great offence, truly! But you see everything went unluckily with me at
that time.

“What was to become of me now I couldn't tell; when an old comrade,
pensioned off from Moreau's army, had interest to get me appointed
supernumerary, as they call it, in the Grand Opera, where I used to
perform as a Roman soldier, or a friar, or a peasant, or some such
thing, for five francs a week. Not a sou more had I, and the duty was
heavier than on active service.

“After two years, the 'big drum' died of a rheumatic fever, from beating
a great solo in a new German Opera, and I was promoted to his place;
for by this time I was quite recovered from the effects of my wound, and
could use my arms as well as ever.

“Some of the honorable company may remember the first night that
Napoleon visited the Grand Opera after he was named Emperor. It was a
glorious sight, and one can never forget it. The whole house was filled
with generals and field-marshals: it was a grand field-day, by the glare
of ten thousand wax-lights. And the Empress was there, and her whole
suite, and all the prettiest women in France. Little time had I to look
at them, though; for there was I, in the corner of the orchestra, with
my big drum before me, on which I was to play the confounded thing that
killed the other fellow.

“It was a strange performance, sure enough: for in the midst of a great
din and crash, came a dead pause; and then I was to strike three solemn
bangs on the drum,--to be followed by a succession of blows, fast
as lightning, for five minutes. This was the composer's notion of a
battle,--distant firing! Heaven bless his heart! I was wishing he 'd
seen some of it. This was to come on in the second act, up to which time
I had nothing to do.

“Why do I say nothing? I had to gaze at the Petit Caporal, who sat there
in the box over my head, looking as stern and as thoughtful as ever, and
not minding much what the Empress said, though she kept prattling into
his ear all the time, and trying to attract his attention. _Parbleu!_ he
was not thinking of all the nonsense before him,--his mind was on real
battles: he had seen real smoke,--that he had! He was fatter and paler
than he used to be; and I thought, too, his frown was darker than when
I saw him last: but, to be sure, that was at Marengo, and he ever looked
pleased on the field of battle. I could n't take my eyes from him: his
fine thoughtful face, so full of determination and energy, reminded me
of my old days of campaigning. I thought of Areola and Rivoli, of Cairo
and the Pyramids, and the great charge at Marengo when Desaix's division
came up,--and my heart was nigh bursting when I remembered that I wore
the epaulette no longer. I forgot, too, where I was; and expected every
instant to hear him call for one of the marshals, or see him stretch out
his hand to point to a distant part of the field. And so absorbed was I
in my reveries, that I had neither eyes nor ears for anything around
me; when suddenly all the din of the orchestra ceased,--not a sound was
heard; and a hand rudely shook me by the arm, while a voice whispered,
'Now! now!'

[Illustration: 303]

“Mechanically I seized the drumsticks. But my eyes still were riveted
in the Emperor,--my whole heart and soul were centred in him. Again
the voice called to me to begin; and a low murmur of angry meaning ran
through the orchestra.

“I sprang to my legs, and in the excitement of the moment, losing all
memory of time and place, I rolled out the _pas de charge!_

“Scarce had the first _roulade_ of the well-known sounds reverberated
through the house, when one cry of 'Vive l'Empereur!' burst forth. It
was not a cheer; it was the heart-given outbreak of ten thousand devoted
followers. Marshals, generals, colonels, ambassadors, ministers, all
joined; and the vast assembly rocked to and fro like the sea in a
storm, while Napoleon himself, slowly rising, bent his proud head in
acknowledgment, and then sat down again amid the thundering shouts of
acclamation. It was full twenty minutes before the piece could proceed;
and even then momentary outbreaks of enthusiasm would occur to interrupt
it, and continued to burst forth till the curtain fell.

“Just then an aide-de-camp appeared beside the orchestra, and ordered
me to the Emperor's box. _Satristi!_how I trembled! I did n't know what
might come of it.

“'Ah, _coquin!_ said he, as I stood ready to drop with fear at the door
of the box, 'this has been one of thy doings, eh?'

“'Yes, Sire,' muttered I in a half whisper.

“'And how hast thou dared to spoil an opera in this fashion?' said he,
frowning fiercely. 'Answer me, sirrah!'

“'It was your Majesty's fault,' said I, becoming reckless of all
consequences. 'You did n't seem to care much for all their scraping and
blowing, and so I thought the old _roulade_ might raise you a bit. You
used to like it once; and might still, if the times be not altered.'

“'And they are not,' said he, sternly. 'Who art thou, that seem'st to
know me thus well?'

“'Old François, that was maître d'armes of the Fourth in Egypt, and who
saved you from the stroke of a Mameluke sabre at Chebrheis.'

“'What! the fellow who killed an Austrian prisoner after Marengo? Why, I
thought thee dead.'

“'Better for me I had been!' said I. 'You would n't read my petition.
['Yes, you may frown away, General,' said I to Duroc, who kept glowering
at me like a tiger.) I began life at the tambour; I have come down to it
again. You can't bring me lower, _parbleu!_

“The Emperor whispered something to the Empress, who turned round
towards me and laughed; and then he made a sign for me to withdraw.
Before I had got a dozen paces from the box, an aide-de-camp overtook
me.

“'François,' said he, 'you are to appear before the medical commission
to-morrow; and if their report be favorable, you are to have your old
grade of maître d'armes.'

“And so it was. Not only was I restored, but they even placed me in the
same regiment I served in during the campaigns of Egypt and Italy. The
corps, however, was greatly changed since I knew it before; and so
I asked the Emperor to appoint me to a voltigeur battalion, where
discipline is not so rigid, and pleasant comrades are somewhat more
plentiful. I had my wish, gentlemen. And now, with your permission,
we'll drink the 'Faubourg St. Antoine,' the cradle of our arm of the
service.”

In repeating Maître Francois's tale, I could only wish it might have
one half the success with my reader it met with from his comrades of the
bivouac. This, however, I cannot look for, and must leave it and him to
their fortunes, and now turn to follow the course of my own.

François was not the only one who felt surprised at my being able to
resist the pleasures of a voltigeurs life; and my companion the corporal
looked upon my determination to join the hussar brigade as one of those
extraordinary instances of duty predominating over inclination. “Not,”
 said he, “but there may be brave fellows and good soldiers among the
dragoons; though having a horse to ride is a sore drawback on a man's
courage. And when one has felt the confidence of standing face to face,
and foot to foot, with the enemy, I cannot see how he can ever bring
himself to fight in any other fashion.”

“A man can accustom himself to anything, Corporal,” said an old,
hardy-looking soldier, who sat smoking with the most profound air of
thoughtful reflection. “I remember being in the 'dromedary brigade' at
Cairo. Few of us could keep our seats at first; and when we fell off,
it was often hard enough to resist the Mamelukes and hold the beasts
besides; but even that we learned with time.”

This explanation, little flattering as it was to the cavalry, seemed to
convince the listeners that time, which smoothes so many difficulties,
will even make a man content to be a dragoon.

“Well, since you will not be 'of ours,'” said François, “let us drink a
parting cup, and say good-by, for I hear the bugle sounding the call.”

“A health to the 'Faubourg St. Antoine,' boys!” cried I, and a hearty
cheer re-echoed the toast; and with many a shake-hands, and many a
promise of welcome whenever I saw the error of my ways sufficiently to
doff the dolman for the voltigeur's jacket, I took leave of the gallant
Twenty-second, and set out towards Weimar.

CHAPTER XXV. BERLIN AFTER “JENA.”

As the battle of Austerlitz was the deathblow to the empire of Austria,
so with the defeat at Jena did Prussia fall, and that great kingdom
became a prey to the conquering Napoleon. Were this a fitting place,
it might be curious to inquire into the causes which involved a ruin so
sudden and so complete; and how a vast and highly organized army seemed
at one fell stroke annihilated and destroyed.

The victories of Jena and Auerstadt, great and decisive as they were,
were nevertheless inadequate to such results; and if the genius of the
Emperor had not been as prompt to follow up as to gain a battle, they
never would have occurred. But scarcely had the terrible contest ceased,
when he sent for the Saxon officers who were taken prisoners, and
addressing them in a tone of kindness, declared at once that they were
at liberty and might return to their homes, first pledging their words
not to carry arms against France or her allies. One hundred and twenty
officers of different grades, from lieutenant-general downwards, gave
this promise and retired to their own country, extolling the generosity
of Napoleon. This first step was soon followed up by another and more
important one; negotiations were opened with the Elector of Saxony,
and the title of king offered to him on condition of his joining the
Confederacy of the Rhine; and thus once more the artful policy already
pursued with regard to Bavaria in the south, was here renewed in the
north of Germany, and with equal success.

This deep-laid scheme deprived the Prussian army of eighteen thousand
men, and that on the very moment when defeat and disaster had spread
their demoralizing influences through the entire army. Several of their
greatest generals were killed, many more dreadfully or fatally wounded:
Prince Louis, Ruchel, Schmettau, among the former; the Duke of Brunswick
and Prince Henry both severely wounded. The Duke survived but a few
days, and these in the greatest suffering; Marshal Möllendorf, the
veteran of nigh eighty years, had his chest pierced by a lance. Here was
misfortune enough to cause dismay and despair; for unhappily the nation
itself was but an army in feeling and organization, and with defeat
every hope died out and every arm was paralyzed. The patriotism of the
people had taken its place beneath a standard, which when once lowered
before a conqueror, nothing more remained. Such is the destiny of a
military monarchy: its only vitality is victory; the hour of disaster is
its deathblow.

The system of a whole corps capitulating, which the Prussians had not
scrupled to sneer at when occurring in Austria, now took place here with
even greater rapidity. Scarcely a day passed that some regiment did not
lay down their arms, and surrender _sur parole_. A panic spread through
the whole length and breadth of the land; places of undoubted strength
were surrendered as insecure and untenable. No rest nor respite was
allowed the vanquished: the gay plumes of the lancers fluttered over the
vast plains in pursuit; columns of infantry poured in every direction
through the kingdom; and the eagles glittered in every town and every
village of conquered Prussia.

Never did the spirit of Napoleon display itself more pitiless than in
this campaign; for while in his every act he evinced a determination to
break down and destroy the nation, the “Moniteur” at Paris teemed with
articles in derision of the army whose bravery he should never have
questioned. Even the gallant leaders themselves--old and scarred
warriors--were contemptuously described as blind and infatuated
fanatics, undeserving of clemency or consideration. Not thus should he
have spoken of the noble Prince Louis and the brave Duke of Brunswick;
they fought in a good cause, and they met the death of gallant soldiers.
“I will make their nobles beg their bread upon the highways!” was
the dreadful sentence he uttered at Weimar. And the words were never
forgotten.

The conduct and bearing of the Emperor was the more insulting from its
contrast with that of his marshals and generals, many of whom could not
help acknowledging in their acts the devotion and patriotism of their
vanquished foes. Murat lost no occasion to evince this feeling; and
sent eight colonels of his own division to carry the pall at General
Schmettau's funeral, who was interred with all the honors due to one who
had been the companion of the Great Frederick himself.

Soult, Bernadotte, Augereau, Ney, and Davoust, with the several corps
under their command, pursued the routed forces with untiring hostility.
In vain did the King of Prussia address a supplicating letter asking for
a suspension of arms. Napoleon scarcely deigned a reply, and ordered the
advanced guard to march on Berlin.

But a year before and he had issued his royal mandates from the palace
of the Caesars; and he burned now to date his bulletins from the palace
of the Great Frederick. And on the tenth day after the battle of Jena
the troops of Lannes's division bivouacked in the plain around Potsdam.
I had joined my brigade the day previous, and entered Berlin with them
on the morning of the 23d of October.

The preparations for a triumphal entry were made on the day before; and
by noon the troops approached the capital in all the splendor of full
equipment. First came the grenadiers of Oudinot's brigade,--one of
the finest corps in the French army; their bright yellow facings
and shoulder-knots had given them the _sobriquet_ of the _Grenadiers
jaunes_: they formed part of Davonst's force at Auerstadt, and were
opposed to the Prussian guard in the greatest shock of the entire day.
After them came two battalions of the _Chasseurs à pied_,--a splendid
body of infantry, the remnant of four thousand who went into battle
on the morning of the 15th. Then followed a brigade of artillery,
each gun-carriage surmounted by a Prussian standard. These again were
succeeded by the red lancers of Berg, with Murat himself at their
head; for they were his own regiment, and he felt justly proud of such
followers: the grand duke was in all the splendor of his full dress, and
wore a Spanish hat, looped up, with an immense brilliant in front, and
a plume of ostrich feathers floated over his neck and shoulders. Two
hundred and forty chosen men of the Imperial Guard marched two and
two after these, each carrying a color taken from the enemy in battle.
Nansouty's cuirassiers came next; they had suffered severely at Jena,
and were obliged to muster several of their wounded men to fill up the
gaps in their squadrons. Then there were the horse artillery brigade,
whose uniforms and equipments, notwithstanding every effort to
conceal it, showed the terrible effects of the great battle. General
d'Auvergne's division, with the hussars and the light cavalry attached,
followed. These were succeeded by the voltigeurs, and eight battalions
of the Imperial Guard,--whose ranks were closed up with the _Grenadiers
à cheval_, and more artillery,--in all, a force of eighteen thousand,
the _élite_ of the French army.

Advancing in orderly time, they came,--no sound heard save the dull
reverberation of the earth as it trembled beneath the columns, when
the hoarse challenge to “halt” was called from rank to rank as often as
those in the rear pressed on the leading files; but as they reached the
Brandenburg gate, the band of each regiment burst forth, and the wide
Platz resounded with the clang of martial music.

In front of the palace stood the Emperor, surrounded by his staff, which
was joined in succession by each general of brigade as his corps moved
by. A simple acknowledgment of the military salute was all Napoleon gave
as each battalion passed,--until the small party of the Imperial Guard
appeared, bearing the captured colors. Then his proud features relaxed,
his eye flashed and sparkled, and he lifted his chapeau straight above
his head, and remained uncovered the whole time they were marching past.
This was the moment when enthusiasm could no longer be restrained, and a
cry of “Vive l'Empereur!” burst forth, that, caught up by those behind,
rose in ten thousand echoes along the distant suburbs of Berlin.

To look upon that glorious and glittering band, bronzed with battle,
their proud faces lit up with all the pride of victory, was indeed a
triumph; and one instinctively turned to see the looks of wondering
and admiration such a sight must have inspired. But with what sense of
sadness came the sudden thought: this is the proud exultation of the
conqueror over the conquered; here come no happy faces and bright looks
to welcome those who have rescued them from slavery; here are no voices
calling welcome to the deliverer. No: it was a people crushed and
trodden down; their hard-won laurels tarnished and dishonored; their
country enslaved; their monarch a wanderer, no one knew where. Little
thought they who raised the statue of brass to the memory of the Great
Frederick, that the clank of French musketry would be heard around it.
Rossbach was, indeed, avenged,--and cruelly avenged.

Never did a people behave with more dignity under misfortune than the
Prussians on the entrance of the French into their capital. The streets
were deserted; the houses closed; the city was in mourning; and
none stooped to the slavish adulation which might win favor with the
conqueror. It was a triumph; but there were none to witness it. Of the
nobles, scarce one remained in Berlin. They had fallen in battle, or
followed the fortunes of their beaten army, now scattered and dispersed
through the kingdom. Their wives and daughters, in deepest mourning,
bewailed their ruined country as they would the death of a dearest
friend. They cut off their blonde locks, and sorrowed like those without
a hope. Their great country was to be reduced to the rank of a mere
German province; their army disbanded; their king dethroned. Such
was the contrast to our hour of triumph; such the sad reverse to the
gorgeous display of our armed squadrons.

Scarcely had the Emperor established his headquarters at Potsdam than
the whole administration of the kingdom was begun to be placed under
French rule. Prefects were appointed to different departments of the
kingdom; a heavy contribution was imposed upon the nation; and all the
offices of the state were subjected to the control of persons named by
the Emperor.

Among these, the first in importance was the post-office; for, while
every precaution was taken that no interruption should occur in the
transmission of the mails as usual, a _cabinet noir_ was established
here, as at Paris, whose function it was to open the letters of
suspected persons, and make copies of them; the latter, indeed, were
often so skilfully executed as to be forwarded to the address, while the
originals were preserved as “proofs” against parties, if it were found
necessary to accuse them afterwards. (And here I might mention that the
art of depositing metals in a mould by galvanic process was known and
used in imitating and fabricating the seals of various writers, many
years before the discovery became generally known in Europe.)

The invasion of private right involved in this breach of trust gave, as
might be supposed, the greatest offence throughout the kingdom. But the
severity with which every case of suspicious meaning was followed up and
punished converted the feelings of indignation and anger into those of
fear and trepidation. For this was ever part of Napoleon's policy: the
penalty of any offence was made to exclude the sense of ridicule its
own littleness might have created, and men felt indisposed to jest where
their mirth might end in melancholy.

The most remarkable case, and that which more than any other impressed
the public mind of the period, was that of the Prince de Hatzfeld, whose
letter to the King of Prussia was opened at the post-office, and made
the subject of a capital charge against him. Its contents were, as
might be imagined from the channel of transmission, not such as could
substantiate any treasonable intention on his part. A respectful homage
to his dethroned sovereign; a detail of the mournful feeling experienced
throughout his capital; and some few particulars of the localities
occupied by the French troops, was the entire. And for this he was tried
and condemned to death,--a sentence which the Emperor commanded to be
executed before sunset that same day. Happily for the fate of the noble
prince, as for the fair fame of Napoleon, both Duroc and Rapp were
ardently attached to him, and at their earnest entreaties his life was
spared. But the impression which the circumstances made upon the minds
of the inhabitants was deep and lasting; and there was a day to come
when all these insults were to be remembered and avenged. If I advert
to the occurrence here, it is because I have but too good reason to bear
memory of it, influencing, as it did, my own future fortunes.

It chanced that one evening, when sitting in a café with some of my
brother officers, the subject of the Prince de Hatzfeld's offence
was mooted; and in the unguarded freedom with which one talks to his
comrades, I expressed myself delighted at the clemency of the Emperor,
and conceived that he could have no part in the breach of confidence
which led to the accusation, nor countenance in any way his prosecution.
My companions, who had little sympathy for Prussians, and none for
aristocracy whatever, took a different view of the matter, and scrupled
not to regret that the sentence of the court-martial had not been
executed. The discussion grew warm between us; the more, as I was
alone in my opinion, and assailed by several who overbore me with loud
speaking. Once or twice, too, an obscure taunt was thrown out against
aliens and foreigners, who, it was alleged, never could at heart forgive
the ascendency of France and Frenchmen.

To this I replied hotly, for while not taking to myself an insult which
my conduct in the service palpably refuted, I was hurt and offended.
Alas! I knew too well in my heart what sacrifices I had made in changing
my country; how I had bartered all the hopes which attach to one's
fatherland for a career of mere selfish ambition. Long since had I
seen that the cause I fought in was not that of liberty, but despotism.
Napoleon's glory was the dazzling light which blinded my true vision;
and my following had something of infatuation, against which reason was
powerless. I say that I answered these taunts with hasty temper; and
carried away by a momentary excitement, I told them, that they it was,
not I, who would detract from the fair renown of the Emperor.

“The traits you would attribute to him,” said I, “are not those of
strength, but weakness. Is it the conqueror of Egypt, of Austria, and
now of Prussia, who need stoop to this? We cannot be judges of his
policy, or the great events which agitate Europe. We would pronounce
most ignorantly on the greatness of his plans regarding the destinies of
nations; but, on a mere question of high and honorable feeling, of manly
honesty, why should we not speak? And here I say this act was never
his.”

A smile of sardonic meaning was the only reply this speech met with; and
one by one the officers rose and dropped off, leaving me to ponder over
the discussion, in which I now remembered I had been betrayed into a
warmth beyond discretion.

This took place early in November; and as it was not referred to in any
way afterwards by my comrades, I soon forgot it. My duties occupied me
from morning till night; for General d'Auvergne, being in attendance on
the Emperor, had handed me over for the time to the department of the
adjutant-general of the army, where my knowledge of German was found
useful.

On the 17th of the month a general order was issued, containing the
names of the various officers selected for promotion, as well as of
those on whom the cross of the “Legion” was to be conferred. Need I say
with what a thrill of exultation I read my own name among the latter,
nor my delight at finding it followed by the words, “By order of his
Majesty the Emperor, for a special service on the 13th October, 1806.”
 This was the night before the battle; and now I saw that I had not been
forgotten, as I feared,--here was proof of the Emperor's remembrance of
me. Perhaps the delay was intended to test my prudence as to secrecy;
and perhaps it was deemed fitting that my name should not appear except
in the general list: in any case, the long-wished reward was mine,--the
proud distinction I had desired for so many a day and night.

The distribution of the “cordons” was always made the occasion of a
grand military spectacle, and the Emperor determined that the present
one should convey a powerful impression of the effective strength of his
army, as well as of its perfect equipment; and accordingly orders
were despatched to the different generals of division within twelve or
fifteen leagues of Berlin, to march their corps to the capital. The 28th
of November was the day fixed for this grand display, and all was bustle
and preparation for the event.

On the morning of the 22d, I received an official note from the bureau
of the adjutant-general desiring me to wait on him before noon that same
day. Concluding it referred to my promised promotion to the “Legion,” it
was with somewhat of a fluttered and excited feeling I found myself, at
some few minutes after eleven o'clock, in the antechamber, which already
was crowded with officers, some seeking, some summoned to an interview.

In the midst of the buzz of conversation, which, despite the reserve
of the place, still prevailed, I heard my name called, and followed
an aide-de-camp along a passage into a large room, which opened into
a smaller apartment, where, standing with his back to the fire, I
perceived Marshal Berthier, his only companion being an officer in a
staff uniform, busily engaged writing at a table.

“You are Captain Burke, of the Eighth Hussars, I believe, sir?” said the
marshal, reading slowly from a slip of paper he held twisted round one
finger.

“Yes, sir.”

“By birth an Irishman,” continued the marshal; “entered at the
Polytechnique in August, 1801. Am I correct?” I bowed. “Subsequently
accused of being concerned in the conspiracy of Georges and Pichegru,”
 resumed he, as he raised his eyes slightly from the paper, and fixed
them searchingly upon me.

“Falsely so, sir,” was my only reply.

“You were acquitted,--that's enough: a reprimand for imprudence, and
a slight punishment of arrest, was all. Since that time, you have
conducted yourself, as the report of your commanding officer attests,
with zeal and steadiness.”

He paused here, and seemed as if he expected me to say something; but
as I thought the whole a most strange commencement to the ceremony of
investing me with a cross of the Legion, I remained silent.

“At Paris, when attached to the _élite_, you appear to have visited the
Duchess of Montserrat, and frequented her soirées.”

“Once, sir; but once I was in the house of the duchess. My visit
could scarcely have occupied as many minutes as I have spent here this
morning.”

“Dined occasionally at the 'Moisson d'Or,” continued the marshal, not
noticing in any way my reply. “Well, as I believe you are now aware that
there are no secrets with his Majesty's Government, perhaps you will
inform me what are your relations with the Chevalier Duchesne?”

For some minutes previous my mind was dwelling on that personage; and
I answered the question in a few words, by stating the origin of our
acquaintance, and briefly adverting to its course.

“You correspond with the chevalier?” said he, interrupting.

“I have never done so; nor is it likely, from the manner in which we
parted last, that I ever shall.”

“This scarcely confirms that impression, sir,” said the marshal, taking
an open letter from the table and holding it up before me. “You know his
handwriting; is that it?”

“Yes; I have no doubt it is.”

“Well, sir, that letter belongs to you; you may take and read it.
There is enough there, sir, to make your conduct the matter of a
court-martial; but I am satisfied that a warning will be sufficient.
Let this be such then. Learn, sir, that the plottings of a poor and
mischievous party harmonize ill with the duties of a brave soldier; and
that a captain of the Guards might choose more suitable associates than
the dupes and double-dealers of the Faubourg St. Germain. There is your
brevet to the 'Legion,' signed by the Emperor. I shall return it to
his Majesty; mayhap at some future period your conduct may merit
differently. I need hardly say that a gentleman so very little
particular in the choice of his friends would be a most misplaced
subject for the honor of the 'Legion.'”

He waved his hand in sign for me to withdraw, and overwhelmed with
confusion, I bowed and left the room. Nor was it till the door closed
behind me that I felt how cruelly and unjustly I had been treated; then
suddenly the blood rushed to my face and temples, my head seemed as
if it would burst at either side, and forgetting every circumstance of
place and condition, I seized the handle of the door and wrenched it
open.

“Marshal,” said I, with the fearlessness of one resolved at any risk to
vindicate his character, “I know nothing of this letter; I have not
read one line of it. I have no further intimacy with the writer than an
officer has with his comrade; but if I am to be the subject of espionage
to the police,--if my chance acquaintances in the world are to be matter
of charges against my fealty and honor,--if I, who have nothing but my
sword and my epaulette--”

When I had got thus far I saw the marshal's face turn deadly pale, while
the officer at the table made a hurried sign to me with his finger to be
silent. The door closed nearly at the same instant, and I turned my head
round, and there stood the Emperor. The figure is still before me;
he was standing still, his hands behind his back, and his low chapeau
deeply pressed upon his brows. His gray frock was open, and looked as if
disordered from haste.

“What is this?” said he, in that hissing tone he always assumed when in
moments of passion,--“what is this? Are we in the bureau of a minister?
or is it the _salle de police?_ Who are you, sir?”

It was not until the question had been repeated that I found courage to
reply. But he waited not for my answer, as, snatching the open letter
from my fingers, he resumed,--

“It is not thus, sir, you should come here. Your petition or memorial--
Ha! _parbleu!_ what is this?”

At the instant his eyes fell upon the writing, and as suddenly his face
grew almost livid. With the rapidity of lightning he seemed to peruse
the lines. Then waving his hand, he motioned towards the door, and
muttered,--“Wait without!”

Like one awaking from a dreadful dream, I stood, endeavoring to recall
my faculties, and assure myself how much there might be of reality in
my wandering fancies, when I perceived that a portion of the letter
remained between my fingers as the Emperor snatched it from my hand.

A half-finished sentence was all I could make out; but its tone made me
tremble for what the rest of the epistle might contain:--

“Surpassed themselves, of course, my dear Burke; and so has the Emperor
too. It remained for the campaign in Prussia to prove that one hundred
and eighty-five thousand prisoners can be taken from an army numbering
one hundred and fifty-four thousand men. As to Davoust, who really had
all the fighting, though he wrote no bulletin, all Paris feels--”

Such was the morsel I had saved; such a specimen of the insolence of the
entire.

The dreadful fact then broke suddenly upon me that this letter had been
written by Duchesne to effect my ruin; and as I stood stupefied with
terror, the door was suddenly opened, and the Emperor passed, out.
His eyes were turned on me as he went, and I shrank back from their
expression of withering anger.

“Captain Burke!” said a voice from within the room, for the door
continued open.

I entered slowly, but with a firm step. My mind was made up; and in the
force of a resolute determination, I found strength for whatever might
happen.

“It would appear, sir,” said the marshal, addressing me with a stern and
severe expression of features, “it would appear that you permit yourself
the widest liberty in canvassing the acts of his Majesty the Emperor;
for I find you here mentioned “--he took a paper from the table as he
spoke--“as declaiming, in a public café, on the subject of the Prince de
Hatzfeld, and expressing, in no measured terms, your disapproval of his
imprisonment.”

“All that I said upon the subject, sir, so far as I can recollect, was
in praise of the Emperor for clemency so well bestowed.”

“There was no high-flown sentiment on the breach of honorable confidence
effected in opening private letters?” said the marshal, sarcastically.

“Yes, sir; I do remember expressing myself strongly on that head.”

“I am not surprised, sir,” interrupted he, “at your indignation; your
own conscience must have prompted you on the occasion. When a gentleman
has such correspondents as the Chevalier Duchesne, he may well feel on
a point like this. But enough of this. I have his Majesty's orders
regarding you, which are as follows--”

“Forgive me, I beg you, sir, the liberty of interrupting you for one
moment. I am an alien, and therefore little versed in the habits and
usages of the land for whose service I have shed my blood; but I am sure
a marshal of France will not refuse a kindness to an officer of the
army, however humble his station. I merely ask the answer to one
question.”

“What is it?” said the marshal, quickly.

“Am I, as an officer, at liberty to resign my grade, and quit the
service?”

“Yes, _parbleu!_” said he, reddening, “yes, that you are.”

“Then here I do so,” rejoined I, drawing my sword from its scabbard.
“The career I can no longer follow honorably and independently, I shall
follow no more.”

“Your corps, sir?” said the marshal.

“The Eighth Hussars of the Guard.”

“Take a note of that, Gardanne. I shall spare you all unnecessary delay
in tendering a written resignation of your rank; I accept it now. You
leave Berlin in twenty-four hours.”

I bowed, and was silent.

“Your passport shall be made out for Paris; you shall receive it
to-morrow morning.” He motioned with his hand towards the door as he
concluded, and I left the room.

The moment I felt myself alone, the courage which had sustained me
throughout at once gave way, and I leaned against the wall, and covered
my face with my hands. Yes, I knew it in my heart,--the whole dream of
life was over; the path of glory was closed to me forever; all the hopes
on which, in sanguine hours, I used to feed my heart, were scattered.
And to the miseries of my exiled lot were now added the sorrows of an
unfriended, companionless existence. The thought that no career was open
to me came last; for at first I only remembered all I was leaving, not
the dark future before me. Yet, when I called to mind the injustice with
which I had been treated,--the system of espionage to which, as an alien
more particularly, I was exposed,--I felt I had done right, and that
to have remained in the service at such a sacrifice of my personal
independence would have been base and unworthy.

With a half-broken heart and faltering step I regained my quarters,
where again my grief burst forth with more violence than at first.
Every object about recalled to me the career I was leaving forever; and
wherever my eye rested, some emblem lay to open fresh stores of sorrow.
The pistols I carried at Elchingen, a gift from General d'Auvergne;
an Austrian sabre I had taken from its owner, still ornamented with a
little knot of ribbon Minette had fastened to the hilt,--hung above the
chimney; and I could scarce look on them without tears. On the table
still lay open the _ordre du jour_ which named me to the Legion of
Honor; and now the humblest soldier that carried his musket in the ranks
was my superior. Not all the principle on which I founded my resolve was
proof against this first outburst of my sorrow.

The chivalrous ardor of a soldier's life had long supplied to me the
place of those appliances to happiness which other men possess. Each day
I followed it the path grew dearer to me. Every bold and daring feat,
every deed of enterprise or danger, seemed to bring me, in thought at
least, nearer to him whose greatness was my idolatry. And now, all this
was to be as a mere dream,--a thing which had been, and was to be no
more.

While I revolved such sad reflections, a single knock came to my door.
I opened it, and saw a soldier of my own regiment. His dress was
travel-stained and splashed, and he looked like one off a long journey.
He knew me at once, and accosted me by name, as he presented a letter
from General d'Auvergne.

“You've had a smart ride,” said I, as I surveyed his flushed face and
disordered uniform.

“Yes, Captain,--from the Oder. Our division is full twelve leagues from
this. I left on yesterday morning; for the general was particular that
the charger should not suffer on the way,--as if a beast like that would
mind double the distance.”

By this time I had opened the letter, which merely contained the
following few lines:--

      Encampment on the Oder, Nov. 21, 1806.

      My dear Burke,--Every new arrival here has brought me some
      fresh intelligence of you, and of your conduct at Jena; nor
      can I say with what pride I have heard that the Emperor has
      included you among the list of the _décorés_. This is the
      day I often prophesied for you, and the true and only
      refutation against the calumnies of the false-hearted and
      the envious. I send you a Polish charger for your gala
      review. Accept him from me; and believe that you have no
      warmer friend, nor more affectionate, than yours,

      D'Auvergne, Lieut-General.

Before I had finished reading the letter, my eyes grew so dimmed I
could scarcely trace the letters. Each word of kindness, every token of
praise, now cut me to the heart. How agonizing are the congratulations
of friends on those events in life where our own conscience bears
reproach against us! how poignant the self-accusation that is elicited
by undeserved eulogy! How would _he_ think of my conduct? By what means
should I convince _him_ that no alternative remained to me? I turned
away, lest the honest soldier should witness my trouble; and as I
approached the window, I beheld in the courtyard beneath the beautiful
charger which, with the full trappings of a hussar saddle, stood proudly
flapping his deep flanks with his long silken tail. With what a thrill
I surveyed him! How my heart leaped, as I fancied myself borne along on
the full tide of battle, each plunge he gave responsive to the stroke of
my sword-arm! For an instant I forgot all that had happened, and gazed
on his magnificent crest and splendid shape with an ecstasy of delight.

“Ay,” said the dragoon, whose eyes were riveted in the same quarter,
“there's not a marshal of France so well mounted; and he knows the
trumpet-call like the oldest soldier of the troop.”

“You will return to-morrow,” said I, recovering myself suddenly, and
endeavoring to appear composed and at ease. “Well, then, to-night I
shall give you an answer for the general; be here at eight o'clock.”

I saw that my troubled air and broken voice had not escaped the
soldier's notice, and was glad when the door closed, and I was again
alone.

My first care was to write to the general; nor was it till after many
efforts I succeeded to my satisfaction in conveying, in a few and simple
words, the reasons of that step which must imbitter my future life. I
explained how deeply continued mistrust had wounded me; how my spirit,
as a soldier and a gentleman, revolted at the espionage established over
my actions; that it was in weighing these insults against the wreck of
all my hopes, I had chosen that path which had neither fame nor rank nor
honor, but still left me an untrammelled spirit and a mind at peace with
itself. “I have now,” said I, “to begin the world anew, without one clew
to guide me. Every illusion with which I had invested life has left me;
I must choose both a career and a country, and bear with me from this
nothing but the heartfelt gratitude I shall ever retain for one who
befriended me through weal and woe, and whose memory I shall bless while
I live.”

I felt relieved and more at ease when I finished this letter; the
endeavor to set my conduct in its true light to another had also its
effect upon my own convictions. I knew, besides, that I had sacrificed
to my determination all my worldly prospects, and believed that where
self-interest warred with principle, the right course could scarcely be
doubtful.

All this time, not one thought ever occurred to me of how I was to meet
the future. It was strange; but so perfectly had the present crisis
filled my mind, there was not room for even a glance at what was to
come.

My passport was made out for Paris, and thither I must go. So much was
decided for me without intervention on my part; and now it only remained
for me to dispose of the little trappings of my former estate, and take
the road.

The Jews who always accompanied the army, offered a speedy resource in
this emergency. My anxiety to leave Berlin by daybreak, and thus avoid
a meeting of any acquaintances there, made me accept of the sums they
offered. To them such negotiations were of daily occurrence, and they
well knew how to profit by them. My whole worldly wealth consisted of
two hundred napoleons; and with this small pittance to begin life, I sat
myself down to think whither I should turn, or what course adopt.

The night passed over thus, and when day dawned, I had not closed my
eyes. About four o'clock the diligence in which I had secured a place
for Weimar drew up at my door. I hurried down, and mounting to a seat
beside the _conducteur_, I buried my face in the folds of my cloak, nor
dared to look up until we had passed beyond the precincts of the city,
and were travelling along on the vast plain of sand which surrounds
Berlin.

The _conducteur_ was a Prussian, and divining my military capacity in my
appearance, he maintained a cold and distant civility; never speaking,
except when spoken to, and even then in as few words as possible. This
was itself a relief to me; my heart was too full of its own sufferings
to find pleasure in conversation, and I dreamed away the hours till
nightfall.

CHAPTER XXVI. A FOREST PATH.

When I reached Wiemar I quitted the diligence, resolved to make the
remainder of the journey on foot; for thus I should both economize
the little means I possessed, and escape many of the questionings and
inquiries to which as a traveller by public conveyance I was exposed.
Knapsack on shoulder, then, and staff in hand, I plodded onward, and
although frequently coming up with others on their way homeward, I
avoided all companionship with those whom I could no longer think of as
comrades.

The two tides of population which met upon that great highway told the
whole history of war. Here came the young soldiers, fresh enrolled
in the conscription, glowing with ardor, and bounding with life and
buoyancy, and mingling their village songs with warlike chants. There,
footsore and weary, with tattered uniform and weather-beaten look,
toiled along the tired veteran, turning as he went a glance of
compassionate contempt on those whose wild _vivas_ burst forth in
greeting. As for me, I could neither partake of the high hopes of
the one, nor sympathize with the war-worn nature of the other.
Disappointment, bitter disappointment, in every cherished expectation,
had thrown a chill over me, and I wanted even the energy to become
reckless. In this state, I did not dare to face the future, but in moody
despondency reflected on the past. Was this the destiny Marie de Meudon
predicted for me? was the ever-present thought of my mind. Is it thus I
should appear before her?

A hundred times came the thought to join the new levies as a soldier,
to carry a musket in the ranks. But then came back in all its force
the memory of the distrust and suspicion my services had met with: the
conviction hourly became clearer to me, that I fought not for liberty,
but despotism; that it was not freedom, but slavery, in whose cause I
shed my blood.

To avoid meeting with the detachments which each day occupied the road,
I turned from the _chaussée_ on passing Eisenach, and took a forest
path that led through Murbach to Fulda. My path led through the Creutz
Mountains,--a wild and unfrequented tract of country, where few cottages
were to be seen, and scarcely a village existed. Vast forests of dark
pines, or bleak and barren mountains, stretched away on either side; a
few patches of miserable tillage here and there met the view; but the
scene was one of saddening influence, and harmonized but too nearly with
my own despondency.

To reach a place of shelter for the night, I was more than once obliged
to walk twelve leagues during the day, and had thus to set out before
daylight. This exertion, however, brought its own reward: the stimulant
of labor, the necessity of a task, gradually allayed the mental
irritation I suffered under; a healthier and more manly tone of thinking
succeeded to my former regrets; and with a heart elevated, if not
cheered, I continued my way.

The third day of my toilsome journey was drawing to a close. A mass of
heavy and lowering clouds, dark and thunder-charged, slowly moved along
the sky; and a low, moaning sound, that seemed to sigh along the
ground, boded the approach of a storm. I was still three leagues from my
halting-place, and began to deliberate within myself whether the dense
pine-wood, which came down to the side of the road, might not afford
a safer refuge from the hurricane than the chances of reaching a house
before it broke forth.

The shepherds who frequented these dreary tracts often erected little
huts of bark as a shelter against the cold and severity of the wintry
days, and to find out one of these now was my great endeavor. Scarcely
had I formed the resolve, when I perceived a small path opening into the
wood, at the entrance to which a piece of board nailed against the
trunk of a tree, gave tidings that such a place of security was not far
distant. These signs of forest life I had learned in my wanderings, and
now strode forward with renewed vigor.

The path led gradually upwards, along the mountain-side, which soon
became so encumbered with brushwood that I had much difficulty in
pushing my way, and at last began to doubt whether I might not have
wandered from the track. The darkness was now complete; night had
fallen, and a heavy crashing rain poured down upon the tree-tops, but
could not penetrate through their tangled shelter. The wind, too,
swept in loud gusts above, and the long threatened storm began. A
loud, deafening roar, like that of the sea itself, arose, as the leafy
branches bent before the blast, or snapped with sudden shock beneath
the hurricane; clap after clap of thunder resounded, and then the rain
descended in torrents,--the heavy drops at last, trickling from leaf to
leaf, reaching me as I stood. Once more I pushed forward, and had not
gone many paces when the red glare of a fire caught my eye. Steadfastly
fastening my gaze upon the flame, I hurried on, and at length perceived
with ecstasy that the light issued from the window of a small hovel,
such as I have already mentioned. To gain the entrance of the hut I was
obliged to pass the window, and could not resist the temptation to give
a glance at the interior, whose cheerful blaze betokened habitation.

It was not without surprise that, instead of the figure of a shepherd
reposing beside his fire, I beheld that of an old man, whose dress
bespoke the priest, kneeling in deep devotion at the foot of a small
crucifix attached to the wall. Not all the wild sounds of the raging
storm seemed to turn his attention from the object of his worship;
his eyes were closed, but the head thrown backwards showed his face
upturned, when the lips moved rapidly in prayer. Never had I beheld
so perfect a picture of intense devotional feeling; every line in his
marked countenance indicated the tension of a mind filled with one
engrossing thought, while his tremulous hands, clasped before him, shook
with the tremor of strong emotion.

What a contrast to the loud warring of the elements, that peaceful
figure, raised above earth and its troubles, in the spirit of his holy
communing! how deeply touching the calm serenity of his holy brow, with
the rolling crash of falling branches, and the deep baying of the storm!
I did not dare to interrupt him; and when I did approach the door it was
with silent step and noiseless gesture. As I stood, the old priest--for
now I saw that he was such--concluded his prayer, and detaching his
crucifix from the wall, he kissed it reverently, and placed it in his
bosom; then, rising slowly from his knees, he turned towards me. A
slight start of surprise, as quickly followed by a smile of kindly
greeting, escaped him, while he said in French,--

“You are welcome, my son; come in and share with me the shelter, for it
is a wild night.”

“A wild night, indeed, Father,” said I, casting my eyes around the
little hut, where nothing indicated the appearance of habitation.
“I could have wished you a better home than this against the storms of
winter.”

“I am a traveller like yourself,” said he, smiling at my mistake; “and a
countryman, too, if I mistake not.”

The accents in which these words were spoken pronounced him a Frenchman,
and a very little sufficed to ratify the terms of our companionship; and
having thrown a fresh billet on the fire, we both seated ourselves
before it My wallet was, fortunately, better stored than the good
father's; and having produced its contents, we supped cheerfully, and
like men who were not eating their first bivouac meal.

“I perceive, Father,” said I, as I remarked the manner in which he
disposed his viands, “I perceive you have campaigned ere now; the habits
of the service are not easily mistaken.”

“I did not need that observation of yours,” replied he, laughing
slightly, “to convince me you were a soldier; for, as you truly say,
the camp leaves its indelible traces behind it. You are hastening on to
Berlin, I suppose?”

I blushed deeply at the question; the shame of my changed condition had
been hitherto confined to my own heart, but now it was to be confessed
before a stranger.

“I ask your pardon, my son, for a question I had no right to ask; and
even there, again, I but showed my soldier education. I am returning to
France; and in seeking a short path from Eisenach, found myself where
you see; as night was falling, well content to be so well lodged,--all
the more, if I am to have your companionship.”

Few and simple as these words were, there was a tone of frankness in
them, not less than the evidence of a certain good breeding, by which
he apologized for his own curiosity in speaking thus freely of
himself, that satisfied me at once; and I hastened to inform him that
circumstances had induced me to leave the service, in which I had been a
captain, and that I was now, like himself, returning to France.

“You must not think, Father,” added I, with some eagerness, “you must
not think that other reasons than my own free will have made me cease to
be a soldier.”

“It would ill become me to have borne such a suspicion,” interrupted he,
quickly. “When one so young and full of life as you are leaves the
path where lie honor and rank and fame, he must have cause to make the
sacrifice; for I can scarce think, that at your age, these things seem
nought to your eyes.”

“You are right, Father, they are not so. They have been my guiding stars
for many a day; alas, that they can be such no longer!”

“There are higher hopes to cherish than these,” said he,
solemnly,--“higher than the loftiest longings of ambition; but we all
of us cling to the things of life, till in their perishable nature they
wean us off with disappointment and sorrow. From such a trial am I now
suffering,” added he, in a low voice, while the tears rose to his eyes
and slowly coursed along his pale cheeks.

There was a pause neither of us felt inclined to break, when at length
the priest said,--

“What was your corps in the service?”

“The Eighth Hussars of the Guard,” said I, trembling at every word.

“Ah, _he_ was in the Guides,” repeated he, mournfully, to himself; “you
knew the regiment?”

“Yes, they belonged to the Guard also; they wore no epaulettes, but a
small gold arrow on the collar.”

“Like this,” said he, unfastening the breast of his cassock, and
taking out a small package, which, among other things, contained the
designation of the _Corps des Guides_ in an arrow of gold embroidery.
“Had he not beautiful hair, long and silky as a girl's?” said he, as he
produced a lock of light and sunny brown. “Poor Alphonse! thou wouldst
have been twenty hadst thou lived till yesterday. If I shed tears, young
man, it is because I have lost the great earthly solace of my solitary
life. Others have kindred and friends, have happy homes, which, even
when bereavements come, with time will heal up the wound; I had but
him!”

“He was your nephew, perhaps?” said I, half fearing to interfere with
his sorrow.

The old man shook his head in token of dissent, while he muttered to
himself,--

“Auerstadt may be a proud memory to some; to me it is a word of sorrow
and mourning. The story is but a short one; alas! it has but one color
throughout:--

“Count Louis de Meringues--of whom you have doubtless heard that he rode
as postilion to the carriage of his sovereign in the celebrated flight
to Varennes--fell by the guillotine the week after the king's trial;
the countess was executed on the same scaffold as her husband. I was the
priest who accompanied her at the moment; and in my arms she placed her
only child,--an infant boy of two years. There was a cry among the crowd
to have the child executed also, and many called out that the spawn
would be a serpent one day, and it were better to crush it while it was
time; but the little fellow was so handsome, and looked so winningly
around him on the armed ranks and the glancing weapons, that even
_their_ cruel hearts relented, and he was spared. It is to me like
yesterday, as I remember every minute circumstance; I can recall even
the very faces of that troubled and excited assemblage, that at one
moment screamed aloud for blood, and at the next were convulsed with
savage laughter.

“As I forced my way through the dense array, a rude arm was stretched
out from the mass, and a finger dripping with the gore of the scaffold
was drawn across the boy's face, while a ruffian voice exclaimed, 'The
Meringues were ever proud of their blood; let us see if it be redder
than other people's.' The child laughed; and the mob, with horrid
mockery, laughed too.

“I took him home with me to my _presbytère_ at Sèvres,--for that was my
parish,--and we lived together in peace until the terrible decree was
issued which proclaimed all France atheist. Then we wandered southwards,
towards that good land which, through every vicissitude, was true to its
faith and its king,--La Vendée. At Lyons we were met by a party of the
revolutionary soldiers, who, with a commissary of the Government, were
engaged in raising young men for the conscription. Alphonse, who was
twelve years old, felt all a boy's enthusiasm at the warlike display
before him, and persuaded me to follow the crowd into the _Place des
Terreaux_, where the numbers were read out.

“'Paul Ducos,' cried a voice aloud, as we approached the stage on which
the commissary and his staff were standing; 'where is this Paul Ducos?'

“'I am here,' replied a fine, frank-looking youth, of some fifteen
years; 'but my father is blind, and I cannot leave him.'

“'We shall soon see that,' called out the commissary. 'Clerk, read out
his _signalement_.'

“'Paul Ducos, son of Eugène Ducos, formerly calling himself Count Ducos
de la Brèche--'

“'Down with the Royalists! _à bas_ the tyrants!' screamed the mob, not
suffering the remainder to be heard.

“'Approach, Paul Ducos!' said the commissary.

“'Wait here, Father,' whispered the youth; 'I will come back presently.'

“But the old man, a fine and venerable figure, the remnant of a noble
race, held him fast, and, as his lips trembled, said, 'Do not leave me,
Paul; my child, my comforter, stay near me.'

“The boy looked round him for one face of kindly pity in this emergency,
when, turning towards me, he said rapidly, 'Stand near him!' He broke
from the old man's embrace, and rushing through the crowd, mounted the
scaffold.

“'You are drawn for the conscription, young man,' said the commissary;
'but in consideration of your father's infirmity, a substitute will be
accepted. Have you such?'

“The boy shook his head mournfully and in silence.

“'Have you any friend who would assist you here? Bethink you awhile,'
rejoined the commissary, who, for his station and duties, was a kind and
benevolent man.

“'I have none. They have left us nothing, neither home nor friends,'
said the youth, bitterly; 'and if it were not for his sake, I care not
what they do with me.'

“'Down with the tyrants!' yelled the mob, as they heard these haughty
words.

“'Then your fate is decreed,' resumed the commissary.

“'No, not yet!' cried out Alphonse, as, breaking from my side, he gained
the steps and mounted the platform; 'I will be his substitute!'

“Oh! how shall I tell the bitter anguish of that moment, which at once
dispelled the last remaining hope I cherished, and left me destitute
forever. As I dashed the tears from my eyes and looked up, the two boys
were locked in each other's arms. It was a sight to have melted any
heart, save those around them; but bloodshed and crime had choked up
every avenue of feeling, and left them, not men, but tigers.

“'Alphonse de Meringues,' cried out the boy, in answer to a question
regarding his name.

“There is no such designation in France,' said a grim-looking,
hard-featured man, who, wearing the tri-colored scarf, sat at the table
beside the clerk.

“'I was never called by any other,' rejoined the youth, proudly.

“'Citizen Meringues,' interposed the commissary, mildly, 'what is your
age?'

“'I know not the years,' replied he; 'but I have heard that I was but an
infant when they slew my father.'

“A fierce roar of passion broke from the mob below the scaffold as they
heard this; and again the cry broke forth, 'Down with the tyrants!'

“'Art thou, then, the son of that base sycophant who rode courier to the
Capet to Varennes?' said the hard-featured man at the table.

“'Of the truest gentleman of France,' called out a loud voice from below
the platform; 'Vive le roi!' It was the blind man who spoke, and waved
his cap above his head.

“'To the guillotine! to the guillotine!' screamed a hundred voices, in
tones wilde than the cries of famished wolves, as, seizing the aged man,
they tore his clothes to very rags.

“In an instant all attention was turned from the platform to the scene
below it, where, with shouts and screams of fury, the terrible mob
yelled aloud for blood. In vain the guards endeavored to keep back the
people, who twice rescued their victim from the hands of the soldiery;
and already a confused murmur arose that the commissary himself was a
traitor to the public, and favored the tyrants, when a dull, clanking
sound rose above the tumult, and a cheer of triumph proclaimed the
approach of the instrument of torture.

“In their impetuous torrent of vengeance they had dragged the guillotine
from the distant end of the 'Place,' where it usually stood; and there
now still knelt the figure of a condemned man, lashed with his arms
behind him, on the platform, awaiting the moment of his doom. Oh, that
terrible face, whereon death had already set its seal! With glazed,
lack-lustre eye, and cheek leaden and quivering, he gazed around on the
fiendish countenances like one awakening from a dream, his lips parted
as though to speak; but no sound came forth.

“'Place! place for Monsieur le Marquis!' shouted a ruffian, as he
assisted to raise the figure of the blind man up the steps; and a ribald
yell of fiendish laughter followed the brutal jest.

“'Thou art to make thy journey in most noble company,' said another to
the culprit on the platform.

“'An he see not his way in the next world better than in this, thou must
lend him a hand, friend,' said a third. And with many a ruffian joke
they taunted their victims, who stood on the last threshold of life.

“Among the crowd upon the scaffold of the guillotine I could see the
figure of the blind man as it leaned and fell on either side, as the
movement of the mob bore it.

“'_Parbleu!_ these Royalists would rather kneel than stand,” said a
voice, as they in vain essayed to make the old man place his feet under
him; and ere the laughter which this rude jest excited ceased, a cry
broke forth of--'He is dead! he is dead!' And with a heavy sumph, the
body fell from their hands; for when their power of cruelty ended, they
cared not for the corpse.

“It was true: life was extinct, none knew how,--whether from the
violence of the mob in its first outbreak, or that a long-suffering
heart had burst at last; but the chord was snapped, and he whose proud
soul lately defied the countless thousands around, now slept with the
dead.

“In a few seconds it seemed as though they felt that a power stronger
than their own had interposed between them and their vengeance, and
they stood almost aghast before the corpse, where no trace of blood
proclaimed it to be their own; then, rallying from this stupor, with
one voice they demanded that the son should atone for the crimes of the
father.

“'I am ready,' cried the youth, in a voice above the tumult. 'I did not
deem I could be grateful to ye for aught, but I am for this.'

“To no purpose did the commissary propose a delay in the sentence; he
was unsupported by his colleagues. The passions of the mob rose
higher and higher; the thirst for blood, unslaked, became intense and
maddening; and they danced in frantic glee around the guillotine, while
they chanted one of the demoniac songs of the scaffold.

“In this moment, when the torrent ran in one direction, Alphonse might
have escaped all notice, but that the condemned youth turned to embrace
him once more before he descended from the people.

“'They are so sorry to separate, it is a shame to part them,' cried a
ruffian in the crowd.

“'You forget, Citizen, that this boy is his substitute,' said the
commissary, mildly; 'the Republic most not be cheated of its defenders.'

“'Vive la République!' cried the soldiers; and the cry was re-echoed by
thousands, while amid their cheers there rose the last faint sigh of an
expiring victim.

“The scene was over; the crowd dispersed; and the soldiers marched back
to quarters, accompanied by some hundred conscripts, among whom was
Alphonse,--a vague, troubled expression betokening that he scarce knew
what had happened around him.

“The regiment to which he was appointed was at Toulon, and there I
followed him. They were ordered to the north of Italy soon after,
and thence to Egypt. Through the battlefields of Mount Tabor and the
Pyramids I was ever beside him; on the heights of Austerlitz I stanched
his wounds; and I laid him beneath the earth on the field of Auerstadt.”

The old man's voice trembled and became feeble as he finished speaking,
and a settled expression of grief clothed his features, which were pale
as death.

“I must see Sèvres once more,” said he, after a pause. “I must look on
the old houses of the village, and the little gardens, and the venerable
church; they will be the only things to greet me there now, but I must
gaze on them ere I close my eyes to this world and its cares.”

“Come, come, Father,” said I; “to one who has acted so noble a part as
yours, life is never without its own means of happiness.”

“I spoke not of death,” replied he, mildly; “but the holy calm of a
convent will better suit my seared and worn heart than all that the
world calls its joys and pleasures. You, who are young and full of
hope--”

“Alas! Father, speak not thus. One can better endure the lowering skies
of misfortune as the evening of life draws near than when the morn
of existence is breaking. To me, with youth and health, there is no
future,--no hope.”

“I will not hear you speak thus,” said the priest; “fatigue and
weariness are on you now. Wait until to-morrow,--we shall be
fellow-travellers together; and then, if you will reveal to me your
story, mayhap my long experience of the world may suggest comfort and
consolation where you can see neither.”

The storm by this time had abated much of its violence, and across the
moon the large clouds were wafted speedily, disclosing bright patches of
light at every moment.

“Such is our life here,” said the father,--“alternating with its days of
happiness and sorrow. Let us learn, in the dark hour of our destiny, to
bear the glare of our better fortunes; for, believe me, that when our
joys are greatest, so are our trials also.”

He ceased speaking, and I saw that soon afterwards his lips moved as if
in prayer. I now laid myself down in my cloak beside the fire, and was
soon buried in a sleep too sound even for a dream.

CHAPTER XXVII. A CHANCE MEETING.

With the good priest of Sèvres I journeyed along towards the frontier of
France, ever selecting the least frequented paths, and such as were not
likely to be taken by the troops of soldiery which daily moved towards
Berlin. The frankness of my companion had made me soon at ease with
him; and I told him, without reserve, the story of my life, down to the
decisive moment of my leaving the army.

“You see, Father,” said I, “how completely my career has failed; how,
with all the ardor of a soldier, with all the devotion of a follower, I
have adhered to the Emperor's fortunes; and yet--”

“Your ambition, however great it was, could not stifle conscience. I
can believe it well. They who go forth to the wars with high hopes and
bounding hearts, who picture to their minds the glorious rewards of
great achievements, should blind their eyes to the horrors and injustice
of the cause they bleed for. Any sympathy with misfortune would sap the
very principle of that heroism whose essence is success. Men cannot
play the double game, even in matters of worldly ambition. Had you not
listened to the promptings of your heart, you had been greater; had you
not followed the dazzling glare of your hopes, you had been happier:
both you could scarcely be. Be assured of this, my son, the triumphs
of a country can only be enjoyed by the child of the soil; the brave
soldier, who lends his arm to the cause, feels he has little part in the
glory.”

“True, indeed,--most true; I feel it.”

“And were it otherwise, how unsatisfying is the thirst for that same
glory! how endless the path that leads to it! how many regrets accompany
it! how many ties broken! how many friendships forfeited! No, no; return
to your own land,--to the country of your birth; some honorable career
will always present itself to him who seeks but independence and the
integrity of his own heart. Beneath the conquering eagles of the Emperor
there are men of every shade of political opinion; for the conscription
is pitiless. There are Royalists, who love their king and hate the
usurper; there are Jacobins, who worship freedom and detest the tyrant;
there are stern Republicans--Vendéens, and followers of Moreau: but yet
all are Frenchmen. 'La belle France' is the watchword that speaks to
every heart, and patriotism is the bond between thousands. _You_ have
no share in this; the delusion of national glory can never throw its
deception around you. Return, then, to your country; and be assured,
that in _her_ cause your least efforts will be more ennobling to
yourself than the boldest deeds the hand of a mercenary ever achieved.”

The inborn desire to revisit my native land needed but the counsels
of the priest to make it all-powerful; and as, day by day, I plodded
onward, my whole thoughts turned to the chances of my escape, and
the means by which I could accomplish my freedom; for the war still
continued between France and England, and the blockade of the French
ports was strictly maintained by a powerful fleet. The difficulty of the
step only increased my desire to effect it; and a hundred projects did I
revolve in my mind, without ever being able to fix on one where success
seemed likely. The very resolve, however, had cheered my spirits, and
given new courage to my heart; and an object suggested a hope,--and with
a hope, life was no longer burdensome.

Each morning now I set forward with a mind more at ease, and more open
to receive pleasure from the varied objects which met me as I went. Not
so my poor companion; the fatigue of the journey, added to great mental
suffering, began to prey upon his health, and brought back an ague he
had contracted in Egypt, from the effect of which his constitution had
never perfectly recovered. At first the malady showed itself only in
great depression of spirits, which made him silent for hours of the way.
But soon it grew worse; he walked with much difficulty, took but little
nourishment, and seemed impressed with a sad foreboding that the disease
must be fatal.

“I wanted to reach my village; my own quiet churchyard should have been
my resting-place,” said he, as he sank wearied and exhausted on a
little bank at the roadside. “But this was only a sick man's fancy. Poor
Alphonse lies far away in the dreary plain of Auerstadt.”

The sun was just setting of a clear day in December as we halted on a
little eminence, which commanded a distant view on every side. Behind
lay the dark forest of Germany, the tree-tops presenting their massive
wavy surface, over which the passing clouds threw momentary shadows;
before, but still some miles away, we could trace the Rhine, its bright
silver current sparkling in the sun; beyond lay the great plains of
France, and upon these the sick man's eyes rested with a steadfast gaze.

“Yes!” said he, after a long silence on both sides, “the fields and the
mountains, the sunshine and the shade, are like those of other lands;
but the feeling which attaches the heart to country is an inborn
sense, and the very word 'home' brings with it the whole history of our
affections. Even to look thus at his native country is a blessing to an
exile's heart.”

I scarcely dared to interrupt the reverie which succeeded these few
words; but when I perceived that he still remained seated, his head
between his hands and lost in meditation, I ventured to remind him that
we were still above a league from Heimbach, the little village where we
should pass the night, and that on a road so wild and unfrequented there
was little hope of finding shelter any nearer.

“You must lean on me, Father; the night air is fresh and bracing, and
after a little it will revive you.”

The old man rose without speaking, and taking my arm, began the descent
of the mountain. His steps, however, were tottering and uncertain, his
breathing hurried and difficult, and his carriage indicated the very
greatest debility.

“I cannot do it, my son,” said he, sinking upon the grassy bench which
skirted the way; “you must leave me. It matters little now where this
frail body rests; a few hours more, and the rank grass will wave above
it and the rain beat over it unfelt. Let us part here: an old man's
blessing for all your kindness will follow you through life, and may
cheer you to think on hereafter.”

“Do you then suppose I could leave you thus?” said I, reproachfully. “Is
it so you think of me?”

“My minutes are few now, my child,” replied he, more solemnly, “and I
would pass the last moments of my life alone. Well, then, if you will
not,--leave me now for a little, and return to me; by that time my mind
will be calmer, and mayhap, too, my strength greater, and I may be able
to accompany you to the village.”

I acceded to this proposal the more willingly, because it afforded me
the hope of finding some means to convey him to Heimbach; and so, having
wrapped him carefully in my cloak, I hastened down the mountain at the
top of my speed.

The zigzag path by which I went discovered to me from time to time the
lights of the little hamlet, which twinkled star-like in the valley; and
as I drew nearer, the confused hum of voices reached me. I listened,
and to my amazement heard the deep, hoarse bray of a trumpet. How well
I knew that sound! it was the night-call to gather in the stragglers.
I stopped to listen; and now, in the stillness, could mark the tramp of
horsemen and the clank of their equipments: again the trumpet sounded,
and was answered by another at some distance. The road lay straight
below me at some hundred yards off, and leaving the path, I dashed
directly downwards just as the leading horsemen of a small detachment
came slowly up. To their loud _Qui vive?_ I answered by giving an
account of the sick man, and entreating the sergeant who commanded the
party to lend assistance to convey him to the village.

“Yes, _parbleu!_ that we will,” said the honest soldier; “a priest who
has made the campaign of Egypt and Austria is worthy of all our care.
Where is he?”

“About a mile from this; but the road is not practicable for a
horseman.”

“Well, you shall have two of my men; they will soon bring him hither.”
 And as he spoke, he ordered two troopers to dismount, who, quickly
disencumbering themselves of their sabres, prepared to follow me.

“We shall expect you at the bivouac,” cried the sergeant, as he resumed
his way; while I, eager to return, breasted the mountain with renewed
energy.

“You belong to the Guard, my friends,” said I, as I paused for breath at
a turn of the path.

“The Fourth Cuirassiers of the Guard,” replied the soldier I addressed;
“Milhaud's brigade.”

How my heart leaped as he said these words! They were part of the
division General d'Auvergne once commanded; it was the regiment of poor
Pioche, too, before the dreadful day of Austerlitz.

“You know the Fourth, then?” rejoined the man, as he witnessed the
agitation of my manner.

“Know the Fourth?” echoed his comrade, in a voice of half-indignant
meaning. “_Sacrebleu!_who does not know them? Does not all the world
know them by this time?”

“It is the Fourth who wear the motto 'Dix contre un' on their caps,”
 said I, desirous to flatter the natural vanity of my companions.

“Yes, Monsieur; I see you have served also.”

I answered by a nod, for already every word, every gesture, recalled to
me the career I had quitted; and my regrets, so late subdued by reason
and reflection, came thronging back, and filled ray heart to bursting.

Hurrying onward now, I mounted the steep path, and soon regained the
spot I sought. The poor father was sleeping; overcome by fatigue and
weariness, he had fallen on the mossy bank, and lay in a deep, soft
slumber. Lifting him gently, the strong troopers crossed their hands
beneath, and bore him along between them. For an instant he looked up;
but seeing me at his side, he merely pressed my hand, and closed his
eyes again.

“_Ma foi!_” said one of the dragoons, in a low voice, “I should not be
surprised if this were the Père Arsène, who served with the army in
Italy. We used to call him 'old Scapulaire'. He was the only priest I
ever saw in the van of a brigade. You knew him too, Auguste.”

“Yes, that I did,” replied the other soldier. “I saw him at Elkankah,
where one of ours was unhorsed by a Mameluke, spring forward, and
seizing a pistol at the holster, shoot the Turk through the head, and
then kneel down beside the dying man he was with before, and go on with
his prayers. _Ventrebleu!_ that's what I call discipline.”

“Where was that, Comrade?”

“At Elkankah.”

“At Quoreyn, rather, my friend, two leagues to the southward,” whispered
a low voice.

“_Tonnerre de ciel!_” cried the two soldiers in a breath, “it is
himself;” for the words were spoken by the priest, who was no other than
the Père Arsène they spoke of.

The effort of speech and memory was, however, a mere passing one; for
to all their questions he was now deaf, and lay apparently unconscious
between them. On me, therefore, they turned their inquiries, but with
little more of success; and thus we descended the mountain, eager to
reach some place of succor for the good father.

As we approached the village, I was soon made aware of the objects of
the party who occupied it. The little street was crowded with cattle,
bullocks, and sheep, fast wedged up amid huge wagons of forage and carts
of corn; mounted dragoons urging on the jaded animals, regardless of
the angry menaces or the impatient appeals incessantly making by the
peasantry, who in great numbers had followed their stock from their
farms.

[Illustration: BrowneForagingParty121]

The soldiers, who were detachments of different corps, were also
quarrelling among themselves for their share of the spoil; and these
altercations, in which more than once I saw a sabre flash, added to
the discord. It was, indeed, a scene of tumult and confusion almost
inconceivable. Here were a party of cuirassiers, carbine in hand,
protecting a drove of sheep; around which the country people were
standing, seemingly irresolute whether they should essay an attack,--a
movement often prompted by the other soldiers, who hoped in the _mêlée_
to seize a part of the prey. Many of the oxen were bestrode by hussars
or lancers, whose gay trappings formed a strange contrast with the
beasts they rode on; while more than one stately horseman held a sheep
before him on the saddle, for whose protection a cocked pistol seemed no
ineffectual guarantee.

The task of penetrating this dense and turbulent mob seemed to me almost
impossible, and I expressed my fears to the soldiers. But they replied
that there were too many _braves_ of Egypt there not to remember the
Père Arsène; saying which, one of the soldiers, whispering a word to
his companion, laid the priest gently upon the ground, and then mounting
rapidly on a forage-cart, he shouted, in a voice heard above the din,--

“Comrades of the Fourth, we have found an old companion; the Père
Scapulaire is here. Place for the good father! place there!”

A hundred loud _vivas_ welcomed this announcement; for the name was well
known to many who never had seen the priest, and cheer after cheer for
the _bon père_ now rang through this motley assemblage.

To the wild confusion of a moment before the regularity of discipline
at once succeeded, and a lane was quickly formed for the soldiers to
advance with the priest between them, each horseman saluting as he
passed as if to his general on parade.

“To the Trauben,--the Trauben!” cried several voices, as we went
along; and this I learned was the little inn of the village, where the
non-commissioned officers in charge of the several parties were seated
in council to arrange the subdivision of the booty.

Had not a feeling stronger than mere personal consideration occupied me,
I would have now left the good priest among his old comrades, with
whom he was certain to meet kindness and protection. But I could not so
readily part with one whom, even in the few hours of our intercourse, I
had learned to like; and therefore, enduring as well as I was able
the rugged insubordination of a soldiery free from the restraint of
discipline, I followed on, and soon found myself at the door of the
Trauben.

A dismounted dragoon, with drawn sword, guarded the entrance, around
which a group of angry peasants were gathered, loudly protesting against
the robbery of their flocks and farmyards. It was with great difficulty
I could persuade the sentry to suffer me to enter; and when I at last
succeeded, I found none willing to pay any attention to my request
regarding a billet for the priest, for unhappily his name and character
were unknown to those to whom I addressed myself. In this dilemma I was
deliberating what step to take, when one of the soldiers, who with such
zealous devotion had never left us, came up to say that his corporal
had just given up his own quarters for the good father's use; and this,
happily, was a small summer-house in the garden at the back of the inn.

“He cannot come with us himself,” said the soldier, “for he is engaged
with the forage rations, but I have got his leave to take the quarters.”

A small wicket beside the inn led us into a large, wildly-grown orchard,
through which a broad path led to the summer-house in question; at
least such we guessed to be the little building from whose windows there
gleamed the bright glare of a cheerful fire.

The door lay open into a little hall, from which two doors led
into different chambers. Over one of these was marked in chalk
“quartier-général,” in imitation of the title assigned to a general's
quarters, and this the soldiers pronounced must belong to the corporal.
I opened it accordingly and entered. The room was small and neatly
furnished, and with the blazing wood upon the hearth, looked most
comfortable and inviting.

“Yes, we are all right here; I know his helmet,--this is it,” said the
dragoon. “So here we must leave you. You'll tell the good father it was
two troopers of the Fourth who carried him hither, won't ye? Ay, and say
Auguste Prévôt was one of them; he 'll know the name,--he nursed me in a
fever I had in Italy.”

“I wish he were able to give me his blessing again,” said the other; “I
had it before that affair at Brescia, and there were four of my comrades
killed about me, and never a shot touched me. But good-night, Comrade;
goodnight.” And so saying, having left the father at his length upon a
couch, they made their military salute and departed.

A rude-looking flagon of beer which stood on the table was the only
thing I could discover in the chamber, save a canvas bag of tobacco
and some pipes. I filled a goblet with the liquor and placed it to the
priest's lips. He swallowed a little of it, and then opening his eyes,
slowly looked around him, while he murmured to my question a faint sound
of “Better,--much better.” I knew enough of such matters to be aware
that perfect rest and repose were the greatest aids to his recovery;
and so, replenishing the fire, I threw myself down on the large dragoon
cloak which lay on the floor, and prepared to pass my night where I was.

The long-drawn breathings of the sleeping man, the perfect quiet and
stillness of all around,--for though not far distant from the village,
the thick wood of trees intercepted every sound from that quarter,--and
my fatigue combined, soon brought on drowsiness.

I struggled, so long as I was able, against the tendency; but a humming
sound filled my ears, the objects grew fainter before my vision, and I
sank into that half-dreamy state when consciousness remains, but clouded
and indistinct in all its perceptions. Twice the door was opened and
some persons entered; but though they spoke loudly, I heard not their
words, nor could I recognize their appearance. To this succeeded a deep,
sound sleep, the recompense of great fatigue.

The falling of a piece of firewood on the hearth awoke me. I opened my
eyes and looked about. The room had no other light than from the embers
of the wood fire and the piece of blazing pine which had just fallen;
but even by that uncertain glare I could see enough to amaze and confuse
me.

On the couch where I had left the priest sleeping, the old man was now
seated, his head uncovered, and a scarf of light blue silk across his
shoulders and falling to his feet. Before him, and kneeling, was a
figure, of which for some minutes I in vain endeavored to ascertain the
traits; for while in the military air of the dress there was something
to mark the soldier, a waving mass of hair loosely falling on the back
bespoke another sex. While I yet doubted, the flickering flame burst
forth and showed me the small and beautiful shaped foot which from
beneath a loose trouser peeped forth, and in the neat boot and
tastefully ornamented spur I recognized in an instant it was a
vivandière of the army,--one of those who, amid all the reckless abandon
of the life of camps and battlefields, can yet preserve some vestige of
coquetry and feminine grace.

So strange the sight, so complete the heavy stupor of my faculties, that
again and again I doubted whether the whole might not be the creation of
a dream; but the well-known tones of the old man's voice soon reassured
me, as I heard him say,--

“I know it too, my child; I have followed too long the fortunes of an
army not to feel and to sorrow for these things. But be comforted.”

A passionate burst of tears from her who knelt at his feet interrupted
him here; nor did it seem that all he could speak of consolation was
able to assuage the deep sorrow of the poor girl, whose trembling frame
bespoke her agony.

By degrees, however, she grew calmer. A deep sob or a long-drawn
sigh alone would be heard, as the venerable father, with impassioned
eloquence, depicted the happiness of those who sought the blessings of
religion, and could tear themselves from the world and its ambitions.
Warming with his theme, he descanted on the lives of those saints
on earth whose every minute was an offering of heavenly love; and
contrasted the holy calm of a convent with the wild revelry of the camp,
or the more revolting carnage of the battlefield.

“Speak not of these things, Father; your own voice trembles with proud
emotion at the mention of glorious war. Tell me, oh! tell me that I may
have hope, and yet leave not all that makes life endurable.”

The old man spoke again; but his tones were low, and his words seemed a
reproof, for she bowed her head between her hands and sobbed heavily.

To the long and impassioned appeal of the priest there now succeeded a
silence, only broken by the deep-drawn sighs of her who knelt in sadness
and penitence before him.

“And his name?” said the father; “you have not told his name.”

A pause followed, in which not even a breathing was heard; then a low,
murmuring sound came, and it seemed to meas though I heard my own name
uttered. I started at the sound, and with the noise the vivandière
sprang to her feet.

“I heard a noise there,” said she, resolutely.

“It is my companion of the journey,” said the priest. “Poor fellow! he
is tired and weary; he sleeps soundly.”

“I did not know you had a fellow-traveller, Father.”

“Yes; we met in the Creutz Mountains, and since that» have wended our
way together. A soldier--”

“A soldier! Is he wounded, then?”

“No, my child; he is leaving the army.”

“Leaving the army, and not wounded! He is old and disabled, perhaps.”

“Neither; he is both young and vigorous.”

“Shame on him, then, that he turn his back on fame and fortune, and
leave the path that brave men tread! He never was a soldier! No, Father;
he in whose heart the noble passion once has lived can never forget it.”

“Hush, child, hush!” said the priest, motioning with his hand to her to
be silent.

“Let me look on him!” said the vivandière, as she stooped down and took
from the hearth a piece of lighted wood; “let me see this man, and learn
the features of one who can be so craven of spirit, so poor of heart, as
to fly the field, while thousands are flocking towards it.”

Burning with shame and indignation, I arose, just as she approached me.
The pine-branch threw its red gleam over her bright uniform, and then
upon her face.

“Minette! Minette!” I exclaimed. But with a wild shriek she let fall the
burning wood, and fell senseless to the ground.

It was some time before, with all our care, she recovered consciousness;
and even then, in her wild, excited glance, one might read the struggles
of her mind to credit what had occurred. A few broken, unconnected
phrases would escape her at intervals; and she seemed laboring to regain
the lost clew to her recollections, when again she turned her eyes
towards me. At the same instant, the trumpet sounded without for the
_réveil_, and was answered by many a call from other parties around.
With a steadfast gaze of wonderment she fixed her look on me; and twice
passed her hands across her eyes, as though she doubted the evidence of
her senses.

[Illustration: 346]

“Minette, hear me! let me speak but one word.” “There it is again,”
 cried she, as the blast rang out a second time, and the clatter of
horsemen resounded from the street. “Adieu, sir; our roads lie not
together. Father, your blessing; if your good counsel this night has
not made its way to my heart, the lesson has come elsewhere. Good-by!
good-by!” She pressed the old man's hand to her lips, and darted from
the room.

Stunned, and like one spell-bound, I could not move for a few seconds;
and then, with a wild cry, I bounded after her through the garden.
The wicket, however, was fastened on the outside, and it was some time
before I could scale the wall and reach the street.

The day was just breaking, but already the village was thronged with
soldiers, who were preparing for the march, and arranging their parties
to conduct the wagons. Hurrying on through the crowded and confused
mass, I looked on every side for the vivandière; but in vain. Groups
of different regiments passed and repassed me; but to my questions they
returned either a jeering reply, or a mere laugh of derision. “But a few
days ago,” thought I, “and these fellows had scarce dared to address me;
and now--” Oh, the blighting misery of that thought! I was no longer a
soldier; the meanest horseman of his troop was my superior.

I passed through the village, and reached the highroad. Before me was a
party of dragoons, escorting a drove of cattle; I hastened after them,
but on coming near, discovered they were a light cavalry detachment.
Sick at heart, I leaned against a tree at the wayside, when again
I heard the tramp of horses approaching. I looked, and saw the tall
helmets of the Fourth, who were coming slowly along, conducting some
large wagons, drawn by eight or ten horses. In front of the detachment
rode a man, whose enormous stature made him at once remarkable, as well
as the air of soldierly bearing he displayed. Beside him was Minette;
the reins had fallen on her horse's neck, and her face was buried in her
hands.

“Ah! if I had thought that priest would have made thee so sad,
Mademoiselle, I'd have let him spend his night beneath a wagon rather
than in my quarters,” said a deep, hollow voice I at once recognized
as that of Pioche. “But the morning air will revive thee; so let us
forward: by threes--open order--trot.”

The word was obeyed; the heavy tramp of the horses, with the dull roll
of the wagons, drowned all other sounds The cortège moved on, and I was
alone.

[Illustration: BrowneDeathOfMinette127]

CHAPTER XXVIII. THE PENSION DE LA RUE MI-CARÊME.

When I returned to the garden, I found that the Père Arsène was seized
by an access of that dreadful malady, whose intervals of comparative
release are but periods of dread or despondence. The tertian of Egypt,
so fatal among the French troops, now numbered him among its victims,
and he looked worn and exhausted, like one after weeks of illness.

My first care was to present myself to the official whose business it
was to inspect the passports, and by explaining the condition of my poor
friend, to entreat permission to delay my journey,--at least until
he should be somewhat recovered. The gruff old sergeant, however,
deliberately examined my passport, and as rigidly decided that I could
not remain. The words of the minister were clear and definite,--“Day
by day, without halt, to the nearest frontier of France,” was the
direction; and with this I must comply. In vain I assured him that no
personal convenience, no wish of my own, urged the request, but the duty
of humanity towards a fellow-traveller, and one who had strong claims on
every soldier of the Empire.

“Leave him to me, Monsieur,” was the only reply I could obtain; and the
utmost favor he would grant was the permission to take leave of my poor
friend before I started.

Amid all the sufferings of his malady, I found the good priest dwelling
in his mind on the scene with the vivandière,--which, perhaps, from
the impressionable character of a sick man's temperament, had entirely
filled his thoughts; and thus he wandered from the subject of his
sorrows to hers, with scarcely a transition between them.

When I mentioned the necessity of our parting, he seemed to feel it more
on my account than his own.

“I wished to have reached Paris with you,” he repeated over and over.
“It was not impossible I could have arranged your return home. But you
must go down to Sèvres,--the priest there, whoever he may be, will know
of me; tell him everything without reserve. I am too ill to write, but
if I get better soon--Well, well; that poor girl is an orphan too; and
Alphonse was an orphan. With what misery have we struggled in France
since this man has ruled our destinies! how have the crimes of a people
brought their retribution to every heart and every home!--none
too low, none too humble, to feel them. Leave this land; no blessing can
rest upon it now. Poor thing! how worthy of a better lot she is! If this
same officer should know,--it is not impossible. But, why do I say this?
No, no; you'll never meet him now.”

He continued to mutter thus some broken and disjointed sentences,
half-aloud, for some minutes, apparently unconscious of my presence.

“He was in a regiment of the Guard. Alas! she told me which, but I
forget it now; but his name, surely I remember his name! Well, well, it
is a sad story. Adieu, my dear child! good-by! We have each a weary
road before us; but my journey, although the longest, will be soonest
accomplished. Do not forget my words to you. Your own country, and your
country's cause, above every other; all else is the hireling's part. The
sense of duty alone can sustain a man in the trials which fit him for
this world, or that better one which is to follow. Adieu!” He threw his
arm around me as he said this, and leaned exhausted and faint upon my
shoulder.

The few who journey through life with little sympathy or friendship from
their fellow-men, may know how it rent my heart to part with one to whom
I clung every hour closer; my throat swelled and throbbed, and I could
only articulate a faint good-by as we parted. As the door was closing, I
heard his voice again.

“Yes, I have it now; I remember it well,--'Le Capitaine Burke.'”

I started in amazement, for during all our intercourse he had never
asked nor had I told my name, and I stood unable to speak; when he
continued,--“You 'll think of the name,--she said, too, he was on the
staff,--'Burke!' Poor girl!”

I did not wait for more, but like one flying from some dreaded enemy I
rushed through the garden, and gained the road, my heart torn with many
a conflicting thought; the bitterest of all being the memory of Minette,
the orphan girl, who alone of all the world cared for me. Oh! if strong,
deep-rooted affection, the love of a whole heart, can raise the spirit
above the every-day contentions of the world,--can ennoble thought,
refine sentiments, and divest life of all its meaner traits, making a
path of flowers among the rocks and briers of our worldly pilgrimage; so
does the possession of affection for which we cannot give requital throw
a gloom over the soul, for which there is no remedy. Better, a thousand
times better, had I borne all the solitary condition of my lot,
unrelieved by one token of regard, than think of her who had wrecked her
fortunes on my own.

With many a sad thought I plodded onward. The miles passed over seemed
like the events in some troubled dream; and of my journey I have not a
recollection remaining. It was late in the evening when I reached the
Barrière de l'Étoile, and entered Paris. The long lines of lamps along
the quays, the glittering reflection in the calm river, the subdued but
continual hum of a great city, awoke me from my reverie, and I bethought
me that my career of life must now begin anew, and all my energies must
be called on to fashion out my destiny.

On the morning after my arrival I presented myself, in compliance with
the requisite form, before the minister of police. Little information
of mine was necessary to explain the circumstances under which I was
placed. He was already thoroughly acquainted with the whole, and seemed
in nowise disposed to evince any undue lenity towards one who had
voluntarily quitted the service of the Emperor.

“Where do you purpose to remain, sir?” said the préfet, as he concluded
a lengthened and searching scrutiny of my appearance.

“In Paris,” I replied, briefly.

“In Paris, I suppose,” said he, with a slight derisive curl of the
lip,--“of that I should think there can be little doubt; but I wished to
ascertain more accurately your address,--in what part of the city.”

“As yet I cannot tell; I am almost a stranger here. A day or two will,
however, enable me to choose, and then I shall return here with the
intelligence.”

“That is sufficient, sir; I shall expect to see you soon.”

He waved his hand in sign to me to withdraw, and I was but too happy to
follow the indication. As I hastened down the stairs, and forced my way
through the crowd of persons who awaited an audience with the préfet,
I heard a voice close to my ear whisper, “A word; one word with you,
Monsieur.” Conceiving, however, it could not have been intended for me,
to whom no face there was familiar, I passed on, and reached the court.

The noise of footsteps rapidly moving on the grave behind me induced
me to turn; and I beheld a small, miserably-dressed man, whose spare and
wasted form bespoke the sorest trials of poverty, advancing towards me,
hat in hand.

“Will you deign me one word, Monsieur?” said he, in a voice whose tone,
although that of entreaty, was yet remote from the habitual accent of
one asking alms.

“You must mistake me,” said I, desirous to pass on; “I am unknown to
you.”

“True, sir; but it is as a stranger I take the liberty of addressing
you. I heard you say just now that you had not fixed on any place of
abode in Paris; now, if I might venture to entreat your preference for
this establishment, it would be too much honor for me, its poor master.”

Here he placed in my hands a small card, inscribed with the words,
“Pension Bourgeoise, Rue de Mi-Carême, Boulevard Mont Parnasse, No. 46,”
 at top; and beneath was a paragraph, setting forth the economical fact
that a man might eat, drink, and sleep for the sum of twelve francs a
week, enjoying the delights of “agreeable society, pleasant environs,
and all the advantages of a country residence.”

It was with difficulty I could avoid a smile at the shivering figure
who ventured to present himself as an inducement to try the fare of his
house. Whether my eyes did wander from the card to his countenance, or
any other gesture of mine betrayed my thoughts, the old man seemed to
divine what was passing in my mind, and said,--

“Monsieur will not pronounce on the 'pension' from the humble guise of
its master. Let him but try it; and I promise that these poor rags, this
miserable figure, has no type within the walls.”

There was a tone of deep dejection, mingled with a sense of conscious
pride, in which he said these few words, that at once decided me not to
grieve him by a refusal.

“You may count on me, then, Monsieur,” said I. “My stay here is so far
uncertain, that it depends not altogether on myself; but for the present
I am your guest.”

I took my purse from my pocket as I spoke, knowing the custom in these
humbler boarding-houses was to pay in advance; but the old man reddened
slightly, and motioned with his hand a refusal.

“Monsieur is a captain in the Guards,” said he, proudly; “no more is
necessary.”

“You mistake, friend, I am no longer so; I have left the army.”

“Left it, _en retraite?_” said he, inquiringly.

“Not so; left it at my own free will and choice. And now, perhaps, I
had better tell you, that as I may not enjoy any considerable share of
goodwill from the police authorities here, my presence might be less
acceptable to your other guests, or to yourself.”

The old man's eyes sparkled as I spoke, and his lips moved rapidly, as
though he were speaking to himself; then, taking my hand, he pressed it
to his lips, and said,--

“Monsieur could not be more welcome than at present. Shall we expect you
to-day at dinner?”

“Be it so. Your hour?”

“Four o'clock, to the moment. Do not forget the number, 46 Monsieur
Rubichon; the house with a large garden in front.”

“Till then,” said I, bowing to my host, whose ceremonious politeness
made me feel my own salute an act of rudeness in comparison.

As I parted from the old man, I was glad at the relief to my own
thoughts which even thus much of speculation afforded, and sauntered on,
fancying many a strange conceit about the “pension” and its inhabitants.
At last the hour drew near; and having placed my few effects in a
cabriolet, I set out for the distant boulevard of Mont Parnasse.

I remarked with pleasure, that as we went along the streets and
thoroughfares became gradually less and less crowded; scarcely a
carriage of any kind was to be met with. The shops were, for the most
part, the quiet, unpretending-looking places one sees in a provincial
town; and an air of peacefulness and retirement prevailed, strongly at
variance with the clamor and din of the heart of the capital. This was
more than ever so as we emerged upon the boulevard itself: on one side
of which houses, at long straggling intervals, alone were to be seen;
at the other, the country lay open to the view, with its orchards and
gardens, for miles away.

“_Saprelotte!_” said the driver, who, like so many of his calling, was a
blunt son of Alsace,--“_saprelotte!_ we have come to the end of the world
here. How do you call the strange street you are looking for?”

“The Rue de Mi-Carême.”

“Mi-Carême? I 'd rather you lived there than me; that name does not
promise much in regard to good feeding. Can this be it?”

As he spoke he pointed with his whip to a narrow, deserted-looking
street, which opened from the boulevard. The houses were old and
dilapidated, but stood in small gardens, and seemed like the remains
of the villa residences of the Parisians in times long past. A few more
modern edifices, flaring with red brick fronts, were here and there
scattered amongst them; but for all the decay and dismantlement of the
others, they seemed like persons of rank and condition in the company of
their inferiors.

Few of the larger houses were inhabited. Large placards, “à louer,”
 on the gateways or the broken railings of the garden, set forth the
advantages of a handsome residence, situated between court and garden;
but the falling roofs and broken windows were in sad discordance with
the eulogy.

The unaccustomed noise of wheels, as we went along, drew many to the
doors to stare at us, and in the gathering groups I could mark the
astonishment so rare a spectacle as a cabriolet afforded in these
secluded parts.

“Is this the Rue Mi-Carême?” said the driver to a boy, who stood gazing
in perfect wonderment at our equipage.

“Yes,” muttered the child,--“yes. Who are you come for now?”

“Come for, my little man? Not for any one. What do you mean by that?”

“I thought it was the commissary,” said the boy.

“Ah, _sapperment!_ I knew we were in a droll neighborhood,” murmured the
driver. “It would seem they never see a cabriolet here except when it
brings the _commissaire de police_ to look after some one.”

If this reflection did not tend to allay my previous doubts upon the
nature of the locality, it certainly aided to excite my curiosity, and
I was determined to persist in my resolution of at least seeing the
interior of the “pension.”

“Here we are at last,” cried the driver, throwing down his whip on the
horse's back, as he sprang to the ground, and read aloud from a board
fastened to a tree, “'Pension Bourgeoise. M. Rubichon, propriétaire.'
Shall I wait for monsieur?”

“No. Take out that portmanteau and cloak; I'm not going back now.”

A stare of most undisguised astonishment was the only reply he made, as
he took forth my baggage, and placed it at the little gate.

“You 'll be coming home at night,” said he, at length; “shall I come
to fetch you? Not to-night,” repeated he, in amazement. “Well, adieu,
Monsieur,--you know best; but I 'd not come a-pleasuring up here, if I
was a young fellow like you.”

As he drove away, I turned to look at the building before me, which up
to this time I had not sufficiently noted. It was a long, two-storied
house, which evidently at an early period had been a mansion of no mean
pretension. The pilasters which ornamented the windows, the balustrades
of the parapet, and the pediment above the entrance, were still
remaining, though in a dilapidated condition. The garden in front showed
also some signs of that quaint taste originally borrowed from the Dutch,
and the yew-trees still preserved some faint resemblance to the beasts
and animals after which they had once been fashioned, though time and
growth had altered the outlines, and given to many a goodly lion or stag
the bristly coat of a porcupine. A little fountain, which spouted from
a sea-monster's nostrils, was grass-grown and choked with weeds.
Everything betokened neglect and ruin; even the sundial had fallen
across the walk, and lay moss-grown and forgotten; as though to say that
Time had no need of a record there. The _jalousies_, which were closed
in every window, permitted no view of the interior; nor did anything,
save a faint curl of light blue smoke from one chimney, give token of
habitation.

I could not help smiling to myself at the absurd fancy which had
suffered me to feel that this deserted quarter, this lonesome dwelling,
contained anything either adventurous or strange about it, or that
I should find either in the “pension” or its guests wherewithal to
interest or amuse me. With this thought I opened the wicket, and,
crossing the garden, pulled the bell-rope that hung beside the door.

The deep clanging echoed again and again to my summons, and ere it
ceased the door was opened, and M. Rubichon himself stood before me: no
longer, however, the M. Rubichon of the morning, in garments of worn
and tattered poverty, but attired in a suit which, if threadbare, was
at least clean and respectable-looking,--a white vest, and ruffles also,
added to the air of neatness of his costume; and whether from his
own deserts, or my surprise at the transformation, he seemed to me to
possess the look and bearing of a true gentleman.

Having welcomed me with the well-bred and easy politeness of one who
knew the habits of society, he gave orders to a servant girl to conduct
me to a room, adding, “May I beg of monsieur to make a rapid toilet, for
the dinner will be served in less than ten minutes?”

The M. Rubichon of the morning no more prepared me for that gentleman at
evening than did the ruinous exterior of the dwelling for the neat and
comely chamber into which I was now installed. The articles of furniture
were few, but scrupulously clean; and the white curtains of the little
bed, the cherry-wood chairs, the table, with its gray marble top,--all
were the perfection of that propriety which gives even to humble things
a look of elegance.

I had but time to make a slight change in my dress when the bell sounded
for dinner, and at the same instant a gentle knock came to my door. It
was M. Rubichon, come to conduct me to the _salle_, and anxious to know
if I were satisfied with my chamber.

“In summer, Monsieur, if we shall have the happiness of possessing you
here at that season, the view of the garden is delightful from this
window; and,--you have not noticed it, of course, but there is a little
stair, which descends from the window into the garden, which you will
find a great convenience when you wish to walk. This way, now. We are a
small party to-day, and indeed shall be for a few weeks. What name shall
I have the honor to announce?”

“Mr. Burke.”

“Ah! an Irish name,” said he, smiling, as he threw open the door of a
spacious but simply furnished apartment, in which about a dozen persons
were standing or sitting around the stove.

I could not help remarking, that as Monsieur Rubichon presented me to
his other guests, my name seemed to meet a kind of recognition from each
in turn. My host perceived this, and explained it at once by saying,--

“We have a namesake of yours amongst us; not exactly at this moment,
for he is in Normandy, but he will be back in a week or so. Madame de
Langeac, let me present Mr. Burke.”

Monsieur Rubichon's guests were all persons somewhat advanced in life;
and though in their dress evincing a most unvarying simplicity and
economy, had yet a look of habitual good tone and breeding which could
not be mistaken. Among these, the lady to whom I was now introduced was
conspicuous, and in her easy and graceful reception of me, showed the
polished manners of one accustomed to the best society.

After some half-jesting observations, expressive of surprise that a
young man--and consequently, as she deemed, a gay one--should have
selected as his residence an unvisited quarter and a very retired house,
she took my arm, and proceeded to the dinner-room.

The dinner itself, and the table equipage, were in keeping with the
simplicity of the whole establishment; but if the fare was humble and
the wine of the very cheapest, all the habitudes of the very highest
society presided at the meal, and the polished ease and elegance, so
eminently the gift of ancient French manners, were conspicuous.

There prevailed among the guests all the intimacy of a large family;
at the same time a most courteous deference was remarkable, which never
approached familiarity. And thus they talked lightly and pleasantly
together of mutual friends and places they had visited; no allusion ever
being made to the popular topics of the day,--to me a most inexplicable
circumstance, and one which I could not avoid slightly expressing my
astonishment at to the lady beside me. She smiled significantly at my
remark, and merely said,--

“It is so agreeable to discuss matters where there can be no great
difference of opinion,--at least, no more than sharpens the wit of the
speakers,--that you will rarely hear other subjects talked of here.”

“But have the great events which are yet passing no interest?”

“Perhaps they interest too deeply to admit of much discussion,” said
she, with some earnestness of manner.

“But I am myself transgressing; and, what is still worse, losing you the
observations of Monsieur de Saint George on Madame de Sévigné.”

The remark was evidently made to change the current of our conversation;
and so I accepted it,--listening to the chit-chat around me, which, from
its novelty alone, possessed a most uncommon charm to my ears. It was
so strange to hear the allusions to the courtiers and the beauties of
bygone days made with all the freshness of yesterday acquaintance; and
the stores of anecdotes about the court of Louis the Fifteenth and the
Regency told with a piquancy that made the event seem like an occurrence
of the morning.

Before we retired to the drawing-room for coffee, I saw that the
“pension” was a Royalist establishment, and wondered how it happened
that I should have been selected by the host to make one of his guests.
Yet unquestionably there seemed no reserve towards me; on the contrary,
each evinced a tone of frankness and cordiality which made me perfectly
at ease, and well satisfied at the fortune which led me to the Rue
Mi-Carême.

The little parties of dominoes and piquet scattered through the _salon_;
some formed groups to converse; the ladies resumed their embroidery; and
all the occupations of indoor life were assumed with a readiness that
betokened habit, and gave to the “pension” the comfortable air of a
home.

Thus passed the first evening. The next morning the party assembled at
an early hour to breakfast; after which the gentlemen went out, and did
not appear until dinnertime,--day succeeding day in unvarying but to me
not unpleasing monotony. I rarely wandered from the large wilderness of
a garden near the house, and saw weeks pass over without a thought ever
occurring to me that life must not thus be suffered to ebb.

CHAPTER XXIX. MY NAMESAKE

About a month after I came to live in the “pension,” I was sitting one
evening at the window, watching, with the interest an idle man will ever
attach to slight things,--the budding leaves of an early spring,--when I
heard a step approach my chair, and on turning my head perceived Madame
de Langeac. She carried her taboret in her hand, and came slowly towards
me.

“I am come to steal some of your sunshine, Monsieur Burke,” said the old
lady, smiling good-naturedly, as I rose to present a chair, “but not to
drive you away, if you will be generous enough to keep me company.”

I stammered out some commonplace civility in reply, and was silent,
for my thoughts were bent upon my future, and I was ill disposed to
interruption.

“You are fond of flowers, I have remarked,” continued she, as if
perceiving my preoccupation, and willing to relieve it by taking the
burden of the conversation. “And it is a taste I love to witness; it
seems to me like the evidence of a homely habit. It is only in childhood
we learn this love; we may cultivate it in after life as we will.”

“My mother was passionately fond of them,” said I, calling up a
long-buried memory of home and kindred.

“I thought so. These simple tastes are the inheritance a mother gives
her child; and happily they survive every change of fortune.”

I sighed heavily as she spoke, for thus accidentally was touched the
weakest chord of my heart.

“And, better still,” resumed she, “they are the links that unite us to
the past, that bind the heart of manhood to infancy, that can bring down
pride and haughtiness, and call forth guileless affection and childlike
faith.”

“They are happy,”' said I, musing, “who can mingle such early memories
with the present.”

“And who cannot?” interrupted she, rapidly. “Who has not felt the love
of parents,--the halo of a home? Old as I am, even I can recall the
little walks I trod in infancy, and the hand that used to guide me. I
can bring up the very tones of that voice which vibrated on my heart as
they spoke my name. But how much happier they to whom these memories
are linked with tokens of present affection, and who, in their manhood's
joys, can feel a father's or a mother's love!”

“I was left an orphan when a mere child,” said I, as though the
observation had been specially addressed to me.

“But you have brothers,--sisters, perhaps.”

I shook my head. “A brother, indeed; but we have never met since we were
children.”

“And yet your country has not suffered the dreadful convulsion of ours;
no social wreck has scattered those who once lived in close affection
together. It is sad when such ties are broken. You came early to
France, I think you told me?”

“Yes, Madame. When a mere child my heart conceived a kind of devotion
to the Emperor: his fame, his great exploits, seemed something more
than human,--filled every thought of my brain; and to be a soldier,_his_
soldier, was the limit of my ambition. I fancied, too, that the cause he
asserted was that of freedom; that liberty, universal liberty, was the
watchword that led to victory.”

“And you have discovered your error,” interrupted she. “Alas! it were
better to have followed the illusion. A faith once shaken leaves an
unsettled spirit, and with such there is little energy.”

“And less of hope,” said I, despondingly.

“Not so, if there be youth. Come, you must tell me your story. It is
from no mere curiosity I ask you; but that I have seen much of the
world, and am better able than you to offer counsel and advice. I have
remarked, for some time past, that you appear to have no acquaintance
in Paris,--no friend. Let me be such. If the confidence have no other
result, it will relieve your heart of some portion of its burden;
besides, the others here will learn to regard you with less distrust.”

“And is such their feeling towards me?”

“Forgive me; I did not exactly use the word I sought for. But now that
I have ventured so far, I may as well confess that you are an object of
the greatest interest in their eyes; nor can they divest themselves of
the impression that some deep-laid plot had led you hither.”

“Had I known this before--”

“You had left us. I guessed as much: I have remarked it in your
character already, that a morbid dread of being suspected is ever
uppermost in your thoughts; and accounted for it by supposing that you
might have been thrown at too early an age into life. But you must
not feel angry with us here. As for me, I have no merit in my right
appreciation of you: Monsieur Rubichon told me how you met,--a mere
accident, at the bureau of the préfet.”

“It was so; nor have I been able to divine why he addressed himself to
me, nor what circumstance could have led him to believe my sentiments in
accordance with those of his guests.”

“Simple enough the reason. He heard from your own lips you were a
stranger, without any acquaintance in Paris. The police for a time
have been somewhat frequent in their visits here, when the exclusively
Royalist feature of the 'pension' excited some dissatisfaction. To
overcome the impression, M. Rubichon determined to wait each day at the
bureau of the préfet, and solicit at hazard among the persons there
to patronize his house. We all here consented to the plan, feeling
its necessity. Our good fortune sent us you. Still, you must not be
surprised if long sorrows and much suffering have engendered suspicion,
nor that the old followers of a king look distrustfully on the soldier
of”--she hesitated and blushed slightly, then added, in a low voice--“of
the Emperor.”

The word seemed to have cost a pang in its utterance; for she did not
speak for several minutes after.

“And these gentlemen,--am I to conclude that they cherish disaffection
to the present Government, or harbor a hope of its downfall?”

Whether some accidental expression of disdain escaped me as I said this,
I cannot say; but Madame de Langeao quickly replied,--

“They are good Frenchmen, sir, and loyal gentlemen; what they _hope_
must be a matter for their own hearts.”

“I entreat your pardon, Madame, if I have said one syllable which could
reflect upon their motives.”

“I forgive you readily,” said she, smiling courteously; “he who has worn
a sabre so long, may well deem its influence all-powerful. But believe
me, young man, there is that within the heart of a nation against which
mere force is nothing; opposed to it, armed squadrons and dense ranks
are powerless. Devotion to a sovereign, whose claim comes hallowed by a
long line of kings, is a faith to which religion lends its sanction and
tradition its hope. Look on these very persons here; see, has adversity
chilled their affection, or poverty damped their ardor? You know them
not; but I will tell you who they are.

“There, at the fire, that venerable old man with the high, bold
forehead, he is Monsieur de Plessis (Comte Plessis de Riancourt). His
grandfather entertained Louis the Fourteenth and his suite within his
château; he himself was grand falconer to the king. And what is he
now? I shame to speak it,--a fencing-master at an humble school of the
Faubourg.

“And the other opposite to him (he is stooping to pick something from
the floor), I myself saw him kneel at the levée of his Majesty, and
beheld the king assist him to rise, as he said, 'Monsieur de Maurepas, I
would make you a duke, but that no title could be so dear to a Maurepas
as that his ancestors have borne for six hundred years.' And he, whose
signature was but inferior to the royal command, copies pleadings of a
lawyer to earn his support.

“And that tall man yonder, who has just risen from the table,--neither
years nor poverty have erased the stamp of nobility from his graceful
figure,--Comte Felix d'Ancelot, captain of the Gardes du Corps; the
same who was left for dead on the stairs at Versailles pierced by eleven
wounds. He gives lessons in drawing! two leagues from this, at the other
extremity of Paris.

“You ask me if they hope; what else than hope, what other comforter,
could make such men as these live on in want and indigence, declining
every proffer of advancement, refusing every temptation that should warp
their allegiance? I have read of great deeds of your Emperor,--I have
heard traits of heroism of his generals, compared to which the famed
actions of the Crusaders paled away; but tell me if you think that all
the glory ever won by gallant soldier, tried the courage or tested the
stout heart like the long struggle of such men as these? And here, if I
mistake not, comes another, not inferior to any.”

As she spoke, the steps of a _calèche_ at the door were suddenly
lowered, and a tall and powerfully built man stepped lightly out. In
an instant we heard his footstep in the hall, and in another moment the
door of the _salon_ opened, and M. Rubichon announced “Le Général Count
Burke.”

The general had just time to divest himself of his travelling pelisse as
he entered, and was immediately surrounded by the others, who welcomed
him with the greatest enthusiasm.

“Madame la Marquise de Langeac,” said he, approaching the old lady, as
she sat in the recess of the window, and lifted her hand to his lips,
“I am overjoyed to see you in such health. I passed three days with
your amiable cousin, Arnold de Rambuteau; who, like yourself, enjoys the
happiest temperament and the most gifted mind.”

“If you flatter thus, General,” said Madame de Langeac, “my young friend
here will scarcely recognize in you a countryman,--a kinsman, perhaps.
Let me present Mr. Burke.”

The general's face flushed, and his eyes sparkled, as taking my hand in
both of his own, he said,--

“Are you indeed from Ireland? Is your name Burke? Alas! that I cannot
speak one word of English to you. I left my country thirty-eight years
since, and have never revisited it.”

The general overwhelmed me with questions: first about my family, of
which I could tell him little; and then of my own adventures, at which,
to my astonishment, he never evinced those symptoms of displeasure I
so confidently expected from an old follower of the Bourbons. This he
continued to do, as he ate a hurried meal which was laid out for him in
the _salon_; all the rest standing in a circle around, and pressing him
with questions for this friend or that at every pause he made.

“You see, gentlemen,” cried he, as I replied to some inquiry about my
campaign, “this is an instance of what I have so often spoken to you.
Here is a youth who leaves his country solely for fighting sake; he
does not care much for the epaulette, he cares less for the cause. Come,
come, don't interrupt me; I know you better than you know yourself.
You longed for the conflict and the struggle and the victory; and,
_parbleu!_ we may say as we will, but you could have scarcely made a
better selection than with his Majesty, Emperor and King, as they style
him.”

This speech met with a sorry reception from the bystanders, and in the
dissatisfied expression of their faces, a less confident speaker might
have read his condemnation; but the general felt not this, or, if he
did, he effectually concealed it.

“You have not inquired for Gustave de Me is in,” said he, looking round
at the circle.

“You have not seen him, surely?” cried several together; “we heard he
was at Vienna.”

“No, _parbleu!_ he lives about a league from his old home,--the very
house we spent our Christmas at eighteen years ago. They have made a
barrack of his château, and thrown his park into a royal _chasse_; but
he has built a hut on the river-side, and walks every day through his
own ground, which he says he never saw so well stocked for many a year.
He is as happy as ever, and loves to look out on the Seine before his
door when the bright stream is rippling through many a broad leaf; ay,
Messieurs, of good augury, too,--the lilies of France.” He lifted a
bumper to his lips as he spoke, and drank the toast with enthusiasm.

This sudden return to loyalty, so boldly announced, served to reinstate
him in their estimation; and once again all their former pleasure at
his appearance came back, and again the questions poured in from every
quarter.

“And the abbé,” said one; “what of him? Has he made up his mind yet?”

“To be sure he has, and changed it too, at least twice every twenty-four
hours. He is ever full of confidence and brimming with hope when the
wind is from the eastward; but let it only come a point west, his
spirits fall at once, and he dreams of frigates and gunboats, and the
hulks in the Thames; and though they offered him a cardinal's hat, he 'd
not venture out to sea.”

The warning looks of the bystanders, and even some signals to be
cautious, here interrupted the speaker, who paused for a few seconds,
and then fixed his eyes on me.

“I have no fears, gentlemen, on that score. I know my countrymen well,
though I have lived little among them. My namesake here may like the
service of the Emperor better than that of a king,--he may prefer the
glitter of the eagle to the war-cry of Saint Louis,--but he 'll never
betray the private conversations nor expose the opinions expressed
before him in all the confidence of social intercourse.

“We are speaking, Mr. Burke, of an abbé who is about to visit Ireland,
and whose fears of the English cruisers seem little reasonable to some
of my friends here, though you can explain, perhaps, that they are not
groundless. I forgot,--you were but a boy when you crossed that sea.”

“But he will go at last,” said Madame de Langeac; “I suppose we may rely
on that?”

“We hope,” said the general, shrugging his shoulders with an air of
doubt, “because, when we can do nothing else, we can always hope.” And
so saying he arose from the table, and taking a courteous leave of each
person in turn, pleading the fatigue of his journey, he retired for the
night.

I left the saloon soon after, and went to my room full of all I had
heard, and pondering many thoughts about the abbé and his intended
voyage. I spent a sleepless night. Thoughts of home, long lost in the
excitement of my career, came flocking to my brain, and a desire
to revisit my country--stronger, perhaps, because undefined in its
object--made me restless and feverish. It was with delight I perceived
the day dawning, and dressing myself hastily, I descended into the
garden. To my surprise, I found General Burke already there. He was
sauntering along slowly by himself, and seemed wrapped in meditation.
The noise of my approach startled him, and he looked up.

“Ah! my countryman,--so early astir?” said he, saluting me courteously.
“Is this a habit of yours?”

“No, sir; I cannot claim the merit of such wakefulness. But last night
I never closed my eyes. A few words you dropped in conversation in the
drawing-room kept possession of my heart, and even yet I cannot expel
them.”

“I saw it at the time I spoke,” replied the general, with a keen, quick
glance; “you changed color twice as I mentioned the Abbé Gernon. Do you
know him?”