I now perceived how unsuitable would be to me the quiet monotony of
a peasant's life; how irksome the recurrence of the same daily
occupations, the routine of ceaseless labor, the intercourse with
those whose views and hopes strayed not beyond their own hedgerows. A
soldier's life appeared to realize all that I looked for; but then
the conversation of the piper recurred to me, and I remembered how he
painted these men to me as mere hireling bravos, to whom glory or fame
was nothing,--merely actuated by the basest of passions, the slaves of
tyranny. All the atrocities he mentioned of the military in the past
year came up before me, and with them the brave resistance of the people
in their struggle for independence. How my heart glowed with enthusiasm
as I thought over the bold stand they had made, and how I panted to be
a man, and linked in such a cause! Every gloomy circumstance in my own
fate seemed as the result of that grinding oppression under which my
country suffered,--even to the curse vented on me by one whose ruin
and desolation lay at my own father's door. My temples throbbed, and
my heart beat painfully against my side, as I revolved these thoughts
within me; and when I rose from my bed that morning, I was a rebel with
all my soul.

The day, like the preceding one, was stormy and inclement; the rain
poured down without ceasing, and the dark, lowering sky gave no promise
of better things. The household of the cottage remained all at home, and
betook themselves to such occupations as indoor permitted. The women sat
down to their spinning-wheels; some of the men employed themselves in
repairing their tools, and others in making nets for fishing: but all
were engaged. Meanwhile, amid the sounds of labor was mixed the busy hum
of merry voices, as they chatted away pleasantly, with many a story
and many a song lightening the long hours of the dark day. As for me, I
longed impatiently for Darby's return: a thousand half-formed plans were
flitting through my mind; and I burned to hear whether Basset was still
in pursuit of me; what course he was adopting to regain me within his
control; if Darby had seen my friend Bubbleton, and whether he showed
any disposition to befriend and protect me. These and such like thoughts
kept passing through my mind; and as the storm would shake the rude
door, I would stand up with eagerness, hoping every moment to see
him enter. But the day moved on, and the dusky half-light of a wintry
afternoon was falling, and Darby made not his appearance. When I spoke
of him to the others, they expressed no surprise at his absence, merely
remarking that he was always uncertain,--no one knew when to expect him;
that he rarely came when they looked for him, and constantly dropped in
when no one anticipated it.

“There he is now, then!” said one of the young men, springing up and
opening the door; “I hear his voice in the glen.”

“Do you see him, Maurice?” cried Malone. “Is it him?”

The young man stepped back, his face pale as death, and his mouth partly
open.

He whispered a word in the old man's ear; to which the other
responded,--“Where?”

The youth pointed with his finger. “How many are they?” was his next
question, while his dark eye glanced towards the old musket that hung on
the wall above the fire.

“Too many,--too many for us,” said Maurice, bitterly.

The women, who had gathered around the speaker, looked at each other
with an expression of utter wretchedness, when one of them, breaking
from the others, rushed into the little inner room off the kitchen, and
slammed the door violently behind her. The next instant the sound of
voices was heard from the room, as if in altercation. Malone turned
round at once, and throwing the door wide open, called out,--

“Be quiet, I say; there's not a moment to be lost. Maurice, put that gun
away; Shamus, take up your net again; sit down, girls.”

At the same instant he drew from his bosom a long horse pistol,
and having examined the loading and priming, replaced it within his
waistcoat, and sat down on a chair beside the fire, his strongly marked
countenance fixed on the red blaze, while his lips muttered rapidly some
words to himself.

“Are ye ready there?” he cried, as his eyes were turned towards the
small door.

“In a minit,” said the woman from within.

At the same instant the sounds of voices and the regular tramp of men
marching were heard without.

“Halt! stand at ease!” called out a deep voice; and the clank of the
muskets as they fell to the ground was heard through the cabin.

Meanwhile, every one within had resumed his previous place and
occupation, and the buzz of voices resounded through the kitchen as
though no interruption whatever had taken place. The latch was now
lifted, and a sergeant, stooping to permit his tall feather to pass in,
entered, followed by a man in plain clothes.

The latter was a short, powerfully-built man, of about fifty; his hair,
of a grizzly gray, contrasted with the deep purple of his countenance,
which was swollen and bloated; the mouth, its most remarkable feature,
was large and thick-lipped, the under-lip, projecting considerably
forward, and having a strange, convulsive motion when he was not
speaking.

“It's a hard day. Mister Barton,” said Malone, rising from his seat, and
stroking down his hair with one hand; “won't ye come over and take an
air at the fire?”

“I will, indeed, Ned,” said he, taking the proffered seat, and
stretching out his legs to the blaze. “It's a severe season we have. I
don't know how the poor are to get in the turf; the bogs are very wet
entirely.”

“They are, indeed, sir; and the harvest 'ill be very late getting in
now,” said one of the young men, with a most obsequious voice. “Won't ye
sit down, sir?” said he to the sergeant.

A nod from Mister Barton in acquiescence decided the matter, and the
sergeant was seated.

“What's here, Mary?” said Barton, striking the large pot that hung over
the fire with his foot.

“It's the boys' dinner, sir,” said the girl.

“I think it wouldn't be a bad job if we joined them,” replied he,
laughingly,--“eh, sergeant?”

“There 'ill be enough for us all,” said Malone; “and I'm sure ye're
welcome to it.”

The table was quickly spread, the places next the fire being reserved
for the strangers; while Malone, unlocking a cupboard, took down a
bottle of whiskey, which he placed before them, remarking, as he did
so,--

“Don't be afeard, gentlemen, 'tis Parliament.”

“That 's right, Malone. I like a man to be loyal in these bad times;
there's nothing like it. (Faith, Mary, you're a good cook; that's as
savory a stew as ever I tasted.) Where 's Patsey now? I have n't seen
him for some time.”

The girl's face grew dark red, and then became as suddenly pale; when,
staggering back, she lifted her apron to her face, and leaned against
the dresser.

“He's transported for life,” said Malone, in a deep, sepulchral voice,
while all his efforts to conceal agitation were fruitless.

“Oh, I remember,” said Barton, carelessly; “he was in the dock with the
Hogans. (I 'll take another bone from you, Ned. Sergeant, that 's a real
Irish dish, and no bad one either.)”

“What's doing at the town to-day?” said Malone, affecting an air of easy
indifference.

“Nothing remarkable, I believe. They have taken up that rascal. Darby
the Blast, as they call him. The major had him under examination this
morning for two hours; and they say he 'll give evidence against the
Dillons, (a little more fat, if ye please;) money, you know, Ned, will
do anything these times.”

“You ought to know that, sir,” said Maurice, with such an air of assumed
innocence as actually made Barton look ashamed. In an instant, however,
he recovered himself, and pretended to laugh at the remark. “Your
health, sergeant; Ned Malone, your health; ladies, yours; and boys,
the same.” A shower of “thank ye, sir's,” followed this piece of
unlooked-for courtesy. “Who's that boy there, Ned?” said he, pointing to
me as I sat with my eyes riveted upon him.

“He's from this side of Banagher, sir,” said Malone, evading the
question.

“Come over here, younker. What 's his name?”

“Tom, sir.”

“Come over, Tom, till I teach you a toast. Here's a glass, my lad;
hold it steady, till I fill you a bumper. Did you ever hear tell of the
croppies?”

“No, never!”

“Never heard of the croppies! Well, you're not long in Ned Malone's
company anyhow, eh? ha! ha! ha! Well, my man, the croppies is another
name for the rebels, and the toast I 'm going to give you is about them.
So mind you finish it at one pull. Here now, are you ready?”

“Yes, quite ready,” said I, as I held the brimming glass straight before
me.

“Here 's it, then,--

     “'May every croppy taste the rope.
         And find some man to hang them;
     May Bagnal Harvey and the Pope
         Have Heppenstal to hang them!'”

I knew enough of the meaning of his words to catch the allusion, and
dashing the glass with all my force against the wall, I smashed it
into a hundred pieces. Barton sprang from his chair, his face dark with
passion. Clutching me by the collar with both hands, he cried out,--

“Halloo! there without, bring in the handcuffs here! As sure as my name
's Sandy Barton, we 'll teach you that toast practically, and that ere
long.”

“Take care what you do there,” said Malone, fiercely. “That young
gentleman is a son of Matthew Burke of Cremore; his relatives are not
the kind of people to figure in your riding-house.”

“Are you a son of Matthew Burke?”

“I am.”

“What brings you here then? why are you not at home?”

“By what right do you dare to ask me? I have yet to learn how far I am
responsible for where I go to a thief-catcher.”

“You hear that, sergeant? you heard him use a word to bring me into
contempt before the people, and excite them to use acts of violence
towards me?”

“No such thing. Mister Barton!” said Malone, coolly; “nobody here has
any thought of molesting you. I told you that young gentleman's name
and condition, to prevent you making any mistake concerning him; for his
friends are not the people to trifle with.”

This artfully-put menace had its effect. Barton sat down again, and
appeared to reflect for a few minuted; then taking a roll of paper from
his pocket, he began leisurely to peruse it. The silence at this moment
was something horribly oppressive.

“This is a search-warrant, Mr. Malone,” said Barton, laying down the
paper on the table, “empowering me to seek for the body of a certain
French officer, said to be concealed in these parts. Informations on
oath state that he passed at least one night under your roof. As he
has not accepted the amnesty granted to the other officers in the late
famous attempt against the peace of this country, the law will deal
with him as strict justice may demand; at the same time, it is right you
should know that harboring or sheltering him, under these circumstances,
involves the person or persons so doing in his guilt. Mr. Malone's
well-known and tried loyalty,” continued Barton, with a half grin
of most malicious meaning, “would certainly exculpate him from any
suspicion of this nature; but sworn informations are stubborn things,
and it is possible, that in ignorance of the danger such a proceeding
would involve--”

“I thought the thrubbles was over, sir,” interrupted Malone, wiping his
forehead with the back of his hand, “and that an honest, industrious
man, that minded his own business, had nothing to fear from any one.”

“And you thought right,” said Barton, slowly and deliberately, while
he scanned the other's features with a searching look; “and that is the
very fact I'm come to ascertain. And now, with your leave, we'll first
search the house and offices, and then I 'll put a little interrogatory
to such persons as I think fit, touching this affair.”

“You're welcome to go over the cabin whenever you like,” said Malone,
rising, and evidently laboring to repress his passionate indignation at
Barton's coolness.

Barton stood up at the same moment, and giving a wink at the sergeant to
follow, walked towards the small door I've already mentioned. Malone's
wife at this started forward, and catching Barton's arm, whispered a few
words in his ear.

“She must be a very old woman by this time,” said Barton, fixing his
sharp eyes on the speaker.

“Upwards of ninety, sir, and bedridden for twelve years,” said the
woman, wiping a tear away with her apron.

“And how comes it she's so afraid of the soldiers, if she's doting?”

“Arrah! they used to frighten her so much, coming in at night, and
firing shots at the doore, and drinking and singing songs, that she
never got over it; an that's the rayson. I 'll beg of your honor not to
bring in the sergeant, and to disturb her only as little as you can, for
it sets her raving about battles and murders, and it 's maybe ten days
before we 'll get her mind at ease again.”

“Well, well, I'll not trouble her,” said he, quickly, “Sergeant, step
back for a moment.”

With this he entered the room, followed by the woman whose uncertain
step and quiet gesture seemed to suggest caution.

“She 's asleep, sir,” said she, approaching the bed. “It 's many a day
since she had as fine a sleep as that. 'T is good luck you brought us
this morning, Mister Barton.”

“Draw aside the curtain a little,” said Barton, in a low voice, as if
fearing to awake the sleeper.

“'Tis rousing her up, you'll be, Mister Barton, she feels the light at
wanst.”

“She breathes very long for so old a woman,” said he somewhat louder,
“and has a good broad shoulder, too. T 'd like, if it was only for
curiosity, just to see her face a little closer. I thought so! Come,
captain; it 's no use--”

A scream from the woman drowned the remainder of the speech, while at
the same instant one of the young men shut-to the outside door, and
barred it. The sergeant was immediately pinioned with his hands behind
his back, and Malone drew his horse-pistol from his bosom, and holding
up his hand, called out,--

“Not a word,--not a word! If ye spake, it will be the last time ever
you 'll do so!” said he to the sergeant

At the same moment, the noise of a scuffle was heard in the inner room,
and the door burst suddenly open, and Barton issued forth, dragging in
his strong hands the figure of a young, slightly-formed man. His coat
was off, but its trousers were braided with gold, in military fashion;
and his black mustache denoted the officer. The struggle of the youth to
get free was utterly fruitless; Barton's grasp was on his collar, and he
held him as though he were a child.

[Illustration: The Struggle 059]

Malone stooped down towards the fire, and, opening the pan of his
pistol, examined the priming; then, slapping it down again, he stood
erect, “Barton,” said he, in a tone of firm determination I heard him
use for the first time,--“Barton, it 's bad to provoke a man with the
halter round his neck. I know what 's before me well enough now. But
see, let him escape; give him two hours to get away, and here I 'll
surrender myself your prisoner, and follow you where you like.”

“Break in the door, there, blast ye!” was the reply to this offer, as
Barton shouted to the soldiers at the top of his voice. Two of the young
men darted forward as he spoke, and threw themselves against it. “Fire
through it!” cried Barton, stamping with passion.

“You will have it, will you, then?” said Malone, as he ground his teeth
in anger; then raising his pistol, he sprang forward, and holding it
within a yard of Barton's face, shouted out, “There!”

The powder flashed in the lock, and quick as its own report. Barton
hurled the Frenchman round to protect him from the ball, but only in
time to receive the shot in his right arm as he held it uplifted. The
arm fell powerless to his side; while Malone, springing on him like a
tiger, grasped him in his powerful grip, and they both rolled upon the
ground in terrible conflict. The Frenchman stood for an instant like one
transfixed; then, bursting from the spot, dashed through the kitchen to
the small room I had slept in. One of the young men followed him. The
crash of glass and the sounds of breaking woodwork were heard among the
other noises; and at the same moment the door gave way in front, and the
soldiers with fixed bayonets entered at a charge.

“Fire on them I fire on them!” shouted Barton, as he lay struggling on
the ground; and a random volley rang through the cabin, filling it with
smoke.

A yell of anguish burst forth at the moment; and one of the women lay
stretched upon the hearth, her bosom bathed in blood. The scene was
now a terrible one; for although overpowered by numbers, the young men
rushed on the soldiers, and regardless of wounds, endeavored to wrest
their arms from them. The bayonets glanced through the blue smoke, and
shouts of rage and defiance rose up amid frightful screams of suffering
and woe. A bayonet stab in the side, received I know not how, sent
me half fainting into the little room through which the Frenchman had
escaped. The open window being before me, I did nob deliberate a second,
but mounting the table, crept through it, and fell heavily on the turf
outside. In a moment after I rallied, and staggering onwards, reached a
potato field, where, overcome by pain and weakness, I sank into one of
the furrows, scarcely conscious of what had occurred.

Weak and exhausted as I was, I could still hear the sounds of the
conflict that raged within the cabin. Gradually, however, they grew
fainter and fainter, and at last subsided altogether. Yet I feared to
stir; and although night was now falling, and the silence continued
unbroken, I lay still, hoping to hear some well-known voice, or even
the footstep of some one belonging to the house. But all was calm, and
nothing stirred; the very air, too, was hushed,--not a leaf moved in the
thin, frosty atmosphere. The dread of finding the soldiers in possession
of the cabin made me fearful of quitting my hiding place, and I did not
move. Some hours had passed over ere I gained courage enough to raise my
head and look about me.

My first glance was directed towards the distant highroad, where I
expected to have seen some of the party who attacked the cabin, but
far as my eye could reach, no living thing was to be seen; my next was
towards the cabin, which, to my horror and amazement, I soon perceived
was enveloped in a thick, dark smoke, that rolled lazily from the
windows and doorway, and even issued from the thatched roof. As I
looked, I could hear the crackling of timber and the sound of wood
burning. These continued to increase; and then a red, forked flame shot
through one of the casements, and turning upwards, caught the thatch,
where, passing rapidly across the entire roof, it burst into a broad
sheet of fire, which died out again as rapidly, and left the gloomy
smoke triumphant.

Meanwhile a roaring sound, like that of a furnace, was heard from
within; and at last, with an explosion like a mortar, the roof burst
open, and the bright blaze sprang forth. The rafters were soon enveloped
in fire, and the heated straw rose into the air, and floated in thin
streaks of flame through the black sky. The door cases and the window
frames were all burning, and marked their outlines against the dark
walls: and as the thatch was consumed, the red rafters were seen like
the ribs of a skeleton; but they fell in one by one, sending up in their
descent millions of red sparks into the dark air. The black wall of the
cabin had given way to the heat, and through its wide fissure I could
see the interior, now one mass of undistinguishable ruin: nothing
remained, save the charred and blackened walls.

I sat gazing at this sad sight like one entranced. Sometimes it seemed
to me as a terrible dream; and then the truth would break upon me with
fearful force, and my heart felt as though it would burst far beyond my
bosom. The last flickering flame died away, the hissing sounds of
the fire were stilled, and the dark walls stood out against the bleak
background in all their horrible deformity, as I rose and entered
the cabin. I stood within the little room where I had slept the night
before, and looked out into the kitchen, around whose happy hearth
the merry voices were so lately heard. I brought them up before me, in
imagination, as they sat there. One by one I marked their places in my
mind, and thought of the kindness of their welcome to me, and the words
of comfort and encouragement they spoke' The hearth was now cold
and black; the pale stars looked down between the walls, and a chill
moonlight flickered through the gloomy ruin. My heart had no room for
sorrow; but another feeling found a place within it: a savage thirst for
vengeance,--vengeance upon those who had desecrated a peaceful home, and
brought blood and death among its inmates! Here was the very realization
before my eyes of what M'Keown had been telling me; here the horrible
picture he had drawn of tyranny and outrage. In the humble cottagers I
saw but simpleminded peasants, who had opened their doors to some poor
unfriended outcast,--one who, like myself, had neither house nor home.
I saw them offering their hospitality to him who sought it, freely and
openly; and at last adventuring all they possessed in the world, rather
than betray him,--and their reward was this! Oh, how my heart revolted
at such oppression! how my spirit fired at such indignity! I thought a
life passed in opposition to such tyranny were too short a vengeance;
and I knelt me down beside that blackened hearth, and swore myself its
enemy to the death.



CHAPTER VI. MY EDUCATION.

As I thought over the various incidents the last few days of my life had
presented, I began to wonder with myself whether the world always went
on thus, and if the same scenes of misery and woe I had witnessed were
in the ordinary course of nature. The work of years seemed to me to
have been accomplished in a few brief hours. Here, where I stood
but yesterday, a happy family were met together; and now, death and
misfortune had laid waste the spot, and save the cold walls, nothing
marked it as a human habitation. What had become of them? where had
they gone to? Had they fled from the blood-stained hands of the cruel
soldiery, or were they led away to prison? These were the questions
constantly recurring to my mind. And the French officer, too,--what of
him? I felt the deepest interest in his fate. Poor fellow! he looked so
pale and sickly; and yet there was something both bold and manly in his
flashing eye and compressed lip. He was doubtless one of those Darby
alluded to. What a lot was his! and how little did my own sorrows seem,
as I compared them with his houseless, friendless condition!

As my thoughts thus wandered on, a dark shadow fell across the gleam of
moonlight that lit up the ruined cabin. I turned suddenly, and saw the
figure of a man leaning against the doorpost. For a second or two fear
was uppermost in my mind, but rallying soon, I called out, “Who 's
there?”

“'T is me. Darby M'Keown!” said a well-known voice, but in a tone of
deepest sorrow. “I came over to have a look at the ould walls once
more.”

“You heard it all, then. Darby?”

“Yes; they wor bringing the prisoners into Athlone as I left the town,
and I thought to myself you 'd maybe be hiding somewhere hereabouts. Is
the captain away? Is he safe?”

“The French officer? Yes, he escaped early in the business. I know he
must be far off by this time; Heaven knows which way, though.”

“Maybe I could guess,” said Darby, quietly. “Well, well! it 's hard to
know what 's best. Sometimes it would seem the will of God that we are
n't to succeed; and if we hadn't right on our side, it would not be easy
to bear up against such misfortunes as these.”

There was a silence on both sides after these words, during which I
pandered them well in my mind.

“Come, Mister Tom!” said Darby, suddenly; “'tis time we were moving.
You 're not safe here no more nor others. Basset is looking for you
everywhere, and you 'll have to leave the neighborhood, for a while
at least. Your friend, the captain, too, is gone; his regiment marched
yesterday. So now make up your mind what to do.”

“That's easily done, Darby,” said I, attempting to seem at ease.
“Whichever is your road shall be mine, if you let me.”

“Let you? Yes, with a hearty welcome, too, my darling! But the first
thing is to get you some clothes that won't discover on you. Here 's a
hat I squeezed into my own that 'll just fit you; and I 've a coat here
that 's about your size. That's enough for the present; and as we go
along, I 'll teach you your part, how you are to behave, and he 'll be
no fool that 'll find you out after ten days or a fortnight.”

My change of costume was soon effected, and my wound, which turned out
to be a trifling one, looked after. I took a farewell look at the old
walls, and stepped after my companion down the boreen.

“If we make haste,” said Darby, “we'll be beyond Shannon Harbor before
day; and then, when we 're on the canal, we 'll easy get a lift in some
of the boats going to Dublin.”

“And are you for Dublin?” inquired I, eagerly.

“Yes. I'm to be there on the twenty-fourth of this month, please God.
There 's a meeting of the friends of Ireland to be then, and some
resolutions will be taken about what 's to be done. There 's bad work
going on in the Parliament.”

“Indeed, Darby! What is it?”

“Oh! you couldn't understand it well. But it's just as if we war n't to
have anything to say to governing ourselves; only to be made slaves of,
and sent abroad to fight for the English, that always hate us and abuse
us.”

“And are we going to bear with this?” cried I, passionately.

“No,” said Darby, laying his hand on my shoulder,--“no; not at least
if we had twenty thousand like you, my brave boy. But you'll hear
everything yourself soon. And now, let me attend to your education a
bit, for we're not out of the enemy's country.”

Darby now commenced his code of instruction to me, by which I learned
that I was to perform a species of second to him in all minstrelsy; not
exactly on the truest principles of harmony, but merely alternating with
him in the verses of his songs. These, which were entirely of his
own composition, were all to be learned,--and orally, too, for Mister
M'Keown was too jealous of his copyright ever to commit them to
writing, and especially charged me never to repeat any lyric in the same
neighborhood.

“It's not only the robbery I care for,” quoth Darby, “but the varmints
desthroys my poethry completely; some' times changing the words,
injuring the sentiments, and even altering the tune. Now, it's only last
Tuesday I heerd 'Behave politely,' to the tune of 'Look how he sarved
me!'”

Besides the musical portion of my education, there was another scarcely
less difficult to be attended to: this was, the skilful adaptation of
our melodies, not only to the prevailing tastes of the company, but
to their political and party bearings; Darby supplying me with various
hints how I was to discover at a moment the peculiar bias of any
stranger's politics.

“The boys,” said Darby, thereby meaning his own party, “does be always
sly and careful, and begin by asking, maybe, for 'Do you incline?'
or 'Crows in the barley,' or the like. Then they 'll say, 'Have you
anything new, Mister M'Keown, from up the country?' 'Something sweet,
is it?' says I. 'Ay, or sour, av ye have it,' they 'll 'say. 'Maybe ye'd
like “Vinegar-hill,” then,' says I. Arrah, you'd see their faces redden
up with delight; and how they 'll beat time to every stroke of the tune,
it 's a pleasure to play for them. But the yeos (meaning the yeomen)
will call out mightily,--'Piper! halloo there! piper, I say, rise The
Boyne water, or Croppies lie down.'”

“And of course you refuse, Darby?”

“Refuse! Refuse, is it? and get a bayonet in me? Devil a bit, my dear.
I 'll play it up with all the spirit I can; and nod my head to the tune,
and beat the time with my heel and toe; and maybe, if I see need of
it, I fasten this to the end of the chanter, and that does the business
entirely.”

Here Darby took from the lining of his hat a bunch of orange ribbon,
whose faded glories showed it had done long and active service in the
cause of loyalty.

I confess Darby's influence over me did not gain any accession of
power by this honest avowal of his political expediency; and the
bold assertion of a nation's wrongs, by which at first he won over my
enthusiasm, seemed sadly at variance with this truckling policy. He was
quicksighted enough to perceive what was passing in my mind, and at once
remarked,--

“'Tis a hard part we're obliged to play, Master Tom; but one comfort we
have,--it 's only a short time we 'll need it. You know the song? “Here
he broke into the popular tune of the day:--

     “'And the French will come again,
          Says the Shan van vaugh;
     And they 'll bring ten thousand men.
          Says the Shan van vaugh;
     And with powder and with ball,
     For our rights we 'll loudly call:
     Don't you think they 'll hear us then!
          Says the Shan van vaugh.'

Ye must larn that air, Master Tom. And see, now, the yeos is as fond of
it as the boys; only remember to put their own words to it,--and devil a
harm in that same when one 's not in earnest. See, now, I believe it 's
a natural pleasure for an Irishman to be humbugging somebody; and faix,
when there 's nobody by he 'd rather be taking a rise out of himself
than doing nothing. It 's the way that 's in us, God help us! Sure it 's
that same makes us sich favorites with the ladies, and gives us a kind
of native janius for coortin':

            “''T is the look of his eye,
            And a way he can sigh,
     Makes Paddy a darlin' wherever he goes;
            With a sugary brogue.
           Ye 'd hear the rogue
     Cheat the girls before their nose.'

And why not? Don't they like to be chated, when they 're sure to win
after all,--to win a warm heart and a stout arm to fight for them?”

This species of logic I give as a specimen of Mister M'Keown's power of,
if not explaining away a difficulty, at least getting out of all reach
of it,--an attribute almost as Irish as the cause it was 'employed to
defend.

As we journeyed along, Darby maintained a strict reserve as to the event
which had required his presence in Athlone; nor did he allude to the
mayor but passingly, observing that he did n't know how it happened that
a Dublin magistrate should have come up to these parts,--“though, to be
sure, he 's a great friend of the Right Honorable.”

“And who is he?” asked I.

“The Right Honorable! Don't you know, then? Why, I did n't think there
was a child in the county could n't tell that. Sure, it 's Denis Browne
himself.”

The name seemed at once to suggest a whole flood of recollections; and
Darby expatiated for hours long on the terrible power of a man by whose
hands life and death were distributed, without any aid from judge or
jury,--thus opening to me another chapter of the lawless tyranny to
which he was directing my attention, and by which he already saw my mind
was greatly influenced.

About an hour after daybreak we arrived at a small cabin; which served
as a lockhouse on the canal side. It needed not the cold, murky sky,
nor the ceaseless pattering of the rain, to make this place look more
comfortless and miserable than anything I had ever beheld. Around, for
miles in extent, the country was one unbroken flat, without any trace
of wood, or even a single thorn hedge, to relieve the eye. Low,
marshy meadows, where the rank flaggers and reedy grass grew tall and
luxuriant, with here and there some stray patches of tillage, were girt
round by vast plains of bog, cut up into every variety of trench and
pit. The cabin itself, though slated and built of stone, was in bad
repair; the roof broken in many places, and the window mended with
pieces of board, and even straw. As we came close. Darby remarked that
there was no smoke from the chimney, and that the door was fastened on
the outside.

“That looks bad,” said he, as he stopped short about a dozen paces from
the hovel, and looked steadily at it; “they've taken him too!”

“Who is it, Darby?” said I; “what did he do?”

M'Keown paid no attention to my question, but unfastening the hasp,
which attached the door without any padlock, entered. The fire was yet
alive on the hearth, and a small stool drawn close to it showed where
some one had been sitting. There was nothing unusual in the appearance
of the cabin; the same humble furniture and cooking utensils lying about
as were seen in any other. Darby, however, scrutinized everything
most carefully, looking everywhere and into everything; till at last,
reaching his hand above the door, he pulled out from the straw of the
thatch a small piece of dirty and crumpled paper, which he opened with
the greatest care and attention, and then flattening it out with his
hand, began to read it over to himself, his eye flashing and his cheek
growing redder as he pored over it. At last he broke silence with,--

“'T is myself never doubted ye, Tim, my boy. Look at that, Master Tom.
But sure, you wouldn't understand it, after all. The yeos took him up
last night. 'T is something about cutting the canal and attacking the
boat that 's again' him; and he left that there--that bit of paper--to
give the boys courage that he wouldn't betray them' That 's the way the
cause will prosper,--if we 'll only stick by one another. For many a
time, when they take a man up, they spread it about that he's turned
informer against the rest; and then the others gets careless, and don't
mind whether they're taken or not.”

Darby replaced the piece of paper carefully; and then, listening for a
moment, exclaimed,--“I hear the boat coming; let's wait for it outside.”

While he employed himself in getting his pipes into readiness, I could
not help ruminating on the strength of loyalty to one another the poor
people observed amid every temptation and every seduction; how, in the
midst of such misery as theirs, neither threats nor bribery seemed to
influence them, was a strong testimony in favor of their truth, and, to
such a reasoner as I was, a no less cogent argument for the goodness of
the cause that elicited such virtues.

As the boat came alongside, I remarked that the deck was without a
passenger. Heaps of trunks and luggage littered it the entire way; but
the severity of the weather had driven every one under cover, except the
steersman and the captain, who, both of them wrapped up in thick coats
of frieze, seemed like huge bears standing on their hindquarters.

“How are you, Darby?” shouted the skipper. “Call out that lazy rascal to
open the lock.”

“I don't think he's at home, sir,” said Darby, as innocently as though
he knew nothing of the reason for his absence.

“Not at home! The scoundrel, where can he be, then? Come, youngster,”
 cried he, addressing me, “take the key there, and open the lock.”

Until this moment, I forgot the character which my dress and appearance
assigned to me. But a look from the piper recalled me at once to
recollection; and taking up the iron key, I proceeded, under Darby's
instructions, to do what I was desired, while Darby and the captain
amused themselves by wondering what had become of Tim, and speculated on
the immediate consequences his absence would bring down on him.

“Are you going with us, Darby?” said the captain.

“Faix, I don't know, sir,” said he, as if hesitating. “Ar there was any
gentleman that liked the pipes--”

“Yes, yes; come along, man,” rejoined the skipper. “Is the boy with you?
Very well; come in, youngster.”

We were soon under way again; and Darby, having arranged his instrument
to his satisfaction, commenced a very spirited voluntary to announce
his arrival. In an instant the cabin door opened, and a red-faced,
coarse-looking fellow, in uniform, called out,--

“Halloo, there! is that a piper?”

“Yes, sir,” said Darby, without turning his face round; while, at the
same time, he put a question in Irish to the skipper, who answered it
with a single word.

“I say, piper, come down here!” cried the yeoman, for such he
was,--“come down here, and let 's have a tune!”

“I 'm coming, sir!” cried Darby, standing up; and holding out his hand
to me, he called out,--“Tom, alannah, lead me down stairs.”

I looked up in his face, and to my amazement perceived that he had
turned up the white of his eyes to represent blindness, and was groping
with his hand like one deprived of sight. As any hesitation on my part
might have betrayed him at once, I took his hand, and led him along,
step by step, to the cabin door.

I had barely time to perceive that all the passengers were habited in
uniform, when one of them called out,--“We don't want the young fellow;
let him go back. Piper, sit down here.”

The motion for my exclusion was passed without a negative; and I closed
the door, and sat down by myself among the trunks on deck.

For the remainder of the day I saw nothing of Darby,--the shouts of
laughter and clapping of hands below stairs occasionally informing
me how successful were his efforts to amuse his company; while I had
abundant time to think over my own plans, and make some resolutions for
the future.



CHAPTER VII. KEVIN STREET.

How this long, melancholy day wore on I cannot say. To me it was as
gloomy in revery as in its own dismal aspect; the very sounds of mirth
that issued from the cabin beneath grated harshly on my ear; and the
merry strains of Darby's pipes and the clear notes of his rich voice
seemed like treachery from one who so lately had spoken in terms of
heart-breathing emotion of his countrymen and their wrongs. While,
therefore, my estimation for my companion suffered, my sorrow for the
cause that demanded such sacrifices deepened at every moment, and I
panted with eagerness for the moment when I might take my place among
the bold defenders of my country, and openly dare our oppressors to the
battle. All that M'Keown had told me of English tyranny and oppression
was connected in my mind with the dreadful scene I had so lately been a
witness to, and for the cause of which I looked no further than an act
of simple hospitality. From this I wandered on to the thought of those
brave allies who had deserted their career of Continental glory to share
our almost hopeless fortunes here; and how I burned to know them, and
learn from them something of a soldier's ardor.

Night had fallen when the fitful flashing of lamps between the tall elms
that lined the banks announced our approach to the capital. There is
something dreadfully depressing in the aspect of a large city, to the
poor, unfriended youth, who without house or home is starting upon his
life's journey. The stir, the movement, the onward tide of population,
intent on pleasure or business, are things in which he has no part. The
appearance of wealth humiliates, while the sight of poverty affrights
him; and, while every one is animated by some purpose, he alone seems
like a waif thrown on the shores of life, unclaimed, unlocked for. Thus
did I feel among that busy crowd who now pressed to the deck, gathering
together their luggage, and preparing for departure. Some home awaited
each of these,--some hearth, some happy faces to greet their coming. But
I had none of these. This was a sorrowful thought; and as I brooded
over it, my head sank upon my knees, and I saw nothing of what was going
forward about me.

“Tom,” whispered a low voice in my ear,--“Master Tom, don't delay, my
dear; let us slip out here. The soldiers want me to go with them to
their billets, and I have promised; but I don't mean to do it.”

I looked up. It was Darby, buttoned up in his coat, his pipes unfastened
for the convenience of carriage.

“Slip out after me at the lock here; it 's so dark we 'll never be
seen.”

Keeping my eye on him, I elbowed my way through the crowded deck, and
sprang out just as the boat began her forward movement.

“Here we are, all safe!” said Darby, patting me on the shoulder. “And
now that I 've time to ask you, did you get your dinner, my child?”

“Oh yes; the captain brought me something to eat.”

“Come, that's right, anyhow. Glory be to God! I ate heartily of some
bacon and greens; though the blackguards--bad luck to them for the
same!--made me eat an orange lily whole, afraid the _greens_, as they
said, might injure me.”

“I wonder. Darby,” said I, “that you haven't more firmness than to
change this way at every moment.”

“Firmness, is it? Faix, it's firm enough I'd be, and Stiff, too, if I
did n't. Sure it 's the only way now at all. Wait, my honey, till the
time comes round for ourselves, and faix, you 'll never accuse me of
coorting their favor; but now, at this moment, you perceive, we must do
it to learn their plans. What do you think I got to-night? I learned all
the signs the yeos have when they 're drinking together, and what they
say at each sign. Thers 's a way they have of gripping the two little
fingers together that I'll not forget soon.”

For some time we walked on at a rapid pace, without exchanging more than
an occasional word. At last we entered a narrow, ill-lighted street,
which led from the canal harbor to one of the larger and wider
thoroughfares.

“I almost forget the way here,” said Darby, stopping and looking about
him.

At last, unable to solve the difficulty, he leaned over the half-door
of a shop, and called out to a man within, “Can you tell where is Kevin
Street?”

“No. 39?” said the man, after looking at him steadily for a moment.

Darby stroked down one side of his face with his hand slowly; a gesture
immediately imitated by the other man.

“What do you know?” said Darby.

“I know 'U,'” replied the man.

“And what more?”

“I know 'N'”

“That 'ill do,” said Darby, shaking hands with him cordially. “Now, tell
me the way, for I have no time to spare.”

“Begorra! you 're in as great haste as if ye were Darby the Blast
himself. Ye 'll come in and take a glass?”

Darby only laughed, and again excusing himself, he asked the way; which
having learned, he wished his newly-made friend good-night, and we
proceeded.

“They know you well hereabouts; by name, at least,” said I, when we had
walked on a little.

“That they do,” said Darby, proudly. “From Wexford to Belfast there
's few does n't know me; and they 'll know more of me, av I 'm right,
before I die.”

This he spoke with more of determination than I ever heard him use
previously.

“Here 's the street now; there 's the lamp,--that one with the two
burners there. Faix, we 've made good track since morning, anyhow.”

As he spoke we entered a narrow passage, through which the street lamp
threw a dubious half-light. This conducted us to a small paved court,
crossing which we arrived at the door of a large house. Darby knocked
in a peculiar manner, and the door was speedily opened by a man who
whispered something, to which M'Keown made answer in the same low tone.

“I 'm glad to see you again,” said the man, louder, as he made way for
him to pass.

I pushed forward to follow, when suddenly a strong arm was stretched
across my breast, and a gruff voice asked,--“Who are you?”

Darby stepped back, and said something in his ear. The other replied,
sturdily, in the negative; and although Darby, as it appeared, used
every power of persuasion he possessed, the man was inexorable.

At last, when the temper of both appeared nearly giving way. Darby
turned to me, and said,--“Wait for me a moment, Tom, where you are, and
I 'll come for you.”

So saying, he disappeared, and the door closed at the same time, leaving
me in darkness on the outside. My patience was not severely taxed; ere
five minutes the door opened, and Darby, followed by another person,
appeared.

“Mr. Burke,” said this latter, with the tone of voice that at once
bespoke a gentleman, “I am proud to know you.” He grasped my hand warmly
as he spoke, and shook it affectionately. “I esteem it an honor to be
your sponsor here. Can you find your way after me? This place is never
lighted; but I trust you 'll know it better ere long.”

Muttering some words of acknowledgment, I followed my unseen
acquaintance along the dark corridor.

“There's a step, here,” cried he; “and now mind the stairs.”

A long and winding flight conducted us to a landing, where a candle was
burning in a tin sconce. Here my conductor turned round.

“Your Christian name is Thomas, I believe,” said he. At the same moment,
as the light fell on me, he started suddenly back, with an air of
mingled astonishment and chagrin. “Why, M'Keown, you told me--” The rest
of the sentence was lost in a whisper.

“It 's a disguise I made him wear,” said Darby. “He 'd no chance of
escaping the country without it.”

“I 'm not speaking of that,” retorted the other, angrily.

“It is his age, I mean; he's only a boy. How old are you, sir?” continued
he, addressing me, but with far less courtesy than before.

“Old enough to live for my country; or die for it either, if need be,”
 said I, haughtily.

“Bravo, my darling!” cried the piper, slapping me on the shoulder with
enthusiasm.

“That's not exactly my question,” said the stranger, smiling
good-naturedly; “I want to know your age.”

“I was fourteen in August,” said I.

“I had rather you could say twenty,” responded he, thoughtfully. “This
is a sad mistake of yours, Darby. What dependence can be placed on a
child like this? He's only a child, after all.”

“He's a child I'll go bail for with my head,” said Darby.

“Your head has fully as much on it as it is fit to carry,” said the
other, in a tone of rebuke. “Have you told him anything of the object
and intentions of this Society? But of course you have revealed
everything. Well, I 'll not be a party to this business. Young
gentleman,” continued he, in a voice of earnest and impressive accent,
“all I know of you is the few particulars this man has stated respecting
your unfriended position, and the cruelty to which you fear to expose
yourself in trusting to the guardianship of Mr. Basset. If these reasons
have induced you, from recklessness and indifference, to risk your life,
by association with men who are actuated by high and noble principles,
then, I say, you shall not enter here. If, however, aware of the object
and intentions of our Union, you are desirous to aid us, young though
you be, I shall not refuse you.”

“That's it,” interrupted Darby; “if you feel in your heart a friend to
your country--”

“Silence!” said the other, harshly; “let him decide for himself.”

“I neither know your intentions, nor even guess at them,” said I,
frankly. “My destitution, and the poor prospect before me, make me, as
you suppose, indifferent to what I embark in, provided that it be not
dishonorable.

“It is not danger that will deter me, that 's all I can promise you.”

“I see,” said the stranger, “this is but another of your pranks, Mr.
M'Keown; the young gentleman was to be kidnapped amongst us. One thing,”
 said he, turning to me, “I feel assured of, that anything you have
witnessed here is safe within your keeping; and now we'll not press the
matter further. In a few days you can hear, and make up your mind on all
these things; and as you are not otherwise provided, let us make you our
guest in the mean while.”

Without giving me time to reply, he led me downstairs again, and
unlocking a room on the second floor, passed through several rooms,
until he reached one comfortably fitted up like a study.

“You must be satisfied with a sofa here for to-night but to-morrow I
will make you more comfortable.”

I threw my eyes over the well-filled bookshelf with delight, and was
preparing to thank him for all his kindness to me, when he added,--

“I must leave you now, but we 'll meet to-morrow; so good-night. Come
along, M'Keown; we shall want you presently.”

I would gladly have detained Darby to interrogate him about my new abode
and its inhabitants; but he was obliged to obey, and I heard the door
locked as they closed it on the outside, and shortly after the sounds of
their feet died away, and I was left in silence.

Determined to con over, and if possible explain to myself, the mystery
of my position, I drew my sofa towards the fire and sat down; but
fatigue, stronger than all my curiosity, had the mastery, and I was soon
sound asleep.



CHAPTER VIII. NO. 39, AND ITS FREQUENTERS.

When my eyes opened the following morning, it was quite pardonable in me
if I believed I was still dreaming. The room, which I had scarcely time
to look at the previous evening, now appeared handsomely, almost richly
furnished. Books in handsome bindings covered the shelves, prints in
gilded frames occupied the walls, and a large mirror filled the space
above the chimney. Various little articles of taste, in bronze and
marble, were scattered about, and a silver tea equipage of antique
pattern graced a small table near the fire. A pair of splendidly mounted
pistols hung at one side of the chimney glass, and a gorgeously gilt
sabre occupied the other.

While I took a patient survey of all these, and was deliberately
examining myself as to how and when I had first made their acquaintance,
a voice from an adjoining room, the door of which lay open, exclaimed,--

“_Sacristi! quel mauvais temps!_” and then broke out into a little
French air, to which, after a minute, the singer appeared to move, in a
kind of dancing measure. “Qui, c'est ça!” exclaimed he, in rapture, as
he whirled round in a pirouette, overturning a dressing-table and its
contents with a tremendous crash upon the floor.

I started up, and without thinking of what I was doing, rushed in.

“Ha! bonjour,” said he, gayly, stretching out two fingers of a hand
almost concealed beneath a mass of rings. And then suddenly changing to
English, which he spoke perfectly, saving with a foreign accent,--“How
did you sleep? I suppose the _tintamarre_ awoke you.”

I hastened to apologize for my intrusion; which he stopped at once by
asking if I had passed a comfortable night, and had a great appetite for
breakfast.

Assuring him of both facts, I retreated into the sitting room, where he
followed me, laughing heartily at his mishap, which he confessed he
had not patience to remedy. “And what 's worse,” added he; “I have no
servant. But here 's some tea and coffee; let us chat while we eat.”

I drew over my chair at his invitation, and found myself--before half
an hour went by--acted on by that strange magnetism which certain
individuals possess, to detail to my new friend the principal events
of my simple story, down to the very moment in which we sat opposite to
each other. He listened to me with the greatest attention, occasionally
interposing a question, or asking an explanation of something which he
did not perfectly comprehend; and when I concluded, he paused for some
minutes, and then, with a slight laugh, said:--

“You don't know how you disappointed the people here. Your travelling
companion had given them to understand that you were some other Burke,
whose alliance they have been long desiring. In fact, they were certain
of it; but,” said he, starting up hastily, “it is far better as it is.
I suspect, my young friend, the way in which you have been entrapped.
Don't fear; we are perfectly safe here. I know all the hackneyed
declamations about wrongs and slavery that are in vogue; and I know,
too, how timidly they shrink from every enterprise by which their cause
might be honorably, boldly asserted. I am myself another victim to the
assumed patriotism of this party. I came over here two years since to
take the command. A command,--but in what an army! An undisciplined
rabble, without arms, without officers, without even clothes; their only
notion of warfare, a midnight murder, or a reckless and indiscriminate
slaughter. The result could not be doubtful,--utter defeat and
discomfiture. My countrymen, disgusted at the scenes they witnessed, and
ashamed of such _confrerie_; accepted the amnesty, and returned to France.
I--”

Here he hesitated, and blushed slightly; after which he resumed:--

“I yielded to a credulity for which there was neither reason nor excuse:
I remained. Promises were made me, oaths were sworn, statements were
produced to show how complete the organization of the insurgents really
was, and to what purpose it might be turned. I drew up a plan of a
campaign; corresponded with the different leaders; encouraged the
wavering; restrained the headstrong; confirmed the hesitating; and, in
fact, for fourteen months held them together, not only against their
opponents, but their own more dangerous disunion. And the end is,--what
think you? I only learned it yesterday, on my return from an excursion
in the West which nearly cost me my life. I was concealed in a cabin in
woman's clothes--”

“At Malone's, in the Glen?”

“Yes; how did you know that?”

“I was there. I saw you captured and witnessed your escape.”

“_Diantre_! How near it was!”

He paused for a second, and I took the opportunity to recount to him
the dreadful issue of the scene, with the burning of the cabin. He grew
sickly pale as I related the circumstance; then flushing as quickly, he
exclaimed,--

“We must look to this; these people must be taken care of, I 'll speak
to Dalton; you know him?”

“No; I know not one here.”

“It was he who met you last night; he is a noble fellow. But stay; there
's a knock at the door.”

He approached the fireplace, and taking down the pistols which hung
beside it, walked slowly towards the door.

“'Tis Darby, sir,--Darby the Blast, coming to speak a word to Mister
Burke,” said a voice from without.

The door was opened at once, and Darby entered. Making a deep reverence
to the French officer, in whose presence he seemed by no means at his
ease. Darby dropped his voice to its most humble cadence, and said,--

“Might I be so bould as to have a word with ye, Master Tom?”

There was something in the way this request was made that seemed to
imply a desire for secrecy,--so, at least, the Frenchman understood
it,--and turning hastily rounds he said,--

“Yes, to be sure. I 'll go into my dressing-room; there is nothing to
prevent your speaking here.”

No sooner was the door closed, than Darby drew a chair close to me, and
bending down his head, whispered,--

“Don't trust him,--not from here to that window. They 're going to do it
without him; Mahony told me so himself. But my name was not drawn, and I
'm to be off to Kildare this evening. There 's a meeting of the boys at
the Curragh, and I want you to come with me.”

The state of doubt and uncertainty which had harassed my mind for
the last twenty-four hours was no longer tolerable; so I boldly asked
M'Keown for an explanation as to the people in whose house I was,--their
objects and plans, and how far I was myself involved in their designs.

In fewer words than I could convey it. Darby informed me that the house
was the meeting place of the United Irishmen, who still cherished the
hope of reviving the scenes of '98; that, conscious the failure before
was attributable to their having taken the field as an army when
they should have merely contented themselves with secret and indirect
attacks, they had resolved to adopt a different tactique. It was, in
fact, determined that every political opponent to their party should be
marked,--himself, his family, and his property; that no opportunity was
to be lost of injuring him or his, and, if need be, of taking away his
life; that various measures were to be propounded to Parliament by their
friends, to the maintenance of which threats were to be freely used to
the Government members; and with respect to the great measure of the
day,--the Union,--it was decided that on the night of the division a
certain number of people should occupy the gallery above the Ministerial
benches, armed with hand-grenades and other destructive missiles; that,
on a signal given, these were to be thrown amongst them, scattering
death and ruin on all sides.

“It will be seen, then,” said Darby, with a fiendish grin, “how the
enemies of Ireland pay for their hatred of her! Maybe they 'll vote away
their country after that!”

Whether it was the tone, the look, or the words that suddenly awoke me
from my dreamy infatuation, I know not; but coming so soon after the
Frenchman's detail of the barbarism of the party, a thorough disgust
seized me, and the atrocity of this wholesale murder lost nothing of its
blackness from being linked with the cause of liberty.

With ready quickness, Darby saw what my impression was, and hastily
remarked:--

“We 'll be all away out of this, Master Tom, you know, before that. We
'll be up in Kildare, where we 'll see the boys exercising and marching;
that's what 'ill do your heart good to look at. But before we go, you
'll have to take the oath, for I'm answerable for you all this time with
my own head; not that I care for that same, but others might mistrust
ye.”

“Halloo!” cried the Frenchman, from within; “I hope you have finished
your conference there, for you seem to forget there's no fire in this
room.”

“Yes, sir; and I beg a thousand pardons,” said Darby, servilely. “And
Master Tom only wants to bid you goodby before he goes.”

“Goes! goes where? Are you so soon tired of me?” said he, in an accent
of most winning sweetness.

“He's obliged to be at the Curragh, at the meeting there,” said Darby,
answering for me.

“What meeting? I never heard of it.”

“It 's a review, sir, of the throops, that 's to be by moonlight.”

“A review!” said the Frenchman, with a scornful laugh. “And do you call
this midnight assembly of marauding savages a review?”

Darby's face grew dark with rage, and for a second I thought he would
have sprung on his assailant; but with a fawning, shrewd smile he lisped
out,--

“It's what they call it. Captain; sure the poor boys knows no better.”

“Are you going to this review?” said the Frenchman, with an ironical
pronunciation of the word.

“I scarce know where to go, or what to do,” said I, in a tone of
despairing sadness; “any certainty would be preferable to the doubts
that harass me.”

“Stay with me,” said the Frenchman, interrupting me and laying his hand
on my shoulder; “we shall be companions to each other. Your friend here
knows I can teach you many things that may be useful to you hereafter;
and perhaps, with all humility I may say, your stay will be as
profitable as at the camp yonder.”

“I should not like to desert one who has been so kind to me as Darby;
and if he wishes--”

Before I could finish my sentence, the door was opened by a key from
without, and Dalton, as he was called, stood amongst us.

“What, Darby!” said he, in a voice of something like emotion; “not gone
yet! You know I forbid you coming up here; I suspected what you would be
at. Come, lose no more time; we 'll take care of Mr. Burke for you.”

Darby hung his head sorrowfully, and left the room without speaking,
followed by Dalton, whose voice I heard in a tone of anger as he
descended the stairs.

There was a certain openness, an easy air of careless freedom, in the
young Frenchman, which made me feel at home in his company almost the
very moment of our acquaintance; and when he asked some questions about
myself and my family, I hesitated not to tell him my entire history,
with the causes which had first brought me into Darby's society, and led
me to imbibe his doctrines and opinions. He paused when I finished, and
after reflecting for some minutes, he looked me gravely in the face, and
said,--

“But you are aware of the place you are now in?”

“No,” said I; “further than the fact of my having enjoyed a capital
night's rest and eaten an excellent breakfast, I know nothing about it.”

A hearty burst of laughter from my companion followed this very candid
acknowledgment on my part.

“Then, may I ask, what are your intentions for the future? Have you
any?”

“At least one hundred,” said I, smiling; “but every one of them has
about as many objections against it. I should like much, for instance,
to be a soldier,--not in the English service though. I should like to
belong to an army where neither birth nor fortune can make nor mar a
man's career. I should like, too, to be engaged in some great war of
liberty, where with each victory we gained the voices of a liberated
people would fall in blessings upon us. And then I should like to raise
myself to high command by some great achievement.”

“And then,” said the Frenchman, interrupting, “to come back to Ireland,
and cut off the head of this terrible Monsieur Basset. N'est-ce pas,
Tom?”

I could not help joining in his laugh against myself; although in good
truth I had felt better pleased if he had taken up my enthusiasm in a
different mood.

“So much for mere dreaming!” said I, with half a sigh, as our laughter
subsided.

“Not so,” said he, quickly,--“not so; all you said is far more
attainable than you suspect. I have been in such a service myself. I won
my 'grade' as officer at the point of my sword, when scarcely your age;
and before I was fifteen, received this.”

He took down the sword that hung over the chimney as he said these
words, and drawing it from the scabbard, pointed to the inscription,
which in letters of gold adorned the blade,--“Rivoli,” “Arcole;” then
turning the reverse, I read,--“Au Lieutenant Charles Gustave de Meudon,
Troisième Cuirassiers.”

“This, then, is your name?” said I, repeating it half aloud.

“Yes,” replied he, as he drew himself up, and seemed struggling to
repress a feeling of pride that sent the blood rushing to his cheek and
brow.

“How I should like to be you!” was the wish that burst from me at that
moment, and which I could not help uttering in words.

“Hélas, non!” said the Frenchman, sorrowfully, and turning away to
conceal his agitation; “I have broken with fortune many a day since.”

The tone of bitter disappointment in which these words were spoken left
no room for reply, and we were both silent.

Charles--for so I must now call him to my reader, as he compelled me to
do so with himself--Charles was the first to speak.

“Not many months ago my thoughts were very like your own; but since then
how many disappointments! how many reverses!”

He walked hurriedly up and down the room as he said this; then stopping
suddenly before me, laid his hand on my shoulder, and with a voice of
impressive earnestness said:--

“Be advised by me: join not with these people; do not embark with them
in their enterprise. Their enterprise!” repeated he, scornfully: “they
have none. The only men of action here are they with whom no man of
honor, no soldier, could associate; their only daring, some deed of
rapine and murder. No! liberty is not to be achieved by such hands as
these. And the other,--the men of political wisdom, who prate about
reform and the people's rights, who would gladly see such as me
adventure in the cause they do not care themselves to advocate,--they
are all false alike. Give me,” cried he, with energy, and stamping his
foot upon the ground,--“give me a demibrigade of ours, some squadrons
of Milhaud's cavalry, and trois bouches a feu to open the way before us.
But why do I speak of this? Some midnight burning, some savage murder,
some cowardly attack on unarmed and defenceless people,--these are our
campaigns here. And shall I stain this blade in such a conflict?”

“But you will go back to France?” said I, endeavoring to say something
that might rally him from his gloom.

“Never,” replied he, firmly, “never! I alone, of all my countrymen,
maintained, that to leave the people here at such a crisis was unfair
and unmanly. I alone believed in the representations that were made
of extended organization, of high hopes, and ardent expectations. I
accepted the command of their army. Their army! what a mockery! When
others accepted the amnesty, I refused, and lived in concealment, my
life hanging upon the chance of being captured. For fourteen months I
have wandered from county to county, endeavoring to rally the spirit
I had been taught to think only needed restraint to hold back its
impetuous daring. I have spent money largely, for it was largely placed
at my disposal; I have distributed places and promises; I have accepted
every post where danger offered; and in return, I hoped that the hour
was approaching when we should test the courage of our enemies by such
an outbreak as would astonish Europe. And what think you has all ended
in? But my cheek burns at the very thought! An intended attack on the
Government Members of Parliament,--an act of base assassination,--a
cowardly murder! And for what, too?--to prevent a political union
with England I Have they forgotten that our cause was total rupture!
independence! open enmity with England! But, c'est fini, I have given
them my last resolve. Yesterday evening I told the delegates the only
chance that, in my opinion, existed of their successfully asserting
their own independence. I gave them the letters of French officers, high
in command and station, concurring with my own views; and I have pledged
myself to wait one month longer,--if they deem my plans worthy of
acceptance,--to consider all the details, and arrange the mode of
proceeding. If they refuse, then I leave Ireland forever within a week.
In America, the cause I glory in is still triumphant; and there,
no prestige of failure shall follow me to damp my own efforts, nor
discourage the high hopes of such as trust me. But you, my poor
boy,--and how have I forgotten you in all this sad history I--I will not
suffer you to be misled by false representations and flattering offers.
It may be the only consolation I shall carry with me from this land of
anarchy and misfortune. But even that is something,--if I rescue one
untried and uncorrupted heart from the misery of such associates. You
shall be a soldier,--be my companion here while I stay. I 'll arrange
everything for your comfort; we 'll read and talk together; and I will
endeavor to repay the debt I owe to France, by sending back there one
better than myself to guard her eagles.”

The tears ran fast down my cheeks as I heard these words; but not one
syllable could I utter.

“You do not like my plan. Well--”

Before he could conclude, I seized his hand with rapture within both of
mine, and pressed it to my lips.

“It is a bargain, then,” said he, gayly. “And now let us lose no more
time; let us remove this breakfast-table, and begin at once.”

Another table was soon drawn over to the fire, upon which a mass of
books, maps, and plates were heaped by my companion, who seemed to act
in the whole affair with all the delight of a schoolboy in some exploit
of amusement.

“You are aware, Tom, that this place is a prison to me, and therefore I
am not altogether disinterested in this proposal. You, however, can go
out when you please; but until you understand the precautions necessary
to prevent you from being traced here, it is better not to venture into
the city.”

“I have no wish whatever to leave this,” said I, quickly, while I ranged
my eye with delight over the pile of books before me, and thought of all
the pleasure I was to draw from their perusal.

“You must tell me so three weeks hence, if you wish to flatter me,”
 replied Charles, as he drew over his chair, and pointed with his hand to
another.

It needed not the pleasing and attractive power of my teacher to make my
study the most captivating of all amusements. Military science, even in
its gravest forms, had an interest for me such as no other pursuit
could equal. In its vast range of collateral subjects, it opened an
inexhaustible mine to stimulate industry and encourage research. The
great wars of the world were the great episodes in history, wherein
monarchs and princes were nothing, if not generals. With what delight,
then, did I hang over the pages of Carnot and Jomini! With what an
anxious heart would I read the narrative of a siege, where, against
every disadvantage of numbers and munitions of war, some few resisted
all the attacks of the adverse forces, with no other protection save
that of consummate skill! With what enthusiasm did I hear of Charles the
Twelfth, of Wallenstein, of the Prince Eugene! And how often-times did
I ask myself in secret, Why had the world none such as these to boast of
now?--till at last the name of Bonaparte burst from my companion's lips,
as, with a torrent of long-restrained devotion, he broke forth into an
eloquent and impassioned account of the great general of his age!

That name once heard, I could not bear to think or speak of any other.
How I followed him,--from the siege of Toulon, as he knelt down beside
the gun which he pointed with his own hand, to the glorious battlefields
of Italy,--and heard, from one who listened to his shout of
“Suivez-moi” on the bridge of Lodi, the glorious heroism of that day! I
tracked him across the pathless deserts of the East,--beneath the shadow
of the Pyramids, whose fame seems somehow to have revived in the history
of that great man. And then I listened to the stories--and how numerous
were they!--of his personal daring; the devotion and love men bore him;
the magic influence of his presence; the command of his look. The very
short and broken sentences he addressed to his generals were treasured
up in my mind, and repeated over and over to myself. Charles possessed
a miniature of the First Consul, which he assured me was strikingly
like him; and for hours long I could sit and gaze upon that cold,
unimpassioned brow, where greatness seemed to sit enthroned. How I
longed to look upon that broad and massive forehead,--the deep-set,
searching eye,--the mouth, where sweetness and severity seemed
tempered,--and that finely rounded chin, that gave his head so much the
character of antique beauty! His image filled every avenue of my brain;
his eye seemed on me in my waking moments, and I thought I heard his
voice in my dream. Never did lover dwell more rapturously on the memory
of his mistress than did my boyish thoughts on Bonaparte. What would I
not have done to serve him? What would I not have dared to win one word,
one look of his, in praise? All other names faded away before his;--the
halo around him paled every other star; the victories! had thought
of before with admiration I now only regarded as trifling successes,
compared with the overwhelming torrent of his conquests. Charles saw my
enthusiasm, and ministered to it with eager delight. Every trait in his
beloved leader that could stimulate admiration or excite affection, he
dwelt on with all the fondness of a Frenchman for his idol; till at last
the world seemed to my eyes but the theatre of his greatness, and
men the mere instruments of that commanding intellect that ruled the
destinies and disposed of the fortunes of nations.

In this way, days and weeks, and even months rolled on, for Charles's
interest in my studies had induced him to abandon his former intention
of departure; and he now scarcely took any part in the proceedings of
the delegates, and devoted himself almost exclusively to me. During the
daytime we never left the house; but when night fell we used to walk
forth, not into the city, but by some country road, often along
the canal-side,--our conversation on the only topic wherein we felt
interested. And these rambles still live within my memory with all
the vivid freshness of yesterday; and while my heart saddens over the
influence they shed upon my after life, I cannot help the train of
pleasure with which even yet I dwell upon their recollection. How
guarded should he be who converses with a boy, forgetting with what
power each word is fraught by the mere force of years,--how the
flattery of equality destroys judgment, and saps all power of
discrimination,--and, more than all, how dangerous it is to graft upon
the tender sapling the ripe fruits of experience, not knowing how, in
such, they may grow to very rankness! Few are there who cannot look
back to their childhood for the origin of opinions that have had their
influence over all their latter years; and when these have owed their
birth to those we loved, is it wonderful that we should cling to faults
which seemed hallowed by friendship?

Meanwhile I was becoming a man, if not in years, at least in spirit
and ambition. The pursuits natural to my age were passed over for the
studies of more advanced years. Military history had imparted to me a
soldier's valor, and I could take no pleasure in anything save as it
bore upon the one engrossing topic of my mind. Charles, too, seemed to
feel all his own ambition revived in mine, and watched with pride the
progress I was making under his guidance.



CHAPTER IX. THE FRENCHMAN'S STORY

While my life slipped thus pleasantly along, the hopes of the insurgent
party fell daily and hourly lower; disunion and distrust pervaded all
their councils, jealousies and suspicions grew up among their leaders.
Many of those whose credit stood highest in their party became informers
to the Government, whose persevering activity increased with every
emergency; and finally, they who would have adventured everything
but some few months before, grew lukewarm and indifferent. A dogged
carelessness seemed to have succeeded to their outbreak of enthusiasm,
and they looked on at the execution of their companions and the wreck of
their party with a stupid and stolid indifference.

For some time previous the delegates met at rare and irregular
intervals, and finally ceased to assemble altogether. The bolder portion
of the body, disgusted with the weak and temporizing views of the
others, withdrew first: and the less determined formed themselves into
a new Society, whose object was merely to get up petitions and addresses
unfavorable to the great project of the Government,--a Legislative Union
with England.

From the turn events had taken, my companion, as it may be supposed,
took no interest in their proceedings. Affecting to think that all was
not lost,--while in his heart he felt bitterly the disappointment of
his hopes,--a settled melancholy, unrelieved even by those flashes of
buoyancy which a Frenchman rarely loses in any misfortune, now grew upon
him. His cheek grew paler, and his frame seemed wasting away, while his
impaired strength and tottering step betrayed that something more than
sorrow was at work within him. Still he persevered in our course of
study, and notwithstanding all my efforts to induce him to relax in
his labors, his desire to teach me grew with every day. For some time
a short, hacking cough, with pain in his chest, had seized on him, and
although it yielded to slight remedies, it returned again and again.
Our night walks were therefore obliged to be discontinued, and the
confinement to the house preyed upon his spirits and shook his nerves.
Boy as I was, I could not look upon his altered face and attenuated
figure without a thrilling fear at my heart lest he might be seriously
ill. He perceived my anxiety quickly, and endeavored, with many a
cheering speech, to assure me that these were attacks to which he had
been long accustomed, and which never were either lasting or dangerous;
but the very hollow accents in which he spoke robbed these words of all
their comfort to me.

The winter, which had been unusually long and severe, at length passed
away, and the spring, milder and more genial than is customary in our
climate, succeeded; the sunlight came slanting down through the narrow
court, and fell in one rich yellow patch upon the floor. Charles
started; his dark eyes, hollow and sunk, glowed with unwonted
brightness, and his haggard and hollow cheek suddenly flushed with a
crimson glow.

“Mon cher,” said he, in a voice tremulous with emotion, “I think if I
were to leave this I might recover.”

The very possibility of his death, until that moment, had never even
crossed my mind, and in the misery of the thought I burst into tears.
From that hour the impression never left my mind; and every accent of
his low, soft voice, every glance of his mild, dark eye, sank into
my heart, as though I heard and saw them for the last time. There was
nothing to fear now, so far as political causes were concerned, in our
removing from our present abode; and it was arranged between us that we
should leave town, and take up our residence in the county of Wicklow.
There was a small cottage at the opening of Glenmalure which my
companion constantly spoke of; he had passed two nights there already,
and left it with many a resolve to return and enjoy the delightful
scenery of the neighborhood.

The month of April was drawing to a close, when one morning soon after
sunrise we left Dublin. A heavy mist, such as often in northern climates
ushers in a day of unusual brightness, shrouded every object from our
view for several miles of the way. Charles scarcely spoke; the increased
exertion seemed to have fatigued and exhausted him, and he lay back in
the carriage, his handkerchief pressed to his mouth, and his eyes half
closed.

We had passed the little town of Bray, and entered upon that long road
which traverses the valley between the two Sugar Loaves, when suddenly
the sun burst forth; the lazy mists rolled heavily up the valley and
along the mountainsides, disclosing as they went patches of fertile
richness or dark masses of frowning rock. Above this, again, the purple
heath appeared glowing like a gorgeous amethyst, as the red sunlight
played upon it, or sparkled on the shining granite that rose through
the luxuriant herbage. Gradually the ravine grew narrower; the mountain
seemed like one vast chain, severed by some great convulsion,--their
rugged sides appeared to mark the very junction; trunks of aged and
mighty trees hung threateningly above the pass; and a hollow echoing
sound arose as the horses trod along the causeway. It was a spot of wild
and gloomy grandeur, and as I gazed on it intently, suddenly I felt
a hand upon my shoulder. I turned round: it was Charles's, his eyes
riveted on the scene, his lips parted with eagerness. He spoke at
length; but at first his voice was hoarse and low, by degrees it grew
fuller and richer, and at last rolled on in all its wonted strength and
roundness.

“See there,--look!” cried he, as his thin, attenuated figure pointed
to the pass. “What a ravine to defend! The column, with two pieces of
artillery in the road; the cavalry to form behind, where you see that
open space, and advance between the open files of the infantry; the
tirailleurs scattered along that ridge where the furze is thickest, or
down there among those masses of rock. Sacristi! what a volume of fire
they 'd pour down! See how the blue smoke and the ring of the musket
would mark them out as they dotted the mountain-side, and yet were
unapproachable to the enemy! And think then of the rolling thunder
of the eighteen-pounders shaking these old mountains, and the long,
clattering crash of the platoon following after, and the dark shakos
towering above the smoke! And then the loud 'Viva!'--I think I hear it.”

His cheek became purple as he spoke, his veins swollen and distended;
his voice, though loud, lost nothing of its musical cadence; and his
whole look betokened excitement, almost bordering on madness. Suddenly
his chest heaved, a tremendous fit of coughing seized him, and he fell
forward upon my shoulder. I lifted him up; and what was my horror to
perceive that all his vest and cravat were bathed in florid blood, which
issued from his mouth! He had burst a blood-vessel in his wild transport
of enthusiasm, and now lay pale, cold, and senseless in my arms.

It was a long time before we could proceed with our journey, for
although fortunately the bleeding did not continue, fainting followed
fainting for hours after. At length we were enabled to set out again,
but only at a walking pace. For the remainder of the day his head rested
on my shoulder, and his cold hand in mine, as we slowly traversed
the long, weary miles towards Glenmalure. The night was falling as
we arrived at our journey's end. Here, however, every kindness and
attention awaited us; and I soon had the happiness of seeing my poor
friend in his bed, and sleeping with all the ease and tranquillity of a
child.

From that hour every other thought was merged in my fears for him.
I watched with an agonizing intensity every change of his malady; I
scanned with an aching heart every symptom day by day. How many times
has the false bloom of hectic shed happiness over me! How often in
my secret walks have I offered up my prayer of thankfulness, as the
deceitful glow of fever colored his wan cheek, and lent a more than
natural brilliancy to his sunk and filmy eye! The world to me was all
nothing, save as it influenced him. Every cloud that moved above, each
breeze that rustled, I thought of for him; and when I slept, his image
was still before me, and his voice seemed to call me oftentimes in the
silence of the night, and when I awoke and saw him sleeping, I knew not
which was the reality.

His debility increased rapidly; and although the mild air of summer and
the shelter of the deep valley seemed to have relieved his cough, his
weakness grew daily more and more. His character, too, seemed to have
undergone a change as great and as striking as that in his health. The
high and chivalrous ambition, the soldierlike heroism, the ardent spirit
of patriotism that at first marked him, had given way to a low and
tender melancholy,--an almost womanish tenderness,--that made him
love to have the little children of the cabin near him, to hear their
innocent prattle and watch their infant gambols. He talked, too, of
home; of the old château in Provence, where he was born, and described
to me its antiquated terraces and quaint, old-fashioned alleys, where as
a boy he wandered with his sister.

“Pauvre Marie!” said he, as a deep blush covered his pale cheek, “how
have I deserted you!” The thought seemed full of anguish for him, and
for the remainder of the day he scarcely spoke.

Some days after his first mention of his sister, we were sitting
together in front of the cabin, enjoying the shade of a large
chestnut-tree, which already had put forth its early leaves, and
tempered if it did not exclude the rays of the sun.

“You heard me speak of my sister,” said he, in a low and broken voice.
“She is all that I have on earth near to me. We were brought up together
as children; learned the same plays, had the same masters, spent not one
hour in the long day asunder, and at night we pressed each other's hands
as we sunk to sleep. She was to me all that I ever dreamed of girlish
loveliness, of woman's happiest nature; and I was her ideal of boyish
daring, of youthful boldness, and manly enterprise. We loved each
other,--like those who felt they had no need of other affection, save
such as sprang from our cradles, and tracked us on through life. Hers
was a heart that seemed made for all that human nature can taste of
happiness; her eye, her lip, her blooming cheek knew no other expression
than a smile; her very step was buoyancy; her laugh rang through your
heart as joy-bells fill the air; and yet,--and yet! I brought that heart
to sorrow, and that cheek I made pale, and hollow, and sunken as you see
my own. My cursed ambition, that rested not content with my own path in
life, threw its baleful shadow across hers. The story is a short one,
and I may tell it to you.

“When I left Provence to join the army of the South, I was obliged to
leave Marie under the care of an old and distant relative, who resided
some two leagues from us on the Loire. The chevalier was a widower, with
one son about my own age, of whom I knew nothing save that he had never
left his father's house; had been educated completely at home; and had
obtained the reputation of being a sombre, retired bookworm, who avoided
the world, and preferred the lonely solitude of a provincial château to
the gay dissipations of Paris.

“My only fear in intrusting my poor sister in such hands was the dire
stupidity of the _séjour_; but as I bid her goodby, I said, laughingly,
'Prenez garde, Marie, don't fall in love with Claude de Lauzan.'

“'Poor Claude!' said she, bursting into a fit of laughter; 'what a sad
affair that would be for him!' So saying, we parted.

“I made the campaign of Italy, where, as I have perhaps too often told
you, I had some opportunities of distinguishing myself, and was promoted
to a squadron on the field of Arcole. Great as my boyish exultation
was at my success, I believe its highest pleasure arose from the
anticipation of Marie's delight when she received my letter with
the news. I wrote to her nearly every week, and heard from her as
frequently. At the time I did not mark, as I have since done, the
altered tone of her letters to me: how, gradually, the high ambitious
daring that animated her early answers became tamed down into half
regretful fears of a soldier's career; her sorrows for those whose
conquered countries were laid waste by fire and sword; her implied
censure of a war whose injustice she more than hinted at; and, lastly,
her avowed preference for those peaceful paths in life that were devoted
to the happiness of one's fellows, and the worship of Him who deserved
all our affection. I did not mark, I say, this change,--the bustle of
the camp, the din of arms, the crash of mounted squadrons, are poor aids
to reflection, and I thought of Marie but as I left her.

“It was after a few months of absence I returned to Provence,--the
_croix d'honneur_ on my bosom, the sabre I won at Lodi by my side. I
rushed into the room bursting with impatience to clasp my sister in my
arms, and burning to tell her all my deeds and all my dangers. She met
me with her old affection; but how altered in its form! Her gay and
girlish lightness, the very soul of buoyant pleasure, was gone; and in
its place a mild, sad smile played upon her lip, and a deep, thoughtful
look was in her dark brown eye. She looked not less beautiful,--no, far
from it; her loveliness was increased tenfold. But the disappointment
smote heavily on my heart. I looked about me like one seeking for
some explanation; and there stood Claude--pale, still, and
motionless--before me: the very look she wore reflected in his calm
features; her very smile was on his lips. In an instant the whole truth
flashed across me: she loved him.

“There are thoughts which rend us, as lightning does the rock, opening
new surfaces that lay hid since the Creation, and tearing our fast-knit
sympathies asunder like the rent granite: mine was such. From that hour
I hated him; the very virtues that had, under happier circumstances,
made us like brothers, but added fuel to the flame. My rival, he had
robbed me of my sister;--he had left me without that one great prize
I owned on earth; and all that I had dared and won seemed poor, and
barren, and worthless, since she no longer valued it.

“That very night I wrote a letter to the First Consul. I knew the ardent
desire he possessed to attach to Josephine's suite such members of the
old aristocracy as could be induced to join it. He had more than
once hinted to me that the fame of my sister's beauty had reached
the Tuileries; that with such pretensions as hers, the seclusion of a
château in Provence was ill suited to her. I stated at once my wish
that she might be received as one of the Ladies of the Court, avowing
my intention to afford her any sum that might be deemed suitable to
maintain her in so exalted a sphere. This, you are not aware, is the
mode by which the members of a family express to the consul that they
surrender all right and guardianship in the individual given, tendering
to him full power to dispose of her in marriage, exactly as though he
were her own father.

“Before day broke my letter was on its way to Paris; in less than a week
came the answer, accepting my proposal in the most flattering terms,
and commanding me to repair to the Tuileries with my sister, and take
command of a regiment d' elite then preparing for service.

“I may not dwell on the scene that followed; the very memory of it is
too much for my weak and failing spirits. Claude flung himself at my
feet, and confessed his love. He declared his willingness to submit to
any or everything I should dictate: he would join the army; he would
volunteer for Egypt. Poor fellow! his trembling accents and bloodless
lip comported ill with the heroism of his words. Only promise that in
the end Marie should be his, and there was no danger he would not dare,
no course in life, however unsuited to him, he would not follow at my
bidding. I know not whether my heart could have withstood such an appeal
as this, had I been free to act; but now the die was cast. I handed
him the First Consul's letter. He opened it with a hand trembling like
palsy, and read it over; he leaned his head against the chimney when he
finished, and gave me back the letter without a word. I could not bear
to look on him, and left the room.

“When I returned he was gone. We left the château the same evening for
Paris. Marie scarcely spoke one word during the journey; a fatuous,
stupid indifference to everything and every one had seized her, and she
seemed perfectly careless whither we went. This gradually yielded to a
settled melancholy, which never left her. On our arrival in Paris, I did
not dare to present myself with her at the Tuileries; so, feigning
her ill health as an excuse, I remained some weeks at Versailles, to
endeavor by affection and care to overcome this sad feature of her
malady. It was about six weeks after this that I read in the 'Journal
des Débats' an announcement that, Claude de Lauzan had accepted holy
orders, and was appointed _curé_ of La Flèche, in Brittany.' At first
the news came on me like a thunder-clap; but after a while's reflection
I began to believe it was perhaps the very best thing could have
happened. And under this view of the matter I left the paper in Marie's
way.

“I was right. She did not appear the next morning at breakfast, nor the
entire day after. The following day the same; but in the evening came
a few lines written with a pencil, saying she wished to see me. I
went;--but I cannot tell you. My very heart is bursting as I think of
her, as she sat up in her bed; her long, dark hair falling in heavy
masses over her shoulders, and her darker eyes flashing with a
brightness that seemed like wandering intellect. She fell upon my neck
and cried; her tears ran down my cheek, and her sobs shook me. I know
not what I said: but I remember that she agreed to everything I had
arranged for her; she even smiled a sickly smile as I spoke of what an
ornament she would be to the belle cour,--and we parted.

“That was the last good-night I ever wished her. The next day she was
received at Court, and I was ordered to Normandy; thence I was sent to
Boulogne, and soon after to Ireland.”

“But you have written to her,--you have heard from her?”

“Alas! no. I have written again and again; but either she has never
received my letters, or she will not answer them.”

The tone of sorrow he concluded in left no room for any effort at
consolation, and we were silent; at last he took my hand in his, and as
his feverish fingers pressed it, he said,--“'T is a sad thing when we
work the misery of those for whose happiness we would have shed our
heart's blood.”



CHAPTER X. THE CHURCHYARD

The excitement caused by the mere narration of his sister's suffering
weighed heavily on De Meudon's weak and exhausted frame. His thoughts
would flow in no other channel; his reveries were of home and long past
years; and a depression far greater than I had yet witnessed settled
down upon his jaded spirits.

“Is not my present condition like a just retribution on my ambitious
folly?” was his continued reflection. And so he felt it. With a
Frenchman's belief in destiny, he regarded the failure of all his
hopes, and the ruin of the cause he had embarked in, as the natural
and inevitable consequences of his own ungenerous conduct; and even
reproached himself for carrying his evil fortune into an enterprise
which, without him, might have been successful. These gloomy
forebodings, against which reason was of no avail, grew hourly upon him,
and visibly influenced his chances of recovery.

It was a sad spectacle to look on one who possessed so much of good, so
many fair and attractive qualities, thus wasting away without a single
consolation he could lay to his bruised and wounded spirit. The very
successes he once gloried to remember, now only added bitterness to his
fallen state. To think of what he had been, and look on what he was, was
his heaviest affliction; and he fell into deep, brooding melancholy, in
which he scarcely spoke, but sat looking at vacancy, waiting as it were
for death.

I remember it well. I had been sitting silently by his bedside; for
hours he had not spoken, but an occasional deep-drawn sigh showed he
was not sleeping. It was night, and all in the little household were at
rest; a slight rustling of the curtain attracted me, and I felt his hand
steal from the clothes and grasp my own.

“I have been thinking of you, my dear boy,” said he, “and what is to
become of you when I'm gone. There, do not sob! The time is short now,
and I begin to feel it so; for somehow, as we approach the confines of
eternity, our mental vision grows clearer and more distinct,--doubts
that have long puzzled us seem doubts no longer. Many of our highest
hopes and aspirations--the daydreams that made life glorious--pass
before our eyes, and become the poor and empty pageants of the hour.
Like the traveller, who as he journeys along sees little of the way,
but at the last sits down upon some grassy bank, and gazes over the long
line of road; so, as the close of life draws near, we throw a backward
glance upon the past. But how differently does all seem to our eyes!
How many of those we envied once do we pity now! how many of those who
appeared low and humble, whose thoughts seemed bowed to earth, do we now
recognize as soaring aloft, high above their fellow-men, like creatures
of some other sphere!” He paused; then in a tone of greater earnestness
added: “You must not join these people, Tom. The day is gone by when
anything great or good could have been accomplished. The horrors of
civil war will ever prevent good men from uniting themselves to a cause
which has no other road save through bloodshed; and many wise ones, who
weigh well the dangers, see it hopeless. France is your country: there
liberty has been won; there lives one great man, whose notice, were it
but passingly bestowed, is fame. If life were spared me, I could have
served you there; as it is, I can do something.”

He paused for a while, and then drawing the curtain gently to one side,
said,--“Can it be moonlight? it is so very bright.”

“Yes,” said I; “the moon is at the full.”

He sat up as I spoke, and looked eagerly out through the little window.

“I have got a fancy,--how strange, too; it is one I have often smiled at
in others, but I feel it strongly now: it is to choose some spot where
I shall be laid when I am dead. There is a little ruin at the bottom of
this glen; you must remember it well. If I mistake not, there is a well
close beside it. I remember resting there one hot and sultry day in
July. It was an eventful day, too. We beat the King's troops, and took
seventy prisoners; and I rode from Arklow down here to bring up some
ammunition that we had secreted in one of the lead mines. Well I
recollect falling asleep beside that well, and having such a delightful
dream of home when I was a child, and of a pony which Marie used to ride
behind me; and I thought we were galloping through the vineyard, she
grasping me round the waist, half laughing, half in fear,--and when I
awoke I could not remember where I was. I should like to see that old
spot again, and I feel strong enough now to try it.”

I endeavored, with all my power of persuasion, to prevent his attempting
to walk such a distance, and in the night air too; but the more I
reasoned against it, the more bent was he on the project, and at last
I was obliged to yield a reluctant consent, and assist him to rise
and dress. The energy which animated him at first soon sank under the
effort, and before we had gone a quarter of a mile he grew faint and
weary; still he persevered, and leaning heavily on my arm, he tottered
along.

“If I make no better progress,” said he, smiling sadly, “there will be
no need to assist me coming back.”

At last we reached the ruin, which, like many of the old churches in
Ireland, was a mere gable, overgrown with ivy, and pierced with a single
window, whose rudely-formed arch betokened great antiquity. Vestiges
of the side walls remained in part, but the inside of the building was
filled with tombstones and grave-mounds, selected by the people as being
a place of more than ordinary sanctity; among these the rank dock weeds
and nettles grew luxuriantly, and the tall grass lay heavy and matted.
We sat for some time looking on this same spot. A few garlands were
withering on some rude crosses of stick, to mark the latest of those who
sought their rest there; and upon these my companion's eyes were bent
with a melancholy meaning.

How long we sat there in silence I know not; but a rustling of the ivy
behind me was the first thing to attract my attention. I turned quickly
round, and in the window of the ruin beheld the head of a man bent
eagerly in the direction we were in; the moonlight fell upon him at the
moment, and I saw that the face was blackened.

“Who's that?” I called aloud, as with my finger I directed De Meudon to
the spot. No answer was returned, and I repeated my question yet louder;
but still no reply, while I could mark that the head was turned slightly
round, as if to speak with some one without. The noise of feet, and the
low murmur of several voices, now came from the side of the ruin; at
the same instant a dozen men, their faces blackened, and wearing a white
badge on their hats, stood up as if out of the very ground around us.

“What are you doing here at this time of night?” said a hard voice, in
tones that boded but little kindliness.

“We are as free to walk the country, when we like it, as you are, I
hope,” was my answer.

“I know his voice well,” said another of the crowd; “I told you it was
them.”

“Is it you that stop at Wild's, in the glen?” said the first speaker.

“Yes,” replied I.

“And is it to get share of what 's going, that ye 're come to join us
now?” repeated he, in a tone of mockery.

“Be easy, Lanty; 'tis the French officer that behaved so stout up at
Ross. It 's little he cares for money, as myself knows. I saw him throw
a handful of goold among the boys when they stopped to pillage, and bid
them do their work first, and that he 'd give them plenty after.”

“Maybe he 'd do the same now,” said a voice from the crowd, in a tone of
irony; and the words were received by the rest with a roar of laughter.

“Stop laughing,” said the first speaker, in a voice of command; “we've
small time for joking.” As he spoke he threw himself heavily on the bank
beside De Meudon, and placing his hand familiarly on his arm, said, in a
low but clear voice: “The boys is come up here to-night to draw lots
for three men to settle Barton, that 's come down here yesterday, and
stopping at the barrack there. We knew you war n't well lately, and we
did n't trouble you; but now that you 're come up of yourself among us,
it 's only fair and reasonable you 'd take your chance with the rest,
and draw your lot with the others.”

“Arrah, he 's too weak; the man is dying,” said a voice near.

“And if he is,” said the other, “who wants his help? sure, is n't it to
keep him quiet, and not bethray us?”

“The devil a fear of that,” said the former speaker; “he's thrue to the
backbone; I know them that knows him well.”

By this time De Meudon had risen to his feet, and stood leaning upon a
tall headstone beside him; his foraging cap fell off in his effort to
stand, and his long thin hair floated in masses down his pale cheeks and
on his shoulders. The moon was full upon him; and what a contrast did
his noble features present to the ruffian band that sat and stood around
him!

“And is it a scheme of murder, of cold, cowardly assasination, you have
dared to propose to me?” said he, darting a look of fiery indignation
on him who seemed the leader. “Is it thus you understand my presence in
your country and in your cause? Think ye it was for this that I left the
glorious army of France,--that I quitted the field of honorable war to
mix with such as you? Ay, if it were the last word I were to speak on
earth, I 'd denounce you, wretches that stain with blood and massacre
the sacred cause the best and boldest bleed for!”

The click of a trigger sounded harshly on my ear, and my blood ran cold
with horror. De Meudon heard it too, and continued,--“You do but cheat
me of an hour or two, and I am ready.”

He paused, as if waiting for the shot. A deadly silence followed; it
lasted for some minutes, when again he spoke,--“I came here to-night not
knowing of your intentions, not expecting you; I came here to choose
a grave, where, before another week pass over, I hoped to rest. If you
will it sooner, I shall not gainsay you.”

Low murmurs ran through the crowd, and something like a tone of pity
could be heard mingling through the voices.

“Let him go home, then, in God's name!” said one of the number; “that's
the best way.”

“Ay, take him home,” said another, addressing me; “Dan Kelly 's a hard
man when he 's roused.”

The words were repeated on every side, and I led De Meudon forth leaning
on my arm; for already, the excitement over, a stupid indifference crept
over him, and he walked on by my side without speaking.

I confess it was not without trepidation, and many a backward glance
towards the old ruin, that I turned homeward to our cabin. There was
that in their looks at which I trembled for my companion; nor do I yet
know why they spared him at that moment.



CHAPTER XI. TOO LATE.

The day which followed the events I have mentioned was a sad one to me.
The fatigue and the excitement together brought on fever with De Meudon.
His head became attacked, and before evening his faculties began to
wander. All the strange events of his checkered life were mixed up in
his disturbed intellect; and he talked on for hours about Italy, and
Egypt, the Tuileries, La Vendee, and Ireland, without ceasing. The
entire of the night he never slept, and the next day the symptoms
appeared still more aggravated. The features of his insanity were wilder
and less controllable. He lost all memory of me; and sometimes the sight
of me at his bedside threw him into most terrific paroxysms of passion;
while at others, he would hold my hand for hours together, and seem to
feel my presence as something soothing. His frequent recurrence to the
scene in the churchyard showed the deep impression it had made upon
his mind, and how fatally it had influenced the worst symptoms of his
malady.

Thus passed two days and nights. On the third morning, exhaustion seemed
to have worn him into a false calm. His wild, staring eye had become
heavier, his movements less rapid; the spot of color had left his cheek;
the mouth was pinched up and rigid; and a flatness of the muscles of the
face betokened complete depression. He spoke seldom, and with a voice
hoarse and cavernous, but no longer in the tone of wild excitement as
before. I sat by his bedside still and in silence, my own sad thoughts
my only company. As it grew later, the sleepless days and nights I had
passed, and the stillness of the sickroom, overcame me, and I slept.

I awoke with a start; some dreamy consciousness of neglect had flashed
across me, and I sat up. I peeped into the bed, and started back with
amazement. I looked again, and there lay De Meudon, on the outside of
the clothes, dressed in his full uniform,--the green coat and white
facing, the large gold epaulettes, the brilliant crosses on the breast;
his plumed chapeau lay at one side of him, and his sabre at the other.
He lay still and motionless. I held the candle near his face, and could
mark a slight smile that curled his cold lip, and gave to his wan and
wasted features something of their former expression.

“Oui, mon cher,” said he, in a weak whisper, as he took my hand and
kissed it, “c'est bien moi.” And then added, “It was another of my
strange fancies to put on these once more before I died; and when I
found you sleeping, I arose and did so. I have changed something since I
wore this last: it was at a ball at Cambacérès.”

My joy at hearing him speak once more with full possession of his
reason, was damped by the great change a few hours had worked in his
appearance. His skin was cold and clammy; a gluey moisture rested on his
cheek; and his teeth were dark and discolored. A slimy froth, too, was
ever rising to his lips as he spoke; while at every respiration his
chest heaved and waved like a stormy sea.

“You are thirsty, Charles,” said I, stooping over him to wet his lips.

“No,” said he, calmly, “I have but one thing which wants relief; it is
here.”

He pressed his hand to his heart as he spoke, while such a look of
misery as crossed his features I never beheld.

“Your heart--”

“Is broken,” said he, with a sigh. For some minutes he said nothing,
then whispered: “Take my pocket-book from beneath my pillow; yes, that
's it. There is a letter you 'll give my sister; you 'll promise me
that? Well, the other is for Lecharlier, the _chef_ of the Polytechnique
at Paris; that is for you,--you must be _un élève_ there. There are
some five or six thousand francs,--it 's all I have now: they are yours;
Marie is already provided for. Tell her--But no; she has forgiven me
long since,--I feel it. You 'll one day win your grade,--high up; yes,
you must do so. Perhaps it may be your fortune to speak with General
Bonaparte; if so, I beg you say to him, that when Charles de Meudon was
dying, in exile, with but one friend left of all the world, he held this
portrait to his lips, and with his last breath he kissed it.”

The fervor of the action drew the blood to his face and temples, which
as suddenly became pale again. A shivering ran through his limbs; a
quick heaving of his bosom; a sigh; and all was still. He was dead!

The stunning sense of deep affliction is a mercy from on high. Weak
human faculties, long strained by daily communing with grief, would
fall into idiocy were their acuteness not blunted and their perception
rendered dull. It is for memory to trace back through the mazes of
misery the object of our sorrow, as the widow searches for the corpse of
him she loved amid the slain upon the battlefield.

I sat benumbed with sorrow, a vague desire for the breaking day my only
thought. Already the indistinct glimmerings of morning were visible,
when I heard the sounds of men marching along the road towards the
house. I could mark, by the clank of their firelocks and their regular
step, that they were soldiers. They halted at the door of the cabin,
whence a loud knocking now proceeded.

“Halloo, there!” said a voice, whose tones seemed to sink into my very
heart; “halloo, Peter! get up and open the door.”

“What's the matter?” cried the old man, starting up, and groping his way
towards the door.

The sound of several voices and the noise of approaching footsteps
drowned the reply; and the same instant the door of the little room in
which I sat opened, and a sergeant entered.

“Sorry to disturb ye, sir,” said he, civilly; “but duty can't be
avoided. I have a warrant to arrest Captain de Meudon, a French officer
that is concealed here. May I ask where is he?”

I pointed to the bed. The sergeant approached, and by the half-light
could just perceive the glitter of the uniform, as the body lay shaded
by the curtain.

“I arrest you, sir, in the King's name,” said he. “Halloo, Kelly! this
is your prisoner, isn't he?”

A head appeared at the door as he spoke; and as the eyes wandered
stealthily round the chamber, I recognized, despite the change of color,
the wretch who led the party at the churchyard.

“Come in, damn ye,” said the sergeant, impatiently; “what are you afraid
for? Is this your man? Halloo, sir!” said he, shaking the corpse by the
shoulder.

“You must call even louder yet,” said I, while something like the fury
of a fiend was working within me.

“What!” said the sergeant, snatching up the light and holding it within
the bed. He started back in horror as he did so, and called out, “He is
dead!”

Kelly sprang forward at the word, and seizing the candle, held it down
to the face of the corpse; but the flame rose as steadily before those
cold lips as though the breath of life had never warmed them.

“I 'll get the reward, anyhow, sergeant, won't I?” said the ruffian,
while the thirst for gain added fresh expression to his savage features.

A look of disgust was the only reply he met with, as the sergeant walked
into the outer room, and whispered something to the man of the house. At
the same instant the galloping of a horse was heard on the causeway. It
came nearer and nearer, and ceased suddenly at the door, as a deep voice
shouted out,--

“Well! all right, I hope, sergeant. Is he safe?”

A whispered reply, and a low, muttered sound of two or three voices
followed, and Barton--the same man I had seen at the fray in Malone's
cabin--entered the room. He approached the bed, and drawing back the
curtains, rudely gazed on the dead man, while over his shoulder peered
the demoniac countenance of the informer Kelly, his savage features
working in anxiety lest his gains should have escaped him.

Barton's eye ranged the little chamber till it fell on me, as I sat
still and motionless against the wall. He started slightly, and then
advancing close, fixed his piercing glance upon me.

“Ha!” cried he, “you here! Well, that is more than I looked for this
morning. I have a short score to settle with you. Sergeant, here 's one
prisoner for you, at any rate.”

“Yes,” said Kelly, springing forward, “he was at the churchyard with the
other; I'll swear to that.”

“I think we can do without your valuable aid in this business,” said
Barton, smiling maliciously. “Come along, young gentleman; we 'll try
and finish the education that has begun so prosperously.”

My eyes involuntarily turned to the table where De Meudon's pistols
were lying. The utter hopelessness of such a contest deterred me not, I
sprang towards them; but as I did so, the strong hand of Barton was on
my collar, and with a hoarse laugh, he threw me against the wall, as he
called out,--

“Folly, boy! mere folly. You are quite sure of the rope without that.
Here, take him off!”

As he spoke, two soldiers seized me on either side, and before a minute
elapsed, pinioned my arms behind my back. In another moment the men fell
in, the order was given to march, and I was led away between the files,
Kelly following at the rear; while Barton's voice might be heard issuing
from the cabin, as he gave his orders for the burial of the body, and
the removal of all the effects and papers to the barrack at Glencree.

We might have been about an hour on the road when Barton overtook us.
He rode to the head of the party, and handing a paper to the sergeant,
muttered some words, among which I could only gather the phrase,
“Committed to Newgate;” then, turning round in his saddle, he fixed his
eyes on Kelly, who, like a beast of prey, continued to hang upon the
track of his victim.

“Well, Dan,” cried he, “you may go home again now. I am afraid you 've
gained nothing this time but character.”

“Home!” muttered the wretch in a voice of agony; “is it face home after
this morning's work?”

“And why not, man? Take my word for it, the neighbors will be too much
afraid to meddle with you now.”

“Oh, Mister Barton! oh, darling! don't send me back there, for the love
of Heaven! Take me with you!” cried the miserable wretch, in tones of
heart-moving misery.

“Oh, young gentleman,” said he, taming towards me, and catching me by
the sleeve, “spake a word for me this day!”

“Don't you think he has enough of troubles of his own to think of, Dan?”
 said Barton, with a tone of seeming kindliness. “Go back, man; go back!
there 's plenty of work before you in this very county. Don't lay your
hand on me, you scoundrel; your touch would pollute a hangman.”

The man fell back as if stunned at the sound of these words; his face
became livid, and his lips white as snow. He staggered a pace or two,
like a drunken man, and then stood stock-still, his eyes fixed upon the
road.

“Quick march!” said the sergeant.

The soldiers stepped out again; and as we turned the angle of the road,
about a mile farther, I beheld Kelly still standing in the self same
attitude we left him. Barton, after some order to the sergeant, soon
left us, and we continued our march till near nine o'clock, when the
party halted to breakfast. They pressed me to eat with every kind
entreaty, but I could taste nothing, and we resumed our road after half
an hour. But the day becoming oppressively hot, it was deemed better to
defer our march till near sunset; we stopped, then, during the noon,
in a shady thicket near the roadside, where the men, unbuckling their
knapsacks and loosening their stocks, lay down in the deep grass, either
chatting together or smoking. The sergeant made many attempts to draw
me into conversation, but my heart was too full of its own sensations
either to speak or listen; so he abandoned the pursuit with a good
grace, and betook himself to his pipe at the foot of a tree, where,
after its last whiff escaped, he sank into a heavy sleep.

Such of the party as were not disposed for sleep gathered together in
a little knot on a small patch of green grass, in the middle of a beech
clump, where, having arranged themselves with as much comfort as the
place permitted, they began chatting away over their life and its
adventures pleasantly and freely. I was glad to seek any distraction
from my own gloomy thoughts in listening to them, as I lay only a few
yards off; but though I endeavored with all my might to attend to and
take interest in their converse, my thoughts always turned to him I had
lost forever,--the first, the only friend I had ever known. All care for
myself and what fortune awaited me was merged in my sorrow for him. If
not indifferent to my fate, I was at least unmindful of it, and although
the words of those near me fell upon my ear, I neither heard nor marked
them.

From this dreamy lethargy I was at last suddenly aroused by the hearty
bursts of laughter that broke from the party, and a loud clapping of
hands that denoted their applause of something or somebody then before
them.

“I say, George,” said one of the soldiers, “he's a queer 'un, too, that
piper.”

“Yes, he 's a droll chap,” responded the other solemnly, as he rolled
forth a long curl of smoke from the angle of his mouth.

“Can you play 'Rule Britannia,' then?” asked another of the men.

“No, sir,” said a voice I at once knew to be no other than my friend
Darby's,--“no, sir. But av the 'Fox's Lament,' or 'Mary's Dream;'
wasn't uncongenial to your sentiments, it would be a felicity to me to
expatiate upon the same before yez.”

“Eh, Bell,” cried a rough voice, “does that beat you now?”

“No,” said another, “not a bit. He means he 'll give us something Irish
instead; he don't know 'Rule Britannia! '”

“Not know 'Rule Britannia!' Why, where the devil were you ever bred or
born, man,--eh?”

“Kerry, sir, the kingdom of Kerry, was the nativity of my father;
my maternal progenitrix emanated from Clare. Maybe you 've heard the
adage,--

     “'From Keiry his father, from Clare came his mother;
     He 's more rogue nor fool on one side and the other.'

Not but that, in my humble individuality, I am an exceptions
illustration of the proverbial catastrophe.”

Another shout of rude laughter from his audience followed this speech,
amid the uproar of which Darby began tuning his pipes, as if perfectly
unaware that any singularity on his part had called forth the mirth.

“Well, what are we to have, old fellow, after all that confounded
squeaking and grunting?” said he who appeared the chief spokesman of the
party.

“'Tis a trifling production of my own muse, sir,--a kind of
biographical, poetical, and categorical dissertation of the delights,
devices, and daily doings of your obaydient servant and ever submissive
slave, Darby the Blast.”

Though it was evident very little of his eloquent announcement was
comprehended by the party, their laughter was not less ready, and a
general chorus proclaimed their attention to the song.

Darby accordingly assumed his wonted dignity of port, and having given
some half dozen premonitory flourishes, which certainly had the effect
of astonishing and overawing the audience, he began, to the air of “The
Night before Larry was stretched,” the following ditty:--



             DARBY THE BLAST.

     Oh! my name it is Darby the Blast;
        My country is Ireland all over;
     My religion is never to fast,
        But live, as I wander, in clover;
     To make fun for myself every day,
        The ladies to plaise when I 'm able,
     The boys to amuse as I play,
        And make the jugs dance on the table.
           Oh! success to the chanter, my dear!

     Your eyes on each side you may cast,
        But there is n't a house that is near ye
     But they 're glad to have Darby the Blast,
        And they 'll tell ye 'tis he that can cheer ye.
     Oh! 't is he can put life in a feast;
        What music lies under his knuckle;
     As he plays “Will I send for the Priest?”
         Or a jig they call “Cover the Buckle.”
      Oh! good luck to the chanter, your sowl!

     But give me an audience in rags;
        They 're illigant people for list'ning;
     'T is they that can humor the bags
        As I rise a fine tune at a christ'ning.
     There 's many a weddin' I make
        Where they never get further nor sighing;
     And when I perform at a wake,
        The corpse looks delighted at dying.
     Oh! success to the chanter, your sowl!



“Eh! what's that?” cried a gruff voice; “the corpse does what?”

“'T is a rhetorical amplification, that means he would if he could,”
 said Darby, stopping to explain.

“I say,” said another, “that's all gammon and stuff; a corpse could n't
know what was doing,--eh, old fellow?”

“'T is an Irish corpse I was describin',” said Darby, proudly, and
evidently, while sore pushed for an explanation, having a severe
struggle to keep down his contempt for the company that needed it.

An effort I made at this moment to obtain a nearer view of the party,
from whom I was slightly separated by some low brushwood, brought my
hand in contact with something sharp; I started and looked round, and to
my astonishment saw a clasp knife, such as gardeners carry, lying open
beside me. In a second I guessed the meaning of this. It had been so
left by Darby, to give me an opportunity of cutting the cords that bound
my arms, and thus facilitating my escape. His presence was doubtless
there for this object, and all the entertaining powers he displayed
only brought forth to occupy the soldiers' attention while I effected my
deliverance. Regret for the time lost was my first thought; my second,
more profitable, was not to waste another moment. So, kneeling down
I managed with the knife to cut some of my fastenings, and after some
little struggle freed one arm; to liberate the other was the work of
a second, and I stood up untrammelled. What was to be done next? for
although at liberty, the soldiers lay about me on every side, and escape
seemed impossible. Besides, I knew not where to turn, where to look for
one friendly face, nor any one who would afford me shelter. Just then
I heard Darby's voice raised above its former pitch, and evidently
intended to be heard by me.

“Sure, there's Captain Bubbleton, of the Forty-fifth Regiment, now in
Dublin, in George's Street Barracks. Ay, in George's Street Barracks,”
 said he, repeating the words as if to impress them on me. “'T is himself
could tell you what I say is thrue; and if you wouldn't put confidential
authentification on the infirmation of a poor leather-squeezing,
timber-tickling crayture like myself, sure you 'd have reverential
obaydience to your own commissioned captain.”

“Well, I don't think much of that song of yours, anyhow, old Blow, or
Blast, or whatever your name is. Have you nothing about the service, eh?
'The British Grenadiers;' give us that.”

“Yes; 'The British Grenadiers,' that's the tune!” cried a number of the
party together.

“I never heard them play but onst, sir,” said Darby, meekly; “and they
were in sich a hurry that day, I couldn't pick up the tune.”

“A hurry! what d' you mean?” said the corporal.

“Yes, sir; 't was the day but one after the French landed; and the
British Grenadiers that you were talking of was running away towards
Castlebar.”

“What 's that you say there?” cried out one of the soldiers, in a voice
of passion.

“'Tis that they wor running away, sir,” replied Darby, with a most
insulting coolness; “and small blame to thim for that same, av they wor
frightened.”

In an instant the party sprang to their legs, while a perfect shower of
curses fell upon the luckless piper, and fifty humane proposals to smash
his skull, break his neck and every bone in his body, were mooted on all
sides. Meanwhile M'Keown remonstrated, in a spirit which in a minute I
perceived was not intended to appease their irritation; on the contrary,
his apologies were couched in very different guise, being rather excuses
for his mishap in having started a disagreeable topic, than any regret
for the mode in which he treated it.

“And sure, sir,” continued he, addressing the corporal, “'t was n't my
fault av they tuck to their heels; would n't any one run for his life av
he had the opportunity?”

He raised his voice once more at these words with such significance that
I resolved to profit by the counsel if the lucky moment should offer.--I
had not long to wait. The insulting manner of Darby, still more than
his words, had provoked them beyond endurance, and one of the soldiers,
drawing his bayonet, drove it through the leather bag of his pipes. A
shout of rage from the piper, and a knockdown blow that levelled the
offender, replied to the insult. In an instant the whole party were upon
him. Their very numbers, however, defeated their vengeance; as I could
hear from the tone of Darby's voice, who, far from declining the combat,
continued to throw in every possible incentive to battle, as he struck
right and left of him. “Ah, you got that!--Well done!--'Tis brave you
are! ten against one!--Devil fear you!”

The scuffle by this time had brought the sergeant to the spot, who in
vain endeavored to ascertain the cause of the tumult, as they rolled
over one another on the ground, while caps, belts, and fragments of
bagpipes were scattered about on every side. The uproar had now reached
its height, and Darby's yells and invectives were poured forth with true
native fluency. The moment seemed propitious to me. I was free,--no one
near; the hint about Bubbleton was evidently intended for my guidance.
I crept stealthily a few yards beneath the brushwood, and emerged safely
upon the road. The sounds of the conflict, amid which Darby's own voice
rose pre-eminent, told me that all were too busily engaged to waste a
thought on me. I pressed forward at my best pace, and soon reached the
crest of a hill, from which the view extended for miles on every side.
My eyes, however, were bent in but one direction: they turned westwards,
where a vast plain stretched away towards the horizon, its varied
surface presenting all the rich and cultivated beauty of a garden;
villas and mansions surrounded with large parks; waving cornfields and
orchards in all the luxuriance of blossom. Towards the east lay the sea;
the coast line broken into jutting promontories and little bays, dotted
with white cottages, with here and there some white-sailed skiff, scarce
moving in the calm air. But amid all this outspread loveliness of view,
my attention was fixed upon a dense and heavy cloud that seemed balanced
in the bright atmosphere far away in the distance. Thither my eyes
turned, and on that spot was my gaze riveted, for I knew that beneath
that canopy of dull smoke lay Dublin. The distant murmur of the angry
voices still reached me as I stood. I turned one backward look; the
road was lonely, not a shadow moved upon it. Before me the mountain road
descended in a zigzag course till it reached the valley. I sprang over
the low wall that skirted the wayside, and with my eyes still fixed upon
the dark cloud, I hurried on. My heart grew lighter with every step; and
when at length I reached the shelter of a pine-wood, and perceived no
sign of being pursued, my spirits rose to such a pitch of excitement
that I shouted for very joy.

For above an hour my path continued within the shelter of the wood; and
when at last I emerged, it was not without a sense of sudden fear that I
looked back upon the mountains which frowned above me, and seemed still
so near. I thought, too, I could mark figures on the road, md imagined
I could see them moving backwards and forwards, like persons seeking for
something; and then I shuddered to think that they too might be at that
very moment looking at me. The thought added fresh speed to my flight,
and for some miles I pressed forward without even turning once.

It was late in the evening as I drew near the city. Hungry and tired as
I was, the fear of being overtaken was uppermost in my thoughts; and
as I mingled in the crowds that strolled along the roads enjoying the
delicious calmness of a summer's eve, I shrank from every eye like
something guilty, and feared that every glance that fell on me was
detection itself.

It was not until I entered the city, and found myself traversing the
crowded and narrow streets that formed the outskirts, that I felt at
ease; and inquiring my way to George's Street Barracks, I hurried on,
regardless of the strange sights and sounds about. At that hour the
humbler portion of the population was all astir; their daily work ended,
they were either strolling along with their families for an evening
walk, or standing in groups around the numerous ballad-singers,
who delighted their audience with diatribes against the Union, and
ridiculous attacks on the Ministry of the day. These, however, were
not always unmolested, for as I passed on, I saw more than one errant
minstrel seized on by the soldiery, and hurried off to the guardhouse
to explain some uncivil or equivocal allusion to Lord Castlereagh or Mr.
Cook,--such evidences of arbitrary power being sure to elicit a hearty
groan or shout' of derision from the mob, which in turn was replied to
by the soldiers. These scolding matches gave an appearance of tumult
to the town, which on some occasions did not stop short at mere war of
words.

In the larger and better streets such scenes were unfrequent; but
here patrols of mounted dragoons or police passed from time to time,
exchanging as they went certain signals as to the state of the city;
while crowds of people thronged the pathways, and conversed in a low
tone, which broke forth now and then into a savage yell as often as some
interference on the part of the military seemed to excite their angry
passions. At the Castle gates the crowd was more dense and apparently
more daring, requiring all the efforts of the dragoons to keep them
from pressing against the railings, and leave a space for the exit of
carriages which from time to time issued from the Castle yard. Few of
these, indeed, went forth unnoticed. Some watchful eye would detect the
occupant as he lay back to escape observation; his name would be shouted
aloud, as an inevitable volley of hisses and execrations showered upon
him. And in this way were received the names of Mr. Bingham, Colonel
Loftus, the Right Hon. Denis Browne, Isaac Corry, and several others who
happened that day to be dining with the Lord-Lieutenant, and were now on
their way to the House of Commons.

Nothing struck me so much in the scene as the real or apparent knowledge
possessed by the mob of all the circumstances of each individual's
personal and political career; and thus the price for which they had
been purchased--either in rank, place, or pounds sterling--was cried
aloud amid shouts of derision and laughter, or the more vindictive yells
of an infuriated populace.

“Ha, Ben! what are you to get for Baltinglass? Boroughs is up in the
market.” “Well, Dick, you won't take the place; nothing but hard cash.”
 “Don't be hiding. Jemmy.” “Look at the Prince of Orange, boys!” “A groan
for the Prince of Orange!”--here a fearful groan from the mob echoed
through the streets. “There 's Luke Fox; ha! stole away!”--here followed
another yell.

With difficulty I elbowed my way through the densely-packed crowd, and
at last reached the corner of George's Street, where a strong police
force was stationed, not permitting the passage of any one either up or
down that great thoroughfare. Finding it impossible to penetrate by this
way, I continued along Dame Street, where I found the crowd to thicken
as I advanced. Not only were the pathways, but the entire streets,
filled with people; through whom the dragoons could with difficulty
force a passage for the carriages, which continued at intervals to pass
down. Around the statue of King William the mob was in its greatest
force. Not merely the railings around the statue, but the figure itself
was surmounted by persons, who, taking advantage of their elevated and
secure position, hurled their abuse upon the police and military with
double bitterness. These sallies of invective were always accompanied by
some humorous allusion, which created a laugh among the crowd beneath;
to which, as the objects of the ridicule were by no means insensible,
the usual reply was by charging on the people, and a command to keep
back,--a difficult precept when pressed forward by some hundreds behind
them. As I made my way slowly through the moving mass, I could see that
a powerful body of horse patrolled between the mob and the front of the
College, the space before which and the iron railings being crammed with
students of the University, for so their caps and gowns bespoke them.
Between this party and the others a constant exchange of abuse and
insult was maintained, which even occasionally came to blows whenever
any chance opportunity of coming in contact, unobserved by the soldiery,
presented itself.

In the interval between these rival parties, each member's carriage was
obliged to pass; and here each candidate for the honors of one and the
execrations of the other, met his bane and antidote.

“Ha, broken beak, there you go! bad luck to you!” “Ha, old vulture,
Flood!”

“Three cheers for Flood, lads!” shouted a voice from the College; and
in the loud cry the yells of their opponents were silenced, but only to
break forth the next moment into further license.

“Here he comes, here he comes!” said the mob; “make way there, or he
'll take you flying! it 's himself can do it. God bless your honor, and
may you never want a good baste under ye!”

This civil speech was directed to a smart, handsome-looking man of about
five and forty, who came dashing along on a roan thoroughbred, perfectly
careless of the crowd, through which he rode with a smiling face and a
merry look. His leathers and tops were all in perfect jockey style,
and even to his long-lashed whip he was in everything a sportsmanlike
figure.

“That's Greorge Ponsonby,” said a man beside me, in answer to my
question. “And I suppose you know who that is?”

A perfect yell from the crowd drowned my reply; and amid the mingled
curses and execrations of the mass, a dark-colored carriage moved slowly
on, the coachman evidently fearful at every step lest his horses should
strike against some of the crowd, and thus license the outbreak that
seemed only waiting an opportunity to burst forth.

“Ha, Bladderchops, Bloody Jack! are you there?” shouted the savage
ringleaders, as they pressed up to the very glasses of the carriage, and
stared at the occupant.

“Who is it?” said I, again.

“John Toler, the Attorney-General.”

Amid deafening cries of vengeance against him, the carriage moved
on, and then rose the wild cheers of the College men to welcome their
partisan.

A hurrah from the distant end of Dame Street now broke on the ear,
which, taken up by those bearer, swelled into a regular thunder; and at
the same moment the dragoons cried out to keep back, a lane was formed
in a second, and down it came six smoking thoroughbreds, the postilions
in white and silver, cutting and spurring with all their might. Never
did I hear such a cheer as now burst forth. A yellow chariot, its panels
covered with emblazonry, came flying past; a hand waved from the window
in return to the salutation of the crowd, and the name of Tom Conolly
of Castletown rent the very air. Two outriders in their rich liveries
followed, unable to keep their place through the thick mass that wedged
in after the retiring equipage.

Scarcely had the last echo of the voices subsided when a cheer
burst from the opposite side, and a waving of caps and handkerchiefs
proclaimed that some redoubted champion of Protestant ascendancy was
approaching. The crowd rocked to and fro as question after question
poured in.

“Who is it? who is coming?” But none could tell, for as yet the
carriage, whose horses were heard at a smart trot, had not turned the
corner of Grafton Street. In a few moments the doubt seemed resolved,
for scarcely did the horses appear in sight when a perfect yell rose
from the crowd and drowned the cheers of their opponents. I cannot
convey anything like the outbreak of vindictive passion that seemed to
convulse the mob as a splendidly appointed carriage drove rapidly past
and made towards the colonnade of the Parliament House. A rush of the
people was made at the moment, in which, as in a wave, I was borne along
in spite of me. The dragoons, with drawn sabres, pressed down upon the
crowd, and a scene of frightful confusion followed: many were sorely
wounded by the soldiers; some were trampled under foot; and one poor
wretch, in an effort to recover himself from stumbling, was supposed to
be stooping for a stone, and cut through the skull without mercy. He
lay there insensible for some time; but at last a party of the crowd,
braving everything, rushed forward and carried him away to an hospital.

During this, I had established myself on the top of a lamp-post, which
gave me a full view, not only of all the proceedings of the mob, but
of the different arrivals as they drew up at the door of the House. The
carriage whose approach was signalized by all these disasters, had now
reached the colonnade. The steps were lowered, and a young man of the
very handsomest and most elegant appearance descended slowly from the
chariot. His dress was in the height of the reigning fashion, but withal
had a certain negligence that bespoke one who less paid attention to
toilette, than that his costume was a thing of course, which could not
but be, like all about him, in the most perfect taste. In his hand he
held a white handkerchief, which, as he carelessly shook, the perfume
floated over the savage-looking, half-naked crowd around. He turned to
give some directions to his coachman; and at the same moment a dead cat
was hurled by some one in the crowd and struck him on the breast, a cry
of exultation rending the very air in welcome of this ruffian act.
As for him, he slowly moved his face round towards the mob, and as he
brushed the dirt from his coat with his kerchief, he be, stowed on them
one look so full of immeasurable heartfelt contempt that they actually
quailed beneath it. The cry grew fainter and fainter, and it was only as
he turned to enter the House that they recovered self-possession enough
to renew their insulting shout. I did not need to ask the name, for the
yell of “Bloody Castlereagh” shook the very air.

“Make way there! make way, boys!” shouted a rough voice from the crowd;
and a roar of laughter, that seemed to burst from the entire street,
answered the command, and the same instant a large burly figure advanced
through a lane made for him in the crowd, mopping his great bullet head
with a bright scarlet handkerchief.

“Long life to you, Mr. Egan!” shouted one. “Three cheers for Bully Egan,
boys!” cried another; and the appeal was responded to at once.

“Make way, you blackguards! make way, I say,” said Egan, affecting to
be displeased at this display of his popularity; “don't you see who's
coming?”

Every eye was turned at once towards Daly's Clubhouse, in which
direction he pointed; but it was some minutes before the dense crowd
would permit anything to be seen. Suddenly, however, a cheer arose
wilder and louder than any I had yet heard; from the street to the very
housetops the cry was caught up and repeated, while a tumultuous joy
seemed to rock the crowd as they moved to and fro.

At this moment the excitement was almost maddening. Every neck was
strained in one direction, every eye pointed thither, while the
prolonged cheering was sustained with a roar as deafening as the sea in
a storm. At last the crowd were forced back, and I saw three gentlemen
advancing abreast: the two outside ones were holding between them the
weak and trembling figure of an old and broken man, whose emaciated form
and withered face presented the very extreme of lassitude and weakness;
his loose coat hung awkwardly on his spare and shrunken form, and he
moved along in a shuffling, slipshod fashion. As they mounted the steps
of the Parliament House, the cheering grew wilder and more enthusiastic;
and I wondered how he who was evidently the object could seem so
indifferent to the welcome thus given him, as with bent-down head he
pressed on, neither turning right nor left. With seeming difficulty he
was assisted up the steps, when he slowly turned round, and removing
his hat, saluted the crowd. The motion was a simple one, but in its very
simplicity was its power. The broad white forehead,--across which some
scanty hair floated,--the eye that now beamed proudly forth, was turned
upon them; and never was the magic of a look more striking. For a second
all was hushed, and then a very thunder of applause rolled out, and the
name of Henry Grattan burst from every tongue.

Just then one of the mob, exasperated by a stroke from the flat of a
dragoon's sabre, had caught the soldier by the foot and flung him from
his saddle to the ground; his comrades flew to his rescue at once, and
charged the crowd, which fell back before them. The College men, taking
advantage of this, sprang forward on the mob, armed with their favorite
weapons, their hurdles of strong oak; the street was immediately torn
up behind, and a shower of paving stones poured in upon the luckless
military, now completely hemmed in between both parties. Tells of rage
and defiance rose on either side, and the cheers of the victors and
cries of the wounded were mixed in mad confusion.

My lamp-post was no longer an enviable position, and I slipped gently
down towards the ground; in doing so, however, I unfortunately kicked
off a soldier's cap. The man turned on me at once and collared me,
and notwithstanding all my excuses insisted on carrying me off to
the guardhouse. The danger of such a thing at once struck me, and I
resisted manfully. The mob cheered me, at which the soldier only became
more angry; and ashamed, too, at being opposed by a mere boy, he seized
me rudely by the throat. My blood rose at this, and I struck boldly at
him; my fist met him in the face, and before he could recover himself
the crowd were upon him. Down he went, while a rush of the mob, escaping
from the dragoons, flowed over his body. At the same moment the shout,
“Guard, turn out!” was heard from the angle of the Bank, and the
clattering of arms and the roll of a drum followed. A cheer from the mob
seemed to accept the challenge, and every hand was employed tearing
up the pavement and preparing for the fray. Whether by my own
self-appointment, or by common consent, I cannot say, but I at once took
the leadership; and having formed the crowd into two parties,
directed them, if hard pressed, to retreat either by College Street or
Westmoreland Street. Thus one party could assist the other by enfilading
the attacking force, unless they were in sufficient strength to pursue
both together. We had not long to wait the order of battle. The soldiers
were formed in a second, and the word was given to advance at a charge.
The same instant I stepped forward and cried, “Fire!” Never was an
order so obeyed; a hundred paving stones showered down on the wretched
soldiers, who fell here and there in the ranks. “Again!” I shouted to my
second battalion, that stood waiting for the word; and down came another
hailstorm, that rattled upon their caps and muskets, and sent many
a stout fellow to the rear. A wild cheer from the mob proclaimed the
victory; but at the same instant a rattling of ramrods and a clank
of firelocks was heard in front, and from the rear of the soldiers a
company marched out in echelon, and drew up as if on parade. All was
stilled; not a man moved in the crowd,--indeed our tactics seemed now at
an end; when suddenly the word, “Make ready--present!” was called out,
and the same instant a ringing discharge of musketry tore through the
crowd. Never did I witness such a scene as followed. All attempts to
retreat were blocked up by the pressure from behind; and the sight of
the wounded who fell by the discharge of the soldiers seemed to paralyze
every effort of the mob. One terrified cry rose from the mass, as they
shrank from the muskets. Again the ramrods were heard clinking in the
barrels. I saw there was but one moment, and cried out, “Courage, lads,
and down upon them!”--and with that I dashed madly forward, followed
by the mob, that like a mighty mass now rolled heavily after me. The
soldiers fell back as we came on; their bayonets were brought to the
charge; the word “Fire low!” was passed along the line, and a bright
sheet of flame flashed forth, and was answered by a scream of anguish
that drowned the crash of the fire. In the rush backwards I was thrown
on the ground, and at first believed I had been shot; but I soon
perceived I was safe, and sprang to my legs. But the same moment a blow
on the head from the but-end of a musket smote me to the earth, and
I neither saw nor heard of anything very clearly afterwards. I had,
indeed, a faint, dreamy recollection of being danced upon and trampled
by some hundred heavy feet, and then experiencing a kind of swinging,
rocking motion, as if carried on something; but these sensations are far
too vague to reason upon, much less to chronicle.



CHAPTER XII. A CHARACTER.

There must have been a very considerable interval from the moment I have
last recorded to that in which I next became a responsible individual;
but in what manner, in what place, or in what company it was passed, the
reader must excuse my indulging, for many important reasons,--one of
which is, I never clearly knew anything of the matter.

To date my recollections from my first consciousness, I may state that I
found myself on my back in a very narrow bed, a table beside me covered
with phials and small flasks, with paper cravats, some of which hung
down, queue fashion, to an absurd extent. A few rush backed and bottomed
chairs lay along the walls, which were coarsely whitewashed. A window,
of very unclean and unprepossessing aspect, was partly shaded by a faded
scarlet curtain, while the floor was equally sparingly decked with
a small and ragged carpet. Where was I? was the frequent but
unsatisfactory query I ever put to myself. Could this be a prison? had I
been captured on that riotous evening, and carried off to jail? or was
I in Darby M'Keown's territory?--for somehow, a very general
impression was on my mind that Darby's gifts of ubiquity were somewhat
remarkable,--or, lastly (and the thought was not a pleasant one), was
this the domicile of Anthony Basset, Esq., attorney-at-law? To have
resolved any or all of these doubts by rising and taking a personal
survey of the premises would have been my first thought; but unluckily
I found one of my arms bandaged, and enclosed in a brace of wooden
splints; a very considerable general impression pervaded me of bruises
and injuries all over my body; and, worse still, a kind of megrim
accompanied every attempt to lift my head from the pillow, that made me
heartily glad to lie down again and be at rest.

That I had not fallen into unfriendly hands was about the extent to
which my deductions led me; and with this consolatory fact, and a steady
resolve to remain awake three days, if necessary, so as to interrogate
the first visitor who should approach me, I mustered all my patience,
and waited quietly. What hour of the day it was when first I awoke
to even thus much of consciousness I cannot say; but I well remember
watching what appeared to me twelve mortal hours in my anxious
expectation. At last a key turned in an outer lock, a door opened, and
I heard a heavy foot enter. This was shortly followed by another step,
whose less imposing tread was, I suspected, a woman's.

“Where, in the devil's name, is the candle?” said a gruff voice, that
actually seemed to me not unknown. “I left it on the table when I went
out. Oh, my shin's broke!--that infernal table!”

“Oh, Lord! oh, Lord!” screamed the female voice.

“Ah, you 've caught it too!” cried the other, in glee; “did you think
you saw a little blue flame before you when your shin was barked?”

“You're a monster!” said the lady, in a tone of passionate indignation.

“Here it is,--I have it,” replied the other, not paying the slightest
attention to the endearing epithet last bestowed; “and damn me, if it 's
not burned down to the socket. Halloo there, Peter Dodd! You scoundrel,
where are you?”

“Call him Saladin,” said the lady, with a sneer, “and perhaps he 'll
answer.”

“Imp of darkness, where are you gone to? Peter--Dodd--Dodd--Peter! Ah,
you young blackguard! where were you all this time?”

“Asleep, sir; sure you know well, sir, it 's little rest I get,” said
a thin, childish voice in answer. “Wasn't it five o'clock this morning
when I devilled the two kidneys ye had for supper for the four officers,
and had to borrey the kian pepper over the way?”

“I'll bore a gimlet hole through your pineal gland, and stuff it with
brass-headed nails, if you reply to me. Anna Maria, that was a fine
thought, eh? glorious, by Jove! There, put the candle there, hand your
mistress a chair; give me my robe-de'chambre. Confound me, if it's not
getting like the kingdom of Prussia on the map, full of very straggling
dependencies. Supper, Saladin!”

“The sorrow taste--”

“What, thou piece of human ebony! what do you say?”

“Me hab no--a--ting in de larder,” cried the child, in a broken voice.

“Isn't there a back of a duck and two slices of cold bacon?” asked the
lady, in the tone of a cross-examining barrister.

“I poisoned the bacon for the rats, Miss; and for the duck--”

“Let me strangle him with my own hands,” shouted the man; “let me tear
him up into merrythoughts. Look here, sirrah,” said he, in a voice like
John Kemble's; “there may be nothing which man eats within these walls;
there may not be wherewithal to regale a sickly fly,--no, not enough for
one poor spider to lunch upon; but if you ever dare to reply to me, save
in Oriental phrase, I 'll throw you in a sack, call my mutes, and hurl
you into the Bosphorus.”

“Where, sir?”

“The Dodder, you son of a burned father! My hookah.”

“My slippers,” repeated the lady.

“My lute, and the sherbet,” added the gentleman.

By the stir in the chamber, these arrangements, or something equivalent
to them, seemed to have taken place; when again I heard,--“Dance a
lively measure, Saladin; my soul is heavy.”

Here a most vile tinkling of a guitar was heard, to which, by the sounds
of the feet, I could perceive Saladin was moving in a species of dance.

“Let the child go to bed, and don't be making a fool of yourself,” said
the lady, in a voice of bursting passion.

“Thank Heaven,” said I, half aloud, “she isn't mad.”

“Tink, tink, a - tink - a - tink, tink - a - tink - a - dido!” thrummed
out her companion. “I say, Saladin, heat me a little porter, with an egg
and some sugar.”

[Illustration: Saldin Danceth a Lively Measure 127]

The door closed as the imp made his exit, and there was silence for some
seconds, during which my uppermost thought was, “What infernal mischance
has thrown me into a lunatic asylum?” At length the man spoke,--

“I say, Anna Maria, Cradock has this run of luck a long time.”

“He plays better than you,” responded the lady, sharply.

“I deny it,” rejoined he, angrily. “I play whist better than any man
that ever lived, except the Begum of Soutancantantarahad, who beat my
father. They played for lacs of rupees on the points, and a territory on
the rub; five to two, first game against the loser, in white elephants.”

“How you do talk!” said Anna Maria. “Do you forget that all this rubbish
does n't go down with me?”

“Well, I mean old Hickory, that had the snuffshop in Bath, used only to
give me one point in the rub, and we played for sixpence; damme, I 'll
not forget it,--he cleaned me out in no time. Tink, tink, a-tink-a-tink,
tink-a-tinka-dido! Here, Saladin! bear me the spicy cup, ambrosial boy!”

“Ahem!” said the lady, in a tone that didn't sound exactly like
concurrence.

“Eat a few dates, and then repose,” said the deep voice.

“I wish I had them, av they were eatable,” said Saladin, as he turned
away.

“Wretch, you have forgotten to salaam; exit slowly. Tink, tink,
a-tink-a-tink! Anna Maria, he's devilish good now for black parts; I
think I'll make Jones bring him out. Wouldn't it be original to make
Othello talk broken English? 'Farewell de camp!' Eh, by Jove! that 's a
fine thought. 'De spirit stir a drum, de piercy pipe.' By Jove! I like
that notion.”

Here the gentleman rose in a glorious burst of enthusiasm, and began
repeating snatches from Shakspeare, in the pleasant travesty he had hit
upon.

“Cradock revoked, and you never saw him,” said the lady, dryly,
interrupting the monologue.

“I did see it clearly enough, but I had done so twice the same game,”
 said he, gayly; “and if the grave were to give up its dead, I, too,
should be a murderer. Fine thought that, is n't it?”

“He won seventeen and sixpence from you,” rejoined she, pettishly.

“Two bad half-crowns,--dowlas, filthy dowlas,” was the answer.

“And the hopeful young gentleman in the next room,--what profitable
intentions, may I ask you, have you with respect to him?”

“Burke! Tom Burke! Bless your heart, he 's only son and heir to Burke
of Mount Blazes, in the county Galway. His father keeps three packs of
harriers, one of fox, and another of staghounds,--a kind of brindled
devils, three feet eight in height; he won't take them under. His father
and mine were schoolfellows at Dundunderamud, in the Himalaya, and
he--that is, old Burke--saved my father's life in a tiger hunt. And am I
to forget the heritage of gratitude my father left me?”

“You ought not, perhaps, since it was the only one he bequeathed,” quoth
the lady.

“What! is the territory of Shamdoonah and Bunfunterabad nothing? are
the great suits of red emeralds and blue opal, that were once the crown
jewels of Saidh Sing Doolah, nothing? is the scymitar of Hafiz, with
verses of the Koran in letters of pure brilliants, nothing?”

“You'll drive me distracted with your insane folly,” rejoined the lady,
rising and pushing back her chair with violence. “To talk this way when
you know you have n't got a five pound note in the world.”

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed out the jolly voice of the other; “that's good,
faith. If I only consented to dip my Irish property, I could raise
fourteen hundred and seventy thousand pounds,--so Mahony tells me. But I
'll never give up the royalties,--never! There, you have my last word on
the matter: rather than surrender my tin mine, I'd consent to starve
on twelve thousand a year, and resign my claim to the title which,
I believe, the next session will give me; and when you are Lady
Machinery--something or other--maybe they won't bite, eh? Ramskins
versus wrinkles.”

A violent bang of the door announced at this moment the exit of the lady
in a rage, to which her companion paid no attention, as he continued to
mumble to himself, “Surrender the royalties,--never! Oh, she 's gone.
Well, she's not far wrong, after all. I dare not draw a cheque on my own
exchequer at this moment for a larger sum than--let me see--twenty-four,
twenty-five, twenty-eight and tenpence; with twenty-nine shillings,
the grand firm of Bubbleton and Co. must shut up and suspend their
payments.” So saying, he walked from the room in stately fashion, and
closed the door after him.

My first thought, as I listened to this speech, was one of gratefulness
that I had fallen into the friendly hands of my old coach companion,
whose kindness still lived fresh in my memory; my next was, what
peculiar form of madness could account for the strange outpouring I had
just overheard, in which my own name was so absurdly introduced, coupled
with family circumstances I knew never had occurred. Sleep was now out
of the question with me; for whole hours long I could do nothing but
revolve in my mind all the extraordinary odds and ends of my friend
Bubbleton's conversation, which I remembered to have been so struck by
at my first meeting with him. The miraculous adventures of his career,
his hairbreadth 'scapes, his enormous wealth, the voluptuous ease of his
daily life, and his habits of luxury and expenditure with which he then
astounded me, had now received some solution; while, at the same time,
there was something in his own common-sense observations to himself
that puzzled me much, and gave a great difficulty to all my calculations
concerning him.

To all these conflicting doubts and difficulties sleep at last
succeeded. But better far for me it had not; for with it came dreams
such as sick men only experience: all the distorted images that rose
before my wandering faculties, mingling with the strange fragments of
Bubbleton's conversation, made a phantasmagoria the most perplexing
and incomprehensible; and which, even on waking, I could not banish, so
completely had Saladin and his pas seul, the guitar, the hookah, and the
suit of red emeralds taken hold of my erring intellect.

Candid, though not fair reader, have you ever been tipsy? Have you
ever gone so far over the boundaryline that separates the land of mere
sobriety from its neighboring territory, the country of irresponsible
impulses, that you actually doubted which was the way back,--that you
thought you saw as much good sense and good judgment on the one side of
the frontier as the other, with only a strong balance of good-fellowship
to induce a preference? If you know this state,--if you have taken the
precise quantum of champagne or moselle mousseux that induces it, and
yet goes no farther,--then do you perfectly understand all the trials
and difficulties of my waking moments, and you can appreciate the
arduous task I undertook in my effort to separate the real from the
imaginary, the true types from their counterfeits; in a word, the
wanderings of my own brain from those of Captain Bubbleton's.

In this agreeable and profitable occupation was I engaged; when the
same imposing tread and heavy footstep I had heard the previous evening
entered the adjoining room and approached my door. The lock turned, and
the illustrious captain himself appeared. And here let me observe,
that if grave censure be occasionally bestowed on persons who, by the
assumption of voice, look, or costume, seek to terrorize over infant
minds, a no less heavy sentence should be bestowed on all who lord it
over the frail faculties of sickness by any absurdity in their personal
appearance. And that I may not seem captious, let me describe my friend.
The captain, who was somewhere about the forties, was a full-faced,
chubby, good-looking fellow, of some five feet ten or eleven inches in
height; his countenance had been intended by nature for the expression
of such emotions as arise from the enjoyment of turtle, milk punch,
truffled turkeys, mulled port, mullagatawny, stilton, stout, and pickled
oysters; a rich, mellow-looking pair of dark-brown eyes, with large bushy
eyebrows meeting above the nose, which latter feature was a little “on
the snub and off the Roman;” his mouth was thick-lipped, and had
that peculiar mobility which seems inseparable wherever eloquence or
imagination predominate; in color, his face was of that uniform
hue painters denominate as “warm, “--in fact, a rich sunset
Claude-Lorrainish tint that seemed a compound, the result of
high-seasoned meats, plethora, punch, and the tropics; in figure, he was
like a huge pudding-bag, supported on two short little dumpy pillars,
that from a sense of the superincumbent weight had wisely spread
themselves out below, giving to his lower man the appearance of a
stunted letter A; his arms were most preposterously short, and for the
convenience of locomotion he used them somewhat after the fashion of
fins. As to his costume on the morning in question, it was a singularly
dirty and patched dressing-gown of antique silk, fastened about the
waist by a girdle, from which depended a scymitar on one side and a
meerschaum on the other; a well-worn and not over clean-looking shawl
was fastened in fashion of a turban round his head; a pair of yellow
buskins with faded gold tassels decorated legs which occasionally peeped
from the folds of the _robe-de-chambre_ without any other covering.

[Illustration: Tom Receives a Strange Visitor 132]

Such was the outward man of him who suddenly stopped short at the
doorway, while he held the latch in his hand, and called out,--

“Burke, Tom Burke! don't be violent, don't be outrageous; you see I'm
armed! I'd cut you down without mercy if you attempt to lift a finger!
Promise me this,--do you hear me?”

That any one even unarmed could have conceived fear from such a poor
weak object as I was seemed so utterly absurd that I laughed outright;
an emotion on my part that seemingly imparted but little confidence
to my friend the captain, who retreated still closer to the door, and
seemed ready for flight. The first use I could make of speech, however,
was, to assure him that I was not only perfectly calm and sensible, but
deeply grateful for kindness which I knew not how, nor to whom, I became
indebted.

“Don't roll your eyes there; don't look so damned treacherous!” said
he. “Keep down your hands; keep them under the bedclothes. I 'll put a
bullet through your skull if you stirred!”

I again protested that any manifestation of quietness he asked for I
would immediately comply with, and begged him to sit down beside me and
tell me where I was and how I had come hither. Having established an
outwork of a table and two chairs between us, and cautiously having left
the door ajar to secure his retreat, he drew the scymitar and placed it
before him, his eyes being fixed on me the entire time.

“Well,” said he, as he assumed a seat, and leaned his arm on the table,
“so you are quiet at last. Lord, what a frightful lunatic you were!
Nobody would approach your bed but me. The stoutest keeper of Swift's
Hospital fled from the spot; while I said, 'Leave him to me, the human
eye is your true agent to humble the pride of maniacal frenzy.'”

With these words he fixed on me a look such as the chief murderer in a
melodrama assumes at the moment he proceeds to immolate a whole family.

“You infernal young villain, how I subdued you! how you quailed before
me!”

There was something so ludicrous in the contrast of this bravery with
his actual terror, that again I burst out a-laughing; upon which
he sprang up, and brandishing his sabre, vowed vengeance on me if I
stirred. After a considerable time spent thus, I at last succeeded in
impressing him with the fact, that if I had all the will in the world
to tear him to pieces, my strength would not suffice to carry me to the
door,--an assurance which, however sorrowfully made by me, I perceived
to afford him the most unmixed satisfaction.

“That's right, quite right,” said he; “and mad should he be indeed who
would measure strength with me. The red men of Tuscarora always called
me the 'Great Buffalo.' I used to carry a bark canoe with my squaw and
nine little black devils under one arm, so as to leave the other free
for my tomahawk. 'He, how, he!' that 's the war step.”

Here he stooped down to his knees, and then sprang up again, with a yell
that actually made me start, and brought a new actor on the scene in
the person of Anna Maria, whose name I had so frequently heard the night
before.

“What is the matter?” said the lady, a short, squablike woman, of nearly
the captain's age, but none of his personal attractions. “We can't have
him screaming all day in that fashion.”

“It isn't he; it was I who was performing the war dance. Come, now, let
down your hair, and be a squaw,--do. What trouble is it? And bring in
Saladin; we'll get up a combat scene. Devilish fine thought that!”

The indignant look of the lady in reply to this modest proposal again
overpowered me, and I sank back in my bed exhausted with laughter,--an
emotion which I was forced to subdue as well as I might on beholding the
angry countenance with which the lady regarded me.

“I say, Burke,” cried the captain, “let me present you to my sister,
Miss Anna Maria Bubbleton.”

A very dry recognition on Miss Anna Maria's part replied to the effort
I made to salute her; and as she turned on her heel, she said to her
brother, “Breakfast's ready,” and left the room.

Bubbleton jumped up at this, rubbed his mouth pleasantly with his hand,
smacked his lips; and then dropping his voice to a whisper, muttered,
“Excuse me, Tom; but if I have a weakness it is for Yarmouth bloaters,
and anchovy toast, milk chocolate, marmalade, hot rolls, and reindeer
tongue, with a very small glass of pure white brandy as a qualifier.” So
saying, he whisked about and made his exit.

While my host was thus occupied, I was visited by the regimental
surgeon, who informed me that my illness had now been of some weeks'
duration; severe brain fever, with various attending evils, and a broken
arm, being the happy results of my evening's adventure at the Parliament
House.

“Bubbleton is an old friend of yours,” continued the doctor. And then,
without giving me time to reply, added, “Capital fellow,--no better; a
little given to the miraculous, eh? but nothing worse.”

“Why, he does indeed seem to have a strong vein for fiction,” said I,
half timidly.

“Bless your heart, he never ceases. His world is an ideal thing, fall
of impossible people and events, where he has lived at least some
centuries, enjoying the intimacies of princes, statesmen, poets, and
warriors. He has, in his own estimation, unlimited wealth and unbounded
resources, the want of which he is never convinced of till pressed for
five shillings to buy his dinner.”

“And his sister,” said I; “what of her?”

“Just as strange a character in the opposite direction. She is as matter
of fact as he is imaginative. To all his flights she as resolutely
enters a dissentient; and he never inflates his balloon of miracles
without her stepping forward to punch a hole in it. But here they come.”

“I say. Pepper, how goes your patient? Spare no pains, old fellow,--no
expense; only get him round. I've left a cheque for you for five hundred
in the next room. This is no regimental case; come, come! it 's my way,
and I insist upon it.”

Pepper bowed with an air of the deepest gratitude, and actually looked
so overpowered by the liberality that I began to suspect there might
be less truth in his account of Bubbleton than I thought a few minutes
before.

“All insanity has left him,--that's pleasant. I say, Tom, you must have
had glorious thoughts, eh? When you were mad, did you ever think you
were an anaconda bolting a goat, or the Eddystone Lighthouse when the
foundation began to shift?”

“No, never.”

“How odd! I remember being once thrown on my head off a drag. I was
breaking in a pair of young unicorns for the Queen of--”

“No!” said Anna Maria, in a voice of thunder, holding up her finger, at
the same moment, in token of reproof.

The captain became mute on the instant, and the very word he was about
to utter stuck in his throat, and he stood with his mouth open, like one
in enchantment.

“You said a little weak tea, I think,” said Miss Bubbleton, turning
towards the doctor.

“Yes; and some dry toast, if he liked it; and, in a day or two; a half
glass of wine and water.”

“Some of that tokay old Pippo Esterhazy sent us.”

“No,” said the lady again, in the same tone of menace.

“And perhaps, after a week, the open air and a little exercise in a
carriage.”

“The barouche and the four ponies,” interrupted Bubbleton.

“No!” repeated Miss Anna Maria, but in such a voice of imperious meaning
that the poor captain actually fell back, and only muttered to himself,
“What would be the use of wealth, if one could n't contribute to the
enjoyment of one's friends?”

“There's the drum for parade,” cried the doctor; “you'll be late, and so
shall I.”

They both bustled out of the room together; while Miss Anna Maria,
taking her work out of a small bag she carried on her arm, drew a chair
to the window and sat down, having quietly intimated to me that, as
conversation was deemed injurious to me, I must not speak one syllable.



CHAPTER XIII. AN UNLOOKED-FOR VISITOR.

All my endeavors to ascertain the steps by which I came to occupy my
present abode were fruitless, inasmuch as Captain Bubbleton contrived to
surround his explanation with such a mist of doubtful if not impossible
circumstances, that I gave up the effort in despair, and was obliged to
sit down satisfied with the naked fact, that it was by some soldiers
of his company I was captured, and by them brought to the guard-house.
Strangely enough, too, I found, that in his self-mystification the
worthy captain had invested me with all the honors of a stanch loyalist
who had earned his cracked skull in defence of the soldiery against the
mob; and this prevailing impression gave such a tone to his narrative,
that he not only set to work to trace back a whole generation of Burkes
famed for their attachment to the House of Hanover, but also took a peep
into the probable future, where he saw me covered with rewards for my
heroism and gallantry.

Young as I was, I hesitated long how far I dare trust him with the real
state of the case. I felt that in so doing I should either expose him to
the self-reproach of having harbored one he would deem a rebel; or, by
withdrawing from me his protection, give him perhaps greater pain
by compelling him to such an ungracious act. Yet how could I receive
attention and kindness under these false colors? This was a puzzling
and difficult thing to resolve; and a hundred times a day I wished I had
never been rescued by him, but taken my chance of the worst fortune had
in store for me.

While, therefore, my strength grew with every day, these thoughts
harassed and depressed me. The continual conflict in my mind deprived me
of all ease, and scarcely a morning broke in which I had not decided
on avowing my real position and my true sentiments; and still, when the
moment came, the flighty uncertainty of Bubbleton's manner, his caprice
and indiscretion, all frightened me, and I was silent. I hoped, too,
that some questioning on his part might give me a fitting opportunity
for such a disclosure; but here again I was deceived. The jolly captain
was far too busy inventing his own history of me, to think of asking for
mine; and I found out from the surgeon of the regiment, that according
to the statement made at the mess-table, I was an only son, possessed of
immense estates,--somewhat encumbered, to be sure (among other debts, a
large jointure to my mother); that I had come up to town to consult the
Attorney-General about the succession to a title long in abeyance in my
family, and was going down to the House in Lord Castlereagh's carriage,
when, fired by the ruffianism of the mob I sprang out, and struck one of
the ringleaders, etc.

How this visionary history had its origin, or whether it had any save in
the wandering fancies of his brain, I know not; but either by frequent
repetition of it, or by the strong hold a favorite notion sometimes will
take of a weak intellect, he so far believed it true that he wrote more
than one letter to Lord Castlereagh to assure him that I was rapidly
recovering, and would be delighted to receive him; which, whether from a
knowledge of the captain's character, or his indifference as to my fate,
the Secretary certainly never took any notice of whatever.

Bubbleton had too much experience of similar instances of neglect to
be either afflicted or offended at this silence; on the contrary, he
satisfied his mind by an excuse of his own inventing, and went about
saying, “I think we 'll have Castlereagh down to-day to see Burke,”
 until it became a cant on parade and a jest at mess.

Meanwhile his active mind was not lying dormant. Indignant that
no inquiries had been made after me, and astonished that no
aide-de-camp--not even a liveried menial of the Viceroy's household--had
come down to receive the daily bulletin of my health, and somewhat
piqued, perhaps, that his own important services regarding me remained
unacknowledged, he set about springing a mine for himself which very
nearly became my ruin.

After about ten days spent by me in this state of painful vacillation,
my mind vibrating between two opposite courses, and seeing arguments
for either, both in the matter-of-fact shortness of Miss Bubbleton's not
over-courteous manner, and the splendidly liberal and vast conceptions
of her brother, I went to my bed one night resolved that on the very
next morning I would hesitate no longer; and as my strength would now
permit of my being able to walk unassisted, I would explain freely to
Bubbleton every circumstance of my life, and take my leave of him, to
wander, I knew not where. This decision at length being come to, I slept
more soundly than I had slept for many nights, nor awoke until the
loud step and the louder voice of the captain had aroused me from my
slumbers.

“Eh, Tom! a good night, my lad? How soundly you sleep! Just like the
Lachigong Indians; they go to bed after the hunting season, and never
wake till the bears come in next fall. I had the knack myself once; but
then I always took six or seven dozen of strong Burton ale first; and
that, they said, was n't quite fair. But for a white man, I 'd back
myself for a thousand to-morrow. But what 's this I have to tell you?
Something or other was in my head for you. Oh, I have it! I say, Tom,
old fellow, I think I have touched them up to some purpose. They did
n't expect it. No, hang it! they little knew what was in store for them;
they weren't quite prepared for it. By Jove, that they were n't!”

“Who are they?” said I, sitting up in my bed, and somewhat curious to
hear something of these astonished individuals.

“The Government, my lad; the Castle; the Private Sec.; the Major; the
Treasury; the Board of Green Cloth; the--what d' ye call them?--the
Privy Council.”

“Why, what has happened them?”

“I 'll show you what 's happened. Lie down again and compose yourself.
He won't be here before twelve o'clock; though, by the bye, I promised
on my honor not to say a word about his coming. But it 's over now.”

“Who is it?” said I, eagerly.

“Oh, I can't tell now. You 'll see him very soon; and right glad he 'll
be to see you, so he says. But here they are; here 's the whole affair.”

So saying, he covered the bed with a mass of news' papers, and blotted,
ill-written manuscripts, among which he commenced a vigorous search at
once.

“Here it is; I've found it out. Listen to this: 'The Press, Friday,
August 10. The magnificent ourang-outang that Captain Bubbleton is about
to present to the Lady-Lieutenant--' No, that is n't it; it must be
in Faulkner. Ay, here we have it: 'In Captain Bubbleton's forthcoming
volume, which we have been favored with a private perusal of, a very
singular account is given of the gigantic mouse found in Candia, which
grows to the size of a common mastiff--'No, that 's not it. You 've
heard of that, Tom, though, have n't you?”

“Never,” said I, trying to repress a smile.

“I 'm amazed at that; never heard of my curious speculations about the
Candian mouse! The fellow has a voice like a human being; you 'd hear
him crying in the woods, and you 'd swear it was a child. I 've a notion
that the Greeks took their word 'mousikos' from this fellow. But that
's not what I 'm looking for; no, but here it is. This is squib
No. 1: 'Tuesday morning. We are at length enabled to state that the
young gentleman who took such a prominent part in defending the military
against the savage and murderous attack of the mob in the late riot in
College Green is now out of danger; being removed to Captain Bubbleton's
quarters in George's Street Barracks, he was immediately trepanned--'”

“Eh? trepanned!”

“No, you weren't trepanned; but Pepper said you might have been though,
and he 'd just as soon do it as not; so I put in trepanned. 'The pia
mater was fortunately not cut through.' That you don't understand; but
no matter,--hem, hem! 'Congestion of--' hem, hem! 'In our next, we hope
to give a still more favorable report.' Then here's the next: 'To the
aide-decamp sent to inquire after the “hero of College Green,” the
answer this morning was, “Better; able to sit up.”' Well, here we
go,--No. 3: 'His Excellency mentioned this morning at the Privy Council
the satisfaction he felt at being able to announce that Mr. (from
motives of delicacy we omit the name) is now permitted to take some
barley gruel, with a spoonful of old Madeira. The Bishop of Ferns and
Sir Boyle Roach both left their cards yesterday at the barracks.' I
waited a day or two after this; but--would you believe it?--no notice
was taken; not even the Opposition papers said a word, except some
insolent rascal in 'The Press' asks, 'Can you tell your readers, Are we
to have anything more from Captain Bubbleton?' So then I resolved to
come out in force, and here you see the result: 'Friday, 20th. It is now
our gratifying task to announce the complete restoration of the young
gentleman whose case has, for some weeks past, been the engrossing topic
of conversation of all ranks and classes, from the table of the Viceroy
to the humble denizen of Mud Island. Mr. Burke is the only son and heir
to the late Matthew Burke, of Cremore, county of Galway. His family have
been long distinguished for their steady, uncompromising loyalty; nor
is the hereditary glory of their house likely to suffer in the person
of the illustrious youth, who, we learn, is now to be raised to the
baronetcy under the title of Sir Thomas Bubbleton Burke, the second name
assumed to commemorate the services of Captain Bubbleton, whose--'Of
course I dilated a little here to round the paragraph. Well, this
did it; here was the shell that exploded the magazine. For early this
morning I received a polite note from the Castle,--I won't tell you the
writer, though; I like a good bit of surprise. And egad, now I think on
't, I won't say anything more about the letter either, only that we 're
in luck, my lad, as you 'll soon acknowledge. What 's the hour now? Ah!
a quarter to twelve. But wait, I think I hear him in the next room. Jump
up, and dress as fast as you can, while I do the honors.”

With this the captain bustled out of the room; and, although he banged
the door after him, I could hear his voice in the act of welcoming some
new arrival.

In spite of the sea of nonsense and absurdity through which I had waded
in the last half-hour, the communication he had made me excited my
curiosity to the utmost, and in some respect rendered me uneasy. It was
no part whatever of my object to afford any clue to Basset by which he
might trace me; and although much of the fear I had formerly entertained
of that dreaded personage had evaporated with increased knowledge of the
world, yet old instincts preserved their influence over me, and I felt
as though Tony Basset would be a name of terror to me for my life long.
It was quite clear, however, that the application from the Castle to
which he alluded could have no reference to the honest attorney; and
with this comforting reflection, which I confess came somewhat late, I
finished my dressing, and prepared to leave my room.

“Oh, here he comes!” cried Bubbleton, as he flung open my door, and
announced my approach. “Come along, Tom, and let us see if your face
will let you be recognized.”

I scarcely had crossed the threshold when I started back with affright,
and had it not been for the wall against which I leaned, must have
fallen. The stranger, whose visit was to afford me so much of pleasure
was no other than Major Barton; there he stood, his arm leaning on the
chimney-piece, the same cool malicious smile playing about the angles of
his mouth which I noticed the first day I saw him in the glen. His sharp
eyes shot on me one quick, searching glance, and then turned to the
door; from which again they were directed to me as if some passing
thought had moved them.

Bubbleton was the first to speak, for not noticing either the agitation
I was under or the stern expression of Barton's features, he ran on:--

“Eh, Major! that's your friend, isn't it? Changed a bit, I suppose; a
little blanched, but in a good cause, you know,--that's the thing. Come,
Tom, you don't forget your old friend. Major--what 's the name?”

“Barton,” repeated the other, dryly.

“Yes, Major Barton; he 's come from his Excellency. I knew that last
paragraph would do it,--eh. Major?”

“You were quite right, sir,” said Barton, slowly and distinctly, “that
paragraph did do it; and very fortunate you may esteem yourself, if it
will not do you also.”

“Eh, what! how me? What d' you mean?”

“How long, may I beg to ask,” continued Barton, in the same quiet tone
of voice, “have you known this young gentleman?”

“Burke,--Tom Burke? Bless your heart, since the height of that fender.
His father and mine were schoolfellows. I 'm not sure he was n't my
godfather, or, at least, one of them; I had four.” Here the captain
began counting on his fingers. “There was the Moulah, one; the Cham,
two--”

“I beg your pardon for the interruption,” said Barton, with affected
politeness; “how long has he occupied these quarters? That fact may
possibly not be too antiquated for your memory.”

“How long?” said Bubbleton, reflectingly. “Let me see: here we are in
August--”

“Three weeks on Tuesday last,” said I, interfering, to prevent any
further drain on so lavish an imagination.

“Then you came here on the day of the riots?” said Barton.

“On that evening,” was my reply.

“On that evening,--just so. Before or after, may I isk?”

“I shall answer no further questions,” said I, resolutely. “If you have
any charge against me, it is for you to prove it.”

“Charge against you!” said Bubbleton, laughing. “Bless your heart,
boy, don't mistake him; they've sent him down to compliment you. Lord
Castlereagh mentions in his note--Where the devil did I throw that
note?”

“It's of no consequence, Captain,” said Barton, dryly; “his lordship
usually intrusts the management of these matters to me. May I learn, is
this young gentleman known in your regiment? Has he been at your mess?”

“Tom Burke known among us! Why, man, he 's called nothing but 'Burke of
Ours.' He 's one of ourselves; not gazetted, you know, but all the same
in fact. We could n't get on without him; he's like the mess-plate, or
the orderly-book, or the regimental snuffbox.”

“I 'm sincerely sorry, sir,” rejoined Barton, slowly, “to rob you and
the gallant Forty-fifth of one upon whom you place such just value; but
'Burke of Ours' must consent to be Burke of mine at present.”

“To be sure, my dear major, of course; anything convivial,--nothing
like good fellowship. We'll lend him to you for to-day,--one day, mark
me,--we can't spare him longer. And now I think of it, don't press him
with his wine; he 's been poorly of late.”

“Have no fears on that score,” said Barton, laughing outright; “our
habits of life, in his circumstances, are rigidly temperate.” Then,
turning to me, he continued, in an altered voice: “I need scarcely
explain to you, sir, the reason of my visit. When last we parted I did
not anticipate that our next meeting would have been in a royal barrack;
but you may thank your friend here for my knowledge of your abode--”

Bubbleton attempted to interpose here a panegyric on himself; but Barton
went on,--

“Here is an order of the Privy Council for your apprehension; and
here--”

“Apprehension!” echoed the captain, in a voice of wonderment and terror.

“Here, sir, is your committal to Newgate. I suppose you'll not give
me the trouble of using force; I have a carriage in waiting below, and
request that we may lose no more time.”

“I am ready, sir,” said I, as stoutly as I was able.

“To Newgate!” repeated Bubbleton, as, overcome with fright, he sank
back in a chair, and crossed his arms on his breast. “Poor fellow! poor
fellow! perhaps they 'll bring it in manslaughter, eh?--or was it a bank
robbery?”

Not even the misery before me could prevent my smiling at the worthy
captain's rapidly conceived narrative of me. I was in no merry mood,
however; and turning to him, grasped his hand.

“It may happen,” said I, “that we never meet again. I know not--indeed,
I hardly care--what is before me; but with all my heart I thank you for
your kindness. Farewell.”

“Farewell,” said he, half mechanically, as he grasped my hand in both
of his, and the large tears rolled down his cheeks. “Poor fellow! all my
fault; see it now.”

I hurried after Barton downstairs, a nervous choking in my throat nearly
suffocating me. Just as I reached the door the carriage drew up, and
a policeman let down the steps. Already my foot was on them, when
Bubbleton was beside me.

“I'll go with him, Major; you'll permit me, won't you?”

“Not at present, Captain,” said Barton, significantly; “it may happen
that we shall want you one of these days. Good-by.”

He pushed me forward as he spoke, and entered the carriage after me. I
felt the pressure of poor Bubbleton's hand as he grasped mine for the
last time, and discovered he had slipped something into my palm at
parting. I opened and found two guineas in gold, which the kindhearted
fellow had given me; perhaps they were his only ones in the world.



CHAPTER XIV. THE JAIL.

From the moment the carriage-door closed upon us, Barton never addressed
one word to me, but leaning back, seemed only anxious to escape being
recognized by the people, whose attention was drawn to the vehicle by
seeing two mounted policemen ride at either side of it. We drove along
the quays, and crossing an old, dilapidated bridge, traversed several
obscure and mean-looking streets, through which numbers of persons were
hurrying in the same direction we were going. At length we arrived at
a large open space, thronged with people whose dress and appearance
bespoke them from the country. They were all conversing in a low,
murmuring tone, and looking up from time to time towards a massive
building of dark granite, which I had only to glance at to guess was
Newgate. Our pace slackened to a walk as we entered the crowd; and while
we moved slowly along, I was struck by the eager and excited faces I saw
on every side. It could be no common occasion which impressed that vast
multitude with the one character of painful anxiety I beheld.

As they stood gazing with upturned faces at the frowning portals of the
jail, the deep, solemn tolling of a bell rung out at the moment, and
as its sad notes vibrated through the air, it seemed to strike with
a mournful power on every heart in the crowd. In an instant, too, the
windows of all the houses were thronged with eager faces,--even the
parapets were crowded; and while every sound was hushed, each eye was
turned in one direction. I followed with my own whither the others were
bent, and beheld above my head the dark framework of the “drop,” covered
with black cloth, above which a piece of rope swung back-. wards and
forwards with the wind. The narrow door behind was closed; but it was
clear that each second that stole by was bringing some wretched criminal
closer to his awful doom.

As we neared the entrance, the massive doors were opened on a signal
from a policeman on the box of the carriage, and we drove inside the
gloomy vestibule. It was only then, as the heavy door banged behind me,
that my heart sank. Up to that moment a mingled sense of wrong, and a
feeling of desperate courage, had nerved me; but suddenly a cold chill
ran through my veins, my knees smote each other, and fear such as till
then I never knew crept over me. The carriage-door was now opened, the
steps lowered, and Barton descending first, addressed a few words to a
person near him, whom he called Mr. Gregg.

It was one of those moments in life in which every passing look, every
chance word, every stir, every gesture, are measured up, and remembered
ever after. And I recollect now how, as I stepped from the carriage, a
feeling of shame passed across me lest the bystanders should mark my
fear, and what a relief I experienced on finding that my presence was
unnoticed; and then the instant after, that very same neglect--that
cold, cold indifference to me--smote as heavily on my spirits, and I
looked on myself as one whose fate had no interest for any, in whose
fortune none sympathized.

“Drive on!” cried a rough voice to the coachman; and the carriage moved
through the narrow passage, in which some dozen of persons were now
standing. The next moment, a murmur of “They are coming!” was heard;
and the solemn tones of a man's voice chanting the last offices of the
Romish Church reached us, with the measured footfall of persons crossing
the flagged courtyard. In the backward movement now made by those around
me, I was brought close to a small arched doorway, within which a flight
of stone steps ascended in a spiral direction; and towards this point I
remarked that the persons who approached were tending. My eyes scarcely
glanced on those who came first; but they rested with a fearful interest
on the bareheaded priest, who, in all the trappings of his office,
walked, book in hand, repeating with mournful impressiveness the litany
for the dead. As he came nearer, I could see that his eyes were dimmed
with tears, and his pale lips quivered with emotion, while his very
cheek trembled with a convulsive agony. Not so he who followed. He was
a young man, scarce four and twenty; dressed in loose white trousers and
shirt, but without coat, vest, or cravat; his head bare, and displaying
a broad forehead, across which some straggling hairs of light brown were
blown by the wind. His eye was bright and flashing, and in the centre of
his pale cheek a small crimson spot glowed with a hectic coloring. His
step was firm, and as he planted it upon the ground a kind of elasticity
seemed to mark his footfall. He endeavored to repeat after the priest
the words as they fell from him; but as he looked wildly around, it was
clear his mind was straying from the subject which his lips expressed,
and that thoughts far different were passing within him. Suddenly
his eyes fell upon the major, who stood close to where I was. The man
started back, and for a second even that small spot of crimson left his
cheek, which became nearly livid in its pallor. A ghastly smile, that
showed his white teeth from side to side, crossed his features, and with
a voice of terrible earnestness, he said,--

“'T is easy for you to look calm, sir, at your morning's work, and I
hope you 're plazed at it.” Then frowning fearfully, as his face grew
purple, he added, “But, by the Eternal I you 'd not look that way av we
two stood by ourselves on the side of Sliebmish, and nothing but our own
four arms between us.”

The horrible expression of vengeance that lit up his savage face at
these words seemed to awe even the callous and stern nature of Barton
himself. All his efforts to seem calm and at ease were for the moment
unavailing, and he shrank from the proud and flashing eye of the felon,
as though he were the guilty one in the presence of his accuser.

Another stroke of the heavy bell rang out. The prisoner started, and
turning round his head, seemed to peer anxiously through the crowd
behind him, when his eyes fell upon the figure of a man apparently a
year or two younger than himself, and whose features, even in their
livid coloring, bore a striking resemblance to his own.

“Come, Patsey,” cried he, “come along with us.” Then turning to the
jailer, while his face assumed a smile, and his voice a tone of winning
softness, he asked, “It is my brother, sir; he is come up nigh eighty
miles to see me, and I hope you 'll let him come upon the drop.”

There was something in the quiet earnestness of his manner in such a
moment that thrilled upon the heart more painfully than even the violent
outbreak of his passion; and when I saw the two brothers hand in hand,
march step by step along, and then disappear in the winding of the dark
stair, a sick, cold feeling came over me, and even the loud shout that
rent the air from the assembled thousands without scarce roused me
from my stupor.

“Come, sir,” cried a man, who in the dress of an official had been for
some minutes carefully reading over the document of my committal, “after
me, if you please.”

I followed him across the courtyard in the direction of a small building
which stood isolated and apart from the rest, when suddenly he stopped,
and carefully examining the paper in his hand, he said,--

“Wait a moment; I 'll join you presently.”

With these words, he hurried back towards the gate, where Barton still'
stood with two or three others. What passed between them I could not
hear; but I could distinctly mark that Barton's manner was more
abrupt and imperious than ever, and that while the jailer--for such he
was--expressed his scruples of one kind or another, the major would not
hear him with patience, but turning his back upon him, called out loud
enough to be heard even where I stood,--

“I tell you I don't care, regular or irregular; if you refuse to take
him in charge, on your head be it. We have come to a pretty pass.
Pollock,” said he, turning to a person beside him, “when there is
more sympathy for a rebel in his Majesty's jail, than respect for a
Government officer.”

“I'll do it, sir,--I'll do it,” cried the jailer; saying which he
motioned me to follow, while he muttered between his teeth, “there must
come an end to this, one day or other.”

With that he unlocked a strongly barred gate, and led me along a narrow
passage; at the extremity of which he opened a door into a small and
rather comfortably furnished room.

“Here, sir,” said he, “you 'll be better than where I have my orders to
put you; and in any case, I trust that our acquaintance will be but a
short one.”

These were the first words of kindness I had heard for some time past. I
turned to thank the speaker; but already the door had closed, and he was
gone.

The quickly succeeding incidents of my life, the dark destiny that
seemed to track me, had given a reflective character to my mind while
I was yet a boy. The troubles and cares of life, that in manhood
serve only to mould and fashion character,--to call forth efforts of
endurance, of courage, or ability,--come upon us in early years with far
different effect and far different teaching. Every lesson tit deceit
and duplicity is a direct shock to some preconceived notion of faith and
honor; every punishment, whose severity in after years we had forgotten
in its justice, has to the eyes of youth a character of vindictive
cruelty. Looking only to effects, and never to causes, our views of
life are one-sided and imperfect; the better parts of our nature will
as often mislead us by false sympathy, as will the worst ones by their
pernicious tendency.

From the hour I quitted my father's house to the present, I had seen
nothing but what to me appeared the sufferings of a poor, defenceless
people at the hands of wanton tyranny and outrage. I had seen the
peasant's cabin burned because it had been a shelter to an outcast; I
had heard the loud and drunken denunciations of a ruffianly soldiery
against those who professed no other object, who acknowledged no other
wish, than liberty and equality; and in my heart I vowed a rooted hate
to the enemies of my country,--a vow that lost nothing of its bitterness
because it was made within the walls of a prison.

In reflections like these my evening passed on, and with it the greater
part of the night also. My mind was too much excited to permit me to
sleep, and I longed for daybreak with that craving impatience which sick
men feel who count the long hours of darkness, and think the morning
must bring relief. It came at last; and the heavy, clanking sounds of
massive doors opening and shutting--the mournful echoes that told of
captivity and durance--sighed along the corridors, and then all was
still.

There is a time in reverie when silence seems not to encourage thought,
but rather, like some lowering cloud, to hang over and spread a gloomy
insensibility around us. Long watching and much thinking had brought me
now to this; and I sat looking upon the faint streak of sunlight that
streamed through the barred window, and speculating within myself when
it would fall upon the hearth. Suddenly I heard the sound of footsteps
in the corridor; my door was opened, and the jailer entered, followed by
a man carrying my breakfast.

“Come, sir,” said the former, “I hope you have got an appetite for our
prison fare. Lose no time; for there is a carriage in waiting to bring
you to the Castle, and the major himself is without.”

“I am ready this moment,” said I, starting up, and taking my hat;
and notwithstanding every entreaty to eat, made with kindness and
good-nature, I refused everything, and followed him out into the
courtyard, where Barton was pacing up and down, impatiently awaiting our
coming.



CHAPTER XV. THE CASTLE.

Scarcely had the carriage driven from the gloomy portals of the jail,
and entered one of the long, straggling streets that led towards the
river, when I noticed a singular-looking figure who ran alongside, and
kept up with us as we went. A true type of the raggedness of old Dublin,
his clothes fluttered behind him like ribbons; even from his hat,
his long, red hair straggled and streamed, while his nether garments
displayed a patchwork no tartan could vie with. His legs were bare, save
where a single topboot defended one of them; the other was naked to
the foot, clad in an old morocco slipper, which he kicked up and caught
again as he went with surprising dexterity, accompanying the feat with
a wild yell which might have shamed a warwhoop. He carried a bundle of
printed papers over one arm; and flourished one of them in his right
hand, vociferating something all the while with uncommon energy.
Scarcely had the carriage drawn up at the door of an old-fashioned brick
building when he was beside it.

“How are ye. Major? How is every bit of you, sir? Are ye taking them
this mornin'--'t is yourself knows how! Buy a ha'porth, sir.”

“What have you got to-day, Toby?” said the major, with a greater degree
of complacency in his manner than I had ever noticed before.

“An illigant new song about Buck Whaley; or maybe you 'd like
'Beresford's Jig, or the Humors of Malbro' Green.'”

“Why, man, they 're old these three weeks.”

“True for ye, Major. Begorra! there 's no chating you at all, at all.
Well, maybe you 'll have this: here 's the bloody and cruel outrage
committed by the yeomen on the body of a dacent and respectable young
man, by the name of Darby M'Keown, with the full and true account of how
he was inhumanly stabbed and murdered on the eighth day of July--”

“Ay, give me that. I hope they 've done for that scoundrel; I have been
on his track three years.”

The fellow drew near, and, as he handed the paper to the major,
contrived to approach close to where I stood. “Buy one, master,” said
he; and as he spoke, he turned completely round, so as only to be
observed by myself, and as suddenly the whole expression of his vacant
features changed like magic, and I saw before me the well-known face of
Darby himself.

“Did you get an answer to that for me, Toby?', said the major.

“Yes, sir; here it is.” And with that he pulled off his tattered hat,
and withdrew a letter which lay concealed within the lining. “'T
is sixpence you ought to be afther givin' me this mornin', Major,”
 continued he, in an insinuating tone of voice; “the devil a less than
twenty-one mile it is out of this, not to spake of the danger I run, and
the boys out on every side o' me.”

“And what's the news up the country, Toby?” asked the major, as he broke
the seal of the letter.

“'T is talking of a risin' they do be still, sir,--av the praties was
in; glory be to God, they say it 'll be a great sayson.”

“For which, Toby,--the crops or the croppies?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Toby, with a most provoking look of idiocy. “And you
won't buy Darby sir?” rejoined he, flourishing the printed placard. “No
matter; here 's the whole, full, thrue, and particular account--” And so
he turned the angle of the building, and I could hear his voice mingling
with the street noises as he wended his way down Dame Street.

The major looked after him and smiled; and brief as was that smile, I
saw in it how thoroughly he was duped.

“Come, sir, follow me, if you please,” said he, addressing me.

I mounted a flight of old and neglected stairs, and entered an anteroom,
where, having waited for a few seconds, the major whispered an order to
the porter, and passed on to the inner room, leaving me behind.

As Major Barton passed out by one door, the porter turned the key in the
other, and placing it in his pocket, drew his chair to the window and
resumed the newspaper he was reading when we entered. How long I waited
I cannot say. My thoughts, though sad ones, chased each other rapidly,
and I felt not the time as it passed. Suddenly the door opened, and I
heard my name called. I drew a deep breath, like one who felt his fate
was in the balance, and entered.

The room, which was plainly furnished, seemed to serve as an office. The
green covered table that stood in the middle was littered with letters
and papers, among which a large, heavy-browed, dark-featured man was
searching busily as I came in. Behind, and partly beside him, stood
Barton, in an attitude of respectful attention; while, with his back to
the fire, was a third person, whose age might have been from thirty-five
to forty. His dress was in the perfection of the mode: his topboots
reaching to the middle of his leg; his coat, of the lightest shade of
sky-blue, was lined with white silk; and two watch chains hung down
beneath his buff waistcoat, in the acme of the then fashion. His
features were frank and handsome, and saving a dash of puppyism that
gave a character of weakness to the expression, I should deem him a
manly, fine-looking fellow.

“So this is your 'Robespierre,' Major, is it?” cried he, bursting into a
laugh, as I appeared.

Barton approached nearer to him, and muttered something in a low,
mumbling tone, to which the other seemed to pay little if any attention.

“You are here, sir,” said the dark-featured man at the table, holding in
his hand a paper as he spoke, “you are here under a warrant of the Privy
Council, charging you with holding intercourse with that rebellious
and ill-fated faction who seek to disturb the peace and welfare of this
country,--disseminating dangerous and wicked doctrines, and being in
alliance with France--with France--What 'a that word, Barton?--to--”

“In two words, young gentleman,” said the young man at the fire,
“you are charged with keeping very bad company, learning exceedingly
unprofitable notions, and incurring very considerable present risk. Now
I am not disposed to think that at your age, and with your respectable
connections, either the cause or its associates can have taken a very
strong hold of your mind. I am sure that you must have received your
impressions, such as they are, from artful and designing persons, who
had only their own ends in view when involving you in their plots. If I
am justified in this opinion, and if you will pledge me your honor--”

“I say, Cooke, you can't do this. The warrant sets forth--”

“Well, well, we 'll admit him to bail.”

“It is not bailable. Right Honorable,” said Barton, addressing the large
man at the table.

“Phelan,” said the younger man, turning away in pique, “we really have
matters of more importance than this boy's case to look after.”

“Boy as he is, sir,” said Barton, obsequiously, “he was in the full
confidence of that notorious French captain for whose capture you
offered a reward of one thousand pounds.”

“You like to run your fox to earth. Barton,” replied the
Under-Secretary, calmly, for it was he who spoke.

“In alliance with France,” continued the dark man, reading from
the paper, over which he continued to pore ever since, “for the
propagation--ay, that's it--the propagation of democratic--”

“Come, come, Browne; never mind the warrant. If he can find bail--say
five hundred pounds--for his future appearance, we shall be satisfied.”

Browne, who never took his eyes from the paper, and seemed totally
insensible to everything but the current of his own thoughts, now looked
up, and fixing his dark and beetling look upon me, uttered in a deep,
low tone,--

“You see, sir, the imminent danger of your present position, and at
the same time the merciful leniency which has always characterized his
Majesty's Government,--ahem! If, therefore, you will plead guilty to any
transportable felony, the grand jury will find true bills--”

“You mistake, Browne,” said Cooke, endeavoring with his handkerchief to
repress a burst of laughter; “we are going to take his bail.”

“Bail!” said the other, in a voice and with a look of amazement
absolutely comic.

Up to this moment I had not broken silence, but I was unable to remain
longer without speaking.

“I am quite ready, sir,” said I, resolutely, “to stand my trial for
anything laid to my charge. I am neither ashamed of the opinions I
profess, nor afraid of the dangers they involve.”

“You hear him, sir; you hear him,” said Barton, triumphantly, turning
towards the Secretary, who bit his lip in disappointment, and frowned
on me with a mingled expression of anger and warning. “Let him only
proceed, and you 'll be quite satisfied, on his own showing, that he
cannot be admitted to bail.”

“Bail!” echoed the Right Honorable, whose faculties seemed to have
stuck fast in the mud of thought, and were totally unable to extricate
themselves.

At the same moment, a gentle tap was heard at the door, and the porter
entered with a card, which he delivered to the Secretary.

“Let him wait,” was the brief reply, as he threw his eyes over it.”
 Captain Bubbleton!”, muttered he, between his teeth; “don't know him.”

I started at the name, and felt my cheek flush. He saw it at once.

“You know this gentleman, then?” said he, mildly.

“Yes; to his humanity I am indebted for my life.”

“I think I shall be able to show, sir,” said Barton, interposing, “that
through this Burke's instrumentality a very deep scheme of disaffection
is at this moment in operation among the troops in garrison. It was in
the barrack at George's Street that I apprehended him.”

“You may withdraw, sir,” said the Secretary, turning towards me. “Let
Captain Bubbleton come in.”

As I left the room, the burly captain entered; but so flurried and
excited was he, that he never perceived me, as we passed each other.

I had not been many minutes in the outer room when a loud laugh
attracted me, in which I could distinctly recognize the merry cadence
of my friend Bubbleton; and shortly after the door was opened, and I was
desired to enter.

“You distinctly understand, then, Captain Bubbleton,” said Mr. Cooke,
“that in accepting the bail in this case, I am assuming a responsibility
which may involve me in trouble?”

“I have no doubt of it,” muttered Barton, between his teeth.

“We shall require two sureties of five hundred pounds each.”

“Take the whole myself, by Jove!” broke in Bubbleton, with a flourish of
his hand. “In for a penny,--eh, Tom?”

“You can't do that, sir,” interposed Barton.

The Secretary nodded an assent, and for a moment or two Bubbleton looked
nonplussed.

“You 'll of course have little difficulty as to a co-surety,” continued
Barton, with a grin. “Burke of 'Ours' is sufficiently popular in the
Forty-fifth to make it an easy matter.”

“True,” cried Bubbleton, “quite true; but in a thing of this kind, every
fellow will be so deuced anxious to come forward,--a kind of military
feeling, you know.”

“I understand it perfectly,” said Cooke, with a polite bow; “although a
civilian, I think I can estimate the esprit de corps you speak of.”

“Nothing like it! nothing like it, by Jove! I 'll just tell you a story,
a little anecdote, in point. When we were in the Neelgharries, there was
a tiger devilish fond of one of ours. Some way or other, Forbes--that
was his name--”

“The tiger's?

“No, the captain's. Forbes had a devilish insinuating way with
him,--women always liked him,--and this tiger used to come in after
mess, and walk round where he was sitting, and Forbes used to give him
his dinner, just as you might a dog--”

The Castle clock struck three just at this moment. The Secretary started
up.

“My dear captain,” cried he, putting his hand on Bubbleton's arm,
“I never was so sorry in my life; but I must hurry away to the Privy
Council. I shall be here, however, at four; and if you will meet me at
that time with the other security, we can arrange this little matter at
once.” So saying, he seized his hat, bowed politely round the room, and
left us.

“Come along, Tom!” cried Bubbleton, taking me by the arm. “Devilish
good fellow that! Knew I 'd tickle him with the tiger; nothing to what I
could have told him, however, if he had waited.”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” said Barton, interposing between us and the
door; “Mr. Burke is in custody until the formality at least of a bail be
gone through.”

“So he is,” said Bubbleton; “I forgot all about it. So good-by, Tom, for
half an hour; I 'll not be longer, depend on it.”

With this he shook me warmly by the hand, bustled out of the room, and
hurried downstairs, humming a tune as he went, apparently in capital
spirits, while I knew from his manner that the bail he was in search of
had about as much existence as the tiger in the Neelgharries.

“You can wait in this room, sir,” said Barton, opening the door of a
small apartment which had no other exit save through this office.

I sat down in silence and in sorrow of heart, to speculate, as well as
I was able, on the consequences of my misfortune. I knew enough of
Bubbleton to be certain that all chance of assistance in that quarter
was out of the question: the only source he could draw upon being his
invention; the only wealth he possessed, the riches of his imagination,
which had, however, this advantage over any other species of property
I ever heard of,--the more he squandered it, the more affluent did he
become. Time wore on; the clock struck four, and yet no appearance of
Bubbleton. Another hour rolled by,--no one came near me; and at length,
from the perfect stillness without, I believed they had forgotten me.



CHAPTER XVI. THE BAIL.

Six o'clock, seven, and even eight struck; and yet no one came. The
monotonous tread of the sentry on guard at the Castle gate and the
occasional challenge to some passing stranger were the only sounds I
heard above the distant hum of the city, which grew fainter gradually as
evening fell. At last I heard the sound of a key moving in a lock, the
bang of a door, and then came the noise of many voices as the footsteps
mounted the stairs, amid which Bubbleton's was pre-eminently loud. The
party entered the room next to where I sat, and from the tones I could
collect that Major Barton and Mr. Cooke were of the number. Another
there was, too, whose voice was not absolutely new or strange to my
ears, though I could not possibly charge my memory where I had heard it
before.

While I was thus musing, the door opened noiselessly, and Bubbleton
entering without a word, closed it behind him, and approached me on
tiptoe.

“All right, my boy; they're doing the needful outside; ready in ten
minutes: never was such a piece of fortune; found out a glorious fellow;
heard of him from Hicks the money-lender; he'll go security to any
amount; knows your family well; knew your father, grandfather, I
believe; delighted to meet you; says he 'd rather see you than fifty
pounds.”

“Who is he, for Heaven's sake?” said I, impatiently; for it was a
new thing to me to receive anything like kindness on the score of my
father's memory.

“Eh! who is he? He 's a kind of a bill-broking, mortgaging,
bail-giving, devilish good sort of fellow. I 've a notion he 'd do a bit
of something at three months.”

“But his name? what 's he called?”

“His name is,--let me see,--his name is--But who cares for his name?
He can write it, I suppose, on a stamp, my boy; that 's the mark. Bless
your heart, I only spoil a stamp when I put my autograph across it;
it would be worth prime cost till then. What a glorious thing is
youth,--unfledged, unblemished youth,--to possess a name new to the
Jews, a reputation against which no one has 'protested' I Tom Burke, my
boy, I envy you. Now, when I write George Frederick Augustus Bubbleton
on any bill, warrant, or quittance, straightway there 's a grin around
the circle,--a kind of a damned impertinent sort of a half-civil smile,
as though to say 'nulla bona,' payable nowhere. But hold! that was a
tap at the door. Oh, they want us.”

So saying, the captain opened the door and introduced me.

“I say, Tom,” cried he, “come here, and thank our kind friend,
Mr.--Mr.--”

“Mr. Basset!” said I, starting back, as my eyes beheld the pale,
sarcastic features of the worthy attorney, who stood at the table,
conversing in a low tone with the Under-Secretary.

“Eh I what 's the matter?” whispered Bubbleton as he saw my color come
and go, and perceived that I leaned on a chair for support. “What the
devil 's wrong now?”

“You 've betrayed me to my greatest enemy,” said I, in a low, distinct
voice.

“Eh! what? Why, you seem to have nothing but foes in the world. Confound
it, that's always my luck; my infernal good-nature is everlastingly
making a wrong plunge.”

“In that case, if I understand the matter aright, the bail is
unnecessary,” said Mr. Cooke, addressing Basset, who never turned his
head to the part of the room where we stood.

“No, sir; it is not necessary. While the law assists me to resume
my guardianship of this young gentleman, I am answerable for his
appearance.”

“The indentures are quite correct,” said Barton, as he laid the papers
on the table, “as I believe Mr. Basset's statement to be also.”

“No bail necessary,” interrupted Bubbleton, rubbing his hands
pleasantly; “so much the better. Wish them good evening, Tom, my hearty;
we shall be back in time for supper. You wouldn't take an oyster, Mr.
Cooke?”

“I thank you very much, but I am unfortunately engaged.”

“Not so fast, captain, I beg you,” said Basset, with a most servile but
malignant expression in his features. “The habits I would inculcate to
my apprentice are not exactly consistent with mess parties and barrack
suppers.”

“Apprentice! apprentice!” said Bubbleton, starting as if stung by a
wasp. “Eh! you 're surely not--not the--the--”

“Yes, sir; there's the indenture, signed and sealed, if you are desirous
to satisfy yourself. The young gentleman himself will not deny his
father's instructions concerning him.”

I hung down my head, abashed and ashamed. The tears started to my eyes;
I turned away to wipe them, and feared to face the others again. I saw
that Bubbleton, my only friend, believed I had practised some deceit on
him; and how to explain, without disclosing what I dare not.

There was a bustle in the room; a sound of voices; the noise of feet
descending the stairs; and when I again looked round, they were all
gone save Basset, who was leisurely collecting his papers together and
fastening them with a string. I turned my eyes everywhere, to see if
Bubbleton had not remained. But no; he had left me like the rest, and I
was alone with the man I most dreaded and disliked of all the world.

“Well, sir,” said Basset, as he thrust the papers into the pocket of his
greatcoat, “I'm ready now.”

“Where to, sir?” replied I, sternly, as he moved to leave the room;
for without thinking of how and why I was to succeed in it, a vague
resolution of defiance flitted through my mind.

“To my house, sir; or to Newgate, if you prefer it. Don't mistake,
young gentleman, for a moment, the position you occupy; you owe your
liberation at this moment not to any merits of your own. Your connection
with the disaffected and rebellious body is well known: my interest with
the Government is your only protection. Again, sir, let me add, that
I have no peculiar desire for your company in my family; neither the
habits nor the opinions you have acquired will suit those you 'll meet
there.”

“Why, then, have you interfered with me?” said I, passionately. “Why
not have left me to my fate? Be it what it might, it would have been not
less acceptable, I assure you, than to become an inmate of your house.”

“That question were very easily answered,” said he, interrupting me.

“Then, why not do so?”

“Come, come, sir; these are not the terms which are to subsist between
us, nor is this the place to discuss our difference. Follow me.”

He led the way downstairs as he spoke, and, taking my arm within his,
turned into the street. Without a word on either side, we proceeded down
Parliament Street, and crossing Essex Bridge, followed the quays for
some time; then turning into Stafford Street, we arrived at a house,
when having taken a latchkey from his pocket. Basset opened the door and
ushered me in, muttering half aloud as he turned the key in the lock,
and fastened the bolt, “Safe at last!” We turned from the narrow hall
into a small parlor, which, from its dingy furniture of writing-desk and
stools, I guessed to serve as an office. Here my companion lit a candle
from the embers of the fire, and having carefully closed the door, he
motioned me to a seat.

“I have already told you, sir, that I am not in the least covetous of
your company in my house; circumstances which I may or may not
explain hereafter have led me to rescue you from the disgrace you must
eventually have brought upon your family.”

“Hold, sir; I have none, save a brother--”

“Well, sir; and your brother's feelings are, I trust, not to be
slightingly treated--a young gentleman whose position and prospects are
of the very highest order.”

“You are his agent, I perceive Mr. Basset,” said I, with a significant
smile.

“I am, sir,” replied he, with a deep flush that mounted even to his
forehead.

“Then let me save you all further trouble on my account,” said I,
calmly. “My brother's indifference to me or my fate has long since
absolved me from any regret I might feel for the consequences which my
actions might induce on his fortunes. His own conduct must stamp him,
as mine must me. I choose to judge for myself; and not even Mr.
Basset shall decide for me, although I am well aware his powers of
discrimination have had the double advantage of experience on both sides
of the question.”

As I said this, his face became almost livid, and his white lips
quivered with passion. He knew not before that I was acquainted with
his history, nor that I knew of his having sold to the Government
information which brought his schoolfellow and benefactor to the
scaffold.

“Come, come,” continued I, gaining courage, as I saw the effect my words
produced, “it is not your interest to injure me, however it may be your
wish. Is there no arrangement we can come to, mutually advantageous? We
shall be but sorry companions. I ought to have some property under my
grandfather's will.”

“There is, I believe, five hundred pounds,” said Basset, with a slow
distinctness, as if not rejecting the turn the conversation had taken.

“Well, then, what will you take to cancel that indenture? You don't set
a very high value on my services, I suppose?”

“You forget, I perceive,” said he, “that I am answerable for your future
appearance if called on.”

“There was no bail-bond drawn out, no sum mentioned, if I mistake not,
Mr. Basset.”

“Very true, sir; very true; but I pledged myself to the law adviser,--my
character is responsible.”

“Well, well, let me have two hundred pounds; bum that cursed
indenture--”

“Two hundred pounds! Do you fancy, then, that you are in the possession
of this legacy? Why, it never may, in all likelihood it never will, be
yours; it's only payable on your attaining your majority.”

“Give me one hundred pounds, then,--give me fifty; let me only be free,
at liberty, and not absolutely a beggar on the streets.”

Basset leaned his head on the chimney, and seemed sunk in reflection;
while I, wound up to the highest pitch of excitement, trod up and down
the room, pouring forth from time to time short and broken sentences,
declaratory of my desire to surrender all that I might chance to inherit
by every casualty in life, to my last guinea, only let there be no
constraint on my actions, no attempt to control my personal liberty.

“I see,” cried I, passionately,--“I see what hampers you. You fear I may
compromise my family! It is my brother's fair fame you are thinking of.
But away with all dread on that score. I 'll leave Ireland; I have long
since determined on that.”

“Indeed!” said Basset, slowly, as he turned round his head, and looked
me full in the face.

“Would you go to America, then?”

“To America? No,--to France! That shall be the land of my adoption, as
it is this moment of all my heart's longings.”

His eyes sparkled, and a gleam of pleasure shot across his cold
features, as if he caught a glow of the enthusiasm that lit up mine.

“Come,” cried he, “I 'll think of this. Give me till tomorrow, and if
you 'll pledge yourself to leave Ireland within a week--”

“I 'll pledge myself to nothing of the kind,” replied I, fiercely. “It
is to be free,--free in thought as in act,--that I would barter all my
prospects with you. There must be but one compact between us,--it must
begin and end here. Take a night if you will to think it over, and
to-morrow morning--”

“Well, then, to-morrow morning be it,” said he, with more of animation
in his tone; “and now to supper!”

“To bed, rather,” said I, “if I may speak my mind; for rest is what I
now stand most in need of.”



CHAPTER XVII. MR. BASSET'S DWELLING


Excepting the two dingy-looking, dust-covered parlors, which served
as office and dining-room, the only portion of Mr. Basset's dwelling
untenanted by lodgers was the attics. The large brass plate that adorned
the hall door, setting forth in conspicuous letters, “Anthony Basset,
Attorney,” gave indeed a most inadequate notion of the mixed population
within, whose respectability, in the inverse ratio of their height
from the ground, went on growing beautifully less, till it found its
culminating point in the host himself, on whose venerable head the light
streamed from a cobweb-covered pane in the roof. The stairs were dark
and narrow; the walls covered with a dull-colored old wainscot, that
flapped and banged with every foot that came and went; while the windows
were defended by strong iron railings, as if anything inside them could
possibly demand such means of protection.

I followed Mr. Basset as he led the way up these apparently interminable
stairs, till at length the decreasing head room betokened that we were
near the slates. Mumbling a half apology for the locale, he introduced
me into a long, low attic, where a settle bed of the humblest
pretensions and a single rush-bottomed chair supporting a basin were
the only articles of furniture. Something like the drop curtain of a
strolling theatre closed up the distance; but this I could only perceive
imperfectly by the dim twilight of a dip candle, and in my state of
fatigue and weariness, I had little inclination to explore further.
Wishing me a good night, and promising that I should be called betimes
next morning, Mr. Basset took his leave; while I, overcome by a long day
of care and anxiety, threw myself on the bed, and slept far more soundly
than I could have believed it were possible for me to do under the roof
of Anthony Basset.

The sun was streaming in a rich flood of yellow light through a small
skylight, and playing its merry gambols on the floor, when I awoke. The
birds, too, were singing; and the hum of the street noises, mellowed by
distance, broke not unpleasantly on the ear. It did not take me long to
remember where I was, and why. The conversation of the evening before
recurred at once to my mind; and hope, stronger than ever before I felt
it, filled my heart. It was clear Basset could place little value on
such services as mine; and if I could only contrive to make it his
interest to part with me, he would not hesitate about it. I resolved
that, whatever price he put upon my freedom, if in my power I should
pay it. My next plan was to find out, through some of the persons in
correspondence with France, the means of reaching that country, in whose
military service I longed to enroll myself. Had I but the papers of my
poor friend Charles de Meudon, there had been little difficulty in this;
but unfortunately they were seized by Major Barton on the day of his
death, and I had never seen them since.

While I revolved these thoughts within myself I heard the merry notes of
a girl's voice, singing apparently in the very room with me. I started
up and looked about me, and now perceived that what seemed so like a
drop curtain' the night before was nothing more or less than a very
large patchwork quilt, suspended on a line across the entire attic, from
the other side of which came the sounds in question. It was clear, both
from the melody and the voice, that she could not be a servant; and
somewhat curious to know more of my fair neighbor, I rose gently, and
slipping on my clothes, approached the boundary of my territory with
noiseless step.

A kind of whistling noise interrupted every now and then the lady's
song, and an occasional outbreak of impatience would burst forth in the
middle of the “Arrah, will you marry me, dear Alley Croker?” by some
malediction on a “black knot” or a broken string. I peeped over the
“drop,” and beheld the figure of a young, plump, and pretty girl, busily
engaged in lacing her stays,--an occupation which accounted equally
for the noise of the rushing staylace and the bit of peevishness I had
heard. I quite forgot how inadvisable was the indulgence of my curiosity
in my admiration of my fair neighbor, whose buxom figure, not the less
attractive for the shortness of her drapery, showed itself to peculiar
advantage as she bent to one side and the other in her efforts to fasten
the impracticable bodice. A mass of rich brown hair, on which the sun
was playing, fell over her neck and on her shoulders, and half concealed
her round, well-turned arms as they plied their busy task.

[Illustration: Peeping Tom 166]

“Well, ain't my heart broke with you, entirely?” exclaimed she, as a
stubborn knot stopped all further progress.

At this moment the cord, on which through inadvertence I had leaned
somewhat too heavily, gave way, and down came the curtain with a squash
to the floor. She sprang back with a bound, and, while a slight but
momentary blush flushed her cheek, stared at me half angrily, and then
cried out,--“Well, I hope you like me?”

“Yes, that I do,” said I, readily;--“and who wouldn't that saw you?”

Whether it was the naivete of my confession, or my youth, or both, I
can't well say, but she laughed heartily at my speech, and threw herself
into a chair to indulge her mirth.

“So we were neighbors, it seems,” said I.

“And if we were,” said she, roguishly, “I think it's a very
unceremonious way you 've opened the acquaintance.”

“You forget, apparently, I haven't left my own territory.”

“Well, I 'm sure I wish you would, if you 're any good at a black knot;
my heart and my nails are both broke with one here.”

I didn't wait for any more formal invitation, but stepped at once over
the frontier; while she, rising from the chair, turned her back towards
me, as with her finger she directed me to the most chaotic assemblage of
knots, twists, loops, and entanglements I ever beheld.

“And you're Burke, I suppose,” cried she, as I commenced my labors.

“Yes; I'm Burke.”

“Well, I hope you 're done with wildness by this time. Uncle Tony tells
fine tales of your doings.”

“Uncle Tony! So you 're Mr. Basset's niece? Is that--”

“You did n't take me for his wife, I hope?” said she, again bursting out
into laughter.

“In truth, I never thought so well of him as to suppose it.”

“Well, well, I 'm sure it 's little I expected you to look so mild and
so quiet. But you need n't pinch me, for all that. Is n't your name
Tom?”

“Yes; I hope you 'll always call me so.”

“Maybe I will. Is n't that done yet? And there 's the milk bell. Uncle
will be in a nice passion if I 'm not down soon. Cut it,--cut it at
once.”

“Now do be patient for a minute or two; it's all right if you stay
quiet. I 'll try my teeth on it.”

“Yes; but you needn't try your lips too,” said she, tartly.

“Why, it 's the only plan to get your fingers out of the way. I 'm sure
I never was so puzzled in all my life.”

“Nothing like practice, my boy,--nothing,” cried a merry voice from the
door behind me, half choked with laughing; while a muttered anathema, in
a deeper tone, followed. I looked back, and there stood Bubbleton, his
face florid with laughter, endeavoring to hold back Mr. Basset, whose
angry look and flashing eye there was no mistaking.

“Mr. Burke,--Burke, I say! Nelly, what does this mean? How came this
young gentleman--”

“As to that,” said I, interrupting him, and my blood somewhat chafed by
his manner, “this piece of trumpery tumbled down when I leaned my arm on
it. I had no idea--”

“No, no; to be sure not,” broke in Bubbleton, in an ecstasy. “The thing
was delicious; such a bit of stage effect. She was there, as it might
be, combing her hair, and all that sort of thing; Tom was here, raving
about absence and eternal separation. You are an angry father, or
uncle,--all the same; and I 'm Count Neitztachenitz, the old friend and
brother officer of Tom's father. Now, let Miss Nelly--But where is she?
Why, she's gone! Eh, and Basset? Basset! Why, he 's gone! Come, Tom,
don't you go too. I say, my boy, devilish well got up that. You ought
to have had a white satin doublet and hose, slashed with pale
cherry-colored ribbons to match, small hat looped, aigrette and white
plume. She was perfect; her leg and foot were three certain rounds of
applause from the pit and gallery.”

“What nonsense!” said I, angrily; “we weren't playing a comedy.”

“Were n't you, though? Well, I 'm deuced sorry for it, that 's all; but
it did look confoundedly like an undress rehearsal.”

“Come, come, no foolery, I beg. I'm here in a very sad plight, and this
piece of nonsense may not make matters any better. Listen to me, if you
can, patiently for five minutes, and give me your advice.”

I took him by the arm as I spoke, and leading him from the room,--where
I saw that everything was only suggesting some piece of scenic
effect,--and in as few words as I could command, explained how I was
circumstanced; omitting, of course, any detail of my political bias,
and only stated so much of my desire as implied my wish to be free of my
contract with Basset, and at liberty to dispose of myself as I liked in
future.

“I see,” cried Bubbleton, as I finished; “the old fox has this five
hundred pounds of yours.”

“No, I didn't say that; I only mean--”

“Well, well, it 's all the same. If he has n't, you know he ought.”

“No; that 's not essential either.”

“No matter, he would if he could; it just comes to the same thing, and
you only wish to get clear out of his hands at any cost. Is n't that
it?”

“Exactly; you have it all perfectly.”

“Bless your heart, boy, there 's nothing easier; if I were in your
place, should arrange the affair in less than a week. I 'd have
fits,--strong fits,--and burn all the papers in the office during the
paroxysm. I 'd make a pile of deeds, leases, bonds, and settlements in
the backyard.”

“I don't fancy your plan would be so successful as you flatter
yourself,” said a dry, husky voice behind; “there 's rather a stringent
law for refractory apprentices, as Mr. Burke may learn.” We turned
round, and there stood Mr. Basset, with a grin of most diabolical
malignity in his by no means pleasant features. “At the same time,”
 continued he, “your suggestions are of infinite value, and shall be duly
appreciated in the King's Bench.”

“Eh,--King's Bench! Lord bless you, don't speak of it. Mere trifles,--I
just threw them out as good hints; I had fifty far better to come. There
's the young lady, now. To be sure, he has started that notion himself,
so I must not pretend it was mine. But Miss Nelly, I think, Tom--”

“Mr. Basset is well aware,” interrupted I, “that I am only desirous to
be free and untrammelled; that whatever little means I may derive from
my family, I 'm willing to surrender all, short of actual beggary, to
attain this object,--that I intend quitting Ireland at once. If, then,
he consent to enter into an arrangement with me, let it be at once,
and on the spot. I have no desire, I have no power, to force him by a
threat, in case of refusal; but I hope he will make so much of amends
to one of whose present desolation and poverty he is not altogether
innocent.”

“There, there; that's devilish well said. The whole thing is all clear
before me. So come along, Basset; you and I will settle all this. Have
you got a private room where we can have five minutes' chat together?
Tom, wait for me here.”

Before either of us could consent or oppose his arrangement, he had
taken Basset's arm, and led him downstairs; while I, in a flurry of
opposing and conflicting resolves, sat down to think over my fortunes.

Tired at length with waiting, and half suspecting that my volatile
friend had forgotten me and all my concerns, I descended to the parlor
in hopes to hear something of the pending negotiation. At the head of
a long, narrow table sat my fair acquaintance, Miss Nelly, her hair
braided very modestly at each aide of her pretty face, which had now
assumed an almost Quakerish propriety of expression. She was busily
engaged in distributing tea to three pale, red-eyed, emaciated men,
whose spongy-looking, threadbare garments bespoke to be attorney's
clerks, A small imp, a kind of embryo practitioner, knelt before the
fire in the act of toasting bread, but followed with his sharp piercing
eyes every stir in the apartment and seemed to watch with malicious
pleasure the wry faces around, whenever any undue dilution of the bohea,
or any curtailment of the blue milk, pressed heavily on the guests.
These were not exactly the circumstances to renew my acquaintance with
my fair neighbor, had I been so minded; so having declined her offer of
breakfast, I leaned moodily on the chimneypiece, my anxiety to know
my fate becoming each instant more painful. Meanwhile not a word was
spoken,--a sad, moody silence, unbroken save by the sounds of eating,
pervaded all, when suddenly the door of the front parlor was flung open,
and Bubbleton's pleasant voice was heard as he talked away unceasingly;
in an instant he entered, followed by Basset, over whose hard
countenance a shade of better nature seemed to pass.

[Illustration: May Good Digestion Wait on Appetite 171]

“In that case,” cried the captain, “I'm your man, not that I 'm anything
of a performer at breakfast or dinner; supper 's rather my forte,--an
odor of a broiled bone at three in the morning, a herring smeared with
chetna and grilled with brandy, two hundred of small oysters, a few hot
ones to close with, a glass of seltzer dashed with hollands for health,
and, then any number you like of glasses, of hot brandy and water
afterwards for pleasure.”

While Bubbleton ran on in this fashion, he had broken about half a
dozen eggs into the slop basin, and seasoning the mess with pepper
and vinegar, was busily engaged in illustrating the moderation of his
morning appetite.

“Try a thing like this, Tom,” cried he, not defining how it was to be
effected under the circumstances; while he added in a whisper, “your
affair's all right.”

These few words brought courage to my heart; and I ventured to begin the
breakfast that had lain untasted before me.

“I think, Mr. Burke,” said Basset, as soon as he recovered from the
surprise Bubbleton's mode of breakfasting had excited,--“I think and
trust that all has been arranged to your satisfaction.” Then turning
to the clerks, who ate away without even lifting their heads,--“Mr.
Muggridge, you will be late at the Masters' Office; Jones, take that
parcel to Hennet; Kit, carry my bag up to the Courts.”

Miss Nelly did not wait for the part destined for her, but with a demure
face rose from the table and left the room; giving me, however, one sly
glance as she passed my chair that I remembered for many a day after.

“You 'll excuse me, gentlemen, if I am pressed for time this morning; a
very particular case comes on in the Common Pleas.”

“Never speak of it, my dear fellow,” said Bubbleton, who had just
addressed himself to a round of spiced beef; “business has its calls
just as pleasure has,--ay, and appetite too. That would make an
excellent bit of supper, with some mulled port, after a few rubbers of
shorts.”

Basset paid little attention to this speech, but turning to me,
continued:

“You mentioned your intention of leaving Ireland, I think. Might I
ask where you have decided on,--from where? Is it possible that your
brother--”

“My brother's anxieties on my account, Mr. Basset, can scarcely be very
poignant, and deserve no particular respect or attention at my hands.
I suppose that this morning has concluded all necessary intercourse
between us; and if you have satisfied my friend Captain Bubbleton--”

“Perfectly, perfectly. Another cup of tea, if you please. Yes, nothing
could be more gratifying than Mr. Basset's conduct; you are merely
to sign the receipt for the legacy, and he hands you over one hundred
pounds. Isn't that it?”

“Yes, quite correct; my bill for one hundred at three months.”

“That's what I mean. But surely you're not done breakfast; why, Tom,
you 've eaten nothing. I have been picking away this half hour, just to
encourage you a bit. Well, well! I lunch in Stephen's Green at three; so
here goes.”

Mr. Basset now took from his pocket-book some papers, which, having
glanced his eye over, he handed to me.

“This is a kind of acknowledgment, Mr. Burke, for the receipt of a
legacy to which you could be only entitled on attaining your majority.
Here are your indentures to me; and this is my acceptance for one
hundred pounds.”

“I am content,” said I, eagerly, as I seized the pen. The thought of
my liberty alone filled my mind, and I cared little for the conditions
provided I secured that.

Basset proffered his hand. I was in no humor to reject anything that
even simulated cordiality; I shook it heartily. Bubbleton followed
my example, and having pledged himself to see more of his pleasant
acquaintance, thrust his arm through mine and bustled out; adding, in a
tone loud enough to be overheard,--

“Made a capital fight of it; told him you were a Defender, a United
Irishman, a Peep-o'-day Boy, and all that sort of thing. Devilish glad
to get rid of you, even on Miss Nelly's account.”

And so he rattled away without ceasing, until we found ourselves at the
George's Street Barracks, my preoccupation of mind preventing my even
having remarked what way we came.



CHAPTER XVIII. THE CAPTAIN'S QUARTERS

I WAS not sorry to find that Miss Bubbleton did not respond to the noisy
summons of the captain, as he flourished about from one room to the
other, making the quarters echo to the sweet name of “Anna Maria.”
 “Saladin,” “Grimes,” “Peter,” were also shouted out unsuccessfully;
and with a fierce menace against various grooms of the chambers,
waiting-men, and lackeys, who happily were still unborn, Bubbleton flung
himself into a seat, and began to conjecture what had become of the
inhabitants.

“She's paying a morning call,--gone to see the Duchess; that 's it. Or
perhaps she 's looking over that suit of pearls I bought yesterday at
Gallon's; pretty baubles, but dear at eight hundred pounds. Never mind;
what 's money for, eh, Tom?”

As he looked at me for a reply, I drew my chair closer towards him, and
assuming as much of importance as my manner could command, I besought
his attention for a moment. Hitherto, partly from my own indecision,
partly from his flighty and volatile bearing, I never had an opportunity
either to explain my real position or my political sentiments, much less
my intentions for the future. The moment had at length arrived, and
I resolved to profit by it; and in as few words as I was able, gave a
brief narrative of my life, from the hour of my father's death to the
day in which I fell into his own hands in Dublin, only omitting such
portions as might, by the mention of names, compromise others concerned.

Nothing could possibly be more attentive than he was during the
entire detail. He leaned his head on his hand, and listened with eager
curiosity to all my scrapes and difficulties, occasionally nodding in
assent, and now evincing by his excited air his desire to learn farther;
and when I at last wound up by avowing my long cherished desire to
enter the French service, he sat perfectly silent, and seemed to reflect
gravely on the whole.

“I say, Tom,” said he, at length, as he stared me full in the face,
and laid his hand impressively on my knee, “there 's good stuff in
that,--excellent stuff, depend upon it.”

“Good stuff! what do you mean?” said I, in amazement.

“I mean,” replied he, “there's bone in it, sinew in it, substance in it;
there are some admirable situations too. How Fulham would come out in
Tony Basset,--brown shorts, white stockings, high shoes and buckles,
his own very costume. And there's that little thing, Miss Booth, for
Nelly; give her a couple of songs,--ballad airs take best. Williams
should be Barton; a devilish fine villain in coarse parts,
Williams,--I think I see him stealing along by the flats with his
soldiers to the attack. Then the second act should open: interior of
hut; peasants round a table (eating always successful on the stage;
nothing like seeing a fat fellow bolting hard eggs, and blustering out
unpronounceable jokes over a flagon of colored water). You, by right,
should have your own part; splendid thing, devilish fine,--your
sensations when the cabin was on tire, and the fellows were prodding
about with their bayonets to discover you.”

“And who 's to perform Captain Bubbleton?” asked I, venturing for once
to humor his absurdity.

“Eh? Oh I there's nothing for me; no marked feature, nothing strong,
nothing characteristic. That has been through life my greatest, my very
highest ambition,--that no man should ever detect, by anything in my
manner, my dress, or my style of conversation, that I was not John
Nokes or Peter Styles. You 'll meet me at a dinner party, Tom; you 'll
converse with me, drink with me; we'll sit the evening together, grow
intimate, perhaps you 'll borrow fifty pounds of me; and yet I 'd wager
another, you'd never guess that I rode a hippopotamus across the Ganges
after tiffin one day, to pay my respects to the Governor-Greneral. That,
let me tell you, Tom, is the very proudest boast a man can make. Do you
see that scar? It looks nothing now. That was a bite from a ferocious
boa: the villain got into my room before breakfast; he had eaten my
chokeedar, a fellow I was very fond of--”

“Ah, I remember you mentioned that to me. And now to come back to my
dull story, to which, I assure you, however dramatic you may deem it, I
'd prefer adding an act or so before it comes before the world. I intend
to leave this to-morrow.”

“No, no; you mustn't think of it yet awhile. Why, my dear fellow, you
've a hundred pounds; only think of that! Twenty will bring you to
Paris; less, if you choose. I once travelled from Glugdamuck to the
Ghauts of Bunderamud for half a rupee; put my elephants on three
biscuits a day; explained to them in Hindostanee--a most expressive
language--that our provisions had fallen short; that on our arrival all
arrears of grub should be made up. They tossed up their trunks thus in
token of assent, and on we marched. Well, when we came to Helgie, there
was no water--”

“Very true,” interrupted I, half in despair at the torrent of
story-telling I had got involved in. “But you forget I have neither
elephants, nor camels, nor coolies, nor chokeedars; I'm a mere
adventurer, with, except yourself, not a friend in the world.”

“Then why not join us?” cried the ever ready captain. “We are to
have our orders for foreign service in a few weeks; you 've only to
volunteer; you 've money enough to buy your kit. When you 're fairly in,
it 's only writing to your brother. Besides, something always turns
up; that 's my philosophy. I rarely want anything I don't find means to
obtain, somehow or other.”

“No,” said I, resolutely, “I will never join the service of a country
which has inflicted such foul wrong on my native land.”

“All stuff and nonsense!” cried Bubbleton. “Who cares the deuce of clubs
about politics? When you 're my age, you 'll find that if you 're not
making something of politics, they 'll make very little of you. I 'd as
soon sell figs for my grocer or snuff for my tobacconist as I 'd bother
my head governing the kingdom for Billy Pitt. He 's paid for it,--that's
his business, not mine. No, no, my boy; join us,--you shall be 'Burke
of Ours!' We 'll have a glorious campaign among the Yankees. I 'll teach
you the Seneca language, and we 'll have a ramble through the Indian
settlements. Meanwhile you dine to-day at the mess; to-morrow we picnic
at the Dargle; next day we--What the deuce is next day to be? Oh yes!
next day we all dine with you. Nothing stiff or formal,--a snug, quiet
thing for sixteen; I'll manage it all.”

Here was an argument there was no resisting; so I complied at once,
comforting myself with a silent vow, come what might, I 'd leave Ireland
the day after my dinner party.

Under whatever guise--with what history of my rank, wealth, and family
influence--Bubbleton thought proper to present me to his brother
officers, I cannot say; but nothing could possibly be more kind, or
even more cordial, than their reception of me. And although I had some
difficulty in replying to questions put under mistaken notions of my
position and intentions, I readily followed, as far as I was able,
the line suggested by my imaginative friend, whose representations,
I suspected, would be received with a suitable limitation by his old
associates.

There is, perhaps, no species of society so striking and so captivating
to the young man entering on life as that of a military mess. The easy,
well-bred intimacy, that never degenerates into undue familiarity;
the good-humored, playful raillery, that never verges on coarseness
or severity; the happy blending of old men's wisdom and young men's
buoyancy,--are all very attractive features of social intercourse, even
independently of the stronger interest that invests the companionship of
men whose career is arms. I felt this, and enjoyed it too; not the
less pleasantly that I discovered no evidence of that violent partisan
feeling I had been led to believe was the distinguishing mark of the
Royalist soldier. If by chance any allusion was made to the troubles
of the period, it was invariably done rather in a tone of respect for
mistaken and ill directed political views, than in reprehension of
disloyalty and rebellion; and when I heard the dispassionate opinions
and listened to the mild counsels of these men, whom I had always
believed to be the veriest tyrants and oppressors, I could scarcely
credit my own senses, so utterly opposed were my impressions and my
experience. One only of the party evinced an opposite feeling. He was
a pale, thin, rather handsome man, of about five and twenty, who had
lately joined them from a dragoon regiment, and who by sundry little
innuendoes, was ever bringing uppermost the preference he evinced
for his former service, and his ardent desire to be back again in the
cavalry.

Captain Montague Crofts was indeed the only exception I witnessed to the
almost brotherly feeling that prevailed in the Forty-fifth. Instead
of identifying himself with the habits and opinions of his brother
officers, he held himself studiously apart. Regarding his stay in the
regiment like a period of probation, he seemed resolved to form neither
intimacies nor friendships, but to wait patiently for the time of his
leaving the corps to emancipate himself from a society below his caste.

The cold, repulsive, steady stare, the scarcely bowed head, the
impassive silence with which he heard the words of Bubbleton's
introduction of me, formed a strong contrast with the warm cordiality
of the others; and though at the time little disposed to criticise the
manner of any one, and still less to be dissatisfied with anything, I
conceived from the moment a dislike to Captain Crofts, which I felt to
increase with every minute I spent in his company. The first occasion
which suggested this dislike on my part, was from observing that while
Bubbleton--whose historical accuracy or blind adherence to reality no
one in the corps thought of requiring--narrated some of his incredible
adventures. Crofts, far from joining in the harmless mirth which
such tales created, invariably took delight in questioning and
cross-questioning the worthy captain, quoting him against himself, and
playing off a hundred tricks, which, however smart and witty in a law
court, are downright rudeness when practised in society. Bubbleton, it
is true, saw nothing in all this save the natural interest of a good
listener,--but the others did; and it was quite clear to me, that while
one was the greatest favorite in the regiment, the other had not a
single friend amongst them. To me, Crofts manifested the most perfect
indifference, not ever mixing himself in any conversation in which I
bore a part. He rarely turned his head towards that part of the table at
which I sat; and by an air of haughty superciliousness, gave me plainly
to understand that our acquaintance, though confessedly begun, was to
proceed no further. I cannot say how happy I felt to learn that one I
had so much cause to dislike was a violent aristocrat, an ultra-Tory,
a most uncompromising denouncer of the Irish Liberal party, and an
out-and-out advocate of severe and harsh measures towards the people.
He never missed an opportunity for the enunciation of such doctrines,
which, whatever might be the opinions of the listeners, there was at
the time I speak of no small risk in gainsaying, and this immunity did
Crofts enjoy to his heart's content.

Slight as these few reminiscences of the mess are, they are the
called-up memories of days not to be forgotten by me; for now, what with
my habitual indecision on the one hand, and Bubbleton's solicitations
on the other, I continued to linger on in Dublin,--leading the careless,
easy life of those about me, joining in all the plots for amusement
which the capital afforded, and mixing in every society to which
my military friends had access. Slender as were my resources, they
sufficed, in the eyes of all who knew not their limit, to appear
abundant. Crofts was the only rich man in the regiment; and my
willingness to enter into every scheme of pleasure, regardless of cost,
impressed them all with the notion that Bubbleton for once was right,
and that “Burke was a kind of Westcountry Croesus,” invaluable to the
regiment.

Week after week rolled on, and still did I find myself a denizen of
George's Street. The silly routine of the barrack life filled all my
thoughts, save when the waning condition of my purse would momentarily
turn them towards the future; but these moments of reflection came but
seldom, and at last came not at all. It was autumn; the town almost
divested of its inhabitants,--at least of all who could leave it,--and
along the parched, sunburned streets a stray jingle or a noddy was
rarely seen to pass. The squares, so lately crowded with equipages and
cavalcades of horsemen, were silent and deserted; the closed shutters of
every house, and the grass-grown steps, vouched for the absence of the
owners. The same dreamy lethargy that seemed to rest over the deserted
city appeared to pervade everything; and save a certain subdued activity
among the officials of the Castle,--a kind of ground-swell movement
that boded something important,--there was nothing stirring. The great
measure of the Union, which had been carried on the night of the riots,
had, however, annihilated the hopes of the Irish Liberal party; and many
who once had taken a leading part in politics had now deserted public
life forever.

They with whom I associated cared but little for these things. There
were but two or three Irish in the regiment, and they had long since
lost all their nationality in the wear and tear of the service; so that
I heard nothing of what occupied the public mind, and lived on, in the
very midst of the threatening hurricane, in a calm as deep as death
itself.

I had seen neither Barton nor Basset since the day of my leave-taking;
and, stranger still, never could meet with Darby, who seemed to have
deserted Dublin. The wreck of the party he belonged to seemed now
effectually accomplished, and the prospect of Irish independence was
lost, as it seemed, forever.

I was sitting one evening in the window of Bubbleton's quarters,
thinking over these things; not without self-reproach for the life I
was leading, so utterly adverse to the principles I had laid down for my
guidance. I thought of poor De Meudon, and all his ambitious dreams for
my success, and I felt my cheek flush with shame for my base desertion
of the cause to which, with his dying breath, he devoted me. I brought
up in memory those happy evenings as we wandered through the fields,
talking over the glorious campaigns of Italy or speculating on the
mighty changes we believed yet before us; and then I thought of the
reckless orgies in which my present life was passed. I remembered how
his full voice would falter when one great name fell from his lips;
and with what reverence he touched his chapeau as the word “Bonaparte”
 escaped from him; and how my heart thrilled to think of an enthusiasm
that could light up the dying embers of a broken heart, and make it
flash out in vivid brilliancy once more,--and longed to feel as he did.

For the first time for some weeks I found myself alone. Bubbleton was
on guard; and though I had promised to join him at supper, I lingered
at home to think and ponder over the past,--I scarcely dared to face the
future. It was growing dusky. The richly golden arch of an autumn moon
could be seen through the hazy mist of that half frost which is at this
season the sure harbinger of a hot day on the morrow. The street noises
had gradually died away, and save the distant sound of a ballad-singer,
whose mournful cadence fell sadly on the ear, I heard nothing.

Without perceiving it, I found myself listening to the doggerel of the
minstrel, who, like most of her fellows of the period, was celebrating
the means that had been used by Government to carry their favorite
measure,--the Union with England. There was, indeed, very little to
charm the ear or win the sense, in either the accent or the sentiment of
the melody; yet somehow she had contrived to collect a pretty tolerable
audience, who moved slowly along with her down the street, and evinced
by many an outburst of enthusiasm how thoroughly they relished the
pointed allusions of the verse, and how completely they enjoyed the dull
satire of the song.

As they approached the barracks, the procession came to a
halt,--probably deeming that so valuable a lesson should not be lost
to his Majesty's service; and forming into a circle round the singer,
a silence was commanded, when, with that quavering articulation so
characteristic of the tribe, and that strange quality of voice that
seems to alternate between a high treble and a deep bass, the lady
began:--

“Don't be crowdin' an me that a way. There it is now,--ye 're tearin'
the cloak off the back o' me! Divil receave the note I 'll sing, if ye
don't behave! And look at his honor up there, with a tenpenny bit in the
heel of his fist for me. The Lord reward your purty face; 't is yourself
has the darlin' blue eyes! Bad scran to yez, ye blaggards! look at my
elegant bonnet the way you 've made it!”

“Arrah! rise the tune, and don't be blarneying the young gentleman,”
 said a voice from the crowd,--and then added, in a lower but very
audible tone, “Them chaps hasn't a farthin' beyond their pay,--three
and ninepence a day, and find themselves in pipeclay!”

A rude laugh followed this insolent speech; and the ballad-singer, whose
delay had only been a ruse to attract a sufficient auditory, then began
to a very well-known air:

     “Come hither, M.P.'s, and I 'll tell
        My advice, and I 'm sure you 'll not mock it:
     Whoe'er has a country to sell,
        Need never want gold in his pocket.
     Your brother a bishop shall be;
        Yourself--if you only will make a
     Voice in our ma-jo-rity--
        We'll make you chief judge In Jamaica.
                    Tol, lol de rol, tol de rol lay!”

The mob chorus here broke in, and continued with such hearty enthusiasm
that I lost the entire of the next verse in the tumult.

     “Your father, they say, is an ass,
        And your mother not noted for knowledge;
     But he 'll do very well at Madras,
        And she shall be provost of college.
     Your aunt, lady's-maid to the Queen;
         And Bill, if he 'll give up his rakin',
     And not drunk in daytime be seen,
        I 'll make him a rosy archdeacon.
                  Tol, lol de rol, tol de rol lay!

     “A jollier set ne'er was seen
        Than you 'll be, when freed from your callin';
     With an empty house in College Green,--
        What an elegant place to play ball in!
     Ould Foster stand by with his mace,
        He 'll do mighty well for a marker;
     John Toler--”

“Here 's the pollis!” said a gruff voice from the crowd; and the word
was repeated from mouth to mouth in every accent of fear and dread;
while in an instant all took to flighty--some dashing down obscure lanes
and narrow alleys, others running straight onwards towards Dame Street,
but all showing the evident apprehension they felt at the approach of
these dreaded officials. The ballad' singer alone did not move,--whether
too old or too infirm to trust to speed, or too much terrified to run, I
know not; but there she stood, the last cadence of her song still dying
on her lips, while the clattering sounds of men advancing rapidly were
heard in the distant street.

I know not why,--some strange momentary impulse, half pity, half
caprice, moved me to her rescue, and I called out to the sentry, “Let
that woman pass in!” She heard the words, and with an activity greater
than I could have expected, sprang into the barrack yard, while the
police passed eagerly on in vain pursuit of their victims.

I remained motionless in the window-seat, watching the now silent
street, when a gentle tap came to my door. I opened it, and there stood
the figure of the ballad-singer, her ragged cloak gathered closely
across her face with one hand, while with the other she held the bundle
of printed songs, her only stock-in-trade.



CHAPTER XIX. THE QUARREL

While I stood gazing at the uncouth and ragged figure before me, she
pushed rudely past, and shutting the door behind her, asked, in a low
whisper, “Are ye alone?”--and then, without waiting for a reply, threw
back the tattered bonnet that covered her head, and removing a wig of
long black hair, stared steadfastly at me.

“Do you know me, now?” said the hag, in a voice of almost menacing
eagerness.

“What!” cried I, in amazement; “it surely cannot be--Darby, is this
really you?”

“Ye may well say it,” replied he, bitterly.--“Ye had time enough to
forget me since we met last; and 'tis thinking twice your grand friends
the officers would be, before they 'd put their necks where mine is now
to see you. Read that,”--as he spoke, he threw a ragged and torn piece
of printed paper on the table,--“read that, and you 'll see there 's
five hundred pounds of blood money to the man that takes me. Ay, and
here I stand this minit in the King's barrack, and walked fifty-four
miles this blessed day just to see you and speak to you once more. Well,
well!” He turned away his head while he said this, and wiping a starting
tear from his red eyeball, he added, “Master Tom, 'tis myself would
never b'lieve ye done it.”

“Did what?” said I, eagerly. “What have I ever done that you should
charge me thus?”

But Darby heard me not; his eyes were fixed on vacancy, and his lips
moved rapidly as though he were speaking to himself.

“Ay,” said he, half aloud, “true enough; 'tis the gentlemen that
betrayed us always,--never came good of the cause where they took a
part. But you,”--here he turned full round, and grasping my arm, spoke
directly to me, “you that I loved better than my own kith and kin,
that I thought would one day be a pride and glory to us all; you that I
brought over myself to the cause--”

“And when have I deserted,--when have I betrayed it?”

“When did you desert it?” repeated he, in a tone of mocking irony.
“Tell me the day and hour ye came here, tell me the first time ye sat
down among the red butchers of King George, and I 'll answer ye that. Is
it here you ought to be? Is this the home for him that has a heart for
Ireland? I never said you betrayed us. Others said it; but I stood to
it, ye never did that. But what does it signify? 'Tis no wonder ye left
us; we were poor and humble people; we had nothing at heart but the good
cause--”

“Stop!” cried I, maddened by this taunt. “What could I have done? where
was my place?”

“Don't ask me; if your own heart doesn't teach thee, how can I? But it's
over now; the day is gone, and I must take to the road again. My heart
is lighter since I seen you; and it will be lighter again when I give
you this wamin',--God knows if you 'll mind it. You think yourself safe
now since you joined the sodgers; you think they trust you, and that
Barton's eye is n't on ye still. There is n't a word you say is n't
noted down,--not a man you spake to isn't watched. You don't know it;
but I know it. There 's more go to the gallows in Ireland over their
wine, than with the pike in their hands. Take care of your friends, I
say.”

“You wrong them. Darby; and you wrong me. Never have I heard from one
here a single word that could offend the proudest heart among us.”

“Why would they? what need of it? Ar'n't we down, down? ar'n't we hunted
like wild beasts? is the roof left to shelter us? dare we walk the
roads? dare we say 'God save ye!' when we meet, and not be tried for
pass words? It 's no wonder they pity us; the hardest heart must melt
sometimes.”

“As to myself,” said I,--for there was no use in attempting to reason
with him further,--“my every wish is with the cause as warmly as on the
day we parted. But I look to France--”

“Ay, and why not? I remember the time your eye flashed and your cheek
grew another color when you spoke of that.”

“Yes, Darby,” said I, after a pause; “and I had not been here now,
but that the only means I possessed of forwarding myself in the French
service are unfortunately lost to me.”

“And what was that?” interrupted he, eagerly.

“Some letters which the poor Captain de Meudon gave me,” said I,
endeavoring to seem as much at ease as I could.

Darby stooped down as I spoke, and ripping open the lining of his cloak,
produced a small parcel fastened with a cord, saying, “Are these what
you mean?”

I opened it with a trembling hand, and to my inexpressible delight,
discovered Charles's letter to the head of the Ecole Polytechnique,
together with a letter of credit and two cheques on his banker. The note
to his sister was not, however, among them.

“How came you by these papers, Darby?” inquired I, eagerly.

“I found them on the road Barton travelled, the same evening you made
your escape from the yeomanry; you remember that? They were soon missed,
and an orderly was sent back to search for them. Since that, I 've kept
them by me; and it was only yesterday that I thought of bringing them to
you, thinking you might know something about them.”

“There 's a mark on this one,” said I, still gazing on the paper in my
hand; “it looks like blood.”

“If it is, it 's mine, then,” said Darby, doggedly. And after a pause,
he continued: “The soldier galloped up the very minute I was stooping
for the papers. He called out to me to give them up; but I pretended not
to hear, and took a long look round to see what way I could escape where
his horse could n't follow me. But he saw what I was at; and the same
instant his sabre was in my shoulder, and the blood running hot down my
arm. I fell on my knees; but if I did, I took this from my breast” (here
he drew forth a long-barrelled rusty pistol), “and shot him through the
neck.”

[Illustration: Darby Exchanges Compliments with a “Sodger” 188]

“Was he killed?” said I, in horror at the coolness of the recital.

“Sorrow one o' me knows. He fell on his horse's mane, and I saw the
beast gallop with him up the road with his arms hanging at each side of
the neck. And then I heard a crash, and I saw that he was down, and the
horse was dragging him by the stirrup; but the dust soon hid him from
my sight. And indeed I was growing weak too; so I crept into the bushes
until it was dark, and then got down to Glencree.”

The easy indifference with which he spoke, the tone of coolness in which
he narrated this circumstance, thrilled through me far more painfully
than the most passionate description; and I stood gazing on him with a
feeling of dread that unhappily my features but too plainly indicated.
He seemed to know what was passing in my mind; and as if stung by what
he deemed my ingratitude for the service he had rendered me, his face
grew darkly red, the swollen veins stood out thick and knotted in his
forehead, his livid lips quivered, and he said in a thick, guttural
voice,--

“Maybe ye think I murdered him?” And then, as I made no answer, he
resumed in a different tone: “And faix, ye war n't long larnin' their
lessons. But hear me now: there never was a traitor to the cause had a
happy life or an easy death; there never was one betrayed us but we were
revenged on him or his. I don't think ye 're come to that yet; for if I
did, by the mortial--”

As he pronounced the last word, in a tone of the fiercest menace, the
sound of many voices talking without, and the noise of a key turning
in the lock, broke in upon our colloquy; and Darby had scarcely time
to resume his disguise when Bubbleton entered, followed by three of his
brother officers, all speaking together, and in accents that evidently
betokened their having drunk somewhat freely.

“I tell you, again and again, the diamond wins it But here we are,”
 cried Bubbleton; “and now for a pack of cards, and let 's decide the
thing at once.”

“You said you 'd bet fifty, I think?” drawled out Crofts, who was
unquestionably the most sober of the party. “But what have we here?” At
this instant his eye fell upon Darby, who had quietly ensconced himself
behind the door, and hoped to escape unseen. “Eh, what's this, I say?”

“What!” cried Bubbleton; “what do I see? A nymph with bright and
flowing hair; a hag like Hecuba, by Jove! Tom Burke, my man, how comes
the damsel here?”

“'Tis Kitty, ould Kitty Cole, your honor--The young gentleman was
buying a ballad from me, the Heavens prosper him!” said Darby.

“Nothing treasonous, I hope; no disloyal effusion, Tom; no scandal about
Queen Elizabeth, my boy,--eh?”

“Come, old lady,” said Cradock, “let's have the latest novelty of the
Liberty.”

“Yes,” said Bubbleton; “strike the harp in praise of--Confound the
word!”

“Hang the old crone!” broke in Hilliard. “Here are the cards. The game
stands thus: a spade is led,--you 've got none; hearts are trumps.”

“No, you mistake; the diamond's the trump,” said Cradock.

“I cry halt,” said Crofts, holding up both his hands; “the first thing
is, what's the bet?”

“Anything you like,” cried Bubbleton; “fifty,--a hundred,--five
hundred.”

“Be it then five hundred. I take you,” said Crofts, coolly, taking a
memorandum book from his pocket.

“No, no,” interposed Hilliard; “Bubbleton, you sha'n't do any such
thing. Five,--ten,--twenty, if you wish; but I 'll not stand by at such
a wager.”

“Well, then, if twenty be as much as you have got permission to bet,”
 replied Crofts, insolently, “there's my stake.” So saying, he threw
a note on the table, and looked over at Bubbleton, as if awaiting his
doing the same.

I saw my poor friend's embarrassment, and without stirring from my
place, slipped a note into his hand in silence. A squeeze of his fingers
replied to me, and the same instant he threw the crumpled piece of paper
down, and cried out, “Now for it; decide the point.”

Crofts at once drew his chair to the table, and began with the utmost
coolness to arrange the cards; while the others, deeply interested in
the point at issue, looked on without speaking. I thought this a
good opportunity for Darby to effect his escape, and raising my hand
noiselessly, I pointed to the door. Darby, who had been only waiting for
the fortunate moment, stole quietly towards it; but while his hand was
on the lock, Crofts lifted his eyes towards me, and then throwing them
half round, intimated at once that he observed the manoeuvre. The blood
suffused my face and temples, and though I saw the door close behind
the piper, I could not recover from my embarrassment, or the fear that
pressed on me lest Crofts should have penetrated the secret of Darby's
disguise, and augured from the fact something to my discredit.

“The game is now arranged,” said he. “The spade being led here, the
second player follows suit; the third, having none, trumps the card, and
is overtrumped by the last in play. The trick is lost, therefore, and
with it the game.”

“No, no,” interrupted Bubbleton, “you mistake altogether. The
diamond,--no, the heart; I mean the--the--What the deuce is it? I say,
Cradock, I had it all correct a minute ago; how is it, old fellow?”

“Why, you 've lost, that's all,” said the other, as he looked intently
on the table, and seemed to consider the point.

“Yes, Bubbleton, there's no doubt about it; you've lost. We forgot all
about the last player,” said Hilliard.

A violent knocking at the outer door drowned the voices of all within,
while a gruff voice shouted out, “Captain Bubbleton, the grand round is
coming up Parliament Street.”

Bubbleton snatched up his sword, and dashing through the room, was
followed by the others in a roar of laughter, Crofts alone remaining
behind, proceeded leisurely to open the folded piece of bank paper that
lay before him, while I stood opposite unable to take my eyes from
him. Slowly unfolding the note, he flattened it with his hand, and then
proceeded to read aloud,--

“Payez au porteur la somme de deux mille livres--,'

“I beg pardon,” interrupted I. “There's a mistake there; that belongs to
me.”

“I thought as much,” replied Crofts, with a very peculiar smile; “I
scarcely supposed my friend Bubbleton had gone so far.”

“There's the sum, sir,” said I, endeavoring to control my temper, and
only eager to regain possession of what would at once have compromised
me, if discovered. “This is what Captain Bubbleton lost; twenty pounds,
if I mistake not?”

“I must entreat your pardon, sir,” said Crofts, folding up the French
billet de hanque, “My wager was not with you, nor can I permit you to
pay it. This is at present my property, and remains so until Captain
Bubbleton demands it from me.”

I was struck dumb by the manner in which these words were spoken. It
was clear to me, that not only he suspected the disguise of the
ballad-singer, but that by the discovery of the French note he connected
his presence with its being in my possession. Rousing myself for the
effort, I said,--

“You force me, sir, to speak of what nothing short of the circumstance
could have induced me to allude to. It was I gave Captain Bubbleton that
note. I gave it in mistake for this one.”

“I guessed as much, sir,” was the cool answer of Crofts, as he placed
the note in his pocket-book and clasped it. “But I cannot permit your
candid explanation to alter the determination I have already come
to,--even had I not the stronger motive which as an officer in his
Majesty's pay I possess,--to inform the Government, on such infallible
evidence, how deeply interested our French neighbors are in our welfare
when they supply us with a commodity which report says is scarce enough
among themselves.”

“Do not suppose, sir, that your threat--for as such I understand it--has
any terror for me. There is, it's true, another whose safety might be
compromised by any step you might take in this affair; but when I tell
you that it is one who never did, never could have injured you,
and, moreover, that nothing treasonous or disloyal lies beneath your
discovery--”

“You are really taking a vast deal of trouble, Mr. Burke,” said he,
stopping me with a cold smile, “which I am forced to say is unnecessary.
Your explanation of how this _billet de banque_ came into your
possession may be required elsewhere, and will, I am certain, meet with
every respect and attention. As for me, an humble captain, with only one
principle to sustain me, one clue to guide me, in what I am disposed to
consider a question of some importance, I shall certainly ask advice of
others better able to direct me.”

“You refuse, then, sir, to restore me what I have assured you is mine?”

“And what I have no doubt whatever you are correct in calling so,” added
he, contemptuously.

“And you persist in the refusal?” said I, in a voice which unhappily
betrayed more temper than I had yet shown.

“Even so, sir,” said he, moving towards the door.

“In that case,” said I, springing before him, and setting my back
against it, you don't leave this room until in the presence of a third
party,--I care not who he be,--I have told you somewhat more of my
opinion of you than it is necessary I should say now.

The insulting expression of Crofts' features changed suddenly as I
spoke, the color left his cheek, and he became as pale as death; his
eye wandered round the room with an uncertain look, and then was fixed
steadfastly on the door, against which I stood firmly planted. At
length his face recovered its wonted character, and he said, in a cool,
distinct manner,--

“Your difficulties have made you bold, sir.”

“Not more bold than you 'll find me whenever you think fit to call
on me. But perhaps I am wrong for suggesting a test, which report, at
least, says Captain Crofts has little predilection for.”

“Insolent cub!” said he, half drawing his sword from the scabbard, and
as hastily replacing it when he perceived that I never moved a muscle
in my defence, but stood as if inviting his attack. “Let me pass, sir,”
 cried he, impetuously; “stand by this instant.”

I made no reply, but crossing my arms on my breast, stared at him firmly
as before. He had now advanced within a foot of me, his face purple with
passion, and his hands trembling with rage.

“Let me pass, I say!” shouted he, in an accent that boded his passion
had completely got the ascendant. At the same instant he seized me by
the collar, and fixing his grip firmly in my clothes, prepared to hurl
me from the spot.

The moment had now come that for some minutes past I had been expecting,
and with my open hand I struck him on the cheek, but so powerfully that
he reeled back with the stroke. A yell of rage burst from him, and in
an instant his sword leaped from the scabbard, and he darted fiercely at
me. I sprang to one side, and the weapon pierced the door and broke off
short; still, more than half the blade remained, and with this he flew
towards me. One quick glance I gave to look for something which might
serve to arm me; and the same moment the sharp steel pierced my side,
and I fell backwards with the shock, carrying my antagonist along with
me. The struggle was now a dreadful one; for while he endeavored to
withdraw the weapon from the wound, my hands were on his throat, and in
his strained eyeballs and livid color might be seen that a few seconds
more must decide the contest. A sharp pang shot through me. Just then a
hot gush of warm blood ran down my side, and I saw above me the shining
steel, which he was gradually shortening in his hand before he ventured
to strike. A wild cry broke from me; while at the instant, with a crash,
the door of the room fell forward, torn from its hinges. A heavy foot
approached, and the blow of a strong arm felled Crofts to the earth,
where he lay stunned and senseless. In a second I was on my feet. My
senses were reeling and uncertain; but I could see that it was Darby
who came to my rescue, and who was now binding a sash round my wound to
stanch the blood.

“Now for it,--life or death 's on it now,” said he, in a low but
distinct whisper. “Wipe the blood from your face, and be calm as you can
when you're passing the sentry.”

“Is he--” I dared not speak the word as I looked on the still motionless
body that lay before me.

Darby raised one arm, and as he let it go, it fell heavily on the
ground. He stooped down, and placing his lips near the mouth, endeavored
to ascertain if he breathed; and then, jumping to his feet, he seized my
arm, and, in a tone I shall never forget, he said, “It 's over now!”

I tottered back as he spoke. The horrible thought of murder,--the
frightful sense of crime, the heaviest, the blackest that can stain the
heart of man,--stunned me. My senses reeled; and as I looked on that
corpse stretched at my feet, I would have suffered my every bone to be
broken on the rack, to see one quiver of life animate its rigid members.

Meanwhile Darby was kneeling down, and seemed to search for something
beside the body. “Ah! right! Come now,” said he; “we must be far from
this before daybreak. And it 's lucky if we We the means to do it.”

I moved onward like one walking ib a dream when horrible images surround
him and dreadful thoughts are ever crowding fast; but where, amid all,
some glimmering sense of hope sustains him, and he half feels that the
terrors will pass away, and his soul be calm and tranquil once more.
What is it? what has happened? was the ever-rising question, as I heard
Darby groping his way along the dark gallery and the darker stairs.

“Be steady, now,” said he, in a whisper; “we 're at the gate.”

“Who comes there?” cried the sentry.

“A friend!” said Darby, in a feigned voice, answering for me, while he
dropped behind me.

The heavy bolts were withdrawn, and I felt the cold air of the streets
on my cheek.

“Where to, now?” said I, with a dreamy oonsciousness that some place of
safety must be sought, without well knowing why or wherefore.

“Lean on me, and don't speak,” said Darby. “If you can walk as far as
the end of the quay, we 're all safe.”

I walked on without further questioning, and almost without thought; and
though, from time to time, Darby spoke to several persons as we passed,
I heard not what they said, nor took any notice of them.



CHAPTER XX. THE FLIGHT

“Are ye getting weak?” said Darby, as I staggered heavily against him,
and gasped twice or thrice for breath. “Are ye bleeding still?” was his
next question, while he passed his hand gently within the sash, and felt
my wound. I endeavored to mutter something in reply, to which he paid
no attention; but stooping down, he threw me across his shoulder,
and darting off at a more rapid pace than before, he left the more
frequented thoroughfare, and entered a narrow and gloomy alley,
unlighted by a single lamp. As he hurried onward, he stopped more than
once, as if in quest of some particular spot, but which in the darkness
he was unable to detect.

“Oh, Holy Mother!” he muttered, “the blood is soaking through me! Master
Tom, dear! Master Tom, my darlin' speak to me,--speak to me, acushla!”
 But though I heard each word distinctly, I could not utter one; a dreamy
stupor was over me, and I only wished to be left quiet. “This must be
it; ay, here it is,” said Darby, as he laid me gently down on the stone
sill of the door, and knocked loudly with his knuckles.

The summons, though repeated three or four times, was unheeded; and
although he knocked loudly enough to have alarmed the neighborhood, and
called out at the top of his voice, no one came; and the only sounds we
could hear were the distant cadences of a drinking song, mingled with
wild shouts of laughter, and still wilder cries of agony and woe.

“Here they are, at last!” said Darby, as he almost staved in the door
with a heavy stone.

“Who's there?” cried a harsh and feeble voice from within.

“'Tis me, Molly; 'tis Darby M'Keown, Open quick, for the love of Heaven!
here 's a young gentleman bleedin' to death on the steps.”

“Ugh! there 's as good as ever he was, and going as fast, too, here
within,” said the crone. “Ye must take him away; he would n't mind him
now for a king's ransom.”

“I 'll break open the door this minit,” said Darby, with a horrible
oath, “av ye don't open it.”

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the hag. “If ye wor Darby M'Keown, ye 'd know well
how easy that is. Try it,--try it, acushla! oak timber and nails is
able to bear all you'll do!”

“See now,” said Darby, dropping his voice to a whisper; “see, Molly,
here 's five goold guineas for ye, av ye 'll let us in. 'T is a man's
life 's on it, and one I 'd give my own for twice over.”

“Av ye offered me forty,” replied she, “I dar'n't do it. Ye don't know
the sorrow that 's here this night; 't is Dan Fortescue is going. I 'm
coming, I 'm coming!” muttered she to some call from within. And then,
without waiting to hear more, she shuffled back along the passage, and
left us once more alone.

“There's nothing for it but this now,” said Darby, as, retiring a few
paces, he dashed his shoulder against the door with all his force; but
though a powerful man, and though every window rattled and trembled with
the tremendous shock, the strong panels withstood the stroke, and never
yielded in the least. “'T is no use firing through the lock,” said he,
in a tone of despair. “Blessed Joseph! what 's to be done?”

As he spoke, the light tread of a barefooted child was heard coming up
the lane, and the same moment a little girl approached the door. She
carried a cup in her hand, and held it carefully, as if fearful of
spilling its contents. As she neared the door, she seemed uncertain how
to proceed, and at last, as if gaining courage, tapped twice at it with
her knuckles.

“Don't ye know me, Nora?” said Darby; “don't ye know Darby the Blast?”

“Ah, Mister M'Keown, is this you? Ah, I'm afeard it 's little use there
is in coming here to-night; Mr. Fortescue's dying within, and Doctor
Kenagh can't leave him, I 'm bringing him this to take, but--”

“Nora, dear,” said Darby, “I 've a secret for Mr. Fortescue, and must
see him before he dies. Here 's a crown, my darlin', and don't tell any
one I gave it to ye.” Here he stooped down, and whispered rapidly some
words in her ear.

“Who 's there?” broke in the hag 's voice from within. “'T is me; Nora,”
 said the child, boldly. “Are ye alone, there? do ye see any one about
the door?”

“Sorra one. Can't you let me in out of the cowld?” “Come in quick,
then,” said the crone, as she opened the door carefully, and only wide
enough to let the child pass; but the same instant Darby dashed forward
his foot, and flinging the door full wide, seized me by the collar, and
dragged me in after him, closing the door at once behind him.

The screams of the hag, though loud and vehement, were as unheeded as
were Darby's own efforts to attract notice half an hour before.

“Be quiet, I say; hush yer crying, or be the sowl o' the man that 's
dyin' I 'll dhrive a ball through ye.” The sight of a pistol barrel
seemed at last to have its effect, and she contented herself with a low
wailing kind of noise, as she tottered after us along the passage.

The cold air of the street and the rest combined had given me strength,
and I was able to follow Darby as he led the way through many a passage
and up more than one stair.

“Here it is,” said the child, in a whisper, as she stopped at the door
of a room which lay half ajar.

We halted in silence, and listened to the breathings of a man whose
short, sobbing respiration, broken by hiccup, denoted the near approach
of death.

“Go on,” cried a deep, low voice, in a tone of eagerness; “ye 'll not
have the cough now for some time.”

The sick man made no reply, but his hurried breathing seemed to show
that he was making some unwonted effort.

At last he spoke, but in a voice so faint and husky, we could not
hear the words. The other, however, appeared to listen, and by a stray
monosyllable, dropped at intervals, to follow the tenor of his speech.
At last the sound ceased, and all was still.

“Go in now,” said Darby, in a whisper, to the child; “I 'll follow you.”

The little girl gently pushed the door and entered, followed by M'Keown,
who, however, only advanced one foot within the room, as if doubting
what reception he should meet with.

By the uncertain light of a wood fire, which threw in fitful flashes
its glare around, I perceived that a sick man lay on a mean-looking,
miserable bed in one corner of a dark room; beside him, seated on a low
stool, sat another, his head bent down to catch the low breathings which
the dying man gave forth from time to time. The heavy snoring sound of
others asleep directed my eyes to a distant part of the chamber, where I
saw three fellows lying on the floor, partly covered by a blanket. I
had barely time to see this much, when the figure beside the bed sprang
forward, and in a low but menacing tone, addressed M'Keown.

The last words only could I catch, as he said, “And if he wakes up, he
may know you still.”

“And if he does,” said Darby, doggedly, “who cares? Isn't there as good
blood as his shed for the cause? Look here!”

He dragged me forward as he spoke, and, tearing open my coat, pointed to
the sash that was now saturated with the blood that flowed at every stir
from my wound. The other looked fixedly at me for a second or two, took
my hand within his, and letting it fall heavily, he whispered a word to
M'Keown, and turned away.

“No, no!” cried Darby, violently. “By the holy Mass! ye 'll not trate
me that way. Sit down, Master Tom,” said he, as he forced me into an
old armchair beside the fire. “Here, take a drink of water. Come here,
doctor; come here, now; stop the bleeding. Stand by me this wonst, and
by this--”

Here he crossed his fingers before him, and looked fervently upwards.
But at this instant the sick man sprang up in his bed, and looked wildly
about him.

“Isn't that Darby? isn't that M'Keown there?” cried he, as he pointed
with his finger. “Darby,” he continued, in a low, clear whisper, “Darby,
see here, my boy. You often said I 'd do nothing for the cause. Is this
nothing?” He threw back the bedclothes, as he spoke, and disclosed a
ghastly wound that divided his chest, exposing the cartilage of the
ribs, which stood out amid the welling blood that oozed forth with every
respiration he made. “Is it nothing that I gave up rank, and place, and
fortune; the broad acres that were in my family for three centuries; all
my hopes, all my prospects--”

“And if you did,” interrupted M'Keown, hastily, “you knew what for.”

“I knew what for!” repeated the sick man, as a deadly smile played upon
his livid face and curled his white lip. “I know it now, at least. To
leave my inheritance to a bastard; to brand my name with disgrace and
dishonor; to go down to the grave a traitor; and, worse still--”

He shuddered violently here, and though his mouth moved, no sound came
forth; he sank back, worn out and exhausted.

“Was he there,” said Darby to the doctor, with a significant emphasis on
the word,--“was he there to-night?”

“He was,” replied the other. “He thinks, too, he fired the shot that did
it; but, poor fellow! he was down before that. The boys brought him off.
That child is going fast,” continued he, as his eye fell upon me.

“Look to him, then, and don't be losin' time,” said Darby, fiercely.
“Look to him,” he added more mildly, and “the Heavens will bless
ye! Here 's twenty goolden guineas,--it's all I've saved these eight
years,--here they 're for you, and save his life.”

The old man knelt down beside me, and slipping a scissors within the
scarf that lay fastened to my side with clotted blood, he proceeded to
open and expose the situation of my wound. A cold, sick feeling, a kind
of half-fainting sensation, followed this, and I could hear nothing of
the dialogue that passed so near me. An occasional sting of pain shot
through me as the dressing proceeded; but save this, I had little
consciousness of anything.

At length, like one awakening from a heavy slumber, with faculties
half clouded by the dreamy past, I looked around me. All was still and
motionless in the room. The doctor sat beside the sick man's bed; and
Darby, his eyes riveted on me, knelt close to my chair, and held his
hand upon the bandage over my wound.

A gentle tap here came to the door, and the child I had seen before
entered noiselessly, and approaching the doctor, said, “the car is come,
sir.”

The old man nodded in silence, and then, turning towards Darby, he
whispered something in his ear. M'Keown sprang to his legs at once, his
cheek flushed deeply, and his eyes sparkled with animation.

“I have it! I have it!” cried he, “There never was such luck for us
before.”

With that he drew the old man to one side, and speaking to him in a
low but rapid tone, evinced by the violence of his gestures and the
tremulous eagerness of his voice how deeply he was interested.

“True enough, true enough,” said the old man, after a pause. “Poor Dan
has but one more journey before him.”

“Is he able to bear it, doctor?” said Darby, pointing towards me with
his finger; “that's all I ask. Has he the strength in him?”

“He'll do now,” replied the other, gruffly; “there's little harm done
him this time. Let him taste that whenever you find him growing weak;
and keep his head low, and there 's no fear of him.”

As he spoke, he took from a cupboard in the wall a small phial, which
he handed to M'Keown, who received the precious elixir with as much
reverence as though it contained the very wellspring of human existence.
“And now,” said Darby, “the less time lost now the better; it will soon
be daylight on us. Master Tom, can you rise, acushla? are you able to
stand up?”

I made the effort as well as I could, but my limbs seemed chained down,
and even my arm felt like lead beside me.

“Take him on your back,” said the old man, hurriedly; “you 'll stay here
till sunrise. Take him downstairs, on your back, and when you have him
in the open air, turn him towards the wind, and keep his head low,--mind
that.”

I made another attempt to stand up; but before I could effect it,
Darby's strong arms were round my waist, and I felt myself lifted on his
shoulder and borne from the room, A muttered good-by passed between
the others, and Darby began to descend the stairs cautiously, while the
little child went before with a candle. As the street door was opened, I
could perceive that a car and horse stood in waiting, accompanied by two
men, who, the moment they saw me, sprang forward to Darby's assistance,
and helped to place me on the car. M'Keown was soon beside me, and
supporting my head upon his shoulder, he contrived to hold me in a
leaning position, giving me at the same time the full benefit of the
cool breeze, which already refreshed and restored me.

The vehicle now moved on in darkness and in silence. At first our pace
was slow, but it gradually quickened as we passed along the quay; for as
such I recognized it by the dull sound of the river near us. The bright
lamps of the greater thoroughfares soon made their appearance; and as
we traversed these, I could mark that our pace slackened to a walk,
and that we kept the very middle of the wide street, as if to avoid
observation. Gradually we emerged from this, and, as I heard by the roll
of the wheels, reached the outskirts of the town. We had not been many
minutes there when the horse was put to his speed, and the car whirled
along at a tremendous rate. Excepting a sense of weight and stiffness
in the side, I had no painful feeling from my wound; while the rapidity
with which we passed through the air imparted a sensation of drowsiness
far from unpleasant.

In this state I scarcely was conscious of what passed about me. Now and
then some occasional halt, some chance interruption, would momentarily
arouse me, and I could faintly hear the sound of voices; but of what
they spoke I knew nothing. Darby frequently questioned me, but my utmost
effort at reply was to press his hand. By times it would seem to me as
though all I felt were but the fancies of some sick dream, which the
morning should dispel and scatter. Then I thought that we were flying
from an enemy, who pressed hotly on us, and gained at every stride;
a vague, shadowy sense of some horrible event mingling with all, and
weighing heavily on my heart.

As the time wore on, my senses became clearer, and I saw that we were
travelling along the seaside. The faint gray light of breaking day
shed a cold gleam across the green water, which plashed with a mournful
cadence on the low, flat shore. I watched the waves as they beat with a
heavy sough amid the scattered weeds, where the wild cry of the curlew
mingled with the sound as he skimmed along the gloomy water, and my
heart grew heavier. There is something--I know not what--terribly in
unison with our saddest thoughts, in the dull plash of the sea at night:
the loudest thunders of the storm, when white-crested waves rise
high and break in ten thousand eddies on the dark rocks, are not so
suggestive of melancholy as the sighing moan of the midnight tide.
Long-buried griefs, long-forgotten sorrows, rise up as we listen; and
we feel as though that wailing cry were the funeral chant over cherished
hopes and treasured aspirations.

From my dark musings I was roused suddenly by Darby's voice, asking of
the men who sat at the opposite side how the wind was.

“Westing by south,” replied one; “as fair as need be, if there was
enough of it. But who knows, we may have a capful yet, when the sun gets
up.”

“We 'll not have long to wait for that,” cried the other; “see there!”

I lifted my eyes as he spoke, and beheld the pink stain of coming day
rising above the top of a large mountain.

“That's Howth,” said Darby, seizing with eagerness the proof of my
returning senses.

“Come, press on as fast as you can,” said one of the men; “we must catch
the ebb, or we'll never do it.”

“Where does she lie?” said Darby, in a low whisper.

“Under the cliffs, in Bolskaton Bay,” said the last speaker, whom I now
perceived by his dress and language to be a sailor.

My curiosity was now excited to the utmost to know whither we were
bound; and with an effort I articulated the one word, “Where?”

Darby's eyes brightened as I spoke; he pressed my hand firmly within
his, but made no reply. Attributing his silence to caution, I pressed
him no further; and indeed, already my former indifference came back on
me, and I felt listless as before.

“Turn off there to the right,” cried the sailor to the driver. And
suddenly we left the highroad, and entered a narrow byway, which seemed
to lead along the side of the mountain close to the water's edge. Before
we had proceeded far in this direction, a long, low whistle was heard
from a distance.

“Stop there, stop!” said the sailor, as he knelt upon the car, and
replied to the signal. “Ay, all right; there they are,” said he, as,
pointing to a little creek between the rocks below us, we saw a small
rowboat with six men lying on their oars.

“Can't he walk?” said the sailor, in a half whisper, as he stood beside
the car. “Well, let 's lose no more time; we 'll take him down between
us.”

“No, no,” said Darby; “put him on my back; I 'll do it myself.”

“The ground's slippier than you take it,” said the other; “my way 's the
safest.”

With that he lifted me from the car, and placing me between Darby and
himself, they grasped each other's hands beneath me, and soon began a
descent which I saw would have been perfectly impracticable for one man
to have accomplished with another on his back.

During the time, my desire to know where they were bringing me again
grew stronger than ever; and as I turned to ask Darby, I perceived that
the tears were coursing each other fast down his weatherbeaten cheeks,
while his lips shook and trembled like one in an ague.

“Mind your footing there, my man, I say,” cried the sailor, “or you'll
have us over the cliff.”

“Round the rock to the left there,” cried a voice from below. “That's
it, that's it; now you're all right. Steady there; give me your hand.”

As he spoke, two men advanced from the boat, and assisted us down
the sloping beach, where the wet seaweed made every step a matter of
difficulty.

“Lay him in the stern there; gently, lads, gently,” said the voice of
one who appeared the chief amongst them. “That's it; throw those jackets
under his head. I say, piper, ar'n't you coming with us?”

But Darby could not speak one word. A livid pallor was over his
features, and the tears fell, drop by drop, upon his cheek.

“Master Tom,” said he, at length, as his lips almost touched me, “my
child, my heart's blood, you won't forget poor Darby. Ye 'll be a great
man yet; ye 'll be all I wish ye. But will you remember a poor man like
me?”

“Jump ashore there, my good fellow,” cried the coxswain; “we'll have
enough to do to round the point before the tide ebbs.”

“One minit more, and God love ye for it,” said Darby, in a voice of
imploring accent. “Who knows will we ever meet again; 't is the last
time, maybe, I 'll ever look on him.”

I could but press his hand to my heart; for my agitation increased the
debility I felt, and every effort to speak was in vain.

“One half minit more,--if it 's only that he 'll be able to say, 'God
bless you, Darby!' and I 'll be happy.”

“Push off, my lads!” shouted the sailor, sternly; and as he spoke the
oars plashed heavily in the sea, and the boat rocked over with the
impulse. Twice the strong stroke of the oars sent the craft through
the clear water, when the piper clasped his arm wildly around me, and
kissing me on the cheek, he sprang over the side. The waves were nearly
to his shoulders; but in a few seconds he had buffeted through them, and
stood upon the shore.

With a last effort I waved my hand in adieu; and as I sank back
exhausted, I heard a wild cry burst from him, half in triumph, half in
despair. One glance more I caught of his figure as we stood out to sea;
he was kneeling on the beach, bareheaded, and as if in prayer. The tears
gushed from my eyes as I beheld him, and the long pent up sorrow at last
broke forth, and I sobbed like a child.

“Come, come, my lad! don't feel downhearted,” said the sailor, laying
his hand on my shoulder; “the world can scarce have been over rough
to one so young as you are. Lift up your head, and see what a glorious
morning we 've got! And there comes the breeze over the water. We hadn't
such weather the last time we made this trip, I assure you.”

I looked up suddenly; and truly never did such a scene of loveliness
meet my eyes. The sun had risen in all his glorious brilliancy, and
poured a flood of golden light across the bay, tipping with a violet hue
the far-off peaks of the Wicklow mountains, and lighting up the wooded
valleys at their feet. Close above us rose the rugged sides of Howth in
dark shadow; the frowning rocks and gloomy caverns contrasting with the
glittering tints of the opposite coast, where every cottage and cliff
sparkled in the dancing sunlight.

As we rounded the point, a cheer broke from the men, and was answered at
once. I turned my head, and saw beneath the tall cliffs the taper spars
of a small vessel, from which the sails hung listlessly, half brailed to
the mast.

“There she lies,” said the skipper. “That 's the 'Saucy Sal,' my master;
and if you're any judge of a craft, I think you 'll like her. Give way,
lads,--give way; when that rock yonder 's covered, the tide is at the
flood.”

The boat sprang to the strong jerk of their brawny arms, and in a
few minutes glided into the little creek where the “Saucy Sal” lay at
anchor.

Lifting me up, they placed me on board the little vessel; while, without
losing a moment, they proceeded to ship the anchor and shake out the
canvas. In less than five minutes the white sails bent to the breeze,
the water rustled at the prow, and we stood out to sea.

“Where to?” said I, in a faint whisper, to the sailor who held the
tiller beside me.

“Down Channel, sir.”

“And then?” asked I once more,--“and then?”

“That must depend on the revenue cruisers, I believe,” said he, more
gruffly, and evidently indisposed to further questioning.

Alas! I had too little interest in life to care for where, and laying my
head upon my arm, fell into a heavy stupor for several hours.

The hot sun, the breeze, the unaccustomed motion, and worse than all,
the copious libations of brandy and water I was forced from time to
time to take, gradually brought on fever; and before evening, a burning
thirst and throbbing headache seized me, and my senses, that hitherto
had been but lethargic, became painfully acute, and my reason began to
wander. In this state I remained for days, totally unconscious of the
flight of time; frightful images of the past pursuing each other through
my heated brain, and torturing me with horrors unspeakable.

It was in one of my violent paroxysms I tore the bandage from my side,
and reopening my half-healed wound, became in a moment deluged with
blood. I have no memory of aught that followed; the debility of almost
death itself succeeded, and I lay without sense or motion. To this
circumstance I owed my life, for when I next rallied the fever had left
me, my senses were unclouded, my cheek no longer burned, nor did my
temples throb; and as the sea breeze played across my face, I drank it
in with ecstasy, and felt once more the glorious sensations of returning
health.

It was evening; the faint wind that follows sunset scarce filled the
sails as we glided along through the waveless sea. I had been listening
to the low, monotonous song of one of the sailors as he sat mending a
sail beside me, when suddenly I heard a voice hail us from the water.
The skipper jumped on the halfdeck, and immediately replied. The words
I could not hear, but by the stir and movement about me I saw something
unusual had occurred, and by an effort I raised my head above the
bulwark and looked about me. A long, low craft lay close alongside us,
filled with men, whose blue caps and striped shirts struck me as strange
and uncommon, not less than their black belts and cutlasses, with which
every man was armed. After an interchange of friendly greetings with our
crew,--for such they seemed, although I could not catch the words,--she
moved rapidly past us.

“There's their flotilla, sir,” said the helmsman, as he watched my eye
while it wandered over the water.

I crept up higher, and followed the direction of his finger. Never shall
I forget that moment. Before me, scarce as it seemed a mile distant,
lay a thousand boats at anchor, beneath the shadow of tall sandhills,
decorated with gay and gaudy pennons, crowded with figures whose bright
colors and glittering arms shone gorgeously in the setting sunlight. The
bright waves reflected the myriad tints, while they seemed to plash in
unison with the rich swell of martial music that stole along the water
with every freshening breeze. The shore was covered with tents, some of
them surmounted with large banners that floated out gayly to the breeze;
and far as the eye could reach were hosts of armed men dotted over
the wide plain beside the sea. Vast columns of infantry were there,--
cavalry and artillery, too,--their bright arms glittering, and their
gay plumes waving, but all still and motionless, as if spellbound. As I
looked, I could see horsemen gallop from the dense squares, and riding
hurriedly to and fro. Suddenly a blue rocket shot into the calm sky, and
broke in a million glittering fragments over the camp; the deep roar of
a cannon boomed out; and then the music of a thousand bands swelled high
and full, and in an instant the whole plain was in motion, and the turf
trembled beneath the tramp of marching men. Regiment followed regiment,
squadron poured after squadron, as they descended the paths towards the
beach; while a long, dark line wound through the glittering mass, and
marked the train of the artillery, as with caissons and ammunition
wagons they moved silently over the grassy surface.

All that I had ever conceived of warlike preparation was as nothing to
the gorgeous spectacle before me. The stillness of the evening air, made
tremulous with the clang of trumpets and the hoarse roar of drums;
the mirror-like sea, colored with the reflection of bright banners and
waving pennants; and then the simultaneous step of the mighty army,--so
filled up every sense that I feared lest all might prove the mere
pageant of a dream, and vanish as it came.

“What a glorious sight!” cried I, at length, half wild with enthusiasm.
“Where are we?”

“Where are we?” repeated the skipper, smiling. “Look out, and you 'll
soon guess that. Are those very like the uniforms of King George? When
did you see steel breastplates and helmets before? This is France, my
lad!”

“France! France!” said I, stupefied with the mere thought.

“Yes, to be sure. That 's the Army of England, as they call it, you see
yonder; they are practising the embarkation. See the red rockets! There
they go,--three, four, five, six,--that's the signal. In less than half
an hour thirty thousand men will be ready to embark. Mark how they press
on faster and faster! and watch the cavalry, as they dismount and lead
their horses down the steep! See how the boats pull in shore! But, hallo
there! we shall get foul of the gunboats,--already we 've run in too
close. Down helm, my lad; keep the headland yonder on your lee.”

As he spoke, the light craft bent over to the breeze, and skipped freely
over the blue water. Each moment wafted us farther away from the bright
scene, and soon a projecting point shut out the whole, save the swell of
the brass bands as it floated on the breeze, and I might have believed
it a mere delusion.

“They practise that manoeuvre often enough to know it well,” said the
skipper, “sometimes at daybreak, now at noonday, and again, as we see,
at sunset; and no one knows at what moment the attack that seems a feint
may not turn out to be real. But here we are now alongside; our voyage
is ended.”

The anchor plashed from our bow, while a signal was made from the shore
and answered by us; and in an instant we were surrounded with boats.

“Ha, Antoine!” cried a sous-officier in a naval uniform, who sat on the
gunwale of a long eight-oar gig, and touched his hat in recognition of
our skipper; “what news _outre mer_? what are we doing in Ireland?”

“My young friend here must tell you that,” replied the skipper,
laughingly, as he laid his hand on my shoulder. “Let me present him to
you: Mr. Burke,--Lieutenant Brevix.”

The lieutenant saluted me politely; and then, springing up, he jumped
gayly on board of us, and shook our hands with great appearance of
cordiality.

“They 'll want to see you ashore, Antoine, as soon as may be; there are
despatches going off to-night for Paris, and they 'll be glad to send
the last accounts of the state of the Channel.”

“Light winds and no cruisers are all I have to tell them, then,” said
the skipper.

The lieutenant now took him aside, and they conversed for some time in
a low tone, during which I occupied myself by watching the sentinels who
paraded incessantly to and fro along a low wooden pier that stretched
out into the sea, and formed, with a promontory at some distance, a
small harbor. Their watch seemed of the most vigilant, if I might judge
from the low but continued cry which passed from mouth to mouth of
“Sentinelle, prenez garde a vous;” while from each boat across the
harbor a sing-song note chanted in response the monotonous sounds, “Bon
quart!” as each quarter of an hour stole past.

These precautions against the approach of any strange craft extended, as
I afterwards learned, along the entire coast from Dieppe to Ostend; yet
were they not sufficient to prevent frequent visits from the English
spies, who penetrated into every quarter of the camp, and even had the
hardihood to visit the theatre of the town, and express loudly their
disapprobation of the performance.

“You 'd better come ashore with me, sir,” said the lieutenant; “Colonel
Dorsenne will be glad to ask you some questions. What papers have you
got?”

“None, save a few private letters,” said I, somewhat confused at the
question.

“No matter,” said he, gayly. “I hear from Antoine you wish to join the
service here. That wish is your best recommendation to the colonel; he
'll not trouble you for reasons, I warrant you. Conduct monsieur to
the quartier-général,” said the lieutenant to a corporal, who, with his
party of four men, stood awaiting at the landing-place the arrival of
any one from the boats; and in an instant, the men falling to each side
of me, took their way along the pier.

I could mark as we went that more than once their looks were bent on me
with an expression of compassion and pity, which at the time I was at a
loss to explain. I knew not then that the road we were taking was
that which so often led to death; and that it was only on the very day
before, two Englishmen were shot for having ventured on shore without
authority.

The consigne of the corporal passed us through one post after another,
until we reached the open plain, over which now the night was falling
fast. A lantern at some distance off marked the quarters of the officer
on duty; and thither we directed our steps, and at last reached a small
wooden hut, from within which the sounds of mirth and revelry proceeded.
The voice of the sentinel who challenged us brought an officer to the
door, who the moment his eyes fell on me stepped back, and passing his
hand hurriedly across his forehead muttered, half inaudibly, “Another
already!”

While he retired into an inner apartment, I had time to look at the
singular decorations which adorned the walls of the antechamber. Around
on every side, and arranged like trophies, were grouped the weapons of
different arms of the service, surmounted with some device emblematic
of their peculiar character; or sometimes the mere record of some famous
battle in which they had pre-eminently distinguished themselves. Here
were the long, straight swords of the cuirassier crossed above the steel
breastplate, and surmounted by the heavy helmet half hid in leopard
skin, and bearing the almost effaced word “Arcole” in front; there was
the short carbine of the voltigeur, over which hung the red cap and its
gay gold tassel, with the embroidered motto “En avant” in gold letters.
The long and graceful weapon of the lancer, the curved sabre of
the _chasseur à cheval_, even the axe of the pioneer was not
wanting,--displaying at a glance some trait of every branch of the
mighty force that bore the proud designation of “La Grande Armée.”

I was busily engaged inspecting these when the door opened, and an
officer in full uniform appeared. His figure was above the middle size,
strongly and squarely built; and his bronzed features, and high, bold
forehead, gave him a soldier-like air.

“Your name, sir,” said he, quickly, as he drew himself up before me, and
looked sternly in my face.

“Burke,--Thomas Burke.”

“Write it down, Auguste,” said he, turning to a young officer, who
stood, pen in hand, behind him.

“Your rank or profession?”

“Gentilhomme,” said I, not knowing that the word expressed nobility.

“Ah, _pardieu_,” cried he, as he showed his white teeth in a grin;
“produce your papers, if you have any.”

“I have nothing save those letters,” said I, handing him those of De
Meudon.

Scarce had his eye glanced over them, when I saw his color heighten and
his cheek tremble.

“What!” cried he, “are you the same young Irishman who is mentioned
here, the constant companion and friend of poor Charles? He was my
schoolfellow; we were at Brienne together. What a mistake I was about to
fall into! How did you come, and when?”

Before I could reply to any of his many questions, the naval officer I
had met at the harbor entered, and delivered his report.

“Yes, yes; I know it all,” said Dorsenne, hurriedly throwing his eye
over it. “It 's all right, perfectly right, Brevix. Let Capitaine
Antoine be examined at the quartier-général. I 'll take care of monsieur
here. And, to begin; come and join us at supper.”

Passing his arm familiarly over my shoulder, he led me into the
adjoining room, where two other officers were seated at a table covered
with silver dishes and numerous flasks of wine. A few words sufficed for
my introduction; and a few glasses of champagne placed me as thoroughly
at my ease as though I had passed my life amongst them, and never heard
any other conversation than the last movement of the French army, and
their projects for future campaigns.

“And so,” said the colonel, after hearing from me a short account of the
events which had induced me to turn my eyes to France,--“and so you'd be
a soldier? _Eh bien!_ see nothing better going myself. There 's Davernac
will tell you the same, though he has lost his arm in the service.”

“Oui, pardieu,” said the officer on my right; “I am not the man to
dissuade him from a career I 've ever loved.”

“À vous, mon ami,” said the young officer who first addressed me on my
arrival, as he held out his glass and clinked it against mine. “I
hope we shall have you one of these days as our guide through the dark
streets of London. The time may not be so distant as you think; never
shake your head at it.”

“It is not that I would mean,” said I, eagerly.

“What then?” said the colonel. “You don't suppose such an expedition as
ours could fail of success?”

“Nor that either,” replied I; “I am not so presumptuous as to form an
opinion on the subject.”

“Diantre, then! what is it?”

“Simply this: that whatever fortune awaits me, I shall never be found
fighting against the country under whose rule I was born. England may
not be--alas! she has not been--just to us. But whatever resistance I
might have offered in the ranks of my countrymen, I shall never descend
to in an invading army. No, no; if France have no other war than
with England,--if she have not the cause of Continental liberty at
heart,--she 'll have no blood of mine shed in her Service.”

“Sacristi!” said the colonel, sipping his wine coolly, “you had better
keep these same opinions of yours to your self. There 's a certain
little General we have at Paris who rarely permits people to reason
about the cause of the campaign. However, it is growing late now, and we
'll not discuss the matter at present. Auguste, will you take Burke to
your quarters? And to-morrow I 'll call on the general about his brevet
for the Polytechnique.”

I felt now that I had spoken more warmly than was pleasing to the party;
but the sentiments I had announced were only such as in my heart I had
resolved to abide by, and I was pleased that an opportunity so soon
offered to display them. I was glad to find myself at rest at last; and
although events pressed on me fast and thick enough to have occupied my
mind, no sooner had I laid my head on my pillow than I fell into a sound
sleep.



CHAPTER XXI. THE ÉCOLE MILITAIRE

Let me now skip over at a bound some twelve months of my life,--not that
they were to me without their chances and their changes, but they were
such as are incidental to all boyhood,--and present myself to my reader
as the scholar at the Polytechnique. What a change had the time, short
as it was, worked in all my opinions! how completely had I unlearned all
the teaching of my early instructor, poor Darby! how had I been taught
to think that glory was the real element of war, and that its cause was
of far less moment than its conduct!

The enthusiasm which animated every corps of the French army, and was
felt through every fibre of the nation, had full sway in the little
world of the military school. There, every battle was known and conned
over; we called every spot of our playground by some name great in
the history of glory; and among ourselves we assumed the titles of the
heroes who shed such lustre on their country; and thus in all our boyish
sports our talk was of the Bridge of Lodi, Arcole, Rivoli, Castiglione,
the Pyramids, Mount Tabor. While the names of Kleber, Kellerman,
Massena, Desaix, Murat, were adopted amongst us, but one name only
remained unappropriated; and no one was bold enough to assume the
title of him whose victories were the boast of every tongue. If this
enthusiasm was general amongst us, I felt it in all its fullest force,
for it came untinged with any other thought. To me there was neither
home nor family; my days passed over in one unbroken calm,--no thought
of pleasure, no hope of happiness, when the fête day came round. My
every sense was wrapped up in the one great desire,--to be a soldier; to
have my name known among those great men whose fame was over Europe; to
be remembered by him whose slightest word of praise was honor itself.
When should that day come for me? When should I see the career open
before me? These were my earliest waking thoughts, my last at nightfall.

If the intensity of purpose, the strong current of all my hopes, formed
for me an ideal and a happy world within me, yet did it lend a trait of
seriousness to my manner that seemed like melancholy; and while few
knew less what it was to grieve, a certain sadness in me struck my
companions, on which they often rallied me, but which I strove in
vain to conquer. It was true that at certain times my loneliness and
isolation came coldly on my heart; when one by one I saw others claimed
by their friends, and hurrying away to some happy home, where some fond
sister threw her arm around a brother's neck, or some doting mother
clasped her son close to her bosom and kissed his brow, a tear would
find its way down my cheek, and I would hasten to my room, and locking
the door, sit down alone to think, till my sad heart grew weary, or my
sterner nature rose within me, and by an effort over myself, I turned to
my studies and forgot all else.

Meanwhile I made rapid progress; the unbroken tenor of my thoughts gave
me a decided advantage over the others, and long before the regular
period arrived, the day for my final examination was appointed.

What a lasting impression do some passages of early life leave behind
them! Even yet,--and how many years are past!--how well do I remember
all the hopes and fears that stirred my heart as the day drew near!
how each morning at sunrise I rose to pore over some of the books which
formed the subjects of examination: how, when the gray dawn was only
breaking, have I bent over the pages of Vauban and the calculations of
Carnot! and with what a sinking spirit have I often found that a night
seemed to have erased all the fruit of a long day's labor, and that the
gain of my hard-worked intellect had escaped me,--and then again, like
magic, the lost thought would come back, my brain grow clear, and
all the indistinct and shadowy conceptions assume a firm and tangible
reality which I felt like power! At such times as these my spirits rose,
my heart beat high, a joyous feeling throbbed in every pulse, and an
exhilaration almost maddening elevated me, and there was nothing I would
not have dared, no danger I would not have confronted. Such were the
attractions of my boyish days, and such the temperament they bequeathed
to my manhood.

It was on the 16th of June, the anniversary of Marengo, when the drum
beat to arms in the court of the Polytechnique; and soon after the
scholars were seen assembling in haste from various quarters, anxious to
learn if their prayer had been acceded to,--which asked permission for
them to visit the Invalides, the usual indulgence on the anniversary of
any great victory.

As we flocked into the court we were struck by seeing an orderly dragoon
standing beside the headmaster, who was eagerly perusing a letter in his
hands; when he had concluded, he spoke a few words to the soldier, who
at once wheeled round his horse and trotted rapidly from the spot.

Again the drums rolled out, and the order was given to form in line. In
an instant the command was obeyed, and we stood in silent expectation of
the news which we perceived awaited us.

“Messieurs les élèves,” he began, when stillness was restored, “this
day being the anniversary of the glorious battle of Marengo, the General
Bonaparte has decreed that a review should be held of the entire school.
Lieutenant-General d'Auvergne will arrive here at noon to inspect you,
and on such reports as I shall give of your general conduct, zeal, and
proficiency will recommendations be forwarded to the First Consul for
your promotion.”

A loud cheer followed this speech. The announcement far surpassed our
most ardent hopes, and there was no limit to our enthusiasm; and loud
vivas in honor of General Bonaparte, D'Auvergne, and the headmaster
himself were heard on all sides.

Scarcely was the breakfast over when our preparations began. What a busy
scene it was! Here were some brushing up their uniforms, polishing their
sword-hilts, and pipeclaying their cross-belts; there might be seen
others conning over the directions of field manoeuvres, and refreshing
their memory of the words of command; some practised marching in groups
along the corridor; others, too much excited by the prospect before
them, jumped madly from place to place, shouting and singing snatches
of soldier songs; but all were occupied. As for me, it was only two days
before I had obtained my grade of corporal; my new uniform had only just
come home, and I put it on for the first time with no inconsiderable
pride; indeed, I could scarce turn my eyes as I walked from the stripes
upon my arm that denoted my rank.

Long before the appointed time we were all assembled, and when the clock
struck twelve and the drum beat out, not a boy was absent. We were drawn
up in three columns according to our standing, spaces being left between
each to permit of our wheeling into line at the word of command. The
headmaster passed down our ranks, narrowly inspecting our equipments and
scrutinizing every detail of our costume; but a stronger impulse
than ordinary was now at work, and not the slightest irregularity was
anywhere detectable.

Meanwhile the time passed on, and although every eye was directed to
the long avenue of lime-trees by which the general must arrive, nothing
moved along it; and the bright streaks of sunlight that peeped between
the trees were unbroken by any passing shadow. Whispers passed along
the ranks,--some fearing he might have forgotten the whole appointment;
others suspecting that another review elsewhere had engrossed his
attention; and at last a half murmur of dissatisfaction crept through
the mass, which only the presence of the _chef_ restrained within due
bounds.

One o'clock struck, and yet no rider appeared; the alley remained silent
and deserted as before. The minutes now seemed like hours; weariness and
lassitude appeared everywhere. The ranks were broken, and many wandered
from their posts, and forgot all discipline. At last a cloud of dust
was seen to rise at a distance, and gradually it approached the long
avenue, and every eye was turned in the direction, and in an instant
the stragglers resumed their places, and all was attention and anxiety,
while every look pierced eagerly the dense cloud, to see whether it was
not the long-wished-for staff which was coming. At length the object
burst upon our sight; but what was our disappointment to see that it
was only a travelling carriage with four post-horses that approached.
No appearance of a soldier was there,--not one solitary dragoon. A
half-uttered shout announced our dissatisfaction, for we at once guessed
it was merely some chance visitor, or perhaps the friends of some of the
scholars, who had thus excited our false hopes.

The chef himself participated in our feelings; and passing down the
lines, he announced that if the general did not arrive within ten
minutes, he would himself dismiss us, and set us at liberty. A cheer
of gratitude received this speech, and we stood patiently awaiting our
liberation, when suddenly, from the guard-house at the gate, the clash
of arms was heard, and the roll of drums in salute, and the same instant
the carriage we had seen rolled into the courtyard and took up its
station in the middle of the square. The next moment the door was opened
and the steps lowered, and an officer in a splendid uniform assisted
three ladies to alight. Before we recovered from the surprise of the
proceeding, the master had approached the party, and by his air of
deference and deep respect denoted that they were no ordinary visitors.
But our attention was quickly drawn from the group that now stood
talking and laughing together, for already the clank of a cavalry escort
was heard coming up the avenue, and we beheld the waving plumes and
brilliant uniform of a general officer's staff advancing at a rapid
trot. The drums now rolled out along the lines; we stood to arms; the
gallant cortege turned into the court and formed in front of us. All
eyes were fixed on the general himself, the perfect beau ideal of an
old soldier. He sat his horse as firmly and gracefully as the youngest
aide-de-camp of his suite; his long white hair, dressed in queue behind,
was brushed back off his high broad forehead; his clear blue eye, mild
yet resolute, glanced over our ranks; and as he bowed to the headmaster,
his whole gesture and bearing was worthy of the Court of which once he
was a brilliant member.

“I have kept my young friends waiting for me,” said he in a low but
clear voice, “and it now remains for me to make the only amende in my
power,--a short inspection. Dorsenne, will you take the command?”

I started at the name, and looked round; and close beside him stood the
same officer who had so kindly received me the day I landed in France.
Though he looked at me, however, I saw he did not remember me, and my
spirits sank again as I thought how utterly friendless and alone I was.

The general was true to his word in making the inspection as brief as
possible. He rode leisurely down the ranks, stopping from time to time
to express his satisfaction, or drop some chance word of encouragement
or advice, which we caught up with eagerness and delight. Forming us
into line, he ordered his aide-de-camp to put us through some of the
ordinary parade manoeuvres, which we knew as thoroughly as the most
disciplined troops. During all this time the group of ladies maintained
their position in front, and seemed to watch the review with every
semblance of interest. The general, too, made one of the party, and
appeared from time to time to explain the intended movement, and direct
their attention to the scene.

“Let them march past in salute,” said he, at length. “The poor fellows
have had enough of it; I must not encroach on the entire holiday.”

A unanimous cheer was the reply to this kind speech, and we formed in
sections and marched by him at a quickstep. The chef d'école had now
approached the staff, and was making his report on the boys, when the
general again interrupted him by saying,--

“Madame has expressed a wish to see the boys at their usual exercise of
the play hour. If the request be admissible--”

“Certainly, mon général; of course,” said he. And stepping forward, he
beckoned to one of the drummers to come near. He whispered a word, and
the tattoo beat out; and, like magic, every one sprang from his ranks,
caps were flung into the air, and vivas rung out from every quarter of
the court.

The sudden transition from discipline to perfect liberty added to our
excitement, and we became half wild with delight. The first mad burst
of pleasure over, we turned, as if by instinct, to our accustomed
occupations. Here were seen a party collecting for a drill, officers
gathering and arranging their men, and sergeants assisting in the
muster; there, were others, armed with spades and shovels, at work on
an entrenchment, while some were driving down stockades and fixing a
palisade; another set, more peaceful in their pursuits, had retired to
their little gardens, and were busy with watering-pots and trowels.

The section I belonged to were the seniors of the school, and we had
erected a kind of fort which it was our daily amusement to defend and
attack, the leadership on either side being determined by lots. On
this day the assault had fallen to my command, and I hurried hither and
thither collecting my forces, and burning for the attack.

We were not long in assembling; and the garrison having announced their
readiness by the display of a flag from the ramparts, the assault began.
I know not why nor wherefore, but on this day my spirits were unusually
high; it was one of those chance occasions when my temperament, heated
and glowing, had elevated me in my own esteem, and I would have given my
life for some opportunity of distinguishing myself.

I led my party on, then, with more than common daring, and though
repulsed by the besieged, we fell back only for a moment, and returned
to the assault determined to succeed; the others, animated by the same
spirit, fought as bravely, and the cheers that rose from one side were
replied to by shouts as full of defiance from the other. Heated and
excited, I turned round to order an attack of my whole force, when to
my surprise I beheld that the general and his staff, accompanied by the
ladies, had taken their places a short distance off, and were become
interested spectators of the siege. This alone was wanting to stimulate
my efforts to the utmost, and I now returned to the fight with tenfold
impetuosity. But if this feeling animated me, it also nerved my
antagonists, for their resistance rose with every moment, and as
they drove us back from their walls, cheers of triumph rang out and
proclaimed the victory.

Already the battle had lasted nearly an hour, and all that was obtained
was a slight breach in one of the outworks, too small to be practicable
for assault. In this state were matters, when the sound of a cavalry
escort turned every eye towards the entrance to the courtyard, where
we now beheld a squadron of the Landers rouges following a numerous and
brilliant staff of general officers.

Scarcely had they entered the gates when a loud cry rent the air, and
every voice shouted, “C'est lui! c'est lui!” and the next moment, “Vive
Bonaparte! vive le Premier Consul!” All that I ever heard from poor De
Meudon came rushing on my mind, and my heart swelled out till it seemed
bursting my very bosom. The next instant my eye turned to the little
fort; the moment was propitious, for there every cap was waving, every
look bent towards him, I seized the opportunity, and pointing silently
to the breach, stole forward. In a second I was beneath the grassy
rampart; in another, I reached the breach; the next brought me to the
top, where, with a shout of victory, I called on my men to follow me. On
they came rushing,--but too late; already the garrison were upon me, and
overcome by numbers, I fought alone and unsupported. Step by step they
drove me to the edge of the rampart; already my foot was on the breach,
when with a spring I dashed at the flagstaff, and carried it with me
as I fell headlong into the ditch. In a moment I was on my legs, but
so stunned and crushed that I fell almost immediately again; cold
perspiration broke over my face and forehead, and I should have fainted
but that they dashed some water over me.

As I lay sick and faint I lifted my eyes; and what was my amazement to
see, not the little companions of the school about me, but the gorgeous
uniform of staff officers, and two elegantly-dressed ladies, one of whom
held a cup of water in her hand and sprinkled it over my brow. I looked
down upon my torn dress, and the sleeve of my coat, where the marks of
my rank were already half effaced, and I felt the tears start into
my eyes as the remembrance of my late failure crossed my mind. At the
instant the crowd opened, and a pale but handsome face, where command
was tempered by a look of almost womanly softness, smiled upon me.

[Illlustration: C'était bien fait, mon enfant 223]

“C'était bien fait, mon enfant,” said he, “trés bien fait; and if you
have lost a coat by the struggle, why I must even see if I can't give
you another to replace it. Monsieur Legrange, what is the character of
this boy in the school? Is he diligent, zealous, and well-conducted!”

“All of the three. General,” said the chef, bowing obsequiously.

“Let him have his brevet,--to date from to-day. Who are his friends?”

A whispered answer replied to this inquiry.

“Indeed!” said the first speaker; “reason the more we should take care
of him. Monsieur,” continued he, turning towards me, “to-morrow you
shall have your epaulettes. Never forget how you gained them; and
remember ever that every grade in the service is within the reach of a
brave man who does his duty.”

So saying, he passed on, while, overcome by emotion, I could not speak
or move.

“There, he is much better now,” said a soft voice near me; “you see his
color is coming back.”

I looked up, and there were two ladies standing beside me. The elder was
tall and elegantly formed; her figure, which in itself most graceful,
looked to its full advantage by the splendor of her dress; there was an
air of stateliness in her manner, which had seemed hauteur were it
not for a look of most benevolent softness that played about her mouth
whenever she spoke. The younger, who might in years have seemed her
daughter, was in every respect unlike her: she was slight and delicately
formed; her complexion and her black eyes, shaded by a long dark fringe,
bespoke the Provençal; her features were beautifully regular, and when
at rest completely Greek in their character, but each moment some
chance word, some passing thought, implanted a new expression, and the
ever-varying look of her flashing eyes and full round lips played between
a smile and that arch spirit that essentially belongs to the fair
daughters of the South. It was not until my fixed gaze had brought a
deep blush to her cheek, that I felt how ardently I had been looking at
her.

“Yes, yes,” said she, hurriedly, “he's quite well now;” and at the same
moment she made a gesture of impatience to pass on. But the elder held
her arm close within her own, as she whispered, with something of half
malice, “But stay, Marie; I should like to hear his name. Ah,” cried
she, starting in affected surprise, “how flushed you are! there must be
something in the air here, so we had better proceed.” And with a soft
smile and a courteous motion of her hand, she passed on.

I looked after them as they went. A strange odd feeling stirred within
my heart,--a kind of wild joy, with a mingled sense of hope too vague to
catch at. I watched the drooping feather of her bonnet, and the folds of
her dress as they fluttered in the wind; and when she disappeared from
my sight, I could scarce believe that she was not still beside me,
and that lier dark eyes did not look into my very soul. But already my
companions crowded about me, and amid a hundred warm congratulations and
kind wishes, I took my way back to the college.

Scarcely was breakfast over the following morning, when the order
arrived for my removal from the scholar quarter of the Polytechnique to
that occupied by the cadets. A small tricolored cockade affixed to
my hat was the only emblem of my new rank; but simple as it was, no
decoration ever attracted more envy and admiration from the beholders,
nor gave more pride to the wearer, than that knot of ribbon.

“At number thirteen you 'll find your quarters, Monsieur le Cadet,” said
a sergeant, as he presented me with the official order.

I remember at this very hour what a thrill his military salute sent
through me. It was the first acknowledgment of my grade; the first
recognition that I was no longer a mere schoolboy. I had not much time
granted me to indulge such sensations, for already my schoolfellows had
thronged round me, and overwhelmed me with questions and felicitations.

“Ah, what a fortunate fellow! No examination to go through; has
his grade given him without toiling for it.”--“Is it the cavalry,
Burke”--“Are you a cheval?”--“When do you join?”--“Where is your
regiment?”--“Shall we see you again?”--“Won't you write to us all about
the corps when you join them?”--“Who is your comrade?”--“Yes, tell us
that; who is he?”

“Ma foi,” said I, “I know not more than yourselves. You are all aware to
what an accident I owe my promotion. Where I am destined for, or in what
corps, I can't tell. And as to my comrade--”

“Ah! take care he 's no tyrant,” said one.

“Yes, yes,” cried another; “show him you know what a small sword is at
once.”

“Burke won't be trifled with,” cried a third.

And then followed a very chorus of voices, each detailing some atrocity
committed by the cadets on their newly-joined associates. One had a
friend wounded in the side the very day he joined; another knew some one
who was thrown out of a window: here was an account of a delicate boy
who passed an entire night in the snow, and died of a chest disease
three weeks after; there, a victim to intemperance met his fate in
the orgy that celebrated his promotion. This picture, I confess, did
somewhat damp the ardor of my first impressions; and I took leave of my
old friends with not less feeling of affection, that I doubted how much
kindness and good feeling I had to expect from my new ones.

In this mood of mind I shook their hands for the last time, and followed
the soldier who carried my baggage to the distant quarter of the école.
As I entered the large court by the richly ornamented gate, whose
bronzed tracery and handsome carving dated from the time of Louis the
Fourteenth, my heart swelled with conscious pride. The façade of
the square, unlike the simple front of the scholars' quarters, was
beautifully architectural; massive consoles supported the windows,
and large armorial insignia, cut on stone, surmounted the different
entrances. But what most captivated my spirits and engaged my attention
was a large flag in the centre, from which waved the broad ensign of
France, beside which a sentinel paced to and fro. He presented arms as
I passed; and the click of his musket, as he stood erect, sent a thrill
through me, and made my very fingers tingle with delight.

“This is number thirteen, sir,” said the soldier, as we arrived in front
of one of the doorways; and before I could reply, the door opened, and a
young officer, in the uniform of an infantry regiment, appeared. He was
about to pass out, when his eye resting on the luggage the soldier had
just placed beside him, he stopped suddenly, and, touching his cap,
asked in a polite tone,--

“Not Mr. Burke, is it?”

“Yes,” said I, bowing in return.

“Eh, mon camarade,” said he, holding out his hand, “delighted to see
you. Have you breakfasted? Well, you 'll find all ready for you in the
quarters. I shall be back soon. I 'm only going to a morning drill,
which won't last half an hour; so make yourself at home, and we'll meet
soon again.”

So saying, he once more saluted me, and passed on. “Not very like what
I feared,” thought I, as I entered the quarters, whose look of neatness
and comfort so pleasantly contrasted with my late abode. I had barely
time to look over the prints and maps of military subjects which
ornamented the walls, when my new friend made his appearance.

“No parade to-day, thank Heaven,” said he, throwing down his cap and
sabre, and lolling at full length on the little camp sofa. “Now, mon
cher camarade, let us make acquaintance at once, for our time is likely
to be of the shortest. My name is Tascher, a humble sous-lieutenant of
the Twenty-first Regiment of Foot. As much a stranger in this land as
yourself, I fancy,” continued he, after a slight pause, “but very well
contented to be adopted by it.”

After this opening, he proceeded to inform me that he was the nephew of
Madame Bonaparte,--her sister's only son,--who, at his mother's death,
left Guadaloupe, and came over to France, and became an éleve of the
Polytechnique. There he had remained five years, and after a severe
examination, obtained his brevet in an infantry corps; his uncle
Bonaparte having shown him no other favor nor affection than a severe
reprimand on one occasion for some boyish freak, when all the other
delinquents escaped scot-free.

“I am now under orders for service,” said he; “but where for, and when,
I can't tell. But this I know, that whatever good fortune may be going
a-begging, I, Lieutenant Tascher, am very likely to get only the hem of
the garment.”

There was a tone of easy and frank good-nature in all he said, which
at once disposed me to like the young Creole; and we spent the whole
afternoon recounting our various adventures and fortunes, and before
night came on were sworn friends for life.



CHAPTER XXII. THE TUILERIES IN 1803

The life of the cadet differed little from that of the schoolboy. The
same routine of study, the same daily round of occupation and duty,
were his. Until drafted to the particular corps to which he might be
appointed, he only could absent himself from the college by special
leave; and the most rigid of all military discipline prevailed during
the brief interval which was to fit him for the arduous life of a
soldier. The evenings, however, were at our disposal; and what a
pleasure it was, the fatigue of the day over, to wander forth into the
city,--that brilliant Paris, near which I had lived so long, and yet
had seen so little of!

At first the splendor of the shops, the unceasing flow of population,
the might and grandeur of the public buildings, attracted all my
attention; and when these wore off in novelty, I could still wander
with delight through the gay gardens of the Tuileries, and watch the
sparkling fountains as they splashed in the pale moonlight, and look
upon the happy children who played about them, their merry laughter
ringing through the water's plash. What a fairy scene it was to
watch the groups as they passed and repassed--came and went and
disappeared--amid those dark alleys where the silent footstep did not
mar the sounds of happy voices! and then, how have I turned from
these to throw a wistful glance towards the palace windows, where some
half-closed curtain from time to time would show the golden sparkle of
a brilliant lustre or the rich frame of a mirror,--mayhap an open sash
would for a moment display some fair form, the outline only seen as she
leaned on the balcony and drank in the balmy air of the mild evening,
while the soft swell of music would float from the gorgeous saloon,
and falling on my ear, set me a-dreaming of pleasures my life had never
known!

My utter loneliness pressed deeper on me every day; for while each of
my companions had friends and relatives, among whom their evenings were
passed, I was friendless and alone. The narrowness of my means--I had
nothing save my pay--prevented my frequenting the theatre, or even
accepting such invitations as the other cadets pressed upon me; and thus
for hours long have I sat and watched the windows of the palace, weaving
to myself stories of that ideal world from which my humble fortune
debarred me.

It had been years since the Tuileries exhibited anything resembling the
state that formerly prevailed in that splendid palace; but at the period
I speak of Bonaparte had just been chosen Consul for life, and already
the organization of his household had undergone a most considerable
alteration. In the early years of the Consulate a confused assemblage of
aides-de-camp, whose heavy gait and loud speech betokened less the court
than the camp, were the only attendants on his person; he lived in the
centre pavilion, as if in a tent in the midst of his army. But now he
inhabited the splendid suite of rooms to the left of the pavilion,--_de
l'horloge_, as it is called,--which stretches away towards the river.
The whole service of the palace was remodelled; and without wounding
those prejudices that attached to the times of the deposed Monarchy
by adopting the titles of chamberlain, or gentlemen of the chamber,
he gradually instituted the ceremonial of a Court by preferring to the
posts about his person those whose air and manners savored most of the
higher habitudes of society, and whose families were distinguished among
the noblesse of the kingdom.

Duroc, the chief aide-de-camp of the General, was appointed governor
of the palace; and it was said that the Consul himself studied all the
ancient ceremonial of the old Court, and ordained that every etiquette
of royalty should be resumed with the most unerring accuracy. The
chamberlains were represented by prefects of the palace; and Josephine
had her ladies of honor, like any princess of the blood royal.

The Consul, still imitating the observances of the Bourbons, had
his _petits levers_ and his grand receptions; and if the new-created
functionaries possessed little of the courteous ease and high-bred
habitudes of the old Court, there was in their hard-won honors--most of
them promoted on the very field of battle--that which better suited the
prejudices of the period, and scarcely less became the gilded saloons of
the Tuileries.

Like all newly-organized societies, the machinery worked ill at
first. Few if any of them had ever seen a Court; and the proud but yet
respectful obedience which characterized the French gentleman in the
presence of his sovereign was converted into an obsequious and vulgar
deference towards Bonaparte, equally opposite to the true type, as it
was foreign to the habits, of the blunt soldier who proffered it.

But what, after all, signified these blemishes? There was beauty: never
in the brighter annals of France had more lovely women filled those
gorgeous saloons. There was genius, heroism: the highest chivalry of
the great nation could scarce vie with the proud deeds of those grouped
around him,--the mighty one on whom each eye was fixed. And if, as M.
Talleyrand remarked, there were those who knew not how to walk on
the waxed floor of a palace, few could tread more finely the field of
battles, and step with firmer foot the path that led to glory. Yet,
with all the First Consul's pride in those whose elevation to rank and
dignity was his own work, his predilections leaned daily more and more
towards the high and polished circles of the Faubourg St. Germain. The
courteous and easy politeness of Talleyrand, the chivalrous and courtly
bearing of the Comte de Narbonne, and the graceful elegance of Ségur's
manners, formed too striking a contrast with the soldierlike rudeness
of the newly-promoted generals, not to make a profound impression on
one who could, in the deepest and weightiest concerns of life, take into
calculation the most minute and trivial circumstances.

This disparity, remarkable as it was among the men, was still more so in
the ladies of the Court,--few of those newly elevated having tact enough
either to imitate successfully the polished usages of the old nobility,
or resolution sufficient to maintain their original habits without
blushing at their own want of breeding.

If I have been led somewhat from the current of my own story by this
digression, it is merely that I may passingly note down some of the
features of the period,--one of the most remarkable in the history of
Modern Europe, and one which already, to the far-seeing eye of some,
betokened the speedy return to those very institutions of Monarchy to
uproot which cost the best blood of France, and a revolution the most
terrific the world has ever witnessed.

And now, looking back on the great career of that great man, no portion
of his history can, perhaps, present anything to compare with the
splendor of the Consulate. A long succession of victories, the spoils
of half Europe, glory to very satiety, had intoxicated the nation.
A country flourishing in every element of prosperity; social order
restored; a high position amid surrounding nations; and everything that
could gratify national ambition obtained,--France stood at the very
pinnacle of her greatness. Even the splendor of those names who
represented the various states of Europe at her Court seemed to attest
her supremacy. The stately and polished Whitworth, conspicuous by
the elegance of his appearance and the perfection of his aristocratic
bearing; the Russian Ambassador, Marcoff; the Chevalier Azara, the
Minister of Spain, the courtier of Europe; Baron de Cetto, the Envoy of
Saxony, one of the most distinguished, both by manners and ability, m
the whole diplomatic circle, were among those who frequented the First
Consul's levies, which already, in the splendor of costume and the
gorgeous display of uniform, rivalled the most sumptuous days of the
Monarchy.

All the long-forgotten ceremonial of a Court was restored. Dinners, most
splendid in all the array of pomp and grandeur, were given every week;
fêtes, that vied with the luxurious era of Louis the Fourteenth himself,
took place frequently; and Paris became the rendezvous for all Europe,
curious to behold the rich trophies of successful wars, and mix in the
delight of a capital where pleasure reigned triumphant.

The theatre presented an array of genius and talent hitherto unequalled.
Talma and Mademoiselle Mars were in the very zenith of their fame, and
obtained a large share of Bonaparte's favor, whose tastes were eminently
dramatic. In a word, a new era had commenced, and every class and walk,
every condition of man, seemed resolved to recompense itself, by the
pursuit of pleasure, for the long and dark night of trouble through
which it had passed.

While, therefore, the Court of the First Consul partook of such
features as those, the circle of Josephine possessed attractions
totally different. There, amid her intimate friends, all the charm and
fascination of French society held sway. Each evening saw assembled
around her the wittiest and most polished persons of the day,--the gay
and spirited talkers who so pre-eminently gave the tone to Parisian
society: the handsomest women, and the most distinguished of the
litterateurs of the period, found ready access to one whose own powers
of pleasing have left an undying impression on some, who even still can
recall those delightful moments.

Such were, in brief, the leading features of the Court then held in the
Tuileries; and such the germ of that new order of things which was so
soon to burst forth upon astonished Europe under the proud title of The
Empire.



CHAPTER XXIII. A SURPRISE.

I WAS sitting one evening alone in my quarters, an open volume before
me, in which I persuaded myself I was reading, while my thoughts were
far otherwise engaged, when my comrade Tascher suddenly entered the
room, and throwing himself into a chair, exclaimed, in a tone of
passionate impatience,--

“_Pardieu!_ it is a fine thing to be nephew to the first man in France!”

“What has happened?” said I, when I perceived that he stopped short
without explaining further.

“What has happened!--enough to drive one mad. Just hear this. You know
how fond I am of Paris, and how naturally I must wish to be near the
Tuileries, where I have the _entrée_ to my aunt's soirees. Well, there
was a vacancy occurred yesterday in the huitieme hussars,--a corps
always stationed here or at Versailles,--and as I am longing to have a
cavalry grade, I waited on Madame Bonaparte to solicit her interest in
my favor. She promised, of course. The General was to breakfast with
her, and it was all settled: she was to ask him for the promotion, and
I had not a doubt of success; in fact, if I must confess, I told two or
three of my friends, and actually received their congratulations.

“It so fell out, however, that he did not come to breakfast, nor dinner
either,--there's no knowing that man. But what think you? He walked in
this evening, just as we were preparing to act a proverb. Such a scene
as it was, to be sure. No one expected him. Most of us were dressed up
in costumes of one kind or other; and I, _ma foi!_--ridiculous enough, I
suppose,--I was costumed like a galley slave. He stood for a second or
two at the door with his arms folded, and his stern eyes wandering
over the whole room. There was not one amongst us would not have wished
himself many a mile away; even my aunt herself seemed quite confused,
and blushed, and grew pale, and blushed again.

“'Ha!' cried he at last, in his dry, short voice. 'Pardon, ladies and
gentlemen, I have made a mistake; I believed I was in the Palace of the
Tuileries, and I find this is the Porte St. Martin.'

“'Fi donc, Bonaparte!' cried my aunt, blushing, while with one of her
sweetest-smiles she endeavored to bring him back to good-humor. 'See how
you have frightened Madame de Narbonne--she 'll never be able to play
the miller's wife; and Marie here,--her tears will wash away all her
rouge.'

“'And this amiable gentleman, what is to become of him?' said he,
interrupting her, while he laid his hand on my shoulder, and I stood
trembling like a culprit beside him.

“'Ah, there! that 's Tascher,' said she, laughingly; and as if happy to
escape from her greater embarrassment by any means, she continued: 'Your
question comes, indeed, quite a propos. I have a request to make in his
favor: there's a vacancy in the huitieme, I think it is,--eh, Edward?'
(I nodded slightly, for if my life depended on it, I could not have
uttered a word.) 'Now, I am sure he 's been sous-lieutenant long enough;
and in the infantry too.'

“'Can you ride well, sir?' said he, turning to me with a half frown on
his pale face.

“'Yes, General,' replied I, with my heart almost choking me as I spoke.

“'Well, sir, you shall be employed, and in a service worthy your present
tastes, if I may judge from your costume. A detachment of prisoners is
to march to-morrow from this for the Bagne de Brest; hold yourself in
readiness to accompany the military escort. Go, sir, and report yourself
to your colonel.' He waved his hand when he had finished; and how I left
the room, reached the street, and found myself here, hang me if I can
tell you.”

“And is there no help for this? Must you really go?” said I,
compassionating the dejected and sorrow-struck expression of the youth.

“Must I go! _Ma foi_ you know little of this dear uncle of mine, if you
ask such a question. When once his mind 's made up, anything like an
attempt to argue only confirms his resolve. The best thing now is, to
obey and say nothing; for if my aunt remonstrates, I may spend my life
in garrison there over the galley slaves.”

A knocking at the outer door interrupted our conversation at this
moment, and a corporal of the staff entered, with a despatch-bag at his
waist.

“Sous-Lieutenant Tascher,” said he, touching his cap, and presenting a
large official-looking letter to my companion, who threw it from him on
the table, and turned away to hide his confusion. “Monsieur Burke,” said
the corporal, withdrawing another ominous document from his leathern
pouch.

“_Diantre!_” cried Tascher, turning quickly about, “have I got you into
a scrape as well as myself? I remember now the General asked me who was
my 'comrade.'”

I took the paper with a trembling hand, and tore it open. The first line
was all I could read; it was a War Office official, appointing me to the
vacant commission in the huitieme hussars.

Tascher's hand shook as he leaned on my shoulder, and I could feel a
convulsive twitching of his fingers as his agitation increased; but in
a second or two he recovered his self-command, and taking my hand within
both of his, he said, while the large tears were starting from his
eyes,--

“I'm glad it's you, Burke!” and then turned away, unable to say more.

It was some time before I could bring myself to credit my good fortune.
Had I been free to choose, I could have desired nothing better nor more
to my liking; and when I succeeded at length, then came my embarrassment
at my poor friend's disappointment, which must have been still more
poignant as contrasted with my success. Tascher, however, had all the
Creole warmth of temperament. The first burst over, he really enjoyed
the thought of my promotion; and we sat up the entire night talking over
plans for the future, and making a hundred resolves for contingencies,
some of which never arose, and many, when they came, suggested remedies
of their own.

At daybreak my comrade's horses came to the door, and a mounted orderly
attended to accompany him to the prison where the convoy were assembled.
We shook hands again and again. He was leaving what had been his home
for years,--Paris, the gay and brilliant city in whose pleasures he had
mixed, and whose fascinations he had tasted. I was parting from one with
whom I had lived in a friendship as close as can subsist between two
natures essentially different. We both were sad.

“Adieu, Burke!” said he, as he waved his hand for the last time. “I
hope you'll command the huitieme when next we meet.”

I hurried into the quarters, which already seemed lonely and deserted,
so soon does desolation throw its darkening shadow before it. The sword
that had hung above the chimney crosswise on my own was gone; the shako,
too, and the pistols were missing; the vacant chair stood opposite to
mine; and the isolation I felt became so painful that I wandered out
into the open air, glad to escape the sight of objects every one of
which only suggested how utterly alone I stood in the world when the
departure of one friend had left me companionless.

No one save he who has experienced it can form any just idea of the
intense hold a career of any kind will take of the mind of him who,
without the ties of country, of kindred, and of friends, devotes all
his energies in one direction. The affections that might, under other
influences, have grown up,--the hopes that might have flourished in the
happy sphere of a home,--become the springs of a more daring ambition.
In proportion as he deserts other roads in life, the path he has struck
out for himself seems wider and grander, and his far-seeing eye enables
him to look into the long distance with a prophetic vision, where are
rewards for his hard won victories, the recompense of long years of
toil. The pursuit, become a passion, gradually draws all into its
vortex; and that success which at first he believed only attainable by
some one mighty effort, seems at last to demand every energy of his life
and every moment of his existence: and as the miser would deem his ruin
near should the most trifling opportunity of gain escape him, so
does the ambitious man feel that every incident in life must be made
tributary to the success which is his mammon. It was thus I thought of
the profession of arms: my whole soul was in it; no other wish, no other
hope, divided my heart; that passion reigned there alone. How often do
we find it in life that the means become the end,--that the effort we
employ to reach an object takes hold upon our fancy, gains hourly upon
our affections, and at length usurps the place of what before had been
our idol? As a boy, liberty, the bold assertion of my country's rights,
stirred my heart, and made me wish to be a soldier. As years rolled on,
the warlike passion sank deeper and deeper in my nature,--the thirst for
glory grew upon me; and forgetting all save that, I longed for the time
when on the battle-field I should win my name to fame and honor.

In this wise were my musings, as I loitered homeward and entered my
quarters. A sealed packet, addressed Sous-Lieutenant Burke,--how that
humble title made my heart beat!--lay on my table. Supposing it referred
to my new appointment, I sat down to con it over at my leisure; but no
sooner had I torn open the envelope than a card fell to the ground. I
took it up hastily, and read,--“D'après l'ordre de Madame Bonaparte,
j'ai l'honneur de vous inviter à une soirée--”

“What!” cried I, aloud; “_me!_--invite me to the Palace! There must be
some mistake here.” And I turned again to the envelope, where my name
was legibly written, with my grade and the number of my new corps. There
could be no doubt of it; and yet was it still inexplicable. I that was
so perfectly alone,--a stranger, without a friend, save among the
humble ranks of the school,--how came such a distinction as this to
be conferred on me? I thought of Tascher; but then we had lived months
together, and such a thing had never been even alluded to. The more
I reflected on it, the greater became my difficulty; and in a maze of
confusion and embarrassment, I passed the day in preparation for the
evening,--for, as was customary at the period, the invitations for small
parties were issued on the very mornings' themselves.

My first care was to look after the uniform of my new corps, in which I
knew I must appear. My last remaining bank note--the sole survivor of my
little stock of wealth--was before me; and I sat calculating with myself
the costly outlay of a hussar dress, the full uniform of which had not
till now entered into my computation. Never was my ingenuity more sorely
tried than in the endeavor to bring the outlay within the narrow limits
of my little purse; and when at length I would think that all had been
remembered, some small but costly item would rise up against me, and
disconcert all my calculations.

At noon I set out to wait on my new colonel, whose quarters were in the
Place Vendome. The visit was a short and not over pleasant one; a crowd
of officers filled the rooms, among whom I edged my way with difficulty
towards the place where Colonel Marbois was standing. He was a short,
thick-set, vulgar-looking man, of about fifty; his mustache and whiskers
meeting above the lip, and his bushy, black beard below, gave him the
air of a pioneer, which his harsh Breton accent did not derogate from.

“Ah, c'est vous!” said he, as my name was announced. “You 'll have to
learn in future, sir, that officers of your rank are not received at
the levies of their colonel. You hear me: report yourself to the _chef
d'escadron_, however, who will give you your orders. And mark me, sir,
let this be the last day you are seen in that uniform.”

A short and not very gracious nod concluded the audience; and I took
my leave not the less abashed that I could mark a kind of half smile on
most of the faces about me as I withdrew from the crowd,--scarcely in
the street, however, when my heart felt light and my step elastic. I was
a sous-lieutenant of hussars; and if I did my duty, what cared I for
the smiles and frowns of my colonel? and had not the General Bonaparte
himself told me that “no grade was too high for the brave man who did
so?”

[Illustration: Monsieur Crillac's Salon 239]

I can scarcely avoid a smile even yet as I call to mind the awe I felt
on entering the splendid shop of Monsieur Crillac,--the fashionable
tailor of those days, whose plateglass windows and showy costumes formed
the standing point for many a lounger around the corner of the Rue de
richelieu and the Boulevard. His saloon, as he somewhat ostentatiously
called it, was the rendezvous for the idlers of a fashionable world, who
spent their mornings canvassing the last gossip of the city and devising
new extravagances in dress. The morning papers, caricatures, prints
of fashions, patterns of waistcoats, and new devices for buttons, were
scattered over a table, round which, in every attitude of indolence and
ease, were stretched some dozen of the exquisites of the period,
engaged in that species of half-ennui, half-conversation, that forms a
considerable part of the existence of your young men of fashion of every
age and every country. Their frock-coats of light cloth, high-collared,
and covered with buttons; their _bottes à revers_ reaching only mid-leg,
and met there by a tight _pantalon collant_; their hair studiously
brushed back off their foreheads, and worn long, though not in queue
behind,--bespoke them as the most accurate types of the mode.

The appearance of a youth in the simple uniform of the Polytechnique, in
such a place, seemed to excite universal astonishment. Such a phenomenon
apparently had never been witnessed before; and as they turned fully
round to stare at me, it was clear they never deemed that any mark
of rudeness could be felt by one so humble as I was. Monsieur Crillac
himself, who was sipping his glass of _eau sucrée_, with one arm
leaning on the chimney-piece, never deigned to pay me other attention
than a half-smile, as, with a voice of most patronizing softness, he
lisped out,--

“What can we do for you here, Monsieur?”

Apparently the answer to this question was a matter of interest to the
party, who suddenly ceased talking to listen.

“I wish to order a uniform,” said I, summoning up all my resolution not
to seem abashed. “This is a tailor's, if I don't mistake?”

“Monsieur is quite correct,” replied the imperturbable proprietor,
whose self-satisfied smile became still more insulting, “but perhaps not
exactly what you seek for. Gentlemen who wear your cloth seldom visit
us.”

“No, Crillac,” interrupted one of the bystanders; “I never heard that
you advertised yourself as fashioner to the Polytechnique, or tailor in
ordinary to the corps of Pompiers.”

“You are insolent, sir!” said I, turning fiercely round upon the
speaker. The words were scarce spoken, when the party sprang to
their legs,--some endeavoring to restrain the temper of the young man
addressed; others, pressing around, called on me to apologize on the
spot for what I had said.

“No, no; let us have his name,--his name,” said three or four in a
breath. “De Beauvais will take the punishment into his own hands.”

“Be advised, young gentleman; unsay your words, and go your way,” said
an elder one of the party; while he added in a whisper, “De Beauvais has
no equal in Paris with the small sword.”

“There is my address,” said I, seizing a pen, and writing on a piece of
paper before me.

“Ha!” said De Beauvais, as he threw his eye on the writing; “he has
got his grade, it seems: all the better that,--I half shrunk from the
ridicule of an affair with a cadet. So you are serious about this?”

“Sir!” said I, all my efforts being barely enough to repress my rising
passion.

“Well, well! enough about it. To-morrow morning; the Bois de Boulogne;
the rapier. You understand me, I suppose?”

I nodded, and was about to leave the place, when I remembered that in my
confusion I had neither asked my antagonist's name nor rank.

“And you, sir,” said I, “may I have the honor to learn who you are?”

“Pardieu, my young friend!” cried one of the others; “The information
will not strengthen your nerves. But if you will have it, he is the
Marquis de Beauvais, and tolerably well known in that little locality
where he expects to meet you to-morrow.”

“Till then, sir,” replied I, touching my cap, as I turned into the
street; not, however, before a burst of laughter rang through the party
at a witticism of which I was the object, and the latter part of which
only could I catch.

It was De Beauvais who spoke: “In which case, Crillac, another artist
must take his measure.”

The allusion could not be mistaken, and I confess I did not relish it
like the others.

I should, I fear, have fallen very low in the estimate of my companions
and associates could the real state of my heart at that moment have been
laid open to them. It was, I freely own, one of great depression. But an
hour ago, and life was opening before me with many a bright and cheerful
hope; and now in an instant was my fortune clouded. Let me not be
misunderstood: among the rules of the Polytechnique, duelling was
strictly forbidden; and although numerous transgressions occurred, so
determined was the head of the Government to put down the practice,
that the individuals thus erring were either reduced in rank or
their promotion stopped for a considerable period, while the personal
displeasure of Greneral Bonaparte rarely failed to show itself with
reference to them. Now, it was clear to me that some unknown
friend, some secret well-wisher, had interested himself in my humble
fate,--that I owed my newly acquired rank to his kindness and
good offices. What, then, might I not be forfeiting by this unhappy
rencontre? Was it not more than likely that such an instance of
misconduct, the very day of my promotion, might determine the whole
tenor of my future career? What misrepresentation might not gain
currency about my conduct? These were sad reflections indeed, and every
moment but increased them.

When I reached the college, I called on one of my friends; but not
finding him in his quarters, I wrote a few lines, begging he would come
over to me the moment he returned. This done, I sat down alone to think
over my adventure, and devise if I could some means to prevent its
publicity, or if not that, its being garbled and misstated. Hour after
hour rolled past--my wandering thoughts took no note of time--and the
deep-tolled bell of the Polytechnique struck eight before I was aware
the day was nearly over. Nine was the hour mentioned on my card of
invitation: it flashed suddenly on me. What was to be done? I had no
uniform save that of the ecole. Such a costume in such a place would,
I feared, be considered too ridiculous; yet to absent myself altogether
was impossible. Never was I in such a dilemma. All my endeavors to
rescue myself were fruitless; and at last, worn out with the conflict
of my doubts and fears, I stepped into the fiacre and set out for the
Palace.



CHAPTER XXIV. THE PAVILLON DE FLORE.

As my humble carriage slackened its pace to a walk on approaching the
Place Carousel, I for the first time perceived that the open space
around was thronged with equipages, moving slowly along in line towards
the gate of the Palace. A picket of dragoons was drawn up at the great
archway, and mounted gendarmes rode up and down to preserve order in the
crowd. Before me stretched the long facade of the Tuileries, now lighted
up in its entire extent; the rich hangings and costly furniture could be
seen even where I was.

What a sinking sense of shame overwhelmed me as I thought of my
humble position amid that mighty concourse of all that was great and
illustrious in France! and how I shrunk within myself as I thought of
the poor scholar of the Polytechnique--for such my dress, proclaimed
me--mixing with the most distinguished diplomatists and generals of
Europe! The rebuke I had met with from my colonel in the morning
was still fresh in my recollection, and I dreaded something like a
repetition of it.

“Oh, why had I not known that this was a grand reception?” was
the ever-rising thought of my mind. My card of invitation said a
soiree,--even that I might have dared: but here was a regular levée!
Already I was near enough to hear the names announced at the foot of the
grand staircase, where ambassadors, senators, ministers of state, and
officers of the highest rank succeeded each other in quick succession.
My carriage stood now next but two. I was near enough to see the last
arrival hand his card to the huissier in waiting, and hear his title
called out, “Le Ministre de la Guerre,” when the person in the carriage
before me cried to his coachman, “To the left,--the Pa villon de
Flore;” and at the same moment the carriage turned from the line, and
drove rapidly towards a distant wing of the Palace.

“Move up! move up!” shouted a dragoon. “Or are you for the soiree de
Madame?”

“Yes, yes!” said I, hastily, as I heard his question.

“Follow that carriage, then,” said he, pointing with his sabre; and in
a moment we left the dense file, and followed the sounds of the retiring
wheels towards a dark corner of the Palace, where a single lamp over a
gate was the only light to guide us.

Never shall I forget the sense of relief I felt as I lay back in the
carriage, and listened to the hum and din of the vast crowd growing each
moment fainter. “Thank Heaven,” said I, “it's no levee!” Scarce half
a dozen equipages stood around the door as we drove up, and a single
dragoon was the guard of honor.

“Whom shall I announce, sir?” said a huissier in black, whose manner was
as deferential as though my appearance bespoke an ambassador. I gave
my name, and followed him up a wide stair, where the deep velvet carpet
left no footfall audible. A large bronze candelabra, supporting a blaze
of waxlights, diffused a light like day on every side. The doors opened
before us as if by magic, and I found myself in an antechamber, where
the huissier, repeating my name to another in waiting, retired. Passing
through this, we entered a small drawing-room, in which sat two persons
engaged at a chess table, but who never looked up or noticed us as we
proceeded. At last the two wings of a wide folding door were thrown
open, and my name was announced in a low but audible voice.

The salon into which I now entered was a large and splendidly-furnished
apartment, whose light, tempered by a species of abat-jour, gave a
kind of soft mysterious effect to everything about, and made even the
figures, as they sat in little groups, appear something almost
dramatic in their character. The conversation, too, was maintained in
a half-subdued tone,--a gentle murmur of voices, that, mingling with
the swell of music in another and distant apartment, and the plash of a
small fountain in a vase of goldfish in the room itself, made a strange
but most pleasing assemblage of sounds. Even in the momentary glance
which, on entering, I threw around me, I perceived that no studied
etiquette or courtly stateliness prevailed. The guests were disposed in
every attitude of lounging ease and careless abandon; and it was plain
to see that all or nearly all about were intimates of the place.

As the door closed behind me, I stood half uncertain how to proceed.
Unhappily, I knew little of the habitudes of the great world, and every
step I took was a matter of difficulty.

“I think you will find Madame Bonaparte in that room,” said a
middle-aged and handsome man, whose mild voice and gentle smile did much
to set me at my ease. “But perhaps you don't know her.”

I muttered something I meant to be a negative, to which he immediately
replied,--

“Then let me present you. There is no ceremony here, and I shall be your
groom of the chambers. But here she is. Madame la Consulesse, this young
gentleman desires to make his respects.”

“Ha! our friend of the Polytechnique,--Monsieur Burke, is it not?”

“Yes, Madame,” said I, bowing low, and blushing deeply as I recognized,
in the splendidly-attired and beautiful person before me, the lady
who so kindly held the water to my lips the day of my accident at the
school.

“Why, they told me you were promoted,--a hussar, I think.”

“Yes, Madame; but--but--”

“You are too fond of old associations to part from them easily,” said
she, laughing. “Come here, Stephanie, and see a miracle of manhood, that
could resist all the _clinquant_ of a hussar for the simple costume of
the É cole Militaire. Monsieur de Custine, this is my young friend of
whom I told you the other day.”

The gentleman, the same who had so kindly noticed me, bowed politely.

“And now I must leave you together, for I see they are teasing poor
Madame Lefebvre.” And with a smile she passed on into a small boudoir,
from which the sounds of merry laughter were proceeding.

“You don't know any one here?” said Monsieur de Custine, as he motioned
me to a place beside him on a sofa. “Nor is there any very remarkable
person here to point out to you this evening. The First Consul's levée
absorbs all the celebrities; but by and by they will drop in to pay
their respects, and you 'll see them all. The handsome woman yonder with
her fan before her is Madame Beauharnais Lavalette, and the good-looking
young fellow in the staff uniform is Monsieur de Melcy, a stepson of
General Rapp.”

“And the large handsome man with the embroidered coat who passed through
so hurriedly?”

“Yes, he is somebody,--that's Decrès, the Ministre de la Marine; he is
gone to the levee. And there, next the door, with his eyes cast down and
his hands folded, that is the Abbé Maynal, one of the most 'spirituel'
men of the day. But I suppose you 'd much rather look at the beauties
of the Court than hear long stories about literature and politics. And
there is the gem of loveliness among them.”

I turned my eyes as he spoke, and close beside me, engaged in an eager
conversation with an old lady, stood a young and most beautiful girl.
Her long hair, through which, in the then mode, violets were wreathed
and interwoven, descended in rich masses of curl over a neck white as
marble. The corsage of her dress, which, in imitation of Greek costume,
was made low, displayed her well-rounded shoulders to the greatest
advantage; and though rather below than above the middle size, there
was a dignity and grace in the air of her figure, and a certain elegance
about her slightest movements, that was most fascinating.

“And the 'Rose de Provence,'--how is she this evening?” said my
companion, rising suddenly, and presenting himself with a smile before
her.

“Ah! you here. Monsieur de Custine? we thought you had been at Nancy.”

The accent, the tone of voice in which she said these few words, sent
a thrill through me; and as I looked again, I recognized the young lady
who stood at Madame Bonaparte's side on the memorable day of my fall.
Perhaps my astonishment made me start; for she turned round towards me,
and with a soft and most charming smile saluted me,

“How they are laughing in that room!” said she, turning towards her
other companions. “Monsieur de Custine has deserted his dear friend this
evening, and left her to her unassisted defence.”

“_Ma foi_,” replied he, “I got ill rewarded for my advocacy. It was only
last week, when I helped her out through one of her blunders in grammar
she called me a 'ganache' for my pains.”

“How very ungrateful! You that have been interpreter to her, her tutor
for the entire winter, without whom she could neither have obtained an
ice nor a glass of water!”

“So is it; but you are all ungrateful. But I think I had better go and
pay my respects to her. Pray, come along with me.”

[Illustration: The Rose of Provence 247]

I followed the party into a small room fitted up like a tent, where,
amid some half-dozen persons assembled around like an audience, sat a
large, florid, and good-looking person, her costume of scarlet velvet,
turban, and robe adding to the flushed and high-colored expression of
her features. She was talking in a loud voice, and with an accent of
such _patois_ as I should much more naturally have expected in a remote
faubourg than in the gilded _salons_ of the Tuileries. She had been
relating some anecdotes of military life, which came within her own
experience; and evidently amused her auditory as much by her manner as
the matter of her narrative.

“Oui, parbleu,” said she, drawing a long breath, “I was only the wife
of a sergeant in the 'Gardes Françaises' in those days; but they were
pleasant times, and the men one used to see were men indeed. They were
not as much laced in gold, nor had not so much finery on their jackets;
but they were bold, bronzed, manly fellows. You 'd not see such a poor,
miserable little fellow as De Custine there, in a whole demi-brigade.”
 When the laugh this speech caused, and in which her own merry voice
joined, subsided, she continued; “Where will you find, now, anything
like the Twenty-second of the line? Pioche was in that. Poor Pioche! I
tied up his jaw in Egypt when it was smashed by a bullet. I remember,
too, when the regiment came back, your husband, the General, reviewed
them in the court below, and poor Pioche was quite offended at not
being noticed. 'We were good friends,' quoth he, 'at Mount Tabor, but
he forgets all that now; that 's what comes of a rise in the world. “Le
Petit Caporal” was humble enough once, I warrant him; but now he can't
remember me.' Well, they were ordered to march past in line; and there
was Pioche, with his great dark eyes fixed on the General, and his big
black beard flowing down to his waist. But no, he never noticed him no
more than the tambour that beat the rappel. He could bear it no longer;
his head was twisting with impatience and chagrin; and he sprang out of
the lines, and seizing a brass gun,--a _pièce de quatre_,--he mounted
it like a fusee to his shoulder, and marched past, calling out, 'Tu'--he
always _tu'toied_ him--' tu te rappelles maintenant, n'est-ce pas,
petit?'”

No one enjoyed this little story more than Madame Bonaparte herself, who
laughed for several minutes after it was over. Story after story did she
pour forth in this way; most of them, however, had their merit in
some personality or other, which, while recognized by the rest, had no
attraction for me. There was in all she said the easy self-complacency
of a kind-hearted but vulgar woman, vain of her husband, proud of
his services, and perfectly indifferent to the habits and usages of a
society 'whose manners she gave herself no trouble to imitate, nor of
whose ridicule was she in the least afraid.

I sauntered from the room alone, to wander through the other apartments,
where objects of art and curiosities of every kind were profusely
scattered. The marbles of Greece and Rome, the strange carvings of
Egypt, the rich vases of Sevres were there, amid cabinet pictures of the
rarest and most costly kind. Those delicious landscapes of the time of
Louis the Fifteenth, where every charm of nature and art was conveyed
upon the canvas: the cool arbors of Versailles, with their terraced
promenades and hissing fountains,--the subjects which Vanloo loved to
paint, and which that voluptuous Court loved to contemplate,--the long
alleys of shady green, where gay groups were strolling in the mellow
softness of an autumn sunset; those proud dames whose sweeping garments
brushed the velvet turf, and at whose sides, uncovered, walked the
chivalry of France,--how did they live again in the bright pencil of
Moucheron! and how did they carry one in fancy to the great days of the
Monarchy! Strange place for them, too,--the boudoir of her whose husband
had uprooted the ancient dynasty they commemorated, had erased from the
list of kings that proudest of all the royal stocks in Europe. Was it
the narrow-minded glory of the Usurper, that loved to look upon the
greatness he had humbled, that brought them there? or was it rather the
wellspring of that proud hope just rising in his heart, that he was to
be successor of those great kings whose history formed the annals of
Europe itself?

As I wandered on, captivated in every sense by the charm of what to me
was a scene in fairyland, I came suddenly before a picture of Josephine,
surrounded by the ladies of her Court. It was by Isabey, and had all
the delicate beauty and transparent finish of that delightful painter.
Beside it was another portrait by the same artist; and I started back
in amazement at the resemblance. Never had color better caught the rich
tint of a Southern complexion; the liquid softness of eye, the full and
sparkling intelligence of ready wit and bright fancy, all beamed in that
lovely face. It needed not the golden letters in the frame which called
it “La Rose de Provence.” I sat down before it unconsciously, delighted
that I might gaze on such beauty unconstrained. The white hand leaned on
a balustrade, and seemed almost as if stretching from the very canvas. I
could have knelt and kissed it. That was the very look she wore the
hour I saw her first,--it had never left my thoughts day or night.
The half-rising blush, the slightly averted head, the mingled look of
impatience and kindness,--all were there; and so entranced had I become,
that I feared each instant lest the vision would depart, and leave
me dark and desolate. The silence of the room was almost unbroken. A
distant murmur of voices, the tones of a harp, were all I heard; and I
sat, I know not how long, thus wrapped in ecstasy.

A tall screen of Chinese fabric separated the part of the room I
occupied from the rest, and left me free to contemplate alone those
charms which each moment grew stronger upon me. An hour might
perhaps have thus elapsed, when suddenly I heard the sound of voices
approaching, but in a different direction from that of the salons. They
were raised above the ordinary tone of speaking, and one in particular
sounded in a strange accent of mingled passion and sarcasm which I shall
never forget. The door of the room was flung open before I could rise
from my chair; and two persons entered, neither of whom could I see from
my position behind the screen.

“I ask you, again and again, Is the treaty of Amiens a treaty, or is it
not?” said a harsh, imperious tone I at once recognized as that of the
First Consol, while his voice actually trembled with anger.

“My Lord Whitworth observed, if I mistake not,” replied a measured and
soft accent, where a certain courtier-like unction prevailed, “that the
withdrawal of the British troops from Malta would follow, on our making
a similar step as regards our forces in Switzerland and Piedmont.”

“What right have they to make such a condition? They never complained of
the occupation of Switzerland at the time of the treaty. I will not hear
of such a stipulation. I tell you. Monsieur de Talleyrand, I 'd rather
see the English in the Faubourg St. Antoine than in the Island of Malta.
Why should we treat with England as a Continental power? Of India, if
she will; and as to Egypt, I told my lord that sooner or later it must
belong to France.”

“A frankness he has reason to be thankful for,” observed M. de
Talleyrand, in a voice of sarcastic slyness.

“Que voulez-vous?” replied Bonaparte, in a raised tone. “They want a
war, and they shall have it. What matter the cause?--such treaties of
peace as these had better be covered with black crape.” Then dropping
his voice to a half-whisper, he added: “You must see him to-morrow;
explain how the attacks of the English press have irritated me; how
deeply wounded I must feel at such a license permitted under the very
eyes of a friendly government,--plots against my life encouraged,
assassination countenanced! Repeat, that Sebastiani's mission to Egypt
is merely commercial; that although prepared for war, our wish, the wish
of France, is peace; that the armaments in Holland are destined for the
Colonies. Show yourself disposed to treat, but not to make advances.
Reject the word ultimatum, if he employ it; the phrase implies a parley
between a superior and an inferior. This is no longer the France that
remembers an English commissary at Dunkirk. If he do not use the
word, then remark on its absence; say, these are not times for longer
anxiety,--that we must know, at last, to what we are to look; tell him
the Bourbons are not still on the throne here; let him feel with whom he
has to deal.”

“And if he demand his passport,” gravely observed Talleyrand, “you can
be in the country for a day; at Plombiferes,--at St. Cloud.”

A low, subdued laugh followed these words, and they walked forward
towards the salons, still conversing, but in a whispered tone.

A cold perspiration broke over my face and forehead, the drops fell
heavily down my cheek, as I sat an unwilling listener of this eventful
dialogue. That the fate of Europe was in the balance I knew full well;
and ardently as I longed for war, the dreadful picture that rose before
me damped much of my ardor; while a sense of my personal danger, if
discovered where I was, made me tremble from head to foot. It was, then,
with a sinking spirit, that I retraced my steps towards the salons, not
knowing if my absence had not been remarked and commented on. How little
was I versed in such society, where each came and went as it
pleased him,--where the most brilliant beauty, the most spiritual
conversationalist, left no gap by absence,--and where such as I were no
more noticed than the statues that held the waxlights!

The salons were now crowded: ministers of state, ambassadors, general
officers in their splendid uniforms, filled the apartments, in which the
din of conversation and the sounds of laughter mingled. Yet, through the
air of gayety which reigned throughout,--the tone of light and flippant
smartness which prevailed,--I thought I could mark here and there
among some of the ministers an appearance of excitement and a look of
preoccupation little in unison with the easy intimacy which all seemed
to possess. I looked on every side for the First Consul himself, but
he was nowhere to be seen. Monsieur Talleyrand, however, remained: I
recognized him by his soft and measured accent, as he sat beside Madame
Bonaparte, and was relating some story in a low voice, at which she
seemed greatly amused. I could not help wondering at the lively and
animated character of features, beneath which were concealed the dark
secrets of state affairs, the tangled mysteries of political intrigue.
To look on him, you would have said, “There sits one whose easy life
flows on, unruffled by this world's chances.”

Not so the tall and swarthy man, whose dark mustache hangs far below his
chin, and who leans on the chimneypiece yonder; the large veins of his
forehead are swollen and knitted, and his deep voice seems to tremble
with strong emotion as he speaks.

“Pray, Monsieur, who is that officer yonder?” said I, to a gentleman
beside me, and whose shoulder was half turned away.

“That,” said he, raising his glass, “that is Savary, the Minister of
Police. And, pardon, you are Mr. Burke,--is 't not so?”

I started as he pronounced my name, and looking fixedly at him,
recognized the antagonist with whom I was to measure swords the next
morning in the Bois de Boulogne. I colored at the awkwardness of my
situation; but he, with more ease and self-possession, resumed,--

“Monsieur, this is, to me at least, a very fortunate meeting. I have
called twice, in the hope of seeing you this evening, and am overjoyed
now to find you here. I behaved very ill to you this morning; I feel
it now, I almost felt it at the time. If you will accept my apology for
what has occurred, I make it most freely. My character is in no need of
an affair to make me known as a man of courage; yours, there can be no
doubt of. May I hope you agree with me? I see you hesitate: perhaps
I anticipate the reason,--you do not know how far you can or ought to
receive such an amende?” I nodded, and he continued: “Well, I am rather
a practised person in these matters, and I can safely say you may.”

“Be it so, then,” said I, taking the hand he proffered, and shaking it
warmly; “I am too young in the world to be my own guide, and I feel you
would not deceive me.”

A gratified look, and a renewed pressure of the hand, replied to my
speech.

“One favor more,--you must n't refuse me. Let us sup together. My
_calèche_ is below; people are already taking their leave here; and, if
you have no particular reason for remaining--”

“None; I know no one.”

“_Allons_, then,” said he, gayly, taking my arm. And I soon found myself
descending the marble stairs beside the man I had expected to stand
opposed to in deadly conflict a few hours later.



CHAPTER XXV. THE SUPPER AT “BEAUVILLIERS'S”

“Where to?,” asked the coachman, as we entered the _calèche_.

“Beauvilliers,” said the marquis, throwing himself back in his seat, and
remaining for some minutes silent.

At last, as if suddenly recollecting that we were strangers to each
other, he said, “You know Beauvilliers, of course?”

“No,” replied I, with hesitation; “I really have not any acquaintance.”

“Parbleu,” said he, laughing, “you ought at least to have his
friendship. He is the most celebrated restaurateur of this or any
other age; no one has carried the great art of the cuisine to a higher
perfection, and his cellars are unequalled in Paris. But you shall
pronounce for yourself.”

“Unhappily my judgment is of little value. Do you forget that the diet
roll of the Polytechnique is a bad school for gastronomy?”

“But a glorious preparation for it,” interrupted he. “How delightful
must be the enjoyment to the unsophisticated palate of those first
impressions which a _carpe à la Chambord_, a pheasant _truffé_, a dish
of _ortolans à la Provengale_, inspire! But here we are. Our party is
a small one,--an old préfet of the South, an abbé, a secretary of the
Russian embassy, and ourselves.”

This information he gave me as we mounted a narrow and winding stair,
dimly lighted by a single lamp. On reaching the landing, however, a
waiter stood in readiness to usher us into a small apartment decorated
with all the luxury of gold and plate glass, so profusely employed in
the interior of all cafés. The guests already mentioned were there, and
evidently awaiting our arrival with no small impatience.

“As usual, Henri,” said the old man, whom I guessed to be the
préfet,--“as usual, an hour behind your appointment.”

“Forgive him. Monsieur,” said abbé, with a simper. “The fascinations of
a Court--”

The grimace the old man made at this last word threw the whole party
into a roar of laughter, which only ceased by the marquis presenting me
in all form to each of his friends.

“À table, à table, for Heaven's sake!” cried the préfet, ringing the
bell, and bustling about the room with a fidgety impatience.

This was, however, unneeded; for in less than five minutes the supper
made its appearance, and we took our places at the board.

The encomiums pronounced as each dish came and went satisfied me that
the feast was unexceptionable. As for myself, I ate away, only conscious
that I had never been so regaled before, and wondering within me how
far ingenuity had been exercised to produce the endless variety that
appeared at table. The wine, too, circulated freely; and Champagne,
Bordeaux, and Chambertin followed one another in succession, as the
different meats indicated the peculiar vintage. In the conversation
I could take no part,--it was entirely gastronomic; and no man ever
existed more ignorant of the seasons that promised well for truffles, or
the state of the atmosphere that threatened acidity to the vines.

“Well, Henri,” said the préfet, when the dessert made its appearance,
and the time for concluding the gourmand dissertation seemed
arrived,--“well! and what news from the Tuileries?”

“Nothing--absolutely nothing,” said he, carelessly,--“the same
people; the same topics; the eternal game of tric-trac with old Madame
d'Angerton; Denon tormenting some new victim with a mummy or a map of
Egypt; Madame Lefebvre relating camp anecdotes--”

“Ah, she is delightful!” interrupted the prefet.

“So thinks your chief, at least, Askoff,” said De Beauvais, turning to
the Russian. “He sat on the sofa beside her for a good hour and a half.”

“Who sat near him on the other side?” slyly asked the other.

“On the other side? I forget: no, I remember it was Monsieur de
Talleyrand and Madame Bonaparte. And, now I think of it, he must have
overheard what they said.”

“Is it true, then, that Bonaparte insulted the English ambassador at the
reception? Askoff heard it as he left the Rue St. Honoré.”

“Perfectly true. The scene was a most outrageous one; and Lord Whitworth
retired, declaring to Talleyrand--at least, so they say--that without
an apology being made, he would abstain from any future visits at the
Tuileries.”

“But what is to come of it?--tell me that. What is to be the result?”

“_Pardieu!_ I know not. A reconciliation to-morrow; an article in the
'Moniteur;' a dinner at the Court; and then another rupture, and another
article.”

“Or a war,” said the Russian, looking cautiously about, to see if his
opinion met any advocacy.

“What say you to that, mon ami?” said De Beauvais, turning to me. “Glad
enough, I suppose, you 'll be to win your epaulettes as colonel.”

“That, too, is on the cards,” said the abbé, sipping his glass quietly.
“One can credit anything these times.”

“Even the Catholic religion, Abbé,” said De Beauvais, laughing.

“Or the Restoration,” replied the abbé, with a half-malicious look at
the préfet, which seemed greatly to amuse the Russian.

“Or the Restoration!” repeated the préfet, solemnly, after him,--“or the
Restoration!” And then filling his glass to the brim, he drained it to
the bottom.

“It is a hussar corps you are appointed to?” said De Beauvais, hastily
turning towards me, as if anxious to engage my attention.

“Yes; the huitieme,” said I: “do you know them?”

“No; I have few acquaintances in the army.”

“His father, sir,” said the préfet, with a voice of considerable
emphasis, “was an old garde du corps in those times when the sword was
only worn by gentlemen.”

“So much the worse for the army,” whispered the abbé, in an undertone,
that was sufficiently audible to the rest to cause an outbreak of
laughter.

“And when,” continued the préfet, undisturbed by the interruption,
“birth had its privileges.”

“Among the rest, that of being the first beheaded,” murmured the
inexorable abbé.

“Were truffles dear before the Revolution, préfet?” said De Beauvais,
with a half-impertinent air of simplicity.

“No, sir; nothing was dear save the King's favor.”

“Which could also be had for paying for,” quoth the abbé.

“The 'Moniteur' of this evening, gentlemen,” said the waiter, entering
with the paper, whose publication had been delayed some two hours beyond
the usual period.

“Ah, let us see what we have here,” said De Beauvais, opening the
journal and reading aloud: “'Greneral Espinasse is appointed to the
command of the fourth corps, stationed at Lille; and Major-General
Lannes to the fortress of Montreil, vacant by--' No matter,--here it is.
'Does the English government suppose that France is one of her Indian
possessions, without the means to declare her wrongs or the power to
avenge them? Can they believe that rights are not reciprocal, and that
the observance of one contracting party involves nothing on the part of
the other?'”

“There, there, De Beauvais; don't worry us with that tiresome nonsense.”

“'Or,' continued the marquis, still reading aloud, 'do they presume to
say that we shall issue no commercial instructions to our agents
abroad lest English susceptibility should be wounded by any prospect of
increased advantages to our trade?'”

“Our trade!” echoed the préfet, with a most contemptuous intonation on
the word.

“Ah, for those good old times, when there was none!” said the abbé, with
such a semblance of honest sincerity as drew an approving smile from the
old man.

“Hear this, Préfet,” said De Beauvais: “'From the times of Colbert
to the present'--what think you? the allusion right royal, is it
not?--'From the times of Colbert our negotiations have been always
conducted in this manner.'”

“Sir, I beseech you read no more of that intolerable nonsense.”

“And here,” continued the marquis, “follows a special invocation of the
benediction of Heaven on the just efforts which France is called on to
make, to repress the insolent aggression of England. Abbé, this concerns
you.”

“Of course,” said he, meekly. “I am quite prepared to pray for the party
in power; if Heaven but leaves them there, I must conclude they deserve
it.”

A doubtful look, as if he but half understood him, was the only reply
the old préfet made to this speech; at which the laughter of the others
could no longer be repressed, and burst forth most heartily.

“But let us read on. Whose style is this, think you? 'France possessed
within her dominion every nation from the North Sea to the Adriatic. And
how did she employ her power?--in restoring to Batavia self-government;
in giving liberty to Switzerland; and in ceding Venice to Austria, while
the troops at the very gates of Vienna are halted and repass the Rhine
once more. Are these the evidences of ambition? Are these the signs of
that overweening lust of territory with which England dares to reproach
us? And if such passions prevailed, what was easier than to have
indulged them? Was not Italy our own? Were not Batavia, Switzerland,
Portugal, all ours? But no, peace was the desire of the nation; peace
at any cost. The colony of St. Domingo, that immense territory, was not
conceived a sacrifice too great to secure such a blessing.'”

“Pardieu! De Beauvais, I can bear it no longer.”

“You must let me give you the reverse of the medal. Hear now what
England has done.”

“He writes well, at least for the taste of newspaper readers,” said the
abbé, musingly; “but still he only understands the pen as he does the
sword,--it must be a weapon of attack.”

“Who is the writer, then?” said I, in a half-whisper.

“Who!--can you doubt it?--Bonaparte himself. What other man in France
would venture to pronounce so authoritatively on the prospects and the
intentions of the nation?”

“Or who,” said the abbé, in his dry manner, “could speak with such
accuracy of the 'Illustrious and Magnanimous Chief 'that rules her
destinies?”

“It is growing late,” said the préfet, with the air of one who took no
pleasure in the conversation, “and I start for Rouen to-morrow morning.”

“Come, come, préfet! one bumper before we part,” said Be Beauvais.
“Something has put you out of temper this evening; yet I think I know a
toast can restore you to good-humor again.”

The old man lifted his hand with a gesture of caution, while he suddenly
directed a look towards me.

“No, no; don't be afraid,” said De Beauvais, laughing; “I think you 'll
acquit me of any rashness. Fill up, then; and here let us drink to one
in the old palace of the Tuileries who at this moment can bring us back
in memory to the most glorious days of our country.”

“_Pardieu!_ that must be the First Consul, I suppose,” whispered the
abbé, to the prefet, who dashed his glass with such violence on the
table as to smash it in a hundred pieces.

“See what comes of impatience!” cried De Beauvais, laughing. “And
now you have not wherewithal to pledge my fair cousin the 'Rose of
Provence.'”

“The Rose of Provence!” said each in turn; while, excited by the wine,
of which I had drunk freely, and carried away by the enthusiasm of the
moment, I re-echoed the words in such a tone as drew every eye upon me.

“Ah! you know my cousin, then?” said De Beauvais,--looking at me with a
strange mixture of curiosity and astonishment.

“No,” said I; “I have seen her--I saw her this evening at the Palace.”

“Well, I must present you,” said he, smiling good-day naturedly.

Before I could mutter my acknowledgment, the party had risen, and were
taking leave of each other for the night.

“I shall see you soon again, Burke,” said De Beauvais, as he pressed my
hand warmly; “and now, adieu!”

With that we parted; and I took my way back towards the Polytechnique,
my mind full of strange incidents of this the most eventful night in my
quiet and monotonous existence.



CHAPTER XXVI. THE TWO VISITS.

Amid all the stirring duties of the next day, amid all the excitement
of a new position, my mind recurred continually to the events of
the previous twenty-four hours: now dwelling on the soiree at the
Palace,--the unaccustomed splendor, the rank, the beauty I had
witnessed; now on that eventful moment I spent behind the screen; then
on my strange rencontre with my antagonist, and that still stranger
supper that followed it.

It was not, indeed, without certain misgivings, which I could neither
account for nor dismiss from my mind, that I reflected on the character
and conversation of my new associates. The tone of levity in which
they dared to speak of him whose name was to me something bordering on
idolatry,--the liberty with which they ventured to canvass his measures
and his opinions, even to ridiculing them,--were so many puzzles to
my mind; and I half reproached myself for having tamely listened to
language which now, as I thought over it, seemed to demand my notice.
Totally ignorant of all political intrigue,--unconscious that any party
did or could exist in France save that of the First Consul himself,--I
could find no solution to the enigma, and at last began to think that I
had been exaggerating to myself the words I had heard, and permitting my
ignorance to weigh with me, where with more knowledge I should have seen
nothing reprehensible. And if the spirit in which they discussed the
acts of Bonaparte differed from what I had been accustomed to, might it
not rather proceed from my own want of acquaintance with the usages of
society, than any deficiency in attachment on their sides? The préfet
was, of course, as an officer of the Government, no mean judge of what
became him; the abbé, too, as a man of education and in holy orders, was
equally unlikely to express unbecoming opinions; the Russian scarcely
spoke at all; and as for De Beauvais, his careless and headlong
impetuosity made me feel easy on his score. And so I reasoned myself
into the conviction that it was only the ordinary bearing and everyday
habit of society to speak thus openly of one who in the narrower limits
of our little world was deemed something to worship.

Shall I own what then I could scarcely have confessed to myself, that
the few words De Beauvais spoke at parting,--the avowed cousinship
with her they called “La Rose de Provence,”--did much to induce this
conviction on my mind? while his promise to present me was a pledge I
could not possibly believe consistent with any but right loyal thoughts
and honest doctrines. Still, I would have given anything for one friend
to advise with,--one faithful counsellor to aid me. But again was I
alone in the world; and save the short and not over-flattering reception
of my colonel, I had neither seen nor spoken to one of my new corps.

That evening I joined my regiment, and took up my quarters in the
barracks, where already the rumor of important political events had
reached the officers, and they stood in groups discussing the chances of
a war, or listening to the “Moniteur,” which was read out by one of
the party. What a strange thrill it sent through me to think that I was
privy to the deepest secret of that important step on which the peace of
Europe was resting,--that I had heard the very words as they fell from
the lips of him on whom the destiny of millions then depended! With what
a different interpretation to me came those passages in the Government
journal which breathed of peace, and spoke of painful sacrifices to
avoid a war, for which already his very soul was thirsting! and how to
my young heart did that passion for glory exalt him who could throw all
into the scale! The proud position he occupied,--the mighty chief of
a mighty nation; the adulation in which he daily lived; the gorgeous
splendor of a Court no country in Europe equalled,--all these (and more,
his future destiny) did lie set upon the cast for the great game his
manly spirit gloried in.

In such thoughts as these I lived as in a world of my own. Companionship
I had none; my brother officers, with few exceptions, had risen from the
ranks, and were of that class which felt no pleasure save in the coarse
amusements of the barrack-room or the vulgar jests of the service. The
better classes lived studiously apart from these, and made no approaches
to intimacy with any newly joined officer with whose family and
connections they were unacquainted; and I, from my change of country,
stood thus alone, unacknowledged and unknown. At first this isolation
pained and grieved me, but gradually it became less irksome; and when
at length they who had at first avoided and shunned my intimacy showed
themselves disposed to know me, my pride, which before would have been
gratified by such an acknowledgment, was now wounded, and I coolly
declined their advances.

Some weeks passed in this manner, during which I never saw or heard
of De Beauvais, and at length began to feel somewhat offended at the
suddenness with which he seemed to drop an intimacy begun at his own
desire; when one evening, as I had returned to my barrack-room after
parade, I heard a knock at my door. I rose and opened it, when, to my
surprise, I beheld De Beauvais before me. He was much thinner than when
I last saw him, and his dress and appearance all betokened far less of
care and attention.

“Are these your quarters?” said he, entering and throwing a cautious
look about. “Are you alone here?”

“Yes,” said I; “perfectly.”

“You expect no one?”

“Not any,” said I, again, still more surprised at the agitation of his
manner, and the evident degree of anxiety he labored under.

“Thank Heaven!” said he, drawing a deep sigh as he threw himself on my
little camp-bed, and covered his face with his hands.

Seeing that something weighed heavily on him, I half feared to interfere
with the current of his thoughts, and merely drew my chair and sat down
beside him.

“I say, Burke, mon cher, have you any wine? Let me have a glass or
two, for save some galette, and that not the best either, I have tasted
nothing these last twenty-four hours.”

I soon set before him the contents of my humble larder, and in a few
moments he rallied a good deal, and looking up with a smile said,--

“I think you have been cultivating your education as gourmand since I
saw you; that pasty is worthy our friend in the Palais Royal. Well, and
how have you been since we met?”

“Let me rather ask yow,” said I, “You are not looking so well as the
last time I saw you. Have you been ill?”

“Ill! no, not ill. Yet I can't say so; for I have suffered a good deal,
too. No, my friend; I have had much to harass and distress me. I
have been travelling, too, long distances and weary ones,--met some
disappointments; and altogether the world has not gone so well with me
as I think it ought. And now of you,--what of yourself?”

“Alas!” said I, “if you have met much to annoy, I have only lived a dull
life of daily monotony. If it has had little to distress, there is fully
as little to cheer; and I half suspect the fine illusions I used to
picture to myself of a soldier's career had very little connection with
reality.”

As De Beauvais seemed to listen with more attention than such a theme
would naturally call for, I gradually was drawn into a picture of my
barrack life, in which I dwelt at length on my own solitary position,
and the want of that companionship which formed the chief charm of my
schoolboy life. To all this he paid a marked attention,--now questioning
me on some unexplained point; now agreeing with me in what I said by a
word or a gesture.

“And do you know, Burke,” said he, interrupting me in my description
of those whose early coldness of manner had chilled my first
advances,--“and do you know,” said he, impetuously, “who these
aristocrats are? The sons of honest _bourgeois_ of Paris. Their fathers
are worthy men of the Rue Vivienne or the Palais,--excellent people,
I 've no doubt, but very far better judges of point lace and pâté, de
Périgord than disputed precedence and armorial quarterings. Far better
the others,--the humble soldiers of fortune, whose highest pride is
their own daring, their own undaunted heroism. Well, well,” added he,
after a pause, “I must get you away from this; I can manage it in a day
or two. You shall be sent down to Versailles with a detachment.”

I could not help starting with surprise at these words, and through all
the pleasure they gave me my astonishment was still predominant.

“I see you are amazed at what I say; but it is not so wonderful as you
think. My cousin has only to hint to Madame Bonaparte, who is at present
there, and the thing is done.”

I blushed deeply as I thought of the agency through which my wishes were
to meet accomplishment, and turned away to hide my embarrassment.

“By the bye, I have not presented you to her yet. I 've had no
opportunity; but now I shall do so at once.”

“Pray, tell me your cousin's name,” said I, anxious to say anything to
conceal my confusion. “I 've only heard her name called 'La Rose de
Provence.'”

“Yes, that was a silly fancy of Madame la Consulesse, because Marie is
Provengale, But her name is De Rochfort,--at least her mother's name;
for, by another caprice, she was forbidden by Bonaparte to bear her
father's name. But this is rather a sore topic with me; let us
change it. How did you like my friends the other evening? The abb, is
agreeable, is he not?”

“Yes,” said I, hesitating somewhat; “but I am so unaccustomed to hear
General Bonaparte discussed so freely--”

“That absurd Polytechnique!” interrupted De Beauvais. “How many a
fine fellow has it spoiled with its ridiculous notions and foolish
prejudices!”

“Come, come,” said I; “you must not call prejudices the attachment which
I, and all who wear an epaulette, feel in our glorious chief. There,
there! don't laugh, or you 'll provoke me; for if I, an alien, feel
this, how should you, who are a Frenchman born, sympathize with such a
proud career?”

“If you talk of sympathy, Burke, let me ask you. Have you ever heard
speak of certain old families of these realms who have been driven
forth and expatriated to seek a home among strangers,--themselves the
descendants of the fairest chivalry of our land, the proud scions of
Saint Louis? and has your sympathy never strayed across sea to mingle
with their sorrows?” His voice trembled as he spoke, and a large tear
filled his eye and tracked its way along his cheek, as the last word
vibrated on his tongue; and then, as if suddenly remembering how far
he had been carried away by momentary impulse, he added, in an altered
voice, “But what have we to do with these things? Our road is yet to be
travelled by either of us,--yours a fair path enough, if it only fulfil
its early promise. The fortunate fellow that can win his grade while yet
a schoolboy--”

“How came you to know--”

“Oh! I know more than that, Burke; and, believe me, if my foolish
conduct the first day we met had led to anything disastrous, I should
have passed a life of sorrow for it ever after. But we shall have time
enough to talk over all these matters in the green alleys of Versailles,
where I hope to see you before a week be over. Great events may happen
ere long, too. Burke, you don't know it; but I can tell you, a war with
England is at this moment on the eve of declaration.”

“Perhaps,” said I, somewhat piqued by the tone of superiority in which
he had spoken for some minutes, and anxious to assume for myself a
position which, I forgot, conferred no credit by the manner of its
attainment, “I know more of that than you are aware of.”

“Oh,” replied he, carelessly, “the gossip of a mess is but little to be
relied on. The sabreurs will always tell you that the order to march is
given.”

“I don't mean that,” said I, haughtily. “My information has a higher
source, the highest of all,--Greneral Bonaparte himself!”

“How! what! Bonaparte himself!”

“Listen to me,” said I; and hurried on by a foolish vanity, and a
strange desire I cannot explain to make a confidant in what I felt to
be a secret too weighty for my own bosom, I told him all that I had
overheard when seated behind the screen in the salon at the Tuileries.

“You heard this,--you, yourself?” cried he, as his eyes flashed, and he
grasped my arm with an eager grip.

“Yes, with my own ears I heard it,” said I, half trembling at the
disclosure I made, and ready to give all I possessed to recall my words.

“My friend, my dear friend,” said he, impetuously, “you must hesitate no
longer; be one of us.”

I started at the words, and growing pale with agitation as the very
thought of the importance of what I had related flashed across me, I
stammered out, “Take care what you propose to me, De Beauvais. I do not,
I cannot, fathom your meaning now; but if I thought that anything like
treachery to the First Consul--that anything traitorous to the great
cause of liberty for which he has fought and conquered--was meditated, I
'd go forthwith and tell him, word for word, all I have spoken now, even
though the confession might, as it would, humble me forever, and destroy
all my future hope of advancement.”

“And be well laughed at for your pains, foolish boy!” said he, throwing
himself back in his chair, and bursting out into a fit of laughter. “No,
no, Burke; you must not do anything half so ridiculous, or my pretty
cousin could never look at you without a smile ever after. And _à
propos_, of that, when shall I present you? That splendid jacket, and
all that finery of dolman there, will make sad work of her poor heart.”

I blushed deeply at the silly impetuosity I had betrayed myself into,
and muttered some equally silly apology for it. Still, young as I was, I
could perceive that my words made no common impression on him, and would
have given my best blood to recall them.

“Do you know, De Beauvais,” said I, affecting as much of coolness as I
could, “do you know, I half regret having told you this. The manner
in which I heard this conversation--though, as you will see, quite
involuntary on my part--should have prevented my ever having repeated
it; and now the only reparation I can make is to wait on my colonel,
explain the whole circumstance, and ask his advice.”

“In plain words, to make public what at present is only confided to a
friend. Well, you think the phrase too strong for one you have seen but
twice,--the first time not exactly on terms such as warrant the phrase.
But come, if you can't trust me, I 'll see if I can't trust you.”

He drew at these words a roll of paper from his pocket, and was
proceeding to open it on the table when a violent knocking was heard at
my door.

“What 's that? who can it be?” said he, starting up, and growing pale as
death.

The look of terror in his face appalled me; and I stood, not able to
reply, or even move towards the door, when the knocking was repeated
much louder, and I heard my name called out. Pointing to a closet which
led from the room, and without speaking a word, I walked forward and
unlocked the door. A tall man, wrapped in a blue cloak, and wearing
a cocked hat covered with oilskin, stood before me, accompanied by a
sergeant of my troop.

“This is the sous-lieutenant, sir,” said the sergeant, touching his cap.

“That will do,” replied the other; “you may leave us now.” Then turning
to me he added, “May I have the favor of a few minutes' conversation
with you, Mr. Burke? I am Monsieur Gisquet, chef de police of the
department.”

A trembling ran through me at the words, and I stammered out something
scarce audible in reply. Monsieur Gisquet followed me as I led the
way into my room, which already had been deserted by De Beauvais; and
casting a quick glance around, he leisurely took off his hat and cloak
and drew a chair towards the table.

“Are we alone, sir?” said he, in a measured tone of voice, while his eye
fell with a peculiar meaning on a chair which stood opposite to mine, on
the opposite side of the stove.

“I had a friend with me when you knocked,” I muttered, in a broken and
uncertain accent; “but perhaps--”

Before I could finish my sentence the door of the cabinet slowly
opened, and De Beauvais appeared, but so metamorphosed I could scarcely
recognize him; for, short as the interval was, he had put on my old
uniform of the Polytechnique, which, from our similarity in height,
fitted him perfectly.

“All safe, Tom,” said he, stealing out, with an easy smile on his
countenance. “Par Saint Denis! I thought it was old Legrange himself
come to look for me. Ah, Monsieur, how d' ye do? You have given me a
rare fright tonight. I came to spend the day with my friend here, and,
as ill luck would have it, have outstayed my time. The _école_ closes at
nine, so that I 'm in for a week's arrest at least.”

“A cool confession this, sir, to a minister of police!” said Gisquet,
sternly, while his dark eyes surveyed the speaker from head to foot.

“Not when that minister is called Gisquet,” said he, readily, and bowing
courteously as he spoke.

“You know me, then?” said the other, still peering at him with a sharp
look.

“Only from your likeness to a little boy in my company,” said he, “Henri
Gisquet. A fine little fellow he is, and one of the cleverest in the
school.”

“You are right, sir; he is my son,” said the minister, as a pleased
smile passed over his swarthy features. “Come, I think I must get you
safe through your dilemma. Take this; the officer of the night will be
satisfied with the explanation, and Monsieur Legrange will not hear of
it.”

So saying, he seized a pen, and writing a few lines rapidly on a piece
of paper, he folded it note fashion, and handed it to De Beauvais.

“A handsome ring, sir!” said he, suddenly, and holding the fingers
within his own; “a very costly one, too.”

“Yes, sir,” said De Beauvais, blushing scarlet. “A cousin of mine--”

“Ha, ha! an amourette, too. Well, well, young gentleman! no need of
further confessions; lose no more time here. Bonsoir.”

“Adieu, Burke,” said De Beauvais, shaking my hand with a peculiar
pressure.

“Adieu, Monsieur Gisquet. This order will pass me through the barrack,
won't it?”

“Yes; to be sure. You need fear no interference with my people either,
go where you will this evening.”

“Thanks, sir, once more,” said he, and departed.

“Now for our business, Mr. Burke,” said the minister, opening his packet
of papers before him, and commencing to con over its contents. “I shall
ask you a few questions, to which you will please to reply with all the
accuracy you can command, remembering that you are liable to be called
on to verify any statement hereafter on oath. With whom did you speak on
the evening of the 2d of May, at the soiree of Madame Bonaparte?”

“I scarcely remember if I spoke to any one save Madame herself. A
strange gentleman, whose name I forget, presented me; one or two others,
also unknown to me, may have spoken a passing word or so; and when
coming away I met Monsieur de Beauvais.”

“Monsieur de Beauvais! who is he?”

“_Ma foi_ I can't tell you. I saw him the day before for the first time;
we renewed our acquaintance, and we supped together.”

“At Beauvilliers's?” said he, interrupting.

“Pardieu, Monsieur!” said I, somewhat stung at the espionage on my
movements; “you seem to know everything so well already, it is quite
needless to interrogate me any further.”

“Perhaps not,” replied he, coolly. “I wish to have the names of the
party you supped with.”

“Well, there was one who was called the préfet, a large, full, elderly
man.”

“Yes, yes, I know him,” interrupted Gisquet again. “And the others?”

“There was an abbé, and a secretary of the Russian mission.”

“No other?” said he, in a tone of disappointment.

“No one, save De Beauvais and myself; we were but five in all.”

“Did no one come in daring the evening?

“No, not any.”

“Nor did any leave the party?”

“No; we separated at the same moment.”

“Who accompanied you to the barracks?”

“No one; I returned alone.”

“And this Monsieur de Beauvais,--you can't tell anything of him? What
age is he? what height?”

“About my own,” said I, blushing deeply at the thought of the events
of a few moments back. “He may be somewhat older, but he looks not much
more than twenty-one or two.”

“Have you mentioned any of these circumstances to any of your brother
officers or to your colonel?”

“No, sir, never.”

“Very right, sir. These are times in which discretion is of no common
importance. I have only to recommend similar circumspection in future.
It is probable that some of these gentlemen may visit you and write
to you; they may invite you to sup or to dine. If so, sir, accept the
invitation. Be cautious, however, not to speak of this interview to any
one. Remember, sir, I am the messenger of one who never forgave a breach
of trust, but who also never fails to reward loyalty and attachment. If
you be but prudent, Mr. Burke, your fortune is certain.”

With these words. Monsieur Gisquet threw his cloak over his shoulder,
and raising his hat, he bowed formally to me and withdrew; leaving me to
meditations which, I need not say, were none of the happiest.

If my fears were excited by the thought of the acquaintances I had so
rashly formed, so also was my pride insulted by the system of watching
to which my movements had been subjected; and deeper still, by the
insulting nature of the proposal the minister of police had not scrupled
to make to me,--on reflecting over which, only, did I perceive how base
and dishonorable it was.

“What!” asked I of myself, “is it a spy--is it a false underhand
betrayer of the men into whose society I have been admitted on terms of
friendly intercourse--he would make of me? What saw he in me or in my
actions to dare so far? Was not the very cloth I wear enough to guard me
against such an insult?” Then came the maddening reflection, “Why had
I not thought of this sooner? Why had I not rejected his proposal with
scorn, and told him that I was not of the stuff he looked for?”

But what is it that he wished to learn? and who were these men, and what
were their designs? These were questions' that flashed across me; and I
trembled to think how deeply implicated I might become at any moment in
plans of which I knew nothing, merely from the imprudence with which I
had made their acquaintance. The escape of De Beauvais, if discovered,
would also inevitably involve me; and thus did I seem hurried along by a
train of incidents without will or concurrence, each step but increasing
the darkness around me.

That Gisquet knew most of the party was clear; De Beauvais alone seemed
personally unknown to him. What, then, did he want of me? Alas! it was a
tangled web I could make nothing of: and all I could resolve on was, to
avoid in future all renewal of intimacy with De Beauvais; to observe the
greatest circumspection with regard to all new acquaintance; and since
the police thought it worth their while to set spies upon my track, to
limit any excursions, for some time at least, to the routine of my duty
and the bounds of the barrack-yard. These were wise resolutions, and
if somewhat late in coming, yet not without their comfort; above all,
because, in my heart, I felt no misgivings of affection, no lack of
loyalty, to him who was still my idol.

“Well, well,” thought I, “something may come of this,--perhaps a war. If
so, happy shall I be to leave Paris and all its intrigues behind me,
and seek distinction in a more congenial sphere, and under other banners
than a police minister would afford me.”

With thoughts like these I fell asleep, to dream over all the events
of the preceding day, and wake the next morning with an aching head and
confused brain,--my only clear impression being that some danger hung
over me; but from what quarter, and how or in what way it was to be met
or averted, I could not guess.

The whole day I felt a feverish dread lest De Beauvais should appear.
Something whispered me that my difficulties were to come of my
acquaintance with him; and I studiously passed my time among my brother
officers, knowing that, so long as I remained among them, he was
not likely to visit me. And when evening came, I gladly accepted an
invitation to a barrack-room supper, which, but the night before, I
should have declined without hesitation.

This compliance on my part seemed well taken by my companions; and in
their frank and cordial reception of me, I felt a degree of reproach
to myself for my having hitherto lived estranged from them. We had just
taken our places at table, when the door was flung wide open, and a
young captain of the regiment rushed in, waving a paper over his head,
as he called out,--

“Good news, mes braves, glorious news for you! Listen to this: The
English ambassador has demanded his passports, and left Paris. Expresses
are sent off to the fourth corps to move towards the coast; twelve
regiments have received orders to march; so that before my Lord leaves
Calais, he may witness a review of the army. '”

“Is this true?”

“It is all certain. Read it; here 's the 'Moniteur,' with the official
announcement.”

In an instant a dozen heads were bent over the paper, each eager to scan
the paragraph so long and ardently desired.

“Come, Burke, I hope you have not forgotten your English,” said the
major. “We shall want you soon to interpret for us in London; if,
pardieu, we can ever find our way through the fogs of that ill-starred
island.”

I hung my head without speaking; the miserable isolation of him who has
no country is a sad and sickening sense of want no momentary enthusiasm,
no impulse of high daring can make up for. Happily for me, all were
too deeply interested in the important news to remark me, or pay any
attention to my feelings.



CHAPTER XXVII. THE MARCH TO VERSAILLES

They who remember the excited state of England on the rupture of the
peace of Amiens; the spirit of military ardor that animated every class
and condition of life; the national hatred, carried to the highest pitch
by the instigations and attack of a violent press,--can yet form but an
imperfect notion of the mad enthusiasm that prevailed in France on the
same occasion. The very fact that there was no determinate and precise
cause of quarrel added to the exasperation on both sides. It was less
like the warfare of two great nations, than the personal animosity of
two high-spirited and passionate individuals, who, having interchanged
words of insult, resolve on the sword as the only arbiter between them.
All that the long rivalry of centuries, national dislike, jealousy in
every form, and ridicule in a thousand shapes could suggest, were added
to the already existing hate, and gave to the coming contest a character
of blackest venom.

In England, the tyrannic rule of Bonaparte gave deep offence to all true
lovers of liberty, and gave rise to fears of what the condition of their
own country would become should he continue to increase his power by
conquest. In France, the rapid rise to honor and wealth the career of
arms so singularly favored, made partisans of war in every quarter of
the kingdom. The peaceful arts were but mean pursuits compared with
that royal road to rank and riches,--the field of battle; and their
self-interest lent its share in forming the spirit of hostility, which
wanted no element of hatred to make it perfect.

Paris,--where so lately nothing was heard save the roll of splendid
equipages, the din of that gay world whose business is amusement; where
amid gilded salons the voluptuous habits of the Consulate mixed with
the less courtly but scarce less costly display of military
splendor,--became now like a vast camp. Regiments poured in daily,
to resume their march the next morning; the dull rumble of ammunition
wagons and caissons, the warlike clank of mounted cavalry, awoke the
citizens at daybreak; the pickets of hussar corps and the dusty and
travel-stained infantry soldiers filled the streets at nightfall. Yet
through all, the mad gayety of this excited nation prevailed. The cafés
were Crowded with eager and delighted faces; the tables spread in the
open air were occupied by groups whose merry voices and ready laughter
attested that war was the pastime of the people, and the very note of
preparation a tocsin of joy and festivity. The walls were placarded
with inflammatory addresses to the patriotism and spirit of France.
The papers teemed with artful and cleverly written explanations of the
rupture with England; in which every complaint against that country was
magnified, and every argument put forward to prove the peaceful
desires of that nation whose present enthusiasm for war was an unhappy
commentary on the assertion. The good faith of France was extolled; the
moderation of the First Consul dwelt upon; and the treachery of that
“perfidious Albion, that respected not the faith of treaties,” was
displayed in such irrefragable clearness, that the humblest citizen
thought the cause his own, and felt the coming contest the ordeal of his
own honor.

All the souvenirs of the former wars were invoked to give spirit to the
approaching struggle, and they were sufficiently numerous to let no week
pass over without at least one eventful victory to commemorate. Now it
was Kellerman's cuirassiers, whose laurel-wreathed helmets reminded
the passing stranger that on that day eight years they tore through the
dense ranks of the Austrians, and sabred the gunners at the very guns.
Now it was the Polish regiments, the steel-clad lancers, who paraded
before the Tuileries in memory of the proud day they marched through
Montebello with that awful sentence on their banners, “Venice exists
no longer!” Here were corps of infantry, intermingled with dragoons,
pledging each other as they passed along; while the names of
Castiglione, Bassano, and Roveredo rang througl the motley crowd. The
very children, “les enfants de troupe,” seemed filled with the warlike
enthusiasm of their fathers; and each battalion, as it moved past,
stepped to the encouraging shouts of thousands who gazed with envious
admiration on the heroes of their country.

Never did the pent-up feelings of a nation find vent in such a universal
torrent of warlike fervor as now filled the land. The clank of the
sabre was the music that charmed the popular ear; and the “coquette
vivandiére,” as she tripped along the gravel avenued of the Tuileries
gardens, was as much an object of admiration as the most splendidly
attired beauty of the Faubourg St. Germain. The whole tone of society
assumed the feature of the political emergency. The theatres only
represented such pieces as bore upon the ancient renown of the nation
in arms,--its victories and conquests; the artists painted no other
subjects; and the literature of the period appealed to few other
sympathies than are found in the rude manners of the guardroom or around
the watchfires of the bivouac. Pegault Lebrun was the popular author of
the day; and his works are even now no mean indication of the current
tastes and opinions of the period.

The predictions too hastily made by the English journals, that the
influence of Bonaparte in France could not survive the rupture of that
peace which had excited so much enthusiasm, were met by a burst of
national unanimity that soon dispelled the delusive hope. Never was
there a greater error than to suppose that any prospect of commercial
prosperity, any vista of wealth and riches, could compensate to
Frenchmen for the intoxication of that glory in which they lived as
in an orgy. Too many banners floated from the deep aisles of the
Invalides--too many cannon, the spoils of the Italian and German wars,
bristled on the rampart--not to recall the memory of those fête days
when a bulletin threw the entire city into a frenzy of joy. The Louvre
and the Luxembourg, too, were filled with the treasures of conquered
States; and these are not the guarantees of a long peace.

Such! in brief, was the state of Paris when the declaration of war by
Great Britain once more called the nation to arms. Every regiment was at
once ordered to make up its full complement to the war standard, and the
furnaces were employed in forging shot and casting cannon throughout the
length and breadth of France. The cavalry corps were stationed about
St. Omer and Compiègne, where a rich corn country supplied forage in
abundance. Among the rest, the order came for the huitième to march: one
squadron only was to remain behind, chosen to execute _le service
des dépêches_ from St. Cloud and Versailles to Paris; and to this I
belonged.

From the evening of Monsieur Gisquet's visit I had never seen or heard
of De Beauvais; and at last the hope grew in me that we were to meet no
more, when suddenly the thought flashed across my mind: this is what he
spoke of,--he promised I should be sent to Versailles! Can it be chance?
or is this his doing? These were difficult questions to solve, and gave
me far more embarrassment than pleasure. My fear that my acquaintance
with him was in the end to involve me in some calamity, was a kind of
superstition which I could not combat; and I resolved at once to see
my colonel,--with whom, happily, I was now on the best of terms,--and
endeavor to exchange with some other officer, any being willing to
accept a post so much more agreeable than a mere country quarter, I
found the old man busied in the preparations for departure; he was
marking out the days of march to the adjutant as I entered.

“Well, Burke,” said he, “you are the fortunate fellow this time; your
troop remains behind.”

“It is on that account, sir, I am come. You'll think my request a
strange one, but if it be not against rule, would you permit me to
exchange my destination with another officer?”

“What,--eh? the boy 's mad! Why, it 's to Versailles you are going.”

“I know, sir; but somehow I'd rather remain with the regiment.”

“This is very strange,--I don't understand it,” said he, leisurely;
“come here.” With that he drew me into the recess of a window where we
could talk unheard by others. “Burke,” continued he, “I'm not the man
to question my young fellows about secrets which they 'd rather keep for
themselves; but there is something here more than common. Do you know
that in the order it was your squadron was specially marked out--all
the officers' names were mentioned, and yours particularly--for
Versailles?”

A deadly paleness and a cold chill spread over my face. I tried to say
some commonplace, but I could not utter more than the words, “I feared
it.” Happily for me he did not hear them, but taking my hand kindly,
said,--

“I see it all: some youthful folly or other would make you better
pleased to leave Paris just now. Never mind,--stormy times are coming;
you 'll have enough on your hands presently. And let me advise you to
make the most of your time at Versailles; for if I 'm not mistaken, you
'll see much more of camps than courts for some time to come.”

The rest of that day left me but little time for reflection; but in such
short intervals as I could snatch from duty, one thought ever rose to
my mind: Can this be De Beauvais's doing? has he had any share, in my
present destination,--and with what object? “Well,” said I to myself at
last, “these are but foolish fears after all, and may be causeless ones.
If I but follow the straight path of my duty, what need I care if the
whole world intrigued and plotted around me? And after all, was it not
most likely that we should never see each other again?”

The day was just breaking when we left Paris; the bright beams of a May
morning's sun were flickering and playing in the rippling river that ran
cold and gray beneath. The tall towers of the Tuileries threw their
long shadows across the Place Carrousel, where a dragoon regiment was
encamped. They were already astir, and some of the men were standing
around the fountains with their horses, and others were looking
after the saddles and accoutrements in preparation for the march; a
half-expiring fire here and there marked where some little party had
been sitting together, while the jars and flasks about bespoke a merry
evening. A trumpeter sat, statue-like, on his white horse his trumpet
resting on his knee,--surveying the whole scene, and as if deferring to
the last the wakeful summons that should rouse some of his yet sleeping
comrades: I could see thus much as we passed. Our road led along the
quay towards the Place Louis the Fifteenth, where an infantry battalion
with four guns was picketed. The men were breakfasting and preparing for
the route. They were part of the grande armée under orders for Boulogne.

We soon traversed the Champs Élysées, and entered the open country. For
some miles it was merely a succession of large cornfields, and here
and there a small vineyard, that met the eye on either side: but as we
proceeded farther, we were girt in by rich orchards in full blossom,
the whole air loaded with perfume; neat cottages peeped from the woody
enclosures, the trellised walls covered with honeysuckles and wild
roses; the surface, too, was undulating, and waved in every imaginable
direction, offering every variety of hill and valley, precipice and
plain, in even the smallest space. As yet no peasant was stirring, no
smoke curled from a single chimney, and all, save the song of the lark,
was silent. It was a peaceful scene, and a strong contrast to that we
left behind us, and whatever ambitious yearnings filled my heart as I
looked upon the armed ranks of the mailed cuirassiers, I felt a deeper
sense of happiness as I strayed along those green alleys through which
the sun came slanting sparingly, and where the leaves only stirred as
their winged tenants moved among them.

We travelled for some hours through the dark paths of the Bois de
Boulogne, and again emerged in a country wild and verdant as before. And
thus passed our day; till the setting sun rested on the tall roof of the
great Palace, and lit up every window in golden splendor as we entered
the town of Versailles.

I could scarce avoid halting as I rode up the wide terrace of the
Palace. Never had I felt before the overcoming sense of grandeur which
architecture can bestow. The great façade in its chaste and simple
beauty, stretched away to a distance, where dark lime-trees closed the
background, their tall summits only peeping above the lofty terrace in
which the château stands. On that terrace, too, were walking a crowd of
persons of the Court, the full-dress costume showing that they had but
left the salons to enjoy the cool and refreshing air of the evening.
I saw some turn and look after our travel-stained and dusty party, and
confess I felt a half sense of shame at our wayworn appearance.

I had not long to suffer such mortification, for ere we marched
more than a few minutes, we were joined by a Maréchal de Logis, who
accompanied us to our quarters,--one of the buildings adjoining the
Palace,--where we found everything in readiness for our arrival. And
there! to my surprise, discovered that a most sumptuous supper awaited
me,--a politeness I was utterly a stranger to, not being over-cognizant
of the etiquette and privilege which await the officer on guard at a
Royal Palace.



CHAPTER XXVIII. THE PARK OF VERSAILLES

The instructions delivered to me soon after my arrival in Versailles
convinced me that the transmission of despatches was not the service we
were called on to discharge, but merely a pretence to blind others as to
our presence; the real duty being the establishment of a cordon
around the Royal Palace, permitting no one to enter or pass within the
precincts who was not provided with a regular leave, and empowering us
to detain all suspected individuals, and forward them for examination to
St. Cloud.

To avoid all suspicion as to the true object, the men were ordered to
pass from place to place as if with despatches, many being stationed in
different parts of the park; my duty requiring me to be continually on
the alert to visit these pickets, and make a daily report to the Préfet
de Police at Paris.

What the nature of the suspicion, or from what quarter Monsieur Savary
anticipated danger, I could not even guess; and though I well knew that
his sources of information were unquestionable, I began at last to think
that the whole was merely some plot devised by the police themselves,
to display uncommon vigilance and enhance their own importance. This
conviction grew stronger as day by day I remarked that no person more
than ordinary had even approached near the town of Versailles itself,
while the absurd exactitude of inquiry as to every minute thing that
occurred went on just as before.

While my life passed on in this monotonous fashion, the little Court of
Madame Bonaparte seemed to enjoy all its accustomed pleasure. The
actors of the Français came down expressly from Paris, and gave nightly
representation in the Palace; _fourgons_ continued to arrive from the
capital with all the luxuries for the table; new guests poured in day
after day; and the lighted-up saloons, and the sounds of music that
filled the Court, told each evening, that whatever fear prevailed
without, the minds of those within the Palace, had little to cause
depression.

It was not without a feeling of wounded pride I saw myself omitted in
all the invitations; for although my rank was not sufficient of itself
to lead me to expect such an attention, my position as the officer on
guard would have fully warranted the politeness, had I not even already
received marks of civility while in Paris. From time to time, as I
passed through the park, I came upon some of the Court party; and it was
with a sense of painful humiliation I observed that Madame Bonaparte
had completely forgotten me, while from one whose indifference was
more galling still, I did not even obtain a look in passing. How had
I forfeited the esteem which voluntarily they had bestowed on
me,--the good opinion which had raised me from an humble cadet of the
Polytechnique to a commission in one of the first corps in the service?
Under what evil influence was I placed?

Such were the questions that forced themselves on me night and day; that
haunted my path as I walked, and my dreams at night. As the impression
grew on me, I imagined that every one I met regarded me with a look of
distance and distrust,--that each saw in me one who had forfeited his
fair name by some low or unworthy action,--till at last I actually
avoided the walks where I was likely to encounter the visitors of the
Palace, and shunned the very approach of a stranger, like a guilty
thing. All the brilliant prospects of my soldier's life, that a few days
back shone out before me, were now changed into a dreamy despondence.
The service I was employed on--so different from what I deemed became
a chivalrous career--was repugnant to all my feelings; and when the
time for visiting my pickets came, I shrank with shame from a duty that
suited rather the spy of the police than the officer of hussars.

Every day my depression increased. My isolation, doubly painful from the
gayety and life around me, seemed to mark me out as one unfit to know,
and lessened me in my own esteem; and as I walked the long, dark alleys
of the park, a weighty load upon my heart, I envied the meanest soldier
of my troop, and would willingly have changed his fortune with my own.
It was a relief to me even when night came--the shutters of my little
room closed, my lamp lighted--to think that there at least I was free
from the dark glances and sidelong looks of all I met; that I was alone
with my own sorrow,--no contemptuous eye to pierce my sad heart, and
see in my gloom a self-convicted criminal. Had I one, but one friend,
to advise with! to pour out all my sufferings before him, and say, “Tell
me, how shall I act? Am I to go on enduring? or where shall I, where can
I, vindicate my fame?”

With such sad thoughts for company, I sat one evening alone,--my mind
now recurring to the early scenes of my childhood, and to that harsh
teaching which even in infancy had marked me for suffering; now
straying onward to a vision of the future I used to paint so brightly to
myself,--when a gentle tap at the door aroused me.

“Come in,” said I, carelessly, supposing it a sergeant of my troop.

The door slowly opened, and a figure wrapped in a loose horseman's cloak
entered.

“Ah! Lieutenant, don't you know me?” said a voice, whose peculiar tone
struck me as well known. “The Abbé d'Ervan, at your service.”

“Indeed!” said I, starting with surprise, not less at the unexpected
visitor himself than at the manner of his appearance. “Why, Abbé, you
must have passed the sentinel.”

“And so I did, my dear boy,” replied he, as he folded up his cloak
leisurely on one chair, and seated himself on another opposite me.
“Nothing wonderful in that, I suppose?”

“But the countersign; they surely asked you for it?”

“To be sure they did, and I gave it,--'Vincennes;' au easy word enough.
But come, come! you are not going to play the police with me. I have
taken you in, on my way back to St. Cloud, where I am stopping just now,
to pay you a little visit and talk over the news.”

“Pardon me once more, my dear abbé; but a young soldier may seem
over-punctilious. Have you the privilege to pass through the royal park
after nightfall?”

“I think I have shown you that already, my most rigid inquisitor,
otherwise I should not have known the password. Give me your report for
to-morrow. Ah, here it is! What's the hour now?--a quarter to eleven.
This will save you some trouble.”

So saying, he took a pen and wrote in a large free hand, “The Abbe
d'Ervan, from the château d'Ancre to St. Cloud.”

“Monsieur Savary will ask you no further questions, trust me. And now,
if you have got over all your fears and disquietudes, may I take the
liberty to remind you that the château is ten leagues off; that I
dined at three, and have eaten nothing since. Abbés you are aware, are
privileged gastronomists, and the family of D'Ervan have a most unhappy
addiction to good things. A poulet, however, and a flask of Chablis,
will do for the present; for I long to talk with you.”

While I made my humble preparations to entertain him, he rambled on
in his usual free and pleasant manner,--that mixture of smartness
and carelessness which seemed equally diffused through all he said,
imparting a sufficiency to awake, without containing anything to engage
too deeply, the listener's attention.

“Come, come, Lieutenant, make no apology for the fare: the paté is
excellent; and as for the Burgundy, it is easy enough to see your
Chambertin comes from the Consul's cellar. And so you tell me that you
find this place dull, which I own I'm surprised at. These little soirées
are usually amusing; but perhaps at your age the dazzling gayety of the
ballroom is more attractive.”

“In truth, Abbé, the distinction would be a matter of some difficulty to
me, I know so little of either. And indeed, Madame la Consulesse is not
over likely to enlighten my ignorance; I have never been asked to the
Palace.”

“You are jesting, surely?”

“Perfectly in earnest, I assure you. This is my third week of being
quartered here; and not only have I not been invited, but, stranger
still, Madame Bonaparte passed and never noticed me; and another, one
of her suite, did the same: so you see there can be no accident in the
matter.”

“How strange!” said the abbé, leaning his head on his hand. And then, as
if speaking to himself, muttered, “But so it is; there is no such tyrant
as your _parvenu_. The caprice of sudden elevation knows no guidance.
And you can't even guess at the cause of all this?”

“Not with all my ingenuity could I invent anything like a reason.”

“Well, well; we may find it out yet. These are strange times altogether.
Lieutenant. Men's minds are more unsettled than ever they were. The
Jacobin begins to feel he has been laboring for nothing; that all he
deems the rubbish of a monarchy has been removed, only to build up a
greater oppression. The soldier sees his conquests have only made the
fortune of one man in the army, and that one not overmindful of his old
companions. Many begin to think--and they may have some cause for the
notion--that the old family of France knew the interests of the nation
best, after all; and certain it is, they were never ungrateful to those
who served them. Your countrymen had always their share of favor shown
them; you do surprise me when you say you've never been invited.”

“So it is, though; and, worse still, there is evidently some secret
reason. Men look at me as if I had done something to stain my character
and name.”

“No, no; you mistake all that. This new and patchwork Court does but try
to imitate the tone of its leader. When did you see De Beauvais?”

“Not for some months past. Is he in Paris?”

“No; the poor fellow has been ill. He 's in Normandy just now, but I
expect him back soon. There is a youth who might be anything he pleased:
his family, one of the oldest in the South; his means abundant; his own
ability first-rate. But his principles are of that inflexible material
that won't bend for mere convenience' sake; he does not like, he does
not approve of, the present Government of France.”

“What would he have, then? Does not Bonaparte satisfy the ambition of
a Frenchman? Does he wish a greater name than that at the head of his
nation?”

“That's a brilliant lamp before us. But see there,” cried the abbé, as
he flung open the shutter, and pointed to the bright moon that shone
pale and beautiful in the clear sky--“see there! Is there not something
grander far in the glorious radiance of the orb that has thrown its
lustre on the world for ages? Is it not a glorious thought to revel in
the times long past, and think of those, our fathers, who lived beneath
the same bright beams, and drank in the same golden waters? Men are too
prone to measure themselves with one of yesterday; they find it hard
to wonder at the statue of him whom they have themselves placed on the
pedestal. Feudalism, too, seems a very part of our nature.”

“These are thoughts I've never known, nor would I now wish to learn
them,” said I; “and as for me, a hero needs no ancestry to make him
glorious in my eyes.”

“All true,” said the abbé, sipping his glass, and smiling kindly on
me. “A young heart should feel as yours does; and time was when such
feelings had made the fortune of their owner. But even now the world is
changed about us. The gendarmes have the mission that once belonged to
the steel-clad cuirassiers; and, in return, the hussar is little better
than a mouchard.”

The blood mounted to my face and temples, and throbbed in every vein and
artery of my forehead, as I heard this contemptuous epithet applied to
the corps I belonged to,--a sarcasm that told not less poignantly on
me, that I felt how applicable it was to my present position. He saw how
deeply mortified the word had made me; and, putting his hand in mine,
with a voice of winning softness he added:--

“One who would be a friend must risk a little now and then; as he who
passes over a plank before his neighbor will sometimes spring to try its
soundness, even at the hazard of a fall. Don't mistake me, Lieutenant;
you have a higher mission than this. France is on the eve of a mighty
change; let us hope it may be a happy one. And now it 's getting
late,--far later, indeed, than is my wont to be abroad,--and so I 'll
wish you good-night. I 'll find a bed in the village; and since I have
made you out here, we must meet often.”

There was something--I could not define what exactly--that alarmed me in
the conversation of the abbé; and lonely and solitary as I was, it was
with a sense of relief I saw him take his departure.

The pupil of a school where the Consul's name was never mentioned
without enthusiasm and admiration, I found it strange that any one
should venture to form any other estimate of him than I was used to
hear; and yet in all he said I could but faintly trace out anything to
take amiss. That men of his cloth should feel warmly towards the exiled
family was natural enough. They could have but few sympathies with the
soldier's calling, and of course felt themselves in a very different
position now from what they once had occupied. The restoration of
Catholicism was, I well knew, rather a political and social than a
religious movement; and Bonaparte never had the slightest intention of
replacing the Church in its former position of ascendency, but rather
of using it as a state engine and giving a stability to the new order
of things, which could only be done on the foundation of prejudices and
convictions old as the nation itself.

In this way the rising generation looked on the priests; and in this
way had I been taught to regard the whole class of religionists. It was,
then, nothing wonderful if ambitious men among them, of whom D'Ervan
might be one, felt somewhat indignant at the post assigned them, and did
not espouse with warmth the cause of one who merely condescended to make
them the tool of his intentions. “Yes, yes,” said I to myself, “I have
defined my friend the abbé; and though not a very dangerous character
after all, it 's just as well I should be on my guard. His being in
possession of the password, and his venturing to write his name in the
police report, are evidences that he enjoys the favor of the Préfet de
Police. Well, well, I'm sure I am heartily tired of such reflections.
Would that the campaign were once begun! The roll of a platoon and the
deep thunder of an artillery fire would soon drown the small whispering
of such miserable plottings from one's head.”

About a week passed over after this visit, in which, at first, I was
rather better pleased that the abbé, did not come again; but as my
solitude began to press more heavily on me, I felt a kind of regret at
not seeing him. His lively tone in conversation, though spiced with that
_morqueur_ spirit which Frenchmen nearly all assume, amused me greatly;
and little versed as I was in the world or in its ways, I saw that he
knew it thoroughly.

Such were my thoughts as I returned home one evening along the broad
alley of the park, when I heard a foot coming rapidly up behind me.

“I say, Lieutenant,” cried the voice of the very man I was thinking of,
“your people are terribly on the alert to-night. They refused to let
me pass, until I told them I was coming to you; and here are two worthy
fellows who won't take my word for it without your corroboration.”

I then perceived that two dismounted dragoons followed him at the
distance of a few paces.

“All right, men,” said I, passing my arm beneath the abba's, and turning
again towards my quarters. “Would n't they take the password, then?”
 continued I, as we walked on.

“_Ma foi_, I don't know, for I haven't got it.”

“How I not got it?”

“Don't look so terribly frightened, my dear boy! you 'll not be put
under arrest or any such mishap on my account. But the truth is, I 've
been away some days from home, and have not had time to write to the
minister for the order; and as I wanted to go over to St. Cloud this
evening, and as this route saves me at least a league's walking, of
course I availed myself of the privilege of our friendship both to rest
my legs and have a little chat with you. Well! and how do you get
on here now? I hope the château is more hospitable to you, eh? Not
so?--that is most strange. But I have brought you a few books which may
serve to while away the hours; and as a recompense, I 'll ask you for a
supper.”

By this time we were at the door of my quarters, where, having ordered
up the best repast my cuisine afforded, we sat down to await its
appearance. Unlike the former evening, the abbe now seemed low and
depressed; spoke little, and then moodily, over the unsettled state
of men's minds, and the rumors that pervaded Paris of some momentous
change,--men knew not what; and thus, by a stray phrase, a chance
word, or an unfinished sentence, gave me to think that the hour was
approaching for some great political convulsion.

“But, Lieutenant, you never told me by what accident you came first
amongst us: let me hear your story. The feeling with which I ask is not
the fruit of an impertinent curiosity. I wish sincerely to know more
about one in whose fortunes I have taken a deep interest. De Beauvais
told me the little anecdote which made you first acquainted; and though
the event promised but little of future friendship, the circumstances
have turned out differently. You have not one who speaks and thinks of
you more highly than he does. I left him this morning not many
miles from this. And now that I think of it, he gave me a letter
for you,--here it is.” So saying, he threw it carelessly on the
chimney-piece, and continued: “I must tell you a secret of poor De
Beauvais, for I know you feel interested in him. You must know, then,
that our friend is desperately in love with a very beautiful cousin of
his own, one of the suite of Madame Bonaparte. She 's a well-known Court
beauty; and if you had seen more of the Tuileries, you'd have heard of
La Rose de Provence.”

“I have seen her, I think,” muttered I, as my cheek grew crimson, and my
lips trembled.

“Well,” resumed the abbé, and without noticing my embarrassment, “this
love affair, which I believe began long ago, and might have ended in
marriage,--for there is no disparity of rank, no want of wealth, nor
any other difficulty to prevent it,--has been interrupted by General
Bonaparte, because, and for no other reason, mark ye, than that De
Beauvais's family were Bourbonists. His father was a captain of the
Garde du Corps, and his grandfather a grand falconer, or something or
other, with Louis the Fifteenth. Now, the young marquis was well enough
inclined to go with the current of events in France. The order of things
once changed, he deemed it best to follow the crowd, and frequented the
Tuileries like many others of his own politics,--I believe you met him
there,--till one morning lately he resolved to try his fortune where the
game was his all. And he waited on Madame Bonaparte to ask her consent
to his marriage with his cousin; for I must tell you that she is an
orphan, and in all such cases the parental right is exercised by the
head of the Government. Madame referred him coldly to the General, who
received him more coldly still; and instead of replying to his suit, as
he expected, broke out into invectives against De Beauvais's friends;
called them_Chouans_and assassins; said they never ceased to plot
against his life with his most inveterate enemies, the English; that
the exiled family maintained a corps of spies in Paris, of whom he half
suspected him to be one; and, in a word, contrived to heap more insult
on him in one quarter of an hour than, as he himself said, his whole
family had endured from the days of Saint Louis to the present. De
Beauvais from that hour absented himself from the Tuileries, and indeed
almost entirely from Paris,--now living with his friends in Normandy,
now spending a few weeks in the South. But at last he has determined on
his course, and means to leave France forever. I believe the object of
his coming here at this moment is to see his cousin for the last time.
Perhaps his note to you has some reference to it.”

I took the letter with a trembling hand,--a fear of something undefined
was over me,--and tearing it open, read as follows:--

     Dear Friend,--The Abbé, d'Ervan will deliver this into your
     hands, and if you wish it, explain the reason of the request
     it contains,--which is simply that you will afford me the
     shelter of your quarters for one day in the park at
     Versailles. I know the difficulty of your position; and if
     any other means under heaven presented itself, I should not
     ask the favor, which, although I pledge my honor not to
     abuse, I shall value as the dearest a whole life's gratitude
     can repay. My heart tells me that you will not refuse the
     last wish of one you will never see after this meeting. I
     shall wait at the gate below the Trianon at eleven o'clock
     on Friday night, when you can pass me through the sentries.

     Yours, ever and devoted,

     Henri De Beauvais.

“The thing is impossible,” said I, laying down the letter on the table,
and staring over at D'Ervan.

“No more so, dear friend, than what you have done for me this evening,
and which, I need not tell you, involves no risk whatever. Here am I
now, without pass or countersign, your guest,--the partaker of as good a
supper and as excellent a glass of wine as man need care for. In an hour
hence,--say two at most,--I shall be on my way over to St. Cloud. Who
is, then, I ask you, to be the wiser? You'll not put me down in the
night report. Don't start: I repeat it, you can't do it, for I had no
countersign to pass through; and as the Consul reads these sheets every
morning, you are not going to lose your commission for the sake of an
absurd punctilio that nobody on earth will thank you for. Come, come, my
worthy lieutenant, these same excellent scruples of yours savor far more
of the scholar at the rigid old Polytechnique than the young officer of
hussars. Help me to that ortolan there, and pass the bottle. There! a
bumper of such a vintage is a good reward for so much talking.”

While the abbé, continued to exert himself, by many a flippant remark
and many a smart anecdote, to dissipate the gloom that now fell over
my spirits, I grew only more and more silent. The one false step I had
taken already presented itself before me as the precedent for further
wrong, and I knew not what course to take, nor how to escape from my
dilemma.

“I say, Lieutenant,” said D'Ervan, after a pause of some minutes, during
which he had never ceased to regard me with a fixed, steady stare, “you
are about as unlike the usual character of your countrymen as one can
well conceive.”

“How so?” said I, half smiling at the remark.

“All the Irishmen I have ever seen,” replied he,--“and I have known
some scores of them,--were bold, dashing, intrepid fellows, that cared
nothing for an enterprise if danger had no share in it; who loved a
difficulty as other men love safety; who had an instinct for where their
own reckless courage would give them an advantage over all others; and
took life easily, under the conviction that, every day could present the
circumstance where a ready wit and a stout heart could make the way to
fortune. Such were the Irish I knew in the brigade; and though not a
man of the number had ever seen what they called the Green Island, they
were as unlike the English, or French, or Germans, or any other people,
as--as the old Court of Louis the Fourteenth was unlike the guardroom
style of reception that goes on nowadays yonder.”

“What you say may be just,” said I, coolly; “and if I seem to have few
features of that headlong spirit which is the gift of my nation, the
circumstances of my boyhood could well explain, perhaps excuse them.
From my earliest years I have had to struggle against ills that many
men in a long lifetime do not meet with. If suspicion and distrust have
crept or stolen into my heart, it is from, watching the conduct of
those I deemed high-spirited and honorable, and seeing them weak and,
vacillating and faithless. And lastly, if every early hope that stirred
my heart does but wane and pale within me, as stars go out when day is
near, you cannot wonder that I, who stand alone here, without home or
friend, should feel a throb of fear at aught which may tarnish a name
that has yet no memory of past services to rely upon. And if you knew
how sorely such emotions war against the spirit that lives here, believe
me you had never made the reproach; my punishment is enough already.”

“Forgive me, my dear boy, if I said anything that could wound you for a
moment,” said the abbé. “This costume of mine, they say, gives a
woman's privilege, and truly I believe it does something of the sex's
impertinence also.. I ought to have known you better; and I do know you
better by this time. And now let me press a request I made some half an
hour ago: tell me this same story of yours. I long to learn something of
the little boy, where I feel such affection for the man.”

The look of kindness and the tone of soothing interest that accompanied
these words I could not resist; so, drawing my chair close towards
him, I began the narrative of my life. He listened with the most
eager attention to my account of the political condition of Ireland;
questioned me closely as to my connection with the intrigues of the
period; and when I mentioned the name of Charles de Meudon, a livid
paleness overspread his features as he asked, in a low, hollow tone, if
I were with him when he died?

“Yes,” replied I, “by his bedside.”

“Did he ever speak to you of me? Did he ever tell you much of his early
life when in Provence?”

“Yes, yes; he spoke often of those happy days in the old château, where
his sister, on whom he doted to distraction, was his companion. Hers was
a sad story, too. Strange, is it not,--I have never heard of her since I
came to France?”

A long pause followed these words, and the abbé, leaned his head upon
his hand, and seemed to be lost in thought.

“She was in love with her cousin,” I continued, “and Charles, unhappily,
refused his consent. Unhappily, I say; for he wept over his conduct on
his deathbed.”

“Did he?” cried the abbé, with a start, while his eye flashed fire, and
his nostrils swelled and dilated like a chafed horse. “Did he do this?”

“Yes, bitterly he repented it; and although he never confessed it, I
could see that he had been deceived by others, and turned from his own
high-souled purpose, respecting his sister. I wonder what became of
Claude,--he entered the Church.”

“Ay, and lies there now,” replied the abbé, sternly.

“Poor fellow! is he dead, too? and so young.”

“Yes; he contrived to entangle himself in some Jacobite plot.”

“Why, he was a Royalist.”

“So he was. It might have been another conspiracy, then,--some _Chouan_
intrigue. Whatever it was, the Government heard of it. He was arrested
at the door of his own _presbyière_; the grenadiers were drawn up in his
own garden; and he was tried, condemned, and shot in less than an hour.
The officer of the company ate the dinner that was preparing for him.”

“What a destiny! And Marie de Meudon?”

“Hush! the name is proscribed. The De Meudons professed strong Royalist
opinions, and Bonaparte would not permit her bearing her family name.
She is known by that of her mother's family except by those poor minions
of the Court who endeavor, with their fake affectation, to revive the
graceful pleasantries of Marie Antoinette's time, and they call her La
Rose de Provence.”

“La Bose de Provence,” cried I, springing up from my chair, “the sister
of Charles!” while a thrill of ecstasy ran through my frame,--followed
the moment after by a cold, faint feel,--and I sank almost breathless in
the chair.

“Ha!” cried the abbè, leaning over me, and holding the lamp close to
my face, “what--” And then, as he resumed his place, he slowly muttered
between his teeth, “I did not dream of this!”

Not a word was now spoken by either. The abbè, sat mute and motionless,
his eyes bent upon the floor, and his hands clasped before him. As
for me, every emotion of hope and fear, joy and sorrow, succeeded one
another in my mind; and it was only as I thought of De Beauvais once
more that a gloomy despair spread itself before me, and I remembered
that he loved her, and how the abbè, hinted his passion was returned.

“The day is breaking,” said D'Ervan, as he opened the shutter and looked
out; “I must away. Well, I hope I may tell my poor friend De Beauvais
that you 'll not refuse his request. Charles de Meudon's sister may have
a claim on your kindness too.”

“If I thought that she--”

“You mean, that she loved him. You must take his word for that; she is
not likely to make a confidant of you. Besides, he tells you it's a
last meeting; you can scarcely say nay. Poor girl, he is the only one
remaining to her of all her house! On his departure you are not more a
stranger here than is she in the land of her fathers.”

“I'll do it I I'll do it!” cried I, passionately. “Let him meet me where
he mentioned; I 'll be there.”

“That's as it should be,” said the abbé, grasping my hand, and pressing
it fervently. “But come, don't forget you must pass me through this same
cordon of yours.”

With a timid and shrinking heart I walked beside the abbé, across the
open terrace, towards the large gate, which with its bronzed and gilded
tracery was already shining in the rich sunlight.

“A fine-looking fellow, that dragoon yonder; he 's deco' rated, I see.”

“Yes; an old hussar of the Garde.”

“What 's he called?”

“Pierre Dulong; a name well known in his troop.”

“Halte-la!” cried the soldier, as we approached.

“Your officer,” said I.

“The word?”

“Arcole.”

“Pass, 'Arcole;' and good-morrow.”

“Adieu, Lieutenant; adieu, Pierre,” said the abbé, as he waved his hand
and passed out.

I stood for a minute or two uncertain of purpose; why, I know not. The
tone of the last few words seemed uttered in something like a sneer.
“What folly, though!” said I to myself. “D'Ervan is a strange fellow,
and it is his way.”

“We shall meet soon, Abbé,” I cried out, as he was turning the corner
of the park wall.

“Yes, yes, rely on it; we shall meet,--and soon.”

He kept his word.



CHAPTER XXIX. LA ROSE OF PROVENCE.

The one thought that dwelt in my mind the entire day was that Marie de
Rochfort was Charles de Meudon's sister. The fact once known, seemed to
explain that secret power she exercised over my hopes and longings. The
spell her presence threw around ever as she passed me in the park; that
strange influence with which the few words I had heard her speak still
remained fast rooted in my memory,--all these did I attribute to the
hold her name had taken of my heart as I sat night after night listening
to her brother's stories. And then, why had I not guessed it earlier?
why had I not perceived the striking resemblance which it now seemed
impossible to overlook? The dark eye, beaming beneath a brow squarely
chiselled like an antique cameo; the straight nose, and short, up-turned
lip, where a half-saucy look seemed struggling with a sweet smile; and
then the voice,--was it not his own rich. Southern accent, tempered by
her softer nature? Yes; I should have known her.

In reflections like these I made my round of duty, my whole heart
wrapped up in this discovery. I never thought of De Beauvais, or his
letter. It seemed to me as though I had known her long and intimately.
She was not the Rose de Provence of the Court, the admired of the
Tuileries, the worshipped belle of Versailles; but Marie de Meudon, the
sister of one who loved me as a brother.

There was a dark alley near the Trianon that led along the side of a
little lake, where rocks and creeping plants, rudely grouped together,
gave a half-wild aspect to the scene; the tall beech and the drooping
ash-trees that grew along the bank threw their shadows far across the
still water. And here I had remarked that Mademoiselle de Meudon came
frequently alone. It was a place, from its look of shade and gloom,
little likely to attract the gay visitors of the Court, who better loved
the smoothly-shaven grass of the Palace walks, or the broad terraces
where bright fountains were plashing. Since I discovered that she
avoided me when we met, I had never taken this path on my rounds,
although leading directly to one of my outposts, but preferred rather a
different and longer route.

Now, however, I sought it eagerly; and as I hurried on, I dreaded lest
my unwonted haste might excite suspicion. I resolved to see and speak
to her. It was her brother's wish that I should know her; and till now I
felt as though my great object in coming to France was unobtained, if I
knew not her whose name was hallowed in my memory. Poor Charles used
to tell me she would be a sister to me. How my heart trembled at the
thought! As I drew near I stopped to think how she might receive me;
with what feelings hear me speak of one who was the cause of all her
unhappiness. But then they said she loved De Beauvais. What! was poor
Claude forgotten? Was all the lovedream of her first affection passed?

My thoughts ran wild as different impulses struggled through them, and I
could resolve on nothing. Before me, scarcely a dozen paces, and alone,
she stood looking on the calm lake, where the light in golden and
green patches played, as it struggled through the dense foliage. The
clattering of my sabre startled her, and without looking back, she
dropped her veil, and moved slowly on.

“Mademoiselle de Meudon!” said I, taking off my shako, and bowing deeply
before her.

“What! how! Why this name, sir? Don't you know it's forbidden here?”

“I know it, Madame. But it is by that name alone I dare to speak to you.
It was by that I learned to know you,--from one who loved you, and who
did not reject my humble heart; one who, amid all the trials of hard
fate, felt the hardest to be,--the wrong he did his sister.”

“Did you speak of my brother Charles?” said she, in a voice low and
tremulous.

“I did, Madame. The last message his lips ever uttered was given to
me,--and for you. Not until last night did I know that I was every hour
of the day so near to one whose name was treasured in my heart.”

“Oh, tell me of him! tell me of my dear Charles!” cried she, as the
tears ran fast down her pale cheeks. “Where was his death? Was it among
strangers that he breathed his last? Was there one there who loved him?”

“There was! there was!” cried I, passionately, unable to say more.

“And where was that youth that loved him so tenderly? I heard of him
as one who never left his side,--tending him in sickness, and watching
beside him in sorrow. Was he not there?”

“I was! I was! My hand held his; in my ear his last sigh was breathed.”

“Oh! was it you indeed who were my brother's friend?” said she, seizing
my hand, and pressing it to her lips. The hot tears dropped heavily on
my wrist, and in my ecstasy I knew not where I was. “Oh,” cried she,
passionately, “I did not think that in my loneliness such a happiness as
this remained for me! I never dreamed to see and speak to one who knew
and loved my own dear Charles; who could tell me of his solitary hours
of exile,--what hopes and fears stirred that proud heart of his; who
could bring back to me in all their force again the bright hours of our
happy youth, when we were all to each other,--when our childhood knew
no greater bliss than that we loved. Alas, alas! how short-lived was it
all! He lies buried beyond the sea in the soil of the stranger; and I
live on to mourn over the past and shudder at the future. But come, let
us sit down upon this bank; you must not leave me till I hear all about
him. Where did you meet first?”

We sat down upon a grassy bench beside the stream, where I at once began
the narrative of my first acquaintance with De Meudon. At first the rush
of sensations that came crowding on me made me speak with difficulty and
effort. The flutter of her dress as the soft wind waved it to and fro,
the melody of her voice, and her full, languid eye, where sorrow and
long-buried affection mingled their expression, sent thrilling
through my heart thoughts that I dared not dwell upon. Gradually, as I
proceeded, my mind recurred to my poor friend, and I warmed as I spoke
of his heroic darings and his bold counsels. All his high-souled ardor,
all the nobleness of his great nature,--his self-devotion, and his
suffering,--were again before me, mingled with those traits of womanly
softness which only belong to those whose courage was almost fanaticism.
How her dark eyes grew darker as she listened, and her parted lips and
her fast-heaving bosom betrayed the agitation that she felt! And how
that proud look melted into sorrow when I told of the day when his
outpouring heart recurred to home and her, the loved one of his boyhood.
Every walk in that old terraced garden, each grassy alley and each shady
seat, I knew as though I saw them.

Although I did not mention Claude, nor even distinctly allude to the
circumstances which led to their unhappiness, I could see that her cheek
became paler and paler; and that, despite an effort to seem calm,
the features moved with a slight jerking motion, her lip trembled
convulsively, and, with a low, sad sigh she fell back fainting.

[Illustration: The Lady of the Lake 300]

I sprang down the bank towards the lake, and in an Instant dipped my
shako in the water; and as I hastened back, she was sitting up, her eyes
staring madly 'round her, her look wild almost to insanity, while her
outstretched finger pointed to the copse of low beech near us.

“There, there! I saw him!” said she. “He was there now. Look! look!”

Shocked at the terrified expression of her features, and alarmed lest
ray story had conjured up before her disordered imagination the image of
her lost brother, I spoke to her in words of encouragement.

“No, no!” replied she to my words, “I saw him,--I heard his voice, too.
Let us leave this; bring me to the Trianon; and--”

The terrified and eager look she threw around at each word did not admit
of longer parley, and I drew her arm within mine to lead her forward.
“This is no fancy, as you deem it,” said she, in a low and broken tone,
to which an accent of bitterness lent a terrible power; “nor could the
grave give up before me one so full of terror to my heart as him I saw
there.”

Her head sank heavily as she uttered this; and, notwithstanding every
effort I made, she spoke no more, nor would give me any answer to my
questions regarding the cause of her fears.

As we walked forward we heard the sound of voices, which she at once
recognized as belonging to the Court party, and pressing my hand
slightly, she motioned me to leave her. I pressed the pale fingers to my
lips, and darted away, my every thought bent on discovering the cause of
her late fright.

In an instant I was back beside the lake. I searched every copse and
every brake; I wandered for hours through the dark woods; but nothing
could I see. I stooped to examine the ground, but could not even detect
the pressure of a footstep. The dried branches lay unbroken, and the
leaves unpressed around; and I at last became convinced that an excited
brain, and a mind harassed by a long sorrow, had conjured up the image
she spoke of. As I approached the picket, which was one of the most
remote in my rounds, I resolved to ask the sentry had he seen any one.

“Yes, Lieutenant,” said the soldier; “a man passed some short time ago
in an undress uniform. He gave the word, and I let him proceed.”

“Was he old or young?”

“Middle-aged, and of your height.”

“Which way did he take?”

“He turned towards the left as he passed out; I lost sight of him then.”

I hurried immediately onward, and entered the wood by the path in the
direction mentioned, my mind painfully excited by what I heard, and
resolved to do everything to probe this matter to the bottom. But,
though I walked miles in every direction, I met none save a few
fagot-gatherers, and they had not seen any one like him I sought for.

With a weary and a heavy heart I turned towards my quarters, all the
happiness of the morning dashed by the strange event I have related.
My night was feverish and disturbed; for a long time I could not sleep,
and, when I did, wild and terrible fancies came on me, and I started up
in terror. A horrible face recurred at every instant to my mind's eye;
and even when awake, the least noise, the slightest rustling of the
leaves in the park, agitated and excited me. At last, worn out with the
painful struggle, between sleep and waking, I arose and dressed.

The day was breaking, and already the birds were carolling to the rising
sun. I strolled out into the park. The fresh and bracing air of morning
cooled my burning brow; the mild influences of the hour, when sweet
perfumes float softly in the dew-loaded breeze, soothed and calmed me;
and I wandered back in thought to her who already had given a charm to
my existence I never knew before.

The long-wished-for dream of my boyhood was realized at last. I knew
the sister of my friend; I sat beside her, and heard her speak to me in
tones so like his own. I was no longer the friendless alien, without one
to care for, one to feel interested in his fortunes. The isolation that
pressed so painfully on me fled before that thought: and now I felt
raised in my own esteem by those dark eyes that thanked me as I spoke of
poor Charles. What a thrill that look sent through my heart! Oh, did
she know the power of that glance! Could she foresee what seeds of high
ambition her every smile was sowing! The round of my duty was to me
devoid of all fatigue, and I returned to my quarters with a light step
and a lighter heart.

The entire day I lingered about the Trianon and near the lake; but Marie
never came, nor did she appear in the walks at all. “Was she ill? Had
the vision, whatever it was, of yesterday, preyed upon her health?” were
my first thoughts, and I inquired eagerly if any doctor had been seen
about the château. But no, nothing unusual seemed to have occurred, and
a ball was to take place that very evening. I would have given worlds,
were they mine, even to know in what part of the Palace she was lodged;
and fifty times did I affect to have some duty, as an excuse to cross
the terrace and steal a cautious glance towards the windows,--but in
vain.

So engrossed was my mind with thoughts of her that I forgot all else.
The pickets, too, I had not visited since daybreak, and my report to the
minister remained unfilled. It was late in the evening when I sallied
forth to my duty, and night, with scarce a star, was falling fast. My
preoccupation prevented my feeling the way as I walked along; and I had
already visited all the outposts except one, when a low, faint whistle,
that seemed to issue from the copse near me, startled me. It was
repeated after a moment, and I called out,--

“Who 's there? Advance.”

“Ah, I thought it was you, Burke!” said a voice I at once knew to be
Beauvais's. “You broke faith with me at the town-gate yonder, and so I
had to come down here.”

“How? You surely were not there when I passed?”

“Yes, but I was, though. Did you not see the woodcutter, with his blouse
on his arm, lighting his pipe at the door of the guardhouse?”

“Yes; but you can't mean that it was you.”

“Do you remember his saying, 'Buy a cheap charretie of wood, Lieutenant;
I 'll leave it at your quarters? '”

“De Beauvais,” said I, gravely, “these risks may be fatal to us both.
My orders are positive; and if I disobey them, there are no powerful
friends nor high relatives to screen me from a deserving punishment.”

“What folly you speak, Burke! If I did not know you better, I should say
you grudged me the hospitality I have myself asked you for. One night to
rest,--and I need it much, if you knew but all,--and one day to speak to
Marie, and you have done with me. Is that too much?”

“No,--not if I did not betray a trust in sheltering you, far too little
to speak of, much less thank me for. But--”

“Do spare me these scruples, and let us take the shortest way to your
quarters. A supper and three chairs to sleep on, are worth all your
arguments, eloquent though they be.”

We walked on together, almost in silence: I overwhelmed with fear for
the result should my conduct ever become known; he evidently chagrined
at my reception of him, and little disposed to make allowances for
scruples he would not have respected himself.

“So here we are at last,” said he, as he threw himself on my little
sofa, seemingly worn out with exhaustion. I had now time to look at him
by the light, and almost started back at the spectacle that presented
itself. His dress, which was that of the meanest peasant, was ragged and
torn; his shoes scarce held together with coarse thongs; and his beard,
unshaven for weeks past, increased the haggard look of features where
actual want and starvation seemed impressed.

“You are surprised at my costume,” said he, with a sad smile; “and,
certes, Crillac would not court a customer habited as I am just now. But
what will you say when I assure you that the outward man--and you
will not accuse him of any voluptuous extravagance--has a very great
advantage over the inner one? In plain words, Lieutenant, you 'd hurry
your cook, if you knew I have not tasted food, save what the hedges
afford, for two days: not from poverty neither; there 's wherewithal
there to dine, even at Beauvilliers's.” He rattled a well-filled purse
as he spoke.

“Come, come, De Beauvais! you accuse me of doing the honors with a bad
grace; and, in truth, I wish I were your host outside the pickets. But
let me retrieve my character a little. Taste this capon.”

“If you never dined with a wolf, you shall now,” said he, drawing his
chair to the table and filling a large goblet with Burgundy.

For ten or fifteen minutes he ate on like a man whom long starvation
had rendered half savage; then ceasing suddenly, he looked up, and said,
“Lieutenant, the cuisine here might tempt a more fastidious man than I
am; and if these people are not hospitable enough to invite you to their
soiries, they certainly do not starve you at home.”

“How knew you that I was not asked to the château?” said I, reddening
with a sense of offended pride I could not conceal.

“Know it? Why, man, these things are known at once. People talk of them
in saloons and morning visits, and comment on them in promenades; and
though I seem not to have been keeping company with the beau monde
latterly, I hear what goes on there too. But trust me, boy, if your
favor stands not high with the Court of to-day, you may perhaps be
preparing the road to fortune with that of to-morrow.”

“Though you speak in riddle, De Beauvais, so long as I suspect that what
you mean would offer insult to those I serve, let me say,--and I say it
in all temper, but in all firmness,--you 'll find no ready listener
in me. The highest favor I aspire to is the praise of our great chief,
General Bonaparte; and here I pledge his health.”

“I'll drink no more wine to-night,” said he, sulkily pushing his glass
before him. “Is this to be my bed?”

“Of course not; mine is ready for you. I 'll rest on the sofa there, for
I shall have to visit my pickets by daybreak.”

“In Heaven's name, for what?” said he, with a half sneer. “What can
that poor Savary be dreaming of? Is there any one about to steal
the staircase of the Louvre, or the clock from the pavilion of the
Tuileries? Or is it the savants of the Institute he 's afraid of
losing?”

“Rail on, my good friend; you 'll find it very hard to make an old
scholar of the Polytechnique think poorly of the man that gains
battles.”

“Well, well, I give up my faith in physiognomy. Do you remember that
same evening in the Tuileries when I asked your pardon, and begged to be
your friend? I thought you a different fellow then from what I see you
now; that silly hussar pelisse has turned many a head before yours.”

“You wish to make me angry, De Beauvais, and you 'll not succeed. A
night's rest will bring you to better temper with all the world.”

“Will it, faith! In that case a tolerably large portion of it must take
leave of it before morning; for I promise you, my worthy hussar, there
are some I don't expect to feel so very charitably towards as you
expect.”

“Well, well! What say you to bed?”

“I 'll sleep where I am,” said he, with some harshness in his tone.
“Good-night.”

The words were scarcely uttered when he turned on his side, and, shading
his eyes from the light with his hand, fell fast asleep.

It was already past midnight, and as I was fatigued with my day's
walking, I soon retired to my bed, but not to rest. Whenever I closed
my eyes, Beauvais's pale and worn face seemed before me,--the haggard
expression of suffering and privation. And then I fell to thinking what
enterprise of danger could involve him in such necessities as these. It
must be one of peril, or he had not become what now I saw him. His very
voice was changed,--its clear, manly tone was now harsh and dissonant;
his frank and cheerful look was downcast and suspicious.

At last, worn out with thinking, I fell asleep; but was suddenly
awakened by a voice shouting from the outer room. I sat up and listened.
It was De Beauvais, calling wildly for help; the cry grew fainter, and
soon sank into the long-drawn respiration of repose. Poor fellow! even
in his dreams his thoughts were of strife and danger.



CHAPTER XXX. A WARNING.

The day was breaking when I was up and stirring, resolving to visit the
pickets before De Beauvais awoke; for even still the tone of ridicule he
assumed was strong before me. I passed stealthily through the room where
he was still sleeping; the faint light streamed through the half-closed
shutters, and fell upon a face so pale, so haggard, and so worn, that I
started back in horror. How altered was he, indeed, from what I had seen
him first! The cheek once ruddy with the flush of youth was now pinched
and drawn in; the very lips were bloodless, as if not illness alone, but
long fasting from food, had pressed upon him. His hair, too, which used
to fall upon his shoulders and on his neck in rich and perfumed locks,
silky and delicate as a girl's, was now tangled and matted, and hung
across his face and temples wild and straggling. Even to his hands his
changed condition was apparent, for they were torn and bleeding; while
in the attitude of sleep, you could trace the heavy unconscious slumber
of one utterly worn out and exhausted. His dress was of the coarse stuff
the peasants wear in their blouses; and even that seemed old and worn.
What strange career had brought him down to this I could not think; for
poor as all seemed about him, his well-stocked purse showed that his
costume was worn rather for disguise than necessity.

Such was my first thought; my second, more painful still, recurred to
her he loved, by whom he was perhaps beloved in turn. Oh! if anything
can add to the bitter smart of jealousy, it is the dreadful conviction
that she for whom our heart's best blood would flow to insure one
hour of happiness, has placed her whole life's fortune on the veriest
chance,--bestowing her love on one whose life gives no guarantee for the
future,--no hope, no pledge, that the world's wildest schemes of
daring and ambition are not dearer to his eyes than all her charms and
affections. How does our own deep devotion come up before us contrasted
with this! and how, in the consciousness of higher motives and more
ennobling thoughts, do we still feel inferior to him who, if poor in all
besides, is rich in her love!

Such envious feelings filled my heart as I looked on him; and with slow,
sad step I moved on, when by accident I came against a chair, and threw
it down. The noise awoke him, and with a spring he was on his legs, and
drawing a pistol from his bosom, cried out,--

“Ha! what is 't? Why, Burke, it 's you! What hour is it?”

“Not four yet. I 'm sorry to have disturbed you, De Beauvais; but the
chair here--”

“Yes, yes; I placed it so last night. I felt so very heavy that I could
not trust myself with waking to a slight noise. Where to, so early? Ah!
these pickets; I forgot.” And with that he lay down again, and before I
left the house was fast asleep once more.

Some trifling details of duty detained me at one or two of the outposts,
and it was beyond my usual time when I turned homeward. I had but just
reached the broad alley that leads to the foot of the great terrace,
when I saw a figure before me hastening on towards the château. The
flutter of the dress showed it to be a woman; and then the thought
flashed on me,--it was Mademoiselle de Meudon. Yes, it was her step; I
knew it well. She had left the place thus early to meet De Beauvais.

Without well knowing what I did, I had increased my speed, and was now
rapidly overtaking her, when the noise of my footsteps on the ground
made her turn about and look back. I stopped short suddenly. An
indistinct sense of something culpable on my part in thus pursuing her
flitted across my mind, and I could not move. There she stood, too,
motionless; but for a second or two only, and then beckoned to me with
her hand. I could scarcely trust my eyes, nor did I dare to stir till
she had repeated the motion twice or thrice.

As I drew near, I remarked that her eyes were red with weeping, and her
face pale as death. For a moment she gazed steadfastly at me, and then,
with a voice whose accent I can never forget, she said,--

“And you, too, the dearest friend of my own Charles, whose very deathbed
spoke of loyalty to him, how have you been drawn from your allegiance?”

I stood amazed and astounded, unable to utter a word in reply, when she
resumed,--

“For them there is reason, too: they lived, or their fathers did, in
the sunshine of the old Monarchy; wealth, rank, riches, power,--all were
theirs. But you, who came amongst us with high hopes of greatness,
where others have earned them on the field of battle,--whose youth is
a guarantee that base and unworthy thoughts should form no part of his
motives, and whose high career began under the very eyes of him, the
idol of every soldier's heart,--oh I why turn from such a path as this,
to dark and crooked ways, where low intrigue and plot and treachery are
better weapons than your own stout heart and your own bright sword?”

“Hear me, I pray you,” said I, bursting into impatience,--“hear me but
one word, and know that you accuse me wrongfully. I have no part in, nor
have I knowledge of, any treason.”

“Oh, speak not thus to me! There are those who may call their acts by
high-sounding titles, and say, 'We are but restoring our own sovereigns
to the land they owned.' But you are free to think and feel; no prestige
of long years blinds your reason or obstructs your sense of right.”

“Once more I swear, that though I can but guess at where your suspicions
point, my faith is now as true, my loyalty as firm, as when I pledged
myself at your dear brother's side to be a soldier.”

“Then why have you mixed yourself with their intrigues? Why are you
already suspected? Why has Madame Bonaparte received orders to omit your
name in all the invitations to the château?”

“Alas! I know not. I learn now, for the first time that suspicion ever
attached to me.”

“It is said, too,--for already such things are spoken of,--that you know
that dreadful man whose very presence is contamination. Oh! does it not
seem like fate that his dark path should traverse every portion of my
destiny?”

The sobs that burst from her at these words seemed to rend her very
bosom. “They say,” continued she, while her voice trembled with strong
emotion,--“they say he has been here.”

“I know not of whom you speak,” said I, as a cold chill ran through my
blood.

“Mehée de la Touche,” replied she, with an effort.

“I never heard of him till now; the very name is unknown to me.”

“Thank God for this!” muttered she between her teeth. “I thought,
perhaps, that De Beauvais had made you known to each other.”

“No; De Beauvais never introduced me, save to some friends of his one
evening at a supper, several months back; and only one of them have I
ever seen since,--an Abbé, d'Ervan. And, indeed, if I am guilty of any
breach of duty, I did not think the reproach was to come from you.”

The bitterness of these last words was wrung from me in a moment of
wounded pride.

“How! what mean you?” said she, impetuously. “No one has dared to call
my fidelity into question, nor speak of me as false to those who cherish
and protect me.”

“You mistake my meaning,” said I, sadly and slowly. Then hesitating how
far I should dare allude to De Beauvais's affection, I stopped, when
suddenly her face became deeply flushed, and a tear started to her eye.

“Alas, she loves him!” said I to my heart, and a sickness like death
passed over me. “Leave me, leave me quickly!” cried she. “I see persons
watching us from the terrace.” And with that she moved hastily on
towards the château, and I turned into one of the narrow walks that led
into the wood.

Two trains of thought struggled for mastery in my mind: how had I become
suspected? how should I wipe out the stain upon my honor?

There was not an incident of my life since my landing in France I did
not call to mind; and yet, save in the unhappy meeting with De Beauvais,
I could not see the slightest probability that even malevolence could
attach anything to my reputation. “From d'Ervan, it is true, I heard
more than once opinions that startled me; less, however, by anything
direct in their meaning, than that they were totally new and strange.
And yet the abbé, I had every reason to believe, was a friend of the
present Government; at least it was evident he was on terms of close
intimacy with Monsieur Savary.

“De Beauvais must clear up some of these doubts for me,” thought I; “he
must inform me more particularly as to those to whom he introduced me. I
shall endeavor to learn, too, something of their schemes, and thus guard
myself against the mere chance of suspicion; for unquestionably he
is not in ignorance of the movement, whatever it be.” And with such
intentions I hurried onwards, eager to reach my quarters.

As I entered my room, a low, heavy sob broke on my ear; I started back
with surprise. It was De Beauvais, who sat, his head buried in his
hands, leaning on the table.

“Ha!” said he, springing up, and passing his hand hurriedly across his
eyes, “so soon back! I scarcely expected you.”

“It is past ten o'clock,--a full hour later than my usual return.”

“Indeed!” rejoined he, with an air of impertinent surprise. “So
then your pickets have been arresting and detaining some poor devils
gathering fagots or acorns? or have you unfathomed the depth of this
terrible plot your Préfet de Police has become insane about?”

“Neither,” said I, affecting a careless tone. “The Government of the
Consul is sufficiently strong to make men's minds easy on that score.
Whatever intrigues are at work, they are as little likely to escape his
keen eye as their perpetrators are, when taken, the fire of a grenadier
company.”

“_Ma foi!_ sir, you speak confidently,” replied he, in an accent of pride
totally different from his former tone. “And yet I have heard of persons
just as confident, too, who afterwards confessed they had been mistaken.
But perhaps it seems less strange to you that a sous-lieutenant of
artillery should rule the destinies of France, than that the King of the
country should resume the throne of his ancestors.”

“Take care, De Beauvais, with whom you speak. I warn you; and be assured
I 'll not be trifled with. One word more, and I put you under arrest.”

“Not here, surely,” replied he, in a low and searching voice,--“not
here. Let us walk out into the park. Let it be in the great alley, or on
the terrace yonder; or, better still, let the capture take place in the
wood; but do not let your loyalty violate the hospitality of your home.”

“Forgive me, I pray; I knew not what I said. You tempted me sorely,
though. Think but for a moment, De Beauvais, how I stand here, and let
your own heart judge me. I am an alien,--a friendless stranger. There
lives not one in all the length and breadth of France who would raise
a finger, or speak one word, to save me were my head in peril. My
sword and my fidelity are all my hope; that both should remain pure and
unblemished is all my wish. The grade I have I owe to him--”

“Great cause for gratitude, truly!” he broke in. “The chief _élève_ of
the Polytechnique is made a sous-lieutenant of cavalry, with functions
of a sergeant of the gendarmerie, with orders to stop all travellers,
and search their pockets. Shame on it! It was not thus the rightful
sovereigns of France regarded those who wore their epaulettes; not thus
did they esteem the soldier's part. Think, for a second, what you are,
and then reflect what you might be. Cold and unimpassioned as you call
yourself, I know your heart better. There lives not one who treasures a
higher ambition in his breast than you. Ah! your eyes sparkle already.
Think, then, I say, what a career opens before you, if you have courage
to embrace it. It 's a great game that enables a man to spring from
sous-lieutenant to colonel of a regiment. Come, Burke! I can have no
reason, save your welfare, to press these considerations on you. What
are you writing there?”

“A report to the Préfet de Police. I see now, however late it is, the
unworthiness of the part I 've acted, in remaining in a service where I
've listened to statements such as these. I shall ask to have my
grade withdrawn, and be reduced to the ranks; there, perhaps, I may be
permitted to carry a soldier's musket without a stain upon my honor.”

“You can do better, sir,” interrupted he, as his face grew purple with
passion, and his eyes flashed fire, “far better: call up your dragoons
yonder, and place me, where you threatened, under arrest; forward your
report to the minister, that Henri de Beauvais, Marquis et Pair de
France when such things were, has been taken with the 'Croix de St.
Louis' and the cordon in his possession.” Here he took from his bosom
the decoration, and waved it above his head. “Add, too, that he came
prepared to tempt your loyalty with this.” He drew forth at the words a
parchment document, and dashed it on the table before me. “There, sir,
read it; it is the King's own handwriting,--your brevet of colonel to
a regiment of the Gardes. Such proofs of your devotion can scarcely go
unrewarded. They may raise you to the rank of police spy. There is a
lady yonder, too, who should also share in your elevation, as she does
in your loyal sentiments; Mademoiselle de Meudon may be too quick for
you. Lose no time, sir; such chances as these are not the fruit of
every day. After all, I can scarcely go to the guillotine under better
auspices than with my cousin and my friend as my betrayers. Mayhap, too,
they 'll do you the honor to make you mount guard beside the scaffold.
Such an occasion to display your devotion should not escape you,--David
found it profitable to catch the expiring agonies of his own friends, as
with easel and brush he sat beside the guillotine: the hint should not
be lost.”

The insulting emphasis with which he spoke the last words cut me to
the very heart, and I stood speechless before him, trembling like a
criminal.

“Let us part, De Beauvais,” said I, at length, as I held my hand towards
him. “Let us say adieu to each other, and forever. I can forgive all
you have said to me, far better than I could myself had I listened to
your persuasions. What may be honorable and just in you, would be black
ingratitude and dark treachery in me. I shall now endeavor to forget we
have ever met, and once more, good-by!”

“You are right,” replied he, after a pause of some seconds, and in a
tone of great sadness; “we never should have met. Adieu!”

“One word more, De Beauvais. I find that I have been suspected of some
treasonable intercourse; that even here I am watched and spied upon.
Tell me, I beseech you, before you go, from what quarter comes this
danger, that I may guard against it.”

“In good truth, you give me credit for quicker perceptions than I
have any right to. How so loyal a gentleman should lie under such an
imputation I cannot even guess.”

“Your sneers shall not provoke me. The fact is as I state it; and if
you will not help me to the discovery, tell me, at least, who are the
persons to whom you introduced me formerly at Beauvilliers's?”

“Very excellent company! I trust none of them have cheated you at
écarte.”

“Pray, have done with jesting, and answer me. Who is your Abbé?”

“_Ma foi_, he is the Abbé, d'Ervan. What part of France he comes from,
who are his family, friends, and resources,--are all questions I have
never thought proper to ask him; possibly because I am not so scrupulous
on the score of my acquaintances as you are. He is a very clever,
amusing, witty person; knows almost every one; has the entrée into every
house in the Faubourg St. Germain; can compose a couplet and sing it;
make a mayonnaise or a madrigal better than any man I know; and, in
fact, if he were one of these days to be a minister of France, I should
not be so very much surprised as you appear this moment at my not
knowing more about him. As to the other, the Russian secretary,--or spy,
if you like the phrase better, he was unlucky enough to have one of his
couriers robbed by a party of brigands, which scandal says were sent out
for the purpose by Monsieur de Talleyrand. His secret despatches
were opened and read; and as they were found to implicate the Russian
Government in certain intrigues carrying on, the Czar had only one
course open, which was to recall the secretary and disavow his whole
proceedings. The better to evince his displeasure, I hear they have
slit his nose, and sent him to pass the winter at Tobolsk. Lastly, the
préfet. What shall I say of him, save that he was a préfet in the South,
and wants to be one again? His greatest endeavors in any cause will be
to pledge its success in Burgundy, or, if you wish, drink the downfall
of its enemy; and as to his enthusiasm, he cares a devilish deal more
for a change of weather than a change of dynasty, particularly in the
truffle season, or when the vines are ripening. Such are the truly
dangerous associates you have kept company with. It now only remains to
speak of my humble self, whose history, I need scarcely say, is far more
at your service than worth the hearing. Are you satisfied?”

“Quite so, as regards me; by no means so, however, as to your fate.
Short as our intimacy has been, I have seen enough of you to know
that qualities like yours should not be wasted in a mad or hopeless
enterprise.”

“Who told you it was either?” interrupted he, impetuously. “Who dares to
say that the rule of a Usurper is more firmly placed than the prestige
of a Monarchy that goes back to Hugues Capet? Come, come! I will not
discuss these questions with you, nor have I temper now left to do so.
Give me the countersign to pass the sentry, and let us part.”

“Not in anger, though, De Beauvais.”

“Not in friendship, sir,” replied he, proudly, as he waved back, with
his, my proffered hand. “Adieu!” said he, in a softened tone, as he
moved from the room; and then, turning quickly round, he added, “We may
meet again hereafter, and scarcely can do so on equal terms. If fortune
stand by you I must be a beggar; should I win, yours is indeed a sorry
lot. When that time comes, let him with whom the world goes best not
forget the other. Good-by!” And with that he turned away, and left the
house.

I watched him as he strode along the silent alleys, careless and free as
though he had no cause for fear, till he disappeared in the dark wood:
and then I sat down at the door to think over our interview. Never had
my heart felt more depressed. My own weakness in having ever admitted
the intimacy of men whose dangerous designs were apparent had totally
undermined the strong principle of rectitude I should have relied upon
in such a trial, and on which I could have thrown myself for support.
What had I to guide me after all, save my devotion to the cause of
Bonaparte himself? The prejudices of education, the leanings of family
opinion, the inclinations of friends, exist not for the alien. He has to
choose his allegiance; it is not born with him. His loyalty is not the
growth of a hundred different sympathies, that have twined round his
heart in childhood and grown with him to manhood; speaking of home and
infancy, of his own native streams and mountains, of a land that was his
father's. No! with him it is not a conviction,--it is but a feeling.

Such was the substance of my reverie; and as I arose and strolled out
into the park, it was with a deeply-uttered vow to be true to him and
his fortunes whose name first lit the spark of ambition in my heart, and
through weal or woe to devote myself to him.



CHAPTER XXXI. THE CHÂTEAU


The same day that De Beauvais left me, the Court took its departure
from Versailles. A sudden resolution of the Consul to visit the camp
at Boulogne, where he was to be accompanied by Madame Bonaparte, was
announced as the reason for this change; while a dark rumor ran that
some detected scheme for his assassination had induced his friends to
advise this step. Certain it was, the preparations were made with the
utmost speed, and in less than an hour after the despatch had arrived
from Paris, the Court was on its way back to the capital.

It was not without a sense of sadness that I watched the equipages as
they rolled one by one from beneath the deep colonnade, and traversed
the wide terrace, to disappear in the recesses of the dark forest. I
strained my eyes to catch even a passing look at one who to me had made
every walk and every alley a thing to love. But I could not see her; and
the last roll of the retiring wheels died away in the distance without
one friendly voice to say adieu, one smile at parting.

Though I had not participated in the festivities of the château, nor
even been noticed by any of the guests, the absence of its gay world,
the glitter of its brilliant cortege, the neighing steeds in all their
bright panoply, the clank of military music, the gorgeously dressed
ladies who strolled along its terraced walks, made the solitude that
followed appear dark and desolate indeed; and now, as I walked the
park, whose avenues at noonday were silent as at midnight, the desertion
imparted a melancholy feeling to my heart I could not explain. How often
had I stopped beneath that balcony, striving to distinguish the soft
tones of one gentle voice amid the buzz of conversation! How had I
watched the crowded promenade every evening upon the terrace, to see one
figure there among the rest! and when my eye had fallen upon her, how
has it followed and traced her as she went! And now I frequented each
spot where I had ever seen her,--pacing at sunset the very walk she used
to take, dwelling on each word she ever spoke to me. The château, too,
of which before I had not passed the door, I now revisited again and
again, lingering in each room where I thought she had been, and even
resting on the chairs, and calling up before me her image as though
present.

Thus passed over weeks and months. The summer glided into the mellow
autumn, and the autumn itself grew cold and chill, with grayish skies
and sighing winds that swept the leaves along the dark walks and moaned
sadly among the tall beech-trees. The still, calm waters of the little
lake, that reflected the bright foliage and the deep blue sky motionless
as in a mirror, was now ruffled by the passing breeze, and surged with a
low, sad sound against its rocky sides; and as I watched these changes,
I sorrowed less for the departing season than that every trace of her
I loved was fading from before me. The bare and skeleton branches now
threw their gaunt shadows where I had seen her walk at noonday enveloped
in deep shade. Dark, watery clouds were hurrying across the surface of
the stream where I had seen her fair form mirrored. The cold winds
of coming winter swept along the princely terrace where not a zephyr
rustled her dress as she moved. And somehow, I could not help connecting
these changes with my own sensations, and feeling that a gloomy winter
was approaching to my own most cherished hopes.

Months passed over with me thus, in which, save on my round of duty,
I never spoke to any one. D'Ervan did not return as he promised,--a
circumstance which, with all my solitude, I sincerely rejoiced at. And
of De Beauvais I heard nothing; and yet, on one account, I could have
wished much to learn where he was. Unhappily, in the excitement of
the morning I last saw him, he forgot on the table at my quarters the
commission of colonel by which he had endeavored to tempt my ambition,
and which I never noticed till several hours after his departure.
Unwilling to destroy, and yet fearful of retaining it in my possession,
I knew not well what to do, and had locked it up in my writing-desk,
anxiously looking for an opportunity to forward it to him. None such,
however, presented itself, nor did I ever hear from him from the hour he
left me.

The unbroken solitude in which I lived disposed me to study, and
I resumed the course which in earlier days had afforded me so much
interest and amusement; and by this, not only was my mind drawn off from
the contemplation of the painful circumstances of my own loneliness, but
gradually my former ardor for military distinction came back in all its
force. And thus did I learn, for the first time, how many of the griefs
that our brains beget find their remedies in the source they spring
from,--the exercise of the intellect being like that of the body, an
essential to a healthy state of thinking and feeling. Each day imparted
fresh energy to me in the path I followed; and in these solitary hours I
made those acquisitions in knowledge which in after life were to render
me the most important services, and prepare me for the contingencies of
a soldier's career.

While thus engaged, time rolled over, and already the dark and gloomy
month of January set in with clouded skies and nights of storm and
rain. Everything wore its most cheerless aspect. Not only were the trees
leafless and bare, the roads broken up and fissured with streams of
water, but the neglected look of the château itself bespoke the sad
and gloomy, season. The closed shutters, the closely barred doors,
the statues covered up with mats to protect them from the weather, the
conservatories despoiled of all their gay habitants, betrayed that the
time was passed when in the warm air of sunset happy groups wandered
hither and thither, inhaling the rich odors of the flowers and gazing on
the brilliant landscape.

It was about nine o'clock at night. The storm that usually began each
evening at the same hour was already stirring in fitful gusts among the
bare branches of the trees, or sending a sudden plash of rain against
the windows, when, as I drew closer to ray fire, and was preparing to
enjoy myself for the evening over my book, I heard the regular tramping
sound of a cavalry horse approaching along the terrace; the jingle of
the accoutrements was a noise I could not mistake. I arose, but before I
reached the door I heard a deep voice call out,--

     “The Sous-Lieutenant Burke; a despatch from Paris.” I took
     the paper, which was sealed and folded in the most formal
     manner, and returning to the room, opened it. The contents
     ran thus:--

     Sous-Lieutenant: On receipt of this you are commanded to
     station four dragoons of your party, with a corporal, on the
     road leading from Chaillot to Versailles, who shall detain
     all persons passing that way unable to account
     satisfactorily for their presence. You will also station a
     picket of two dragoons at the cross-road from the Tron to
     St. Cloud for the like purpose. The remainder of your party
     to be under arms during the night, and if requisite, at the
     disposal of Captain Lepelletier. For the execution of which,
     the present order will be your responsibility.

     (Signed) Savary,

     Colonel de Gendarmerie d'Elite.

     Given at the Tuileries, January 14, 1804.


“So,” thought I, “there is, then, something astir after all. These
precautions all indicate minute and accurate information; and now to
perform my part.” Just at that instant I perceived at my feet a small
note, which apparently had fallen from the envelope as I opened it. I
took it up. It was addressed: “Sous-Lieutenant Burke,” with the words
“in haste” written in the corner. Tearing it open at once, I read the
following:--

     All is discovered; Pichegru arrested; Moreau at the
     Temple. A party have left this to capture the others at the
     Château d'Ancre; they cannot be there before midnight;
     you may then yet be in time to save H. de B., who is among
     them. Not an instant must be lost.

There was no signature to this strange epistle, but I knew at once
from whom it came. Marie alone could venture on such a step to save her
lover. My own determination was taken at once; should my head be on
it, I 'd do her bidding. While I sent for the sergeant to give him the
orders of the colonel, I directed my servant to bring round my horse
to the door as lightly equipped as possible, and, save the holsters,
nothing of his usual accoutrements. Meanwhile I prepared myself for the
road by loading my pistols and fastening on my sword. The commission,
too, which De Beauvais had left behind, I did not forget, but taking it
from my desk, I placed it safely in my bosom. Nor was the brief billet
omitted, which, having read and re-read, I placed in the lining of my
cap for safety. One difficulty still presented itself: where was the
château, and how in the darkness of a winter's night should I find it?
I just then remembered that my troop sergeant, a sharp, intelligent
fellow, had been for some weeks past engaged in procuring forage about
the neighborhood, for several miles round. I sent for him at once and
asked him if he knew it.

“Yes, lieutenant; perfectly. It was an old-seigneurie once; and though
much dismantled, has a look of respectability still about it. I 've
often been there to buy corn; but the gruff old farmer, they say, hates
the military, and it 's not easy to get him to deal with us at all.”

“What's the distance from here?”

“Two leagues and a half, almost three; indeed you may count it as much,
the road is so bad.”

“Now then for the way. Describe it; be as brief as you can.”

“You know the cross on the high road beyond Ypres?”

“I do. Proceed.”

“Passing the cross and the little shrine, go forward for a mile or
something more, till you come to a small cabaret on the roadside, at the
end of which you 'll find a 'chemin de traverse,' a clay road, which
will lead you up the fields about half a league to a large pond where
they water the cattle; cross this, and continue till you see the lights
of a village to your left; the barking of the dogs will guide you if the
lights be out; don't enter the village, but go on till you meet an old
gateway covered with ivy,--enter there, and you are in the avenue of the
château. The high road is full five leagues about, but you 'll easily
find this way. There 's a mastiff there you should be on your guard
against,--though you must not fire on him either; they were going to
take my life once that I half drew a pistol from my holster against him,
and I heard one of the fellows say to another that monseigneur's dog was
well worth a bleu any day, whatever he meant by that.”

Very few minutes sufficed to give my orders respecting the picket, and
I was in my saddle and ready for the road; and although my departure
excited no surprise among my men, coupled as it was with the orders I
had just given, I overheard the troop sergeant mutter to another as I
passed out, “Parbleu, I always suspected there was something wrong about
that old château yonder; come what weather it would, they'd never let
you take shelter within the walls of it.”

The night was so dark that when I turned into the road I could not even
distinguish my horse's head; heavy drifts of rain, too, went sweeping
along, and the wind roared through the forest with a noise like the sea
in a storm.

I now put spurs to my horse, and the animal, fresh from long pampering,
sprang forward madly, and dashed onward. The very beating of the rain,
the adverse wind, seemed to chafe his spirits and excite his courage.
With head bent down, and hands firmly grasping the reins, I rode on,
till the faint glimmering of a light caught my eye at a distance; a few
miles brought me beside it. It was a little candle that burned in the
shrine above the image of the Virgin. Some pious but humble hand had
placed it there, regardless of the rain and storm; and there it was now
burning secure from the rude assaults of the harsh night, and throwing
its yellow light on the few cheap trinkets which village devotion had
consecrated to the beloved saint. As I looked at the little altar, I
thought of the perilous enterprise I was engaged in. I could have wished
my heart to have yielded to the influence of a superstition which for
every moment of life seems to have its own apt consolation and succor.
For when, as wayworn travellers refresh their parched lips at some
roadside well, and bless the charity that carved the little basin in the
rock,--so followers of this faith have ever and anon before their eyes
some material evidence of their Church's benevolence: now arming
them against the arrows of the world; now rendering them grateful for
benefits received; now taxing their selfishness by sacrifices which
elevate them in their own esteem; now comforting them by examples which
make them proud of their afflictions. It is this direct appeal from
the human heart to the hourly consolations of religion, that forms the
stronghold of belief in Catholic countries.

These thoughts were passing through my mind long after I left the little
shrine behind me. “So,” said I, “here must be the _cabaret_ the sergeant
spoke of,” as I heard the sound of a voice issuing from a small house
on the roadside. For a second or two I hesitated whether I should not
dismount and ask the way; but a moment's consideration satisfied me it
were better to risk nothing by delay, and cautiously advancing, I heard
by the sound of my horse's feet that we had left the highroad, and were
now on the clay path I looked for.

Again I dashed onward at a gallop, my powerful horse splashing through
the deep ground, or striding boldly across the heavy furrows; now
breasting some steep and rugged ascent where the torn-up way gave
passage to a swollen rivulet; now plunging down into some valley where
the darkness seemed thicker and more impenetrable still. At last I could
see, far down beneath me, the twinkling light of the village, and began
to deliberate with myself at what point I should turn off leftwards.
Each moment the path seemed to lead me in the direction of the light,
while I felt that my road led straight onwards. I drew my rein to
deliberate what course I should take, when directly in front of me I
thought I could detect the clank of a sabre flapping against the flank
of a horse. I lowered my head on a level with my horse's main, and could
now distinctly hear the sound I suspected; and more still, the deep
tones of a soldier's voice interrogating some one, who by the patois of
his answer I guessed to be a peasant.

“You are certain, then, we have not come wrong?” said the horseman.

“Ah! I know the way too well for that,--travelling it daylight and dark
since I was a boy. I was born in the village below. We shall soon reach
the little wooden bridge, and then, taming to the left, beside Martin
Guichard's--”

“What care I for all that?” interrupted the other, roughly. “How far are
we now from the château? Is it still a league off?”

“_Parbleu!_ no, nor the half of it. When you rise the hill yonder,
you 'll see a light,--they always have one burning in the tourelle
there,--and that 's the château.”

“Thank Heaven for that!” muttered I. “And now only let me pass them, and
all is safe.”

The figures before me, whom I could now dimly trace in the darkness,
were descending step by step a rugged and narrow path, where a tall
hedge formed a wall on either side. To get before them here, therefore,
was out of the question; my only chance was by a detour through the
fields to come down upon the village, and if possible gain the bridge he
spoke of before them. Quick as the thought, I turned from the deep road
to the still deeper earth of the ploughed field beside it. My horse,
a strong and powerful Norman, needed but the slightest movement of the
hand to plunge hotly on. My eyes bent upon the twinkle of the few lights
that still marked the little hamlet, I rode fearlessly forward,--now
tearing madly through some low osier fence; now slipping in the wet and
plashy soil, where each stride threatened to bring us both to the earth.
The descent became soon almost precipitous; but the deep ground gave
a footing, and I never slackened my speed. At length, with a crashing
sound, I found that we had burst the little enclosure of some village
garden, and could dimly trace the outline of a cottage at some distance
in front. Dismounting now, I felt my way cautiously for the path that
usually conducts at the end of the cabin to the garden. This I soon made
out, and the next minute was in the street. Happily, the storm, which
raged still as violently as before, suffered no one to be without doors,
and save the rare glimmer of a light, all was sunk in darkness.

I walked on beside my horse for some minutes, and at last I heard the
rushing sound of a swollen river as it tore along in its narrow bed;
and approaching step by step discovered the little bridge, which simply
consisted of two planks, unprotected by any railing at either side. With
a little difficulty I succeeded in leading my horse across, and was just
about to mount, when the sound of the trooper's voice from the village
street again reached me.

A sudden thought flashed through my mind. Each moment might now be
precious; and stooping down, I lifted the end of the plank and sent it
with a crash into the stream; the other soon followed it, and before
I was in my saddle again the torrent was carrying them along amid the
rocks of the stream.

“Here is a misfortune,” cried the peasant, in a tone of misery; “the
bridge has been carried away by the flood.”

“_Tonnerre de ciel_! and is there no other way across?” said the
dragoon, in a voice of passion.

I waited not to hear more, but giving the spur to my horse, dashed up
the steep bank, and the next moment saw the light of the château,--for
such I guessed to be a bright star that twinkled at a distance. “Speed
now will do it,” said I, and put my strong Norman to his utmost. The
wind tore past me scarce faster than I went, while the beating rain came
round me. The footway soon altered, and I found that we were crossing
a smooth turf like a lawn. “Ha! this is the old gate,” thought I, as
a tall archway, overhung with ivy and closed by a strong door, opposed
farther progress. I beat loudly against it with the heavy handle of my
whip, but to no purpose; the hoarse voice of the storm drowned all such
sounds. I dismounted and endeavored to make myself heard by knocking
with a large stone. I shouted, I cried aloud, but all in vain. My terror
increased every instant. What was to be done? The dragoon might arrive
at any moment, and then I myself must share the ruin of the others.
Maddened by the emergency that each moment grew more pressing, I sprang
into the saddle, and following the direction of the wall, rode round
to the other side of the château, seeking some open spot, some break
whereby to enter.

I had not gone far when I saw a portion of the wall which broken and
dilapidated, afforded the opportunity desired. I hesitated not, but
dashed wildly at it. My horse, unaccustomed to such an effort, chested
the barrier, and came rolling head foremost to the earth, throwing me
several yards before him. A cry of pain escaped me as I fell; and I
scarcely could gain my knees to rise, when the hoarse bay of a savage
dog broke upon my ear, and I heard the animal tearing through the
brushwood towards me. I drew my sabre in a trice, and scarce knowing at
what side to defend myself, laid wildly about me, while I shouted with
all my might for help. The furious beast sprang like a tiger at my
throat, and, though wounded by a chance cut, seized me in his terrible
fangs. Fortunately the strong collar of my uniform served to protect me;
but the violence of the assault carried me off my balance, and we rolled
one over the other to the ground. Grasping his throat with both hands, I
endeavored to strangle him, while he vainly sought to reach my face.

At this critical moment my cries were heard within, and numerous lights
flitted up and down in front of the château, and a crowd of persons, all
armed, were quickly about me. Seizing the dog by his collar, a peasant
tore him away; while another, holding a lantern to my face, cried out in
a voice of terror, “They are upon us! we are lost!”

“_Parbleu!_ you should let Colbert finish his work,--he is a 'blue;'
they are but food for dogs any day.”

[Illustration: The Chouans 327]

“Not so,” said another, in a low, determined voice; “this is a surer
weapon.', I heard the cock of a pistol click as he spoke.

“Halt there! stop, I say!” cried a voice, in a tone of command. “I know
him; I know him well. It 's Burke; is it not?”

It was De Beauvais spoke, while at the same moment he knelt down beside
me od the grass, and put his arm round my neck. I whispered one word
into his ear. He sprang to his feet, and with a hasty direction to
assist me towards the house, disappeared. Before I could reach the door
he was again beside me.

“And you did this to save me, dear friend?” said he, in a voice half
stifled with sobs. “You have run all this danger for my sake?”

I did not dare to take the merit of an act I had no claim to, still
less to speak of her for whose sake I risked my life, and leaned on him
without speaking, as he led me within the porch.

“Sit down here for a moment,--but one moment,” said he, in a whisper,
“and I'll return to you.”

I sat down upon a bench, and looked about me. The place had all
the evidence of being one of consequence in former days. The walls,
wainscoted in dark walnut wood, were adorned with grotesque carvings
of hunting scenes and instruments of venery. The ceiling, in the same
taste, displayed trophies of weapons, intermingled with different
emblems of the _chasse_; while in the centre, and enclosed within a
garter, were the royal arms of the Bourbons,--the gilding that once
shone on them was tarnished and faded; the fleurs-de-lis, too, were
broken and dilapidated; while but a stray letter of the proud motto
remained, as if not willing to survive the downfall of those on whom it
was now less a boast than a sarcasm.

As I sat thus, the wide hall was gradually filled with men, whose
anxious and excited faces betokened the fears my presence had excited,
while not one ventured to speak or address a word to me. Most of them
were armed with cutlasses, and some carried pistols in belts round their
waists; while others had rude pikes, whose coarse fashion betokened the
handiwork of a village smith. They stood in a semicircle round me;
and while their eyes were riveted upon me with an expression of most
piercing interest, not a syllable was spoken. Suddenly a door was opened
at the end of a corridor, and De Beauvais called out,--

“This way, Burke; come this way!”



CHAPTER XXXII. THE CHÂTEAU d'ANCRE.

Before I had time to collect myself, I was hurried on by De Beauvais
into a room, when the moment I had entered the door was closed and
locked behind me. By the light of a coarse and rudely formed chandelier
that occupied the middle of a table, I saw a party of near a dozen
persons who sat around it,--the head of the board being filled by one
whose singular appearance attracted all my attention. He was a man of
enormous breadth of chest and shoulders, with a lofty massive head, on
either side of which a quantity of red hair fell in profusion; a
beard of the same color descended far on his bosom, which, with his
overhanging eyebrows, imparted a most savage and ferocious expression to
features which of themselves were harsh and repulsive. Though he wore
a blouse in peasant fashion, it was easy to see that he was not of the
lower walk of society. Across his brawny chest a broad belt of black
leather passed, to support a strong straight sword, the heavy hilt of
which peeped above the arm of his chair. A pair of handsomely-mounted
pistols lay before him on the table; and the carved handle of a poniard
could be seen projecting slightly from the breast-pocket of his vest.
Of the rest who were about him I had but time to perceive that they were
peasants; but all were armed, and most of them wearing a knot of white
ribbon at the breast of their blouses.

Every eye was turned towards me, as I stood at the foot of the table
astonished and speechless--while De Beauvais, quitting my arm, hastened
to the large man's side, and whispered some words in his ear. He rose
slowly from his chair, and in a moment each face was turned to him.
Speaking in a deep guttural tone, he addressed them for some minutes in
a patois of which I was totally ignorant; every word he uttered seemed
to stir their very hearts, if I were to judge from the short and heavy
respiration, the deep-drawn breath, the flushed faces and staring eyes
around me. More than once some allusion seemed made to me,--at least,
they turned simultaneously to look at me; once, too, at something he
said, each man carried his hand round to his sword-hilt, but dropped
it again listlessly as he continued. The discourse over, the door was
unlocked, and one by one they left the room, each man saluting the
speaker with a reverence as he passed out. De Beauvais closed the door
and barred it as the last man disappeared, and turning hastily round,
called out,--

“What now?”

The large man bent his head down between his hands, and spoke not in
reply; then suddenly springing up, he said,--

“Take my horse--he is fresh and ready for the road--and make for
Quilleboeuf; the ford at Montgorge will be swollen, but he 'll take the
stream for you. At the farmer's house that looks over the river you can
stop.”

“I know it, I know it,” said De Beauvais. “But what of you, are you to
remain behind?”

“I 'll go with him,” said he, pointing towards me. “As his companion,
I can reach the Bois de Boulogne; in any case, as his prisoner. Once
there, you may trust me for the rest.”

De Beauvais looked at me for a reply. I hesitated what to say, and at
last said,--

“For your sake, Henri de Beauvais, and yours only, have I ventured on a
step which may, in all likelihood, be my ruin. I neither know, nor wish
to know, your plans; nor will I associate myself with any one, be he who
he may, in your enterprise.”

“Jacques Tisserand, the tanner,” continued the large man, as if not
heeding nor caring for my interruption, “will warn Armand de Polignac
of what has happened; and Charles de la Riviere had better remain near
Deauville for the English cutter,--she 'll lie off the coast to-morrow or
next day. Away! lose not a moment.”

“And my dear friend here,” said De Beauvais, turning to me, “who has
risked his very life to rescue me, shall I leave him thus?”

“Can you save him by remaining?” said the other, as he coolly examined
the priming of his pistols. “We shall all escape, if you be but quick.”

A look from De Beauvais drew me towards him, when he threw his arms
around my neck, and in a low, broken voice, muttered, “When I tell you
that all I lived for exists to me no longer,--the love I sought refused
me, my dearest ambition thwarted,--you will not think that a selfish
desire for life prompts me now; but a solemn oath to obey the slightest
command of that man,--sworn before my sovereign,--binds me, and I must
not break it.”

“Away, away! I hear voices at the gate below,” cried the other.

“Adieu! adieu forever,” said De Beauvais, as he kissed my cheek, and
sprang through a small doorway in the wainscot which closed after him as
he went.

“Now for our movements,” said the large man, unhooking a cloak that hung
against the wall. “You must tie my hands with this cord in such a way
that, although seemingly secure, I can free myself at a moment; place me
on a horse, a fast one too, beside you; and order your troopers to ride
in front and rear of us. When we reach the Bois de Boulogne, leave the
Avenue des Chasseurs and turn towards St. Cloud. _Tonnerre de del_,
they're firing yonder!” An irregular discharge of small arms, followed
by a wild cheer, rang out above the sound of the storm. “Again! did
you hear that? there are the carbines of cavalry; I know their ring.
Accursed dogs, that would not do my bidding!” cried he, stamping with
passion on the ground, while, throwing off his blouse, he stuck his
pistols in a belt around his waist, and prepared for mortal combat.

Meanwhile pistol-shots, mingled with savage shouts and wild hurrahs,
were heard approaching nearer and nearer; and at length a loud knocking
at the front door, with a cry of “They 're here! they 're here!”

The large man, now fully armed, and with his drawn sword in his hand,
unlocked the door. The passage without was full of armed peasants,
silent and watchful for his commands. A few words in the former patois
seemed sufficient to convey them, and their answer was a cheer that made
the walls ring.

The chief moved rapidly from place to place through the crowds, who at
his bidding broke into parties: some of them occupied doorways which
enfiladed the hall; others knelt down to suffer some to fire above their
heads; here were two posted, armed with hatchets, at the very entrance
itself; and six of the most determined-looking were to dispute the
passage with their muskets. Such was the disposition of the force, when
suddenly the light was extinguished, and all left in utter darkness.
The deep breathing of their anxious breasts alone marked their presence;
when without doors the sounds of strife gradually died away, and the
storm alone was heard.

As for me, I leaned against a doorway, my arms folded on my bosom, my
head sunk, while I prayed for death, the only exit I could see to my
dishonor.

There was a terrible pause,--the very hurricane seemed to abate
its violence, and only the heavy rain was heard as it fell in
torrents,--when, with a loud crash, the door in front was burst open,
and fell with a bang upon the floor. Not a word from those within, not
a motion, betrayed their presence; while the whispered tones of a party
without showed that the enemy was there.

“Bring up the torches quickly here,” called out a voice like that of an
officer; and as he spoke the red flare of lighted pine branches was seen
moving through the misty atmosphere.

The light fell upon a strong party of dismounted dragoons and
_gendarmerie_, who, carbine in hand, stood waiting for the word to dash
forward. The officer, whose figure I could distinguish as he moved along
the front of his men, appeared to hesitate, and for a few seconds all
stood motionless. At length, as if having resolved on his plan, he
approached the doorway, a pine torch in his hand; another step, and the
light must have disclosed the dense array of armed peasants that stood
and knelt around the hall, when a deep low voice within uttered the one
word, “Now!--and quick,” as if by his breath the powder had been ignited,
a volley rang out, pattering like hail on the steel breastplates and
through the branches of the trees. A mingled shout of rage and agony
rose from those without, and without waiting for a command, they rushed
onward.

The peasants, who had not time to reload their pieces, clubbed them in
their strong hands, and laid wildly about them. The fight was now hand
to hand; for, narrow as was the doorway, some three or four dragoons
pressed every moment in, and gradually the hall became a dense mass of
indiscriminate combatants. The large man fought like one possessed, and
cleft his way towards the entrance with a long straight dagger, as if
regardless of friends or foes. “À moi! a moi!” cried a tall and powerful
man, as he sprang at his throat; “this is he!” The words were his last,
as, stabbed to the very heart, he sprang backward in his death-agony;
but at the moment a perfect shower of bullets rattled around the large
man, one of which alone took effect in his shoulder. Still he strove
onwards, and at last, with a spring like a savage tiger, he lowered his
head, and bounded clean out into the court. Scarcely, however, had his
foot touched the wet grass, when he slipped forward, and fell heavily
on his back. A dozen swords flashed above him as he lay, and only by
the most immense efforts of the officer was he spared death in a hundred
wounds.

[Illustration: Capture of the “Red-Beard” 334]

The defeat of their leader seemed to subdue all the daring courage of
his party; the few who were able to escape dashed hither and thither,
through passages and doorways they were well acquainted with; while the
flagged floor was bathed in blood from the rest, as they lay in mangled
and frightful forms, dead and dying on every side.

Like one in some dreadful dream, I stood spectator of this savage
strife, wishing that some stray bullet had found my heart, yet ashamed
to die with such a stain upon my honor. I crossed my arms before my
breast, and waited for my doom. Two gendarmes passed quickly to and
fro with torches, examining the faces and looks of those who were still
likely to live, when suddenly one of them cried out, as he stood before
me,--

“What 's this? An officer of hussars here!”

The exclamation brought an officer to the spot, who, holding a lantern
to my face, said quickly,--“How is this, sir? how came you here?”

“Here is my sword, sir,” said I, drawing it from the scabbard; “I place
myself under arrest. In another place, and to other judges, I must
explain my conduct.”

“_Parbleu!_ Jacques,” said the officer, addressing another who sat, while
his wounds were being bound up, on a chair near, “this affair is worse
than we thought of. Here 's one of the huitième in the thick of it.”

“I hope, sir,” said I, addressing the young man, whose arm was bleeding
profusely from a sabre wound,--“I hope, sir, your wound may not be of
consequence.”

He looked up suddenly, and while a smile of the most insulting sarcasm
curled his bloodless lip, answered,--

“I thank you, sir, for your sympathy; but you must forgive me, if one of
these days I cannot bandy consolations with you.”

“You are right, Lieutenant,” said a dragoon, who lay bleeding from a
dreadful cut in the forehead; “I'd not exchange places with him myself
this minute for all his epaulettes.”

With an overwhelming sense of my own degraded position, when to such
taunts as these I dared not reply, I stood mute and confounded.

Meantime the soldiers were engaged in collecting together the scattered
weapons, fastening the wrists of the prisoners with cords, and
ransacking the house for such proofs of the conspiracy as might
criminate others at a distance. By the time these operations were
concluded, the day began to break, and I could distinguish in the
courtyard several large covered carts or charrettes destined to convey
the prisoners. One of these was given up entirely to the chief, who,
although only slightly wounded, would never assist himself in the least,
but lay a heavy, inert mass, suffering the others to lift him and place
him in the cart. Such as were too badly wounded to be moved were placed
in a room in the château, a guard being left over them.

A sergeant of the _gendarmerie_ now approached me as I stood, and
commenced, without a word, to examine me for any papers or documents
that might be concealed about my person.

“You are in error,” said I, quietly. “I have nothing of what you
suspect.”

“Do you call this nothing?” interrupted he, triumphantly, as he drew
forth the parchment commission I had placed in my bosom, and forgot to
restore to De Beauvais. “_Parbleu!_ you'd have had a better memory had
your plans succeeded.”

“Give it here,” said an officer, as he saw the sergeant devouring the
document with his eyes. “Ah!” cried he, starting, “he was playing a high
stake, too. Let him be closely secured.”

While the orders of the officer were being followed up, the various
prisoners were secured in the carts, mounted dragoons stationed at
either side, their carbines held unslung in their hands. At last my turn
came, and I was ordered to mount into a _charrette_ with two gendarmes,
whose orders respecting any effort at escape on my part were pretty
clearly indicated by the position of two pistols carried at either side
of me.

A day of heavy, unremitting rain, without any wind or storm, succeeded
to the night of tempest. Dark inky clouds lay motionless near the earth,
whose surface became blacker by the shadow. A weighty and lowering
atmosphere added to the gloom I felt, and neither in my heart within nor
in the world without could I find one solitary consolation.

At first I dreaded lest my companions should address me,--a single
question would have wrung my very soul; but happily they maintained a
rigid silence, nor did they even speak to each other during the
entire journey. At noon we halted at a small roadside cabaret, where
refreshments were provided, and relays of horses in waiting, and again
set out on our way. The day was declining when we reached the Bois de
Boulogne, and entered the long avenue that leads to the Barriere de
l'Étoile. The heavy wheels moved noiselessly over the even turf, and,
save the jingle of the troopers' equipments, all was hushed. For above
an hour we had proceeded thus, when a loud shout in front, followed by a
pistol-shot, and then three or four others quickly after it, halted the
party; and I could mark through the uncertain light the mounted figures
dashing wildly here and there, and plunging into the thickest of the
wood.

“Look to the prisoners,” cried an officer, as he galloped down the line;
and, at the word, every man seized his carbine, and held himself on the
alert.

Meanwhile the whole cavalcade was halted, and I could see that something
of consequence had occurred in front, though of what nature I could
not even guess. At last a sergeant of the gendarmes rode up to our side
splashed and heated.

“Has he escaped?” cried one of the men beside me.

“Yes!” said he, with an oath, “the brigand has got away; though how
he cut the cords on his wrists, or by what means he sprang from the
charrette to the road, the devil must answer. Ha! there they are firing
away after him. The only use of their powder is to show the fellow where
they are.”

“I would not change places with our captain this evening,” cried one of
the gendarmerie. “Returning to Paris without the red beard--”

“_Ma foi_, you're not wrong there. It will be a heavy reckoning for him
with dark Savary; and as to taking a Breton in a wood--”

The word to march interrupted the colloquy, and again we moved forward.

By some strange sympathy I cannot account for, I felt glad that the
chief had made his escape. The gallantry of his defence, the implicit
obedience yielded him by the others, had succeeded in establishing an
interest for him in my mind; and the very last act of daring courage
by which he effected his liberty increased the feeling. By what an
easy transition, too, do we come to feel for those whose fate has any
similarity with our own! The very circumstance of common misfortune is a
binding link; and thus I was not without an anxious hope that the chief
might succeed in his escape, though, had I known his intrigue or his
intentions, such interest had scarcely found a place in my heart.

Such reflections as these led me to think how great must be the charm to
the human mind of overcoming difficulty or confronting danger, when even
for those of whom we know nothing we can feel, and feel warmly, when
they stand before us in such a light as this. Heroism and bravery appeal
to every nature; and bad must be the cause in which they are exerted,
before we can venture to think ill of those who possess them.

The lamps were beginning to be lighted as we reached the Barriére, and
halted to permit the officer of the party to make his report of who
we were. The formality soon finished, we defiled along the Boulevard,
followed by a crowd, that, increasing each moment, at last occupied
the entire road, and made our progress slow and difficult. While the
curiosity of the people to catch sight of the prisoners demanded all
the vigilance of the guards to prevent it, a sad and most appalling
stillness pervaded the whole multitude, and I could hear a murmur as
they went that it was Generals Moreau and Pichegru who were taken.

At length we halted, and I could see that the foremost charrette was
entering a low archway, over which a massive portcullis hung. The gloomy
shadow of a dark, vast mass, that rose against the inky sky, lowered
above the wall, and somehow seemed to me as if well known.

“This is the Temple?” said I to the gendarme on my right.

A nod was the reply, and a half-expressive look that seemed to say, “In
that word you have said your destiny.”

About two years previous to the time I now speak of, I remember one
evening, when returning from a solitary walk along the Boulevard,
stopping in front of a tall and weather-beaten tower, the walls black
with age, and pierced here and there with narrow windows, across which
strong iron stanchions ran transversely. A gloomy fosse, crossed by a
narrow drawbridge, surrounded the external wall of this dreary building,
which needed no superstition to invest it with a character of crime
and misfortune. This was the Temple,--the ancient castle of the knights
whose cruelties were written in the dark obbliettes and the noisome
dungeons of that dread abode. A terrace ran along the tower on three
sides. There, for hours long, walked in sadness and in sorrow the last
of France's kings,--Louis the Sixteenth,--his children at his side. In
that dark turret the Dauphin suffered death. At the low casement yonder,
Madame Royale sat hour by hour, the stone on which she leaned wet
with her tears. The place was one of gloomy and sinister repute: the
neighborhood spoke of the heavy roll of carriages that passed the
drawbridge at the dead of night; of strange sounds and cries, of secret
executions, and even of tortures that were inflicted there. Of these
dreadful missions a corps called the “Gendarmes d'Élite” were vulgarly
supposed the chosen executors, and their savage looks and repulsive
exterior gave credibility to the surmise; while some affirmed that the
Mameluke guard the Consul had brought with him from Egypt had no other
function than the murder of the prisoners confined there.

Little thought I then that in a few brief months I should pass beneath
that black portcullis a prisoner. Little did I anticipate, as I wended
my homeward way, my heart heavy and my step slow, that the day was to
come when in my own person I was to feel the sorrows over which I then
wept for others.



CHAPTER XXXIII. THE TEMPLE

This was the second morning of my life which opened in the narrow cell
of a prison; and when I awoke and looked upon the bare, bleak walls, the
barred window, the strongly bolted door, I thought of the time when as
a boy I slept within the walls of Newgate. The same sad sounds were now
about me: the measured tread of sentinels; the tramp of patrols; the
cavernous clank of door-closing, and the grating noise of locking and
unlocking heavy gates; and then that dreary silence, more depressing
than all,--how they came back upon me now, seeming to wipe out all
space, and bring me to the hours of my boyhood's trials! Yet what were
they to this? what were the dangers I then incurred to the inevitable
ruin now before me? True, I knew neither the conspirators nor their
crime; but who would believe it? How came I among them? Dare I tell it,
and betray her whose honor was dearer to me than my life? Yet it was
hard to face death in such a cause; no sense of high though unsuccessful
daring to support me; no strongly roused passion to warm my blood, and
teach me bravely to endure a tarnished name. Disgrace and dishonor were
all my portion,--in that land, too, where I once hoped to win fame and
glory, and make for myself a reputation among the first and greatest.

The deep roll of a drum, followed by the harsh turning of keys in the
locks along the corridor, interrupted my sad musings; and the next
minute my door was unbolted, and an official, dressed in the uniform of
the prison, presented himself before me.

“Ah, monsieur! awake and dressed already!” said he, in a gay and smiling
tone, for which the place had not prepared me. “At eight we breakfast
here; at nine you are free to promenade in the garden or on the
terrace,--at least, all who are not _au secret_,--and I have to
felicitate monsieur on that pleasure.”

“How, then? I am not a prisoner?”

“Yes, _parbleu!_ you are a prisoner, but not under such heavy imputation
as to be confined apart. All in this quarter enjoy a fair share of
liberty: live together, walk, chat, read the papers, and have an easy
time of it. But you shall judge for yourself; come along with me.”

In a strange state of mingled hope and fear I followed the jailer along
the corridor, and across a paved courtyard into a low hall, where basins
and other requisites for a prison toilet were arranged around the walls.
Passing through this, we ascended a narrow stair, and finally entered a
large, well-lighted room, along which a table, plentifully but plainly
provided, extended the entire length. The apartment was crowded with
persons of every age, and apparently every condition, all conversing
noisily and eagerly together, and evidencing as little seeming restraint
as though within the walls of a café.

[Illustration: The Templars 341]

Seated at a table, I could not help feeling amused at the strange medley
of rank and country about me. Here were old _militaire_, with bushy
beards and mustaches, side by side with muddy-faced peasants, whose
long, yellow locks bespoke them of Norman blood; hard, weather-beaten
sailors from the coast of Bretagne, talking familiarly with venerable
seigneurs in all the pomp of powder and a queue; priests with shaven
crowns; young fellows, whose easy looks of unabashed effrontery betrayed
the careless Parisian,--all were mingled up together, and yet not one
among the number did I see whose appearance denoted sorrow for his
condition or anxiety for his fate.

The various circumstances of their imprisonment, the imputation they
lay under, the acts of which they were accused, formed the topics of
conversation, in common with the gossip of the town, the news of the
theatres, and the movements in political life. Never was there a society
with less restraint; each man knew his neighbor's history too well to
make concealment of any value, and frankness seemed the order of the
day. While I was initiating myself into so much of the habit of the
place, a large, flat, florid personage, who sat at the head of the
table, called out to me for my name.

“The governor desires to have your name and rank for his list,” said my
neighbor at the right hand.

Having given the required information, I could not help expressing
my surprise how, in the presence of the governor of the prison, they
ventured to speak so freely.

“Ha,” said the person I addressed, “he is not the governor of the
Temple; that's merely a title we have given him among ourselves. The
office is held always by the oldest _détenu_. Now he has been here ten
months, and succeeded to the throne about a fortnight since. The Abbé,
yonder, with the silk scarf round his waist, will be his successor, in a
few days.”

“Indeed! Then he will be at liberty so soon. I thought he seemed in
excellent spirits.”

“Not much, perhaps, on that score,” replied he. “His sentence is hard
labor for life at the Bagne de Toulon.”

I started back with horror, and could not utter a word.

“The Abbé,” continued my informant, “would be right happy to take his
sentence. But the governor is speaking to you.”

“Monsieur le sous-lieutenant,” said the governor, in a deep, solemn
accent, “I have the honor to salute you, and bid you welcome to the
Temple, in the name of my respectable and valued friends here about me.
We rejoice to possess one of your cloth amongst us. The last was, if I
remember aright, the Capitaine de Lorme, who boasted he could hit the
Consul at sixty paces with a pistol bullet.”

“Pardon, governor,” said a handsome man in a braided frock; “we had
Ducaisne since.”

“So we had, commandant,” said the governor, bowing politely, “and a very
pleasant fellow he was; but he only stopped one night here.”

“A single night, I remember it well,” grunted out a thick-lipped,
rosy-faced little fellow near the bottom of the table. “You 'll meet him
soon, governor; he 's at Toulon. Pray, present my respects--”

“A fine! a fine!” shouted a dozen voices in a breath.

“I deny it, I deny it,” replied the rosy-faced man, rising from his
chair. “I appeal to the governor if I am not innocent. I ask him if
there were anything which could possibly offend his feelings in my
allusion to Toulon, whither for the benefit of his precious health he is
about to repair.”

“Yes,” replied the governor, solemnly, “you are fined three francs. I
always preferred Brest; Toulon is not to my taste.”

“Pay! pay!” cried out the others; while a pewter dish, on which some
twenty pieces of money were lying, was passed down the table.

“And to resume,” said the governor, turning towards me, “the secretary
will wait on you after breakfast to receive the fees of initiation, and
such information as you desire to afford him for your coming amongst
us, both being perfectly discretionary with you. He who desires the
privilege of our amicable reunion soon learns the conditions on which to
obtain it. The enjoyments of our existence here are cheap at any price.
Le Pere d'Oligny, yonder, will tell you life is short,--very few here
are likely to dispute the assertion, and perhaps the Abbé, Thomas may
give you a strong hint how to make the best of it.”

“_Parbleu_, governor I you forget the Abbé, left us this morning.”

“True, true; how my memory is failing me! The dear Abbé, did leave us,
sure enough.”

“Where for?” said I, in a whisper.

“La Plaine de Grenelle,” said the person beside me, in a low tone. “He
was guillotined at five o'clock.”

A sick shudder ran through me; and though the governor continued his
oration, I heard not a word he spoke, nor could I arouse myself from
the stupor until the cheers of the party, at the conclusion of the
harangue, awoke me.

“The morning looks fine enough for a walk,” said the man beside me.
“What say you to the gardens?”

I followed him without speaking across the court and down a flight of
stone steps into a large open space, planted tastefully with trees, and
adorned by a beautiful fountain. Various walks and alleys traversed
the garden in every direction, along which parties were to be seen
walking,--some laughing, some reading aloud the morning papers; but
all engaged, and, to all seeming, pleasantly. Yet did their reckless
indifference to life, their horrible carelessness of each other's fate,
seem to me far more dreadful than any expression of sorrow, however
painful; and I shrank from them as though the contamination of their
society might impart that terrible state of unfeeling apathy they were
given up to. Even guilt itself had seemed less repulsive than this
shocking and unnatural recklessness.

Pondering thus, I hurried from the crowded path, and sought a lonely,
unfrequented walk which led along the wall of the garden. I had not
proceeded far when the low but solemn notes of church music struck on my
ear. I hastened forward, and soon perceived, through the branches of a
beech hedge, a party of some sixteen or eighteen persons kneeling on the
grass, their hands lifted as if in prayer, while they joined in a psalm
tune,--one of those simple but touching airs which the peasantry of the
South are so attached to. Their oval faces bronzed with the sun; their
long, flowing hair, divided on the head and falling loose on either
shoulder; their dark eyes and long lashes,--bespoke them all from that
land of Bourbon loyalty, La Vendue, even had not their yellow jackets,
covered with buttons along the sleeves, and their loose hose, evinced
their nationality. Many of the countenances I now remembered to have
seen the preceding night; but some were careworn and emaciated, as if
from long imprisonment.

I cannot tell how the simple piety of these poor peasants touched me,
contrasted, too, with the horrible indifference of the others. As I
approached them, I was recognized; and whether supposing that I was a
well wisher to their cause, or attracted merely by the tie of common
misfortune, they saluted me respectfully, and seemed glad to see me.
While two or three of those I had seen before moved forward to speak
to me, I remarked that a low, swarthy man, with a scar across his upper
lip, examined me with marked attention, and then whispered something
to the rest. At first he seemed to pay little respect to whatever they
said,--an incredulous shake of the head, or an impatient motion of the
hand, replying to their observations. Gradually, however, he relaxed in
this, and I could see that his stern features assumed a look of kinder
meaning. “So, friend,” said he, holding out his tanned and powerful hand
towards me, “it was thou saved our chief from being snared like a wolf
in a trap. Le bon Dieu will remember the service hereafter; and the
good King will not forget thee, if the time ever comes for his better
fortune.”

“You must not thank me,” said I, smiling; “the service I rendered was
one instigated by friendship only. I know not your plans; I never knew
them. The epaulette I wear I never was false to.”

A murmur of dissatisfaction ran along the party, and I could mark that
in the words they interchanged, feelings of surprise were mingled with
displeasure. At last, the short man, commanding silence with a slight
motion of the hand, said,--

“I am sorry for it,--your courage merited a better cause; however, the
avowal was at least an honest one. And now, tell us, why came you here?”

“For the very reason I 've mentioned. My presence at the château last
night, and my discovery during the attack, were enough to impute guilt.
How can I clear myself, without criminating those I would not name?”

“That matters but little. Doubtless, you have powerful friends,--rich
ones, perhaps, and in office; they will bear you harmless.”

“Alas! you are wrong. I have not in all the length and breadth of France
one who, if a word would save me from the scaffold, would care to speak
it. I am a stranger and an alien.”

“Hal” said a fair-haired, handsome youth, starting from the grass where
he had been sitting, “what would I not give now, if your lot was mine.
They 'd not make my heart tremble if I could forget the cabin I was born
in.”

“Hush, Philippe!” said the other, “the weapon is not in their armory to
make a Vendean tremble--But, hark! there is the drum for the inspection.
You must present yourself each day at noon, at the low postern yonder,
and write your name; and mark me, before we part, it cannot serve us, it
may ruin you, if we are seen to speak together. Trust no one here' Those
whom you see yonder are half of them _moutons_.”

“How?” said I, not understanding the phrase.

“Ay, it was a prison word I used,” resumed he. “I would say they are but
spies of the police, who, as if confined for their offences, are only
here to obtain confessions from unguarded, unsuspecting prisoners. Their
frankness and sincerity are snares that have led many to the guillotine:
beware of them. You dare not carry your glass to your lip, but the
murmured toast might be your condemnation. Adieu!” said he; and as he
spoke he turned away and left the place, followed by the rest.

The disgust I felt at first for the others was certainly not lessened by
learning that their guilt was stained by treachery the blackest that can
disgrace humanity; and now, as I walked among them, it was with a sense
of shrinking horror I recoiled from the very touch of the wretches whose
smiles were but lures to the scaffold.

“Ha! our lost and strayed friend,” said one, as I appeared, “come hither
and make a clean breast of it. What amiable weaknesses have introduced
you to the Temple?”

“In truth,” said I, endeavoring to conceal my knowledge of my
acquaintances' real character, “I cannot even guess, nor do I believe
that any one else is wiser than myself.”

“_Parbleu!_, young gentleman,” said the Abbé, as he spied me
impertinently through his glass, “you are excessively old-fashioned for
your years. Don't you know that spotless innocence went out with the
Bourbons? Every one since that dies in the glorious assertion of his
peculiar wickedness, with certain extenuating circumstances which he
calls human nature.”

“And now, then,” resumed the first speaker, “for your mishap,--what was
it?”

“I should only deceive you were I to give any other answer than my
first. Mere suspicion there may be against me; there can be no more.”

“Well, well, let us have the suspicions. The 'Moniteur' is late this
morning, and we have nothing to amuse us.”

“Who are you?” cried another, a tall, insolent-looking fellow, with a
dark mustache. “That 's the first question. I've seen a _mouton_ in a
hussar dress before now.”

“I am too late a resident here,” answered I, “to guess how far insolence
goes unpunished; but if I were outside these walls, and you also, I 'd
teach you a lesson you have yet to learn, sir.”

“_Parbleu!_” said one of the former speakers, “Jacques, he has you
there, though it was no great sharpness to see you were a _blane-bec_.”

The tall fellow moved away, muttering to himself, as a hearty laugh
broke forth among the rest.

“And now,” said the Abbé, with a simper, “pardon the liberty; but have
you had any trifling inducement for coming to pass a few days here? Were
you making love to Madame la Consulesse? or did you laugh at General
Bonaparte's grand dinners? or have you been learning the English
grammar? or what is it?”

I shook my head, and was silent.

“Gome, come, be frank with us; unblemished virtue fares very ill here.
There was a gentleman lost his head this morning, who never did anything
all his life other than keep the post-office at Tarbes; but somehow
he happened to let a letter pass into the bag addressed to an elderly
gentleman in England, called the Comte d'Artois, not knowing that the
count's letters are always 'to the care of Citizen Bonaparte.' Well,
they shortened him by the neck for it. Cruel, you will say; but so much
for innocence.”

“For the last time, then, gentlemen, I must express my sincere sorrow
that I have neither murder, treason, nor any other infamy on my
conscience which might qualify me for the distinguished honor of
associating with you. Such being the case, and my sense of my deficiency
being so great, you will, I 'm sure, pardon me if I do not obtrude on
society of which I am unworthy, and which I have now the honor to wish
a good day to.” With this and a formal bow, returned equally politely by
the rest, I moved on, and entered the tower.

Sombre and sad as were my own reflections, yet did I prefer their
company to that of my fellow-prisoners, for whom already I began to
conceive a perfect feeling of abhorrence. Revolting, indeed, was the
indifference to fame, honor, and even life, which I already witnessed
among them; but what was it compared with the deliberate treachery of
men who could wait for the hour when the heart, overflowing with sorrow,
opened itself for consolation and comfort, and then search its every
recess for proofs of guilt that should bring the mourner to the
scaffold?

How any government could need, how they could tolerate, such assassins
as these, I could not conceive. And was this his doing? were these his
minions, whose high-souled chivalry had been my worship and my idolatry?
No, no; I'll not believe it. Bonaparte knows not the dark and terrible
secrets of these gloomy walls. The hero of Arcole, the conqueror of
Italy, wots not of the frightful tyranny of these dungeons: did he but
know them, what a destiny would wait on those who thus stain with crime
and treachery the fame of that “Belle France” he made so great!

Oh! that in the hour of my accusation,--in the very last of my life,
were it on the step of the guillotine,--I could but speak with words to
reach him, and say how glory like his must be tarnished if such deeds
went on unpunished; that while thousands and thousands were welcoming
his path with cries of wild enthusiasm and joy, in the cold cells of the
Temple there were breaking hearts, whose sorrow-wrung confessions were
registered, whose prayers were canvassed for evidences of desires that
might be converted into treason. He could have no sympathy with men like
these.. Not such the brave who followed him at Lodi; not kindred souls
were they who died for him at Marengo. Alas, alas! how might men read
of him hereafter, if by such acts the splendor of his greatness was
to suffer stain! While thoughts like these filled my mind, and in the
excitement of awakened indignation I trod my little cell backwards and
forwards, the jailer entered, and having locked the door behind him,
approached me.

“You are the Sous-Lieutenant Burke: is it not so? Well, I have a letter
for you; I promised to deliver it on one condition only,--which is, that
when read, you shall tear it in pieces. Were it known that I did this,
my head would roll in the Plaine de Grenelle before daybreak tomorrow.
I also promised to put you on your guard: speak to few here; confide in
none. And now here is your letter.”

I opened the billet hastily, and read the few lines it contained, which
evidently were written in a feigned hand.

     “Your life is in danger; any delay may be your ruin. Address
     the minister at once as to the cause of your detention, and
     for the charges under which you are committed; demand
     permission to consult an advocate, and when demanded it
     can't be refused. Write to Monsieur Baillot, of 4 Rue
     Chantereine, in whom you may trust implicitly, and who has
     already instructions for your defence. Accept the enclosed,
     and believe in the faithful attachment of a sincere friend.”

A billet de hanque for three thousand francs was folded in the note, and
fell to the ground as I read it.

“_Parbleu!_ I'll not ask you to tear this, though,” said the jailer, as
he handed it to me. “And now let me see you destroy the other.”

I read and re-read the few lines over and over, some new meaning
striking me at each word, while I asked myself from whom it could have
come. Was it De Beauvais? or dare I hope it was one dearest to me of all
the world? Who, then, in the saddest hour of my existence, could step
between me and my sorrow, and leave hope as my companion in the dreary
solitude of a prison?

“Again I say be quick,” cried the jailer; “my being here so long may be
remarked. Tear it at once.”

He followed with an eager eye every morsel of paper as it fell from my
hand, and only seemed at ease as the last dropped to the ground; and
then, without speaking a word, unlocked the door and withdrew.

The shipwrecked sailor, clinging to some wave-tossed raft, and watching
with bloodshot eye the falling day, where no friendly sail has once
appeared, and at last, as every hope dies out one by one within him, he
hears a cheer break through the plashing of the sea, calling on him
to live, may feel something like what were my sensations, as once more
alone in my cell I thought of the friendly voice that could arouse me
from my cold despair, and bid me hope again.

What a change came over the world to my eyes! The very cell itself no
longer seemed dark and dreary; the faint sunlight that fell through the
narrow window seemed soft and mellow; the voices I heard without struck
me not as dissonant and harsh; the reckless gayety I shuddered at, the
dark treachery I abhorred,--I could now compassionate the one and openly
despise the other; and it was with that stout determination at my heart
that I sallied forth into the garden, where still the others lingered,
waiting for the drum that summoned them to dinner.



CHAPTER XXXIV. THE CHOUANS

When night came, and all was silent in the prison, I sat down to write
my letter to the minister. I knew enough of such matters to be aware
that brevity is the great requisite; and therefore, without any attempt
to anticipate my accusation by a defence of my motives, I simply but
respectfully demanded the charges alleged against me, and prayed for the
earliest and most speedy investigation into my conduct. Such were the
instructions of my unknown friend, and as I proceeded to follow them,
their meaning at once became apparent to me. Haste was recommended,
evidently to prevent such explanations and inquiries into my conduct as
more time might afford. My appearance at the château might still be
a mystery to them, and one which might remain unfathomable if any
plausible reason were put forward. And what more could be laid to my
charge? True, the brevet of colonel found on my person; but this I could
with truth allege had never been accepted by me. They would scarcely
condemn me on such testimony, unsupported by any direct charge; and
who could bring such save De Beauvais? Flimsy and weak as such pretexts
were, yet were they enough in my then frame of mind to support my
courage and nerve my heart. But more than all I trusted in the sincere
loyalty I felt for the cause of the Government and its great chief,--a
sentiment which, however difficult to prove, gave myself that inward
sense of safety which only can flow from strong convictions of honesty.
“It may so happen,” thought I, “that circumstances may appear against
me; but I know and feel my heart is true and firm, and even at the
worst, such a consciousness will enable me to bear whatever may be my
fortune.”

The next morning my altered manner and happier look excited the
attention of the others, who by varions endeavors tried to fathom the
cause or learn any particulars of my fate; but in vain, for already I
was on my guard against even a chance expression, and, save on the
most commonplace topics, held no intercourse with any. Far from being
offended at my reserve, they seemed rather to have conceived a species
of respect for one whose secrecy imparted something of interest to him;
and while they tried, by the chance allusion to political events and
characters, to sound me, I could see that, though baffled, they by no
means gave up the battle.

As time wore on, this half-persecution died away; each day brought some
prisoner or other amongst us, or removed some of those we had to other
places of confinement, and thus I became forgotten in the interest of
newer events. About a week after my entrance we were walking as usual
about the gardens, when a rumor ran that a prisoner of great consequence
had been arrested the preceding night and conveyed to the Temple; and
various surmises were afloat as to who he might be, or whether he should
be au secret or at large. While the point was eagerly discussed, a low
door from the house was opened, and the jailer appeared, followed by a
large, powerful man, whom in one glance I remembered as the chief of the
Vendean party at the château, and the same who effected his escape in
the Bois de Boulogne. He passed close to where I stood, his arm folded
on his breast; his clear blue eye bent calmly on me, yet never by the
slightest sign did he indicate that we had ever met before. I divined
at once his meaning, and felt grateful for what I guessed might be a
measure necessary to my safety.

“I tell you,” said a shrivelled old fellow, in a worn dressing-gown and
slippers, who held the “Moniteur” of that day in his hand, “I tell you
it is himself; and see, his hand is wounded, though he does his best to
conceal the bandage in his bosom.”

“Well, well! read us the account; where did it occur?” cried two or
three in a breath.

The old man seated himself on a bench, and having arranged his
spectacles and unfolded the journal, held out his hand to proclaim
silence, when suddenly a wild cheer broke from the distant part of
the garden, whither the newly arrived prisoner had turned his steps; a
second, louder, followed, in which the wild cry of “Vive le Roi!” could
be distinctly heard.

“You hear them,” said the old man; “was I right now? I knew it must be
him.”

“Strange enough, too, he should not be _au secret_,” said another;
“the generals have never been suffered to speak to any one since their
confinement. But read on, let us hear it.”

“'On yesterday morning,'” said the little man, reading aloud, “'Picot,
the servant of George, was arrested; and although every endeavor was
made to induce him to confess where his master was--'”

“Do you know the meaning of that phrase, Duchos?” said a tall,
melancholy-looking man, with a bald head. “That means the torture; thumb
screws and flint vices are the mode once more: see here.”

As he spoke he undid a silk handkerchief that was wrapped around his
wrist, and exhibited a hand that seemed actually smashed into fragments;
the bones were forced in many places through the flesh, which hung in
dark-colored and blood-stained pieces about.

“I would show that hand at the tribunal,” muttered an old soldier in a
faded blue frock; “I'd hold it up when they 'd ask me to swear.”

“Your head would only fare the worse for doing so,” said the Abbé. “Read
on Monsieur Duchos.”

“Oh, where was I? (_Pardieu!_ Colonel, I wish you would cover that up;
I shall dream of that terrible thumb all night.) Here we are: 'Though
nothing could be learned from Picot, it was ascertained that the
brigand--'”

“Ha, ha!” said a fat little fellow in a blouse, “they call them all
brigands: Moreau is a brigand; Pichegru is a brigand too.”

“'That the brigand had passed Monday night near Chaillot, and on
Tuesday, towards evening, was seen at Sainte-Genevieve, where it was
suspected he slept on the mountain; on Wednesday the police traced him
to the cabriolet stand at the end of the Rue de Condé, where he took a
carriage and drove towards the Odéon.'”

“Probably he was going to the spectacle. What did they play that night?”
 said the fat man; “'La Mort de Barberousse,' perhaps.”

The other read on: “'The officer cried out, as he seized the bridle,
“Je vous arrète!” when George levelled a pistol and shot him through the
forehead, and then springing over the dead body dashed down the street.
The butchers of the neighborhood, who knew the reward offered for
his apprehension, pursued and fell upon him with their hatchets; a
hand-to-hand encounter followed, in which the brigand's wrist was nearly
severed from his arm; and thus disabled and overpowered, he was secured
and conveyed to the Temple.'”

“And who is this man?” said I in a whisper to the tall person near me.”

“The General George Cadoudal,--a brave Breton, and a faithful follower
of his King,” replied he; “and may Heaven have pity on him now!” He
crossed himself piously as he spoke, and moved slowly away.

“General Cadoudal!” repeated I to myself; “the same whose description
figured on every wall of the capital, and for whose apprehension immense
rewards were offered.” And with an inward shudder I thought of my chance
intercourse with the man to harbor whom was death,--the dreaded chief of
the Chouans, the daring Breton of whom Paris rung with stories. And this
was the companion of Henri de Beauvais.

Revolving such thoughts, I strolled along unconsciously, until I reached
the place where some days before I had seen the Vendeans engaged in
prayer. The loud tone of a deep voice arrested my steps. I stopped and
listened. It was George himself who spoke; he stood, drawn up to his
full height, in the midst of a large circle who sat around on the grass.
Though his language was a _patois_ of which I was ignorant, I could
catch here and there some indication of his meaning, as much perhaps
from his gesture and the look of those he addressed, as from the words
themselves.

It was an exhortation to them to endure with fortitude the lot that had
befallen them; to meet death when it came without fear, as they could do
so without dishonor; to strengthen their courage by looking to him, who
would always give them an example of what they should be. The last words
he spoke were in a plainer dialect, and almost these: “Throw no glance
on the past. We are where we are,--we are where God, in his wisdom and
for his own ends, has placed us. If this cause be just, our martyrdom is
a blessed one; if it be not so, our death is our punishment. And never
forget that you are permitted to meet it from the same spot where our
glorious monarch went to meet his own.”

A cry of “Vive le Roi!” half stifled by sobs of emotion, broke from the
listeners, as they rose and pressed around him. There he stood in the
midst, while like children they came to kiss his hand, to hear him speak
one word, even to look on him. Their swarthy faces, where hardship and
suffering had left many a deep line and furrow, beamed with smiles as he
turned towards them; and many a proud look was bent on the rest by those
to whom he addressed a single word.

One I could not help remarking above the others,--a slight, pale, and
handsome youth, whose almost girlish cheek the first down of youth was
shading. George leaned his arm round his neck, and called him by his
name, and in a voice almost tremulous from emotion: “And you, Bouvet de
Lozier, whose infancy wanted nothing of luxury and enjoyment, for whom
all that wealth and affection could bestow were in abundance,--how do
you bear these rugged reverses, my dear boy?”

The youth looked up with eyes bathed in tears; the hectic spot in his
face gave way to the paleness of death, and his lips moved without a
sound.

“He has been ill,--the count has,” said a peasant, in a low voice.

“Poor fellow!” said George; “he was not meant for trials like these; the
cares he used to bury in his mother's lap met other consolations than
our ruder ones. Look up, Bouvet, my man, and remember you are a man.”

The youth trembled from head to foot, and looked fearfully around, as
if dreading something, while he clutched the strong arm beside him, as
though for protection.

“Courage, boy, courage!” said George. “We are together here; what can
harm you?”

Then dropping his voice, and turning to the rest, he added, “They have
been tampering with his reason; his eye betrays a wandering intellect.
Take him with you, Claude,--he loves you; and do not leave him for a
moment.”

The youth pressed George's fingers to his pale lips, and with his head
bent down and listless gait, moved slowly away.

As I wandered from the spot, my heart was full of all I had witnessed.
The influence of their chief had surprised me on the night of the
attack on the château. But how much more wonderful did it seem now when
confined within the walls of a prison,--the only exit to which was the
path that led to the guillotine! Yet was their reliance on all he said
as great, as implicit their faith in him, as warm their affection, as
though success had crowned each effort he suggested, and that fortune
had been as kind as she had proved adverse to his enterprise.

Such were the _Chohans_ in the Temple. Life had presented to their hardy
natures too many vicissitudes to make them quail beneath the horrors of
a prison; death they had confronted in many shapes, and they feared it
not even at the hands of the executioner. Loyalty to the exiled family
of France was less a political than a religious feeling,--one inculcated
at the altar, and carried home to the fireside of the cottage. Devotion
to their King was a part of their faith; the sovereign was but a saint
the more in their calendar. The glorious triumphs of the Revolutionary
armies, the great conquests of the Consulate, found no sympathy within
their bosoms; they neither joined the battle nor partook of the ovation.
They looked on all such as the passing pageant of the hour, and muttered
to one another that the bon Dieu could not bless a nation that was false
to its King.

Who could see them as they met each morning, and not feel deeply
interested in these brave but simple peasants? At daybreak they knelt
together in prayer, their chief officiating as priest; their deep voices
joined in the hymn of their own native valleys, as with tearful eyes
they sang the songs that reminded them of home. The service over, George
addressed them in a short speech: some words of advice and guidance
for the coming day; reminding them that ere another morning shone, many
might be summoned before the tribunal to be examined, and from, thence
led forth to death; exhorting them to fidelity to each other and loyalty
to their glorious cause. Then came the games of their country, which
they played with all the enthusiasm of liberty and happiness. These were
again succeeded by hours passed in hearing and relating stories of their
beloved Bretagne,--of its tried faith and its ancient bravery; while,
through all, they lived a community apart from the other prisoners, who
never dared to obtrude upon them: nor did the most venturesome of the
police spies ever transgress a limit that might have cost him his life.

Thus did two so different currents run side by side within the walls of
the Temple, and each regarding the other with distrust and dislike.

While thus I felt a growing interest for these bold but simple children
of the forest, my anxiety for my own fate grew hourly greater. No answer
was ever returned to my letter to the minister, nor any notice taken
of it whatever; and though each day I heard of some one or other being
examined before the “Tribunal Special” or the Préfet de Police, I seemed
as much forgotten as though the grave enclosed me. My dread of anything
like acquaintance or intimacy with the other prisoners prevented my
learning much of what went forward each day, and from which, from some
source or other, they seemed well informed. A chance phrase, an odd word
now and then dropped, would tell me of some new discovery by the police
or some recent confession by a captured conspirator; but of what the
crime consisted, and who were they principally implicated, I remained
totally ignorant.

It was well known that both Moreau and Pichegru were confined in a
part of the tower that opened upon the terrace, but neither suffered to
communicate with each other, nor even to appear at large like the other
prisoners. It was rumored, too, that each day one or both were submitted
to long and searching examinations, which, it was said, had hitherto
elicited nothing from either save total denial of any complicity
whatever, and complete ignorance of the plots and machinations of
others.

So much we could learn from the “Moniteur,” which reached us each day;
and while assuming a tone of open reprobation regarding the _Chouans_,
spoke in terms the most cautious and reserved respecting the two
generals, as if probing the public mind how far their implication in
treason might be credited, and with what faith the proofs of their
participation might be received.

At last the train seemed laid; the explosion was all prepared, and
nothing wanting but the spark to ignite it. A letter from Moreau to the
Consul appeared in the columns of the Government paper; in which, after
recapitulating in terms most suitable the services he had rendered the
Republic while in command of the army of the Rhine,--the confidence the
Convention had always placed in him, the frequent occasions which
had presented themselves to him of gratifying ambitious views (had he
conceived such he adverted, in brief but touching terms, to his
conduct on the 18th Brumaire in seconding the adventurous step taken by
Bonaparte himself, and attributed the neglect his devotion had met
with, rather to the interference and plotting of his enemies than to
any estrangement on the part of the Consul.) Throughout the whole of the
epistle there reigned a tone of reverence for the authority of Bonaparte
most striking and remarkable; there was nothing like an approach to
the equality which might well be supposed to subsist between two great
generals,--albeit the one was at the height of power, and the other sunk
in the very depth of misfortune. On the contrary, the letter was nothing
more than an appeal to old souvenirs and former services to one who
possessed the power, if he had the will, to save him; it breathed
throughout the sentiments of one who demands a favor, and that favor his
life and honor, at the hands of him who had already constituted himself
the fountain of both.

While such was the position of Moreau,--a position which resulted in his
downfall,--chance informed as of the different ground occupied by his
companion in misfortune, the Greneral Pichegru.

About three days after the publication of Moreau's letter, we were
walking as usual in the garden of the Temple, when a huissier came up,
and beckoning to two of the prisoners, desired them to follow him. Such
was the ordinary course by which one or more were daily summoned before
the tribunal for examination, and we took no notice of what had become
a matter of every-day occurrence, and went on conversing as before about
the news of the morning. Several hours elapsed without the others having
returned; and at last we began to feel anxious about their fate, when
one of them made his appearance, his heightened color and agitated
expression betokening that something more than common had occurred.

“We were examined with Pichegru,” said the prisoner,--who was an old
quartermaster in the army of the Upper Rhine,--as he sat down upon a
bench and wiped his forehead with his handkerchief.

“Indeed!” said the tall colonel with the bald head; “before Monsieur
Réal, I suppose?”

“Yes, before Réal. My poor old general: there he was, as I used to see
him formerly, with his hand on the breast of his uniform, his pale, thin
features as calm as ever, until at last when roused his eyes flashed
fire and his lip trembled before he broke out into such a torrent of
attack--”

“Attack, say you?” interrupted the Abbé,; “a bold course, my faith! in
one who has need of all his powers for defence.”

“It was ever his tactique to be the assailant,” said a bronzed,
soldierlike fellow, in a patched uniform; “he did so in Holland.”

“He chose a better enemy to practise it with then, than he has done
now,” resumed the quartermaster, sadly.

“Whom do you mean?” cried half a dozen voices together.

...“The Consul.”

“The Consul! Bonaparte! Attack him!” repeated one after the other, in
accents of surprise and horror. “Poor fellow, he is deranged.”

“So I almost thought myself, as I heard him,” replied the quartermaster;
“for, after submitting with patience to a long and tiresome examination,
he suddenly, as if endurance could go no farther, cried out,--'Assez!'
The préfet started, and Thuriot, who sat beside him, looked up
terrified, while Pichegru went on: 'So the whole of this negotiation
about Cayenne is then a falsehood? Your promise to make me governor
there, if I consented to quit France forever, was a trick to extort
confession or a bribe to silence? Be it so. Now, come what will, I 'll
not leave France; and, more still, I 'll declare everything before the
judges openly at the tribunal. The people shall know, all Europe shall
know, who is my accuser, and what he is. Yes! your Consul himself
treated with the Bourbons in Italy; the negotiations were begun,
continued, carried on, and only broken off by his own excessive demands.
Ay, I can prove it: his very return from Egypt through the whole English
fleet,--that happy chance, as you were wont to term it,--was a secret
treaty with Pitt for the restoration of the exiled family on his
reaching Paris. These facts--and facts you shall confess them--are in my
power to prove; and prove them I will in the face of all France.'”

“Poor Pichegru!” said the abbe, contemptuously. “What an ill-tempered
child a great general may be, after all! Did he think the hour would
ever come for him to realize such a dream?”

“What do you mean?” cried two or three together.

“The Corsican never forgets a vendetta,” was the cool reply, as he
walked away.

“True,” said the colonel, thoughtfully; “quite true.”

To me these words were riddles. My only feeling towards Pichegru was one
of contempt and pity, that in any depth of misfortune he could resort
to such an unworthy attack upon him who still was the idol of all my
thoughts; and for this, the conqueror of Holland stood now as low in my
esteem as the most vulgar of the rabble gang that each day saw sentenced
to the galleys.



CHAPTER XXXV. THE REIGN OF TERROR UNDER THE CONSULATE.

On the morning that followed the scene I have spoken of came the news of
the arrest, the trial, and the death of the Duc d'Enghien. That terrible
tragedy--which yet weighs, and will weigh forever, on the memory of
the period--reached us in our prison with all the terrible force of
circumstances to make it a day of sorrow and mourning. Such details as
the journals afforded but little satisfied our curiosity. The youth, the
virtues, the bravery of the prince had made him the idol of his party;
and while his death was lamented for his own sake, his followers read
in it the determination of the Government to stop at nothing in their
resolve to exterminate that party. A gloomy silence sat upon the
Chouans, who no longer moved about as before, regardless of their
confinement to a prison. Their chief remained apart: he neither spoke
to any one nor seemed to notice those who passed; he looked stunned and
stupefied, rather than deeply affected, and when he lifted his eyes,
their expression was cold and wandering. Even the other prisoners, who
rarely gave way to feeling of any kind, seemed at first overwhelmed by
these sad tidings; and doubtless many who before had trusted to rank and
influence for their safety, saw how little dependence could be placed on
such aid when the blow had fallen upon a “Condé” himself.

I, who neither knew the political movements of the time nor the sources
of the danger the Consul's party anticipated, could only mourn over the
unhappy fate of a gallant prince whose daring had cost him his life,
and never dreamed for a moment of calling in question the honor or good
faith of Bonaparte in an affair of which I could have easily believed
him totally ignorant. Such, indeed, was the representation of the
“Moniteur;” and whatever doubts the hints about me might have excited,
were speedily allayed by the accounts I read of the Consul's indignation
at the haste and informality of the trial, and his deep anger at the
catastrophe that followed it.

“Savary will be disgraced for this,” said I to the Abbé, who leaned over
my shoulder while I read the paper; “Bonaparte can never forgive him.”

“You mistake, my dear sir,” replied he, with a strange expression I
could not fathom. “The Consul is the most forgiving of men; he never
bears malice.”

“But here was a dreadful event,--a crime, perhaps.”

“Only a fault,” resumed he. “By the bye, Colonel, this order about
closing the barriers will be excessively inconvenient to the good people
of Paris.”

“I have been thinking over that, too,” said an overdressed,
affected-looking youth, whose perfumed curls and studied costume formed
a strange contrast with the habits of his fellow-prisoners. “If
they shut up the Barriére de de l'Étoile, what are they to do for
Longchamps?”

“_Parbleu!_ that did not strike me,” interposed the colonel, tapping his
forehead with his finger. “I 'll wager a crown that they haven't thought
of that themselves.”

“The Champs Éllysés are surely long enough for such tomfoolery,” said
the quartermaster, in a gruff, savage tone.

“Not one half,” was the imperturbable reply of the youth;
“and Longchamps promised admirably this year. I had ordered a
_calèche_,--light blue, with gilt circles on the wheels, and a bronze
carving to the pole,--like an antique chariot.”

“_Parbleu!_ you are more likely to take your next airing in a simpler
conveyance,” said the quartermaster with a grin.

“I was to have driven la Comtesse de Beauflers to the Bois de Boulogne.”

“You must content yourself with the Comte de la Marque” (the prison name
of the executioner) “instead,” growled out the other.

I turned away, no less disgusted at the frivolity that could only see in
the dreadful event that took place the temporary interruption to a vain
and silly promenade, than at the savage coarseness that could revel in
the pain common misfortune gave him the privilege of inflicting.

Such, however, was the prevalent tone of thinking and speaking there.
The death of friends,--the ruin of those best loved and cared for; the
danger that each day came nearer to themselves,--were all casualties to
which habit, recklessness of life, and libertinism had accustomed them;
while about former modes of life,--the pleasures of the capital, its
delights and dissipation,--they conversed with the most eager interest.
It is thus, while in some natures misfortunes will call forth into
exercise the best and noblest traits that in happier circumstances had
never found the necessity that gave them birth; so, in others, adversity
depresses and demoralizes those weaker temperaments that seemed formed
to sail safely in the calm waters, but never destined to brave the
stormy seas of life.

With such associates I could have neither sympathy nor friendship; and
my life passed on in one unbroken and dreary monotony, day succeeding
day and night following night, till my thoughts, turned ever inward, had
worn as it were a track for themselves in which the world without and
its people had no share whatever. Not only was my application to
the minister unanswered, but I was never examined before any of the
tribunals; and sometimes the dreadful fate of those prisoners who in the
Reign of Terror passed their whole life in prison, their crimes, their
very existence forgotten, would cross my mind, and strike me with terror
unspeakable.

If in the sombre atmosphere of the Temple a sad and cheerless monotony
prevailed, events followed fast on each other in that world from which
its gloomy walls excluded us. Every hour was some new feature of the
dark conspiracy brought to light; the vigilance of Monsieur Réal slept
not night or day; and all that bribery, terror, or torture could effect,
was put into requisition to obtain full and precise information as to
every one concerned in the plot.

It was a bright, fresh morning in April, the sixth of the month,--the
day is graven on my memory,--when, on walking forth into the garden, I
was surprised to see the prisoners standing in a circle round a tree on
which a placard was fastened, with glances eagerly turned towards the
paper or bent sadly to the ground. They stood around, sad and silent. To
my question of what had occurred, a significant look at the tree was the
only reply I received, while in the faces of all I perceived that some
dreadful news had reached them. Forcing my way with difficulty through
the crowd, I at length approached near enough to read the placard, on
which in large letters was written,--

     “6 Avril. Le Temple.

     “Charles Pichegru, ez-Général Républicain, s'est é tranglé
     dans sa prison.”

“And did Pichegru, the great conqueror of Holland, die by his own hand?”
 said I, as my eye rested on the fatal bulletin.

“Don't you read it, young man?” replied a deep, solemn voice beside me,
which I at once knew was that of General George himself, “Can you doubt
the accuracy of information supplied by the police?”

The bystanders looked up with a terrified and frightened expression, as
if dreading lest the very listening to his words might be construed into
an acquiescence in them.

“Trust me, he is dead,” continued he. “They who have announced his fate
here have a right to be relied on. It now only remains to be seen how he
died. These prison maladies have a strange interest for us who live
in the infected climate; and, if I mistake not, I see the 'Moniteur',
yonder, a full hour before its usual time. See what a blessing,
gentlemen, you enjoy in a paternal Government, which in moments of
public anxiety can feel for your distress and hasten to alleviate it!”

The tone of sarcasm he spoke in, the measured fall of every word, sank
into the hearers' minds, and though they stood mute, they did not even
move from the spot.

“Here is the 'Moniteur' now,” said the quartermaster, opening the paper
and reading aloud.

“To his oft-repeated assurances that he would make no attempt upon his
life--'”

A rude burst of laughter from George interrupted the reader here.

“I ask your pardon, sir,” said he, touching his cap; “proceed. I promise
not to interrupt you again.”

“'That he would make no attempt upon his life, Greneral Pichegru
obtained permission that the sentries should be stationed outside his
cell during the night. Having provided himself with a fagot, which
he secreted beneath his bed, he supped as usual in the evening of
yesterday, eating heartily at eleven o'clock, and retiring to rest by
twelve. When thus alone he placed the stick within the folds of the
black silk cravat he generally wore round his neck, in such a manner as,
when twisted, to act like a tourniquet; and having turned it with such
a degree of force as to arrest the return of blood from the head, he
fastened it beneath his head and shoulders, and in this manner, apoplexy
supervening, expired.'”

“_Par Saint Louis_, sir,” cried George, “the explanation is admirable,
and most satisfactorily shows how a man may possess life long enough
to be certain he has killed himself. The only thing wanting is for the
general to assist in dressing the proces-verbal, when doubtless his own
views of his case would be equally edifying and instructive. And see,
already the ceremony has begun.”

As he spoke, he pointed to a number of persons who crossed the terrace,
preceded by Savary in his uniform of the Gendarmes d'Élite, and who went
in the direction of the cell where the dead body lay.

The prisoners now fell into little knots and groups, talking beneath
their breath, and apparently terrified at every stir about them. Each
compared his sensation of what he thought he heard during the night with
the other's. Some asserted that they distinctly heard the chains of the
drawbridge creak long after midnight; others vouched for the quick tramp
of feet along the corridors, and the sounds of strange voices; one,
whose cell was beneath that of Pichegru, said that he was awoke
before day by a violent crash overhead, followed by a harsh sound like
coughing, which continued for some time and then ceased entirely. These
were vague, uncertain signs, yet what horrible thoughts did they not
beget in each listener's mind!

As I stood terror-struck and speechless, I felt a tap oif my shoulder.
I turned; it was the Abbé, who, with a smile of peculiar irony, stood
behind me.

“Poor Savary!” said he, in a whisper; “how will he ever get over this
blunder, and it so very like the former one!”

He did not wait for a reply, but moved away.

“Who is to be the next, sir?” cried George, with a deep voice, as he saw
the assemblage thus accidentally collected about to break up. “Moreau,
perhaps. One thing I bid you all bear witness to: suicide is a crime I
'll never commit; let no narrative of a cravat and a fagot--”

“Do you never eat mushrooms, General?” said the Abbé, dryly; and
whether from the manner of the speaker, or the puzzled look of him
to whom the speech was addressed, the whole crowd burst into a fit of
laughter,--the emotion seemed like one in which relief was felt by all.
They laughed long and loud; and now the faces that a minute before were
marked by every character of deep affliction, looked merry and happy.
Each had some story, some apropos to tell, or some smart witticism to
let off against his neighbor; and to hear them you would say that never
was there a subject more suggestive of drollery than the one of suicide
and sudden death.

And thus was it ever. No event, however dreadful,--no circumstance,
however shocking,--could do more than momentarily affect those whose
life possessed no security, was governed by no principle. Levity and
unbelief--unbelief that extended not only to matters of religion, but
actually penetrated every relation of life, rendering them sceptical of
friendship, love, truth, honor, and charity--were the impulses under
which they lived; and they would have laughed him to scorn who should
have attempted to establish another code of acting or thinking. Such
feelings, if they made them but little suited to all the habits and
charities of life, certainly rendered them most indifferent to death;
and much of that courage so much lauded and admired on the scaffold
had no other source than in the headlong recklessness the prison had
inculcated,--the indifference to everything, where everything was
questionable and doubtful.

I struggled powerfully against the taint of such a consuming malady.
I bethought me of my boyhood and its early purpose,--of him who first
stirred my soul to ambition,--and asked myself, what would he have
thought of me had I yielded to such a trial as this? I pictured before
me a career when such devotion as I felt, aided by a stout heart, must
win its way to honor; and when roused to thought, these low, depressing
dreams, these dark hours of doubt and despair, vanished before it. But
gradually my health gave way, my lethargic apathy increased upon me, the
gloomy walls of my cell had thrown their shadow over my spirit, and I
sank into a state of moping indifference in which I scarcely marked the
change of day and night; and felt at length that had the sentence been
pronounced which condemned me for life to the walls of the Temple, I
could have heard it without emotion.

“Come, sous-lieutenant, it's your turn now!” said the turnkey, entering
my cell one morning, where I sat alone at breakfast; “I have just
received the orders for your appearance.”

“How! where?” said I, scarcely able to do more than guess at the meaning
of his words; “before the préfet, is it?”

“No, no; a very different affair, indeed. You are summoned with the
_Chouan_ prisoners to appear at the Palais de Justice.”

“The Palais!” said I, as for the first time for weeks past a sentiment
of fear crept through me. “Are we to be tried without having a list of
the charges alleged against us?”

“You 'll hear them time enough in court.”

“Without an advocate to defend us.”

“The President will name one for that purpose.”

“And can the jury--”

“Jury! There is no jury; the Consul has suspended trial by jury for
two years. Come, come, don't be downhearted; your friends without are
singing away as gayly as though it were a festival. My faith, that
Greneral George is made of iron, I believe. He has been confined _au
secret_ these ten days, his rations diminished to almost a starvation
level, and yet there is he now, with his countenance as calm and his
look as firm as if he were at large on the hills of La Vendée. Cheer up,
then; let the example of your chief--”

“Chief! he is no chief of mine.”

“That 's as it may, or may not be,” replied he, gruffly, as though
wounded by what he deemed a want of confidence in his honor. “However,
make haste and dress, for the carriages will be here to convey you to
the Palais. And there now are the Gendarmes d'Élite assembling in the
court.”

As I proceeded to dress, I could see from the window of my cell that a
squadron of gendarmes, in full uniform, were drawn up in the square of
the prison, along one side of which were several carriages standing,
each with two gendarmes seated on the box. The prisoners were confined
to their walls; but at every window some face appeared peering anxiously
at the proceedings beneath, and watching with inquisitive gaze every,
even the slightest, movement.

Just as the clock struck nine the door of my cell was opened, and a
greffier of the court entered, and, taking from a black portmanteau at
his side a roll of paper, began without delay to repeat in a sing-song
recitative tone a formal summons of the Grand Tribunal for the
“surrender of the body of Thomas Burke, sous-lieutenant of the huitieme
hussars, now in the prison of the Temple, and accused of the crime of
treason.”

The last word made me shudder as it fell from him; and not all my
stoical indifference of weeks past was proof against such an accusation.
The jailer having formally listened to the document, and replied by
reading aloud another, delivered me over to the officer, who desired me
to follow him.

In the court beneath the greater number of the prisoners were already
assembled. George, among the number, was conspicuous, not only by his
size and proportions, but by a handsome uniform, in the breast of which
he wore his decoration of St. Louis, from which descended a bright bow
of crimson ribbon. A slight bustle at one of the doorways of the tower
suddenly seemed to attract his attention, and I saw that he turned
quickly round, and forced his way through the crowd to the place.
Eager to learn what it was, I followed him at once. Pushing with some
difficulty forward, I reached the doorway, on the step of which lay a
young man in a fainting fit. His face, pale as death, had no color save
two dark circles round the eyes, which, though open, were upturned and
filmy. His cravat had been hastily removed by some of the bystanders,
and showed a purple welt around his neck, on one side of which a mass
of blood escaping beneath the skin, made a dreadful-looking tumor. His
dress denoted a person of condition, as well as the character of his
features; but never had I looked upon an object so sad and woe-begone
before. At his side knelt Greorge; his strong arm round his back, while
his great massive hand patted the water on his brow. The stern features
of the hardy Breton, which ever before had conveyed to me nothing
but daring and impetuous passion, were softened to a look of womanly
kindliness, his blue eye beaming as softly as though it were a mother
leaning over her infant.

“Bouvet, my dear, dear boy, remember thou art a Breton; rally thyself,
my child,--bethink thee of the cause.”

The name of the youth at once recalled him whom I had seen some months
before among the _Chouan_ prisoners, and who, sad and sickly as he then
seemed, was now much further gone towards the tomb.

“Bouvet,” cried Greorge, in an accent of heartrending sorrow, “this will
disgrace us forever!”

The youth turned his cold eyes round till they were fixed on the other's
face; while his lips, still parted, and his cheek pale and flattened,
gave him the appearance of a corpse suddenly called back to life.

“There, my own brave boy,” said Greorge, kissing his forehead--“there,
thou art thyself again!” He bent over till his lips nearly touched
the youth's ear, and then whispered: “Dost thou forget the last words
Monsieur spoke to thee, Bouvet? 'Conserve-toi pour tes amis, et centre
nos ennemis communs!'”

The boy started up at the sounds, and looked wildly about him, while his
hands were open wide with a kind of spasmodic motion.

“_Tonnerre de ciel!_” cried George, with frantic passion; “what have they
done with him? his mind is gone. Bouvet! Bouvet de Lozier! knowest
thou this?” He tore from his bosom a miniature, surrounded with large
brilliants, and held it to the eyes of the youth.

A wild shriek broke from the youth as he fell back in strong
convulsions. The dreadful cry seemed like the last wail of expiring
reason, so sad, so piercing was its cadence.

“Look, see!” said George, turning a savage scowl upon the crowd; “they
have taken away his mind; he is an idiot.”

“The General George Cadoudal,” cried a loud voice from the centre of the
court.

“Here,” was the firm reply.

“This way, sir; the carriage yonder.”

“Monsieur Sol de Gisolles!”

“Here,” replied a tall, aristocratic-looking personage, in deep
mourning.

Sous-Lieutenant Burke was next called, and I followed the others, and
soon found myself seated in a close calecfie, with a gendarme beside me,
while two mounted men of the corps sat at either side of the carriage
with drawn swords. Picot, the servant of George, the faithful Breton,
was next summoned; and Lebourgeois, an old but handsome man, in the
simple habit of a farmer, with his long white hair, and soft kind
countenance. Many other names were called over, and nearly an hour
elapsed before the ceremony was concluded, and the order was given to
move forward.

At last the heavy gates were opened, and the procession issued forth.
I was surprised to see that the entire Boulevard was lined with troops,
behind which thousands of people were closely wedged, all the windows,
and even the housetops, being filled with spectators.

When we reached the quays, the crowd was greater still, and it required
all the efforts of the troops to keep it back sufficiently to permit an
open space for the carriages; while at all the streets that opened
at the quays, mounted dragoons were stationed to prevent any carriage
passing down. Never had I beheld such a vast multitude of people;
and yet, through all that crowded host, a deep, solemn silence
prevailed,--not a cry nor a shout was heard in all the way. Once only,
at the corner of the Pont Neuf, a cry of “Vive Moreau!” was given by
some one in the crowd; but it was a solitary voice, and the moment
after I saw a gendarme force his way through the mass, and seizing a
miserable-looking creature by the neck, hurry him along beside his horse
towards the guardhouse. On crossing the bridge, I saw that a company of
artillery and two guns were placed in position beside Desaix's
monument, so as to command the Pont Neuf: all these preparations clearly
indicating that the Government felt the occasion such as to warrant the
most energetic measures of security. There was something in the earnest
look of the cannoniers, as they stood with their lighted matches beside
the guns, that betrayed the resolve of one whose quick determination was
ever ready for the moment of danger.

The narrow streets of the Isle St. Louis, more densely crowded than any
part of the way, slackened our pace considerably, and frequently the
gendarmes were obliged to clear the space before the carriages could
proceed. I could not help feeling struck, as we passed along these
miserable and dark alleys,--where vice and crime, and wretchedness of
every type herded together,--to hear at every step some expressions
of pity or commiseration from those who themselves seemed the veriest
objects of compassion.

“Ah, Voilà,” cried an old creature in rags, on whose cotton bonnet a
faded and dirty tricolored ribbon was fastened--“voilà Moreau! I'd know
his proud face any day. Poor general, I hope it will not go hard with
you to-day!” “Look there,” screamed a hag, as the carriage in which
Bouvet sat passed by--“look at the handsome youth that's dying! Holy
Virgin! he'll not be living when they reach the gate of the Palais!”

“And there,” cried another, “there's a hussar officer, pale enough, I
trow he is. Come, I 'll say a prayer or two for him there; it can do him
no harm anyhow.”

The hoarse rattle of a drum in front mingled with the noise of the
cavalcade, and I now could hear the clank of a guard turning out. The
minute after we stood before a colossal gateway, whose rich tracery
shone in the most gorgeous gilding; it was in the splendid taste of
Louis the Fourteenth, and well became the entrance of what once had been
a royal palace. “Alas!” thought I, “how unlike those who once trod this
wide court is the melancholy cortege that now enters it!”

As each carriage drew up at the foot of a wide flight of stone steps,
the prisoners descended, and escorted by gendarmes on each side, were
led into the building. When all had reached the hall, the order was
given to move forward, and we walked on till we came to a long gallery.
On either side was a range of massive pillars, between which views were
obtained of various spacious but dimly-lighted chambers, apparently
neglected and unused; some benches here and there, an old cabinet, and
a deal table, were all the furniture. Here we halted for a few moments,
till a door opening at the extreme end, a sign was made for us to
advance. And now we heard a low rushing sound, like the distant breaking
of the sea in a calm night; it grew louder as we went, till we could
mark the mingling of several hundred voices, as they conversed in a
subdued and under tone. Then, indeed, a dreadful thrill ran through me,
as I thought of the countless mass before whom I was to stand forth a
criminal, and it needed every effort in my power to keep my feet.

A heavy curtain of dark cloth yet separated us from a view of the court;
but we could hear the voice of the president commanding silence, and
the monotonous intonation of the clerk reading the order for the
proceedings. This concluded, a deep voice called out, “Introduce the
prisoners!” and the words were repeated still louder by a huissier at
the entrance; and at a signal the line moved forward, the curtain was
drawn back, and we advanced into the court.

The crowd of faces that filled the vast space from the body of the court
below to the galleries above, turned as we passed on to the bench, at
one side of the raised platform near the seat of the judges. A similar
bench, but unoccupied, ran along the opposite side; while directly in
front of the judges were ranged the advocates in rows, closely packed
as they could sit,--a small desk, somewhat advanced from the rest, being
the seat reserved for the Procureur-Général of the court.

The vast multitudes of spectators; the pomp and circumstance of a court
of justice; the solemn look of the judges, arrayed in their dark robes
and square black caps, reminding one of the officers of the Inquisition,
as we see them in old paintings; the silence where so many were
assembled,--all struck me with awe, and I scarcely dared to look up,
lest in the glances bent upon me I should meet some whose looks might
seem to condemn me.

“Proclaim the _séance_,” said the President. And with: a loud voice
the _huissier_ of the court made proclamation that the tribunal had
commenced its sitting.

This concluded, the Procureur-Général proceeded to read the names of the
accused, beginning with Général Moreau, Armand de Polignac, Charles de
Rivière, Sol de Gisolles, George Cadoudal, and some twenty others
of less note, among which I heard with a sinking heart my own name
pronounced.

Some customary formalities seemed now to occupy the court for a
considerable time; after which the _huissier_ called silence once more.

“Général Moreau!” said the President, in a deep voice that was heard
throughout the entire court. “Rise up, sir,” added he, after a few
seconds' pause.

I looked down the bench, at the farthest end of which I saw the
tall and well-knit figure of a man in the uniform of a general of the
Republic; his back was turned towards me, but his bearing and carriage
were quite enough to distinguish the soldier.

“Your name and surname,” said the President.

Before an answer could be returned, a dull sound, like something heavy
falling, resounded through the court, and in an instant several persons
around me stood up. I bent forward to see, and beheld the figure of
Bouvet de Lozier stretched insensible upon the ground; beside him his
faithful friend George was stooping, and endeavoring to open his vest to
give him air.

“Bring some water here quickly!” cried the hardy Breton, in a tone that
showed little respect for where he stood. “Your absurd ceremonial has
frightened the poor boy out of his senses.”

“Respect the court, sir, or I commit you!” said the President, in a
voice of anger.

A contemptuous look, followed by a still more contemptuous shrug of the
shoulders, was his reply.

“Remove the prisoner,” said the President, pointing to the still
fainting youth, “and proclaim silence in the court.”

The officers of the tribunal carried the deathlike figure of the boy
down the steps, and bore him to some of the chambers near.

This little incident, slight and passing as it was, seemed much to
affect the auditory, and it was some time before perfect silence could
be again restored.

“So much for the régime of the Temple!” said George, aloud, as he looked
after the insensible form of his friend.

“Silence, sir!” cried one of the judges, M. Thuriot, a harsh and
severe-looking man, whose hatred to the prisoners was the subject of
much conversation in the prison.

“Ah, it is you, Tue-Roi!” cried George, punning upon his name, for he
had been one of the regicides. “You there! I thought they had found you
out long ere this.”

A burst of laughter that nothing could repress broke through the crowded
court, and it was not until some five or six persons were forcibly
removed by the gendarmes that order was again restored.

“Read the act of accusation,” said the President, in a deep solemn
voice.

“In the name of the Republic, one and indivisible--”

“Monsieur le President,” interrupted the Procureur-Général, “I would
submit to the court, that as in the first accusation there are several
of the prisoners not included, they should not remain during the recital
of the indictment.”

A conversation of some minutes now took place between the judges, during
which again the silence was unbroken in the court. I turned gladly
from the gaze of the thousand spectators to the bench where my
fellow-prisoners were seated; and however varied by age, rank, and
occupation, there seemed but one feeling amongst them,--a hardy and
resolute spirit to brave every danger without flinching.

“Which of the prisoners are not accused under the first act?” said
Thuriot.

“Charles Auguste Bebarde, dit le Noir; Guillaume Lebarte; and Thomas
Burke, Sous-Lieutenant in the Eighth Regiment of Hussars.”

“Let them withdraw,” said the President.

A slight bustle ensued in the body of the court as the gendarmes
advanced to make a passage for our exit; and for a moment I could
perceive that the attention of the assembly was drawn towards us. One
by one we descended to the platform, and with a gendarme on either side,
proceeded to pass out, when suddenly the deep, mellow voice of Cadoudal
called out aloud,--

“Adieu, my friends, adieu! If we are not to be better treated than our
prince, we shall never see you again.”

“Silence, sir!” cried the President, severely; and then, turning towards
the bar of advocates, he continued, “If that man have an advocate
in this court, it would well become him to warn his client that such
continued insult to the tribunal can only prejudice his cause.”

“I have none, and I wish for none,” replied George, in a tone of
defiance. “This mockery is but the first step of the guillotine, and I
can walk it without assistance.”

A renewed call of “Silence!” and a deep murmur through the assembly, was
all I heard, as the door of the court opened and closed behind us. As
we marched along a low vaulted corridor, the sounds of the court grew
fainter and fainter; and at last the echoes of our own steps were the
only noises.

The room to which we were conducted was a small whitewashed chamber,
around which ran a bench of unpainted wood. A deal table stood in the
centre, on which was a common-looking earthenware jar of water and some
tin goblets. The window was several feet from the ground, and strongly
barred with iron.

“La salle d'attente is gloomy enough,” said one of my companions, “and
yet some of us may be very sorry to leave it.”

“Not I, at least,” cried the other, resolutely. “The basket beneath
the guillotine will be an easier couch than I have slept on these three
months.”



CHAPTER XXXVI. THE PALAIS DE JUSTICE

“It will go hard with Moreau to-day,” said the elder of the two
prisoners, a large, swarthy-looking Breton, in the dress of a sailor;
“the Consul hates him.”

“Whom does he not hate,” said the younger, a slight and handsome
youth--“whom does he not hate that ever rivalled him in glory? What love
did he bear to Kléber or Desaix?”

“It is false,” said I, fiercely. “Bonaparte's greatness stands far
too high to feel such rivalry as theirs. The conqueror of Italy and of
Egypt--”

“Is a Corsican,” interrupted the elder.

“And a tyrant,” rejoined the other, in the same breath.

“These words become you well,” said I, bitterly. “Would that no stain
lay on my honor, and I could make you eat them.”

“And who are you that dare to speak thus?” said the younger; “or how
came one like you mixed up with men whose hearts were in a great cause,
and who came to sell their lives upon it?”

“I tell you, boy,” broke in the elder, in a slow and measured tone,
“I have made more stalwart limbs than thine bend, and stronger joints
crack, for less than thou hast ventured to tell us; but sorrow and
suffering are hard masters, and I can bear more now than I was wont to
do. Let us have no more words.”

As he spoke, he leaned his head upon his hand, and turned towards the
wall; the other, too, sat down in a comer of the cell, and was silent.
And thus we remained for hours long.

The dreary stillness, made more depressing by the presence of the
two prisoners, whose deep-drawn breathings were the only sounds they
uttered, had something unspeakably sad and melancholy in it, and more
than once I felt sorry for the few words I had spoken, which separated
those whose misfortunes should have made them brothers.

A confused and distant hum, swelling and falling at intervals, now
filled the air, and gradually I could distinguish the shouts of people
at a distance. This increased as it came nearer; and then I heard the
tramping noise of many feet, and of a great multitude of people passing
in the street below, and suddenly a wild cheer broke forth, “Vive le
Consul!” “Vive Bonaparte!” followed the next instant by the clanking
sound of a cavalry escort, while the cry grew louder and louder, and the
vivas drowned all other sounds.

“You hear them, Guillaume, you hear them,” said the sailor to the other
prisoner; “That shout is our death-cry. Bonaparte comes not here to-day
but to see his judges do his bidding.”

“What care I?” said the other, fiercely. “The guillotine or the sabre,
the axe or the bayonet,--it is all one. We knew what must come of it.”

The door opened as he spoke, and a greffier of the tribunal appeared
with four gendarmes.

“Come, Messieurs,” said he, “the court is waiting for you.”

“And how go matters without, sir?” said the elder, in an easy tone.

“Badly for the prisoners,” said the greffier, shaking his head.
“Monsieur Moreau, the general's brother, has done much injury; he has
insulted the Consul.”

“Bravely done!” cried the younger man, with enthusiasm. “It is well he
should hear truth one day, though the tongue that uttered it should be
cold the next.”

“Move on, sir!” said the greffier, sternly. “Not you,” added he, as I
pressed forward after the rest; “your time has not come.”

“Would that it had!” said I, as the door closed upon me, and I was left
in total solitude.

The day was over, and the evening already late, when a turnkey appeared,
and desired me to follow him. A moody indifference to everything had
settled on me, and I never spoke as I walked behind him down corridor
after corridor; and across a court, into a large, massive-looking
building, whose grated windows and strongly-barred doors reminded me of
the Temple.

“Here is your cell,” said he, roughly, as he unlocked a low door near
the entrance.

“It is gloomy enough,” said I, with a sad smile.

“And yet many have shed tears to leave it before now,” rejoined he, with
a savage twinkle of his small eyes.

I was glad when the hoarse crash of the closed door told me I was alone;
and I threw myself upon my bed and buried my face in my hands.

There is a state which is not sleep, and yet is akin to it, into which
grief can bring us,--a half-dreary stupor, where only sorrows are felt;
and even they come dulled and blunted, as if time and years had softened
down their sting. But no ray of hope shines there,--a dreary waste,
without a star. The cold, dark sea, boundless and bleak, is not more
saddening than life then seems before us; there is neither path to
follow nor goal to reach, and an apathy worse than death creeps over all
our faculties. And yet, when we awake we wish for this again. Into this
state I sank, and when morning came felt sorry that the light should
shine into my narrow cell, and rouse me from my stupor. When the turnkey
entered to bring me breakfast, I turned towards the wall, and trembled
lest he should speak to me; and it was with a strange thrill I heard the
door close as he went out. The abandonment of one's sorrow--that daily,
hourly indulgence in grief which the uncheered solitude of a prison
begets--soon brings the mind to the narrow range of one or two topics.
With the death of hope, all fancy and imagination perish, the springs of
all speculation are dried up, and every faculty bent towards one point;
the reason, like a limb unexercised, wastes and pines, and becomes
paralyzed.

Now and then the thought would flash across me, “What if this were
madness?”--and I shuddered not at the thought. Such had my prison made
me.

Four days and nights passed over thus,--a long, monotonous dream, in
which I counted not the time,--and I lay upon my straw bed watching the
expiring light of the candle with that strange interest one attaches
to everything within the limits of a prison-cell. The flame waned and
flickered: now lighting up for a second the cold gray walls, scratched
with many a prisoner's name; now subsiding, it threw strange and fitful
shapes upon them,--figures that seemed to move and to beckon to one
another,--goblin outlines, wild and fanciful. Then came a bright flash
as the wick fell, and all was dark.

“If the dead do but sleep!” was the first thought that crossed my
mind as the gloom of total night wrapped every object about me, and a
stillness most appalling prevailed. Suddenly I heard the sounds of a
heavy bolt withdrawn and a door opening; then a low, rushing noise, like
wind blowing through a narrow corridor; and at last the marching sounds
of feet, and the accents of men speaking together: nearer and nearer
they came, and at length halted at the door of my cell. A cold, faint
feeling, the sickness of the heart, crept over me; the hour, the sounds,
reminded me of what so often I had heard men speak of in the Temple, and
the dread of assassination made me tremble from head to foot. The light
streamed from beneath the door, and reached to my bed; and I calculated
the number of steps it would take before they approached me. The key
grated in the lock and the door opened slowly, and three men stood
at the entrance. I sprang up wildly to my feet; a sudden impulse of
self-defence seized me; and with a wild shout for them to come on, I
rushed forward. My foot, however, caught the angle of the iron bedstead,
and I fell headlong and senseless to the ground.

Some interval elapsed; and when next I felt consciousness, I was lying
full length on my bed, the cell lit up by two candles on the table,
beside which sat two men, their heads bent eagerly over a mass of papers
before them. One was an old and venerable-looking man, his white hair
and long queue so bespeaking him; he wore a loose cloth cloak that
covered his entire figure, but I could see that a brass scabbard of a
sword projected beneath it; on the chair beside him, too, there lay a
foraging-cap. The other, much younger, though still not in youth, was a
thin, pale, careworn man; his forehead was high and strongly marked;
and there was an intensity and determination in his brow and about the
angles of his mouth most striking; he was dressed in black, with deep
ruffles at his wrist.

“It is quite clear. General,” said he, in a low and measured voice,
where each word fell with perfect distinctness--“it is quite clear that
they can press a conviction here if they will. The allegations are so
contrived as rather to indicate complicity than actually establish it.
The defence in such cases has to combat shadows, not overturn facts;
and, believe me, a procureur-général, aided by a police, is a dexterous
enemy.”

“I have no doubt of it,” said the general, rapidly; “but what are the
weak points? where is he most assailable?”

“Everywhere,” said the other. “To begin: the secret information of the
outbreak between Lord Whitworth and the Consul; the frequent meetings
with the Marquis de Beauvais; the false report to the Chef de Police;
the concealment of this abbe--By the bye, I am not quite clear about
that part of the case; why have not the prosecution brought this Abbé,
forward? It is plain they have his evidence, and can produce him if
they will; and I see no other name in the act of accusation than our old
acquaintance, Mehée de la Touche--”

“The villain!” cried the general, with a stamp of indignation, while a
convulsive spasm seemed to shake every fibre of his frame.

“Mehée de la Touche!” said I to myself; “I have heard that name before.”
 And like a lightning flash it crossed my mind that such was the name of
the man Marie de Meudon charged me with knowing.

“But still,” said the general, “what can they make of all these? That of
indiscretion, folly, breach of discipline, if you will; but--”

“Wait a little,” said the other, quietly. “Then comes the night of the
château, in which he is found among the _Chouan_ party in their very
den, taking part in the defence.”

“No, no! Lamoriciére, who commanded the cuirassiers, can establish
the fact beyond question, that Burke took no part in the affray, and
delivered his sword at once when called on.”

“At least they found him there, and on his person the brevet of colonel,
signed by Monsieur himself.”

“Of that I can give no explanation,” replied the general; “but I am in
possession of such information as can account for his presence at the
château, and establish his innocence on that point.”

“Indeed!” cried the advocate, for such he was; “with that much may be
done.”

“Unhappily, however,” rejoined the general, “if such a disclosure is
not necessary to save his life, I cannot venture to give it; the ruin of
another must follow the explanation.”

“Without it he is lost,” said the advocate, solemnly.

“And would not accept of life with it,” said I, boldly, as I started up
in my bed, and looked fixedly at them.

The general sprang back, astonished and speechless; but the advocate,
with more command over his emotions, cast his eyes upon the paper before
him, and quickly asked,--

“And the commission; how do you account for that?”

“It was offered to and refused by me. He who made the proposal forgot it
on my table, and I was about to restore it when I was made prisoner.”

“What condition was attached to your acceptance of it?”

“Some vague, indistinct proposals were made to me to join a conspiracy
of which I was neither told the object nor intentions. Indeed, I stopped
any disclosure by rejecting the bribe.”

“Who made these same proposals?”

“I shall not tell his name.”

“No matter,” said the advocate, carelessly; “it was the Marquis de
Beauvais;” And then, as if affecting to write, I saw his sharp eyes
glance over towards me, while a smile of gratified cunning twitched his
lip. “You will have no objection to say how first you became acquainted
with him?”

The dexterity of this query, by replying to which I at once established
his preceding assumption, completely escaped me, and I gave an account
of my first meeting with De Beauvais, without ever dreaming of the
inferences it led to.

“An unhappy rencontre,” said the advocate, as if musing; “better have
finished the intimacy, as you first intended, at the Bois de Boulogne.”

“It may be as you say, sir,” said I, irritated by the flippancy of his
remark; “but perhaps I may ask the name of the gentleman who takes such
interest in my affairs, and by what right he meddles in them?”

The general started back in his chair, and was about to speak, when
the advocate laid his hand gently on his arm to restrain him, and, in a
voice of the most unruffled smoothness, replied,--

“As to my name, sir, it is Laurence Baillot; my rank is simple avocat to
the Cours et Tribunaux; and the 'right' by which I interfere in matters
personal to you is the consideration of fifty louis which accompanied
this brief.”

“And my name, young man, is Lieutenant-Général d'Auvergne,” said the old
man, proudly, as he stared me steadfastly in the face.

I arose at once, and saluted the general with a deep and respectful
obeisance. It was the same officer who reviewed us at the Polytechnique
the day of my promotion.

“You are now, I hope, satisfied with the reasons of our presence, and
that nothing but considerations of your interest can have influenced our
visit,” said the avocat, with calmness. “Such being the case, sit
down here, and relate all you can of your life since your leaving the
Polytechnique. Be brief, too, for it is now three o'clock; the court
opens at ten, your case will be called the second, and I must at least
have three hours of sleep.”

The general pointed to a seat beside him; I sat down, and without
any delay proceeded to give a rapid account of all my adventures and
proceedings to the hour we were then assembled, only omitting all
mention of Mademoiselle de Meudon's name, and such allusions to De
Beauvais as might lead to his crimination.

The advocate wrote down, as rapidly as I spoke them, the principal
details of my history, and when I had concluded, perused the notes he
had taken with a quick eye.

“This will never do,” said he, with more impatience in his manner than
I had yet witnessed. “Here are a mass of circumstances all unexplained,
and all suspicious. It is now entirely a question of the feeling of
the court. The charges, if pressed, must lead to a conviction.
Your innocence, sir, may satisfy--indeed, it has satisfied--General
d'Auvergne, who else had not been here this night; but the proofs are
not before us.”

He paused for a moment, and then continued in a lower tone, addressing
himself directly to the general: “We must entreat a delay; a day--two
days, certainly--will establish the proofs against George and his
accomplices; they will be condemned and executed at once. It is most
likely that the court will not recur to capital punishment again. The
example being made, any further demonstration will be needless. I see
you put little faith in this manoeuvre; but, trust me, I know the temper
of the tribunal. Besides, the political stroke has already succeeded.
Bonaparte has conquered all his enemies; his next step will be to profit
by the victory.” These words were riddles to me at the time, though the
day soon came when their meaning was palpable. “Yes, two days will do
it,” said he, confidently raising his voice as he spoke; “and then,
whether there be a hussar the more or one the less in France, will
little trouble the current of events.”

“Then how to obtain the time,--that is the question,” said the general.

“Oh, we shall try something. There can always be a witness to be called;
some evidence all-essential not forthcoming; some necessary proof not
quite unravelled. What if we summoned this same Abbé? The court will
make proclamation for him. D'Ervan is the name?”

“Yes; but if by so doing he may be involved--”

“Fear nothing on that score; he'll never turn up, believe me. We can
affect to show that his evidence is all-important. Yes, we'll make the
Abbé, d'Ervan our first witness. Where shall we say he resides? Rouen,
I suppose, will do; yes, Rouen.” And so, without waiting for a reply,
he continued to write. “By this, you perceive,” he remarked, “we shall
disconcert their plans. They are evidently keeping this abbe up for some
greater occasion; they have a case against himself, perhaps, in which
the proofs are not yet sufficient for conviction. We 'll trouble their
game, and they may be glad to compromise with us.”

The general looked as much confounded as myself at these schemes of the
lawyer, but we both were silent.

A few questions more followed, to which he wrote down my answers as I
gave them, and then starting up, he said,--

“And now, General, I must hasten home to bed. Be ready, at all events,
for appearing before the tribunal, Mr. Burke; at ten you will be called.
And so, good-night.” He bowed formally to me, as he opened the door to
permit the general to pass out first.

“I'll follow you in a moment,” said the general, while he closed the
door after him, and remained behind with me in the cell. “It was only
this evening, sir,” said he, in a low voice, “at the return of Madame
Bonaparte from Boulogne, that Mademoiselle de Meudon learned you were
not at liberty. She has made me acquainted with the circumstances by
which your present risk has been incurred, and has put me in possession
of wherewithal to establish your innocence as regards the adventure
at the château d'Ancre. This disclosure, if it exculpates you, will of
course criminate her, and among those, too, where she has been received
and admitted on terms of the closest friendship. The natural desire to
save her cousin's life will not cover the act by which so horrible a
conspiracy might have escaped punishment. Bonaparte never forgives! Now,
I am in possession of this proof; and if you demand it, it shall be
in your keeping. I have no hesitation in saying that the other charges
against you can easily be got over, this one being refuted. What do you
say?”

“Nothing could make me accept of such an exculpation,” said I,
resolutely; “and were it offered in spite of me, I 'll plead guilty to
the whole act, and suffer with the rest.”

The old man's eyes glistened with 'pleasure, and I thought I saw a tear
fall on his cheek.

“Now,” cried he, as he grasped my hand in both his--“now I feel that
you are innocent, my brave boy, and, come what will, I 'll stand by
you.”

With that he hurried from the cell, and followed the advocate, who was
already calling with some impatience to have the doors unlocked.

I was again alone. No, not alone, for in my narrow cell hope was with me
now.



CHAPTER XXXVII. THE TRIAL.

So doubtful was the Government of the day in what way the people
of Paris would be disposed to regard the trial of the _Chouan_
prisoners,--how far public sympathy might side with misfortune and
heroism, and in what way they would regard Moreau, whose career in arms
so many had witnessed with pride and enthusiasm,--that for several days
they did not dare to strike the decisive blow which was to establish
their guilt, but advanced with slow and cautious steps, gradually
accumulating a mass of small circumstances, on which the “Moniteur” each
day commented, and the other journals of less authority expatiated,
as if to prepare the public mind for further and more important
revelations.

At last, however, the day arrived in which the mine was to be sprung.
The secret police--whose information extended to all that went on in
every class of the capital, and who knew the chitchat of the highest
circles equally as they did the grumblings of the Faubourg St. Antoine--
pronounced the time had come when the fatal stroke might no longer be
withheld, and when the long-destined vengeance should descend on their
devoted heads.

The want of energy on the part of the prosecution--the absence of
important witnesses and of all direct evidence whatever--which marked
the first four days of the trial, had infused a high hope and a strong
sense of security into the prisoners' hearts. The proofs which they
so much dreaded, and of whose existence they well knew, were not
forthcoming against them. The rumored treachery of some of their party
began at length to lose its terror for them; while in the lax and
careless proceedings of the Procureur-Général they saw, or fancied
they saw, a desire on the part of Government to render the public
uninterested spectators of the scene, and thus prepare the way for an
acquittal, while no danger of any excitement existed.

Such was the state of matters at the close of the fourth day. A tiresome
and desultory discussion on some merely legal question had occupied the
court for several hours, and many of the spectators, wearied and tired
out, had gone home disappointed in their expectations, and secretly
resolving not to return the following day.

This was the moment for which the party in power had been waiting,--the
interval of false security, as it would seem, when all danger was
past, and no longer any apprehension existed. The sudden shock of the
newly-discovered proofs would then come with peculiar force; while,
mo matter how rapid any subsequent step might be, all charge of
precipitancy or undue haste had been disproved by the tardy nature of
the first four days' proceedings.

For the change of scene about to take place, an early edition of the
“Moniteur” prepared the public; and by daybreak the walls of Paris
were placarded with great announcements of the discoveries made by the
Government: how, by their untiring efforts, the whole plot, which was
to deluge France with blood and subvert the glorious institutions of
freedom they had acquired by the Revolution, had been laid open; new
and convincing evidence of the guilt of the _Chouans_ had turned up; and
a frightful picture of anarchy and social disorganization was
displayed,--all of which was to originate in an effort to restore the
Bourbons to the throne of France.

While, therefore, the galleries of the court were crowded to suffocation
at an early hour, and every avenue leading to the tribunal crammed with
people anxious to be present at this eventful crisis, the prisoners
took their places on the “bench of the accused,” totally unaware of
the reason of the excitement they witnessed, and strangely puzzled to
conceive what unknown circumstance had reinvested the proceedings with a
new interest.

As I took my place among the rest, I stared with surprise at the scene:
the strange contrast between the thousands there, whose strained eyes
and feverish faces betokened the highest degree of excitement; and that
little group on which every look was turned, calm and even cheerful.
There sat George Cadoudal in the midst of them, his hands clasped in
those at either side of him; his strongly-marked features perfectly
at rest, and his eyes bent with a steady stare on the bench where the
judges were seated. Moreau was not present, nor did I see some of the
_Chouans_ whom I remembered on the former day.

The usual formal proclamation of the court being made, silence was
called by the crier,--a useless precaution, as throughout that vast
assembly not a whisper was to be heard. A conversation of some minutes
took place between the Procureur and the counsel for the prisoners, in
which I recognized the voice of Monsieur Baillot, my own advocate; which
was interrupted by the President, desiring that the proceedings should
commence.

The Procureur-Général bowed and took his seat, while the President,
turning towards George, said:--

“George Cadoudal, you have hitherto persisted in a course of blank
denial regarding every circumstance of the conspiracy with which you
are charged. You have asserted your ignorance of persons and places with
which we are provided with proof to show you are well acquainted. You
have neither accounted for your presence in suspected situations,
nor satisfactorily shown what were the objects of your intimacy with
suspected individuals. The court now desires to ask you whether, at this
stage of the proceedings, you wish to offer more explicit revelations,
or explain any of the dubious events of your career.”

“I will answer any question you put to me,” replied George, sternly;
“but I have lived too long in another country not to have learned some
of its usages, and I feel no desire to become my own accuser. Let him
there” (he pointed to the Procureur-Général) “do his office; he is the
paid and salaried assailant of the innocent.”

“I call upon the court,” said the Procureur, rising, when he was
suddenly interrupted by the President, saying,--

“We will protect you, Monsieur le Procureur. And once again we would
admonish the accused, that insolence to the authorities of this court
is but a sorry plea in vindication of his innocence, and shall be no
recommendation to our mercy.”

“Your mercy!” said George, in a voice of scorn and sarcasm. “Who ever
heard of a tiger's benevolence or a wolf's charity? And even if you
wished it, he whose slaves you are--”

“I call upon you to be silent,” said an advocate, rising from a bench
directly behind him. “Another interruption of this kind, and I shall
abandon the defence.”

“What?” said George, turning quickly round and staring at him with a
look of withering contempt; “and have they bought you over too?”

“Call the first witness,” said the President; and an indistinct murmur
was heard, and a slight confusion seen to agitate the crowd, as the
gendarmes opened a path towards the witness bench. And then I saw two
men carrying something between them, which I soon perceived to be a man.
The legs, which were alone apparent, hung down listlessly like those of
a corpse; and one arm, which fell over the shoulder of the bearer, moved
to and fro, as they went, like the limb of a dead man. Every neck was
stretched from the galleries above, and along the benches beneath,
to catch a glimpse of the mysterious figure, which seemed like an
apparition from the grave come to give evidence. His face, too, was
concealed by a handkerchief; and as he was placed in a chair provided
for the purpose, the assistants stood at either side to support his
drooping figure.

“Let the witness be sworn,” said the President; and, with the aid of an
officer of the court, a thin white hand was held up, on which the
flesh seemed almost transparent from emaciation. A low, muttering sound
followed, and the President spoke again,--“Let the witness be uncovered.
George Cadoudal, advance!”

As the hardy _Chouan_ stepped forward, the handkerchief fell from the
witness's face, while his head slowly turned round towards the prisoner.
A cry, like the yell of a wounded animal, broke from the stout Breton,
as he bounded into the air and held up both his arms to their full
height.

“Toi, toi!” screamed he, in accents that seemed the very last of a heart
wrung to agony, while he leaned forward and fixed his eyes on him, till
the very orbs seemed bursting from their sockets. “Oui,” added he, in
a lower tone, but one which was felt in every corner of that crowded
assemblage--“oui, c'est lui!” Then clasping his trembling hands
together, as his knees bent beneath him, he turned his eyes upwards, and
said, “Le bon Dieu, that makes men's hearts and knows their thoughts,
deals with us as he will; and I must have sinned sorely towards him when
such punishment as this has fallen upon me. Oh, my brother! my child! my
own Bouvet de Lozier!”

[Illustration: The Witness 391]

“Bouvet de Lozier!” cried the other prisoners, with a shout wild as
madness itself, while every man sprang forward to look at him. But
already his head had fallen back over the chair, the limbs stretched out
rigidly, and the arm fell heavily down.

“He is dying!” “He is dead!” were the exclamations of the crowd, and a
general cry for a doctor was heard around. Several physicians were soon
at his side, and by the aid of restoratives he was gradually brought
back to animation; but cold and speechless he lay, unable to understand
anything, and was obliged to be conveyed back again to his bed.

It was some time before the excitement of this harrowing scene was over;
and when order at length was restored in the court, George Cadoudal was
seen seated, as at first, on the bench, while around him his faithful
followers were grouped. Like children round a beloved father, some
leaned on his neck, others clasped his knees; some covered his hands
with kisses, and called him by the most endearing names. But though he
moved his head from, side to side, and tried to smile upon them, a
cold vacancy was in his face; his lips were parted, and his eyes stared
wildly before him; his very hair stood out from his forehead, on which
the big drops of sweat were seen.

“Father; dear father, it is but one who is false; see, look how many of
your children are true to you! Think on us who are with you here, and
will go with you to death without shrinking.”

“He is but a child, too, father; and they have stolen away his reason
from him,” said another.

“Yes, they have brought him to this by suffering,” cried a third, as
with a clenched hand he menaced the bench, where sat the judges.

“Order in the court!” cried the President. But the command was
reiterated again and again before silence could be obtained; and when
again I could observe the proceedings, I saw the Procureur-Général
addressing the tribunal, to demand a postponement in consequence of
the illness of the last witness, whose testimony was pronounced
all-conclusive.

A discussion took place on the subject between the counsel for the
prisoners and the prosecution; and at length it was ruled that this
trial should not be proceeded with till the following morning.

“We are, however, prepared to go on with the other cases,” said the
Procureur, “if the court will permit.”

“Certainly,” said the President.

“In that case,” continued the Procureur, “we shall call on the accused
Thomas Burke, lieutenant of the huitieme hussars, now present.”

For some minutes nothing more could be heard, for the crowded galleries,
thronged with expectant hundreds, began now to empty. Mine was a name
without interest for any; and the thronged masses rose to depart, while
their over-excited minds found vent in words which, drowned all else. It
was in vain silence and order were proclaimed; the proceedings had lost
all interest, and with it all respect, and for full ten minutes the
uproar lasted. Meanwhile, M. Baillot, taking his place by my side,
produced some most voluminous papers, in which he soon became deeply
engaged. I turned one look throughout the now almost deserted seats, but
not one face there was known to me. The few who remained seemed to stay
rather from indolence than any other motive, as they lounged over the
vacant benches and yawned listlessly; and much as I dreaded the gaze of
that appalling multitude, I sickened at the miserable isolation of my
lot, and felt overwhelmed to think that for me there was not one who
should pity or regret my fall.

At last order was established in the court, and the Procureur opened
the proceeding by reciting the act of my accusation, in which all the
circumstances already mentioned by my advocate were dwelt and commented
on with the habitual force and exaggeration of bar oratory. The address
was short, however,--scarcely fifteen minutes long; and by the tone
of the speaker, and the manner of the judges, I guessed that my case
excited little or no interest to the prosecution, either from my own
humble and insignificant position, or the certainty they felt of my
conviction.

My advocate rose to demand a delay, even a short one, pleading most
energetically against the precipitancy of a proceeding in which
the indictment was but made known the day previous. The President
interrupted him roughly, and with an assurance that no circumstance
short of the necessity to produce some important evidence not then
forthcoming, would induce him to grant a postponement.

M. Baillot replied at once, “Such, sir, is our case; a witness, whose
evidence is of the highest moment, is not to be found; a day or two
might enable us to obtain his testimony. It is upon this we ground our
hope, our certainty, of an acquittal. The court will not, I am certain,
refuse its clemency in such an emergency as this.”

“Where is this same witness to be found? Is he in Paris? Is he in
France?”

“We hope in Paris, Monsieur le President.”

“And his name?”

“The Abbé d'Ervan.”

A strange murmur ran along the bench of judges at the words; and I could
see that some of them smiled in spite of their efforts to seem grave,
while the Procureur-Général did not scruple to laugh outright.

“I believe, sir,” said he, addressing the President, “that I can
accommodate my learned brother with this so-much desired testimony
perhaps more speedily, I will not say than he wishes, but than he
expects.”

“How is this?” said my advocate, in a whisper to me. “They have this
Abbé then. Has he turned against his party?”

“I know nothing of him,” said I, recklessly; “falsehood and treachery
seem so rife here, that it can well be as you say.”

“The Abbe d'Ervan!” cried a loud voice; and with the words the
well-known figure moved rapidly from the crowd and mounted the steps of
the platform.

“You are lost!” said Baillot, in a low, solemn voice; “it is Mehée de la
Touche himself!”

Had the words of my sentence rung in my ears I had not felt them more,
that name, by some secret spell, had such terror in it.

“You know the prisoner before you, sir?” said the President, turning
towards the Abbé.

Before he could reply, my advocate broke in:--

“Pardon me, sir; but previous to the examination of this respectable
witness, I would ask under what name he is to figure in this process?
Is he here the Abbé d'Ervan, the agreeable and gifted frequenter of the
Faubourg St. Germain?--is he the Chevalier Maupret, the companion and
associate of the house of Bourbon?--or is he the no less celebrated and
esteemed citizen Mehé e de la Touche, whose active exertions have been
of such value in these eventful times that we should think no recompense
sufficient for them had he not been paid by both parties? Yes, sir,”
 continued he, in an altered tone, “I repeat it: we are prepared to show
that this man is unworthy of all credit; that he whose testimony the
court now calls is a hired spy and bribed calumniator,--the instigator
to the treason he prosecutes, the designer of the schemes for which
other men's blood has paid the penalty. Is this abbé without, and
gendarme within, to be at large in the world, ensnaring the unsuspecting
youth of France by subtle and insidious doctrines disguised under the
semblance of after-dinner gayety? Are we to feel that on such evidence
as this, the fame, the honor, the life of every man is to rest?--he,
who earns his livelihood by treason, and whose wealth is gathered in the
bloody sawdust beneath the guillotine!”

“We shall not hear these observations longer,” said the President, with
an accent of severity. “You may comment on the evidence of the witness
hereafter, and, if you are able to do so, disprove it. His character is
under the protection of the court.”

“No, sir!” said the advocate, with energy; “no court, however high,--no
tribunal, beneath that of Heaven itself, whose decrees we dare not
question,--can throw a shield over a man like this. There are crimes
which stain the nation they occur in; which, happening in our age, make
men sorry for their generation, and wish they had lived in other times.”

“Once more, sir, I command you to desist!” interrupted the President.

“If I dare to dictate to the honorable court?” said the so-called Abbé,
in an accent of the most honeyed sweetness, and with a smile of the most
winning expression, “I would ask permission for the learned gentleman to
proceed. These well-arranged paragraphs, this indignation got by heart,
must have vent, since they 're paid for; and it would save the tribunal
the time which must be consumed in listening to them hereafter.”

“If,” said the advocate, “the coolness and indifference to blood which
the headsman exhibits, be a proof of guilt in the victim before him, I
could congratulate the prosecution on their witness. But,” cried he,
in an accent of wild excitement, “great Heavens! are we again fallen
on such times as to need atrocity like this? Is the terrible ordeal
of blood through which we have passed to be renewed once more? Is the
accusation to be hoarded, the calumnious evidence secreted, the charge
held back, till the scaffold is ready,--and then the indictment, the
slander, the sentence, and the death, to follow on one another like the
flash and the thunder? Is the very imputation of having heard from a
Bourbon to bear its prestige of sudden death?”

“Silence, sir!” cried the President, to whom the allusion to the Duc
d'Enghien was peculiarly offensive, and who saw in the looks of the
spectators with what force it told. “You know the prisoner?” said he,
turning towards D'Ervan.

“I have that honor, sir,” said he, with a bland smile.

“State to the court the place and the occasion of your first meeting
him.”

“If I remember correctly, it was in the Palais Royal, at Beauvilliers's.
There was a meeting of some of the _Chouan_ party arranged for that
evening, but from some accident only three or four were present. The
sous-lieutenant, however, was one.”

“Repeat, as far as your memory serves you, the conduct and conversation
of the prisoner during the evening in question.”

In reply, the Abbé, recapitulated every minute particular of the supper;
scarcely an observation the most trivial he did not recall, and apply,
by some infernal ingenuity, to the scheme of the conspiracy. Although
never, even in the slightest instance, falsifying any speech, he
tortured the few words I did say into such a semblance of criminality
that I started, as I heard the interpretation which now appeared so
naturally to attach to them. (During all this time my advocate never
interrupted him once, but occupied himself in writing as rapidly as he
could follow the evidence.) The chance expression which concluded the
evening,--the hope of meeting soon,--was artfully construed into an
arranged and recognized agreement that I had accepted companionship
amongst them, and formally joined their ranks.

From this he passed on to the second charge,--respecting the
conversation I had overheard at the Tuileries, and which I so unhappily
repeated to Beauvais. This the Abbé, dwelt upon with great minuteness,
as evidencing my being an accomplice; showing how I had exhibited great
zeal in the new cause I had embarked in, and affecting to mark how very
highly the service was rated by those in whose power lay the rewards of
such an achievement.

Then followed the account of my appointment at Versailles, in which I
heard, with a sinking heart, how thoroughly even there the toils were
spread around me. It appeared that the reason of the neglect I then
experienced was an order from the minister that I should not be noticed
in any way; that the object of my being placed there was to test my
fidelity, which already was suspected; that it was supposed such neglect
might naturally have the effect of throwing me more willingly into
the views of the conspirators, and, as I was watched in every minute
particular, of establishing my own guilt and leading to the detection of
others.

Then came a narrative of his visits to my quarters, in which the
omission of all mention of his name in my report was clearly shown as an
evidence of my conscious culpability. And, to my horror and confusion,
a new witness was produced,--the sentinel, Pierre Dulong, who mounted
guard at the gate of the château on the morning when I passed the Abbé,
through the park.

With an accuracy beyond my belief, he repeated all out conversations,
making the dubious hints and dark suggestions which he himself threw out
as much mine as his own; and having at length given a full picture of
my treacherous conduct, he introduced my intimacy with Beauvais as the
crowning circumstance of my guilt.

“I shall pause here,” said he, with a cool malignity, but ill concealed
beneath a look of affected sorrow--“I shall pause here, and, with the
permission of the court, allow the accused to make, if he will, a full
confession of his criminality; or, if he refuse this, I shall proceed
to the disclosure of other circumstances, by which it will be seen that
these dark designs met favor and countenance in higher quarters; and
among those, too, whose sex, if nothing else, should have removed them
beyond the contamination of confederacy with assassination.”

“The court,” said the President, sternly, “will enter into no compromise
of this kind. You are here to give such evidence as you possess, fully,
frankly, and without reserve; nor can we permit you to hold out any
promises to the prisoner that his confession of guilt can afford a
screen to the culpability of others.”

“I demand,” cried the Procureur-Général, “a full disclosure from the
witness of everything he knows concerning this conspiracy.”

“In that case I shall speak,” said the Abbé.

At this instant a noise was heard in the hall without; a half murmur ran
through the court; and suddenly the heavy curtain was drawn aside, and a
loud voice called out,--

“In the name of the Republic, one and indivisible, an order of council.”

The messenger, splashed and covered with mud, advanced through the
court, and delivered a packet into the hands of the President, who,
having broken the large seals, proceeded leisurely to read it over.

At the same moment I felt my arm gently touched, and a small pencil note
was slipped into my hand. It ran thus:--

     Dear Sir,--Burke is safe. An order for his transmission
     before a military tribunal has just been signed by the First
     Consul. Stop all the evidence at once, as he is no longer
     before the court

     The court-martial will be but a formality, and in a few days
     he will be at liberty.

     Yours, D'AUVERGNE, Lieut,-Général.

Before I could recover from the shock of such glad tidings, the
President rose, and said,--

“In the matter of the accused Burke, this court has no longer
cognizance, as he is summoned before the tribunal of the army. Let him
withdraw, and call on the next case,--Auguste Leconisset.”

D'Ervan stooped down and whispered a few words to the Procureur-Général,
who immediately demanded to peruse the order of council. To this my
advocate at once objected, and a short and animated discussion on the
legal question followed. The President, however, ruled in favor of my
defender; and at the same instant a corporal's guard appeared, into
whose charge I was formally handed over, and marched from the court.

Such was the excited state of my mind, in such a confused whirl were
all my faculties, that I knew nothing of what was passing around me; and
save that I was ordered to mount into a carriage, and driven along at
a rapid pace, I remembered no more. At length we reached the quay
Voltaire, and entered the large square of the barrack. The tears burst
out and ran down my cheeks, as I looked once more on the emblems of the
career I loved. We stopped at the door of a large stone building,
where two sentries were posted; and the moment after I found myself
the occupant of a small barrack-room, in which, though under arrest, no
feature of harsh confinement appeared, and from whose windows I could
survey the movement of the troops in the court, and hear the sounds
which for so many a day had been the most welcome to my existence.



CHAPTER XXXVIII. THE CUIRASSIER.

Although my arrest was continued with all its strictness, I never
heard one word of my transmission before the military tribunal; and
a fortnight elapsed, during which I passed through every stage of
expectancy, doubt, and at last indifference, no tidings having ever
reached me as to what fortune lay in store for me.

The gruff old invalid that carried my daily rations seemed but
ill-disposed to afford me any information, even as to the common events
without, and seldom made any other reply to my questioning than an
erect position as if on parade, a military salute, and “Connais pas,
mon lieutenant,”--a phrase which I actually began to abhor from its
repetition. Still, his daily visits showed I was not utterly
forgotten; while from my window I had a view of all that went on in the
barrack-yard. There--for I had neither books nor newspapers--I spent my
day watching the evolutions of the soldiers: the parade at daybreak,
the relieving guards, the drill, the exercise, the very labors of the
barrack-square,--all had their interest for me; and at length I began to
know the very faces of the soldiers, and could recognize the bronzed and
weather-beaten features of the veterans of the republican armies.

It was a cuirassier regiment, and one that had seen much service; most
of the _sous-officiers_ and many of the men were decorated, and their
helmets bore the haughty device of “Dix centre un!” in memory of some
battle against the Austrians, where they repulsed and overthrew a force
of ten times their own number.

At first their heavy equipments and huge unwieldy horses seemed strange
and uncouth to my eyes, accustomed to the more elegant and trim style of
a hussar corps; but gradually I fancied there was something almost more
soldierlike about them. Their dark faces harmonized too with the great
black cuirass; and the large massive boot mounting to the middle of the
thigh, the long horsehaired helmet, the straight sword, and peculiar,
heavy, plodding step, reminded me of what I used to read of the Roman
centurion; while the horses, covered with weighty and massive trappings,
moved with a warlike bearing and a tramp as stately as their riders.

When evening came, and set the soldiers free from duty, I used to watch
them for hours long, as they sat in little groups and knots about the
barrack-yard, smoking and chatting,--occasionally singing too. Even
then, however, their distinctive character was preserved: unlike the
noisy, boisterous merriment of the hussar, the staid cuirassier deemed
such levity unbecoming the dignity of his arm of the service, and there
reigned a half-solemn feature over all their intercourse, which struck
me forcibly. I knew not then--as I have learned full well since--how
every department of the French army had its distinctive characteristic,
and that Napoleon studied and even encouraged the growth of these
singular manners to a great extent; doubtless, too, feeling a pride
in his own thorough intimacy with their most minute traits, and that
facility with which, by a single word, he could address himself to
the cherished feeling of a particular corps. And the tact by which
the monarch wins over and fascinates the nobles of his court was here
exercised in the great world of a camp,--and with far more success too;
a phrase, a name, some well-known battle, the date of a victory, would
fall from his lips as he rode along the line, and be caught up with
enthusiasm by thousands, who felt in the one word a recognition of
past services. “Thou”--he always addressed the soldiers in the second
person--“thou wert with me at Cairo,” “I remember thee at Arcole,” were
enough to reward wounds, suffering, mutilation itself; and he to whom
such was addressed became an object of veneration among his fellows.

Certain corps preserved more studiously than others the memories of
past achievements,--the heirlooms of their glory; and to these Bonaparte
always spoke with a feel ing of friendship most captivating to the
soldier's heart, and from them he selected the various regiments that
composed his “Guard.” The cuirassiers belonged to this proud force; and
even an unmilitary eye could mark, in their haughty bearing and assured
look, that they were a favored corps.

Among those with whose faces I had now grown familiar there was one whom
I regarded with unusual interest; he seemed to me the very type of his
class. He was a man of gigantic size, towering by half a head above the
very tallest of his fellows, while his enormous breadth of chest and
shoulder actually seemed to detract from his great height. The lower
part of his face was entirely concealed by a beard of bright red hair
that fell in a huge mass over the breast of his cuirass, and seemed by
its trim and fashion to be an object of no common pride to the wearer;
his nose was marked by a sabre-cut that extended across one entire
cheek, leaving a deep blue welt in its track. But saving these traits,
wild and savage enough, the countenance was singularly mild and
pleasing. He had large and liquid blue eyes, soft and lustrous as any
girl's,--the lashes, too, were long and falling; and his forehead, which
was high and open, was white as snow. I was not long in remarking
the strange influence this man seemed to possess over the rest,--an
ascendency not in any way attributable to the mark on his sleeve which
proclaimed him a corporal. It seemed as though his slightest word, his
least gesture, was attended to; and though evidently taciturn and quiet,
when he spoke I could detect in his manner an air of promptitude and
command that marked him as one born to be above his fellows. If he
seemed such in the idle hours, on parade he was the beau ideal of
a cuirassier. His great warhorse, seemingly small for the immense
proportions of the heavy rider, bounded with each movement of his wrist,
as if instinct with the horseman's wishes.

I waited with some impatience for the invalid's arrival, to ask who this
remarkable soldier was, certain that I should hear of no common man. He
came soon after, and as I pointed out the object of my curiosity, the
old fellow drew himself up with pride, and while a grim effort at a
smile crossed his features, replied,--

“That 's Pioche,--le gros Pioche!”

“Pioche!” said I, repeating the name aloud, and endeavoring to remember
why it seemed well known to me.

“Yes,--Pioche,” rejoined he, gruffly. “If monsieur had ever been in
Egypt, the name would scarcely sound so strange in his ears.” And with
this sarcasm he hobbled from the room and closed the door, while I could
hear him grumbling along the entire corridor, in evident anger at the
ignorance that did not know “Pioche!”

Twenty times did I repeat the name aloud, before it flashed across me as
the same Madame Lefebvre mentioned at the soiree in the Palace. It
was Pioche who shouldered the brass fieldpiece, and passed before the
general on parade. The gigantic size, the powerful strength, the strange
name,--all could belong to no other; and I felt as though at once I had
found an old acquaintance in the great cuirassier of the Guard.

If the prisoner in his lonely cell has few incidents to charm his
solitary hours, in return he is enabled by some happy gift to make these
the sources of many thoughts. The gleam of light that falls upon the
floor, broken by the iron gratings of his window, comes laden with
storied fancies of other lands,--of far distant countries where men
are dwelling in their native mountains free and happy. Forgetful of his
prison, the captive wanders in his fancy through valleys he has seen
in boyhood, and with friends to be met no more. He turns gladly to the
past, of whose pleasures no adverse fortune can deprive him, and lives
over again the happy hours of his youth; and thinks, with a melancholy
not devoid of its own pleasure, of what they would feel who loved him
could they but see him now. He pictures their sympathy and their sorrow,
and his heart feels lighter, though his eyes drop tears.

In this way the great cuirassier became an object for my thoughts by day
and my dreams by night. I fancied a hundred stories of which he was the
hero; and these imaginings served to while away many a tedious hour,
and gave me an interest in watching the little spot of earth that was
visible from my barred window.

It was in one of these reveries I sat one evening, when I heard the
sounds of feet approaching along the corridor that led to my room;
the clank of a sabre and the jingle of spurs sounded not like my gruff
visitor. My door was opened before I had time for much conjecture, and
Greneral d'Auvergne stood before me.

“Ah! mon lieutenant,” cried he, gayly, “you have been thinking
very hardly of me since we met last, I 'm sure; charging me with
forgetfulness, and accusing me of great neglect.”

“Pardon me, General,” said I, hurriedly; “your former kindness, for
which I never can be grateful enough, has been always before my mind. I
have not yet forgotten that you saved my life; more still,--you rescued
my name from dishonor.”

“Well, well; that's all past and gone now. Your reputation stands clear
at last. De Beauvais has surrendered himself to the authorities at
Rouen, and made a full confession of everything, exculpating you
completely in every particular; save the indiscretion of your
intercourse with Mehée de la Touche, or, as you know him better, the
Abbé, d'Ervan.”

“And poor De Beauvais, what is to become of him?” said I, eagerly.

“Have no fears on his account,” said he, with something like confusion
in his manner. “She (that is, Madame Bonaparte) has kindly interested
herself in his behalf, and he is to sail for Guadaloupe in a few
days,--his own proposition and wish.”

“And does General Bonaparte know now that I was guiltless?” cried I,
with enthusiasm.

“My dear young man,” said he, with a bland smile, “I very much fear that
the general has little time at this moment to give the matter much
of his attention. Great events have happened,--are happening while we
speak. War is threatening on the side of Austria. Yes, it is true: the
camp of Boulogne has received orders to break up; troops are once more
on their march to the Rhine; all France is arming.”

“Oh, when shall I be free?”

“You are free!” cried he, clapping me gayly on the shoulder. “An
amnesty against all untried prisoners for state of offences has been
proclaimed. At such a moment of national joy--”

“What do you mean?”

“What! and have I not told you my great news? The Senate have presented
to Bonaparte an address, praying his acceptance of the throne of France;
or, in their very words, to make his authority eternal.”

“And he?” said I, breathless with impatience to know the result.

“He,” continued the general, “has replied as became him, desiring them
to state clearly their views,--by what steps they propose to consolidate
the acquired liberties of the nation. And while avowing that no higher
honor or dignity can await him than such as he has already received at
the hands of the people, 'Yet,' added he, 'when the hour arrives that
I can see such to be the will of France,--when one voice proclaims it
from Alsace to the Ocean, from Lisle to the Pyrenees,--then shall I be
ready to accept the throne of France.'”

The general entered minutely into all the circumstances of the great
political change, and detailed the effect which the late conspiracy had
had on the minds of the people, and with what terror they contemplated
the social disorders that must accrue from the death of their great
ruler; how nothing short of a Government based on a Monarchy, with the
right of succession established, could withstand such a terrific crisis.
As he spoke, the words I had heard in the Temple crossed my mind, and I
remembered that such was the anticipation of the prisoners, as they said
among themselves, “When the guillotine has done its work, they 'll patch
up the timbers into a throne.”

“And George Cadoudal, and the others?” said I.

“They are no more. Betrayed by their own party, they met death like
brave men, and as worthy of a better cause. But let us not turn to so
sad a theme. The order for your liberation will be here to-morrow; and
as I am appointed to a brigade on active service, I have come to offer
you the post of aide-de-camp.”

I could not speak; my heart was too full for words. I knew how great the
risk of showing any favor to one who stood in such a position as I did;
and I could but look my gratitude, while the tears ran down my cheeks.

“Well,” cried he, as he took my hand in his, “so much is settled. Now to
another point, and one in which my frankness must cause you no offence.
You are not rich,--neither am I; but Bonaparte always gives us
opportunities to gather our epaulettes,--ay, and find the bullion to
make them, too. Meanwhile, you may want money--”

“No, Général,” cried I, eagerly; “here are three thousand francs some
kind friend sent me. I know not whence they came; and even if I wanted,
did not dare to spend them. But now--”

The old man paused, and appeared confused, while he leaned his finger on
his forehead, and seemed endeavoring to recall some passing thought.

“Did they come from you, sir?” said I, timidly.

“No, not from me,” repeated he, slowly. “You say you never found out the
donor?”

“Never,” said I, while a sense of shame prevented my adding what rose to
my mind,--Could they not be from Mademoiselle de Meudon?

“Well, well,” said he, at length, “be it so. And now till to-morrow: I
shall be here at noon, and bring the minister's order with me. And so,
good-by.”

“Good-by,” said I, as I stood overcome with happiness. “Let what will
come of it, this is a moment worth living for.”



CHAPTER XXXIX. A MORNING AT THE TUILLERIES

True to his appointment, the general appeared the following day as
the hour of noon was striking. He brought the official papers from
the Minister of War, as well as the formal letter naming me his
aide-de-camp. The documents were all perfectly regular; and being read
over by the military commission, I was sent for, when my sword was
restored to me by the colonel of the regiment in garrison, and I was
free once more.

“You have received a severe lesson, Burke,” said the general, as he took
my arm to lead me towards his carriage, “and all owing to the rashness
with which, in times of difficulty and danger, you permitted yourself to
form intimacies with men utterly unknown to you. There are epochs when
weakness is the worst of evils. You are very young, to be sure, and I
trust the experience you have acquired here will serve for a lifetime.”

“Still, sir, in all this sad business, my faith never wavered; my
attachment to the Consul was unshaken.”

“Had it been otherwise, do you think you had been here now?” said he,
dryly. “Were not the evidences of your fidelity set off against
your folly, what chance of escape remained for you? No, no; she who
befriended you so steadily throughout this tangled scheme for your ruin,
had never advocated your cause were there reason to suppose you were
involved in the conspiracy against her husband's life.”

“Who do you mean?” said I. “I scarcely understand.”

“The Consulesse, of course. But for Madame Bonaparte you were lost; even
since I saw you last, I have learned how deeply interested she became in
your fortunes. The letter you received in the Temple came from her, and
the enclosure also. And now, with your leave, we can do nothing better
than pay our respects to her, and make our acknowledgments for such
kindness. She receives at this hour, and will, I know, take your visit
in good part.”

While I professed my readiness to comply with the suggestion, we drove
into the court of the Tuileries. It was so early that, except the
officers of the Consul's staff and some of those on guard, we were the
only persons visible.

“We are the first arrivals,” said the general, as we drew up at the door
of the pavilion. “I am not sorry for it; we shall have our audience over
before the crowd assembles.”

Giving our names to the usher, we mounted the stairs, and passed on
from room to room until we came to a large salon, in which seats were
formally arranged in a semicircle, an armchair somewhat higher than the
rest occupying the centre. Several full-length portraits of the generals
of the Revolutionary armies adorned the walls, and a striking likeness
of the Consul himself, on horseback, held the principal place. I had
but time to see thus much, when the two sides of the folding-doors were
flung open, and Madame Bonaparte, followed by Mademoiselle de Meudon,
entered. Scarcely were the doors closed, when she said, smiling,--

“I heard of your arrival. General, and guessed its purport, so came at
once. Monsieur Burke, I am happy to see you at liberty once more.”

“That I owe it to you, Madame, makes it doubly dear to me,” said I,
faltering.

“You must not overrate my exertions on your behalf,” replied the
Consulesse, in a hurried voice. “There was an amende due to you for the
treatment you met with at Versailles,--all Savary's fault; and now I am
sincerely sorry I ever suffered myself to become a party to his schemes.
Indeed, I never guessed them, or I should not. General d'Auvergne has
made you his aide-decamp, he tells me.”

“Yes, Madame; my good fortune has showered favors on me most suddenly.
Your kindness has been an augury of success in everything.”

She smiled, as if pleased, and then said, “I have a piece of advice
to give you, and hope you 'll profit by it.” Then, turning towards the
general, who all this time was deeply engaged in talking to Mademoiselle
de Meudon, she added, “Don't you think. General, that it were as well
Monsieur Burke should not be in the way of meeting the Consul for some
short time to come. Is there any garrison duty, or any service away from
Paris, where for a week or so he could remain?”

“I have thought of that, Madame,” said the général. “Two of the
regiments in my brigade are to march tomorrow for the east of France,
and I intend my young friend to proceed to Strasburg at once.”

“This is not meant for banishment,” said she to me, with a look of much
sweetness; “but Bonaparte will now and then say a severe thing, likely
to dwell in the mind of him to whom it was addressed long after the
sentiment which dictated it has departed. A little time will efface all
memory of this sad affair, and then we shall be happy to see you here
again.”

“Or events may happen soon, Madame, by which he may make his own peace
with General Bonaparte.”

“True, very true,” said she, gravely. “And as to that. General, what
advices are there from Vienna?”

She drew the general aside into one of the windows, leaving me alone
with Mademoiselle de Meudon. But a minute before, and I had given the
world for such an opportunity, and now I could not speak a syllable.
She, too, seemed equally confused, and bent over a large vase of
moss-roses, as if totally occupied by their arrangement. I drew nearer,
and endeavored to address her; but the words would not come, while a
hundred gushing thoughts pressed on me, and my heart beat loud enough
for me to hear it. At last I saw her lips move, and thought I heard my
name. I bent down my head lower; it was her voice, but so low as to be
scarcely audible.

“I cannot thank you, sir, as I could wish,” said she, “for the service
you rendered me, at the risk of your own life and honor. And though I
knew not the dangers you were to incur by my request, I asked it as
of the only one I knew who would brave such danger at my asking.” She
paused for a second, then continued: “The friend of Charles could not
but be the friend of Marie de Meudon. There is now another favor I would
beg at your hands,” said she, while a livid paleness overspread her
features.

“Oh, name it!” said I, passionately. “Say, how can I serve you?”

“It is this,” said she, with an accent whose solemnity sank into the
very recesses of my heart. “We have ever been an unlucky race; De Meudon
is but a name for misfortune not only have we met little else in our
own lives, but all who have befriended us have paid the penalty of their
friendship. My dear brother knew this well; and I--.” She paused, and
then, though her lips moved, the words that followed were inaudible.
“There is but one on earth,” continued she, as her eyes, brimful of
tears, were turned towards Madame Bonaparte, who still stood talking
in the window, “over whose fortunes my affection has thrown no blight.
Heaven grant it may be ever so!” Then suddenly, as if remembering
herself, she added: “What I would ask is this,--that we should meet no
more. Nay, nay; look not so harshly at me. If I, alone in the world, ask
to be deprived of his friendship who loved my brother so--”

“Oh! if you be alone in the world, feel for one like me, who has not
even a country he can call his own. Take not the one hope from my heart,
I ask you. Leave me the thought that there is one, but one, in all this
land, to whom my name, if ever mentioned with praise, can bring one
moment's pleasure,--who can say 'I knew him.' Do not forget that
Charles, with his dying breath, said you would be my sister.”

The door of the _salon_ opened suddenly, and a name was announced, but
in my confusion, I heard not what. Madame Bonaparte, however, advanced
towards the new arrival with an air of welcome, as she said,--

“We were just wishing for you, general. Pray tell us all the news of
Paris.”

The person thus addressed was a very tall and singularly handsome man,
whose dark eyes, and dark whiskers meeting in the middle of his chin,
gave him the appearance of an Italian. He was dressed in a hussar
uniform, whose gorgeous braiding of gold was heightened in effect by a
blaze of orders and stars that covered the entire breast; the scarlet
pantaloons, tight to the leg, displayed to advantage the perfect
symmetry of his form; while his boots of yellow morocco, bound and
tasselled with gold, seemed the very coquetry of military costume. A
sabre, the hilt actually covered with precious stones, clanked at his
side, and the aigrette of his plumed hat was a large diamond. There was
something almost theatrical in the manner of his approach, as with a
stately step and a deep bow he took Madame Bonaparte's hand and kissed
it; a ceremony he repeated to Mademoiselle de Meudon, adding, as he did
so,--

“And my fair rose de Provence, more beautiful than ever!--how is she?”

“What flattery is he whispering, Marie?” said the Consulesse, laughing.
“Don't you know, Général, that I insist on all the compliments here
being paid to myself. What do you think of my robe? Your judgment is
said to be perfect.”

“Charming, absolutely charming!” said he, in an attitude of affected
admiration. “It is only such taste as yours could have devised anything
so beautiful. Yet the roses,--I half think I should have preferred them
white.”

“You can scarcely imagine that vain fellow with the long ringlets the
boldest soldier of the French army,” said the general, in a low whisper,
as he drew me to one side.

“Indeed! And who is he, then?”

“You a hussar, and not know him! Why, Murat, to be sure.”

“So, then, Madame, all my news of Monsieur Talleyrand's ball, it seems,
is stale already. You 've heard that the russian and Austrian ministers
both sent apologies?”

“Oh dear!” said she, sighing; “have I not heard it a thousand times, and
every reason for it canvassed, until I wished both of their excellencies
at--at Madame Lefebvre's dinner-party?”

“That was perfect,” cried Murat, aloud; “a regular bivouac in a salon.
You'd think that the silver dishes and the gilt candelabras had just
been captured from the enemy, and that the cuisine was made by beat of
drum.”

“The general is an honest man and a brave officer,” said D'Auvergne,
somewhat nettled at the tone Murat spoke in.

“No small boast either,” replied the other, shrugging his shoulders
carelessly, “in the times and the land we live in.”

“And what of Cambacèrés's soiree,--how did it go off?” interposed Madame
Bonaparte, anxious to relieve the awkward pause that followed.

“Like everything in his hotel,--sombre, stately, and stupid; the company
all dull, who would be agreeable everywhere else; the tone of the
reception labored and affected; and every one dying to get away to
Fouché's,--it was his second night for receiving.”

“Was that pleasanter, then?”

“A hundred times. There are no parties like his: one meets everybody;
it is a kind of neutral territory for the Faubourg and the Jacobin, the
partisan of our people and the followers of Heaven knows who. Fouché
slips about, whispering the same anecdote in confidence to every one,
and binding each to secrecy. Then, as every one comes there to spy his
neighbor, the host has an excellent opportunity of pumping all in turn;
and while they all persist in telling him nothing but lies, they forget
that with him no readier road could lead to the detection of truth.”

“The Consul!” said a servant, aloud, as the door opened and closed with
a crash; and Bonaparte, dressed in the uniform of the Chasseurs of the
Guard, and covered with dust, entered.

“Was Decrés here?” And then, without waiting for a reply, continued:
“It is settled, all finally arranged; I told you, Madame, the 'pear was
ripe.' I start to-morrow for Boulogne; you, Murat, must accompany
me; D'Auvergne, your division will march the day after. Who is this
gentleman?”

This latter question, in all its abruptness, was addressed to me, while
a dark and ominous frown settled on his features.

“My aide-de-camp, sir,” said the old general, hastily, hoping thus to
escape further inquiry.

“Your name, sir?” said the Consul, harshly, as he fixed his piercing
eyes upon me.

“Burke, sir; sous-lieutenant--”

“Of the Eighth Hussars,” continued he. “I know the rest, sir. Every
conspiracy is made up of knaves and fools; you figured in the
latter capacity. Mark me, sir, your name is yet to make; the time
is approaching when you may have the opportunity. Still, General d'
Auvergne, it is not in the ranks of a _Chouan_ plot I should have gone
to select my staff.”

“Pardon me, sir; but this young man's devotion to you--”

“Is on record. General; I have seen it in Mehée de la Touche's own
writing,” added Bonaparte, with a sneer. “Give me the fidelity, sir,
that has no tarnish,--like your own, D'Auvergne. Go, sir,” said he,
turning to me, while he waved his hand towards the door; “it will
need all your bravery and all your heroism to make me acquit General
d'Auvergne of an act of folly.”

[Illustration:  Napoleon sends Burke from the room]

I hung my head in shame, and with a low reverence and a tottering step
moved from the room and closed the door behind me.

I had just reached the street when the general overtook me.

“Come, come, Burke,” said he; “you must not mind this. I heard Lannes
receive a heavier reproof because he only carried away three guns of an
Austrian battery when there were four in all.”

“Bonaparte never forgets, sir,” muttered I, between my teeth, as the
well-remembered phrase crossed my mind.

“Then there 's but one thing to do, my boy; give him a pleasanter
souvenir to look back upon. Besides,” added he, in a lower tone, “the
general is ever harsh at the moment of victory; and such is the
present. In a few days more, France will have an emperor; the Senate has
declared, and the army wait but for the signal to salute their monarch.
And now for your own duties. Make your arrangements to start to-night by
post for Mayence; I shall join you there in about ten days. You are, on
your arrival, to report yourself to the general in command, and receive
your instructions from him. A great movement towards the Rhine is
in contemplation; but, of course, everything awaits the progress of
political changes in Paris.”

Thus conversing, we reached the corner of the Rue de Rohan, where the
general's quarters were.

“You'll be here then punctually at eight to-night,” said he; and we
parted.

I walked on for some time without knowing which way I went, the strange
conflict of my mind so completely absorbed me,--hope and fear, pride,
shame, and sorrow, alternately swaying me with their impulses. I noticed
not the gay and splendid streets through which I passed, nor the merry
groups which poured along. At length I remembered that but a few hours
remained for me to make some purchases necessary for my journey. My new
uniform as aide-de-camp, too, was yet to be ordered; and by some
strange hazard I was exactly at the corner of the Rue de Richelieu on the
Boulevard, at the very shop of Monsieur Grillac where some months before
began the singular current of ill luck that had followed me ever since.
A half shudder of fear passed across me for a second as I thought of all
the dangers I had gone through; and the next moment I felt ashamed of
my cowardice, and pushing the glass door before me, walked in. I looked
about me for the well-known face of the proprietor, but he was nowhere
to be seen. A lean and wasted little old man, hung round with tapes and
measures, was the only person there. Saluting me with a most respectful
bow, he asked my orders.

“I thought this was Crillac's,” said I, hesitatingly.

A shrug of the shoulders and a strange expression of the eyebrows was
the only reply.

“I remember he lived here some eight or ten months ago,” said I
again, curious to find out the meaning of the man's ignorance of his
predecessor.

“Monsieur has been away from Paris for some time then?” was the cautious
question of the little man, as he peered curiously at me.

“Yes; I have been away,” said I, after a pause.

“Monsieur knew Criliac probably when he was here?”

“I never saw him but once,” said I.

“Ha!” cried he, after a long silence. “Then you probably never heard
of the _Chouan_ conspiracy to murder the Chief Consul and overthrow the
Government, nor of their trial at the Palais de Justice?”

I nodded slightly, and he went on.

“Monsieur Crillac's evidence was of great value in the proceeding: he
knew Jules de Polignac and Charles de la Riviere well; and but for him,
San Victor would have escaped.”

“And what has become of him since?”

“He is gone back to the South; he has been promoted.”

“Promoted! what do you mean?”

“_Parbleu!_ it is easy enough to understand. He was made chef de bureau
in the department of--”

“What! was he not a tailor then?”

“A tailor! No,” said the little man, laughing heartily; “he was
a mouchard, a police spy, who knew all the Royalist party well at
Bordeaux; and Fouche brought him up here to Paris, and established him
in this house. Ah, mon Dieu!” said he, sighing, “he had a better and a
pleasanter occupation than cutting out pantaloons.”

Without heeding the reiterated professions of the little tailor of his
desire for my patronage, I strolled out again, lost in reflection, and
sick to the heart of a system based on such duplicity and deception.

At last in Mayence! What a change of life was this to me! A large
fortress garrisoned by twelve thousand men, principally artillery,
awaited here the orders of the Consul; but whither the destination
before them, or what the hour when the word to march was to summon them,
none could tell. Meanwhile the activity of the troops was studiously
kept up; battering trains of field artillery were exercised day after
day; the men were practised in all the movements of the field; while
the foundries were unceasingly occupied in casting guns and the furnaces
rolled forth their myriads of shell and shot. Staff-officers came and
went; expresses arrived from Paris; and orderlies, travel-stained and
tired, galloped in from the other fortified places near; but still no
whisper came to say where the great game of war was to open, for what
quarter of the globe the terrible carnage was destined. From daylight
till dark no moment of our time was unoccupied; reports innumerable were
to be furnished on every possible subject; and frequently it was far in
the night ere I returned to rest.

To others this unbroken monotony may have been wearisome and
uninteresting; to me each incident bore upon the great cause I gloried
in,--the dull rumble of the caissons, the heavy clattering of the brass
guns, were music to my ear, and I never wearied of the din and clamor
that spoke of preparation. Such was indeed the preoccupation of my
thoughts that I scarcely marked the course of events which were even
then passing, or the mighty changes that already moved across the
destinies of France. To my eyes the conqueror of Lodi needed no title;
what sceptre could equal his own sword? France might desire in her pride
to unite her destinies with such a name as his; but he, the general
of Italy and Egypt, could not be exalted by any dignity. Such were my
boyish fancies; and as I indulged them, again there grew up the hope
within me that a brighter day was yet to beam on my own fortunes, when
I should do that which even in his eyes might seem worthy. His very
reproaches stirred my courage and nerved my heart. There was a combat,
there was a battlefield, before me, in which my whole fame and honor
lay; and could I but succeed in making him confess that he had wronged
me, what pride was in the thought? “Yes,” said I, again and again, “a
devotion to him such as I can offer must have success: one who, like me,
has neither home nor friends nor country to share his heart, must have
room in it for one passion; and that shall be glory. She whom alone I
could have loved,--I dared not confess I did love her,--never could be
mine. Life must have its object; and what so noble as that before me?”
 My very dreams caught up the infatuation of my waking thoughts,
and images of battle, deadly contests, and terrific skirmishes were
constantly passing before me; and I actually went my daily rounds
of duty buried in these thoughts, and lost to everything save what
ministered to my excited imagination.

We who lived far away on the distant frontier could but collect from the
journals the state of excitement and enthusiasm into which every class
of the capital was thrown by Napoleon's elevation to the Monarchy. Never
perhaps in any country did the current of popular favor run in a stream
so united. The army hailed him as their brother of the sword, and felt
the proud distinction that the chief of the Empire was chosen from their
ranks. The civilian saw the restoration of Monarchy as the pledge
of that security which alone was wanting to consolidate national
prosperity. The clergy, however they may have distrusted his sincerity,
could not but acknowledge that to his influence was owing the return of
the ancient faith; and, save the Vendeans, broken and discomfited, and
the scattered remnants of the Jacobin party, discouraged by the fate of
Moreau, none raised a voice against him. A few of the old Republicans,
among whom was Camot, did, it is true, proclaim their dissent; but so
moderately, and with so little of partisan spirit, as to call forth a
eulogium on their honorable conduct from Napoleon himself.

The mighty change, which was to undo all the long and arduous struggles
for liberty which took years in their accomplishments, was effected
in one burst of national enthusiasm. Surrounded by nations on whose
friendship they dared not reckon,--at war with their most powerful
enemy, England,--France saw herself dependent on the genius of one great
man; and beheld, too, the formidable conspiracy for his assassination,
coupled with the schemes against her own independence. He became thus
indissolubly linked with her fortunes; self-interest and gratitude
pointed both in the same direction to secure his services; and the
Imperial Crowa was indeed less the reward of the past than the price
of the future. Even they who loved him least, felt that in his guidance
there was safety, and that without him the prospect was dark and dreary
and threatening.

Another element which greatly contributed to the same effect, was the
social ruin caused by the Revolution; the destruction of all commerce,
the forfeiture of property, had thrown every class into the service of
the Government. Men gladly advocated a change by which the ancient
forms of a Monarchy might be restored; and with them the long train of
patronage and appointments, their inevitable attendants. Even the old
families of the kingdom hailed the return of an order of things which
might include them in the favors of the Crown; and the question now was,
what rank or class should be foremost in tendering their allegiance to
the new sovereign. We should hesitate ere we condemn the sudden impulse
by which many were driven at this period. Confiscation and exile had
done much to break the spirit of even the hardiest; and the very return
to the institutions in which all their ancient prejudices were involved
seemed a pledge against the tyranny of the mass.

As for Napoleon himself, each step in his proud career seemed to evoke
the spirit necessary to direct it; the resources of his mighty intellect
appeared, with every new drain on them, only the more inexhaustible.
Animated through his whole life by the one great principle,--the
aggrandizement of France,--his vast intelligence gathering strength with
his own increase of power, enabled him to cultivate every element of
national greatness, and mould their energies to his will; till at length
the nation seemed but one vast body, of which he was the heart, the
impulse, that sent the life-blood bounding through all its arteries, and
with whose beating pulses every, even the most remote portion, throbbed
in unison.

The same day that established the Empire, declared the rank and dignity
accorded to each member of the royal family, with the titles to be borne
by the ministers and other high officers of the Crown. The next step
was the creation of a new order of nobility,--one which, without
ancient lineage or vast possessions, could still command the respect
and admiration of all,--the marshals of France. The names of Berthier,
Murat, Augereau, Massena, Bernadotte, Ney, Soult, Lannes, Mortier,
Davoust, Bessieres, were enough to throw a blaze of lustre on the
order. And had it not been for the omission of Macdonald's name in this
glorious list, public enthusiasm had been complete; but then he was the
friend of Moreau, and Bonaparte “did not forgive.”

The restoration of the old titles so long in abeyance, the return to
the pomp and state of Monarchy, seemed like a national fête, and Paris
became the scene of a splendid festivity and a magnificence unknown
for many years past. It was necessary for the new Court to make its
impression on the world; and the endeavor was to eclipse, by luxury and
splendor, the grandeur which in the days of the Bourbons was an heirloom
of royalty. To this end functionaries and officers of the Palace were
appointed in myriads; brilliant and costly uniforms adopted; courtly
titles and ceremonial observances increased without end; and etiquette,
carried to a pitch of strictness which no former reign had ever
exhibited, now regulated every department of the state.

While, however, nothing was too minute or too trivial, provided that it
bore, even in the remotest way, on the re-establishment of that throne
he had so long and so ardently desired, Napoleon's great mind was
eagerly bent upon the necessity of giving to the Empire one of those
astounding evidences of his genius which marked him as above all other
men. He wished to show to France that the Crown had devolved upon the
rightful successor to Charlemagne, and to prove to the army that the
purple mantle of royalty could not conceal the spur of the warrior; and
thus, while all believed him occupied with the ordinary routine of
the period, his ambitious thoughts were carrying him away across the
Pyrenees or beyond the Danube, to battlefields of even greater glory
than ever, and to conquests prouder than all his former ones.

The same power of concentrativeness that he so eminently possessed
himself, he imparted, as if by magic, to his Government. Paris was
France; to the capital flocked all whose talent or zeal prompted them
to seek for advancement. The Emperor was not only the fountain of
all honor, but of all emolument and place. So patronage was exercised
without his permission; and none was conferred without the conviction
that some stanch adherent was secured whose friendship was ratified, or
whose former enmity was conciliated.

Thus passed the year that followed his accession to the throne,--that
brilliant pageant of a nation's enthusiasm rendering tribute to the
majesty of intellect. At length the period of inaction seemed drawing to
a close; and a greater activity in the war department, and a new levy
of troops, betokened the approach of some more energetic measures.
Men whispered that the English expedition was about to sail, and
reinforcements of ammunition and artillery were despatched to the coast,
when suddenly came the news of Trafalgar. Villeneuve was beaten,--
his fleet annihilated,--the whole combination of events destroyed; and
England, again triumphant on the element she had made her own, hurled
defiance at the threats of her enemy. The same despatch that brought the
intelligence to Mayence told us to be in readiness for a movement; but
when, or where to, none of us could surmise. Still detachments from
various corps stationed about were marched into the garrison, skeleton
regiments commanded to make up their deficiencies, and a renewed energy
was everywhere perceptible. At last, towards the middle of August, I was
sent for by the general in command of the fortress, and informed that
General d'Auvergne had been promoted to the command of a cavalry brigade
stationed at Coblentz.

“You are to join him there immediately,” continued he; “but here is a
note from himself, which probably will explain everything.” And with
that he handed me a small sealed letter.

It was the first, save on purely regimental matters, I had ever received
from him, and somehow I felt unusually anxious about its contents. It
ran in these words:--

     My dear B.,--His Majesty has just sent for me, and most
     graciously esteeming me not yet too old to serve him, has
     given me the command of a brigade,--late the Twelfth, now to
     be called 'D'Auvergne's Cavalry.' I would willingly have
     mentioned your name for promotion, to which your zeal and
     activity would well entitle you; but deemed it better to
     let your claim come before the Emperor's personal notice,
     which an opportunity will, I trust, soon permit of its
     doing. His Majesty, with a kindness which the devotion of a
     life could not repay, has also interested himself personally
     for me in a quarter where only his influence could have
     proved successful. But the explanation of this I reserve for
     your arrival. And now I request that you will lose no time
     in repairing to Paris, where I shall expect to see you by
     Tuesday.

     Yours,

     D'AUVERGNE, Lieut. 'General'

This strange paragraph puzzled me not a little; nor could I, by any
exercise of ingenuity, find out even a plausible meaning for it. I read
it over and over, weighing and canvassing every word, and torturing each
syllable; but all to no purpose. Had the general been some youthful but
unhappy lover, to forward whose suit the Emperor had lent his influence,
then had I understood the allusion; but with the old weather-beaten
officer, whose hairs were blanched with years and service, the very
thought of such a thing was too absurd. Yet what could be the royal
favor so lavishly praised? He needed no intercession with the Empress;
at least, I remembered well how marked the kindness of Josephine was
towards him in former times. But to what use guessing? Thoughts, by long
revolving, often become only the more entangled, and we lose sight of
the real difficulty in canvassing our own impressions concerning it. And
so from this text did I spin away a hundred fancies that occupied me the
whole road to Paris, nor left me till the din and movement of the great
capital banished all other reflections.

Arrangement had been made for my reception at the Rue de Rohan; but I
learned that the general was at Versailles with the Court, and only came
up to Paris once or twice each week. His direction to me was, to wait
for his arrival, and not to leave the city on any account.

With what a strange feeling did I survey the Palace of the
Tuileries,--the scene of my first moment of delighted admiration of her
I now loved, and, alas! of my first step in the long catalogue of my
misfortunes! I lingered about the gardens with a fascination I could not
account for; my destiny seemed somehow linked with the spot, and I could
not reason myself out of the notion but that there, in that great pile,
the fate of my whole life was to be decided.

My entire day was passed in this way; and evening found me seated on
one of the benches near the windows of the pavilion, where I watched the
lustres in the long gallery as one by one they burst into light, and saw
the gilt candelabras twinkling as each taper was illuminated. It was an
evening reception of the Emperor, and I could mark the vast assemblage,
in every variety of uniform, that filled the salons. At length the drums
beat for strangers to leave the gardens; the patrols passed on; and
gradually the crowded walks became thinner and thinner; the sounds of
the drum grew fainter; and finally the whole space became still and
noiseless,--not a voice was to be heard, not a step moved on the gravel.
I knew that the gates were now locked; and yet I stayed on, glad to be
alone, and at leisure to dream away among the fancies that kept ever
rising to my mind, and to follow out the trains of thought that ever and
anon opened before me.

As the hour grew later, and the salons filled more and more, the
windows were opened along the terrace to give air, and I could hear the
continued murmur of hundreds of voices conversing, while at times the
sound of laughter rose above the rest. What a rush of thoughts came on
me as I sat! how did I picture to myself the dark intrigues, the subtle
plots of wily diplomatists, the bold and daring aspirations of the
brave soldiers, the high hopes and the ambitious yearnings that were
all commingled there, grouped around him whose dreams were of universal
empire! While I mused, the night glided on, and the solemn sound of the
bell of Notre Dame proclaimed midnight. I now could mark that the salons
were thinning, and the unceasing din of carriages in the Place announced
the departure of the guests. In little more than half an hour the great
gallery was empty, and but a few groups remained in the apartments
adjoining. Even they soon departed; and then I could see the servants
passing from room to room extinguishing the lights, and soon the great
facade of the palace wac wrapped in darkness. A twinkling light appeared
here and there for some time, but it too went out. The night was calm
and still and sultry; not a leaf stirred; and the heavy tread of the
sentinels as they paced the marble vestibule was heard plainly where I
stood.

How full of thought to me was that vast pile, now shrouded in the gloom
of night! What bold, ambitious deeds,--what dreams of empire,--had not
been conceived there! The great of other days, indeed, entered little
into my mind, as I remembered it was the home of him, the greatest of
them all. How terrible, too, it was to think, that within that silent
palace, which seemed sleeping with the tranquil quiet of an humble
cottage, the dreadful plans which were to convulse the world, to shake
thrones and dynasties, to make of Europe a vast battlefield, were
now devising. The masses of dark cloud that hung heavily in the air,
obscuring the sky and shutting out every star, seemed to my fevered
imagination an augury of evil; and the oppressive, loaded atmosphere,
though perfumed with the odor of flowers, sunk heavily on the spirits.
Again the hour rang out, and I remembered that the gates of the garden
were now closed for the night, and that I should remain where I was
till daylight liberated me. My mind was, however, too full of its own
thoughts to make me care for sleep, and I strolled along the gloomy
walks lost in revery.



CHAPTER XL. A NIGHT IN THE TUILERIES GARDENS.

As the night wore on, I remembered that once, when a boy at the
Polytechnique, I longed to penetrate one of the little enclosures which
fenced the small flower-gardens beside the Palace, and which were railed
up from the public promenades by a low iron railing. The bouquets of
rich flowers that grew there, sparkling with the light dew of a little
jet d'eau that fell in raindrops over them, had often tempted my young
heart; but still in the daytime such a transgression would have been
immediately punished. Now, with the strange caprice which so often
prompts us in after years to do that which in youth we wished but could
not accomplish, I wandered towards the gardens, and crossing over the
low fence, entered the parterre; each step awoke the sleeping perfume of
the flowers, and I strolled along the velvet turf until I reached a low
bench, half covered with honeysuckle and woodbine. Here I threw myself
down, and, wrapping my cloak around me, resolved to rest till daybreak.
The stillness of all around, the balmy air, and my own musings,
gradually conspired to make me drowsy, and I slept.

My sleep could not have been long, when I was awakened by a noise close
beside me. I started up and looked about, and for some seconds I could
scarcely credit that I was not still dreaming. Not more than a dozen
paces from where I lay, and where before the dark walls of the Palace
rose in unbroken blackness, was now a chamber, brilliantly lighted up by
several wax-lights that stood on a table. At the window, which opened to
the ground and led into the garden, stood the figure of a man, but from
his position before the light I could not remark more than that he wore
epaulettes. It was the noise of the opening jalousies which awoke me;
and I could see his hand stretched out, as if to ascertain whether or
not it was raining. At the table I could perceive another person, on
whose uniform the light fell strongly, displaying many a cross and star,
which twinkled with every stir he made. He was busily engaged writing,
and never lifted his head from the paper. The walls of the room were
covered with shelves filled with books; and on the chairs about, and
even on the floor, lay maps and drawings in every disorder; a sword
and belt, as if just taken off, lay on the table among the writing
materials, and a cocked hat beside them.

While I noticed these details, my very heart was chill within me.
The dark figure at the window, which stirred not, seemed as if turned
towards me, and more than once I almost thought I could see his eyes
bent upon me. This was, however, but the mere suggestion of my own
fears for in the shade of the seat no light whatever fell, and I was
perfectly concealed. In the deep stillness I could hear the scraping
sound of the pen on the paper, and scarcely dared to breathe lest I
should cause discovery, when the figure retired from the window, and
moved towards the table. For some minutes he appeared to stoop over a
large map, which lay outstretched before him, and across which I could'
see his finger moving rapidly.

[Illustration: The Scene Shifted 425]

Suddenly he stood erect, and in a voice which even now rings within my
heart, said, “It must be so, Duroc; by any other route Bernadotte will be
too late!”

What was the reply I know not, such terror now fell over me. It was the
Emperor himself who spoke. It was he who the instant before was standing
close beside me at the window; and thus, a second time in my life, did I
become the unwilling eavesdropper of the man I most feared and respected
of all the world. Before I could summon resolution to withdraw, Napoleon
spoke again.

“Hardenberg,” said he, in a tone of contemptuous passion, “Hardenberg is
but a Prussian! the event will satisfy his scruples. Besides, if they
do talk about invasion of territory, you can reply: the Margraves were
always open to belligerent parties; remind them of what took place in
'96, and again in 1800,--though, _parbleu_, the souvenir may not be so
pleasant a one. Protract the discussion, at all events, Duroc; time!
time! Then,” added he, after a brief pause, “let them advance, and they
'll never pass the Danube. And if they wait for me, I 'll fall upon
them here,--here, between Ulm and Augsburg. You must, however, start for
Berlin at once.”

At this instant a heavy hand fell upon my shoulder, and passing down my
arm, seized me by the wrist. I started back, and beheld a dragoon, for
so his helmet and cloak bespoke, of enormous stature, who, motioning me
to silence, led me softly and with noiseless step along the flower-beds,
as if fearful of attracting the Emperor's notice. My limbs tottered
beneath me as I went, for the dreadful imputation an accident might fix
on me stared on me with all its awful consequences. Without a word on
either side we reached the little railing, crossed it, and regained the
open park, when the soldier, placing himself in front of me, said, in a
deep, low voice,--

“Your name; who are you?”

“An officer of the huitieme regiment of hussars,” said I, boldly.

“We shall see that presently,” replied he, in a tone of disbelief. “How
came you here?”

In a few words I explained how, having remained too late in the garden,
I preferred to pass my night on a bench to the unpleasantness of being
brought up before the officer on duty; adding, that it was only on the
very moment of his coming that I awoke.

“I know that,” interrupted he, in a less surly voice. “I found you
sleeping, and feared to awake you suddenly, lest in the surprise a word
or a cry would escape you. One syllable had cost your head.”

In the tone of these last few words there was something I thought I
could recognize, and resolving at a bold venture in such an emergency as
I found myself placed, I said at a hazard,--

“The better fortune mine, that I fell into the hands of a kind as well
as a brave soldier,--the Corporal Pioche.”

“Sacristi! You know me then!” cried he, thunderstruck.

“To be sure I do. Could I be an aide-de-camp to the General d'Auvergne,
and not have heard of Pioche?”

“An aide-de-camp of the general,” said he, starting back, as he carried
his hand to the salute. “Pardon, mon officier; but you know that duty--”

“Quite true; it was all my own indiscretion. And now, Pioche, if you 'll
keep me company here till daybreak--it cannot be far off now--the light
will soon satisfy you that my account of myself is a true one.”

“Willingly, sir,” said the gruff cuirassier. “My patrol is, to watch the
parterres from the pavilion to the allée yonder; and, if you please, we
'll take up our quarters on this bench.”

They who know not the strange mixture of deference and familiarity of
which the relation between officer and soldier is made up in the French
service, will perhaps wonder a the tone of almost equality in which we
conversed. But such is the case: the Revolutionary armies acknowledged
no other gredations of rank than such as the service conferred, nor any
degree of superiority save that derivable from greater ability of more
daring heroism; and although the troops more implicitly obeyed the
commands of their officers, the occasion of discipline over a perfect
feeling of equality remained amongst all, whether they wore the epaulets
of colones or carried a musket in the ranks. With time, and the changes
the Consulate had introduced, much of this excessive familiarity was
suppressed; still it was no uncommon thing to hear the humble rank and
file address the general of division as “thou,”--the expression of
closest friendship, probably dating from the hours of schoolboy
attachment. Nor was the officer of rank thought less of because in the
hours of off-duty, he mixed freely with those who had been his
companions through life, and talked with them as brothers. It is
probable that in no other nation such a course could have been practised
without a total subversion of all respect and the ruin of all habits of
order. The Frenchman is, however, essentially military; not merely
warlike, like the inhabitants of Great Britain,--his mind ever inclines
to the details of war as an art. It is in generalship he glories, not
the mere conflict of force; and the humblest soldier in the army takes
an interest in the great game of tactics, which in any other people
would be quite incredible. Hence he submits to the control which
otherwise he could not endure; for this, he yields to command at the
hands of one, who, although his equal in all other respects, he here
acknowledges as his superior. He knows, too, that the grade of officer
is open to merit alone, and he feels that the epaulette may be his own
one day. Such causes as these, constantly in operation, could not fail
to raise the morale of an army; nor can we wonder that from such a
source were derived many, if not most, of the great names that formed
the marshals of France. Again, to this military spirit the French owe
the perfection of their tirailleur force,--the consummate skill of
independent parties, of which every campaign gave evidence. Napoleon
found this spirit in the nation, and spared nothing to give it its
fullest development. He quickly saw to what height of enthusiasm a
people could be brought, to whom a cross or a decoration, an epaulette
or a sabre of honor, were deemed the ample rewards of every daring and
of every privation; and never in any age or in any country was chivalry
so universally spread over the wide surface of a people. With them, rank
claimed no exception from fatigue or suffering. The officer fared little
better than the soldier on a march; in a battle, he was only more
exposed to danger. By daring only could he win his way upwards; and an
emulative ardor was continually maintained, which was ever giving to the
world instances of individual heroism far more brilliant than all the
famed achievements of the crusaders.

This brief digression, unnecessary perhaps to many of my readers, may
serve to explain to others how naturally our conversation took the easy
tone of familiar equality; nor will they be surprised at the abrupt
question of the cuirassier, as he said,--

“_Mille tonnerres!_ lieutenant! was it from your liking the post of
danger you selected that bench yonder?”

“The choice was a mere accident.”

“An accident, _morbleu!_” said he, with a low laugh. “That was
what Lasalle called it at the Adige, when the wheel came off the
eight-pounder in the charge, and the enemy carried off the gun. 'An
accident!' said the Petit Caporal to him,--I was close by when he said
it,--'will your friends in Paris call it an accident if the “ordre du
jour” to-morrow condemn you to be shot?' I know him well,” continued
Pioche; “that I do. I was second bombardier with him at Toulon,--ay, at
Cairo too. I mind well the evening he came to our quarters; poor
enough we were at the time,--no clothes, no rations: I was cook to our
division; but somehow there was little duty in my department, till one
day the vivandiere's ass, (a brave beast he was too, before provisions
fell short),--a spent shot took him in the flank, and killed him on the
spot.

“Sacristi!” what damage it did! All the canteens were smashed to atoms;
horn goblets and platters knocked to pieces; but worst of all, a keg of
true Nantz was broached, and every drop lost. Poor Madame Gougon! she
loved that ass as if he had been one of the regiment; and though we
all offered her assignats on our pay, for a month each, to give us the
carcass, she wouldn't do it. No, faith! she would have him buried, and
with funeral honors! _Parbleu!_ it was a whim; but the poor thing was
in grief, and we could not refuse her. I commanded the party,” continued
Pioche, “and a long distance we had to march, lest the shots might be
heard in the quartier-général. Well, we had some trouble in getting the
poor soul away from the grave. _Sacristi!_ she took it so much to heart,
I thought she 'd have masses said for him. But we did succeed at last,
and before dawn we were all within the camp as if nothing had happened.
The whole of that day, however, the ass was never out of our minds. It
was not grief; no, no! don't think that. We were all thinking of what a
sin it was to have him buried there,--such a fine beast as he was,--and
not a pound of meat to be had if you were to offer a nine-pounder gun
for it. 'He is never the worse for his funeral,' said I; 'remember,
boys, how well preserved he was in brandy before he was buried: let's
have him up again!' No sooner was night come, than we set off for
the place where we laid him, and in less than two hours I was busily
employed in making a delicious salmi of his haunch. _Mille bommbes!_ I
think I have the smell of it before me; it was gibier, and the gravy
was like a purie. We were all pleasantly seated round the fire, watching
every turn of the roast, when--crack!--I heard the noise of the patrol
bringing his gun to the present, and before we had time to jump up, the
Petit Caporal was upon us; he was mounted on a little dark Arab, and
dressed in his gray surtout.

“'What 's all this here?' cried he, pulling up short, while the barb
sniffed the air, just as if he guessed what the meat was. 'Who has
stolen this sheep?'

“'It is not a sheep, Général,' said I, stepping forward, and trying to
hide the long ladle I was basting with.

[Illustration: The “Big Pioche” Indulging in Delicacies 430]

“'Not a sheep; then it is an ox, mayhap, or a calf,” said he again, with
an angry look.

“'Neither, Général,' said I; 'it was a--a--a beast of our division.'

“'A beast of your division! What does that mean? No trifling, mind! out
with it at once. What's this? Where did it come from?'

“'An ass, may it please you, sir,' said I, trembling all over, for I saw
he was in a rare passion. And as he repeated the word after me, I told
him the whole story, and how we could not suffer such capital prog to be
eaten by any other than good citizens of the Republic.

“While I was telling him so much, the rest stood round terrified; they
could not even turn the joint, though it was burning; and, to say truth,
I thought myself we were all in a bad way, when suddenly he burst into a
fit of laughing, and said,--

“'What part of France do these fellows come from?'

“'Alsace, mon général,' was the answer from every one.

“'I thought so, I thought so,' said he; 'Sybarites, all.'

“'No, mon général, grenadiers of the Fourth. Milhaud's brigade,' said I.
And with that he turned away, and we could hear him laughing long after
he galloped off. I saw he mistook us,” said Pioche, “and that he could
not be angry with the old Fourth.”

“You must have seen a great deal of hardship, Pioche,” said I, as
he came to a pause, and wishing to draw him on to speak more of his
campaigns.

“_Ma foi!_ there were few who saw service from '92 to '97 had not their
share of it. But they were brave times, too; every battle had its day
of promotion afterwards. Le Petit Caporal would ride down the ranks
with his staff, looking for this one, and asking for that. 'Where 's the
adjutant of the Sixth?' 'Dead, mon général.' 'Where 's the colonel of
the Voltigeurs?' 'Badly wounded.' 'Carry him this sabre of honor.' 'Who
fell over the Austrian standard, and carried away the fragment of the
drapeau?' 'One of my fellows. General; here he is.' 'And what is your
name, my brave fellow?'”

The corporal paused here, and drew a deep breath; and after a few
seconds' pause, added in altered tone, “_Sacristi!_ they were fine
times!”

“But what did he say to the soldier that took the colors?” asked I,
impatiently. “Who was he?”

“It was I,” replied Pioche himself, in a deep voice, where pride and
devotion struggled powerfully together.

“You, Pioche! indeed! Well, what said the general when he saw you?”

“'Ah, Pioche,' said he, gayly, 'my old friend of Toulouse!'

“'Yes, Général,' said I, 'we 've had some warm work together.'

“'True, Pioche, and may again perhaps. But you've been made a corporal
since that; what am I to do for you now?'

“This was a puzzling question, and I did not know how to answer it, and
he repeated it before I could make up my mind.

“'Is there nothing, then, in which I can be of use to Corporal Pioche?'

“'Yes, mon général,' said I, 'there is.'

“'Speak it out, man, then; what is it?'

“'I wish, then, you 'd rate the commissary-general of our division for
one blunder he's ever making. The powder they serve us out is always
wet, and our bread is as hard as _mitraille_. Neither bayonets nor teeth
will last forever, you know, Général.' And he burst out a-laughing
before I finished.

“'Rest assured, Pioche, I'll look to this,' said he; and he kept his
word.”

“But why didn't you ask for promotion?” said I. “What folly, was it not,
to throw away such a chance? You might have been an officer ere this.”

“No,” replied he, with a sorrowful shake of the head; “that was
impossible.”

“But why so? Bonaparte knew you well; he often noticed you.”

“True; all true,” said he, more sadly than before. “But then--”

“What, then?” asked I, with more of interest than delicacy at the
moment.

“I never learned to read,” said Pioche, in a low voice, which trembled
with agitation, while he drew his swarthy hand across his eyes, and was
silent.

The few words so spoken thrilled most powerfully within me. I saw that I
had awakened the saddest thoughts of the poor fellow's heart, and would
have given worlds to be able to recall my question. Here, then, was the
corroding sorrow of his life,--the grief that left its impress on his
stern features, and tinged with care the open brow of the brave soldier.
Each moment our silence was prolonged made it still more poignant, but I
made an effort to break it, and happily with success.

“After all, Pioche,” said I, laying my hand on his arm, “I would
willingly exchange my epaulettes for these stripes on your sleeve,
to have had Bonaparte speak to me as he has spoken to you; that was a
prouder distinction than any other, and will be a fonder recollection,
too, hereafter.”

“Do you think so, mon lieutenant?” said the poor fellow, turning round
quickly, as a faint smile played about his features--“do you think so?
_Sacristi!_ I have said as much to myself sometimes, when I've been
alone. And then I 've almost thought I could hear his kind, soft voice
ringing in my ears; for it is kind and soft as a woman's, when
he pleases, though, parbleu! it can call like a trumpet at other
times,--ay, and tingle within your heart till it sets your blood boiling
and makes your hands twitch. I mind well the campaign in the Valais; the
words keep dinning in my ears to this hour.”

“What was that, Pioche?” said I, pleased to see him turn from the
remembrance of his own regrets.

“It is a good while past now,--I forget the year exactly,--but we were
marching on Italy, and it was in spring. Still, the ground was covered
with snow; every night came on with a hailstorm that lasted till nigh
daybreak, and when we arose from the bivouac we were so stiff and frozen
we could not move. They said at the time something went wrong with the
commissariat; but when did it ever go right, I wonder? Ammunition and
provisions were always late; and though the general used to drive away a
commissary every week or ten days for misconduct, the new ones that
came turned out just as bad. The Petit Caporal kept sending them word to
Paris not to send down any more 'savants,' but a good, honest man, with
common sense and active habits. But, _parbleu_, birds of that feather
must have been rare just then, for we never could catch one of them.
Whatever was the cause, we never were so ill off; our shakos were like
wet paper, and took any shape; and out of ridicule we used to come upon
parade with them fashioned into three-cocked hats, and pointed caps, and
slouched beavers. The officers couldn't say a word, you know, all
this time; it was not our fault if we were in such misery. Then, as to
shoes,--a few could boast of the upper leathers, but a sole or a heel
was not to be found in a company. Our coats were actually in rags, and
a pivot sentry looked for all the world like a flagstaff, as he stood
fluttering in the wind.

“We bore up, however, as well as we could, for some time, grumbling
occasionally over our condition, and sometimes laughing at it when we
had the heart; till at last, when we saw the new convoy arrive, and
all the biscuits distributed among the young regiments and the new
conscripts, we could endure it no longer, and a terrible outcry arose
among the troops. We were all drawn up on parade,--it was an inspection;
for, _parbleu!_ though we were as ragged as scarecrows, they would have
us out twice a week to review us, and put us through the manoeuvres.
Scarcely had the general--it was Bonaparte himself--got halfway down
the line, when a shout ran from rank to rank: 'Bread! shoes! caps!
biscuits!'

“'What do I hear?' said Bonaparte, standing up in his stirrups, and
frowning at the line. 'Who are the malcontents that dare to cry out on
parade? Let them stand out; let me see them.'

“And at once more than half the regiment of grenadiers sprang forward,
and shouted louder than before, 'Bread! bread! let us have food and
clothing! If we are to fight, let us not die of hunger!'

“'Grenadiers of the Fourth,' cried he, in a terrible voice, 'to your
ranks! Second division, and third!' shouted he, with his hand up, 'form
in square!--carry arms!--present arms! front rank, kneel! Kneel!' said
he, again louder; for you know we never did that in those days. However,
every word was obeyed, and down dropped the leading files on their
knees; and there we were rooted to the ground. Not a man spoke; all
silent as death.

“He then advanced to the front of the staff, and pointing his hand to a
convoy of wagons that could just be seen turning the angle of the
road, with white flags flying, to show what they were, called out,
'Commissary-general, distribute full rations and half ammunition to the
young regiments; half rations and full ammunition to the veterans of
Egypt!' A shout of applause burst out; but he cried louder than
before, 'Silence in the ranks!' Then, taking off his chapeau, he stood
bareheaded before us; and in a voice like the bugle that blows the
charge, he read from a large paper in his hand, 'In the name of the
French Republic, one and indivisible. The Directory of the nation
decrees, that the thanks of the Government be given to the Grenadiers
of the Fourth, who have deserved well of their country. Vive la
République!'

“'Vive la République!' shouted the whole square in a roar, like the sea
itself. Who thought more of hardships or hunger then? Our only desire
was when we were to meet the enemy; and many a jest and many a laugh
went round as we loaded our pouches with the new ammunition.

“'Who's that fellow yonder?' said Bonaparte, as he rode slowly down the
line. 'I should know him, I think. Is n't that Pioche?'

“'Yes, mon général,' said I, saluting him; 'it is what remains of poor
Pioche,--_parbleu!_ very little more than half, though.'

“'Ah, glutton!' said he, laughing, 'I ought to have guessed you were
here; one such gourmand is enough to corrupt a whole brigade.'

“'Pioche is a good soldier, citizen-general, 'said my captain, who was
an old schoolfellow of mine.

“'I know it, Captain,' said the general.

“'You were in Excelmans's dragoons, Pioche, if mistake not?'

“Two years and ten months, citizen-general.'

“'Why did you leave them, and when?'

“'At Monte Bello, with the colonel's permission.'

“'And the reason?'

“'_Morbleu!_ it was a fancy I had. They killed two horses under me that
day, and I saw I was not destined for the cavalry.'

“'Ha, ha!' said he, with a sly laugh; 'had they been asses, the thing
might have been different, eh?'

“'Yes, mon général,' said I, growing red, for I knew what he meant.

“'Come, Pioche, you must go back again to your old corps; they want
one or two like you,--though, _parbleu!_ you 'll ruin the Republic in
remounts.'

“'As you please it, Général.'

“'Well, what shall I do for you besides? Any more commissaries to row,
eh? Methinks no bad time to gratify you in that way.'

“'Ah, mon général if you would only hang up one now and then.'

“'So I intend, the next time I hear of any of my soldiers being
obliged to eat the asses of the vivandiéres.' And with that he rode on,
laughing, though none, save myself, knew what he alluded to; and, _ma
foi_, I was not disposed to turn the laugh against myself by telling.
But there goes the _réveil_, and I must leave you, mon lieutenant; the
gates will be open in a few minutes.”

“Good-by, Pioche,” said I, “and many thanks for your pleasant company. I
hope we shall meet again, and soon.”

“I hope so, mon lieutenant; and if it be at a bivouac fire, all the
better.”

The gallant corporal made his military salute, wheeled about, stiff
as if on parade, and departed; while I, throwing my cloak over my arm,
turned into the broad alley and left the garden.



CHAPTER XLI. A STORY OF THE YEAR '92.

I FOUND everything in the rue de rohan as I had left it the day before.
General d'Auvergne had not been there during my absence, but a messenger
from Versailles brought intelligence that the Court would arrive that
evening in Paris, and in all likelihood the general would accompany
them.

My day was then at my disposal, and having dressed, I strolled out to
enjoy all the strange and novel sights of the great capital. They who
can carry their memories back to Paris at that period may remember the
prodigious amount of luxury and wealth so prodigally exhibited; the
equipages, the liveries, the taste in dress, were all of the most costly
character; the very shops, too, vied with each other in the splendor and
richness of their display, and court uniforms and ornaments of jewelry
glittered in every window. Hussar jackets in all their bravery, chapeaux
covered with feather trimming and looped with diamonds, sabres with
ivory scabbards encrusted with topaz and turquoise, replaced the simple
costumes of the Revolutionary era as rapidly as did the high-sounding
titles of “Excellence” and “Monseigneur” the unpretending designation of
“citoyen.” Still, the military feature of the land was in the ascendant;
in the phrase of the day, it was the “mustache” that governed. Not a
street but had its group of officers, on horseback or on foot; regiments
passed on duty, or arrived from the march, at every turn of the way. The
very rabble kept time and step as they followed, and the warlike spirit
animated every class of the population. All these things ministered to
my enthusiasm, and set my heart beating stronger for the time when the
career of arms was to open before me. This, if I were to judge from all
I saw, could not now be far distant. The country for miles around
Paris was covered with marching men, their faces all turned eastward;
orderlies, booted and splashed, trotted rapidly from street to street;
and general officers, with their aides-de-camp, rode up and down with a
haste that boded preparation.

My mind was too full of its own absorbing interests to make me care to
visit the theatre; and having dined in a café on the Boulevard, I turned
towards the general's quarters in the hope of finding him arrived. As I
entered the Rue de Rohan, I was surprised at a crowd collected about the
door, watching the details of packing a travelling carriage which stood
before it. A heavy fourgon, loaded with military chests and boxes,
seemed also to attract their attention, and call forth many a surmise as
to its destination.

“Le Petit Caporal has something in his head, depend upon it,” said a
thin, dark-whiskered fellow with a wooden leg, whose air and gesture
bespoke the old soldier; “the staff never move off, extra post, without
a good reason for it.”

“It is the English are about to catch it this time,” said a
miserable-looking, decrepit creature, who was occupied in roasting
chestnuts over an open stove. “Hot, all hot! messieurs et mesdames!
real 'marrons de Nancy,'--the true and only veritable chestnuts with a
truffle flavor. _Sacristi!_ now the sea-wolves will meet their match!
It is such brave fellows as you, monsieur le grenadier, can make them
tremble.”

The old pensioner smoothed down his mustache, and made no reply.

“The English, indeed!” said a fat, ruddy-faced woman, with a slight
line of dark beard on her upper lip. “My husband 's a pioneer in the
Twenty-second, and says they're nothing better than poltroons. How
we made them run at Arcole! Wasn't it Arcole?” said she, as a buzz of
laughter ran through the crowd.

“_Tonnerre de guerre_” cried the little man, “if I was at them!”

A loud burst of merriment met this warlike speech; while the maimed
soldier, apparently pleased with the creature's courage, smiled blandly
on him as he said, “Let me have two sous' worth of your chestnuts.”

Leaving the party to their discussion, I now entered the house, and
edging my way upstairs between trunks and packing-cases, arrived at
the drawing-room. The general had just come in; he had been the whole
morning at Court, and was eating a hurried dinner in order to return to
the Tuileries for the evening reception. Although his manner towards me
was kind and cordial in the extreme, I thought he looked agitated and
even depressed, and seemed much older and more broken than before.

“You see, Burke, you 'll have little time to enjoy Paris gayeties; we
leave to-morrow.”

“Indeed, sir! So soon?”

“Yes; Lasalle is off already; Dorsenne starts in two hours; and we three
rendezvous at Coblentz. I wished much to see you,” continued he, after
a minute's pause; “but I could not get away from Versailles even for a
day. Tell me, have you got a letter I wrote to you when at Mayence? I
mean, is it still in existence?”

“Yes, sir,” said I, somewhat astonished at the question.

“I wrote it hurriedly,” added he, with something of confusion in his
manner; “do let me see it.”

I unlocked my writing-desk at once, and handed him his own letter. He
opened it hastily, and having thrown his eyes speedily across it, said,
and in a voice far more at ease than before,--

“That will do. I feared lest perhaps--But no matter; this is better than
I thought.”

With this he gave the letter back into my hands, and appeared for some
moments engaged in deep thought; then, with a voice and manner which
showed a different channel was given to his thoughts, he said,--

“The game has opened; the Austrians have invaded Bavaria. The whole
disposable force of France is on the march,--a hurried movement; but so
it is. Napoleon always strikes like his own emblem, the eagle.”

“True, sir; but even that serves to heighten the chivalrous feeling of
the soldier, when the sword springs from the scabbard at the call of
honor, and is not drawn slowly forth at the whispered counsel of some
wily diplomat.”

He smiled half-mournfully at the remark, or at my impetuosity in making
it, as he said:--

“My dear boy, never flatter yourself that the cause of any war can enter
into the calculation of the soldier. The liberty he fights for is often
the rankest tyranny; the patriotism he defends, the veriest oppression.
Play the game as though the stake were but your own ambition, if you
would play it manfully. As for me, I buckle on the harness for the
last time, come what will of it. The Emperor feels, and justly feels,
indignant that many of the older officers have declined the service by
which alone they were elevated to rank, and wealth, and honor. It
was not, then, at the moment when he distinguished me by an unsought
promotion,--still more, conferred a personal favor on me, that I could
ask leave to retire from the army.”

By the tone in which he said these last few words, I saw that the
general was now approaching the topic I felt so curious about, and did
not venture by a word to interrupt or divert his thoughts from it. My
calculation proved correct; for, after meditating some eight or
ten minutes, he drew his chair closer to mine, and in a voice of
ill-repressed agitation, spoke thus:--

“You doubtless know the history of our great Revolution,--the causes
that led to, the consequences that immediately sprang from it,--the
terrible anarchy, the utter confiscation of wealth, and, worse still,
the social disorganization that invaded every family, however humble or
however exalted, setting wives against their husbands, children against
their parents, and making brothers sworn enemies to one another. It was
in vain for any man once engaged in the struggle to draw back; the
least hesitation to perform any order of the Convention--the delay of a
moment, to think--was death: some one was ever on the watch to denounce
the man thus deliberating, and he was led forth to the guillotine like
the blackest criminal. The immediate result of all this was a distrust
that pervaded the entire nation. No one knew who to speak to, nor
dare any confide in him who once had been his dearest friend. The old
Royalists trembled at every stir; the few demonstrations they forced
themselves to make of concurrence in the new state of things were
received with suspicion and jealousy. The 'Blues'--for so the
Revolutionary party was called--thirsted for their blood; the
aristocracy had been, as they deemed, long their oppressors, and
where vengeance ceased, cupidity began. They longed to seize upon the
confiscated estates, and revel as masters in the halls where so oft they
had waited as lackeys. But the evil ended not here. Wherever private
hate or secret malice lurked, an opportunity for revenge now offered;
and for one head that fell under the supposed guilt of treason to
France, a hundred dropped beneath the axe from causes of personal
animosity and long-nurtured vengeance: and thus many an idle word
uttered in haste or carelessness, some passing slight, some chance
neglect, met now its retribution, and that retribution was ever death.

“It chanced that in the South, in one of those remote districts where
intelligence is always slow in arriving, and where political movements
rarely disturb the quiet current of daily life, there lived one of those
old seigneurs who at that period were deemed sovereign princes in the
little locale they inhabited. The soil had been their own for centuries;
long custom had made them respected and looked up to; while the acts of
kindness and benevolence in which, from father to son, their education
consisted, formed even a stronger tie to the affections of the
peasantry. The Church, too, contributed not a little to the maintenance
of this feudalism; and the château' entered into the subject of the
village prayers as naturally as though a very principle of their faith.
There was something beautifully touching in the intercourse between the
lord of the soil and its tillers: in the kindly interest of the one,
repaid in reverence and devotion by the others; his foresight for their
benefit, their attachment and fidelity,--the paternal care, the filial
love,--made a picture of rural happiness such as no land ever equalled,
such as perhaps none will ever see again. The seigneur of whom I speak
was a true type of this class. He had been in his boyhood a page at
the gorgeous court of Louis the Fifteenth, mixed in the voluptuous
fascinations of the period; but, early disgusted by the sensuality of
the day, retired to his distant château, bringing with him a wife,--one
of the most beautiful and accomplished persons of the Court, but one
who, like himself, preferred the peace and tranquillity of a country
life to the whirlwind pleasures of a vicious capital. For year's they
lived childless; but at last, after a long lapse of time, two children
were born to this union, a boy and girl,--both lovely, and likely in
every respect to bless them with happiness. Shortly after the birth
of the girl, the mother became delicate, and after some months of
suffering, died. The father, who never rallied from the hour of her
death, and took little interest in the world, soon followed her, and the
children were left orphans when the eldest was but four years of
age, and his sister but three. Before the count died, he sent for
his steward. You know that the steward, or intendant, in France, was
formerly the person of greatest trust in any family,--the faithful
adviser in times of difficulty, the depositary of secrets, the friend,
in a word, who in humble guise offered his counsel in every domestic
arrangement, and without whom no project was entertained or determined
on; and usually the office was hereditary, descending from father to son
for centuries.

“In this family such was the case. His father and grandfather before him
had filled the office, and Léon Guichard well knew every tradition of
the house, and from his infancy his mind had been stored with tales of
its ancient wealth and former greatness. His father had died but a short
time previous, and when the count's last illness seized him, Léon was
only in the second year of his stewardship. Brief as the period was,
however, it had sufficed to give abundant proof of his zeal and
ability. New sources of wealth grew up under his judicious management;
improvements were everywhere conspicuous; and while the seigneur himself
found his income increased by nearly one-half, the tenants had gained in
equal proportion,--such was the result of his activity and intelligence.
These changes, marvellous as they may seem, were then of frequent
occurrence. The lands of the South had been tilled for centuries without
any effort at improvement; sons were content to go on as their fathers
had done before them; increased civilization, with its new train of
wants and luxuries, never invaded this remote, untravelled district, and
primitive tastes and simple habits succeeded each other generation after
generation unaltered and unchanged.

“Suddenly, however, a new light broke on the world, which penetrated
even the darkness of the far-off valleys of La Provence. Intelligence
began to be more widely diffused; men read and reflected; the rudiments
of every art and every science were put within the reach of humble
comprehensions; and they who before were limited to memory or hearsay
for such knowledge as they possessed, could now apply at the fountain
for themselves. Léon Guichard was not slow in cultivating these new
resources, and applying them to the circumstances about him; and
although many an obstacle arose, dictated by stupid adherence to old
customs, or fast-rooted prejudice against newfashioned methods, by
perseverance he overcame them all, and actually enriched the people in
spite of themselves.

“The seigneur, himself a man of no mean intellect, saw much of this with
sorrow; he felt that a mighty change was accomplishing, and that as one
by one the ancient landmarks by which men had been guided for ages were
removed, none could foresee what results might follow, nor where the
passion for alteration might cease. The superstitions of the Church,
harmless in themselves, were now openly attacked; its observances,
before so deeply venerated, were even assailed as idle ceremonies; and
it seemed as if the strong cable that bound men to faith and loyalty
had parted, and that their minds were drifting over a broad and pathless
sea. Such was the ominous opening of the Revolution, such the terrible
ground-swell before the storm.

“On his deathbed, then, he entreated Léon to be aware that evil days
were approaching; that the time was not distant when men should rely
upon the affection and love of those around them, on the ties that
attached to each other for years long, on the mutual interest that
had grown up from their cradles. He besought him to turn the people's
'minds, as far as might be, from the specious theories that were afloat,
and fix them on their once-loved traditions; and, above all, he charged
him, as the guardian of his orphan children, to keep them aloof from
the contamination of dangerous doctrines, and to train them up in the
ancient virtues of their house,--in charity and benevolence.

“Scarce had the old count's grave closed over him, when men began to
perceive a marked change in Léon Guichard. No longer humble, even to
subserviency, as before, he now assumed an air of pride and haughtiness
that soon estranged his companions from him. As guardian to the orphan
children, he resided in the château, and took on him the pretensions
of the master. Its stately equipage, with great emblazoned panels,--the
village wonder at every fête day,--was now replaced by a more modern
vehicle, newly arrived from Paris, in which Monsieur Guichard daily took
his airings. The old servants, many of them born in the château, were
sent adrift, and a new and very different class succeeded them. All was
changed: even the little path that led up from the presbytère to the
château, and along which the old curé was seen wending his way on each
Sunday to his dinner with the seigneur, was now closed, the gate walled
up; while the Sabbath itself was only dedicated to greater festivities
and excess, to the scandal of the villagers.

“Meanwhile the children grew up in strength and beauty; like wild
flowers, they had no nurture, but they flourished in all this neglect,
ignorant and unconscious of the scenes around them. They roved about
the livelong day through the meadows, or that wilderness of a garden on
which no longer any care was bestowed, and where rank luxuriance gave
a beauty of its own to the rich vegetation. With the unsuspecting
freshness of their youth, they enjoyed the present without a thought of
the future,--they loved each other, and were happy.

“To them the vague reports and swelling waves of the Revolution, which
each day gained ground, brought neither fear nor apprehension; they
little dreamed that the violence of political strife could ever reach
their quiet valleys. Nor did they think the hour was near when the tramp
of soldiery and the ruffianly shout of predatory war were to replace the
song of the vigneron and the dance of the villager.

“The Revolution came at last, sweeping like a torrent over the land. It
blasted as it went; beneath its baneful breath everything withered and
wasted; loyalty, religion, affection, and brotherly love, all died out
in the devoted country; anarchy and bloodshed were masters of the scene.
The first dreadful act of this fearful drama passed like a dream to
those who, at a distance from Paris, only read of the atrocities of that
wretched capital; but when the wave rolled nearer; when crowds of armed
men, wild and savage in look, with ragged uniforms and bloodstained
hands, prowled about the villages where in happier times a soldier had
never been seen; when the mob around the guillotine supplied the place
of the gathering at the market; when the pavement was wet and slippery
with human blood,--men's natures suddenly became changed, as though some
terrible curse from on high had fallen on them. Their minds caught up
the fearful contagion of revolt, and a mad impulse to deny all they had
once held sacred and venerable seized on all. Their blasphemies against
religion went hand in hand with their desecration of everything holy in
social life, and a pre-eminence in guilt became the highest object of
ambition. Sated with slaughter, bloated with crime, the nation reeled
like a drunken savage over the ruin it created, and with the insane
lust of blood poured forth its armed thousands throughout the whole of
Europe.

“Then began the much-boasted triumphs of the Revolutionary armies,--the
lauded victories of those great asserters of liberty; say rather
the carnage of famished wolves, the devastating rage of bloodthirsty
maniacs. The conscription seized on the whole youth of France, as if
fearful that in the untarnished minds of the young the seeds of better
things might bear fruit in season. They carried them away to scenes of
violence and rapine, where, amid the shouts of battle and the cries
of the dying, no voice of human sympathy might touch their hearts, no
trembling of remorse should stir within them.

“'You are named in the conscription, Monsieur, said Léon, in a short,
abrupt tone, as one morning he entered the dressing-room of his young
master.

“'I! I named in the conscription!' replied the other, with a look of
incredulity and anger. 'This is but a sorry jest, Master Léon; and not
in too good taste, either.'

“'Good or bad,' answered the steward, 'the fact is as I say; here is
the order from the municipalite. You were fifteen yesterday, you know.'

“'True; and what then? Am I not Marquis de Neufchâtel, Comte de
Rochefort, in right of my mother?'

“'There are no more marquises, no more counts,' said the other, roughly;
'France has had enough of such cattle. The less you allude to them the
safer for your head.'

“He spoke truly,--the reign of the aristocracy was ended. And while they
were yet speaking, an emissary of the Convention, accompanied by a
party of troops, arrived at the château to fetch away the newly-drawn
conscript.

“I must not dwell on the scene which followed: the heartrending sorrow
of those who had lived but for each other, now torn asunder for the
first time, not knowing when, if ever, they were to meet again. His
sister wished to follow him; but even had he permitted it, such would
have been impossible: the dreadful career of a Revolutionary soldier was
an obstacle insurmountable. The same evening the battalion of infantry
to which he was attached began their march towards Savoy, and the lovely
orphan of the château fell dangerously ill.

“Youth, however, triumphed over her malady, which, indeed, was brought
on by grief; and after some weeks she was restored to health. During the
interval, nothing could be more kind and attentive than Léon Guichard;
his manner, of late years rough and uncivil, became softened and tender;
the hundred little attentions which illness seeks for he paid with zeal
and watchfulness; everything which could alleviate her sorrow or calm
her afflicted mind was resorted to with a kind of instinctive delicacy,
and she began to feel that in her long-cherished dislike of the
intendant she had done him grievous wrong.

“This change of manner attracted the attention of many besides the
inhabitants of the château. They remarked his altered looks and bearing,
the more studied attention to his dress and appearance, and the singular
difference in all his habits of life. No longer did he pass his time in
the wild orgies of debauchery and excess, but in careful management of
the estate, and rarely or never left the château after nightfall.

“A hundred different interpretations were given to this line of acting.
Some said that the more settled condition of political affairs had made
him cautious and careful, for it was now the reign of the Directory,
and the old excesses of '92 were no longer endured; others, that he was
naturally of a kind and benevolent nature, and that his savage manner
and reckless conduct were assumed merely in compliance with the horrible
features of the time.

“None, however, suspected the real cause. Léon Guichard was in love!
Yes, the humble steward, the coarse follower of the vices of that
detestable period, was captivated by the beauty of the young girl,
now springing into womanhood. The freshness of her artless nature, her
guileless innocence, her soft voice, her character so balanced between
gayety and thoughtfulness, her loveliness, so unlike all he had ever
seen before, had seized upon his whole heart; and, as the sun darting
from behind the blackest clouds will light up the surface of a bleak
landscape, touching every barren rock and tipping every bell of purple
heath with color and richness, so over his rugged nature the beauty of
this fair girl shed a very halo of light, and a spirit awoke within him
to seek for better things, to endeavor better things, to fly the coarse,
depraved habits of his former self, to conform to the tastes of her he
worshipped. Day by day his stern nature became more softened. No longer
those terrible bursts of passion, to which he once gave way, escaped
him; his voice, his very look, too, were changed in their expression,
and a gentleness of manner almost amounting to timidity now
characterized him who had once been the type of the most savage Jacobin.

“She to whom this wondrous change was owing knew nothing of the miracle
she had worked; she would not, indeed, have believed, had one told her.
She scarcely remarked him when they met, and did not perceive that he
was no longer like his former self; her whole soul wrapped up in her
dear brother, s fate, she lived from week to week in the thought of his
letters home. It is true, her life had many enjoyments which owed their
source to the intendant's care; but she knew not of this, and felt more
grateful to him when he came letter in hand from the little post of the
village, than when the fair mossroses of spring filled the vases of
the salon, or the earliest fruits of summer decked her table. At times
something in his demeanor would strike her,--a tinge of sorrow it seemed
rather than aught else; but as she attributed this, as every other
grief, to her brother's absence, she paid no further attention to it,
and merely thought good Leon had more feeling than they used to give him
credit for.

“At last, the campaign of Arcole over, the young soldier obtained a
short leave to see his sister. How altered were they both! She, from
the child, had become the beautiful girl,--her eyes flashing with the
brilliant sparkle of youth, her step elastic, her color changing with
every passing expression. He was already a man, bronzed and sunburnt,
his dark eyes darker, and his voice deeper; but still his former self in
all the warmth of his affection to his sister.

“The lieutenant--for so was he always called by the old soldier who
accompanied him as his servant, and oftentimes by the rest of his
household--had seen much of the world in the few years of his absence.

“The chances and changes of a camp had taught him many things which lie
far beyond its own limits, and he had learned to scan men's minds and
motives with a quick eye and ready wit. He was not long, therefore, in
observing the alteration in Léon Guichard's manner; nor was he slow in
tracing it to its real cause. At first the sudden impulse of his passion
would have driven him to any length,--the presumption of such a thought
was too great to endure. But then the times he lived in taught him some
strong lessons. He remembered the scenes of social disorder and anarchy
of his childhood,--how every rank became subverted, and how men's
minds were left to their own unbridled influences to choose their own
position,--and he bethought him, that in such trials as these Leon had
conducted himself with moderation; that to his skilful management it was
owing if the property had not suffered confiscation like so many others;
and that it was perhaps hard to condemn a man for being struck by charms
which, however above him in the scale of rank, were still continually
before his eyes.

“Reasoning thus, he determined, as the wisest course, to remove his
sister to the house of a relative, where she could remain during his
absence. This would at once put a stop to the steward's folly,--for so
he could not help deeming it,--and, what was of equal consequence in
the young soldier's eyes, prevent his sister being offended by ever
suspecting the existence of such a feeling towards her. The plan, once
resolved on, met no difficulty from his sister; his promise to return
soon to see her was enough to compensate for any arrangement, and it was
determined that they should set out towards the South by the first week
in September.

“When the intimation of this change first reached Léon, which it did
from the other servants, he could not believe it, and resolved to
hasten to the lieutenant himself, and ask if it were true. On that day,
however, the young soldier was absent shooting, and was not to return
before night. Tortured with doubt and fear, trembling at the very
thought of her departure whose presence had been the loadstar of his
life, he rushed from the house and hurried into the wood. Every spot
reminded him of her; and he shuddered to think that in a few hours his
existence would have lost its spring; that ere the week was passed
he would be alone without the sight of her whom even to have seen
constituted the happiness of the whole day. Revolving such sad thoughts,
he strolled on, not knowing whither, and at last, on turning the angle
of a path, found himself before the object of his musings. She was
returning from a farewell visit to one of the cottagers, and was
hastening to the château to dress for dinner.

“'Ah, Monsieur Léon,' said she, suddenly, 'I am glad to meet you here.
These poor people at the wooden bridge will miss me, I fear; you must
look to them in my absence. And there is old Jeannette,--she fancies she
can spin still; I pray you let her have her little pension regularly.
The children at Calotte, too,--they are too far from the school; mind
that they have their books.'

“'And are you indeed going from hence, Mademoiselle?' said he, in a
tone and accent so unlike his ordinary one as to make her start with
surprise.

“'Yes, to be sure. We leave the day after to-morrow.'

“'And have you no regret, Mademoiselle, to leave the home of your
childhood and those you have--known there?'

“'Sir!' replied she haughtily, as the tone of his voice assumed a
meaning which could not be mistaken; 'you seem to have forgotten
yourself somewhat, or you had not dared--'

“'Dared!' interrupted he, in a louder key,--'dared! I have dared more
than that! Yes,' cried he, in a voice where passion could be no longer
held under, 'Léon Guichard, the steward, has dared to love his master's
daughter! Start not so proudly back, Madame! Time was when such an
avowal had been a presumption death could not repay. But these days are
passed; the haughty have been well humbled; they who deemed their blood
a stream too pure to mingle with the current in plebeian veins, have
poured it lavishly beneath the guillotine. Léon Guichard has no master
now!'

“The fire flashed from his eyes as he spoke, and his color, pale at
first, grew darker and darker, till his face became almost purple;
while his nostrils, swelled to twice their natural size, dilated and
contracted like those of a fiery charger. Terrified at the frightful
paroxysm of passion before her, the timid girl endeavored to allay his
anger, and replied,--

“'You know well, Léon, that my brother has ever treated you as a
friend--'

“'He a friend!' cried he, stamping on the ground, while a look of
demoniac malice lit up his features. 'He, who talks to me as though
I were a vassal, a slave; he, who deems his merest word of approval a
recompense for all my labor, all my toil; he, whose very glance shoots
into my heart like a dagger! Think you I forgive him the contemptuous
treatment of nineteen years, or that I can pardon insults because they
have grown into habits? Hear me!'--he grasped her wrist rigidly as he
spoke, and continued, 'I have sworn an oath to be revenged on him, from
the hour when, a boy scarce eight years old, he struck me in the face,
and called me canaille. I vowed his ruin. I toiled for it, I strove for
it, and I succeeded,--ay, succeeded. I obtained from the Convention the
confiscation of your lands,--all, everything you possessed. I held the
titles in my possession, for I was the owner of this broad château,--ay,
Léon Guichard! even so; you were but my guest here. I kept it by me many
a day, and when your brother was drawn in the conscription I resolved to
assert my right before the world.'

“He paused for a moment, while a tremendous convulsion shook his frame,
and made him tremble liker one in an ague; then suddenly rallying, he
passed his hand across his brow, and in a lower voice, resumed, 'I would
have done so, but for you.'

“'For me! What mean you?' said she, almost sinking with terror.

“'I loved you,--loved you as only he can love who can surrender all his
cherished hopes, his dream of ambition, his vengeance even, to his love.
I thought, too, that you were not cold to my advances; and fearing lest
any hazard should apprise you of my success, and thus run counter to my
wishes, I lived on here as your servant, still hoping for the hour when
I might call you mine, and avow myself the lord of this château. How
long I might have continued thus I know not. To see you, to look on you,
to live beneath the same roof with you, seemed happiness enough; but
when I heard that you were to leave this, to go away, never to return
perhaps, or if so, not as her I loved and worshipped, then--But why look
you thus? Is it because you doubt these things? Look here; see this. Is
that in form? Are these signatures authentic? Is this the seal of the
National Convention? What say you now? It is not the steward Léon
that sues, but the Citizen Guichard, proprietaire de Rochefort. Now,
methinks, that makes some difference in the proposition.'

“'None, sir,' replied she, with a voice whose steady utterance made each
word sink into his heart, 'save that it adds to my contempt for him
who has dared to seek my affection in the ruin of my family. I did not
despise you before--'

“'Beware!' said he, in a voice of menace, but in which no violence of
passion entered; 'you are in my power. I ask you again, will you
consent to be my wife? Will you save your brother from the scaffold, and
yourself from beggary and ruin? I can accomplish both.'

“A look of ineffable scorn was all her reply; when he sprang forward and
threw his arm round her waist.

“'Or would you drive me to the worst--'

“A terrific shriek broke from her as she felt his hand around her, when
the brushwood crashed behind her, and her brother's dogs sprang from the
thicket. With a loud cry she called upon his name. He answered from the
wood, and dashed towards her just as she sank fainting to the ground.
Léon was gone.

“As soon as returning strength permitted, she told her brother the
fearful story of the steward; but bound him by every entreaty not to
bring himself in contact with a monster so depraved. When they reached
the château, they learned that Guichard had been there and left it
again. And from that hour they saw him no more.

“I must now conclude in a few words; and, to do so, may mention, that
in the year '99 I became the purchaser of Haut Rochefort at a sale of
forfeited estates, it having been bought by Government on some previous
occasion, but from whom and how, I never heard. The story I have told I
learned from the notaire of Hubane, the village in the neighborhood, who
was conversant with all its details, and knew well the several actors in
it, as well as their future fortunes.

“The brother became a distinguished officer, and rose to some rank in
the service; but embarking in the expedition to Ireland, was reported
to Bonaparte as having betrayed the French cause. The result was, he
was struck off the list of the army, and pronounced degraded. He died in
some unknown place.

“The sister became attached to her cousin, but the brother opposing
the union, she was taken away to Paris. The lover returned to Bretagne,
where, having heard a false report of her marriage at Court, he assumed
holy orders; and being subsequently charged--but it is now believed
falsely--of corresponding with the Bourbons, was shot in his own garden
by a platoon of infantry. But how is this? Are you ill? Has my story so
affected you?”

“That brother was my friend,--my dearest, my only friend, Charles de
Meudon!”

“What! and did you know poor Charles?”

But I could not speak; the tears ran fast down my cheeks as I thought of
all his sorrows,--sorrows far greater than ever he had told me.

“Poor Marie!” said the general, as he wiped a tear from his eye; “few
have met such an enemy as she did. Every misfortune of her life has
sprung from one hand: her brother's, her lover's death, were both his
acts.”

“Lâon Guichard! And who is he? or how could he have done these things?”

“Methinks you might yourself reply to your own question.”

“I! How could that be? I know him not.”

“Yes, but you do. Lâon Guichard is Mehée de la Touche!”

Had a thunderbolt fallen between us I could not have felt more terror.
That name, spoken but twice or thrice in my hearing, had each time
brought its omen of evil.

It was the same with whose acquaintance Marie de Meudon charged me in
the garden of Versailles; the same who brought the _Chouans_ to the
guillotine, and had so nearly involved myself in their ruin; and now I
heard of him as one whose dreadful life had been a course of perfidy and
crime,--one who blasted all around him, and scattered ruin as he went.

“I have little more to add,” resumed the general, after a long pause,
and in a voice whose weakened accents evinced how fearfully the
remembrance he called up affected him. “What remains, too, more
immediately concerns myself than others. I am the last of my house. An
ancient family, and one not undistinguished in the annals of France,
hangs but on the feeble thread of a withered and broken old man's life,
with whom it dies. My only brother fell in the Austrian campaign. I
never had a sister. Uncles and cousins I have had in numbers; but death
and exile have been rife these last twenty years, and, save myself, none
bears the name of D'Auvergne.

“Yet once I nourished the hope of a family,--of a race who should hand
down the ancient virtues of our house to after years. I thought of those
gallant ancestors whose portraits graced the walls of the old château
I was born in, and fancied myself leading my infant boy from picture
to picture, as I pointed out the brave and the good who had been his
forefathers. But this is a dream long since dispelled. I was then a
youth, scarce older than yourself, rich, and with every prospect of
happiness before me. I fell in love, and the object of my passion
seemed one created to have made the very paradise I sought for. She was
beautiful, beyond even the loveliest of a handsome Court; high-born and
gifted. But her heart was bestowed on another,--one who, unlike myself,
encouraged no daring thoughts, no ambitious longings, but who, wholly
devoted to her he loved, sought in tranquil quiet the happiness such
spirits can give each other. She told me herself frankly, as I speak
now to you, that she could not be mine; and then placed my hand in her
husband's. This was Marie de Rochefort, the mother of Mademoiselle de
Meudon.

“The world's changes seem ever to bring about these strange vicissitudes
by which our early deeds of good and evil are brought more forcibly to
our memories, and we are made to think over the past by some accident of
the present. After twenty years I came to live in that château where she
whom I once loved had lived and died. I became the lord of that estate
which her husband once possessed, and where in happiness they had dwelt
together. I will not dwell upon the thoughts such associations ever give
rise to; I dare not, old as I am, evoke them.”

He paused for some minutes, and then went on: “Two years ago I learned
that Mademoiselle de Meudon was the daughter of my once loved Marie.
From that hour I felt no longer childless. I watched over her,--without,
however, attracting notice on her part,--and followed her everywhere.
The very day I saw you first at the Polytechnique, I was beside her.
From all I could learn and hear, her life bad been one of devoted
attachment to her brother, and then to Madame Bonaparte. Her heart, it
was said, was buried with him she once loved,--at least none since
had ever won even the slightest acknowledgment from her bordering on
encouragement.

“Satisfied that she was everything I could have wished my own daughter,
and feeling that with youth the springs of affection rarely dry up, I
conceived the idea of settling all my property on her, and entreating
the Emperor to make me her guardian, with her own consent of course. He
agreed: he went further; he repealed, so far as it concerned her, the
law by which the daughters of Royalists cannot inherit, and made her
eligible to succeed to property, and placed her hand at my disposal.

“Such was the state of matters when I wrote to you. Since that I have
seen her, and spoken to her in confidence. She has consented to every
portion of the arrangement, save that which involves her marrying; but
some strange superstition being over her mind that her fate is to ruin
all with whom it is linked, that her name carries an evil destiny
with it, she refuses every offer of marriage, and will not yield to my
solicitation.

“I thought,” said the general, as he leaned on his hand, and muttered
half aloud, “that I had conceived a plan which must bring happiness with
it. But, however, one part of my design is accomplished: she is my heir;
the daughter of my own loved Marie is the child of my adoption, and for
this I have reason to feel grateful. The cheerless feeling of a deathbed
where not one mourns for the dying haunts me no longer, and I feel not
as one deserted and alone. To-morrow I go to wish her adieu; and we are
to be at the Tuileries by noon. The Emperor holds a levée, and our final
orders will then be given.”

The old general rallied at the last few words he spoke, and pressing my
hand affectionately, wished me goodnight, and withdrew; while I, with a
mind confused and stunned, sat thinking over the melancholy story he had
related, and sorrowing over the misfortunes of one whose lot in life had
been far sadder than my own.



CHAPTER XLII. THE HALL OF THE MARSHALS

Some minutes before noon we entered the Place du Carrousel, now thronged
with equipages and led horses. Officers in the rich uniforms of every arm
of the service were pressing their way to the Palace, amid the crash of
carriages, the buzz of recognitions, and the thundering sounds of the
brass band, whose echo was redoubled beneath the vaulted vestibule of
the Palace.

Borne along with the torrent, we mounted the wide stair and passed
from room to room, until we arrived at the great antechamber where the
officers of the household were assembled in their splendid dresses. Here
the crowd was so dense we were unable to move on for some time, and
it was after nearly an hour's waiting that we at last found ourselves
within that gorgeous gallery named by the Emperor “La Salle des
Maréchaux.” At any other moment my attention had been riveted upon
the magnificence and beauty of this great _salon_--its pictures, its
gildings, the richness of the hangings, the tasteful elegance of the
ceiling, with its tracery of dull gold, the great works of art in bronze
and marble that adorned it on every side,--but now my mind took another
and very different range. Here around me were met the greatest generals
and warriors of Europe,--the names second alone to his who had no equal.
There stood Ney, with his broad, retiring forehead, and his eyes black
and flashing, like an eagle's. With what energy he spoke! how full of
passionate vigor that thick and rapid utterance, that left a tremulous
quivering on his lip even when he ceased to speak! What a contrast to
the bronzed, unmoved features of the large man he addressed, and who
listened to him with such deference of manner: his yellow mustache
bespeaks not the Frenchman; he is a German, by blood at least,--for it
is Kellerman, the colonel of the curassiers of the Guard. And yonder was
Soult, with his strong features seamed by many a day of hardship,
the centre of a group of colonels of the staff to whom he was rapidly
communicating their orders. Close beside him stood Lannes, his arm in
a sling; a gunshot wound that defied the art of the surgeons still
deprived him of his left hand. And there leaned Savary against the
window, his dark eyes riveted on the corps of _gendarmerie_ in the court
beneath; full taller by a head than the largest about him, he seemed
almost gigantic in the massive accoutrements of his service. The fierce
Davoust; the gay and splendid Murat, with his waving plumes and jewelled
dolman; Lefebvre, the very type of his class, moving with difficulty
from a wound in his hip,--all were there: while passing rapidly from
place to place, I remarked a young and handsome man, whose uniform of
colonel bore the decoration of the Legion; he appeared to know and be
known to all. This was Eugène Beauharnais, the stepson of the Emperor.

“Ah, Général d'Auvergne!” cried he, approaching with a smile, “his
Majesty desires to see you after the levée. You leave to-night, I
believe?”

“Yes, Colonel; all is in readiness,” said the general; while I thought a
look of anxiety at the Emperor's summons seemed to agitate his features.

“One of your staff?” said Beauharnais, bowing, as he looked towards me.

“My aide-de-camp, Lieutenant Burke,” replied the general, presenting me.

“Ah! I remember,” said the colonel, as he drew himself proudly up, and
seemed as though the recollection were anything but favorable to me.

But just then the wide folding-doors were thrown open, and a loud voice
proclaimed, “Sa Majesté l'Empereur!”

In an instant every voice was hushed, the groups broke up, and fell
back into two long lines, between which lay a passage; along this the
officers of the Palace retired slowly, facing the Emperor, who came step
by step after them. I could but see the pale face, massive and regular,
like the head of an antique cameo; the hair combed straight upon his
fine forehead; and his large, full eyes, as they turned hither and
thither among that crowd, once his equals, now how immeasurably his
inferiors! He stopped every now and then to say a word or two to some
one as he passed, but in so low a tone, that even in the dead silence
around nothing was audible save a murmur. It was a relief to my own
excited feelings, as, with high, beating heart, I gazed on the greatest
monarch of the world, that I beheld the others around, the oldest
generals, the time-worn companions of his battles, not less moved than
myself.

While the Emperor passed slowly along, I could mark that Eugène
Beauharnais moved rapidly through the gallery, whispering now to this
one, now to that, among the officers of superior grade, who immediately
after left the salon by a door at the end. At length he approached
General d'Auvergne, saying,--

“The audience of the marshals, will not occupy more than half an hour;
pray be in readiness to wait on his Majesty when he calls. You can
remain in the blue drawing-room next the gallery!”

The general bowed, and taking my arm, moved slowly from the spot in
the direction mentioned, and in a few minutes we found ourselves in the
small room where the Empress used to receive her morning visitors during
the Consulate.

“You remember this _salon_ Burke?” said the general, carelessly.

“Yes, sir, but too well; it was here that his Majesty gave me that
rebuke--”

“True, true, my dear boy; I forgot that completely. But come, there has
been time enough to forget it since. I wonder what can mean this summons
to attend here! I have received my orders; there has been, so far as I
understand, no change of plan. Well, well, we shall soon know. See,
the levée has begun to break up already; there goes the staff of the
artillery; that roll of the drum is for some general of division.”

And now the crash of carriages, and the sounds of cavalry escorts
jingling beside them, mingled with the deep beating of the drums, made
a mass of noises that filled the air, and continued without interruption
|or above an hour.

“_Sacristi_” cried the general, “the crowd seems to pour in as fast as
it goes out; this may last for the entire day. I have scarce two hours
left me now.”

He walked the room impatiently; now muttering some broken words to
himself, now stopping to listen to the sounds without. Still the din
continued, and the distant roll of equipages, growing louder as they
came, told that the tide was yet pressing onwards towards the Palace.
“Three o'clock!” cried the general, as the bell of the pavilion sounded;
“at four I was to leave. Such were my written orders, signed by the
minister.”

His impatience now became extreme. He knew how difficult it was, in a
matter of military discipline, to satisfy Napoleon that any breach,
even when caused by his direct orders, was not a fault. Besides, his old
habits had taught him to respect a command from the Minister of War as
something above all others.

“Beauharnais must have mistaken,” said he, angrily. “His Majesty gave me
my final directions; I'll wait no longer.”

Yet did he hesitate to leave, and seemed actually to rely on me for some
hint for his guidance. I did not dare to offer a suggestion; and while
thus we both stood uncertain, the door opened, and a huissier called
out,--

“Lieutenant-Greneral d'Auvergne,--this way, sir,” said the official, as
he threw open a folding-door into a long gallery that looked into the
garden. They passed out together, and I was alone.

The agitation of the general at this unexpected summons had communicated
itself to me, but in a far different way; for I imagined that his
Majesty desired only to confer some mark of favor on the gallant old
general before parting with him. Yet did I not venture to suggest this
to him, for fear I should be mistaken.

While I revolved these doubts in my mind, the door was flung open with a
crash, and a page, in the uniform of the Court, rushed in.

“May I ask, sir,” cried he, breathlessly, “can you inform me where
is the aide-de-camp of the General d'Auvergne? I forget the name,
unfortunately.”

“I am the person,--Lieutenant Burke.”

“The same; that is the name. Gome after me with all haste; this way.”
 And so saying, he rushed down a flight of stone stairs, clearing six or
seven at a spring.

“A hurried business this, Lieutenant,” said the page, laughingly; “took
them by by surprise, I fancy.”

“What is it? What do you mean?” asked I, eagerly.

“Hush!” said he, placing his fingers on his lips; “here they come.”

We had just time to stand to one side of the gallery, as the officers
of the household came up, two and two, followed by the Chancellor of
France, and the Dean of St. Roch in his full canonicals. They approached
the table, on which several papers and documents were lying, and
proceeded to sign their names to different writings before them. While
I looked on, puzzled and amazed, totally unable to make the most vague
conjecture of the nature of the proceedings, I perceived that General
d'Auvergne had entered the room, and was standing among the rest at the
table.

“Whose signature do you propose here. General?” said the chancellor, as
he took up a paper before him.

“My aide-de-camp. Lieutenant Burke.”

“He is here, sir,” said the page, stepping forward.

“You are to sign your name here, sir, and again on this side,” said
the chancellor, “with your birthplace annexed, age, and rank in the
service.”

“I am a foreigner,” said I; “does that make any difference here?”

“None,” said he, smiling; “the witness is but a very subordinate
personage here.”

I took the pen, and proceeded to write as I was desired; and, while thus
engaged, the door opened, and a short, heavy step crossed the room. I
did not dare to look up; some secret feeling of terror ran through me,
and told me it was the Emperor himself.

“Well, D'Auvergne,” said he, in a frank, bold way, quite different from
his ordinary voice, “you seem but half content with this plan of mine.
_Pardieu!_ there's many a brave fellow would not deem the case so hard a
one.”

“As your wish, sire--”

“As mine, _diantre!_ my friend. Do not say mine only; you forget that
the lady expressed herself equally satisfied. Come I is the _acte_
completed?”

“It wants but your Majesty's signature,” said the chancellor.

The Emperor took the pen, and dashed some indescribable scroll across
the paper; then turning suddenly towards the general, he conversed with
him eagerly for several minutes, but in so low a voice as not to
be audible where I stood. I could but catch the words “Darmstadt--
Augsburg--the fourth corps;” from which it seemed the movements of the
army were the subject; when he added, in a louder voice,--

“Every hour now is worth a day, ay, a week, hereafter. Remember that,
D'Auvergne.”

“Everything is finished, sire,” said the chancellor, handing the folded
papers to the Emperor.

“These are for your keeping, Greneral,” said he, delivering them into
D'Auvergne's hand.

“Pardon, sire,” said the chancellor, hastily, “I have made a great error
here. Madame la Comtesse has not appended her signature to the consent.”

“Indeed!” said the Emperor, smiling. “We have been too hasty, it would
seem; so thinks our reverend father of Saint Roch, I perceive, who is
evidently not accustomed to officiate _au coup de tambour_.”

“Her Majesty the Empress!” said the _huissier_, as he opened the doors
to permit her to enter. She was dressed in full Court dress, covered
with jewels; she held within her arm the hand of another, over whose
figure a deep veil was thrown, that entirely concealed her from head to
foot.

“Madame la Comtesse will have the kindness to sign this,” said the
chancellor, as he handed over a pen to the lady.

She threw back her veil as he spoke. As she turned towards the table, I
saw the pale, almost deathlike features of Marie de Meudon. Such was the
shock, I scarce restrained a cry from bursting forth, and a film fell
before my eyes as I looked, and the figures before me floated like
masses of vapor before my sight.

The Empress now spoke to the general, but no longer could I take notice
of what was said. Voices there were, but they conveyed nothing to my
mind. A terrible rush of thoughts, too quick for perception, chased one
another through my brain, and I felt as though my temples were bursting
open from some pressure within.

Suddenly the general moved forward, and knelt to kiss the Empress's
hand; he then took that of Mademoiselle de Meudon, and held it to his
lips. I heard the word “Adieu!” faintly uttered by her low voice; the
veil fell once more over her features. That moment a stir followed, and
in a few minutes more we were descending the stairs alone, the general
leaning on my arm, his right hand pressed across his eyes.

When we reached the court, several officers of rank pressed forward, and
I could hear the buzz of phrases implying congratulations and joy, to
which the old general replied briefly, and with evident depression of
manner. The dreadful oppression of a sad dream was over me still, and I
felt as though to awake were impossible, when, to some remark near him,
the general replied,--

“True! Quite true, Monseigneur; I have made her my wife. There only
remains one reparation for it, which is to make her my widow.”

“His wife!” said I, aloud, re-echoing the word without knowing.

“Even so, mon ami,” said he, pressing my hand softly; “my name and my
fortune are both hers. As for myself,--we shall never meet again.”

He turned away his head as he spoke, nor uttered another word during the
remainder of the way.

When we arrived at the Rue de Rohan the horses were harnessed to the
carriage, and all in readiness for our departure. The rumor of expected
war had brought, a crowd of idlers about the door, through which we
passed with some difficulty into the house. Hastily throwing an eye
over the now dismantled room, the old general approached the window that
looked out upon the Tuileries. “Adieu!” muttered he to himself; “je ne
vous reverrai jamais!” And with that he pressed his travelling-cap over
his brows, and descended the stairs.

A cheer burst from the mob; the postilion's whip cracked loudly;
the horses dashed over the pavement; and ere the first flurry of mad
excitement had subsided from my mind, Paris was some miles behind us,
and we were hastening on towards the frontier.

Almost every man has experienced at least one period of his life when
the curtain seems to drop, and the drama in which he has hitherto acted
to end; when a total change appears to pass over the interests he has
lived among, and a new and very different kind of existence to open
before him. Such is the case when the death of friends has left us
alone and companionless; when they into whose ears we poured our whole
thoughts of sorrow or of joy are gone, and we look around upon the bleak
world without a tie to existence, without one hope to cheer us. How
naturally then do we turn from every path and place once lingered
over! how do we fly the thoughts wherein once consisted our greatest
happiness, and seek from other sources impressions less painful, because
unconnected with the past! Still, the bereavement of death is never
devoid of a sense of holy calm, a sort of solemn peace connected with
the memory of the lost one. In the sleep that knows no waking we see the
end of earthly troubles; in the silence of the grave come no sounds
of this world's contention; the winds that stir the rank grass of the
churchyard breathe at least repose. Not so when fate has severed us from
those we loved best during lifetime; when the fortunes we hoped to link
with our own are torn asunder from us; when the hour comes when we must
turn from the path we had followed with pleasure and happiness, and
seek another road in life, bearing with us not only all the memory of
the past, but all the speculation on the future. There is no sorrow, no
affliction, like this.

It was thus I viewed my joyless fortune,--with such depressing
reflections I thought over the past. What mattered it now how my career
might turn? There lived not one to care whether rank or honor, disgrace
or death, were to be my portion. The glorious path I often longed to
tread opened for me now without exciting one spark of enthusiasm. So
is it even in our most selfish desires, we live less for ourselves than
others.

If my road in life seemed to present few features to hang hopes on, he
who sat beside me appeared still more depressed. Seldom speaking, and
then but in monosyllables, he remained sunk in reverie.

And thus passed the days of our journey, when on the third evening we
came in sight of Coblentz. Then indeed there burst upon my astonished
gaze one of those scenes which once seen are never forgotten. From the
gentle declivity which we were now descending, the view extended several
miles in every direction. Beneath us lay the city of Coblentz, its
spires and domes shining like gilded bronze as the rays of the setting
sun fell upon them; the Moselle swept along one side of the town till it
mingled its eddies with the broad Rhine, now one sheet of liquid gold;
the long pontoon bridge, against whose dark cutwaters the bright stream
broke in sparkling circles, trembled beneath the dull roll of artillery
and baggage-wagons, which might be seen issuing from the town, and
serpentining their course along the river's edge for miles, till they
were lost in the narrow glen by which the Lahn flows into the Rhine.
Beyond rose the great precipice of rock, with its crowning fortress
of Ehrenbreitstein, along whose battlemented walls, almost lost in the
heavy clouds of evening, might be seen dark specks moving from place to
place,--the soldiers of the garrison looking down from their eyrie on
the war-tide that flowed beneath. Lower down the river many boats were
crossing, in which, as the sunlight shone, one could mark the glancing
of arms and the glitter of uniforms; while farther again, and in deep
shadow, rose the solitary towers of the ruined castle of Lahneck, its
shattered walls and grass-grown battlements standing clearly out against
the evening sky.

Far as we were oif, every breeze that stirred bore towards us the
softened swell of military music, which, even when too faint to trace,
made the air tremulous with its martial sounds. Along the ramparts of
the city were crowds of townspeople, gazing with anxious wonderment at
the spectacle; for none knew, save the generals in command of divisions,
the destination of that mighty force, the greatest Europe had ever
seen up to that period. Such indeed were the measures taken to ensure
secrecy, that none were permitted to cross the frontier without a
special authority from the Minister for Foreign Affairs; the letters in
the various post-offices were detained, and even travellers were denied
post-horses on the great roads to the eastward, lest intelligence
might be conveyed to Germany of the movement in progress. Meanwhile,
at Manheim, at Spire, at Strasburg, and at Coblentz, the long columns
streamed forth whose eagles were soon destined to meet in the great
plains of Southern Germany.

Such was the gorgeous spectacle that each moment grew more palpable to
our astonished senses,--more brilliant far than anything painting could
realize,--more spirit-stirring than the grandest words that poet ever
sang.

“The cuirassiers and the dragoons of the Guard are yonder,” said the
general, as he directed his glass to a large square of the town where
a vast mass of dismounted cavalry were standing. “You see how punctual
they are; we are but two hours behind our time, and they are awaiting
our arrival.”

“And do we move forward to-night, General?” asked I, in some surprise.

“Yes, and every night. The marches are to be made fourteen hours each
day. There go the Lancers of Berg; you see their scarlet dolmans, don't
you? And yonder, in the three large boats beyond the point, there are
the sappers of the Guard. What are the shouts I hear? Whence comes that
cheering? Oh, I see! it's a vivandière; her horse has backed into the
river. See, see! she is going to swim him over! Look how the current
takes him down! Bravely done, faith! She heads him to the stream; it
won't do, though; she must be carried down.”

Just at this critical moment a boat shoots out from under the cliff; a
few strokes of the oars and they are alongside. There's a splash and a
shout, and the skiff moves on.

“And now I see they have given her a rope, and are towing her and her
horse across. See how the old spirit comes back with the first blast of
the trumpet,” said the old general, as his eyes flashed with enthusiasm.
“That damsel there,--I 'll warrant ye, she 'd have thought twice about
stepping over a rivulet in the streets of Paris yesterday; and look at
her now! Well done! gallantly done! See how she spurs him up the
bank! _Ma foi!_ Mademoiselle, you 'll have no lack of lovers for that
achievement.”

A few minutes more and we entered the town, whose streets were thronged
with soldiers hurrying on to their different corps, and eager townsfolk
asking a hundred questions, to which, of course, few waited to reply.

“This way, General,” said an officer in undress, who recognized General
d'Auvergne. “The cavalry of the third division is stationed on the
square.”

Driving through a narrow street, through which the _calèche_ had barely
room to pass, we now found ourselves in the Place,--a handsome space
surrounded with a double row of trees, under which the dragoons were
lying, holding the bridles of their horses.

The general had scarcely put foot to ground when the trumpets sounded
the call. The superior officers came running forward to greet him.
Taking the arm of a short man in the uniform of the cuirassiers, the
general entered a café near, while I became the centre of some dozen
officers, all eagerly asking the news from Paris, and whether the
Emperor had yet left the capital. It was not without considerable
astonishment I then perceived how totally ignorant they all were of the
destination of the army; many alleging it was designed for Russia,
and others equally positive that the Prussians were the object of
attack,--the arguments in support of each opinion being wonderfully
ingenious, and only deficient in one respect, having not a particle of
fact for their foundation.

In the midst of these conjecturings came a new subject for discussion;
for one of the group, who had just received a letter from his brother, a
page at the Tuileries, was reading the contents aloud for the benefit of
the rest:--

“Jules says that they are all astray as to the Emperor's movements.
Duroc has left Paris suddenly, but no one knows for where; the only
thing certain is, a hot campaign is to open somewhere. One hundred and
eighty thousand men--”

“Bah!” said an old, white-mustached major, with a look of evident
unbelief; “we never had forty with the army of the Sambre.”

“And what then?” said another, fiercely. “Do you compare your army of
the Sambre, your sans-culottes Republicans, with the Imperial troops?”

The old major's face became deeply crimsoned, and with a muttered _À
demain_ he walked away.

“Go after him, Amédée,” said another; “you had no right to say that.”

“Not I, faith,” said the other, carelessly. “There is a grudge between
us these three weeks past, and we may as well have it out. Go on with
the letter, Henri.”

“Oh, it is filled with Court gossip,” said the reader, negligently. “Ha!
what is this, though?--the postscript:--

“'I have just time to tell you the strangest bit of news we have chanced
upon for some time past. The Emperor has this moment married old
General d'Auvergne to the very handsomest girl in the Empress's
suite,--Mademoiselle de Meudon. There is a rumor afloat about the old
man having made her his heir, and desiring to confer her hand on
some young fellow of his own choosing. But this passion to make Court
matches, which has seized his Majesty lately, stops at nothing; and it
is whispered that old Madame d'Orvalle is actually terrified at every
levee lest she should be disposed of to one of the new marshals. I must
say that the general looks considerably put out by the arrangement,--not
unnaturally, perhaps, as he is likely to pass the honeymoon in the
field; while his aide-de-camp, a certain Monsieur Burke, whose name you
may remember figuring in the affair of Pichegru and George--'”

“Perhaps it were as well, sir,” said I, quietly, “that I should tell
you the person alluded to is myself. I have no desire to learn how
your correspondent speaks of me; nor, I take it for granted, do these
gentlemen desire to canvass me in my own hearing. With your leave, then,
I shall withdraw.”

“A word. Monsieur; one word, first,” said the officer, whose insolent
taunt had already offended the veteran major. “We are most of us here
staff-officers, and I need not say accustomed to live pretty much
together. Will you favor us, then, with a little explanation as to the
manner in which you escaped a trial in that business. Your name, if I
mistake not, did not figure before the tribunal after the first day?”

“Well, sir; and then?”

“And then? Why, there is one only explanation in such a circumstance.”

“And that is? if I may be so bold--”

“That the _mouchard_ fares better than his victim.”

“I believe, sir,” said I, “I comprehend your meaning; I hope there will
be no fear of your mistaking mine.”

With that I drew off the long gauntlet glove I wore, and struck him
across the face.

Every man sprang backwards as I did so, as though a shell had fallen
in the midst of us; while a deep voice called out from behind, “Le
Capitaine Amédée Pichot is under arrest.”

I turned, and beheld the provost-marshal with his guard approach, and
take my adversary's sword from him.

“What charge is this, Marshal?” said he, as a livid color spread over
his cheek.

“Your duel of yesterday, Capitaine; you seem to forget all about it
already.”

“Whenever and wherever you please, sir,” said I, passing close beside
him, and speaking in a whisper.

He nodded without uttering a word in reply, and moved after the guard,
while the others dispersed silently, and left me standing alone in the
Place.

What would I not have given at that moment for but one friend to counsel
and advise me; and yet, save the general, to whom I dared not speak on
such a subject, I had not one in the whole world. It was, indeed, but
too true, that life had little value for me; yet never did I contemplate
a duel with more abhorrence. The insult I had inflicted, however, could
have no other result. While I reasoned thus, the door of the café,
opened, and the general appeared.

“Burke,” cried he, “come in here, and make a hasty supper; you must be
in the saddle in half an hour.”

“Quite ready, sir.”

“I know it, my lad. Your orders are there: ride forward to Ettingen, and
prepare the billets for the fourth demi-brigade, which will reach that
village by to-morrow evening; you'll have time for something to eat, and
a glass of wine, before the orderly arrives. This piece of duty is
put on you, because a certain Captain Pichot, the only one of the
commissaries' department who can speak German, has just been put under
arrest for a duel he fought yesterday. I wish the court-marshal would
shoot the fellow, with all my heart and soul; he's a perfect curse to
the whole division. In any case, if he escape this time, I'll keep my
eye on him, and he'll scarce get clear through my hands, I'll warrant
him.”

It may be supposed that I heard these words with no common emotion,
bearing as they did so closely on my own circumstances at the moment.
But I hung down my head and affected to eat, while the old general
walked hastily up and down the _salon_ muttering half aloud heavy
denunciations on the practice of duelling, which at any cost of life he
resolved to put down in his command.

“Done already! Why, man, you've eaten nothing. Well, then, I see the
orderly without; you've got a capital moonlight for your ride. And so,
_au revoir_.”

“Good-by, sir,” said I, as I sprang into the saddle. “And now for
Ettingen.”



CHAPTER XLIII. THE MARCH ON THE DANUBE.

There is a strange, unnatural kind of pleasure felt sometimes in the
continued attacks of evil fortune: the dogged courage with which we bear
up against the ills of fate, swimming more strongly as the waves grow
rougher, has its own meed of consolation. It is only at such a time,
perhaps, that the really independent spirit of our natures is in the
ascendant, and that we can stand amid the storm, conscious of our
firmness, and bid the winds “blow and crack their cheeks.” Yet, through
how many sorrows must one have waded, ere he reach this point! through
what trials must he have passed I how must hope have paled, and
flickered, and died out I how must all self-love, all ambition, all
desire itself have withered within us, till we become like the mere rock
amid the breakers, against which the waves beat in vain! When that hour
comes, the heart has grown cold and callous, the affections have dried
up, and man looks no more upon his fellow-men as brothers.

Towards this sad condition I found myself rapidly verging; the isolation
of my homeless, friendless state, the death of my hopes, the uncheered
path in which I walked, all conspired to make me feel depressed, and
I perceived that a half-recklessness was already stealing over me, and
that in my indifference as to fortune now lay my greatest consolation.
There was a time when such a rencontre as lately befell me had made me
miserable till the hour came when I should meet my adversary; now, my
blood boiled with no indignant passion, no current of angry vengeance
stirred through my veins, a stupid sullenness was over me, and I cared
nothing what might happen. And if this state became not permanent, I owe
it to youth alone--the mainspring of many of our best endeavors.

We had travelled some seven or eight miles when we stopped for a few
seconds at the door of a cabaret, and then I discovered for the first
time that my old friend Pioche was the corporal of our little party. To
my slight reproach for his not having sooner made himself known to
me, the honest fellow replied that he saw I was low in spirits about
something, and did not wish to obtrude upon me.

“Not but, after all, mon lieutenant, the best way is always to 'face
front' against bad luck, and charge through; _sapermint_, that's the way
we did at Marengo, when Desaix's corps was cut off from the left--But
pardon, mon officier, I forgot you were not there.”

There was something so pleasant in the gruff courtesy of the hardy
cuirassier, that I willingly led him on to speak of his former
life,--a subject which, once entered on, he followed as fancy or memory
suggested.

“I used to feel low-spirited myself, once,” said Pioche, as he smoothed
down his great mustache with a complacent motion of his fingers--“I used
to be very low in heart when I entered the service first, and saw all my
old school-fellows and companions winning their epaulettes and becoming
captains and colonels,--ay, _parbleu_, and marshals, too,--while,
because I could not read, I was to remain all my life in the ranks; as
if one could not force a palisade nor break through a square till he had
stuffed his head with learning. All this made me very sad, and I would
sit brooding over it for hours long. But at last I began to think my
own lot was not the worst after all; my duty was easily done, and, when
over, I could sleep sound till the _reveil_ blew. I ran no danger of being
scolded by the Petit Caporal, because my division was not somewhere
yesterday, nor in some other place to-day. He never came with a frown to
ask me why I had not captured another howitzer and taken more prisoners.
No, faith! It was always,--'Well done, Pioche! bravely done, mon enfant!
here's a piece of twenty francs to drink my health.' Or perhaps he'd
mutter between his teeth, 'That honest fellow there would make a better
general than one half of them.' Not that he was in earnest, you know;
but still it was pleasant just to hear it.”

“And yet, Pioche,” said I, “it does surprise me why, seeing that this
want of learning was the bar to your promotion, you did not--”

“And so I did, mon lieutenant; at least I tried to learn to read.
_Morbleu!_ it was a weary time for me. I'd rather be under arrest three
days a week, than be at it again. Mademoiselle Minette--she was the
vivandiére of ours--undertook to teach me; and I used to go over to the
canteen every evening after drill. Many a sad heart had I over these
same lessons. Saprelotte, I could learn the look of every man in a
brigade before I could know the letters in the alphabet, they looked so
confoundedly alike when they stood up all in a line. The only fellows
I could distinguish were the big ones, that were probably the sergeants
and sous-officiers; and when my eye was fixed on one column, it would
stray away to another; and then mademoiselle would laugh, and that would
lead to something else. Et, _ma foi_, the spelling-book was soon thrown
aside, and lessons given up for that evening.”

“I suppose Mademoiselle Minette was pretty, Pioche?”

“Was I ay, and is, too. What! mon lieutenant, did you never see her on
parade? She's the handsomest girl in the army, and rides so well,--mille
cannons! She might have been a great lady before this if she 'd have
left the regiment; but no, she'd die first! Her father was tambour-major
with us, and killed at Groningen when she was only an infant; and we
used to carry her about in our arms on the march, and hand her from
one to another. I have seen her pass from the leading files to the
baggage-guard, on a long summer's day; that I have. Le Petit Caporal
knows her well; she gave him a gourd full of eau-de-vie at Cairo when
he was so faint he could scarcely speak. It was after that he saw her in
the breach at Acre; one of our fellows was lying wounded in the ruins,
and mademoiselle waited till the storming party fell back, and then ran
up to him with her flask in her hand. 'Whose pretty ankles are these? I
think I ought to know them,' said an officer, as she passed along. 'No
flattery will do with me, Monsieur,' cried Minette; 'it's hard enough
to get one's living here, without giving Nantz brandy for nothing.'
Saerigtif when the laugh made her turn about, she saw it was the Petit
Caporal himself who spoke to her. Poor Minette! she blushed scarlet, and
nearly dropped with shame; but that did not prevent her dashing up the
breach towards the wounded man; not that it was of any use, though,--he
was dead when she got up.”

“I should like much to see mademoiselle. Is she still with the Fourth?”

“Yes, mon lieutenant; I parted with her a few hours ago.”

A half suppressed sigh that followed these words showed that the worthy
corporal was touched on the most tender key of his nature, and for some
time he lapsed into a silence I could not venture to break. At length,
desiring to give the conversation a turn, I asked if he knew the
Capitaine Pichot.

“Know him!” cried Pioche, almost bounding in his saddle as he spoke.
“That I do. _Peste!_ I have good reason to know him: see there.” With
that he lifted the curled mustache from his upper lip, and disclosed
to my view a blue scar that marked one side of his mouth. “That was his
doing.”

“Indeed! How so, pray?”

“I 'll tell you. We were in garrison at Metz, where, as you know, the
great commissariat station is held,--thousands of cannon and mortars,
shells and shot, and tons of powder without end. Well, the orders were
very strict against smoking; any man found with a pipe in his mouth was
sentenced to a week in the 'salle de police,' and I can't say what else
besides. When we marched into the town, this order stared us in the
face; a great placard, with big letters, which they who could read said
was against smoking. Now, most of us came from Alsace, and it was pretty
much like setting a fish to live on dry land, bidding us go without
tobacco. As for me, I smoke just as I breathe, without knowing or
thinking of it. My pipe lies in my mouth as naturally as my foot rests
in the stirrup; and so, although I intended to obey the order, I knew
well the time might come when, just from not thinking, I should be
caught smoking away; for if I were on guard over a magazine it would be
all the same,--I could not help it. So I resolved, as the only way not
to be caught tripping, to leave all my pipes in a secret place, till
the time came for us to leave Metz,--an hour, I need not say, we all
anxiously longed for. This I did,” continued Pioche, “that same evening,
and all went on favorably for some time, when one night, as I was
returning to quarters, the devil, who meddles with everything in this
world, made me stick my hands into the pocket of my undress jacket, and
I there discovered a little bit of a pipe about the length of one joint
of your thumb,--a poor scrubby thing of clay, sure enough; but there
it was, and, worse still, ready filled with tobacco. Had it been a good
sized meerschaum, with a tassel and an amber mouthpiece, I had resisted
like a man; but the temptation came in so humble a shape, I thought I
was only guilty of a small sin in transgressing, and so I lit my little
friend, and went gayly along towards the barracks. Just as I passed the
corner of the market-place I heard a great noise of voices and laughing
in the café, and recognized the tones of our major and some of the
officers, as they sat sipping their wine in the verandah. Before I could
raise my hand to my mouth, Capitaine Pichot cried out, 'Halte-la!--right
about face!--attention!--left wheel!--eyes front!' This I did, as if on
parade, and stood stock still; when suddenly crack went a noise, and a
pistol-bullet smashed the pipe in two, and grazed my lip, when a roar of
laughing followed, as he called out louder than before, 'Quick march!'
and I stepped out to my quarters, never turning my head right or left,
not knowing what other ball practice might be in store for me. _Tonnerre
de Dieu!_ a little windage of the shot might have cost me every tooth I
have in the world!”

“It was a cruel jest, Pioche, and you 're a good-humored fellow to take
it so easily.”

“Not so. Lieutenant. I had no punishment afterwards, and was well
content to be quit for the fright.”

With such stray memories of his campaigning days did Pioche beguile the
way: now moralizing over the chances and changes of a soldier's fortune;
now comforting himself with some pleasant reflection, that even in his
own humble walk he had assisted at some of the greatest triumphs of the
French armies. Of the future he spoke with the easy confidence of one
who felt that in the Emperor's guidance there could be full trust,--both
of the cause being a just one, and the result victorious. A perfect
type of his class, his bravery was only to be equalled by the implicit
confidence he felt in his leader. That the troops of any country, no
matter how numerous and well equipped, could resist a French army was
a problem he could not even entertain. The thing was too absurd; and if
Napoleon did not at that moment wield undisputed sway over the whole of
Europe, it was simply owing to his excess of moderation, and the willing
sacrifice of his ambition to his greater love of liberty.

I confess, if I were sometimes tempted to smile at the simplicity of the
honest soldier, I was more often carried away by his warm enthusiasm; so
frequently, too, did he interweave in his narrative the mention of those
great victories, whose fame was unquestionable, that in my assent to
the facts I went a great way in my concurrence with the inferences he
deduced from them. And thus we travelled on for several days in
advance of the division, regulating the halting-places and the billets,
according to the nature and facilities of the country. The towns and
villages in our “route” presented an aspect of the most profound peace;
and however strange it seemed, yet each day attested how completely
ignorant the people were of the advance of that mighty army that now, in
four vast columns of march, was pouring its thousands into the heart of
Germany. The Princes of Baden and Darmstadt, through whose territories
we passed, had not as yet given in their adherence to the Emperor; and
the inhabitants of those countries seemed perplexed and confused at
the intentions of their powerful neighbor, whose immense trains of
ammunition and enormous parks of artillery filled every road and blocked
up every village.

At length we reached Manheim, where a portion of the corps of Maréchal
Davoust were in waiting to join us: and there we first learned, by the
imperial bulletin, the object of the war and the destination of the
troops. The document was written by Napoleon himself, and bore abundant
evidence of his style. After the usual programme, attesting his sincere
love for peace, and his desire for the cultivation of those happy and
industrious habits which make nations more prosperous than glorious,
it went on to speak of the great coalition between Russia and Austria,
which, in union with the “_perfide_ Albion,” had no other thought nor
wish than the abasement and dismemberment of France. “But, soldiers!”
 continued he, “your Emperor is in the midst of you. France itself in all
its majesty, is at your back, and you are but the advanced guard of a
mighty people! There are fatigues and privations, battles, and forced
marches, before you; but let them oppose to us every resistance they are
able, we swear never to cry 'Halt!' till we have planted our eagles on
the territory of our enemies!”

We halted two days at Manheim to permit some regiments to come up, and
then marched forward to Nordlingen, which place the Emperor himself had
only quitted the night before. Here the report reached us that a
smart affair had taken place the previous morning between the Austrian
division and a portion of Ney's advanced guard, in which we had
rather the worst of it, and had lost some prisoners. The news excited
considerable discontent among the troops, and increased their impatience
to move forward to a very great degree. Meanwhile, the different
divisions of the French army were converging towards Ulm, from the
north, south, and west; and every hour brought them nearer to that
devoted spot, which as yet, in the security of an enormous garrison,
never dreamed of sudden attack.

The corps of Soult was now pushed forward to Augsburg, and, extended by
a line of communication to Meiningen, the only channel of communication
which remained open to the enemy. The quartier-général of the Emperor
was established at Zummerhausen; Ney was at Guntzburg: Marmont
threatened in the west; and Bernadotte, arriving by forced marches
from Prussia, hovered in the north.--so that Ulm was invested in every
direction at one blow, and that in a space of time almost inconceivable.

While these immense combinations were being effected,--requiring as
they did an enormous extent of circumference to march over before the
fortress could be thus enclosed, as it were, within our grasp,--our
astonishment increased daily that the Austrians delayed to give battle;
but, as if terror-stricken, they waited on day after day while the
measures for their ruin were accomplishing. At length a desperate sortie
was made from the garrison; and a large body of troops, escaping by the
left bank of the Danube, directed their course towards Bohemia; while
another corps, in the opposite direction, forced back Ney's advanced
guard, and took the road towards Nordlingen. Having directed a strong
detachment in pursuit of this latter corps, which was commanded by
the Archduke Frederick himself, the Emperor closed in around Ulm, and
forcing the passage of the river at Elchingen, prepared for the final
attack.

While these dispositions were being effected, the cavalry brigade, under
General d'Auvergne, consisting of three regiments of heavy dragoons, the
Fourth Cuirassiers, and Eighth Hussars, continued to descend the left
bank of the Danube in pursuit of a part of the Austrian garrison which
had taken that line in retreat towards Vienna. We followed as far
as Guntzburg without coming up with them; and there the news of the
capitulation of Meiningen, with its garrison of six thousand men, to
Marechal Soult, reached us, along with an order to return to Ulm.

Up to this time all I had seen of war was forced marches, bivouacs
hastily broken up, hurried movements in advance and retreat, the fatigue
of night parties, and a continual alert. At first the hourly expectation
of coming in sight of the enemy kept up our spirits; but when day after
day passed, and the same pursuit followed, where the pursued never
appeared, the younger soldiers grumbled loudly at fatigues undertaken
without object, and, as it seemed to them, by mistake.

On the night of the 17th of October we bivouacked within a league of
Ulm. Scarcely were the pickets formed for the night, when orders came
for the whole brigade to assemble under arms at daybreak. A thousand
rumors were abroad as to the meaning of the order, but none came near
the true solution; indeed, the difficulty was increased by the added
command, that the regiments should appear _en grande tenue_, or in full
dress.

I saw that my old commander made a point of keeping me in suspense as to
the morrow, and affected as much as possible an air of indifference on
the subject. He had himself arrived late from Ulm, where he had seen
the Emperor; and amused me by mentioning the surprise of an Austrian
aide-de-camp, who, sent to deliver a letter, found his Majesty sitting
with his boots off, and stretched before a bivouac fire. “Yes,” said
Napoleon, divining at once his astonishment, “it is even so. Your master
wished to remind me of my old trade, and I hope that the imperial purple
has not made me forget its lessons.”

By daybreak the next morning our brigade was in the saddle, and in
motion towards the quartier-général,--a gently rising ground, surmounted
by a farmhouse, where the Emperor had fixed his quarters. As we mounted
the hill we came in sight of the whole army drawn up in battle array.
They stood in columns of divisions, with artillery and cavalry between
them, the bands of the various regiments in front. The day was a
brilliant one, and heightened the effect of the scene. Beyond us lay
Ulm,--silent as if untenanted: not a sentinel appeared on the walls; the
very flag had disappeared from the battlements. Our surprise was great
at this; but how was it increased as the rumor fled from mouth to
mouth,--“Ulm has capitulated; thirty-five thousand men have become
prisoners of war!”

Ere the first moments of wonder had ceased, the staff of the Emperor was
seen passing along the line, and finally taking up its station on the
hill, while the regimental bands burst forth into one crash the most
spirit-stirring and exciting. The proud notes swelled and filled the
air, as the sun, bursting forth with increased brilliancy, tipped every
helmet and banner, and displayed the mighty hosts in all the splendor
of their pageantry. Beneath the hill stretched a vast plain in the
direction of Neuburg; and here we at first supposed it was the Emperor's
intention to review the troops. But a very different scene was destined
to pass on that spot.

Suddenly a single gun boom, out; and as the lazy smoke moved heavily
along the earth, the gates of Ulm opened, and the head of an Austrian
column appeared. Not with beat of drum or colors flying did they
advance; but slow in step, with arms reversed, and their heads downcast,
they marched on towards the mound. Defiling beneath this, they moved
into the plain, and, corps by corps, piled their arms and resumed
their “route,” the white line serpentining along the vast plain, and
stretching away into the dim distance. Never was a sight so sad as
this! All that war can present of suffering and bloodshed, all that the
battlefield can show of dead and dying, were nothing to the miserable
abasement of those thousands, who from daybreak till noon poured on
their unceasing tide!

On the hill beside the Emperor stood several officers in white uniform,
whose sad faces and suffering looks attested the misery of their hearts.
“Better a thousand deaths than such humiliation!” was the muttered cry
of every man about me; while in very sorrow at such a scene, the tears
coursed down the hardy cheeks of many a bronzed soldier, and some turned
away their heads, unable to behold the spectacle.

Seventy pieces of cannon, with a long train of ammunition wagons, and
four thousand cavalry horses, brought up the rear of this melancholy
procession,--the spoils of the capitulation of Ulm. Truly, if that day
were, as the imperial bulletin announced it, “one of the most glorious
for France,” it was also the darkest in the history of Austria,--when
thirty-two regiments of infantry and fifteen of cavalry, with artillery
and siege defences of every kind, laid down their arms and surrendered
themselves prisoners.

Thus in fifteen days from the passing of the Rhine was the campaign
begun and ended, and the Austrian Empire prostrate at the feet of
Napoleon.



CHAPTER XLIV. THE CANTEEN.

The Emperor returned that night to Elchingen, accompanied by a numerous
staff, among whom was the General d'Auvergne. I remember well the
toilsome ascent of the steep town, which, built on a cliff above the
Danube, was now little better than a heap of ruins, from the assault of
Ney's division two days before. Scrambling our way over fallen houses
and massive fragments of masonry, we reached the square that forms the
highest point of the city; from thence we looked down upon the great
plain, with the majestic Danube winding along for miles. In the valley
lay Ulm, now sad and silent: no watch-fires blazed along its deserted
ramparts, and through its open gates there streamed the idle tide of
soldiers and camp followers, curious to see the place which once they
had deemed almost impregnable. The quartier-général was established
here, and the different staffs disposed of themselves, as well as they
were able, throughout the houses near: most of these, indeed, had been
deserted by their inhabitants, whose dread of the French was a feeling
ministered to by every artifice in the power of the Austrian Government.
As for me, I was but a young campaigner, and might from sheer ignorance
have passed my night in the open air, when by good fortune I caught
sight of my old companion, Pioche, hurrying along a narrow street,
carrying a basket well stored with bottles on his arm.

“Ah, mon lieutenant, you here! and not supped yet, I 'd wager a crown?”

“You'd win it too, Pioche; nor do I see very great chance of my doing
so.”

“Come along with me, sir; Mademoiselle Minette has just opened her
canteen in the flower-market. Such it was once, they tell me; but there
is little odor left there now, save such as contract powder gives.
But no matter you 'll have a roast capon and sausages, and some of the
Austrian wine; I have just secured half a dozen bottles here.”

I need scarcely say that this was an invitation there was no declining,
and I joined the corporal at once, and hurried on to mademoiselle's
quarters. We had not proceeded far, when the noise of voices speaking
and singing in a loud tone announced that we were approaching the
canteen.

“You hear them, mon lieutenant!” said Pioche, with a look of delight;
“you hear the rogues. _Par Saint Jaaques_, they know where to make
themselves merry. Good wine for drinking, lodging for nothing, fire for
the trouble of lighting it, are brave inducements to enjoy life.”

“But it 's a canteen; surely mademoiselle is paid?”

“Not the first night of a campaign, I suppose,” said he, with a voice
of rebuke. “_Parbleu_! that would be a pretty affair! No, no; each man
brings what he can find, drinks what he is able, and leaves the rest;
which, after all, is a very fair stock-in-trade to begin with. And so
now, mon lieutenant, to commence operations regularly, just sling this
ham on your sabre over your shoulder, and take this turkey carelessly in
your hand,--that 's it. Here we are; follow me.”

Passing through an arched gateway, we entered a little courtyard where
several horses were picketed, the ground about them being strewn
with straw knee-deep; cavalry saddles, holsters, and sheepskins lay
confusedly on every side, along with sabres and carbines; a great lamp,
detached from its position over the street entrance, was suspended from
a lance out of a window, and threw its light over the scene. Stepping
cautiously through this chaotic heap, we reached a glass door, from
within which the riotous sounds were most audibly issuing. Pioche pushed
it open, and we entered a large room, full fifty feet in length, at one
end of which, under a species of canopy, formed by two old regimental
colors, sat Mademoiselle Minette,--for so I guessed to be a very
pretty brunette, with a most decidedly Parisian look about her air and
toilette; a table, covered with a snow-white napkin, was in front
of her, on which lay a large bouquet and an open book, in which she
appeared to be writing as we came in. The room on either side was
filled by small tables, around which sat parties drinking, card-playing,
singing or quarrelling as it might be, with a degree of energy and
vociferation only campaigning can give an idea of.

The first thing which surprised me was, that all ranks in the service
seemed confusedly mixed up together, there being no distinction of class
whatever; captains and corporals, sergeants, lieutenants, colonels, and
tambourmajors, were inextricably commingled, hobnobbing, handshaking,
and even kissing in turn, that most fraternal and familiar “tu” of
dearest friendship being heard on every side.

Resisting a hundred invitations to join some party or other as he passed
up the room, Pioche led me forward towards Mademoiselle Minette, to
present me in due form ere I took my place.

The honest corporal, who would have charged a square without blinking,
seemed actually to tremble as he came near the pretty vivandiére; and
when, with a roguish twinkle of her dark eye, and a half smile on her
saucy lip, she said, “Ah, c'est toi, gros Pioche?” the poor fellow could
only mutter a “Oui, Mademoiselle,” in a voice scarce loud enough to be
heard.

“And monsieur,” said she, “whom I have the honor to see?”

“Is my lieutenant. Mademoiselle; or he is aide-de-camp of my general,
which comes to the same thing.”

With a few words of gracious civility, well and neatly expressed
mademoiselle welcomed me to the canteen, which, she said, had often been
graced by the presence of General d'Auvergne himself.

“Yes, by Saint Denis!” cried Pioche, with energy; “Prince Murat, and
Maréchal Davoust, too, have been here.”

Dropping his voice to a whisper, he added something that called a faint
blush to mademoiselle's cheek as she replied, “You think so, do you?”
 Then, turning to me, asked if I were not disposed to sup.

“Yes, that he is,” interrupted Pioche; “and here is the materiel;”--with
which he displayed his pannier of bottles, and pointed to the spoils
which, following his directions, I carried in my hands.

The corporal having despatched the fowls to the kitchen, proceeded
to arrange a little table at a short distance from where mademoiselle
sat,--an arrangement, I could perceive, which called forth some rather
angry looks from those around the room, and I could overhear more
than one muttered Sacre! as to the ambitious pretensions of the “gros
Pioche.”

He himself paid little if any attention to these signs of discontent,
but seemed wholly occupied in perfecting the table arrangements, which
he did with the skill and despatch of a tavern waiter.

“Here, mon lieutenant, this is your place,” said he, with a bow, as he
placed a chair for me at the head of the board; and then, with a polite
obeisance to the lady, he added, “Avec permission, Mademoiselle,” and
took his own seat at the side.

A very appetizing dish made its appearance at this moment; and
notwithstanding my curiosity to watch the proceedings of the party, and
my admiration for mademoiselle herself, hunger carried the day, and I
was soon too deeply engaged in the discussion of my supper to pay much
attention to aught else. It was just then that, forgetting where I was,
and unmindful that I was not enjoying the regular fare of an inn, I
called out, as if to the waiter, for “bread.” A roar of laughter ran
through the room at my mistake, when a dark-whiskered little fellow, in
an undress frock, stuck his small sword into a loaf, and handed it to me
from the table where he sat.

There was something in the act which rather puzzled me, and might have
continued longer to do so, had not Pioche whispered me in a low voice,
“Take it, take it.”

I reached out my hand for the purpose, when, just as I had caught the
loaf, with a slight motion of his wrist he disengaged the point of the
weapon, and gave me a scratch on the back of my hand. The gesture I made
called forth a renewed peal of laughing; and I now perceived, from the
little man's triumphant look at his companions, that the whole thing was
intended as an insult. Resolving, however, to go quietly in the matter,
I held out my hand when it was still bleeding, and said,--

“You perceive, sir?”

“Ah, an accident, _morbleu!_, said he, with a careless shrug of his
shoulders, and a half leer of impertinent indifference.

“So is this also,” replied I, as, springing up, I seized the sword he
was returning to its scabbard, and smashed the blade across my knee.

“Well done, well done!” cried twenty voices in a breath; while the
whole room rose in a confused manlier to take one side or other in
the contest, several crowding around the little man, whose voice had
suddenly lost its tone of easy impertinence, and was now heard swearing
away, with the most guttural intonation.

“What kind of swordsman are you?” whispered Pioche, in my ear.

“Sufficiently expert to care little for an enemy of his caliber.”

“Ah, you don't know that,” replied he; “it's François, the maïtre
d'armes of the Fourth.”

“You must not fight him, Monsieur,” said mademoiselle, as she laid her
hand on mine, and looked up into my face with a most expressive glance.

“They are waiting for you without, mon lieutenant,” said an old
sergeant-major, touching his cap as he spoke.

“Come along,” said Pioche, with a deeply-muttered oath; “and, by the
blood of Saint Louis, it shall be the last time Maitre Francois shows
his skill in fence, if I cost them the fire of a platoon to-morrow.”

I was hurried along by the crowd to the court, a hundred different
advisers whispering their various counsels in my ears as I went.

“Take care of his lunge in tierce,--mind that,” cried one.

“Push him outside the arm,--outside, remember; take my advice, young
man,” said an old sous-officier,--“close on him at once, take his point
where he gives it, and make sure of your own weapon.”

“No bad plan either,” cried two or three. “Monsieur Auguste is right;
Francois can't bear the cold steel, and if he sees it close, he loses
his head altogether.”

The courtyard was already cleared for action; the horses picketed in one
corner, the straw removed, and a blaze of light from all the lamps and
candles of the supper-room showed the ground as clearly as at noonday.
While my antagonist was taking off his coat and vest,--an operation
I did not choose to imitate,--I took a rapid survey of the scene,
and notwithstanding the rush of advisers around me, was sufficiently
collected to decide on my mode of acting.

“Come, mon lieutenant, off with your frock,” said an officer at my side;
“even if you don't care for the advantage of a free sword-arm, those
fellows yonder won't believe it all fair, if you do not strip.”

“Yes, yes, take it off,” said a fellow in the crowd, “your fine
epaulettes may as well escape tarnishing; and that new coat, too, will
be all the better without a hole in it.”

I hastily threw off my coat and waistcoat, when the crowd fell back, and
the maitre d'armes advancing into the open space with a light and nimble
step, cried out, “En garde, Monsieur!” I stood my ground, and crossed my
sword with his.

For a few seconds I contented myself with merely observing my adversary,
who handled his weapon not only with all the skill of an accomplished
swordsman, but with a dexterity that showed me he was playing off his
art before his companions.

As if to measure his distance, he made two or three slight passes over
the guard of my sword, and then grating his blade against mine with that
peculiar motion which bodes attack, he fixed his eyes on mine, to draw
off my attention from his intended thrust. The quickness and facility
with which his weapon changed from side to side of mine, the easy motion
of his wrist, and the rigid firm ness of his arm, all showed me I was
no match for him,--although one of the best of my day at the military
school,--and I did not venture to proceed beyond mere defence. He saw
this, and by many a trick endeavored to induce an attack,--now dropping
his point carelessly, to address a monosyllable to a friend near; now
throwing open his guard, as if from negligence.

At length, as if tired with waiting, he called out, “_Que cela finisse!_”
 and rushed in on me.

[Illustration: Tom masters the “Maitre d'Armes”]

The rapidity of the assault, for a second or so, completely overcame me;
and though I defended myself mechanically, I could neither follow his
weapon with my eye nor anticipate his intended thrust. Twice his point
touched my sword-arm above the wrist, and by a slight wound there, saved
my lungs from being pierced. At last, after a desperate rally, in which
he broke in on my guard, he made a fearful lunge at my chest. I bent
forward, and received his blade in the muscles of my back, when, with a
wheel round, I smashed the sword in me, and buried my own up to the hilt
in his body. He fell bathed in blood; and I, staggering backwards, was
caught in Pioche's arms at the moment when all consciousness was fast
leaving me.

A few minutes after I came to myself, and found that I was lying on
a heap of straw in the yard, while two regimental surgeons were most
industriously engaged in trying to stop the hemorrhage of my wounds.

With little interest in my own fate, I could not help feeling anxious
about my antagonist. They shook their heads mournfully in reply to my
question, and desired me to be as calm as possible, for my life hung on
a very thread. The dressing completed, I was carried into the house, and
laid on a bed in a small, neat-looking chamber, which I heard, as they
carried me along, mademoiselle had kindly placed at my disposal. She
herself assisted to place the pillow beneath my head, and then with
noiseless gesture closed the curtains of the window, and took her seat
at the bedside.

The moment the others had left the room, I turned to ask for' the maitre
d'armes. But she could only say that his companions of the Fourth had
carried him away to the ambulance, refusing all offers of aid except
from the surgeons of their own corps.

“They say,” added she, with a naïve simplicity, “that François is not
made like other folk, and that the only doctors who understand him are
in the Fourth Regiment. However that may be, it will puzzle them sadly
this time; you have given him his _coup de congé_.”

“I hope not, sincerely,” said I, with a shudder.

“And why not?” cried mademoiselle, in astonishment. “Is it not a good
service you render to the whole brigade? Would not the division be all
the happier if such as he, and Pichot, and the rest of them--”

“Pichot,--Amédée Pichot?”

“Yes, Amédée Pichot, to be sure. But what's that knocking outside? Ah,
there 's Pioche at the window!”

Mademoiselle arose and walked towards the door; but before she reached
it, it was opened, and General d'Auvergne entered the room.

“Is he here?” asked he, in a low voice.

“Yes, General,” said mademoiselle, with a courtesy, as she placed the
chair for him to sit down. “He is much better. I 'll wait outside till
you want me,” added she, as she left the room and closed the door.

“Come, come, my boy,” said the kind old man, as he took my hand in his,
“don't give way thus. I have made many inquiries about this affair,
and they all tend to exculpate you. This fellow François is the _mauvaise
tete_ of the regiment, and I only wish his chastisement had come from
some other hand than yours.”

“Will he live. General?” asked I, with a smothering fulness in my throat
as I uttered the words.

“Not if he be mortal, I believe. The sword pierced his chest from side
to side.”

I groaned heavily as I heard these words; and burying my head beneath
the clothes, became absorbed in my grief. What would I not have endured
then of insult and contumely, rather than suffer the terrible load upon
my conscience of a fellow-creature's blood, shed in passion and revenge!
How willingly would I have accepted the most despised position among men
to be void of this crime!

“It matters not,” cried I, in my despair--“it matters not how I guide my
path, misfortunes beset me at every turn of the way--”

“Speak not thus,” said the general, sternly. “The career you have
embarked in is a stormy and a rough one. Other men have fared worse
than you have in it,--and without repining too. You knew of one such
yourself, who in all the saddest bereavements of his hopes cherished a
soldier's heart and a soldier's courage.”

The allusion to my poor friend, Charles de Meudon, brought the tears
to my eyes, and I felt that all my sufferings were little compared with
his.

“Let your first care be to get well as soon as you can: happily your
name may escape the Emperor's notice in this affair by appearing in the
list of wounded; our friend the maitre d'armes is not likely to discover
on you. The campaign is begun, however, and you must try to take your
share of it. The Emperor's staff starts for Munich to-morrow. I must
accompany them; but I leave you in good hands here, and this detachment
will occupy Elchingen at least ten days longer.”

Scarcely had the general left me when mademoiselle re-entered the room.

“So Monsieur,” said she, smiling archly, “you have been left in my care,
it seems. Morbleu! it's well the vivandiére of the regiment is not a
prude, or I should scarcely know how to act. Well, well, one can only do
one's best. And now, shall I read for you, or shall I leave you quiet
for an hour or two?”

“Just so; leave him alone for a little while,” said a gruff voice
from the end of the bed, at the same time that the huge beard and red
mustache of Pioche appeared peeping above the curtain.

“Is he not stupid, that great animal of a cuirassier?” said
mademoiselle, starting at the voice so unexpectedly heard. “I say, mon
caporal, right face,--march. Do you hear, sir? You 've got the feuille de
route; what do you stay for?”

“Ah, Mademoiselle!” said the poor fellow, as he smoothed down his
hair on his forehead, and looked the very impersonation of sheepish
admiration.

“Well?” replied she, as if not understanding his appeal to her
feelings--“well?”

A look of total embarrassment, an expression of complete bewilderment,
was his only reply; while his eyes wandered round the room till they met
mine; and then, as if suddenly conscious that a third party was present,
he blushed deeply, and said,--

“Too true, mon lieutenant; she does with me what she will.”

“Don't believe him. Monsieur,” interposed she, quickly. “I told him to
get knocked on the head a dozen times, and he 's never done so.”

“I would though, and right soon too, if you were only in earnest,” said
he, with a vehemence that bespoke the truth of the assertion.

“There, there,” said she, with a smile, as she held out her hand to him;
“we are friends.”

The poor fellow pressed it to his lips with the respectful devotion of a
Bayard; and with a muttered “This evening,” left the room.

“It is no small triumph, Mademoiselle,” said I, “that you have inspired
such a passion in the hardy breast of the cuirassier.”

A saucy shake of the head, as though she did not like the compliment,
was the only reply. She bent her head down over her work, and seemed
absorbed in its details; while I, reverting to my own cares, became
silent also.

“And so, Monsieur,” said she, after a long pause--“and so you deem
this conquest of mine a very wonderful thing?”

“You mistake me,” said I, eagerly,--“you mistake me much. My surprise
was rather that one like Pioche, good-hearted, simple fellow as he is,
should possess the refinement of feeling--”

[Illustration: Minnet_and_Pioche]

“A clever flank movement of yours. Lieutenant,” interposed she, with a
pleasant laugh; “and I'll not attack you again. And, after all, I am a
little proud of my conquest.”

“The confession is a flattering one, from one who doubtless has had a
great many to boast of.”

“A great many, indeed!” replied she, naïvely; “so many, that I can't
reckon them,--not to boast of, however, as you term it. _Par bleu!_ some
of them had little of that--But here comes the doctor, and I must not
let him see us talking. _Ma foi_, they little think when their backs are
turned how seldom we mind their directions!”

The surgeon's visit was a matter of a few seconds; he contented himself
with feeling my pulse and reiterating his advice as to quiet.

“You have got the best nurse in the army. Monsieur,” said he, as he
took his leave. “I have only one caution to give you,--take care if an
affection of the heart be not a worse affair than a thrust of a small
sword. I have known such a termination of an illness before now.”

Mademoiselle made no reply save an arch look of half anger, and left the
room; and I, wearied and exhausted, sank into a heavy slumber.



CHAPTER XLV. THE “VIVANDIÈRE OF THE FOURTH”


Von three entire weeks my wound confined me to the limits of mY chamber;
and Yet, were it not for my impatience to be up and stirring, mY life
was not devoid of happiness.

Every movement of the army, in its most minute detail, was daily
reported to me by Mademoiselle Minette. The bulletins of the Emperor,
the promotions, the _on dits_ of the bivouac and the march, brought
by the various battalions, as they moved on towards the east, were all
related by her with such knowledge of military phrase and soldiers'
style as to amuse me, equally by her manner as by what she told.

The cuirassiers marched soon after I received my wound, and though
attached to the corps, she remained behind at Elchingen, having pledged
herself, as she said, to the general, to restore me safe and sound
before she left me. The little window beside my bed offered a
widely-extended view over the great plain beneath; and there I have sat
the entire day, watching the columns of cavalry and infantry as they
poured along, seemingly without ceasing, towards the Lower Danube.
Sometimes the faint sounds of the soldiers' songs would reach
me,--the rude chorus of a regiment timing their step to some warrior's
chant,--and set my heart a beating to be with them once more; sometimes
my eye would rest upon the slow train of wagons, surmounted with a white
flag, that wound their way heavily in the rear, and my spirit sank as I
thought over the poor wounded fellows that were thus borne onward with
the tide of war, as the crushed serpent trails his wounded folds behind
him.

Mademoiselle seldom left me. Seated at her work, often for hours without
speaking, she would follow the train of her own thoughts, and when
by chance she gave a passing glance through the window at the scene
beneath, some single word would escape her as to the regiments or their
officers, few of which were unknown to her, at least by reputation.

I could not but mark, that within the last twelve or fourteen days she
seemed more sad and depressed than before; the lively gayety of her
character had given place to a meek and suffering melancholy, which I
could not help attributing to the circumstances in which she was placed,
away from all her ordinary pursuits and the companions of her daily
life. I hinted as much one day, and was about to insist on her leaving
me, when she suddenly interrupted me, saying,--

“It is all true. I am sad, and know not why, for I never felt happier;
yet, if you wished me to be gay as I used to be, I could not for the
world. It is not because I am far from those I have learned to look on
as my brothers; not so, my changeful fortune has often placed me thus.
Perhaps it's your fault, mon lieutenant,” said she, suddenly, turning
her eyes full upon me.

“Mine, Minette,--mine!” said I, in amazement.

She blushed deeply, and held down her head, while her bosom heaved
several times convulsively; and then, while a deathly paleness spread
over her cheek, she said, in a low, broken voice,--

“Perhaps it is because I am an orphan, and never knew what it was to
have those whose dispositions I should imitate, and whose tastes
I should study; but somehow I feel even as though I could not help
becoming like those I am near to,--following them, ay, and outstripping
them, in all their likings and dislikings.”

“And so, as you seem sad and sorrowful, it is more than probable that
you took the color of my thoughts. I should feel sorry, Minette, to
think it were thus; I should ill repay all your kindness to me. I must
try and wear a happier countenance.”

“Do so, and mine will soon reflect it,” said she, laughing. “But,
perhaps, you have cause for sorrow,” added she, as she stole a glance at
me beneath her eyelashes.

“You know, Minette, that I am an orphan like yourself,” said I, half
evading the question.

“Ah!” cried she, passionately, “if I had been a man, I should like to be
such a one as Murat there. See how his black eyes sparkle, and his proud
lip curls, when the roll of artillery or the clattering of a platoon is
heard! how his whole soul is in the fight! I remember once--it was at
the Iser--his brigade was stationed beneath the hill, and had no orders
to move forward for several hours. He used to get off his horse and walk
about, and endeavor, by pushing the smoke away, thus, with his hand, and
almost kneeling to the ground, to catch a view of the battle; and then
he would spring into the saddle, and for sheer passion dash the spurs
into his horse's flank, till he reared and plunged again. I watched him
thus for hours. I loved to look on him, chafing and fretting like his
own mettled charger, he was so handsome! 'A drink, Minette! Something
to cool my lips, for Heaven's sake,' said he, at last, as he saw me
standing near him. I filled the little cup you see here with wine,
and handed it to him. Scarcely had he raised it to his lips, when an
aide-decamp galloped up, and whispered some words in haste.

“'Ha, ha!' cried he, with a shout of joy; 'they want us, then! The
squadrons will advance by sections, and charge!--charge!' And with
that he flung the goblet from him to the ground; and when I took it up I
found that with the grasp of his strong fingers he had crushed it nearly
together: see here! I never would let it be changed; it is just as at
the time he clasped it, and I kept it as a souvenir of the prince.”

She took from a little shelf the cup, as she spoke, and held it up
before me with the devoted admiration with which some worshipper would
regard a holy relic.

“And that,” said Minette, as she pressed to her lips a faded cockade,
whose time-worn tints still showed the tricolored emblems of the
Republic--“that do I value above the cross of the Legion itself.”

“Whose was it, Minette? Some brave soldier's, I'm sure.”

“And you may be sure. That was the cockade of Le Premier Grenadier de la
France,--La Tour d'Auvergne, the cousin of your own general.”

Seeing that I had not heard before of him, she paused for a few seconds
in amazement, and then muttered, “A brave school to train the youth
of France it must be where the name of La Tour d' Auvergne was never
mentioned!”

Having thus vented her indignation, she proceeded to tell me of her
hero, who, though descended from one of the most distinguished families
of France, yet persisted in carrying his musket in the ranks of the
Republican army, never attaining to a higher grade, nor known by any
other title than the “Premier Grenadier de la France.” Foremost in every
post of danger, the volunteer at every emergency of more than ordinary
peril, he refused every proffer of advancement, and lived among his
comrades the simple life of a soldier.

“He fell at Neuburg,” said mademoiselle, “scarce a day's march from
here; they buried him on the field, and placed him dead, as he had been
ever while living, with his face towards the enemy. And you never heard
of him? _Juste Ciel!_ it is almost incredible. You never brigaded with
the Forty-fifth of the line; that 's certain.”

“And why so?”

“Because they call his name at every parade muster as though he were
still alive and well. The first man called is La Tour d' Auvergne, and
the first soldier answers, 'Mort sur le champ de bataille.' That 's a
prouder monument than your statues and tombstones--is it not?”

“Indeed it is,” said I, to whom the anecdote was then new, though I
afterwards lived to hear it corroborated in every respect.

With many such traits of the service did mademoiselle beguile the
time,--now telling of the pleasant life of the cantonment; now of the
wild scenes of the battlefield. Young as she was, she had seen much of
both, and learned around the bivouac fires the old traditions of the
Revolutionary armies, and the brave deeds of the first veterans of
France. In such narratives, too, her own enthusiastic nature burst
forth in all its vehemence: her eyes would sparkle, and her words come
rapidly, as she described some fierce attack or headlong charge; and it
was impossible to listen without catching up a portion of her ardor, so
wrapped up did she herself become in the excitement of her story.

Thus one evening, while describing the passage of the Adige, after
detailing most circumstantially the position and strength of the
attacking columns, and describing how each successive advance was
repulsed by the murderous fire of the artillery, she proceeded to relate
the plan of a flank movement, effected by some light infantry regiment
thrown across the river a considerable distance up the stream.

“We came along,” said she, “under the shade of some willows, and at last
reached the ford. The leading companies halted; two officers sounded the
river, and found that it was passable. I was close by at the time. It
was the Colonel Lajolais who commanded the brigade, and he asked me for
a goutte.

“'It may be the last you 'll ever give me, Minette,' said he; 'I don't
expect to see you again.'

“'Are you going to remain at this side, Colonel?' said I.

“'No, _parbleu!_' said he, 'not when the Twenty-second cross to the
other.'

“'Neither am I, then,' said I; 'my place is with the head of the
battalion.'

“Well, well; they all pressed me to stay back; they said a thousand
kind things too. But that only decided me the more to go on; and as the
signal rocket was fired, the word was given, and on we went. For the
first eight or ten paces it was mere wading; but suddenly a grenadier in
the front called out, _Gare!_ lift your muskets; it's deep here.' And so
it was. With one plunge down I went; but they seized me by the arms and
carried me along, and some way or other we reached the bank. _Morbleu!_
I felt half drowned. But there was little time to think over these
things, for scarcely had the column formed when the cry of 'Cavalry!'
was given, and down came the lancers with a swoop. But we were all
ready. The flank companies fell back, and formed in square, and a
tremendous volley sent them off faster than they came.

“'Now, then, push forward double quick!' said the old colonel; 'the _pas
de charge!_, Alas! the poor little drummer was lying dead at his feet.
The thought suddenly seized me; I sprang forward, unstrung his drum,
threw the strap over my shoulder, and beat the _pas de charge_! A cheer
ran along the whole battalion, and on we went. _Mort de ceil!_ I was
never so near the fire before. There was the enemy, scarce two hundred
yards off,--two great columns, with artillery between,--waiting for us.
'Keep her back! keep back, Minette, _brave fille!_' I heard no more; a shot
came whizzing past, and struck me here.”

She pulled down her dress as she spoke, and disclosed the scar of a
bullet's track on her white shoulder; then, as if suddenly recollecting,
she blushed deeply, drew her kerchief closely around her, and muttered
in a low voice,--

“_Ma foi_, how these things make one forget to be a woman!” And with
that she hung down her head, and despite all I could say would not utter
another word.

Such was the vivandière of the Fourth: blending in her character the
woman's weakness and the soldier's ardor; the delicacy of feeling, which
not even the life of camps and bivouacs could eradicate, with the wild
enthusiasm for glory,--the passion of her nation. It needed not her dark
eyes, shaded with their long black fringe; her oval face, whose freckles
but displayed the transparent skin beneath; her graceful figure and her
elastic step,--to make her an object of attraction in the regiment.
Nor could I be surprised to learn, as I did, how many a high offer
of marriage had been made to her by those soldiers of fortune whose
gallantry and daring had won them honors in the service.

To value at their real price such attractions, one should meet them far
away, and remote from the ordinary habits of the world: in the wild,
reckless career of the camp; on the long march; beside the weary
watchfire; ay, on the very field of battle,--amid the din, the clamor,
and the smoke,--the cheers, the cries of carnage. Then, indeed, such an
apparition had something magical in it. To see that tender girl tripping
along fearlessly from rank to rank as though she had a charmed life, now
saluting with her hand some brave soldier as he rode by to the charge,
now stooping beside the wounded, and holding to his bloodless lips the
longed-for cup; to watch her as she rode gracefully at the head of the
regiment, or lay beside the fire of the bivouac, relating with a woman's
grace some story of the campaign, while the gray-bearded veteran and the
raw youth hung on each word, and wondered how the scenes in which they
mingled and acted could bear such interest when told by rosy lips,--who
would wonder if she had many lovers? Who would not rather be surprised
at those who remained coldly indifferent to such charms as hers?

Let my confession, then, excite neither astonishment nor suspicion, when
I acknowledge, that in such companionship the days slipped rapidly over.
I never wearied of hearing her tell of the scenes she had witnessed, nor
did she of recounting them; and although a sense of reproach used now
and then to cross me for the life of inactivity and indolence I was
leading. Mademoiselle Minette promised me many a brave opportunity of
distinction to come, and campaigns of as great glory as even those of
Italy and Egypt.



END OF VOL. I.