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,